#umbralsun

Daylight, like a dream, vanishes in a blaze over the horizon, the prickled arms of withered cacti idly reaching for the inferno. A tumbleweed rolls between their feet and Jesse, having savored his cigar for a moment too long, erupts into a boisterous coughing fit; he chokes into the crevice of his of his left arm, its polished metal joints creaking from within.

“…mother?”

He’s been tidying up his next while he waits for the manager to come in. He had called Gwyndolin just a few minutes ago into his office. Hopefully, she doesn’t think she’s in trouble (that probably wasn’t a problem, unless she did something she wasn’t supposed to.) Once the desk is tidied and organized to his liking and he’s sure she’s in the office, with his back still facing her, “Could you close the door real quick?” Placing folder full of paper aside he turns to look at her, gesturing her to take a seat. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something.” 

And he’s taken a seat, himself. 

the television screen was a bloom of shifting colours, a news anchor on mute miming words into the quiet dark. there was a coffee cup gone cold on the tea table, his body cold and tucked up over the couch where he had fallen asleep half way through the paper mound on his own. hours had ticked by in that familiar solitude, and he might have fallen into a deeper sleep had it not been for the physical alarm clock that had become his body: stirring every few minutes to flick his eyes to the phone screen, seeing nothing of note, and putting it down before his focus drifted off again.

the phone stayed quiet, but it was the rustle of a blanket against his legs and arms that made his eyes flicker awake again. a slow inhale, where he held his breath as reality opened up on him like an eyelid — the first few seconds always devoted to making sense of what he was looking at, where a threat could be, who had touched him. then, finding no threat and seeing a familiar face looking over him, his shoulders would ease back, like dust settling.

his hand snakes out of the cosy fold over him to catch at sera’s wrist, blinking away sleep and familiar exhaustion, voice rough with drowsiness and not yet as sharp.

off-putting eyes are raised from the object of their interest to press against the corpse of the vampire. there is an air of… boredom? annoyance? to her. something unsteady, crackling with energy, waiting to be released. she clicks her tongue with distate, but does as she is ordered: raising a single hand over the object. "of course, of course, leave the dirty work to me." is it not why she is called upon? daughter of the black sun; ridding the world of curses before she rids the world of itself. a kind of absolution that will not quench the thirst for punishment.

" stars, do you ever shut up ? " jyn groans, hands tightening around the slicing tool in her hands and wondering just how much damage she could do if she spun around and slammed it against k2so's chest. if the job didn't need it -- and she thought she could get away with minimal pain to herself -- she wouldn't have hesitated. just because the system's kicked her out once doesn't mean that she won't be able to crack it -- and she'd be able to concentrate a hell of a lot better without an unnecessarily tall ex-imperial security droid looming over her shoulder like some sort of helicopter parent.

In this new and startling age after forcefully hibernating for so long, slowly but surely, Sypha had begun connecting the ties between their descendants that had long since scattered to the four winds. There was clear trepidation as they walked the dark but backlit streets of Paris, Sypha vowing that they would merely check in and do nothing else. The thought of any future Belmonts seeing the abomination they'd become constricted their heart, let alone the shadow they casted on their God whom had been their anchor.

Coming upon the residence, Sypha breathed a sigh of relief at the warm, golden glow bleeding through the watery texture of the glass.

TRISTAN FEELS THE FROWN AND HIS BROWS PULLING TOGETHER BEFORE HE CAN STOP THEM. he knows perfectly well that he's being inordinately difficult, and as usual, he'd have trouble articulating exactly why even if he had any intention of doing so. leave it to vann to suggest something as carefree as enjoying the moment. the viper has never understood how such an upbringing as theirs could foster such casual optimism – although, truthfully, optimism is far from the correct world. vann knows the terror of the world, but ever persists in his goodness, it seems, despite, despite, despite. it's a fresh sort of bewildering stubbornness which once left tristan regularly baffled. now, he takes it better in stride, even though he doesn't think he'll ever fully understand.

and at least in this case, he sees where the other witcher is coming from. the river in which they've freshly bathed the kikimora blood from themselves babbles noisily somewhere to their right as they sit half-reclined against a rock, letting the sun warm their torsos and dry the water from their skin. it's calm, pleasant, relaxing ... enough to make tristan utterly restless. still, he cannot find it in himself to fully trust the sensation of safety, although he's slowly learning. at some point, he'd begun muttering about their next job, about how he would negotiate their fee or the two of them would start having to skip days of meals. there's a such thing as being too soft hearted, he'd chided, although he knows perfectly well vann wouldn't allow them to become that short on coin. his complaints seemed to amuse his companion more than anything, and when vann spoke moments later, his tone largely teased.

in response, tris simply grunts moodily, glancing at the other witcher out of the corner of his eye. vann cuts such an imposing figure that he almost blocks the viper's view of the horizon altogether. while tristan has always been used to being the smallest of the witchers he knows – and frankly most other people, too – his companion of choice dwarfs him considerably more than anyone he's ever met. but what once had felt strange now proves a comfort. patel has never and will never need a protector of any sort, but vann's size suits his steady presence, the determined calm overlaying years of anger. for a substantial time, tristan convinced himself that he followed the bear out of necessity, to repay his life debt in full. now, however privately, he has accepted that hasn't been the reason for a very long time.

a few moments of mercurial silence pass between them before tris shifts. briefly it appears as though he might rise. instead, he moves his legs to fold on the opposite side of him from vann. then, with all the grace of a grouchy housecat, he butts the top of his head into the other man's chest with a gentle thunk, leaning his weight into it and closing his eyes against the warmth of his companion's skin. for a time, there he remains, breathing deep the familiar scent, listening for the steady beat of vann's heart. his arms fold around himself as he leans more heavily against that broad chest, and although his hands do not reach for the man, the affection is far too thinly disguised to escape notice.