there-there, dead man;

Delighted, he takes the boat, and sticks the whole remaining piece in his mouth. Who needs to debate when you've got yummy food? "I can do that. No promises that it's not something sweet though." Most people don't have a sweet tooth like Gojo does, but it's not his fault he ends up with an excessive amount of little treats to bring back to his friend and students. When he's buying something to satisfy a craving, he often takes advantage of a buy 2 get 2 deal, and, well--.

of course, vann doesn't push the issue. the great gojō, after all, is untouchable. " we all need a flaw, " he says with a shrug, " and mine is overthinking, among others. and so was his, apparently. " there are two reasons that come to mind as to why gojō would talk about getō in the past tense: divergent paths or, as it's all too common in the jujutsu world, death. maybe both. he stops entertaining that thought immediately.

The mug she holds touches her lips, delayed in drinking its contents while she thinks. She believes Vann should have punished the kid; damn what him and his parents suffered. She doesn't know, but she imagines the people in Vann's life back then were just as broken, just as shattered, that someone such as he was taken from them. Now, here he is. Believing the scales perfectly weighted: His failure of the brother in exchange for his death, and what comes after will come. Laera doesn't like that; can't accept that that's the end of it…

For a moment, she feels his eyes on her again, and he's smiling. She's isn't. The wine she's just taken into her mouth is drying, her tongue stripped of feeling, her throat burning. What the fuck was that…?

The High Abbot would condemn Vann for failing Tyr, yet he seems to accept that in his failure, he will be punished. Not now, not tomorrow, but a time when justice demands it. There's more to it, though; more to his thoughts spoken aloud, another layer deeper still. He's hiding from her.

❝ I want to 'old on to my anger. It makes me feel… me. ❞ Laera is slow, thoughtful about her words. ❝ I don't know if I can forgive them for what they did to me. That's my choice, but during those twenty years I always knew one thing: Their actions against me wasn't my fault. ❞ She sets her mug down now on the railing, almost empty now. Laera wonders if he's listening. ❝ Vann, that kid dying wasn't your fault. His brother killing you wasn't your fault. You were given a second life but…You're expediting your punishiment by punishing yourself. Do you see that…? ❞

there is nothing angelic, divine or righteous about the frustration that grips his chest and constricts it. this swell of emotion is his and his alone. " i was with him for four nights, " he starts slowly, carefully, like he's speaking around shards of glass. his eyes are fixed somewhere on the horizon. " i was with callisto for four nights. every one of them, i watched him writhe in his sleep and every one of them, i tried so hard to calm him, to rid him of i should have been enough. and "

vann catches himself faster than he can process the blurriness of his vision: he blinks back tears at frightening speed, but the tremble in his voice isn't so easy to manage. " and then the fifth, he was gone. i tried, and and yes, his brother ... castor killed me. and the worst thing about it is that i the last thing i saw was ... was castor trying to stem the flow of blood and buy me time. " flagon of drink all but forgotten, vann braces his hands against the railing and bends down, forehead pressed against the cold stone, features out of sight. " i didn't have to die. "

the confession is salt in a reopened wound; for a moment, vann resents how easy laera's sentiment has undone him so utterly. it doesn't last, because he's suddenly too tired to. " i was back by sunrise. by sunrise. it makes no sense. " like water snap - freezing, the tremble in vann's voice solidifies into a hard edge: anger, the kind that laera has never seen trail after him. " i make no sense. why am i ? "

for his part, tristan took those words to heart. all his life, he allowed himself to want nothing but what happened to cross his threshold, what was easy to snatch – be that food and drink, money, conversation, touch – until caution and suspicion overrode that desire and he fled without warning, teeth snapping all the way. historically, it's enough to deter most into keeping their distance. vann has yet to join their ranks. instead, he remains, with seemingly endless patience, and reels tristan back to him in ways the snake cannot fully explain.

it's becoming a problem.

that hand still grips vann's shirt, even as he maintains a firm pressure against the other man's hip, pushing away and pulling close, part of the seesaw that defines him. his chin props absently just where his teeth nearly made a mark, casual as anything, as if he isn't savoring the rare warmth of touch. ( rare because he makes it that way, not because vann withholds, although tristan sometimes thinks that would be easier. ) if he thinks too much about that warmth, he'll spook, so he allows instinct to guide him, instead focusing all thoughts on logistics, travel, transportation, the conversations he's had with gorak on the subject.

he grunts his weak protest when vann loops an arm around him and pulls him nearer, but that same instinct betrays him, melting his muscles into his companion's side, even as he tilts his head to bite again, as if channelling what he cannot quite put into words. his resistance, as always, is part of it all. tristan never learned the skill of easy acceptance – of the good significantly more than the bad. instinct strains against any tacit desire to trust, but still he clings on, allowing his forehead to settle on vann's arm, precisely where his teeth just grazed.

he cannot help that his mind is torn asunder. his companion means what he says, he can tell – but broken promises often arise from the best intentions.

" surprised you're still on toshara at all, in that case, " he mumbles haughtily against vann's sleeve. despite his bitterness, his legs coil up beside him as his weight shifts to lean more heavily against the other man. not for the first time, he resembles a resigned lothcat – which isn't made better as he pulls his head away only to roughly press the crown of it against vann's bulky chest with what sounds like half a growl. " but maybe. pay won't be good at first, you know. pykes won't pour too much into it until I prove I can operate on a return. you'd make better money here than with me. "

indestructible doesn't mean invulnerable. even as tristan kisses him with dizzying force, vann can't help but think about the ease with which he's been repeatedly dismissed and with rather feeble attempts at it, too. is this one last gamble? is tristan savouring one last moment of enjoyment before facing the inevitable? vann hardly appreciates it if so.

and considering where they're going next and how, it might just be worth making it known.

it's more complicated than that, he knows, and vann certain doesn't trust everyone he meets by a long shot – but in any case, his outlook on sentient beings is more favorable, and as far as tristan is concerned, it brings the same result. whether it's trust or simply the option of faith, you still end up with the same knife in your back.

" I might still, " he growls half under his breath, that same sharp look fixed on the pair, brow lifted and gaze hard as flint. his eyes narrow, and suddenly, he peels his lip back to bare his teeth. the pandoran flinches, and tristan leans back in his seat, his expression now tinged with a subtle smugness that likely would have gone missed by anyone but the man before him. " but speaking of lunches, haven't you heard that there's no such thing as a free one? "

tris's attention turns back to his companion then, tilting his head like a curious cat – albeit one with entirely too devious. his gaze doesn't move as he sips thoughtfully at his beverage again, by now practically slumped back against the booth, one leg now laying along the length of the seat beside him, making as must use of the space as he can manage. he has never been uncomfortable taking up space, for as much as he shies from other normal things. if anything, in general terms, it serves as a show of dominance – not against vann but rather anyone, at any time. it gives him the illusion of comfort in his own skin, of a confidence that's mostly for show.

[ you're one man, vann. he's in no position to do anything, not here in toshara and not when interfering with one cog in the machine would bring the second, larger machine bearing down on him. it's a harsh reality ... but no system is perfect. no fortress is impregnable. perfection doesn't exist. ]

vann finishes the rest of his drink in one final gulp, dabs at the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. " they didn't, " he confirms in the wake of long sigh, " because they were looking me in the eye when i told them about said up - charge. " there's a moment of grim finality in vann's words, maybe even warning if tristan cares to read further into it. " at least they appreciated the honesty. funny how some people are more at ease with a knife in the back when they know about it and can see where it's going to end metaphorically speaking.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the echoing clack of heel on flagstone is stilled, and lyonel swings 'round, gaze pursuing the man that dogs him as a hound tracking blood. the corridor is a darksome one, relieved here and there by the fitful glow of torches clinging to gray walls; far gloomier, this, than the throne room. and through the scant light lyonel observes the great hulking figure of a man, for at length has he torn forth the prize he has hunted thus far. thunder bids all men to their knees in time, lyonel reckons. but the thunder has abated now, and the heaven has unburned itself of tempest, and the gusts have softened to a caress. a simper hovers at the corners of lyonel's mouth and he dampens his lips, edges nearer to the men with an idle tread.

it's a longer lived gesture than he would have expected it, even as the stag's ringed hand bridges the distance between them, lingering upon his breastplate as though it had at last found its destined place to rest. [ many men, men like the laughing storm, see scars as proof of survival against the grasp of death. a mark of pride. vann wonders if he'll ever be able to think about that way. for now, however, lyonel eagerly waits for the tree he has so restlessly gored to bleed at last. crimson mixes with velvet carmine. ]

you will have no secrets from a lord. they are rarely so reciprocal or generous with privacy. gael told him that so long ago, it's almost surprising he remembers. there is no backing out now.

he's uncertain what to make of the sudden spike of fear  —  the same stricken wide - eyed horror in that breath before the bullet.   perhaps it's pity.   the human has a way of seeing the world  (and seeing him)  that saren once beloathed as naive.   a perspective that's no longer assured.   not after this.   vann breathes compassion like oxygen and saren wonders what leap of logic has earned him that outpour this time in spite of the trauma response he provoked.   distance maintained between them is noted in muted acceptance.

mandibles flex slow and controlled as saren steps away from his post,  humour sparked by the other's words expelled from his body in a deep,  long exhale.   (of course he wants to talk.   it's all li - shepard ever seems to want to do.)   saren doesn't roll his eyes,  too disciplined for such a trifling display,  but it's a near thing.     " must we? "   words drenched in thinly veiled derision,  saren turns,  making for the street without waiting for li - shepard to catch up.  

given the circumstances of their last encounter,  the demand is not unreasonable.   (but what does he expect to gain from such conversation besides closure saren can't provide?)   at the very least,  it will provide further opportunities to analyse the commander's behaviour for…  anomalies.  of the cerberus kind,  and otherwise.     " ping this frequency when you're done, "   he says,  activating his omnitool and unceremoniously flinging the public address for revan's office at li - shepard.   saren doesn't care to know whether li - shepard still possesses his comm frequency and frankly,  he sees little point in raising the matter when their paths will soon diverge.

disquiet settles in his chest like the hint of faintness when biotic manoeuvres burn through caloric reserves.   trouble brews in the alliance between revan and their superiors.   saren doesn't need confirmation  —  sees it in the tense line of their shoulders and hard set of their lips after each call with alliance command.   the council too stirs ill at ease.   something unsettles them,  and though saren hasn't yet discerned whether these are related, instinct tells him li - shepard's presence in his life may soon become a staple.

he lets his hair come loose only to gather it back up into a ponytail, and all the while he marvels at the sheer emptiness that's settled inside him. ten minutes ago, everything was too much; now, somehow it's not enough. he needs to see the council immediately; the sooner that's done, the sooner he and the normandy can leave the citadel. walk. walk. you have to move

vann takes a step, miraculously enough, and then the rest come easy. the climb back up the stairs and into the embassy offices is a slow but determined one, and with each landing he reaches and minute spent out in the open his armor mends itself. it doesn't matter that there's a camera still hovering above his head, unaccompanied by its reporter - in - charge, or that there are dozens of gazes trying to look at him with varying degrees of discretion. what matters to him is his reunion with the now - councilor anderson (short, but no less sincere), as well as his meeting with the rest of the council which brings to his table yet another life - altering event.

it's not just the reinstatement as spectre, which he agrees to based on practicality, nor is it simply the invalidation of several months of work and a wild chase through the galaxy. of course there are no reapers. of course the citadel didn't nearly cease to exist. anderson's office begins to feel claustrophobic, and it gets worse when they tell him saren is to be part of the normandy's crew.

" nothing to say, commander? " anderson's question is professional, but there is no denying he's waiting for the repercussions of such a decision to make themselves known, because vann's been far too quiet for his own good.

he'd forgive her of course. he'd say there would be nothing to forgive, and in a way that makes it worse, but she strangles down the dull buzz in her chest with a tyrants practiced grip, and continues onward without reluctance or delay.

" until recently i had assumed the same, " she stood then, stretching her arms briefly before making her way to the thick wall of steel paneling that separated them from the driver and front gunner. at one point they power over one of the many piles of ruined infrastructure dotting the old road; dukane braces her hand on the railing above, unhurried. "the words are not important — look at the image second from bottom right — again top left. no i said left — yes, that. " a trio of circles centered on a triangle of spikes; not close to uncommon iconography, his was an easy mistake to make. dukane isn't looking at him, instead she's ensuring the vox transmitter that allowed them to speak with the rest of the taurox's crew was firmly switched off. " that heraldry belongs to heretic astartes. "

the metallic grinding of the taurox as it trudges over the terrain makes for horrendous acoustics, oddly fitting the revelation that's left dukane with the subtlety of an orbital bombardment. vann stares, momentarily bereft of the decorum befitting a man of his rank. his instinctive response is skepticism, if for no other reason than the presence of traitor astartes would have been cause for immediate alarm ... but then again, this is an inquisitorial effort. no, they wouldn't

wouldn't they? it's the inquisition. their chief concern is to maintain the sanctity of the imperium, binding sane survivors under an oath of silence and executing the rest. demons, cults, heretic astartes: the truth is a threat. ignorance is thy best defence. what a bunch of

at vann's questions, however, that rictus grin contorts to a lour. any satisfaction derived from the acknowledgement of her former power is tinged with longing so intense and wretched that sol nearly wretches from it. flame flickers and dies in her palm – were you the one dying? poised on her tongue like a scorpion's tail alongside: you have a habit of asking stupid questions – her ire tempered by curiosity as mind catches up to the implication of his words.

" my mind. woven ‘round yours, " she echoes, head tipped back and gaze roving over him, searching for the slightest sign of condescension yet finding only sincerity. " that's truly what you think? fascinating. " discerning memories shared through psionic links – especially between minds with vastly different structures – requires both talent and honed skill. though sol had known that, it seems she's due a reminder. silence settles between them, gaze returning to the lake before flicking back to his hands as she presses his patience, taking time to deliver her response in subtle parry.

nausea grips him and the impulse to bend over and rest his hands on his knees is a tough one to suppress. he is no stranger to condescension, mockery, or disrespect; often enough, it is his lot in life, joined hand in hand with kindness and true gratitude. but sol sees conversation not for what it truly is but for what it signifies for her: a chance to bleed her prey, leaving them writhing and submissive to her whims. but she will not demean his existence. for all his remorse and disbelief at living again, vann knows he was given another chance for a reason.

and none of those reasons include being insulted (raw power, scales; wings of such strength, there's few creatures in this world that could encompass such things) by a fucking dragon

(he takes a breath.) " for someone who carries herself the way you do, like half of us don't even deserve the time of day and for someone of your intellect, " vann begins slowly, having condensed his indignation into cold serenity, " you're very slow on the uptake, sol. do you know anything other than cruelty, and do you not know by now that it doesn't work on me? "

he's always seen her wielding a knife she's often twisted into his gut, but now she's a beast clamping her jaws around him. it's the first time he's felt confident enough to hold sol's mandibles open, hands closed around her teeth. sol will not make him forget he is his mother's son. " i am not valuable, i am not a thing the existence of which the gods decided it would be useful to continue but why would you speak to me like i'm anything but? you barrel your way through people and the world itself like they're beyond your care when truly, you would be nothing without either of them. you care next to nothing about the harm that you do because you don't ever stop to clean up or even acknowledge the blood you spill. it's all beneath you, isn't it? it always has been. a creature like you wouldn't debase herself like that. "

of all the thousands of soldiers they had recruited from the belly of the mourningstar, most claimed a far more decorated criminal resume than his own. in contrast to: murder, cannibalism, ritualistic possession and inter-sector distribution of illegal narcotics, his penance was born of a refreshingly mundane infraction.

"regardless you were reinstated, for whatever little that matters here." she pressed on, seemingly satisfied though there were no outward signs of such. dukane's one-eyed glare continues stare through him, and she continues to scrutinize his expression for any signs of dishonesty. more importantly, for lack of resolve. " fair enough. "

he's big, and he looks like he can move weight. under these sub optimal circumstances he hasn't died, and not for indulging in cowardice. inversely, she'd noted while dissecting his histories that the teams rannick set him out with tended to ( it could never be perfect ) actually come back. the 53rd did not need a task master; they needed neither lash nor bribe to do as they'd been told. unlike the 6th ( now pathetically wallowing in their own despair ), they had no delusions of grandeur. her soldiers were better than that. what they needed was more seniority — old blood — someone to guide rather than to drive.

that's when his professionalism takes its first blow and though he's quick to hide it, it can't have gone unseen. he's already confirmed the veracity of dukane's question without a saying a single word. but where the sergeant - major had stopped at the sight of file redactions, dukane was pushing past them to truly discern what lay beneath. (vann had attracted the interrogator's attention only once, and that had been enough to confirm the presence of yet another pair of eyes boring a hole onto the back of his skull. a single piece, besieged on all sides, and all corners where it could retreat and escape through are still unassailable. it's a hel of a game of hnefatafl.)

" i'm not supposed to talk about it, ma'am. " it's not the answer vann wants to give, but it's the one that instinct has him blurt out first. she won't care, which is why he presses on even with the not - entirely - unrealistic feeling an inquisitor will materialize as soon as he opens his mouth. " the vessel fell to the archenemy. in short, discontent turned to corruption and that spread through the lower decks, all because of the same kind of negligence and disparity that i'd later witness on branx magna. " a pause. the air becomes stale, heavy. " i had some help from the seneschal, but at the end of the day the rogue trader's word is final. we lost a whole deck sector to indescribable violence, and i lost most of the guard i'd brought with me from the hundred - and - third. "

They mock him. When he and Jaecerys landed in the barren wastes of the North, the northmen made little effort to curtail their mannerisms. Even when face to face with the crown prince, their respect was given in crumb sized amounts: Infrequent and only when they deemed it earned. Rhaenyra would be proud to watch him politick; confidently exchanging arguments, compromises, all in a bid to seek arms for the war to come.

Astarion doesn't need to shadow Jaecerys, wandering off to locate someplace warmer. Every step is an effort, either slowed by his wading through snow as high as his knees or catching himself from falling on invisible ice. His path is lit by a brazier, burning with enticing warmth, and he bumbles his way over, wrenching his cloak to better cover himself.

" it rarely does, my lord, " the knight agrees nonetheless, mirroring astarion and drawing his fur - lined cloak in tighter. his attempt at conversation is well - mannered and spirited, and certainly not the first he's engaged in during their travels. to vann's advantage, now they're neither indoors nor separated by their respective obligations, so he takes the chance to converse anyway. " i thought the same about the capital. the weather one reads about barely compares to the actual spring and summer heat. "