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Fwhip. Vex smiles as she lands her second bullseye.
“Impressive shot,” Percy says. She glances sideways, winks, and nocks another arrow.
They do this regularly, her and Percy. Vax prefers to refine his skills, or show off, in private with only Trinket to watch. His daggers apparently deserve “far more attention than just shooting at a target.” She argues constantly that all of their weapons do, but he rarely listens regardless of what she says. So, as a result, she often ropes Percival—the newest yet very welcome member of Vox Machina—into practicing with her. Although, much to her disappointment, he rarely ever uses the damn thing unless it’s in the midst of a fight.
He spends most of his time simply tinkering with it and adjusting it, often muttering curse words under his breath while he does. She finds him intriguing. And, if she was being entirely honest with herself—which she so rarely is—she also happens to find him ever so slightly attractive while he goes about his business. But this is a fact nobody else needs to know.
She shoots again, and again a second time. Both land where she wants it to, as they often do. She hums, waiting for some sort of response from Percy. When it doesn’t come, she looks expectantly at him—only to find him wiping his glasses carefully with his dark blue coat, which is a sign he’s feeling slightly more serious than usual.
“Does this mean that you’re finally deciding to practice aiming that gun for once, darling?”
He shoots her an almost playful glare before his lips shift into a cocky grin. He lines up the barrel with the target—the one Vex has been shooting at for the past few minutes—and, with a loud burst of sound, the bullet speeds through the wood and her arrows, leaving a gaping hole in the middle of it.
Vex feels her jaw fall slightly into a small O, which she closes immediately. She groans at the sight of her arrows—two out of four intact, but the most recent one she shot broken and utterly unusable.
She stomps towards them, gathers them up in her hands, and stomps back towards Percy with the intent to stab him with the head of one of the arrows she carries. “You ruined a perfectly good arrow and a perfectly good target, Percival!”
This time, he’s the one who hums. “I can always fashion you a new one.” She isn’t sure if he means a target or an arrow—or both. “And besides,” he carries on. “I am not the only person here who likes to show off their skills.”
“Well, yes, but still! My arrow!”
“We can find or fashion a fine replacement, I’m sure.” His repeated reply is spoken with complete confidence, and he walks away with the cocky smile still on his face and a purpose. When she catches up to him after shoving her good arrows (and the broken one) into her quiver, she grumbles, “Your future gold pieces will be spent replacing them. You know that, right, darling?”
He nods, his face finally shifting back to neutrality. “Well aware, Vex’ahlia. And I suppose, if they aren’t, I’ll either find an arrow in my back, jammed into my gun, or my coin purse ransacked entirely?”
This elicits a dry chuckle from Vex. “All three.”
And out of the corner of her eye, she almost swears one side of his mouth quirks up into a smile.