VESPER
The sigh that escapes him is quiet, but heavy with the weight of all the things he can’t say. He drags a hand up the side of his face, fingers catching on the edge of his cheekbone before raking back through his hair, pale strands falling momentarily out of place. "What, do I gotta go around kickin’ in doors and raisin’ hell just to prove something mattered to me?" he mutters, dry as cracked ice and just as brittle beneath.
"I could’ve just written you a letter," he adds, quieter now, the words slower. "Could’ve not come at all. Not when the whole world’s gone cold and dark, and.." But he doesn’t finish the thought. His jaw works once, and then the sentence drops away into the silence like a flare that sputters before it ever lights. There’s no use in pointing out that he’s here. That he came.
As she moves, as the bottle tilts and the sharp scent of tequila cuts through the space between them, Vesper turns his head. His gaze drifts out toward the darker edge of the room—the shadows that move just enough to mimic life—and lets his focus unravel. The corners of his eyes twitch. His jaw feathers tight. Because what she says—I just wish I knew what you were thinking—strikes directly at the heart of the thing he’s been keeping buried. His secret flares in his chest like a swallowed blade, sharp and hot, and for a breathless moment he nearly does tell her.
But then Jack’s voice curls in his mind like smoke, and gods help him, but he knows what it would become if he spoke the truth now. Knowing would fix nothing. Not for her. All it would do is open a new wound she didn’t even know she had. Her thoughts already lash out at the space between them like it’s something he built on purpose. What would she do if she knew how many of them he hears? If she knew just how much she’s asking him to carry?
He blinks, slow and deliberate, forcing the pressure behind his eyes to fade. A single shoulder rolls with careful ease, as though that alone might coax the tension to flee. Then, finally, he glances back at her. "No," he says softly. "It wouldn’t."
His whiskey sour sits forgotten now, condensation glistening down the side like sweat, but he leaves it where it is. Instead, he crosses the space between them, footsteps quiet on the old wooden floor, until he’s standing directly in front of her. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin. Close enough to see how the firelight carves golden edges into the curve of her cheek, the hollow of her collarbone.
She looks like a bonfire waiting for wind; all sharp blonde, all dry heat and stubborn drawl. Her eyes, the same ones he’s caught full of mischief and narrowed against gunfire, are darker now, hooded with something too soft to name. She’s unguarded in a way that makes him ache. Like she’s half the girl she used to be and twice the woman she was, held together with spit and grit and the memory of what it felt like to fall too hard for something that didn’t stay.
He could touch her. Could press a hand to her waist, to her hip, to the line of her jaw and watch her lean into it. Like at Vox's Drop when he'd reached out for her, like that single breath when she leaned into him despite leaving, he knows he could make it all easier; tonight, at least. But gods if that wouldn’t make everything worse.
He isn’t half the things she thinks he is. But nor can he be what she needs, not without lying, not without tearing open something inside of himself and constantly stuffing it full of enough bullshit to drown out the noise. So he just looks at her, quietly, his constellation freckles shifting faintly across the bridge of his nose and over his cheekbones, moving in time with thoughts that never find words. The fire snaps in the hearth. Outside, darkness waits like a closing mouth, and the time for bright ideas slips gently past, unclaimed.
"I could’ve just written you a letter," he adds, quieter now, the words slower. "Could’ve not come at all. Not when the whole world’s gone cold and dark, and.." But he doesn’t finish the thought. His jaw works once, and then the sentence drops away into the silence like a flare that sputters before it ever lights. There’s no use in pointing out that he’s here. That he came.
As she moves, as the bottle tilts and the sharp scent of tequila cuts through the space between them, Vesper turns his head. His gaze drifts out toward the darker edge of the room—the shadows that move just enough to mimic life—and lets his focus unravel. The corners of his eyes twitch. His jaw feathers tight. Because what she says—I just wish I knew what you were thinking—strikes directly at the heart of the thing he’s been keeping buried. His secret flares in his chest like a swallowed blade, sharp and hot, and for a breathless moment he nearly does tell her.
But then Jack’s voice curls in his mind like smoke, and gods help him, but he knows what it would become if he spoke the truth now. Knowing would fix nothing. Not for her. All it would do is open a new wound she didn’t even know she had. Her thoughts already lash out at the space between them like it’s something he built on purpose. What would she do if she knew how many of them he hears? If she knew just how much she’s asking him to carry?
He blinks, slow and deliberate, forcing the pressure behind his eyes to fade. A single shoulder rolls with careful ease, as though that alone might coax the tension to flee. Then, finally, he glances back at her. "No," he says softly. "It wouldn’t."
His whiskey sour sits forgotten now, condensation glistening down the side like sweat, but he leaves it where it is. Instead, he crosses the space between them, footsteps quiet on the old wooden floor, until he’s standing directly in front of her. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin. Close enough to see how the firelight carves golden edges into the curve of her cheek, the hollow of her collarbone.
She looks like a bonfire waiting for wind; all sharp blonde, all dry heat and stubborn drawl. Her eyes, the same ones he’s caught full of mischief and narrowed against gunfire, are darker now, hooded with something too soft to name. She’s unguarded in a way that makes him ache. Like she’s half the girl she used to be and twice the woman she was, held together with spit and grit and the memory of what it felt like to fall too hard for something that didn’t stay.
He could touch her. Could press a hand to her waist, to her hip, to the line of her jaw and watch her lean into it. Like at Vox's Drop when he'd reached out for her, like that single breath when she leaned into him despite leaving, he knows he could make it all easier; tonight, at least. But gods if that wouldn’t make everything worse.
He isn’t half the things she thinks he is. But nor can he be what she needs, not without lying, not without tearing open something inside of himself and constantly stuffing it full of enough bullshit to drown out the noise. So he just looks at her, quietly, his constellation freckles shifting faintly across the bridge of his nose and over his cheekbones, moving in time with thoughts that never find words. The fire snaps in the hearth. Outside, darkness waits like a closing mouth, and the time for bright ideas slips gently past, unclaimed.
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.
