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?