𝙣𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙚

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.”

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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…”

@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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

@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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.