Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
He couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out at her “raise my burgers” line. Short, rough sound, cut off almost as soon as it started. “Can’t argue with that,” he said, mouth quirking. “At least yours don’t try to gore you before dinner.” His eyes flicked and brows quirked up, though, as if to silently ask 'right?'
When she thumped the rail and slid through the bars, he straightened instinctively, following her with the unspoken understanding that this wasn’t a woman who liked to repeat herself. Her approval—if that’s what that sound had been—sat warm in his chest. He shifted his pack and fell into step behind her, boots crunching through slush in time with the jangle of the nearby chute.
The wind bit less inside the stable, but the air was thick with the smell of hay, horse, and oil. He took a slow breath, letting it settle in his lungs like someone taking stock of something worth remembering. The sound of hooves shifted through the stalls—restless, steady, alive. It was strangely comforting. But, he knew he'd do well to remember these were big animals they were dealing with.
She motioned toward the stalls and he nodded, stepping off to where she’d pointed. “Blueberry and Spud,” he repeated under his breath, like he was memorizing a pair of code words. He set the pack down near the wall with a dull thud, the coins inside muffled under the false bottom of furs and jerky. “All there,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Heavy enough to vouch for it.”
One of the horses—a big red-brown steed with an assessing eye—turned toward him. Damien met the gaze, head tilting slightly, and reached out a slow hand until the gelding’s warm breath hit his knuckles. He didn’t touch yet, just hovered there, waiting for the horse to close the distance first.
“Hard to pick between them. It's been a while since I've been in the saddle, honestly.” he said finally, his voice gone a little quieter, as if the walls had closed the world down to just the two of them and the horses. Then, with the faintest curve of a grin, “But figure I oughta cowboy up sooner rather than later. Which one would you say is the.. easier ride?”
He straightened, brushing a smear of straw from his glove, and added, “I appreciate you trusting me with your horses. I'd heard good things about them, and when I came to help with the shed it got me thinking about it more.”
The last of his breath left him in a pale plume. The air smelled like work and promise and something he couldn’t name—something that made him think maybe Halo could use a bit more of this kind of life. A realization dawned on him and he turned to Colt more directly. "So, I.. didn't have the foresight (or muscle, truth be told) to bring a saddle," he rubbed the back of his neck and offered an apologetic smile. "Mind if I borrow one?"
When she thumped the rail and slid through the bars, he straightened instinctively, following her with the unspoken understanding that this wasn’t a woman who liked to repeat herself. Her approval—if that’s what that sound had been—sat warm in his chest. He shifted his pack and fell into step behind her, boots crunching through slush in time with the jangle of the nearby chute.
The wind bit less inside the stable, but the air was thick with the smell of hay, horse, and oil. He took a slow breath, letting it settle in his lungs like someone taking stock of something worth remembering. The sound of hooves shifted through the stalls—restless, steady, alive. It was strangely comforting. But, he knew he'd do well to remember these were big animals they were dealing with.
She motioned toward the stalls and he nodded, stepping off to where she’d pointed. “Blueberry and Spud,” he repeated under his breath, like he was memorizing a pair of code words. He set the pack down near the wall with a dull thud, the coins inside muffled under the false bottom of furs and jerky. “All there,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Heavy enough to vouch for it.”
One of the horses—a big red-brown steed with an assessing eye—turned toward him. Damien met the gaze, head tilting slightly, and reached out a slow hand until the gelding’s warm breath hit his knuckles. He didn’t touch yet, just hovered there, waiting for the horse to close the distance first.
“Hard to pick between them. It's been a while since I've been in the saddle, honestly.” he said finally, his voice gone a little quieter, as if the walls had closed the world down to just the two of them and the horses. Then, with the faintest curve of a grin, “But figure I oughta cowboy up sooner rather than later. Which one would you say is the.. easier ride?”
He straightened, brushing a smear of straw from his glove, and added, “I appreciate you trusting me with your horses. I'd heard good things about them, and when I came to help with the shed it got me thinking about it more.”
The last of his breath left him in a pale plume. The air smelled like work and promise and something he couldn’t name—something that made him think maybe Halo could use a bit more of this kind of life. A realization dawned on him and he turned to Colt more directly. "So, I.. didn't have the foresight (or muscle, truth be told) to bring a saddle," he rubbed the back of his neck and offered an apologetic smile. "Mind if I borrow one?"
