i'm a lost cause, do it the way I want
Vesper reappears with his jaw locked so tightly it aches, breath caught high in his chest as though he has surfaced too quickly from deep water. The channel releases him back into the square with all the delicacy of a blade withdrawn too fast, and for a heartbeat the world refuses to settle properly around him. Memory lingers instead, bright and intrusive, Colt’s bowed shape burned sharp behind his eyes, the posture of surrender or exhaustion or both collapsing inward on itself. It is the second time she has pulled him away like this, wrenched him from a moment he was shaping with intent, and the echo of it leaves him unmoored, the residue of her presence clinging far longer than the six seconds ever justify.
The crowd is already thinning, interest dissolving now that spectacle has resolved itself into mundanity, and through the gaps he sees Niki upright again, leaning heavily on his cane, colour high in his face and frustration radiating off him in quiet, disciplined lines. The image lands harder than Vesper expects, guilt threading sharp and unwelcome through the aftertaste of displacement, because he remembers too clearly the way those fingers had been reaching, the gratitude offered without irony, the trust—however begrudging—extended in public.
Thank you, he'd said, and an apology rises instinctively to meet the memory of them, already shaped and ready to be given. It sticks instead, lodged somewhere behind Vesper's teeth; he swallows, throat tight, aware with uncomfortable clarity that there is no version of this moment in which he looks anything other than exactly what he is. An asshole.
He does not step toward Niki, nor does not offer belated help or hollow justification. His shadows curl close, obedient and eager, and with a final glance at the necromancer—standing, breathing, managing despite him—he folds space around his own body and slips away, cutting a clean line back to Niki’s home and arriving there long before the necromancer could hope to follow on foot. W
The crowd is already thinning, interest dissolving now that spectacle has resolved itself into mundanity, and through the gaps he sees Niki upright again, leaning heavily on his cane, colour high in his face and frustration radiating off him in quiet, disciplined lines. The image lands harder than Vesper expects, guilt threading sharp and unwelcome through the aftertaste of displacement, because he remembers too clearly the way those fingers had been reaching, the gratitude offered without irony, the trust—however begrudging—extended in public.
Thank you, he'd said, and an apology rises instinctively to meet the memory of them, already shaped and ready to be given. It sticks instead, lodged somewhere behind Vesper's teeth; he swallows, throat tight, aware with uncomfortable clarity that there is no version of this moment in which he looks anything other than exactly what he is. An asshole.
He does not step toward Niki, nor does not offer belated help or hollow justification. His shadows curl close, obedient and eager, and with a final glance at the necromancer—standing, breathing, managing despite him—he folds space around his own body and slips away, cutting a clean line back to Niki’s home and arriving there long before the necromancer could hope to follow on foot. W
☆ 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.
