VESPER
Colt's thoughts come at him like rainfall in reverse; not falling, but rising, climbing the walls of her mind until she’s drowning in what-ifs and never-agains, until her whole skull feels like a floodplain. He can feel it pressing outward as if her pulse were laced with thunder, her heart trying to outpace the fact of his leaving, to outrun a tide she knows she can’t stop.
It isn’t fair. None of it is. Not the storm she hides behind wry smiles, not the questions she throws at him in steady escalation, and certainly not the way her grief makes a home in him even when she doesn’t want it known. He sees it in the curl of her fingers, feels it in the tautness of her jaw, but most of all, he hears it. That’s the part she’ll never understand. It’s not just what she says. It’s what she feels that barrels through him, raw and unfiltered, no matter how tightly she tries to batten down the hatches.
And it’s because of that—precisely that—he knows he has to go.
So when she offers that faint smile, dry as a cracked field, and says she wouldn’t be coming north to sightsee, he lets the curve of his own mouth catch on hers like a hook, lazy and crooked and fond despite everything. "Least I could do is make sure the backdrop’s interesting if you came all the way up," he murmurs. There’s heat behind them, and memory, and something he doesn’t let reach his eyes.
He arches a brow slightly as she mentions Thorn and nods in vague acknowledgement, but the warmth of her voice is already bleeding into the undercurrent again, her composure buckling just slightly beneath the weight of her thoughts.
Then the tide crests.
Her voice sharpens, her palm slaps the counter, and the dogs shrink back, but Vesper doesn’t move; the crash already hit him before her voice ever rose. Her mind strikes first, words second, and that is what exhausts him most. Not her anger, not her pain, but how unrelenting it is. How it leaves no room for silence. No corner of peace untouched.
He straightens slightly, not in defence, not in retreat, but because she deserves some answer, even if it isn’t the one she wants. A long breath escapes him. It hangs faintly in the warm kitchen air, caught between firelight and the threadbare hush of what’s left. "What good would it do to be bothered?" he asks softly, swallowing, jaw shifting. There’s a crack forming behind his sternum, invisible and precise, like hairline fractures in something polished too smooth. His thumb brushes the rim of the glass, more nervous tic than habit.
"I’ve got my orders," he adds quietly, voice softening, because that’s all he can say. No confession about the circumstances of his orders or why they matter more than her tears or his own reluctance. Jack’s warning looms large in his mind, and even if it didn’t, the look in her eyes would stop him. She already feels like she’s being lied to; what would it do to her to know the truth and realise he’s been inside her head every time?
So he gives her the only honest thing he can. "I ain't unbothered about it," he says at last, after a long pause, eyes steady on hers. "I just...don't show it the way you do." His voice cracks just slightly at the end, not enough for her to pity him, but enough that she might hear the echo of what he’s holding back. It isn’t that he doesn’t feel it. It’s that if he lets himself feel it here, he won’t be able to walk out that door.
It isn’t fair. None of it is. Not the storm she hides behind wry smiles, not the questions she throws at him in steady escalation, and certainly not the way her grief makes a home in him even when she doesn’t want it known. He sees it in the curl of her fingers, feels it in the tautness of her jaw, but most of all, he hears it. That’s the part she’ll never understand. It’s not just what she says. It’s what she feels that barrels through him, raw and unfiltered, no matter how tightly she tries to batten down the hatches.
And it’s because of that—precisely that—he knows he has to go.
So when she offers that faint smile, dry as a cracked field, and says she wouldn’t be coming north to sightsee, he lets the curve of his own mouth catch on hers like a hook, lazy and crooked and fond despite everything. "Least I could do is make sure the backdrop’s interesting if you came all the way up," he murmurs. There’s heat behind them, and memory, and something he doesn’t let reach his eyes.
He arches a brow slightly as she mentions Thorn and nods in vague acknowledgement, but the warmth of her voice is already bleeding into the undercurrent again, her composure buckling just slightly beneath the weight of her thoughts.
Then the tide crests.
Her voice sharpens, her palm slaps the counter, and the dogs shrink back, but Vesper doesn’t move; the crash already hit him before her voice ever rose. Her mind strikes first, words second, and that is what exhausts him most. Not her anger, not her pain, but how unrelenting it is. How it leaves no room for silence. No corner of peace untouched.
He straightens slightly, not in defence, not in retreat, but because she deserves some answer, even if it isn’t the one she wants. A long breath escapes him. It hangs faintly in the warm kitchen air, caught between firelight and the threadbare hush of what’s left. "What good would it do to be bothered?" he asks softly, swallowing, jaw shifting. There’s a crack forming behind his sternum, invisible and precise, like hairline fractures in something polished too smooth. His thumb brushes the rim of the glass, more nervous tic than habit.
"I’ve got my orders," he adds quietly, voice softening, because that’s all he can say. No confession about the circumstances of his orders or why they matter more than her tears or his own reluctance. Jack’s warning looms large in his mind, and even if it didn’t, the look in her eyes would stop him. She already feels like she’s being lied to; what would it do to her to know the truth and realise he’s been inside her head every time?
So he gives her the only honest thing he can. "I ain't unbothered about it," he says at last, after a long pause, eyes steady on hers. "I just...don't show it the way you do." His voice cracks just slightly at the end, not enough for her to pity him, but enough that she might hear the echo of what he’s holding back. It isn’t that he doesn’t feel it. It’s that if he lets himself feel it here, he won’t be able to walk out that door.
rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?
☆ 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.
