[SE] [Training] and it makes me wanna take a back road

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

Through gritted teeth and a grin that’s more wolfish than composed, Vesper rasps, "It’s a date," in answer to Colt’s threat-promise of finding him next time the blues came calling. There's a flicker in his eyes—not quite flirtation, not quite fondness, but something just as sharp, something that acknowledges what just passed between them without dragging it into the light.

He steps into place in front of her, shoulder low and loose from the socket, the shadows clinging faintly to his ribs like they’re bracing for impact too. His boots crunch softly on the dirt, stance wide for balance as he glances up at her, expression dry. "Really wish I had that peppermint to bit—" he starts, voice edging toward a complaint—

—and then she pulls.

The joint slides back into place with an ugly crunch and a lightning bolt of agony. Vesper jerks with it, a strangled sound twisting out of his throat—not a cry, but a hard exhale that ends on a hiss. The pain flashes white-hot, then dulls just as fast, replaced with a rush of dizzying sensation: nausea, heat, adrenaline, and some warped flavour of relief.

He pitches forward instinctively, catching himself on the edge of the wagon with both hands. His left flattens just beside Colt’s dangling leg, ringed fingers spread against sun-warmed wood as his forehead dips low. For a few breaths, he just stays there, panting through his teeth, the sweat on his brow catching light as it slides past his temple.

"Fuck me," he mutters after a moment, voice rough but laced with laughter. "So on a scale from one to ten, how's all that gonna compare to your rodeo?"

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

The sound strikes suddenly against her strain, a victory of pain. She eases then, releasing his arm and dropping her leg back against the wagon. Her eyes don't leave him though, ringed with concern and admiration in equal parts as he visibly wrestles with the agony. He's surprisingly restrained, riding out the anguish without much show, like he's used to handling his hurt alone, or maybe just used to hurting.

She winces as he lurches against the wagon, ragged and worn, and she leans to the side to give him the room to recover. She tips her hat back off and steadily waves it beside him, granting him some air to breathe, a modest offering of comfort among the sweltering heat and the pain she'd inflicted. "Forget the peppermint stick, you need a cold beer," she mutters, reaching in her back pocket to pull out her blue and white bandana. She tends to keep one on her during this time of year, for when the roads get too dusty, especially with the wagons. She folds it up and gingerly swipes his 'brow free of the sweat clinging there as proof of his efforts.

At his question she laughs freely, all the ugliness tucked back inside where it belongs, hidden beneath gold and grit. "Hon, you could teach my hands a thing or two, you'll do just fine." She stills her hat, placing it in her lap so she can reach up and wind her hair around her hand, lifting it up off her neck. "We should probably get some ice on that as soon as we can," she advises. "It's a bit of a trek back to the ranch, so we might find something else on the way, but I have beer and ice at home."

I had some help
It ain't like I can make this kinda mess all by myself
Don't act like you ain't help me pull that bottle off the shelf

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

The sudden relief of air from Colt’s hat fans against Vesper’s face like mercy, and though he doesn’t comment, the tension in his shoulders begins to bleed away, slow and wary. Being a telepath has made it second nature to mask all of his emotions save for the ones he intends to show—easier to bury things than risk someone peeking in and finding something tender. But Colt’s noticing, her steady gaze and small comforts, they cut clean through the armour. And maybe that’s what has him relaxing, just a fraction, enough to risk letting someone see past the grimace.

When the bandana comes out, he stills. It’s a delicate sort of silence, the kind that settles over a creature too wild to trust kindness, too tired to deny it. Her fingers brush at his temple, careful and warm, and Vesper lets her—not without wariness, but without resistance either. Like a horse just shy of bolting, every muscle wound tight but choosing not to run.

Her praise earns a wicked grin, one corner of his mouth lifting in a flash of white teeth and wolfish promise. There's no need to make the obvious joke about what indeed he might be able to teach her hands, but the way his cool blue eyes find here is anything but accidental.

Then, with a groan that’s half-suffering, half-theatre, he pushes himself upright, raking a hand through his damp hair and ruffling it into place. His eyes glint beneath it, pale and sharp. "Reckon I can cling to life a little longer," he says, rolling his shoulder with a wince, "if there’s beer and ice, that is."

~FIN

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)