Had we no gloves, we might not have hands either
Vesper's never been a very literate person voluntarily up until the literature his father so desired to find catches up with her in a way.
Oneshot
Fanfiction off of a brilliant Plume comic - /comic/chapter-twelve-013/
Vesper & Corrick
G?
Oneshot
Had we no gloves, we might not have hands either.
She had snorted, flipped the page of then-what-seemed-ancient a book. Read another line, then slammed shut the thing that pretended to be abstruse yet clearly was just a written product of another pretentious mind her aunt readily made her read for 'no one will marry you with that level of erudition'. The collection of these deep thinkers' thinking was set on the side table not so carefully, and soon the whisper of multiple layers of skirts would announce that the lady regarded oh-so-impressionable by her aunt, had left the library.
Today the said young lady couldn't have harbored more different an opinion - regardless, be there quite different a concreteness to the thought meant-to-be-oh-so-deep than just the symbolic ideal.
Since that day she'd seen many a book more ancient, tomes multiplying the age of said piece of writing by dozens. Books, or looking for such books among other artefacts, had changed her life and for that, she was grateful in ways hardly imaginable after the many hours agonizing amongst aunt Agatha's bookshelves. And to her greatest pleasure it was, the change carried out by said books had come in a shape the least amusing for her aunt in no way she'd meant when obliging her to study them.
Her father had also loved books. Yet for Magnus Grey, there'd always been a different objective to acquire said tomes – the same objective that now kept her away from the very book she most preferably would have wanted to get her hands onto. Her father had contrived for it, yet Corrick definitely wouldn't oblige.
Vesper had suggested they'd get some change for the sandy prairies' hot sun and take a trip down south – the caress of some moist wind, silent soft singing of the wind amongst tropical leaves, you know, the whole rainforest-y vacation one might but dream of. But noooo, Mr. Handsome-and-Magical was such a spoilsport. Said it would be dangerous. Said they would absolutely not go. Told her she never listened. Heck, told her her father would never listen.
So, in this case, unlike in many others, she'd digress.
They spent nights arguing, the other nights completely in harmony and silence. He was relentless, while she couldn't understand the reasoning behind his stern pout about not going home. She knew he probably thought he always had her best interest in mind – yet had he ever thought about the best interest of himself? Of course the Amulet would prevent him from most forms of selfish action, yet sometimes she wondered if it was the spell or was the man himself not capable of such a thing all along. Maybe it hadn't occurred to him. He could see the danger, yet not the possibility for safety in this quest of hers and her father's, because the path leading there had so much danger in between them and the final safe haven. She was sure of it, but he wouldn't listen.
So, she was glad that there were gloves, and she could wear them to at least touch him, take his hand and lead him into next town in need of clearing from some rabble off the streets, if not impel him away from his so single-minded way of thinking for what it came to clearing a future possibly-much-safer for the both of them.
Yet her desire – and she was sure his, too – was for something more than just worn leather brushing against worn leather.
He would circumvent everything, yet he'd followed her despite the necklace not anymore caressing her weather-beaten collarbones. She'd gladly burn her hands for him, gloves or not. And he most certainly did it for her, as long as certain jungle cities weren't mentioned. Most likely she wouldn't have had any hands remaining, were it not for the other glove-covered hands there gloving and shooting lightning when it came down to a brawl. Yet gloves it was in between of finger crossing, a pair of hands holding each other after a therapeutic session involving gangsters and a gun. And it saddened her. She could only wish it was a mutual melancholy between his silent hostility and general irritation towards everything versus the sparkling energy of hers with thirst for revenge hot as glowing embers.
Had they no gloves, they might not have hands either.
Yet she wasn't sure she was happy about the fact that they did, either.