the Pykes like testing its assets, particularly those that haven't fully integrated into its ranks or don't display the necessary savvy to navigate the criminal sphere, and Vann has the dubious honor of being Gorak's current target. Indecent times breed indecent men, and those indecent men don't like challenges. There's no amount of good will Vann can foster through the balance of practicality and sympathy. His association with the Pykes is unfortunate, if purely accidental, but it's morphed into a contract without an expiry date. The hand at his throat will continue to strangle him until he simply breaks the arm it's attached to.

he gives it a heavy amount of consideration. They wouldn't expect it. Some syndicate members already look at him and wonder what he's hiding behind his serene affability and, in the eyes of many, silver tongue. Vann gives more thought to his tea, however, and the brief whiff of Corellian cinnamon that comes from the table behind him. He digests what Tristan tells him, his attention snagging on those 'changes down the pipeline' that are apparently on the way. Vann doesn't ask, not yet: when Tristan speaks in such bite - sized pieces, it means there's something else he's unwilling to give up.

he takes his seat next to Tristan, quiet still even as the warmth from their bodies mingles and seemingly welcomes one another in a greeting's stead. The hand that closes around his elbow, Vann knows, serves as an anchor; the lips lingering against his jaw, another mark among many. Stay in Mirogana. It almost knocks the wind out of him.

Vann turns his head; Tristan still lingers so close their noses almost touch. (Tristan Patel rarely ever asks for anything, instead taking it with a closed fist but this time, that command doesn't have its usual bite.) It's not exactly a plea but it's damn close, and before it can skitter away from them with life of its own in some conscious attempt at making Tristan look sentimental, Vann leans in to seal it firmly against his lips. The kiss lingers, touched by the fading taste of spiced caf.

he shouldn't laugh.

no, that's not right. Vann doesn't laugh at Tristan, but rather because of him and it's more an amused chuckle than anything else. His shoulders shake, his eyes crease at the corners, and it's all because of one of the prickliest men he's ever met. Dealing with @lerecueil is akin to resting his hand inside the jaws of a snarling massiff, aware they may snap closed at any second but knowing there'll be a warning if it happens; at least, Vann has earned the right to picture Tristan Patel as this type of creature, with the privilege that he could tell him to stand down and still boast of some degree of success.

he's a man, not a creature. Too often does Tristan strip himself of a humanity he's always at odds with and would rather never understand, because it's easier to turn away from one's shadow than walking alongside it.

it doesn't mean Vann can't appeal to it on occasion.

❛❛ Now you know how it feels, ❜❜ he says, averting his eyes to his half - drank ale for a moment and lifting it from the table, ❛❛ when I have to press you to be honest. ❜❜ Another smirk, the remainder of his amusement at last dissipating like a dead man's gasp, is half - hidden behind the lip of his glass as he drinks. [ He shouldn't, but he's never said no whenever Tristan's felt generous enough with his credits. ]

❛❛ In good time, Patel ... though why ask me when I know you'll be digging for information on your own later, I wish I knew. ❜❜

she has always found a certain difficulty imagine them as living, breathing people like this. cold table, cold room, cold skin. they are all so similar in death and she can not decide if that is a comfort or not. the mentholatum she smeared under her nose a little too generously is burning her eyes and she briefly wonders if he mistakes this for her getting emotional over the sight presented to her, if he thinks this bothers her. coming to think of it, she might actually prefer him believing she is almost brought to tears by the thought of the victim to him knowing how frighteningly unaffected it leaves her when he lists the multitude of wounds inflicted on the body. a good agent, efficient, borderline brilliant even - that is what her supervisors say. but she also of course notices them talking. the others, the ones that find her odd or arrogant, the ones that think she is cold. she doesn't know where on that scale she actually falls or if it might even be necessary to be one thing to also be the other, but she knows she does not enjoy them believing she does not care.