[SE] [Training] and it makes me wanna take a back road

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

Sun blazes off the water in hard, glittering shards, and the Boondocks lie spread out like a sun-bleached quilt—hulls scabbed with rust, decks patched by whatever driftwood the tide donates. It’s Longheat, and even King’s End feels it: the planks radiate warmth through Vesper’s boots, tar smells rise thick as molasses, and hels wheel lazy loops in a sky as wide as any ocean.

He noses a narrow skiff into the lee of a cracked frigate, ties off, and strides up a rope ladder stiff with salt. Mid-morning bustle is already in full swing, and Vesper folds into the flow, ribs still sore but tolerable from his recent skirmish with a Lamplighter, eyes skimming for a flash of sun-lit blonde.

Posters slapped on barrel staves promised a “RODEO!”. The word conjures dust devils and bronc-bucking adrenaline—a far cry from Torchline’s surf. Curiosity keeps his pace unhurried but intent, letting his telepathy reach out the way a spider might listen for vibrations through its web, searching for a sparkle of Colt in the minds of those he passed by. 

A trader wipes her brow with a gingham kerchief; past her shoulder, a tall figure with straw-pale hair ducks behind a canvas awning. "Mornin’," Vesper drawls, words running together like river water over stone. "You ain’t happened to spy a tall blonde, Meadowreach ranch sort, answers to Colt? Got posters in Torchline advertisin’ a rodeo." The merchant shakes their head; Vesper tips two fingers by way of thanks and moves on, ribs twinging as he threads through the crush. He keeps half an ear tuned to the bustle, half his focus on the matted weave of thoughts brushing his periphery—surface impressions only, skimming for someone picturing arenas, broncs, or a woman named after a gun.

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

She's no longer certain what had possessed her to run around all of Caido and tout about a Rodeo. The ranch isn't ready. She can barely keep up with repairs from all the wild unicorns busting through nearly every day, and now she needs to get the arena ready and rebuild the bleachers. She'd put the cart before the horse, as it were, all while actively trying to load assorted planks of wood into a horse-drawn cart. She's been making frequent trips here, and the materials just keep piling up by the side of the barn, taunting her with the promise of future work. "Why the fuck did I decide to do this in Longheat," she asks the wood that she's shoving a shoulder against without much success.

The stubborn lumber, the overbearing heat of the tall sun, the dozens of tasks laid out on the to do list of her mind—it's too much. With a gutteral noise of frustration Colt slaps both hands against the wood and sags against it. Her hair, wet with sweat, shifts down to cling annoyingly to her face as she pants with the wasted efforts. The button-up shirt, white with lines of blue, flutters faintly before also sticking to the edges of her heated skin. "Ge the FUCK on the wagon," she roars as she suddenly leans hard against the purchase again, throwing all her weight into the shoulder she jams against it. Her legs lean out at a sharp angle from her jean shorts, her boots cutting and sliding against the dock as she fights for traction.

I had some help
It ain't like I can make this kinda mess all by myself
Don't act like you ain't help me pull that bottle off the shelf

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

The crackle of Colt’s exasperation zips through Vesper’s mind long before the curses hit his ears. He drifts toward the cart at an unhurried stroll, Longheat glare gilding the sweat on her shoulders, the white tank clinging like wet silk. One plank refuses to budge, and her braced stance—hips canted, legs splayed like a colt straight outta the stall—holds his gaze a fraction longer than manners recommend.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. Shadows leak from under his boots, slicking across the dock and slipping beneath the balky stack. They rise in tapering tendrils, wriggling like impatient fingers. At the same moment he plants a palm on the top board—pressure that’s more show than shove; the timber groans and slides neatly onto the wagon bed.

He clears his throat, a dry scrape meant to announce what the shadows already did. "Mornin'." The single word lazily drops its ending as his shadows withdraw, looping back into his boots.

Sunlight catches the split in his lip as he tips his head, expression carved somewhere between amused and polite. "Seems that board had a death wish. Anything else need shiftin’ before it decides to grow roots and really piss you off?" Vesper' tone stays smooth, flirt teasin’ round the edges but held at arm’s length—like he’s offering the help almost in spite of himself. In a way he is, not normally one to extend an offer of physical exertion when there's nothing clearly in it for him, but gods be damned if there wasn't something about a girl in a white tanktop that made it impossible for him to walk away from.

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

He comes up behind her unseen, in part because her back is to him, but also because her eyes are nearly shut with the strain and the anger. It's only when the sudden resistance glides in with newfound agreeableness, does Colt's gaze widen. She finds herself surrounded by shadowy tendrils and one, long shadow of a man. Mornin' coasts to her like the curl of fog over a lake at dawn, slow and casual and hauntingly lovely.

Colt straightens up, hands dusting off on her hips as she spins around to face him, a bedraggled smile offered in greeting. "My, don't you have a habit of showing up when you're needed darlin'." Her gaze catches a beat on the mark of his lip, before settling on the blue of him, the warmth of familiarity and gratitude clear in her amber stare. With her face still half-covered in golden hair, she works to peel it off, a harried laugh breaking free at his tease. "Only one 'round here pissin' me off is me, so unless you can shift that..." she sighs and leans a hip against the wagon. She could have asked any of the hands to come with her, but not wanting the Rodeo prep to steal resources from her regular ranching, she'd been adamant about doing this alone. She deeply regretted it. How long might she have stood here cursing without his help? She wasn't very good at asking for it, help, but luckily thus far he'd proved good at offering it.

"What brings you back to my neck of the woods, Vesper?" Colt asks with a tilt of her head and a smile, surprised to find herself so glad to see him again, damn lumber aside. "Need a lift to House of Midnight?" she asks with a raised 'brow.

I had some help
It ain't like I can make this kinda mess all by myself
Don't act like you ain't help me pull that bottle off the shelf

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

Vesper’s smirk deepens at Colt’s greeting, the corners of his mouth twitching with that quiet, wolfish amusement he wears like a second skin. "Might be I’ve got good timing," he drawls, plucking a sprig of peppermint bark from his back pocket and tucking it between his teeth. "Or maybe I’ve just got a gift for showin’ up when the cussin’ starts."

He straightens as she leans against the wagon, letting his gaze rake over her—not hungry, not obvious, just... thorough. The sweat-slick heat, the flush high in her cheeks, the strand of gold hair clinging stubborn to her jaw. She’s a portrait of grit and effort, and fuck if that doesn’t suit her better than anything polished ever could.

At her sigh, his brows lift, the shadows curling faint at his heels again like they’ve caught the scent of something sharp. "Shiftin' who you’re pissed at, huh?" he repeats, voice warm with implication but held on a leash. He steps in just enough to be noticed, close enough to count the smudges of sawdust clinging to her tank. He was sure he could make a real poetic case for a good roll in the (literal) hay, but instead of leaning into it, he surprises even himself by tilting his head, holding his palms up in mock surrender. "If you wanna blow off a little steam, my sisters swear by takin’ a few swings at me." His eyes spark, playful and dry. "No hard feelin’s. Hittin' me is therapeutic, apparently."

Only once the tease has settled into the space between them does he answer her question proper, glancing down toward the wagon and then back at her. "Didn’t come lookin’ for the House this time," he says. "I came lookin’ for you. Saw your flyers plastered all over Torchline and figured if I was gonna show up, I oughta figure out what the hell I’d be walkin’ into first."

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

She laughs, more earnest now, and points a finger at him in agreement. "My bet's on the latter." He has a look about him that suggests he finds his way to trouble ofteb. It's what's so damn appealing about him too, unfortunately. Colt doesn't let her thoughts linger on that subject for long though, and pulls her gaze away from the snare of his blue eyes. He's definitely trouble.

What he says next takes her by such surprise he nearly sweeps her off her feet with it. She leans deeper into the wagon, the tilt of her head growing more extreme as she eyes him under the brim of her hat. "You can't be serious?" She crosses her arms against her chest, studying him intently, wondering what he's laced those damn peppermint sticks with to spout such nonsense. Yet for all her staring and open-mouthed wondering, he seems as serious as as a preacher in a poker game. She can't keep the wide grin that stretches her mouth or three short laughs that escape like gunfire. "I can imagine your sisters must beat you daily. Is that where you got that from?" She motions at the cut on his lip, too curious now for her own good about this man who controls darkness but lets his sisters pummel him. He's too at odds with himself and right when she thought she had him pegged he reveals a new ace up his sleeve.

"For me?" she repeats, struck with surprise all over again. There's a delight there this time though, a gleam that brightens her eyes as her hands fall to her hips and she takes a step towards him. "Well I'll be, you're here about the Rodeo?" She grins and reaches out to pluck his peppermint sprig from between his teeth, rolling it between her own as unbridled delight races through her. "Well alright then. I'll give your therapy a shot, but I wouldn't call it fair if you didn't hit me back. I ain't a sissy and I wanna see what you're made of, see if you can handle a rodeo, pardner."

From her hip she balls up her hand into a fist and swings it suddenly towards his left side in a hook, expecting this might be the only chance she has at catching him by surprise. She's been in several bar fights, but she's normally one of the ones trying to separate the men.

---

1/4 hooks a punch for his left side

I had some help
It ain't like I can make this kinda mess all by myself
Don't act like you ain't help me pull that bottle off the shelf

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

Vesper watches her laughter like it’s something rare—something too wild to be tamed, but not unwelcome when it comes unannounced. The way her finger points at him, the grin spreading across her face, the way she leans into the wagon like she’s finally letting herself rest—all of it sinks in deeper than her words. A smirk curls slow across his mouth. "I am," he replies, completely, maddeningly sincere. " ’Specially if it helps." He knows he’s not the easiest kind of man to pin down—too much charm, not enough fucks to give—but there’s no irony in the offer. Just that quiet tilt of truth he doesn’t hand out often.

At her gesture to his split lip, he glances down, then chuckles. "This? Nah, that one's a group project. Y'ever hear of Lamplighters?" He waves a hand. "Big fuckin' floaty fish."

He's about to hold out his hands to show her that said fish was thiiiiiis big, until she's stepping forward, stealing his peppermint stick. Something slows something in his chest, aflicker of heat that's more than just the Longheat sun. "Coulda just asked," he murmurs, low and amused as she rolls the bark between her fingers.

The gleam in her eye is dangerous. Her stance says she's already made the call. But it's the way she says pardner—with that grin, that challenge, that electric drawl—that has him dropping his guard just enough for her hook to land clean.

It hits just shy of his ribs, where pain still hums from the last brawl, and Vesper grunts, doubling a fraction as breath gusts from him. "Frey's sake," he wheezes, blinking at her like she’s just kicked a hornet’s nest. But then the laugh comes, low and breathless. "Alright then," he manages, shaking it off with a roll of his shoulder and a flicker of shadows gathering under his boots. "You ain’t a sissy. I’ll give you that."

Then he lunges—not hard, but quick—aiming for his shadows to tangle around her knees as he threw a right hook toward her shoulder.

1/4

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

Now he knows there's no fun in asking.

Peppermint stick spinning between her teeth like a filly with a new bit, Colt is surprised—and oddly satisfied—when her fist connects with his side. Huh. Oddly enough, it does make her feel better. As he lurches, like he’s chasing the wind knocked out of him, her brows pinch with subtle concern. "Sorry sugar," she murmurs as he curses. She might have stopped it then and there, her own feelings be damned, but as expected he's not so easily done in—trouble never is. He practically shrugs it off, nothing but cold starlight gleaming in his eyes when he looks up at last. It's enough to send a chill winding through her. Smartly she dances back a stride or two, not that it matters when his reach is long and dark, coiling in the shade like a heated snake just waiting for a meal.

She’s never been compared to a mouse, but Colt still feels the constriction of the vipers slither up her legs. She tries to jerk one free, her spur jangling with the motion, but then he's upon her and she's held like a man who owes him money caught in an alley. The peppermint stick snaps as she grits her teeth, leaning her shoulder into the oncoming wallop with a grunt in an effort to reduce some of his momentum and the resounding pain from it. If it helps, she can't feel the difference, because it echoes with the connection with each beat of her heart, a steady song of a bruise. She spits the other half of the stick to the ground.

She reaches out suddenly with her left hand, aiming to grab his shirt and pull him towards her before he can fuck off too far. Her grin turns feral as she lifts her chin just enough to catch his eyes again. "Must have been one hell of a fish," Her fingers curl like a vice, but she's depending on speed and surprise (she's no idea she doesn't even have that on her side); for all her ranch work he'd wrestle an arm out of her grasp in a breath. No, she needs the twist and the twine of the fabric to keep him with her long enough to drive her other hand towards his gut in an uppercut. He's lucky she likes him enough to leave his balls and face in the clear.

---

2/4

I had some help
It ain't like I can make this kinda mess all by myself
Don't act like you ain't help me pull that bottle off the shelf

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

Colt doesn’t look sorry and Vesper doesn’t pretend to believe it. "No you ain’t," he drawls, the words all grit and smirk, like a blade catching just a sliver of light. Her fingers catch fabric and haul him in, and he lets her—lets her like he’s curious what she'll do with him now that he's close enough to taste the heat rolling off her. The laughter huffs out of him, half-wind, half-dare, shadows snapping away from her legs to coil tight around his midsection just as her fist arches up. He catches the intention a moment before it lands, not fast enough to dodge, but fast enough to soften the blow with a twist of magic.

The punch hits with a dull thud, muted but still enough to make him grunt. His hand snakes into her hair low at the nape of her neck, not pulling rough but pulling sure—the kind of grip meant to command, not hurt. The angle is meant to drag her face up to his, close enough for tension to crackle like lightning in a summer storm. It’s not hard to imagine what this would be if they weren’t grinning like wolves and throwing punches. If they were alone. If they were a little drunker. If he pushed her just a little harder back against that wagon—

"Pretty sure you can hit harder than that," he murmurs, voice pitched low and wicked against the inch of air between them.

Then he lets go.

He steps back like it costs him something to do it, already swathing himself in a shimmer of living shadow that rolls down his shoulders like a second coat. Arms loose, feet braced, grin still sharp. "Well?" he calls. "You gonna prove me right?"

---

2/4

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

She simpers as her fist slips against the cushion of his shadow instead of his shirt. "Those seem handy," she mutters with no hidden admiration or annoyance for his talents. She might have paused to admire him longer, against her better judgement, but slick as ink over fresh paper his hands spill into her hair. Her breath hitches, but any thought of low-burning heat dissipates with a fracture of ice that slams against her ribs like the knife of his smile. The command of his palm against her neck is like a halter, and against the tug her head tilts, a limp kitten in his grip.

It's so reminiscent of a different scene for her, a different face leering before her, that she can't immediately separate the two. Memory blends with reality and the fear of that night beats relentlessly against her chest with each thud of her heart. Her eyes widen with it, a cold terror, where she's been caught by love and anguish. He'd never turned on her before, she hadn't thought he would tonight, like every broken dish and bellowed word hadn't been a warning for this destruction. He'd loved her, that's what he'd said. He loved her, she'd whispered as she knelt down to pick up every broken thing he'd left—until it was her scrambling up from the floor.

Colt blinks.
It's not him, those aren't his blue eyes promising it won't happen again. It's Vesper.

She gasps, a ragged sound as she wrenches back against his hand and slaps his arm away. Mercifully he puts distance between them and she draws in steadier breaths, tucking some errant hair back behind her ear. "Yeah," she says flatly, adjusting her hat as she judges the distance between them with a flick of her eyes. She pulls it down suddenly, sunlit hair unleashed in full splendor as she flings her hat towards his face. Behind it's obstruction she darts forward, and every damn night she wished she could pummel him she builds into the jab she fires off at Vesper's arm, so unbalanced with the force and the fervor she's liable to fall if she misses.

---

3/4

I had some help
It ain't like I can make this kinda mess all by myself
Don't act like you ain't help me pull that bottle off the shelf

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

The second it hits him—not her fist, but the memory behind it—Vesper freezes. Not in body, not entirely, but something beneath the surface goes still, deep and sudden, like a current shifting. The moment Colt’s fear flares and coils behind her eyes, her past slamming into the present like a shattered pane of glass, it rushes into him uninvited. He isnt' presently rifle ing through her thoughts the way he might do later, but this, this bleeds out of her like smoke from a broken window. A fragment of violence. A set jaw that meant no escape. A hand not unlike his own, once trusted and now dreaded.

It slams into him like guilt that isn’t his but sits just fine on his shoulders anyway.

The hat’s already flying before he can speak, his head ducking to the side like a spooked horse—but the punch? That lands.

Hard.

It connects with a pop and a sickening slide as his shoulder gives, not just from the force but from the way his body twisted to avoid doing something worse. Pain shoots down his arm like fire—but Vesper doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t curse. Instead, he stands straight, the pain doused by the cathartic pulse he can feel in Colt's mind.

His shadow flares out, surging up between them with a hiss, and for a moment, Colt will stare into the face of a man made of smoke and midnight—rough-hewn, jaw set, eyes burning charcoal like something carved from everything she's ever hated.

"Keep goin'," Vesper rasps, voice lower now, but steady. The pain tightens every syllable but there's no edge of threat, no challenge. "Go on. Get it out." His good hand hangs loose at his side, remaining shadows curling protectively around the dislocated shoulder, shielding it like armour made of ink. He's not going to hit back. Not this time and certainly not like him.

---

3/4

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

She staggers a step or two after the punch lands, all power and no grace. She feels that ugly twist of his shoulder relenting to her, hears the shuffle of bone in socket like the slide of boot over gravel. She chokes back the bitter sweep of hatred that fills her mouth like saliva before a bout of vomit—it's not him. Vesper doesn’t deserve the punishment for loving her too hard, too wrong—for breaking everything in the process.

The curtin of midnight pulls between them, blocking her view of Vesper just as her eyes clear enough to look for him. She reels at the awful sight of her late husband that greets her instead, finally as dark and ugly as he always pretended not to be. She's frozen, all to aware that this isn't a memory, that Vesper has sculpted his likeness from obsidian clay. She can’t even begin to ask how or why—it takes everything just to choke down the sob clawing up her throat and threatening to break free. She'll be damned if she spills one more tear over him.

Vesper's direction slips beneath the barrier like a folded note. Wanna beat him up? Circle yes or no.

A guttural snarl answers back as she flings herself like wildfire into the smoky image. Fist after fist thuds into the monster, until she’s sagging against it, spent from the idea and the heat of the day. Even then, it's still not enough to make up for every time he'd torn them apart. She already knows she won't get those moments back, but it feels fucking nice to imagine him hurting for a change, to pretend she was strong enough then as she is now. If only it hadn't taken the perspective of everything in her world shattering to rebuild her into someone who could move past a barrier as meager as a man.

She sinks to her knees, head bowing among gold and gratitude.

---

4/4

I had some help
It ain't like I can make this kinda mess all by myself
Don't act like you ain't help me pull that bottle off the shelf

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

The first blow Colt lands on the shadow-man shudders through Vesper like a live wire. Though it isn’t him she’s hitting, he feels every strike—not in his skin, but in his mind, in the ache of old grief and borrowed guilt. His shadows react instantly, crumpling beneath her fists as if the smoke-bodied man could bleed. Each punch collapses a piece of the illusion: the sternum folds with a ragged exhale, a cheek caves like wet ash under her knuckles, and still Vesper holds the construct steady until she’s spent, until the tension coiled in her chest is shaken loose and the echoes of him are scattered across the sun-drenched dirt.

The catharsis in her thoughts rushes toward him like a wave, hot and clear and blessedly not his own. It doesn’t dull the white-hot fire in his shoulder, but it cushions it—makes the pain bearable in the face of something else. Something earned. When she collapses to her knees, his shadows finally dissipate into curling wisps, lifting in the breeze like smoke rising from a spent fire.

Vesper lets out a slow, rasping breath, jaw tight as he shifts—gingerly—his dislocated arm. The grunt he makes is quiet but rough, and he doesn’t try to fix it yet. Not while she’s still bowed under the weight of everything she just let go. Instead, he takes a single step forward. He doesn’t reach out, doesn’t touch. His shadow, his own this time, stretches long and dark over her, shielding her from the burn of the sun, softening the line of her shoulders with cool relief. And in a voice not quite smug, but edged with something like understanding, he mutters:

"My sisters… they haven’t been wrong yet." A small, crooked exhale that might be the ghost of a laugh hums past his lips. " ’Bout hittin’ me, I mean." Vesper pauses. "Now, any chance you could do me one last favour and stick your boot in my armpit and haul my shoulder back into place?"

---

4/4

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

It crumbles around her like ash, curling into nothing under the sun. His shadow breaks over her like dusk settling into the fields, quiet and serene, even as the dark of the night gathers and presses in with risks and terrors. What a difference a man makes of his darkness she thinks, tilting her head up to regard him with unspoken apology.

At his words, she laughs, breathless and aching with it, but so godsdamned happy to feel it instead of something else. "I'll find you anytime I'm feeling blue," she smiles, and its not so frail as she might think. Scooping herself back up, she dusts herself off and reaches for her hat. "I think that's the least I could do for you," she says as she hoists herself up on the back of the wagon, legs dangling from the edge.

She motions for him to step closer, gripping his arm steadily and leaning to position her boot where he advised. "Can't say I've ever done this," she warns. "On three," she expects it'll hurt, knows it already does with the way he carries it. She bites a corner of her lip, nervous for him. She sucks in a breath, steadying. "One...tw—" she pulls as she pushes, waiting to hear the reverse sound of the one from before.

I had some help
It ain't like I can make this kinda mess all by myself
Don't act like you ain't help me pull that bottle off the shelf