just because the fog is there
"How d’you know what you bake’s any good," he asks with a flick of a brow, "if you don’t sample it first?" His tone is light, almost teasing, but it’s easy to imagine him turning the question into something far more suggestive if her answer offered an opening.
As she speaks and thinks about her mother, it hits different than her usual; no bladed edge, no deflection. Just a quiet, clean line of truth laid bare. Her thoughts move like river-stones worn smooth, not sharp or slippery, just...settled. Grief that doesn’t gnaw anymore, but rests in her bones like something accepted. He can feel it as clearly as if it’s his own—the memory of warm kitchens, of song braided with scent, the faint ache of loss dulled by time. It gathers under her skin like a shadow tucked behind a smile, familiar and tender in the way only old pain can be.
He notes the way her gaze slips from his, but says nothing. No interruption, no apology. Just a slight tilt of his head and a murmured, "It sure is." Then quieter still: "Saw a lot of grief and loss from the stars. Never had to live through any of it, though." There’s a flick of something there—acknowledgement, maybe even guilt—but he lets it pass unexamined.
As she begins assembling the vegetables, Vesper shifts on his shoes. Outside, the porch groans beneath his steps, and it’s barely a breath before the dogs leap into chaos. "All right, all right," he mutters, flapping his hands at them like they’re waves he can part. Smooches is the worst offender, circling his boots like a curse waiting to happen. By the time he’s bent to check the propane and get the ignition to catch, the pup has wedged itself directly beneath his knee. The instant he rises, a paw nearly finds itself underfoot.
"Fuck—!" He stumbles back, shadows flaring out around his spine like startled wings as he catches himself on the railing. Smooches yips once—either wounded pride or just offended by the indignity—and scampers off, tail high. Vesper curses under his breath, flicks the grill lid closed with a final clang, and pads back toward the door with the long-suffering exhale of a man who knows he’s being tested by gods and dogs alike. Shoes kicked off just inside the threshold, he returns to the kitchen with a dry look and a shake of his head.
"That dog’s got a death wish," he mutters, shadows pulling themselves quietly back into his frame as he casts a glance at Colt’s handiwork. His eyes drop to the butter-slicked, spice-kissed vegetables and linger there a second longer than needed before he's smirking up at her. "That looks downright edible. Might need to reassess my stance on your culinary talents."
As she speaks and thinks about her mother, it hits different than her usual; no bladed edge, no deflection. Just a quiet, clean line of truth laid bare. Her thoughts move like river-stones worn smooth, not sharp or slippery, just...settled. Grief that doesn’t gnaw anymore, but rests in her bones like something accepted. He can feel it as clearly as if it’s his own—the memory of warm kitchens, of song braided with scent, the faint ache of loss dulled by time. It gathers under her skin like a shadow tucked behind a smile, familiar and tender in the way only old pain can be.
He notes the way her gaze slips from his, but says nothing. No interruption, no apology. Just a slight tilt of his head and a murmured, "It sure is." Then quieter still: "Saw a lot of grief and loss from the stars. Never had to live through any of it, though." There’s a flick of something there—acknowledgement, maybe even guilt—but he lets it pass unexamined.
As she begins assembling the vegetables, Vesper shifts on his shoes. Outside, the porch groans beneath his steps, and it’s barely a breath before the dogs leap into chaos. "All right, all right," he mutters, flapping his hands at them like they’re waves he can part. Smooches is the worst offender, circling his boots like a curse waiting to happen. By the time he’s bent to check the propane and get the ignition to catch, the pup has wedged itself directly beneath his knee. The instant he rises, a paw nearly finds itself underfoot.
"Fuck—!" He stumbles back, shadows flaring out around his spine like startled wings as he catches himself on the railing. Smooches yips once—either wounded pride or just offended by the indignity—and scampers off, tail high. Vesper curses under his breath, flicks the grill lid closed with a final clang, and pads back toward the door with the long-suffering exhale of a man who knows he’s being tested by gods and dogs alike. Shoes kicked off just inside the threshold, he returns to the kitchen with a dry look and a shake of his head.
"That dog’s got a death wish," he mutters, shadows pulling themselves quietly back into his frame as he casts a glance at Colt’s handiwork. His eyes drop to the butter-slicked, spice-kissed vegetables and linger there a second longer than needed before he's smirking up at her. "That looks downright edible. Might need to reassess my stance on your culinary talents."
don't mean nothing's behind it
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
