#ghosthorus

        ❛ yeah. me too. ❜

sounds tired, feels tired. he doesn’t have perfect posture right now and doubts he has the energy to rebuild his spine straight. so he slouches, an arm hooked over the knob of a knee, his stubbledcheek ( it’s been a few days, running non-stop missions, he hates it, hates being unkempt ) resting on his forearm. jack’s blinks are sluggish. each time they open there’s a noticeable lag but he still opens them, and that’s what matters. 

he can’t afford to be off his guard. 

there’s a sparking bastion unit to his right, the program wiped and leaving just a husk of wiring and empty shells. every now and then jack’s eyes flicker to the side. he thinks he sees the visor flare red sometimes, making his blood turn icy, fingers itching for his weapon again. but it’s nothing. it’s dead. it’s unnerving. 

he cants his chin just enough to see the top of ana’s head over his shoulder. no rest in... the reading on his scouter says it’s just clawing past 1600, so that makes it around— forty seven hours of constant moving and few power naps. can’t imagine how ana puts up seeing through the sniper scope for so long. after just five hours ( he’s timed it now ) with the scouter, the one-sided blue glass screws with him. ghost numbers, the echo of readings. 

       ❛ hope you two aren’t sleeping on the job. ❜ gabriel. jack would know just from the heavier fall of combat boots. 

         ❛ can you blame us ?? it’s relaxing here. true paradise. ❜ sarcasm leaves his mouth feeling dry.

red visor. metal on metal grind. the rattle of a sentry. jack closes his eyes, TIGHT ENOUGH TO SEE WHITE, and exhales heavily through his nose. ana’s cheek shifts over his shoulder blade, and he feels a hand curve over his side. it’s comfort. he takes it. 

       ❛ sounds like you could get some shut-eye yourself, gabriel. ❜ ana’s voice vibrates through his back. gabriel chuckles and fires back something that has ana snickering. he doesn’t hear it but smiles nonetheless.

      she has the territorial advantage-- but not for long. he cranes his head up, looking straight into the barrel of her rifle ( void meets and recognizes void, that is so ). this HUNT shouldn’t be happening. she should be DEAD and he doesn’t care if this was a self-chosen exile. he stares at the grey in her hair, the net of wrinkles around the surviving eye. something inside him snarls loudly. ❛ i hate shooting medics-- then again, you aren’t one, right? NOT REALLY. ❜

        ❝ I can’t say I blame you anymore, ❞ she finally says, months after they’ve seen each other again, months of her avoiding her own parent until finally it became too much, ❝ but can you at least tell me why, mother? ❞

EXCUSE YOU I RAISED YOU DURING THE FORMATIVE YEARS

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Δ = playing with their hair

       It’s an odd feeling, to be laying your head down on your mother’s lap, listening to her humming as her fingers threaded through your hair, and Fareeha finds it even more odd because she’s supposed to be thirty-two already; old enough to raise her own family, old enough to become a mother herself yet here she is seeking refuge, finding delight, at the voice of her mother half-singing, half-humming a song she has long forgotten about but remembers enough to know that Ana used to sing it to her during her childhood.

      It’s odd because just a few weeks ago, she spent most of her time avoiding her mother. Familiarized her schedule, memorized what time she usually eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner so she could come at a later time if not earlier, even made sure that she’s occupied when there are missions to be done ( something she’s not proud of, as a soldier should never avoid their duty but she knew well she would only be but a liability were she to come along distracted ) yet now—

      Fareeha lets out a sigh of content as she feels her mother’s nails scratch against her scalp, it’s something Ana always does when brushing her hair, something Fareeha always finds relaxing and before she knows it, she’s yawning and close to falling asleep.

      Perhaps she’s being too childlike for a woman of her age, to be seeking for her mother’s care like this. But she’s missed all of this so. The comfortable silence, the soothing hums that comes and goes, the warmth of Ana Amari. Her mother. Her family. The woman she’s always looked up to.