𝙣𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙚

[blindchaos]

firebled​:

neve clears her throat. and oh, does she love the stage. “here’s to— wait,” she interrupts herself, topping up his glass before he can protest. you can’t cheers without a full cup, after all. it wouldn’t seem right. here we go again: “here’s to not being dead.” neve announces, her tone verging on blasé far more so than sincere. and while the murky depths of their last few days weren’t yet something she was prepared to wade through, neve did want to celebrate that. the whole ‘not dead’ part. and before the curtains fall, she adds this: a cheers they pass around her firefly camp on the night spent drunk blind before a battle. “and when the day does comes… may we be in heaven a full half-hour before the devil knows we’re dead.” she raises her glass, brow cocked and expectant. “—cheers.”

    ‘ death ‘  is word slung around too offhandedly for this to be the party neve claims.   but what else would it be?  tall glass chimes against bottle.  and he’s laughing,  now,  too.   “  tad morbid,  “  vin puts it simply,  but you don’t hear him disargue it.  you don’t see that stoic veil upheld by only the finest young wlf tonight;   amusement cracks through in a smile.  he himself gives it away: just how much these moments mean with boots sunk in soot ‘n rubble.  for now he doesn’t even mind.   it may not be a party,  but it’s the closest they’ve got.  &. at least they can call it theirs. “ -- cheers. “  

[blindchaos]

wfirebled·:

neve hides no evidence of a smirk. thick brows cock to surprise when he meets her challenge: not playing to win perhaps, but playing none the less. this is what she needs. sweet distraction, sour booze. he comes to her (good, that’s how she likes it) — chasing the drink with a  cringe that suggests he’s not as familiar with dark liquor as she. neve laughs: small and giggly now, in light of heat spreading down her throat. the burning feels like relief; well deserved. “now that? is a funny joke, vin.” it’s a blessing liquor agrees with her, for all she drinks of it — especially back home with at fireflies. home… the fireflies. that’s a conversation for another time. for now, though… “c’mon, loosen up a little! it’s a party.” a party of two, but a party none the less. and not a wake, either! what miracles come neve’s way. she nudges him with the bottle, an unspoken ‘follow me’ as she heads them back towards the couch. sitting feels like a good idea. “besides… i wanna make a toast.”

   she’s found a thread to tug and tug and tug.   unwinding last night’s traumas,  making loose the stern expression &. faraway eyes.   neve drags.  vince follows.  for once,  instinct doesn’t alert him against the line in which she beckons.   (  or maybe it’s been spent,  overused like an organ.  maybe now it’s just fucked for good.  )   so he sits and he waits.  attempt at concealing curiousity failing when it sits in his eyes.  in his raised brow pressing her to get on with it.  in his,   “ go on then.  what’ve you got for me?  “  it doesn’t matter how dim their day’s been,  he’s sure she’s got something trivial on the tongue.

[blindchaos]

firebled​

the corner of her lip twitches. if that’s his apology, she supposes she’ll take it. and besides — neve didn’t want to fight. their day spent in silence had felt like punishment enough, although she can’t promise he won’t hear about it later. jealous, jealous, jealous! for now, she wanted to live in a nicer moment. hell, at least he hadn’t been lying — the art supplies were killer, by post-apocalyptic standards. neve fishes out a small leather-bound journal, unlined pages in perfect condition (save for a little dust). she’ll be taking this with her, she decides. thanks, vince. she peers at him out the corner of her eye, pretending she doesn’t notice his rummaging and the quiet clinking of glass. this better be — oh! well, colour her pleasantly surprised. it is. “whiskey?” she muses, forgetting she’s supposed to be sulking and instead rewarding him with her full attention. neve cocks a brow, once again finding herself impressed. “…you’re not trying to poison me, are you?” she teases dryly, extending an invitation for a return to more casual conversation. he presents his offering and leaves: smart man. oh, just one glass? that won’t be a problem. “i don’t need a glass,” she counters, nonchalantly — going for the bottle, instead. call her competitive (or perhaps a showoff). lips meet rim, and down the hatch it goes: the burn that chases it familiar and warm. god, how long had it been since she’d had a drink? too long. “but i mean, you’re more than welcome…” to the glass, neve means. there’s a challenge in there, somewhere. “if that’s more… your speed.”

   jesus.  did he fuck up?  he watches the natural rhythm of neve and that bottle,  the upturned lips that light her face when the deed is done. it isn’t like she doesn’t deserve it.  those splashes of purple and blue are reminder enough:  brush dipped in,  smeared across her face,  her neck,  and just about everywhere he cannot see.  vince swallows a heavy weight.  they’re not talking about what’s glaringly obvious,  they’re having a good time.  keep your head screwed on,  vince.   “ fuck it,  “ fingers find the glass he’d poured for neve,  taking less grace in his maneuver.   vince has never had the taste for whiskey.  or any one of the poisons,  really.  it’s all about acquired taste,  yeah,  but if it tastes shit and it makes him shit then-----  what’s the point?   won’t catch this dead on his tongue;  he’s spoilt neve’s party twice too many times today.  “ careful.  i’m not holding your hair back tomorrow morning.  “ 

[blindchaos]

firebled​:

luck was right — finding this place must have felt like striking gold. there were so few places left unspoiled, let alone completely untouched. the ambiance wrapped neve up like a warm blanket; seeing vince (of all people) comfortable enough to relax? well, that alone sets her weary mind at ease. she trusts him, when he says it’s safe. good — she needs safe, right now. oh, art! the very mention of the word fills her with glee. it’s been weeks since she’s put pencil to paper, even longer since she’s held a brush. neve has little free time to indulge the hobby, and she misses it like an old lover. but he doesn’t let her enjoy the feeling, quite as long as she’d like. if her head didn’t hurt so badly, neve would have rolled her eyes. “oh, funny!” she snipes — annoyance flooding to replace enthusiasm as her face falls flat. turning her back on him, she silently protests: i’m not in the mood. still… she’ll take a look at those journals, won’t she? neve crouches down, digging through drawers: busying herself intentionally. it’s a good thing he can’t see her face — she’s scowling.

    &.  just like clockwork...  but he can’t deny his role in it.  for every prime a complaint, and every strike of twelve a brawl.  vincent,  the hands that nudge her in that direction.  who prod,  and don’t stick around to fix it,  moving on to the next tic.   call it something in the air.   ( or maybe he wants to see that light again ).    “ alright,  not funny.  “  he concedes in favour of the five letter word foreign on his tongue.  a sigh rolls right out him,  one hand gripping the mattress frame,  the other reaching under it.  she’s too busy pointedly avoiding him   ( that brings an unseen smirk to his lips )   to notice the movement.   but she can’t ignore him forever.  vincent finds her at the desk,  head still deep in distractions.    “ there’s only one glass so...   “   the whiskey sits in the glass and ---  is it a mistake to leave the bottle there with it ?  oh well.  if neve so wanted she’d tear the room apart in search of it.  so just as sudden as he’d arrived, vince retreats back to his side of the room,  this time dragging the ottoman to prop his feet up.

[blindchaos]

firebled​:

kid, meet candy shop! her gaze grows wide: slumped shoulders and drooping lids springing to life and forgetting their strain. neve had never seen anything quite like it — except for in those old teen movies they watched back at base, when the wlf deemed the electricity expenditure worth it. but this was even better, neve decided, because it was real. theirs. “…like it?” she repeats, as if ‘like’ isn’t a strong enough word. “i love it,” she almost whispers — a smile curling the corners of her lips for the first time since this morning. but neve’s not thinking about that, now. the bad thoughts are much smaller — almost gone entirely. hell, he even makes her laugh. “shut up,” she chides. “i’m very easy going, y’know that?” neve knows that’s a joke. and at her own expense, too! she must be in a good mood. you know where her gaze sticks. “oh, cool…” neve muses, finding her way over to the chalkboard: bare, save for eight small tally marks. all the girls he’s brought down here. stop. she turns back to him, starry-eyed and full of delight. “how… how did you — this?” neve wonders aloud. it feels like magic. totally worth the long, shitty walk.

    he catches himself before she notices.  suddenly,  the sofa’s the most important thing in the room--- not the round eyes filled with laughter,  stroking his strings &.  tempting that stubborn line to rise.   vince falls backwards.  arms stretched out,  snow-angel style.   soft pillows catch his fall.  now vince favours the panels on the ceiling.  those won’t get him in trouble.  “ i did nothing.  jut found it under a stroke of luck,  i guess.  they hid it well,  “  then,  more to himself,  “ just not well enough.  “  propping himself on one arm,  he nods to the desk on their right.  “ oh,  there’s some blank pages and journals and shit in there.  if you’re still into your art.  “  vincent.  don’t do it.  don’t.  fucking.  do. it.   “ --- or has that changed too?  “    there’s vague hint of a smile in the sentence,  gently mocking the woman who...  probably shouldn’t be mocked.  but vincent’s too good at getting it wrong.

[blindchaos]

firebled·:

she sighs. exhaustion mingles with relief at the promise of soon. neve can tell he needs it too — rest. from the small glances she’s dared to steal, she’s clocked the weariness hanging under his eyes. she wagers he hadn’t slept much, the night previous. and the night before that, well… clearly he was preoccupied. neve winces, not liking the image her mind conjures at the thought. she stuffs the bad feeling that comes alongside it back down, trying not to dwell on that pesky little word that’s been eating at her for hours: jealous. she’s surprised when they pull to a stop — the house looks like any other, although she supposes that’s the point. it’s frustrating how sensible he is, sometimes. neve crosses her arms impatiently while she waits; feels like a dog tied to a tree, waiting for it’s owner to come back. but he’s right to leave her outside. she’s a liability, considering in the state she’s in. add another bad word to her list: burden. but neve’s expression shifts when she crosses the threshold. it feels like… home. not her home particularly (for she never truly had one), but like how a home should feel. warm, lived in, lined with personal effects. her dark gaze immediately finds faces in the photographs: parents, friends, children. her brows furrow. neve decides looking at the faces was a bad idea. “it’s not much of a bunker,” she points out cautiously — not trying to rock the boat, but airing her skepticism none the less. what’s so special about this place, anyway? she follows him: down, down, down. and ah, there it is. “woah…”

  down the rabbit hole they go.  one with doubt in their hands,  the other crossing the threshold with certainty.  and there’s the reaction he was expecting.  encompassed in a word. he locks up behind them before greeting the view formally.  hands on his waist,  accomplished sigh falling from him.  a noise very different to the one produced by neve.  one that says:  finally.  yet,  there’s something endearing about his counterpart’s wonder.  “ i knew you’d like it. “  the sofa looks makeshift:  a panel supports a mattress with thick pillows propping the wall.  perhaps the most impressive is the state of the sheets.  not a single stain.  he wouldn’t claim them clean,  but they’re not quite dirty either.  they’re the details vincent sees.  he assumes neve’s hooked in by the chalkboard,  the tv, candles, the battery powered---- wait,  they’re not turned on yet.  vincent gives no word when he kneels down behind the sofa,  clicking the on-switch to the string lights neatly wrapped around the circumference of the room,  draped over cushions.   “ how’s this, your highness? good enough? “  with a dash of snark.  he simply can’t help it.

[blindchaos]

firebled·:

@blindchaos. it’s a long and lonely walk. neve trails behind him in stubborn silence: their conversation drifting between professional and nonexistent for the entirety of the day. more often than not, the latter. and she will not be the first to break. in good news, neve has been fed. she hadn’t realise how ravenous she was, until the first vile mouthfuls had been shoved down. she takes her appetite returning as a good sign, as is the ache in her head: still thudding, more more dully so now. easier to ignore especially, with her mind elsewhere. and it is elsewhere — painfully so. jealous! the word simmers and pops in her head like meat on a pan; burned black and stinking up the place. neve’s idle hours (of which she’s had plenty today) have been dedicated to this: rerunning their conversation over again and again — trying to find a version of it she likes. no such luck. “how far is this… place, anyway?” the girl is exhausted. she’s been doing her best not to drag her feet, but her injuries are wearing on her now, as twilight sets in. are we there yet? a tale as old as time.

   there’s nothing wrong with silence.  as great he makes a team player,  he excels on his own too,  forging his own rules.  so it’s easier to rename her presence.  he walks alone.  sure,  there’s the odd buzz  &.  vincent’s always got the answer on his tongue:  short and sweet.  nothing wrong with silence?  nearly.  you’re a decimal point off.  because the off set of one language breeds the other.  intrusive thoughts strike him raw today.  catching him off guard,  digging the wound deeper with no salt:  shivs only.  and yet whenever neve breaks it...    well fuck,  he’d prefer the looming voice of conscious.             “ coming up, “  to put it simply.  he’s not angry anymore.  just tired.    he’s not lying,  either.  the rows of houses are unassuming just the way he likes.   his particular favourite is number 36,  single story,  about as run down as its neighbours;  abused windows,  glass shards left to tell the tale,  wearing profanities across its body like painted tattoos.  vince didn’t chose it based on aesthetics.  yet,  a sense of warm familiarity soaks into skin like water in a bath,  amidst ruin and all.   “ wait out here,  i’ll do a sweep.  “  of course,  it’s empty save the dusts ‘n ghosts.  no harm in playing it safe,  unless neve’s found trouble in a three minute proximity.  vince sticks his head out.  leaning against the fence,  clearly exhausted.  but there.  thank fuck.  “ neve,  “  he waves her in, waiting on little else before returning to...  someone’s home.

[blindchaos]

firebled​:

she’s barely listening. neve said her piece, now she’s facing the consequences: her head pounding and aches in her torso returning anew. the relief that came alongside rage short-lived. fucking asshole — now she’s dizzy. his fault, neve decides (like the rest). so, more had changed about vincent than she had originally thought. not that she gave him much thought, in that particular arena — not until now. a small (very, very small) part of her knows she’s being irrational. the bile still didn’t make sense. but neve doesn’t care. she can’t care, she’s too irate. she tunes back in to catch the tail end of his rebuttal. it only makes her madder. neve shakes him off her, stumbling again — catching herself just barely. “get the fuck off me, reilly.” she snaps, fierce gaze finally returning to him; familiarity and sweet nicknames from childhood suddenly replaced with impersonal frost. red hot has simmered: now there’s only cold. “i’ll go wherever the hell i want — i’m not your fuckin’ prisoner.” neve points out, calmer but just as venomous. and she’s right. she’s not his prisoner — for the time being, anyway. she supposes she could leave, if she wanted to. and that meant this: if she did go with him now, she was making a choice. a choice to follow him still, after everything they’d done to each other. and while the devil on her shoulder urges her towards the door, she has enough good sense to keep her feet planted. “forget it,” she snaps — although neve certainly will not. couldn’t, even if she tried. “it… it doesn’t matter.” the lie makes her feel no less bitter.

   so there we have it.  she stays out of necessity,  for survival.  vince is her final resort,  the bare minimum.  great.  this was worth giving his acclaimed life up for,  huh?  there’s a swamp of bitter sludge beneath his surface,  the ugly parts that don’t make it past his lips,  bubbling in his belly instead.  it’s hardly healthy,  but what else should he do?  speak it?  it seldom makes things better,  his words.  better to sit on them, let ‘em fester and mold,  even if the result is this:  strict gaze firmly away from neve,  clenched fists,  a tone marinaded to the taste of annoyance.  it leaks out,  as it would.  “ yeah,  it doesn’t fucking matter. “   he’ll go weeks without cursing.  in the cz he’ll be praised for his manners.  not around neve.  she strings out of him the worst that his person can muster.  to prove it,  mutters something dangerous in hushtone.  something petty.  something beneath his breath.  “  nothing to get jealous over. “  he’s got fucking nothing to carry,  not even a backpack,  nor a map,  so when he glides past her he does it quick  &.  doesn’t bother to check she’s still following.  he’d love it if she fucked off.  one mouth to feed instead of two.

[blindchaos]

firebled·:

she sees red: paint splatters and messy brushstrokes. neve’s poor tired mind suddenly kicked into high gear, her injuries all but forgotten in the sudden flash of fury. the anger, at least, serves her better than any pain medication could. she doesn’t even look at him. she can’t. it feels like betrayal. even more so, somehow, then him throwing her in that prison. the worst part? she can’t reason as to why. why does the thought of someone else’s lips on his… no. rage turns quickly to bitterness, bitterness to cruel sarcasm. “y’know — i’m happy for you, vince! really.” her words cut more pointedly than any blade, hissed and paired with thrown up hands. is he playing dumb again? oh, how dare he. “i’m glad one of us has been having fun! tell me: were you fucking her before, during, or after i got tortured? just trying to figure out a rough timeline.” neve laughs, like she finds it hilarious. she doesn’t. the vitriol doesn’t stop there. “actually? nevemind. — spare me the details. i’ve been through enough. i don’t need to relive the painful details of your shitty love life, too.” neve spits each word out like they repulse her. she still can’t look at him. her head’s spinning again too: the result of too fast and too much. she stumbles, clumsily bracing herself against a wall. god, she wished she could run. she wished her head was screwed on straight and her bones didn’t ache. because all neve wanted in that very moment? was to get the hell away from him.

   no.  she didn’t want a hug.   were you wondering?   vincent sure as fuck is.  wondering how he fucked up so royally in a matter of words.   ah,  and there it is.  the answer he demanded but so wants to shove back into her arms.  take it,  i’ve had enough off this shit &. it’s barely started !    “ oh my god,  neve,  “ he groans,  fingers in hair---  but not because she makes him nervous,  no.  because she makes him the colour of fire.   they clench into his skull,   then fly into the air.  “ it wasn’t even like that !  we-----  i didn’t know you were----- “  being traumatised.  forced into the sound of stories by candlelight.  the blame for that was him,  too. god.  alright.  he’s enough of a sight to gag on, so she rightfully throws herself away from him.  she’ll miss the pool of guilt in his eyes,  then.  the deep ache that digs grave in the pit of his stomach and then some.   that’s where he leaves that feeling,  returns to the surface to get some goddamn control back.    “ it’s not your business.  i don’t have to tell you shit,  neve.  where--- where the fuck do you think you’re going?  “  boundaries?  vince has none.  prodding the flame,  grip lunging for her wrist.  they’re not leaving it like this.  “ don’t be stupid. “

[blindchaos]

firebled·:

neve eyes him (somewhat apprehensive), but her anxieties are quickly soothed. he doesn’t want a fight either — good. another argument: clumsily avoided, for now. it seemed they were both intent on not discussing what had happened the night previous, and for that neve was grateful. even though she might’ve liked sharper memories, she suspected her subconscious had made the right decision in keeping them blurry. later perhaps, they could swap war stories, but for right now? neve was thankful to be spared rehashing it. she hesitates to take his hand. not for the sake of sentimentality (this time), but to brace herself for the pain. it’s more manageable, now that she’s prepared. “sure — easy peasy.” if she says it loudly enough, she might be able to convince herself that it’s true. vincent still needs to do most of the work to get her standing, though. hand wrapped around his forearm, she’s a tight grip. neve remains a moment longer than is necessary: making sure she’s stable enough not to fall directly back down. but they’re close, now. closer than she’s been to him since their first battle on the field — and she can certainly get a better look at him now than she could mid-brawl. her own aches and pains remind her of his. “how’s the arm, by the w—” she tugs him forward as if to get a better look, but something on his neck interrupts her pattern of thought. “is…is that?” hand still locked on his wrist, she keeps him close: makes sure her eyes aren’t deceiving her. she wishes they were. neve scoffs, all but whipping his arm away from her in ill-concealed disgust. “oh you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding!” she spits: cold and sharp now, where she had only just been warm. oh boy.

   she’s got muscle on her,  he feels it taking her weight as he felt it in his arms the night before.  the young woman had drifted to the lullaby of the siren and---  well,  there was no other option than carrying her.  it’s why they’re not far away enough from the base and why vincent presses them to move on.  ‘cause honestly?  he might’ve leaned back,  rested his neck,  near kicked his feet up to relearn neve’s humour under watch of today’s sun.  because he’s missed her.  through the hate spat at her feet like bile,  there’s the unspoken...  it exists again now, neck craned to see her eye to eye.  close enough to itch that nervous tick she triggers: of hands running through hair.  good thing the former are occupied.    he can indulge for a second,  can’t he?  she won’t know he’s taking intimacy out of context.  he will play dumb with his heart.  he’s done it before.  it’s a hell of an invite that perhaps she’s heard somehow,  because she’s tugging him forward,  entertaining the sweetest of ideas.  that she needs to be held again,  this time for comfort,  not survival.       “  w----- what ? “   ripped from him,  a stutter out of irritation.  something rare has fallen upon him.  hard to tell,  especially when neve’s fixated on his neck,  but cheeks ripen the faintest red.  embarrased.  it’s his turn,  it seems,  and before logic sinks through thick tissue,  vince feels she’s almost read his mind.          “  what the fuck is wrong with you ? “ 

[blindchaos]

firebled·.

now this felt familiar. it was strange how little could change in ten years; how little and how much, all at the same time. neve’s grateful when he returns her banter. a strange feeling unfurls itself in her chest: one she doesn’t have a name for, but it’s reminiscent of slipping under the covers after a long day. relief, comfort. and in that moment, it’s comfort she craves. when he winks at her, neve feels suddenly like she’s going to cry — not out of sadness nor pain, but grief. oh, the years she mourned him. and now, here vincent sat: breaking bread and swapping jibes. it felt like no time in the world had passed. but it had. the ache is brief; a flash in the pan. neve hopes her wince will be mistaken for one of physical pain, rather than sentiment. so the boy laughs. and before neve knows it, she’s laughing too. perhaps still teetering on delirium, but enjoying the feeling all the same. the water aids the ache in her throat, regaining some clarity now when she speaks. “yeah, so what? that’s your name, right?” she retorts, her gaze narrowing to convey annoyance — all in good fun. she might’ve kicked him if she had the strength, but instead settles on lobbing the bottle back in his direction. good enough. “or has that changed too?” her intent is light-hearted, but the words carry more weight than neve might’ve hoped. she gets a sinking feeling in her gut. she moves to deflect again, not allowing the sentence to hang in silence for longer than it needs to. “i’m fuckin’ starving, by the way. — don’t suppose there’s any more where that came from?” neve inquires, gaze flitting to the empty bottle. she’s doubtful, not even that hungry really — although she hasn’t eaten in days. not a great sign, admittedly.

   it’s a graze,  not a puncture.  the pessimist in him throws back his head and laughs:  that they could only last nothing more than a few lines before throwing bullets.  but surrounded by the glow of last night’s events,  it’s easier for vin to see neve.  if they’re bullets,  these are rubber.  slip of the tongue,  he notices,  in the awkward verbal scramble to bury joke that exposed its own genuinity.  has he changed?   absolutely.  should he remain as feeble as a fifteen year old,  shallow sense of the world ‘n all?  he’d have died twenty times over if he did.  yeah he’s changed.  an old friend doesn’t have to like it.  that’s right,  reduce her from what she was if that makes it easier.    so he delivers nothing but a quirked brow.  she can have her moment.     “  ah,  i’m afraid we’ve got to do some digging for that.  “  vin’s palms meet the concrete on each side,  pushing himself up into stand.  without conscious effort he lends a hand to neve,  figuring the move won’t be so graceful for the bruised.  “ c’mon.  i think i know a place ‘bout an hour out.  you think you can manage? “

[blindchaos]

firebled​:

oh, what a difference three days can make. people had risen from the dead in less, neve supposed — both holy and infected. she certainly felt like the latter, right now. probably looked it, too. better to feel like hell than be burning in it, at least. neve mentally deducts another one of her nine lives. she focuses on what’s certain: vincent, the sunlight, the jacket draped atop her with care. all things that make neve feel warm. but his words plunge her back under cold water; a shiver running down her spine. “…guess not,” she mused dryly — casually, almost. but it’s not casual. if recollection serves her right, he did her no simple favour last night. perhaps neve should reconsider her plans of killing him. “thanks, for uh… that.” she clears her throat, gratitude sounded strange on her tongue — especially directed towards him. but she supposes she owes him that, at least. head injuries could make a girl so soft, huh?  her throat aches as she eyes the bottle — better than any olive branch. overly eager, she moves too fast; her impatience rewarded with a shooting pain down her side. arm outstretched, she finally looks down: sees the mess she has been made. oh god, of fuck. bruises are brutal, sickening. if the aches and pains complaining from her torso are any indication, she assumes the trend continues on there, too. neve snatches the bottle: moving hastily again, but this time not from desperation — rather, embarrassment. she hurries to cover herself again with the bomber; her disgust for the symbol emblazoned on it irrelevant, for the time being. she wonders if he’s seen it too: the extent of her injuries. but surely he can, he has. she wishes he didn’t. neve doesn’t like feeling vulnerable. so instead, she deflects. “you look like shit, vinnie.” she points out, spying his tired eyes as she presses the bottle to her lips. not a peaceful night’s rest, from what neve could assume. but make no mistake: the words are harsh, but her tone carries no malice. it’s almost — playful. an attempt to lighten the mood, albeit a poor one. besides, she thanked him, not too long ago. it’s only fair she gets to insult him, too. 

   she thanks him.  vincent doesn’t know what to do with it.  hands full,  mind moreso.  a barrage of insults is better received.  those he knows what to do with.  those are comfy in their familiarity.  gratitude?   he greets the face of it with the shrug of shoulders,  yearning the moment over before its due.  take away his pride  (  &.  then what’s left?  )  and there’d exist this:   a smile,  tender in its rarity,  eyes that don’t run away from hers,  and something true.  that he’d do it again in a heartbeat----  in less than.      moonlight’s conquered then faded in the time neve rested.  though rest is too soft a term;  he’d caught the scrambling in her sleep,  the moans of sorrow citing the state of body and mind.  it called for the set of thick brows  &.  intense attention,  and in her wake is no different.   he’s on the ledge of spilling something stupid like:  are you okay?   luckily,  she’s back to what he knows.  the neve he remembers,  though not from last night,  nor the night before.  the neve before the decade aged her into something akin to concrete.    ghost of a smile haunts that prominent line.  flickers up in small count,  ‘till words interrupt the progress.  “ what can i say?   i guess i dress for the company. “  with a wink;  something youthful in that,  mirroring her cheek.        there’s a brief breath of silence,  then comes the realisation.  “ ... did you just call me vinnie? “  it’s like being thrown back ten years.  truth or dare,  vinnie?  two kids opting for the rug on the floor.  whispers and laughter back then;  children who didn’t know better.  fingers find his hair through short laughter,  making paths and fuck does he feel young again.  as though he’s lost his youth.  because,  well,  hasn’t he?

[blindchaos]

firebled​:

@blindchaos.

she wakes from a dream. or — does she? for the last few days have surely felt like fever and shifting shapes. neve dreams of him often, after all. but never like this. and if she were dreaming, why did her head hurt so fucking bad? “ow…” she grumbled, complaining before she had even opened her eyes. with good reason, of course (this time, at least). she felt like she had been hit by a truck, and then reversed over and hit a couple more times after that. sore would be an understatement; as would confused. neve doesn’t know where she’ll be when she opens her eyes, but the last thing she expects is this: him. alright, so she wasn’t dreaming. good to know. perhaps more troublingly though, that must mean what happened last night was real. and what… did happen last night? she doesn’t remember. it’s blurry, nonsensical, tinted red. and he — saved her? but… but that doesn’t make any sense, does it. why would he do a thing like that? neve shifts to feel her wrists, battered and tender, but free. the evidence is stacking in his good favour, now. she tries to move, sit up, but it sets her head spinning. bad idea. “w-woah, uh…” she mumbles, dark eyes squeezing shut again. she begs her poor tried brain for focus, for clarity. it does its best. “what… what’s happening? what — happened?” of all the questions she has for him, this one feels the most important.

    he’s a tendency of short breath when confined between walls.  claustrophobia was the word thrown around in his youth.  the curly-haired boy locked himself in the storage closet,  filled with enough cries you’d think he returned to the very source of this trauma.  that is what watching over neve feels like.  claustrophobia.  the rising panic, the sweaty palms,  the inability to do exactly what must be done to survive:  breathe.  perhaps it’s not entirely one thing,  more a kaleidoscope of problems mounting atop vincent’s shoulders.  like the wanted status.  like the frail woman beneath his watch.  like her history of turning against him.  like throwing away the keys to the gates of safety,  the gates to his home.  the latter is soothed for hours with a sweet nothing:  that they’re family,  and that he will be allowed back in.      at the time she wakes, vincent has not dared sleep.  it might show in the bags by his eyes,  or there might be more attention in the alert gaze.  the near unblinking one.  at the time she wakes,  vincent is dragged from his thoughts.  he watches.  his bomber tucked around her, undisturbed for --- how many hours,  twelve?  ---  falls into neve's lap.  she moves,  then appears to regret it.  “ they didn’t kill you, “  he answers simply.  if he can help it?  let’s stop there.  vincent holds out the plastic bottle to his left.  it was a miracle from somebody’s god that some supplies had been left behind in the area.  they’ll have to share but...  that’s the least of their worries.

[blindchaos]

firebled​.

when he moves to stand, she thinks for a moment that she’s failed. panic rises in her throat like bile, but retreats just as quickly upon this: the jingling of keys. neve had never heard a sweeter sound. her face splits to a painful smile: relief sending her drunk and dazed. she isn’t cognisant enough to notice his hands slip behind her back until she’s already free. oh, freedom! but no, not yet. not nearly. that thought alone grounds her back in reality, her smile falling slack when she recaptures vincent’s gaze: ashen and bleary as her own. the night has only just begun. the cogs in her brain start to turn again, adrenaline bolstering her bones to move. ‘just a little more’ a small voice whispers from the oldest, most animal part of her brain. she would be no lamb tonight, here’s hoping. he speaks quickly, and it takes her a moment more than it should — but she hears him. understands. “not a word,” neve repeats thickly, grateful he hadn’t asked more of her. shutting up? oh that, right now, she could do. words could come later; at the moment, she was extremely preoccupied with not falling down (tricky business). for now, and perhaps for the very first time: neve would actually listen to vincent reilly.

  he watches her.  she watches him.  words become understanding and that is all he needs.  that’s all he can afford:  no written plan,  no strategy.  nothing but dumb luck and instinct.  it’s the latter that falls his palm into hers,  encasing her fragile hand in protection.  in tender but sure fashion,  he guides her out,  locking up behind them for what might equal two seconds on their side. they will probably need it.   just as promised the soldier leads.  the blood is--- distracting.  to him and to any potential other they cross.  a deadly thought but a high probability.  still in his haze,  vince shrugs out of the bomber signed wlf;  the recipients only the most loyal,  the hardest of workers.   hands disconnect for the few seconds it takes for him to cover her cruelty in the jacket ever glued to him.  that--- and it’s cold.  they don’t stop walking,  not ever.  down the stairs,  thanking an empty god that reception’s closed,  and out through the security doors.  they’re fucked.  a thought that wriggles through:  something true.  but stubborn soldier grinds his teeth,  strengthens the grip on neve through an arm over her shoulder,  and leads her away from the street lights.  their eyes are to the gates and the prize is outside of them.  vincent’s soft blanket of security,  the space in which he can only breathe fully,  is only a temporary enemy.  as it must be with neve under his wing.  it’s what he tells himself at least,  after sending ordered murmurs to stay put neve’s way.  has to be done.  some fucked up mantra for the arms not locking around a friend in protective form,  but wrapping around fellow soldiers throats.  luckily he knows what he’s doing.  this act isn’t fatal----  but it is to him,  isn’t it?   there’s no escaping his consequence.  not for this.      when the deed is done----  when the four of them are---  he finds neve just as he left her.   “ come on.  we don’t have---- “      the universe works in marvellous ways,  doesn’t it?  the splitting alarm rips what little peace they had,  demanding something tumultuous and hideous upon the former stoic face.  there comes a time when even words don’t matter.  nothing could get them out quicker:  vincent,  flexing his skill in speed,  neve,  dragged along behind him.  hell,  he’ll carry her out if it comes to it---- they will not die here.

[blindchaos]

firebled·.

oh, how she wishes that were true. because neve believes him now, for the first time in their conversation this evening thus far: that he would try. so he is a fool, then, not a monster — nice to know. a faint flicker of hope speeds her ragged beating heart, and she rejoins him at the bars. firefly to lantern. if she had a spare hand, she would take his in her own (perhaps it’s better she doesn’t). instead, she closes the distance between them: her voice dropping to a whisper. softer, but just as desperate. for all the lies neve tells, she hopes now he’ll hear the truth. “… isaac, vince? who the fuck do you think did this to me?” oh, and neve was certain he had enjoyed it. dark gaze pooled with tears, for the most part without her permission. if this were her final plea, she would make it a good one. “please, vin. i…” her voice trembled with the weight of its omission, pained to admit aloud: “i don’t wanna die.” not here, not now — not like this. how pathetic. neve o’hara: snuffed out in some dark room, broken body left to burn on the fire. so much for a blaze of glory. truthfully, her faith in vince was fading. he was the one who landed her here, after all. but she had to try, didn’t she? she had no other choice.

words he doesn’t want to hear in a tone inducing wince.  of isaac.  vincent grinds bottom lip,  enough to slice and spill.  of isaac.  the mentor to the soldiers:  the one who leads them and conquers.  of isaac.  who... vincent cannot visage in the shade painted within neve’s eyes. that raw devastation.  he’s stuck in them;  iris’ as whirlpool  &.  her childhood friend’s caught in the rift of them.  he can’t get out.  he doesn’t want to.  not when it means---  abandoning her.  that is exactly what denying her reality would equate to.  that,  and her death.  if she’s telling the truth.  neve o’hara,  with her rich history dancing between the lines of fiction and non.  leaving the young man fuelled on one thing and one thing alone.  it aches between its cage,  much like neve.  loyalty to the wolf vs. loyalty to the fly.  vincent moves in a haze.  face so hardened by a truth he's no business in processing,  perhaps neve convinced herself in the fragile seconds of silence that her hope was nothing but a fizzle.  but in goes his hand,  and out of pocket comes noise.  the keys sing together in his palm,  all the more so as vin unlocks her would-be coffin.    he’s quick to the hands behind her back,  taking one in his gentle own while the other clicks key in place.  through it all,  the tremble has stopped.   there’s something damp running down his cheeks,  but he doesn’t feel it.  shock renders him exactly where he’d like to be:   in control.    “ you can’t say anything.  not a word,  yeah?  and you stay right behind me.  you don’t let go.  i need to hear you say it,  neve.  “

[blindchaos]

firebled·:

she wants to be defiant. she wants to be ten feet tall, bulletproof — return his vitriol with equal vigour and spite. just like she always does. but his blunt denial shakes her resolve: rattles her assuredness. was… was he right? he seems so certain. and her brain feels so backwards, perhaps she was wrong. misremembering. bad dog. but no! no, she is sure. first there was up and then there was pain. so much pain. what had they done to her? the memories are blurred, confusing — unwelcome. she doesn’t want to examine them. but they’re there; they’re real. fuck you, wolf. she’s near prepared to mount a rebuttal, when he derails her again. but this time, it doesn’t confuse her. this time she’s afraid. her sharp inhale resembles a hiss. his sudden outburst paired with the jarring rattle of her cage drives her eyes wide with fear — falling clumsily backwards in an attempt to dodge what she expects to be another violent blow. it’s a response he wouldn’t have elicited yesterday; one that surprises even her. panting, neve scrambles to steady herself: embarrassed as she is afraid. afraid. that was not a feeling she liked to own up to, but it’s written all over her face. unmistakable, even through caked blood. when she finally speaks, it’s with the voice of a child: scared, desperate, trembling. “vince… vince they’re gonna kill me.” she has nothing left to do but plea. if there is even an ounce, and inch of the boy she once knew still in there — neve hoped he would hear her now. 

   nothing can defuse the veins standing tall,  fists of obsidian.  they’re longing to hit tissue,  to make bleed-----  maybe even to kill.  with vision gone red,  he’s as violent and senseless as the monsters beyond the walls.  nothing is supposed to slip in like fingertips on scalp.  the woman that he --- !!  as he does,  after all this time.  she has been made hurt---- no.  she’s been tortured.   control has been tossed in the air,  the one fucking pill he’s been made addict to.  to combat that defeat is simple:  make them pay.  make somebody hurt.  and she sneaks in like a waft from the bakers window. softens knuckles not through touch,  the backwards stumble that alerts him,  and then through words.  something desperate this way comes.  the bars he once abused hold him upright.  he clings just as well as his gaze does to her.  “ neve.   i won’t let them.  “    a promise.  a weak one,  spoken through faltering bravado.  because when the scars did it to him,  would they have come back to finish the job?   of course.  they all do.  torture is rarely a one-time affair.   fuck.  “  i’ll talk to isaac.  no.  you talk to him.  he’ll listen.  we don’t----- this isn’t how we fucking treat people. this isn’t how shit works here.  “

[blindchaos]

firebled​.

he must think she’s a fool. or else he plays one himself, in his spare time. it was one thing when they were kids — but now? there was no excuse to be blind. look for the light! neve can’t decipher whether or not the confusion is genuine, hell — she’s having a hard time not throwing up again, let alone reading mixed signals. and oh, he’s firing them off left and right. his sudden ferocity surprises her, it comes in a form she does not expect: directed at someone else, instead of her (nice change of pace). neve laughs, hoarse and humourless. “what? g-guard? …oh, that’s funny, vin. that’s real funny.” it’s not, really — not after the last 24 hours she’d had. her tone settles somewhere between mocking and amused, as if she’s not taking him seriously. as if he’s in on this decidedly unfunny joke. “so what, vince? you’re gonna storm out there and beat ‘em up for me? defend my honour, or some horse shit like that? aw well, i’m touched you care, believe me —” the sarcasm on her tongue loudly suggested otherwise. “but i’m pretty sure there were about four of ‘em up there, so i hope you’ve got all night.” she lays out the information bare, perhaps digs certain words to make sure they hurt -– but still not expecting much (if any at all) to come as a surprise.

     confusion doesn’t mix well with heat in the belly-- nor does neve delivering mock tone.  he’ll sooner take misguided anger out on her than get a hold of himself.  “ four?  that doesn’t make sense neve, “  in irk tone,  like ready to shake her by her shoulders for answers to float out,  “ there’s one guard on every twelve hours.  you can’t have seen four.  “  he gaslights,  casually.  this manipulation isn’t intentive---  don’t get him wrong.  but it’s the only damn sense to be made.  until something stands out.  a pebble thrown on lake,  it jumps and jumps and---  when it’s almost out of sight,  almost sunken,  so nearly missed---  vincent catches.  up.  “ you left your cell? “  again he assumes her responsible for her mess.  that she left her cage and that she was to blame.     “ why would you go upstairs?  it’s out of bounds, even for me.  how did you even get out of your cell---- why can’t you---  why can’t you just fucking learn, neve?  you go and get yourself hurt and leave learning nothing. “   ah,  here it is.  somewhere to sink the fangs of fury into.  right into the flesh of the innocent.  he remembers being tortured. he doesn't talk about it, but it exists in his mind like a scar--- as he's sure this will exist in neve's mind too “ do you get it now? have you learned?  to just--- “  closed fist meets metal,  the clang as demanding as desperate and brutal tone,  “ to just do what you’re fucking told? “