i'm a ghost around this town and you're a phantom limb

VESPER

Outside, unseen and silent, the shape of a jaguar slips past the edge of the barn. Inside, the dogs lose their damn minds.

It'll start with a low growl somewhere inside the farmhouse, then erupt into a cacophony of snarls, yelps, and furious scrabbling as every mangy mutt on Colt’s property throws itself against doors and windows. Nails skid against hardwood. A chair topples in the kitchen. One of the hounds manages a high-pitched, panicked bark that sounds more like an alarm than anything living.

The Tide Jaguar's massive paws make no sound against the frost-crusted earth, his body gliding with the kind of sleek, liquid efficiency that makes prey freeze and hearts stutter. Even the darkness seems to retreat from him; a void darker than LongNight itself rippling across the field, glassy and unnatural where the moon should have gilded it. Salt trails faintly in the air behind him, and his eyes, luminous as seafoam, fix on the warm silhouette of the farmhouse.

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore

The dogs aren't the only one making a ruckus in the house, as Colt is soon thereafter flipping off the couch, startled out of her liquor earned doze. It takes her a moment to gather her bearings, alarm dragging the sleep from her swiftly, but not without a lingering haze of the fuck is happening? She glances around the various lantern lit edges of her home, mouth dry, likely from all the drool she'd donated to the couch cushion she turned into a pillow, but also because the dogs don't act like this for your run of the mill visitor. There's something bad outside, and without even the wink of a star to offer a glimmer of hope in this damn period of the year, she's at her weakest too, for a variety of reasons.

"What's out there?" she asks a fleet of dogs that can only answer with continued chaos, entirely unhelpful. Her pulse quickens to the tempo they set, hurriedly driving her feet back into her boots, smearing a palm across her eyes as she glances over at the small table and the fireplace. Options, options, fuck what are her options? Arrows and quiver are in the other room, but she could hardly play at sniper when she can't see for shit through this impossible night. Close range then, and visibility.

After a moment she kicks her front door open, the screen slamming shut behind her with a dog or two spilling free and bristling at her side. "WHO THE FUCK IS OUT THERE?!" she demands, voice roughened with threat as she flings a 'torch' (read: alcohol drenched rag that's burning on one end) into the snow laden yard in front of her, light making shadows grow and twist around the weak radius. She's brandishing a fire poker in one hand, the tip glowing red from its bath in her fireplace, and in the other she's got a glass of tequila. "Speak up or get gone," she barks into the night, a more familiar fight than she'd like to admit.

I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again

VESPER

From the edge of the torch’s flickering radius, where the dark still clings like wet velvet, a figure steps out; tall, familiar, hands lifted in an unhurried show of peace. There's the glint of a smirk just barely teasing the edge of his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Not when Colt's voice carries that sharp edge of fear beneath the threat. "Easy now," Vesper drawls, boots crunching through snow as he approaches slowly, his breath curling in silver mist. "Just me."

Bundled in a dark wool coat with the collar turned high and a grey scarf wound loose around his throat, he looks more like he’s stepped out of some forgotten LongNight ballad than off the Ark. Frost crystals cling to the shoulders of his jacket, catching faint light as he moves, and his hair is mussed from the wind—moonlight pale even without a moon to guide him.

The dogs fan out at his presence, ears pinned, hackles high, a few still growling low in their throats. But he just glances down at them with a bemused shake of his head. "Hush now," he murmurs like a ranchhand talking to skittish stock, and whether it’s the tone or the certainty of his gait, most of them quiet at once. Dropping his hands, he shoves them into his pockets against the cold, giving her an apologetic shrug. "Reckon a horse would’ve spooked ’em less," he admits, eyes catching firelight as they lift back to hers. "But I can’t see worth a damn in this kind of dark, so I came as a jaguar. Guess that’s what wound ’em up."

His voice stays warm, edged with dry amusement, but there’s something softer flickering just beneath as his magic stretches out the distance between them to weigh whether or not she's actually glad to see him.

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore

The sight of him is such a relief that it swells up sudden and fierce, shoving everything else out. All the pretend strength she'd collected and stitched together like armor breaks off under the force of it, drifting away in a frosted breath that curls around her. The fire poker in her hand tips down to her deck, serving as a cane that she sags against as the current of it all leaving threatens to take her with it. Part of it's the reassurance that there's no fear needed after all, the wake adrenaline leaves behind a trembling one. "Fuck's sake Ves," she breathes, the ghost of a laugh edging in. The other part, that's all him—the one star permitted to shine during LongNight, and here he is, glinting amid firelight and frost like a wish shooting through the dark.

Like her, the dogs start to ease, and she tilts her head a bit as she watches him wade through them, his explanation sensible enough. "I was about to set you on fire," she admonishes lightly, lifting her hand that's still clutching the glass of tequila, fuel turned back to drink now that the midnight monster has been revealed. "And you owe me a new shirt," she huffs without meaning it, but the Deepfrost chill is eagerly pressing in against her midriff. Her soft tank top is torn in an uneven cut at the bottom, the missing piece being the one currently burning dimly on her lawn. She'd not been expecting company, or the outdoors, so she's in her plaid pajama pants and a large, loose shirt. The perfect attire for drinking and sleeping through the nightmare that this annual storm delivers. She permits a little cry here or there inbetween to mix the days up, evident in the puffiness from old tears still swelling the corners of her eyes. Her hair's barely contained in a weak tie that seems more ornament than function at this point with the way it's slid near the ends and several strands have long since sprung free to trail against her other shoulder.

Still, sight as he is for sore eyes, and hers certainly are, there's an undercurrent of uncertainty. This isn't normally a time where she talks much to anyone, not with old ghosts circling her mind, and him least of all. There's nothing nice or neat or warm to her now, just a mess of scars that keep building since she won't leave them be long enough to fully heal. She doesn't want him to have to deal with that. She doesn't even want to, but she can't walk away from herself unfortunately.

The chill and the treated wood can only fight back the heat of the metal for so long, smoke starting to rise as a reminder. "Shit," she gasps as she yanks it away once she notices, gaze leaving him to peer down at the little brand now decorating her porch. She pinches her temples, thoughts hazy still despite the residue of slumber long since fading. Grief and alcohol have a way of building into a fog. "C'mon," she offers, grabbing her door open and gesturing him inside. "No sense freezing our asses off out here." Might as well disappoint him with her shit company while they're warm.

I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again

VESPER

The flare of Colt's relief hits first. It floods the jagged quiet of her mind like a lantern finally lit; brief, bright, and almost too fragile to look at directly. Vesper doesn’t flinch from it, though. He’s used to that kind of light. The kind born from fear’s retreat, from holding steady until the worst passes, from bracing for a storm, even if it turns out to just be a squall. But it cracks something all the same, watching her sag like that. The adrenaline she’d been clinging to is gone in a gust, leaving her teetering on exhaustion and raw emotion, swaddled in pain he knows she doesn’t want to name. He doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t poke at the ache curled in her ribs or the ghosts pacing behind her eyes. He lets it pass through him instead, quiet as a tide, carrying the shape of her night in its pull.

Vesper chuckles as she huffs about setting him on fire, slow and warm. "Nova’s got fire magic too," he says as he starts to approach the porch, careful not to startle the dogs again. "I’ve gotten pretty good at dodgin' it."

His gaze drifts, lazy as moonlight, toward the torn edge of her shirt. The cold’s already working its way beneath the thin fabric, and though he’s not fool enough to comment on the view just now, there’s something thoughtful in the tilt of his head. "Could always wear mine if you want," he offers casually, a ghost of suggestion in the curl of his lip.

He doesn’t push that either, just falls into step behind her when she opens the door, the warmth of the house spilling over them like a wave. He kicks the snow off his boots at the threshold before slipping them off, glancing once more toward the dogs as if in silent thanks for not tearing him apart on instinct.

Inside, the heat wraps around him like a second coat, coaxing a low sigh from his chest. He shrugs out of his jacket, careful with the weight of it, and hangs it near the door before unwinding his scarf and raking a hand through his hair, setting pale strands askew in a starburst mess that doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

Colt’s thoughts are still a storm behind her eyes. Faint echoes of doubt. Guilt. A sharp-tongued desire to spare him from the wreckage even though it’s part of who she is now. The awareness of her own mess weighs heavy, like she’s bracing for him to realise it and leave. Easing in with a lazy shrug, Vesper paces just far enough in to glance toward the hearth. " ’Fraid jaguars ain’t got pockets," he says, dry and teasing. "So I couldn’t bring champagne, so you're stuck with whatever didn't get turned into a torch just now."

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore

The hint of a smirk creases her lips, certain he would have easily misted out of her makeshift firebomb if it'd come to that. "Here I thought you let them beat you up, now I find out you just dodge them all?" He did say to come punch him next time she felt blue, and almost setting him on fire seems to have worked just fine in place of it. Not quite the same cure all, but enough to get her off the couch at least.

There's not enough spark in her tonight to catch on the offer buried under the offer of his shirt, but she is more than willing to make him put his cloth where his mouth is. "Alright," she says simply, gaze flicking back to him with a dare. Inside pockets of light dance in various corners, heat like a moving thing that ebbs and flows through the spaces not directly next to the flames. She waits until the cut of amber and shadow fully embraces them, the door clicking shut on the worst of the cold, then she extends a waiting hand towards him. If the rack by the door took his coat, she'd be taking his shirt. Certainly faster than rummaging back through her closet, and she's only interested in things that don't make anything harder for her right now. The hallway feels like an agonizingly long stretch of ground to cover.

She waves away his apology, the humor of it not lost on her but not enough to pull a smile from the depths of where she's fallen either. "For the best, nothing to celebrate on these days." Quite the opposite take from before, when waking up had been enough of a joyful affair. Though she's not quite so grim as to wish the opposite, sometimes hurt is enough that you can't easily see the other end of it, and despite surviving this one every year, it also feels harder to manage it each time. In part, because how is she still here, caught in his shadow when he's been long gone? Her fingers on one hand curl in at the thought, nails pressing to her palm like a fresh bite might keep her from sinking into the mire further.

"Rum?" she asks, remembering manners after a minute, searching for something else to focus on too. "Assuming you mean to stay?" she wonders, pausing the start of her stride. "Can't say you'll have much fun here," she admits with a sigh, one of her arms limply showing off the poorly illuminated and overly quiet house. "Plenty of parties elsewhere though, if you wanted." She knows he hasn't experienced LongNight here yet, and while it's not quite so festive as the Torchline version, there's surely much warmer holes to tuck into than this one.

I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again

VESPER

He laughs softly, dry as smoke and twice as lingering. "I let their hits land when they need to," he murmurs, fingers brushing a slow pattern against the seam of his pocket. "Otherwise, I’m faster, since I'm faster, usually they gotta work for it." It’s not bragging, not really. Just a quiet fact; like tides, or gravity, or the way she looks at him now, daring something reckless with the glint of her eyes and the curl of her fingers even as she simultaneously pulls away.

Vesper doesn’t blink, he just sheds his coat with easy grace, the scarf following, and beneath it all is a thick navy cableknit, soft and faintly frayed at the sleeves. "You want this one?" he asks as he starts to tug it up, his smirk wolfish now, lit with something brighter than firelight. The sweater peels away to reveal a black shirt beneath, close-fitted and plain, clinging to lean muscle and shadow-carved shape. "Or this?" he adds, holding the sweater out with a raised brow. "They’re both warm."

Her comment about nothing to celebrate draws a gentle arch of his brow. "No?" he echoes, soft but pointed. He doesn’t poke where her thoughts lead—doesn’t touch the grief curled tight like a fist in her chest—but it pulls through him all the same, a shadow made of memory and ache. "What do you usually do for LongNight?" he asks instead, feigning ignorance with lazy curiosity, like it’s just another piece of her he’d like to learn.

And when her voice tilts, when her offer turns sharp at the edges, cool with the ache of not wanting to be someone’s burden, he moves. The motion is slow, unhurried, but sure. One hand catches the one she gestures with, his fingers wrapping lightly around hers as he draws her gently closer, until her warmth brushes his chest. He looks down at her, expression unreadable for a breath, and then it softens, fond and just a little quizzical. "I did mean to stay," he says quietly, thumb brushing across her knuckles. "But I can go," he adds, just as soft, though the thought flickers through him like smoke, unwelcome and unnatural. "If it’s a bad time. I just...came to see you. Nothin' more."

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore

That he doesn't mind fulfilling the offer doesn't surprise her, but a quiet, unbidden streak of delight rises all the same. His sweater is larger and soft, although potentially too warm in her nest of blankets and fireside seating. It also looks more worn, a sign he favors it, she might even recognize it if she thinks back, though her focus is usually on the expressions he wears rather than the fabric. The black shirt seems more of a suitable replacement, and what's tight on him might not be so fitted on her, though where he's got height she's got chest. Something ordinary, that he wouldn't miss, that she might not even remember belonged to him when she looks at it weeks later.

One edge of her lips twitch in response as her attention settles on the smirk he extends just as readily. "That'll do just fine," she decides, one hand tugging off her torn tank top, bare chest on display. She's wandering through enough self-created hell, she'd not be bothering to add bras into the mix too. Chucking it towards the door, she leans in and plucks up the cableknit sweater. She slips into it like a fresh breath, some of his warmth still lingering along with the smell of sea salt and oil, a hint of basil and some peppermint. It slouches against her collarbone, consumes most of her hands, and hides the start of her waistline, long and a touch too big, but just right. "Even steven," she announces, regathering her hair from the neckline and loosely tying it back again.

When they drift into champagne and rum, she shrugs faintly at his question. "This, usually." Her gaze flicks towards the living room where the fire roars over the backs of dogs that have resettled after all the excitement of his arrival. "My late husband passed during LongNight, some years back," she explains with a quiet, aching sort of exhale that hurts where it brushes past her ribs. She'd chosen the extra dark so it'd be easier to get him in the pasture with the bull. Lack of light made it simple to blame the unlocked gate and the position of him there. A poor stock of oil that year, tragically, and an extra snowstorm to boot. "Used to party, now I mourn." She'd been able to play the grieving widow when it'd been fresh, but the year after, laughing and strolling among the gathered crowds had earned a lot of scorn. She realized she'd have to miss him every year, otherwise it looked strange. Maybe it stopped mattering eventually, but by then it had become habit, and it's easier to escape all the anniversary apologies by holing up here. She did grieve, just not the death of him, not the sort that put him in the dirt anyway.

One arm curls around her side, holding herself up, keeping other parts in with the pressure. Her other one gestures to what he has to look forward to here, and she wouldn't blame him one bit for not wanting it. It's part of why the capture of her hand is so surprising, breath shortening as her head turns, gaze sliding from the shadows back to him. She shifts with the slow and steady pull, not much fight left in her right now. Sinking against his chest feels better than the sad couch, but she knows where every pain point lives on the latter, and she knows the cushions can bear her. What she told him the day he asked for her time still holds as true now as it did then.

As he starts to speak she tilts her head to the side, an ear pressing in against the faint hum of his heart, where she can hear the words build up before he lets them loose. Her fingers curl tighter in the shell of his touch. Selfishly, she wants to tell him to stay. Maybe if she didn't spend these terribly long nights all alone, she'd stop worrying old hurt enough to let it fade away. That's just a maybe though. She might drag him down into the grunge of it all in the process, and if she has to mourn anything else she's not sure she'll manage. Though if anyone could survive the dark, it'd be him.

She doesn't answer. Isn't sure what might come out if she puts sound to it. Instead she turns out of his embrace, loathe as it feels to do so, but that's not her response either. She keeps the fold of their hands, and now it's her pulling him, leading him the couple feet from the entryway to her kitchen. "Have a drink, at least," she says with the quiet of someone who's only had echoes to talk to for a bit. A return of his bid for time. "Then make up your mind, about whether or not this is a bad time," she says with a lingering glance back at him while she busies herself making a glass.

I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again

VESPER

He’s trying not to want her. That’s the first battle, the hardest one, and he’s already losing. It’s not just the way her shirt comes off like it means nothing, though that’s enough to steal his breath; the smooth, unapologetic movement of it, the soft skin revealed without flourish, without shame. It’s the way she folds herself into his sweater, like she’s always belonged there, like something wild deciding to rest. The cableknit swallows her shoulders and hangs loose at the hem, his scent clinging to the weave; sea salt and peppermint, sharp and strange and still somehow hers now. Still, he should look away because gods if this doesn't make everything harder. Not just because of the curve of her hips or the way the fabric stretches across her chest, though his gaze does linger—hungry, quiet—but because she doesn’t know what he knows. Can’t know what he hears every time her mind brushes against his like a wound she’s learned how to walk with.

Colt doesn’t just want him; she aches for him. Even now, even here, even after all the grief and sharp edges, he can feel the half-formed thoughts she bites back, the silent cries to be held, to be wanted, to not be left alone again. Her mind is a knot of contradiction, pushing him away with every word while curling toward him in thought, begging him to stay, terrified he will.

And gods, he does want her. An image forms unbidden and visceral in his mind: pressing her to the wall, his mouth hot on hers, fingers greedy against bare skin, his sweater on the floor, coaxing moans from her throat that only he knows how to earn. He’s felt them before, tasted the shape of her pleasure, and it would be so easy to slip back into that heat, to let the ache swallow them both whole.

But Jack’s voice still echoes somewhere behind his ribs, cold and clear: You can’t ever tell her. Not about the telepathy. Not about the way her thoughts lay open to him like pages of a diary he was never meant to read. And Vesper isn’t sure how long he can pretend he doesn’t already know her better than she wants him to, not without lying every time he looks at her.

So instead of touching her, he stays still. Instead of kissing her, he just nods.

He doesn’t interrupt when she lies, though it isn't really a lie, just a softening of the truth until it's more palatable. He listens to the story she offers, about her husband, about mourning, and though the real truth hums beneath it like a bad wire, he doesn’t fault her for it. The ache blooms again as her thoughts circle him; wanting him close, pushing him away, wanting to disappear entirely. Before he can even speak, she’s turning out of his arms, offering him the chance to go, and he can feel the effort it costs her. The way she tries to make it easy for him. Here’s your out, her mind all but whispers, even as her hand clings to his.

He exhales slow, steady, raking a hand through his hair as he follows her into the kitchen. There’s a memory branded into the island, a sharp flicker of her body against the counter and the way her voice broke against his neck as she came with his name on her lips. He doesn’t let himself look at it for long.

"The Ark was louder’n all hell," he says, voice low and even, chasing levity he doesn’t quite feel. "So, bad company or not, it’s quieter here and that is a real relief. Dogs included."

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore

This is what she's been desperately trying to bury beneath the layers of ash that are left behind each time they burn, this fragile version of herself where the past has sunk its teeth in so deep she's more than twice shy about the bite. She figured with enough depth to the charcoal maybe she'd finally lose sight of it. Hoped the heat might make a seal that sticks and keep it back, or even burn the seams of it into nothing once and for all. Ash blows away too easily though, the storm of breaths that come in between each of their blazes continually scattering it all. The truth is laid out too plainly now, even with all the residual smudges. For all of Vesper's toos, she's not lacking her own set. Too scared, too broken, too lost.

She might have put her husband in the ground, but he killed her well before then. She's fought to get back every piece of her that he took, the portions he carved out with each argument and placating avoidance of them, but there's some she still hasn't found. One of them is rather important, because it's the piece that lets her trust herself. She thought she had happiness, once. Real and lasting happiness. He showed her how wrong she'd been, and now she's positive she can't tell the difference.

Time had certainly sounded like an idea that could work, but all these years that have passed and here she still is, pacing the same path and expecting the route to change instead of her steps. Although, she's never had another person walking with her before, not in the dark like this. No one's supposed to be here in this depthless dusk except her and ghosts, but Vesper slipped in with all the shadows, almost unnoticeable. Almost.

She tilts a look back over her shoulder at him while ice settles into the glass. He's never been easy to trace the edges of, and this lowlight doesn't help, but it never seems to swallow him completely either. Night bends around him, framing him not as something that glows and beams, but rather something that glimmers with the absence of it all. Velvet folds that don't spark with light, but take it in and keep it secure and safe. "Dogs were plenty quiet before you showed up." The tease might be faint and soft, but it's there all the same, a flicker of life roused by his words and him staying here to say them. It's not the first time he's told her that he's just here for her, but tonight it sinks in through the haze with meaning. She always figured she needed to burn for him, but if he'd still sit with her in this void, maybe she'd find something other than fire and kerosene to use for once. "Ship life treating you fine otherwise?" she wonders, turning back to her cabinets. "I can't imagine it...sounds cramped and cold," her words come out staggered as she struggles to reach up for the rum, her fingertips brushing the bottle and pushing it further back, her grip fighting with the long sweater sleeve. With a bit of effort and a hop she claims the bottle. Cheap rum this time, but it won't be alone.

"I'm still waiting for the grand opening announcement of the Ark's bar," There's no bite or humor to it, just conversation, though she's not entirely convinced he'd meant it when he said it. After measuring out the lime juice and simple syrup in the glass, which includes a shrug at some point, suggesting she forgot the proper amount, she hands the whiskey sour over to him. Fancy by all accounts of her kitchen. "Thought I should pick up a trick or two before you came over again, make you less inclined to deliver wine," she explains, holding his gaze. It glints in the nearby lanternlight, the brightness drifting back and forth as the flame bows around the wick. Subtle constellations on his skin try to outshine his blue, but she rather thinks they add to it, like the competition makes him more brilliant.

I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again

VESPER

There’s something about Colt’s thoughts tonight that feels quieter in their chaos, like smoke curling slow from a candle’s throat; no longer wild with flame, but not yet gone cold either. The sharp edges of them still scratch at his mind, still bleed hurt and fear and want in equal measure, but there’s softness now too, brittle but earnest. And that’s what cuts deepest, what leaves a dull ache pressing into the space behind his sternum, because he shouldn't hear any of it. Not like this. Not without permission.

He knows this isn’t how it’s meant to be, how no one should have to stand bare while he stays wrapped in velvet and secrets. The things Colt reveals by accident are things he shouldn’t have, gifts she never gave. Her doubt in herself, her brokenness, the years she’s spent walking in circles and calling it healing, he catches it all without trying, without asking, and it’s not fair. Not to her, and not to him either. But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less when her thoughts tangle toward him only to recoil. When the small warmth of her wanting him is followed by the louder panic of wondering if she’s wrong to want anything at all. When she glances back at him and thinks of how he glimmers in the dark, and he has to pretend it’s just a look, not a confession.

So he smirks instead, offering a crooked shrug that barely hides how tight his jaw’s gone. "Yeah, well. Least now you know they’ll sound the alarm if a big cat comes prowlin’ ‘round the ranch," he murmurs, voice low, teasing, but warm. It’s something easy—not because he feels easy—but because she’s trying, and he wants to meet her there.

When she turns back to the cabinet, struggling with the reach, his shadows stir without prompting, silent as breath, gentle as a hand on her back. They nudge the bottle forward even as his eyes remain fixed on her, drinking in the stretch of her frame, the way the hem of his sweater slips upward and reveals a sliver of skin he aches to touch. He does nothing, though, just watches. Just lets the moment pass like smoke through his ribs.

He lifts a shoulder, eyes still on her but smile softening. "It is what it is," he says with a quiet drawl. "I ain’t one to complain. I'm not sure the girls’ll stick it out too much longer though." The mention of the bar earns a breath of laughter, real, if fleeting. "Jack seemed on board," he says, though there’s a flicker in his mind, a hollow he won’t name. "Not sure he’ll welcome a party, but...if it happens, I’ll make sure you get an invite."

Vesper accepts the drink she offers, their fingers brushing in the transfer, and his gaze tries to catch hers, blue meeting brown, slow and steady, a silent nod of thanks in the space between them. He lifts the glass and sips, letting it settle on his tongue before he hums, lips twitching into a smirk. "Tastes just fine," he says with a grin. "Thanks."

But the words that come next take longer to form. They settle in his throat like stones, heavy and half-formed. He sets the glass down on the island, fingers lingering around its base, and clears his throat softly before finally speaking. "Jack’s sendin’ me up north," he says at last, voice quieter now. "Since he’s left Torchline, he needs to rebuild the shit he had there. Reestablish himself in the Grey Road, which means needin' eyes in different places." His gaze lifts again from her eyes down to her mouth and back again, as if he might read her future in the way her lips part or press shut. As if he might feel the shift before she says a word. "I'll be there for...a while."

He doesn’t know what he expects to find in her mind as he says it. Relief? Regret? That restless grief that tastes like goodbye even when it isn’t spoken. Whatever it is, he braces for it. Tries not to hope for too much or flinch from too little.

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore

It's like she's looking at him through a glass door every time. When they part, dust and grime settles on it, making everything obscure. She ends up squinting without even realizing, and then he'll do something that wipes it away and it's suddenly easy to see him, to find the handle and remove the pane that's in the way. Each step further in her house, each word, his sweater, his embrace. They all worked to clean it off tonight, but its the subtle brush of his fingers taking the drink that jiggles the handle for her. It feels infinitely better having him here than the enptiness from before the ruckus. That he'd come, that he stayed even without the usual shine to everything, that feels like a doorstop getting wedged in.

She's about to suggest they sit somewhere more comfortable, like the edge of the fireplace or the nest of her couch. There she could lean back in on him, find warmth without flame. Maybe convince him never to finish that drink, lingering here for the night, knowing it bleeds into multiple days.

She waits though, head tilting to hear about his work. It doesn't hit her all the way, not at first. Just sounds like more conversation, details he might not normally have given her, but then his job's not quite the same anymore. Figures he noticed the way she needed something to chew on just to keep the silence she built up here at bay, except he means to choke her with it.

A while finally breaks through the fog. Not just work, but leaving.

Everything grows tight, the way taking in too quick and deep of a breath this time of year does. It snaps too sharp in her chest, the cold twisting over into a burn. "Oh," comes the soft escape of understanding and surprise. Her thoughts pick up speed, running over top each other, but they've been racing all night over hard ground already and they're so damn tired. They stumble and spill, weary and liquor loose. "How long is a while? A week?" She can already guess the answer to that. She starts to pace back and forth along the island. "A month? Months?" She looks over for an answer but looks away just as fast, already knowing.

They've gone a week or two plenty. It always feels like that's the limit before she starts to feel mad with how often he emerges in her thoughts, but she's never actually tested those borders. He always shows up before long, either on his own or in response to her ask. She didn't realize how much he'd become a fixture in her life, but she finds herself looking for him in the horizon more often than not, always hopeful. How easily she'd taken all his visits for granted like they'd always continue, no different from inevitable nightfall.

"When? She wonders next, thoughts still spinning. She steps on a dog and the yelp startles her to a stop. "Fuck, Smooches, go lay down!" She snaps, pointing out of the kitchen. The pup slinks to a corner of two cabinets, pressing in against the edges with the utmost offense. Her gaze swings back to Vesper, the edge of her thumbnail pressing against her teeth. "I could visit you for a change," she offers, though her teeth work the inside of her cheek. Next season is the worst for her to travel, having calves and foals popping out left and right, but she could make arrangements.

I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again

VESPER

Colt’s thoughts flare like sparks in dry brush, too tired to burn clean, too raw to be quiet. There’s a rhythm to them he’s learned by heart; all blunt edges and ragged turns, spiralling tight around fear of abandonment, of misreading the signs again, of reaching for something real and finding it was only smoke. She doesn’t shout in her mind, not tonight. There’s no rage or resentment, just the heavy ache of being caught unprepared. The kind of ache that comes from bracing for fire and finding silence instead.

He doesn’t mean to listen. Gods, he never means to. But it’s like standing in the wind and pretending not to feel the cold. Her thoughts are wind-wild things tonight, scattering ash and memory with every step, and even when she looks away, even when she tells herself not to need anything from him, he still hears how much she does. And maybe that’s the worst of it—that he hears all of this, every unsaid truth and fractured hope—and still can’t give her answers that make it easier.

As her pacing begins and her questions come, each one smaller than what she fears but larger than what she dares admit, he exhales slowly, gaze tracing the soft press of her thumbnail to her mouth, the shifting lines of her brow. "I don’t know how long it takes to rebuild the scaffolding of an empire," he says at last, voice low, and a little dry. The corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile, more like a shrug wearing a clever mask. "But I doubt it’s quick."

Her spiral is palpable, not just in the sharp staccato of her thoughts, but in the way her body responds before she even realizes it. He can feel the tension like a live wire stretched across the room. It thrums in his bones even as he stays still, offering her that stillness like a lighthouse might offer its shore. And yet...for all the ache, this is better. Better it be miles that wedge between them than words he can’t explain. Better she resent the silence of absence than the confusion of knowing something’s wrong and never hearing why.

Because how would he say it? That it's not you, it's me, in ways she’s not allowed to know? That there are corners of his mind even she shouldn’t touch, truths that warp the closer you get? She doesn’t deserve that burden, not from someone who already hears her too clearly.

"Likely soon as LongNight’s over," he adds, voice softening around the edges, roughened by restraint. "Jack wants someone settin’ up shop soon as the sky clears." 

Colt startles on a step, and the sharp sound of Smooches yelping breaks the air, drawing his gaze. For a second, it’s almost enough to forget the weight between them—the sheer, domestic absurdity of it—but it doesn’t last. Her offer comes on the heels of it, breathless and maybe half-untrue, but real enough to stir something in him. His lips quirk again, more wry this time, though there’s a warmth behind it that refuses to hide. He nods once, slow and sincere. "I’ve never been up there, but I hear there’s plenty of shit to do in the Grounds," he says, folding his arms loosely across his chest, leaning just slightly against the island.

rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

COLT

I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore

The truth he provides offers her little comfort. Said like that, an empire being rebuilt, keeps the rising dread of time at a steady trickle through her. Now the idea of months blurs into seasons, to a year, to years. Suddenly this is feeling less like he'll be gone and more like it's goodbye. The irony of fearing she'd run into him too often now twisting into the very opposite is not lost on her, and a single, dry laugh huffs out, expecting nothing less than a shit hand from life but still always surprised by the lengths to which fate could be a right bitch.

The trickle picks up more volume and speed, cutting through her with all the haste of rainwater that's been dumped too fast on ground too hard. She blinks back at the surge of it, palms grabbing at the edge of the counter for something steadying as she bears down on the brace of her arms. End of LongNight. She does a quick count in her head as to how long it's already been, just to know how much is left. Hardly seems like enough each time she ticks it off, but then maybe there's a mercy in that, that he didn't leave her with this knowledge for too long, the way a shorter line keeps a tied horse safer; less for them to tangle up in.

She's expectant then, at the extension of her offer. Partly for refusal, his voice just the slide of a blade to sever whatever this is that's between them, which feels too sharp and cold after she'd just had the heat of his hand moments ago. The other part, it's a held breath of hope, one that loosens at the nod he grants. The Grounds, then.

His mention of things to do up there earns the faintest twitch of a smile, "I wouldn't be going there to sightsee, not beyond one sight anyway." Might only be the middle of the ocean that would matter to her as far as location for visiting him is concerned. Can't say she has much in the way of sea legs. "I'm sure you'll like it though, was up there earlier this season with Thorn," she says off hand, hoping maybe light talk would help her swallow it all. It hadn't been enough of a trip to do the place justice, especially with bad weather keeping them out of the more wild places she'd been interested in seeing, but the architecture that Thorn so loved had its own manner of charm that grew on her by the end.

A soft sigh slips out in the next breath, an attempt to keep steady now that she's out of words, but it doesn't work. Her fingers curl tighter against the counter. That little spark of future possibility is not enough to raze through all the rest, her thoughts still slick and the current still strong. There's few guard rails left tonight to divert what her mind sends to her mouth, so her tongue's nearly as quick as her thinking. "You don't seem bothered." She aims for observation rather than accusation, but it tightens at her jaw all the same. He's here, she knows that means something, that he came to tell her. He could have walked away without ever dropping by. Could have sent a letter leaving all her questions unanswered. She also knows the importance of work, probably better than most. Still, knowing all that doesn't keep it from feeling any different, like she's falling, and she's doing it alone, because looking at him he's as unruffled as ever. It worries her, that she's having to hold the counter and he's barely leaned off his own feet.

"Godsdamnit Vesper, why aren't you bothered?" she demands, one hand briefly rising just to slap the punctuation of it onto the counter. Some of the more skittish dogs get to their feet, slinking away from the fireplace. "You're always so calm!"

She swallows hard, gaze pinching in with concern as she looks at him. Not for the first time, she's searching for something in his face. It's always been hard to find though. Her voice runs softer abruptly, an unusual plea buried in it. "Even about this?"

I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again