if you try and chase the sun you're never gonna catch it
The Ark is a hive of motion tonight, the entire ship humming as the crew prepares her to depart back to King's End. But Vesper doesn’t move through any of it; he misty-steps straight past the noise and the bustle, re-forming in the narrow dark of his cabin.
He doesn’t bother lighting a lantern, just reaches for a duffel he drags out from beneath the small cot before setting it on the bed, the mattress groaning under the weight, and begins to pack. He doesn't do this carefully or thoughtfully, just efficiently, with clothes folded with mechanical precision, a knife sheathed and shoved to the bottom, the few trinkets he keeps tucked away gathered with the practiced indifference of someone who can’t afford to think while he moves.
It won't take a telepath to see that he isn’t planning to return; not to the Ark, not to King’s End, not to any version of the life he had before this evening unravelled everything he’d been managing to hold together. Not until he figured his shit out.
He doesn’t bother lighting a lantern, just reaches for a duffel he drags out from beneath the small cot before setting it on the bed, the mattress groaning under the weight, and begins to pack. He doesn't do this carefully or thoughtfully, just efficiently, with clothes folded with mechanical precision, a knife sheathed and shoved to the bottom, the few trinkets he keeps tucked away gathered with the practiced indifference of someone who can’t afford to think while he moves.
It won't take a telepath to see that he isn’t planning to return; not to the Ark, not to King’s End, not to any version of the life he had before this evening unravelled everything he’d been managing to hold together. Not until he figured his shit out.
And now it's turning out to be the worst of my bad habits
