Partners × In × Crime

Thunderstorms

- - - VAN HELSING GUEST HOUSE // NOVEMBER 6TH - - -

The storm outside is in full force. Rain pelts against the windows with a rhythmic tempo that echoes through the quiet house, while every so often a roll of thunder rumbles overhead, rattling the windowpanes. The wind howls angrily, whipping up leaves and debris into turbulent whirlwinds that fly across the yard.

Dusk shuffles down the hallway, her boots making soft thuds on the hardwood floor. Her shoulders slump in defeat as she mutters under her breath, "Simmer? Fragrant? How am I supposed to know what any of that means?" She huffs, rubbing at a streak of flour on her cheek with frustration.

As she walks past the fitness room, she's lost in thoughts of burnt food and culinary disasters when a series of grunts catches her attention. Her steps slow, curiosity piqued despite herself. Peeking past the slightly ajar door, Dusk spots Xavia inside, working out with his usual intensity.

She finds herself forgetting all about dinner as she watches him.

Xavia grips the hilt of his scythe, a thin layer of sweat coating his brow. He swings it in an arc and grimaces as pain flares up in his right shoulder, the muscles protesting with every movement. His shirt clings to him like a second skin, drenched from exertion.

The dual-headed scythe whistles as he cuts through the air again and again in practiced movements. The once fluid action now marred by hesitations brought on by sudden jolts of agony shooting down his arm. It's a dull ache that never seems to dissipate completely; an unwelcome reminder of the bullet wound still healing.

His jaw clenches at another wave of discomfort but he persists. Pushing himself beyond his limits is something he's always done. Only this time it feels different; more aggravating knowing how much easier these motions used to be for him.

Dusk stands quietly in the doorway, her fingers gently gripping the edge of the frame. Her heart aches seeing him struggle with the pain, but she knows better than to interrupt him during these moments. His determination and grit are part of what makes him such an effective partner and hunter. Still, it hurts to see someone she cares about pushing themselves so hard despite their injuries.

With grim perseverance, Xavia launches into another maneuver, an overhead sweep intended to cleave through any foe standing before him. His muscles tense, preparing for the impact... But instead of meeting resistance, his grip falters.

"Fuck!" He spits out vehemently, cursing loudly at himself. His dark eyes glare at the fallen weapon as if it's to blame for his current predicament rather than his injury. A plethora of curses pours from his lips, echoing across the otherwise silent gym. His frustration is palpable, filling the air with a tension that could be cut with a knife.

"Stupid fucking shoulder," He mutters under his breath as he bends over to pick up the scythe. Each movement sends hot spikes of pain radiating down his arm, but he grits his teeth and bears it silently, refusing to let out even the slightest whimper of discomfort.

His fingers close around the cold handle of the weapon, and for a moment he just stands there; grasping onto it like an anchor in a raging storm. He needs this; needs to feel strong again... And yet right now, he feels weak and powerless.

With a grunt of effort, Xavia hoists the scythe up once more. His muscles scream in protest but he ignores them, gripping tightly onto the weapon. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself before swinging the scythe with all his remaining strength. The air whistles around him as he moves, a dance of power and control that had once come so effortlessly to him.

But then there's another sharp stab of pain, an insidious reminder of his weakened state, and his grip falters again. His fingers lose their hold on the scythe's handle and it falls from his hands for a second time; clattering loudly against the fitness room floor in an echo of bitter defeat.