[ CLOSED ] here in this garden of bones

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: May
Where: Cadens; Horizon
What: Catch-all for May
Warnings: basic witcher canon stuff, adding as we go



(( starters below. discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot. ))

Comments

blake.

[gynvael]

By month's end, restlessness has coiled around his bones. A day or two of riding does little to satisfy the itch. Geralt knows of only one cure: to search for something to kill. So that's what he's doing. Searching for a worthwhile contract, one that will take him not too far from the city—just in case—but won't end within the hour.

He starts at the apothecaries. Assumes that with the abductions barely in the past, they'll be short on folk willing to venture into the desert heart. Which is exactly what he finds: a harried shopkeeper who thrusts a crumpled list of parts into his hands and a promise of coin. Geralt doesn't give a shit about the money, to be frank, but he has a reputation to uphold; he's not about to give anybody the impression he'll work out of charity. He eyes both the list and the offered payment.

It'll do.

Folding the parchment in two, Geralt pushes open the shop door to greet the dusty cobblestone street. Someone's either walking in or walking past, and he sidesteps them without a second thought—then pauses for a split second, a glance over his shoulder, as he catches the familiar face.

[oversight]

As it happens, it's John Blake who do-si-dos with Geralt outside the door of the apothecary. Head down, the detective-turned-odd-jobber is focused on a list of his employment leads in the Free Cities, courtesy of Mags and a few of her trusted acquaintances. It hasn't yielded results, but it has offered him a few opportunities that he may not have had. It's not by accident that it also allows him free access to following up on a few leads he has into some recent homicides.

"Oh, hey," he says as soon as he recognizes Geralt. In the time since their last meeting, Blake's dark hair has grown longer — long enough to be shaggy with a hint of unbridled curl. The circles under his eyes have softened and there's a sharpness to his gaze that hadn't been fully present when he'd been in the hospital. The scars aren't fading nearly fast enough.

Blake's tempted to move on — acknowledgment should be enough for this purpose — but Geralt's austere countenance keeps Blake's feet firmly planted. He fidgets.

"Where's the cat?" Blake asks, expectantly. "Did you bring it?"

[gynvael]

The cat? Geralt raises an eyebrow, bemused. "Why the fuck would I bring it about."

It isn't even the one the man gave him, though that particular detail is irrelevant. The one Jaskier acquired for him looks no different: fluffy, big void-like eyes, white fur not unlike the white of Geralt's own hair. Geralt looks remarkably healed considering the last time they saw each other—a lingering scar, not much else.

He starts to walk with the air of someone who can't quite care if his companion follows him or chooses to leave him.

"And it isn't a cat," he adds. "Cats don't like me."

So frankly, the man was lucky; the outcome would have been immensely different had he tried to introduce an actual cat to a Witcher's room.

[oversight]

Well, okay, Blake can't help but follow because Geralt is walking away in the middle of a conversation, and as he does so it strikes Blake as awfully similar to a known swagger of done with your shit that Blake's seen a few times before in his life. Not the first or last time.

"What, you didn't get the message?" he asks, eyebrows knitting together and voice lowering. He recites, "'Meet me outside the apothecary and bring the cat. It's crucial you don't forget the cat'?" The questioning lilt of his voice is attached to his hands raised in confusion at how such a sentiment could be mistaken.

He's keeping pace with Geralt, but there is a lot to be said about how differently they're carrying themselves. Blake feels as if anyone in their path is quick to move out of Geralt's way, but each ends up cast off towards Blake who's then forced to go around.

"But more importantly: Why don't cats like you?" Blake deigns to ask, but the bite of can't imagine why that reeks of sarcasm sits just on the tip of his tongue. Now he's just plain curious.

[gynvael]

Geralt's answer is a flat, "No," followed by not one glance over his shoulder.

He hasn't any idea whether the man means one of those messages through the Singularity or a letter posted to his door, or if he's fucking about in general and there was never any message in the first place. He also can't bring himself to care.

It's true that Geralt walks expecting people to move out of his path—something that almost seems born of instinct, as though he's so used to being avoided that it's become second nature.

"It's a Witcher thing." Will he explain what a Witcher is? He will not. Instead, he sighs—exasperated, impatient. "What is it you want?"

Is it to do with their time in captivity? Because he can understand, in a sense, but there are better ways to get his attention.

[oversight]

Blake is left to grapple with whatever a Witcher thing happens to be; although he's got plenty of guesses, none of them read as particularly obvious when placed like a cellophane sheet over Geralt's image. He reads generic romance novel cover art to Blake — a somewhat kinder description than anyone would probably appreciate if they didn't know just how much Blake enjoyed cheap romance novels. (Most don't).

Armed, purposeful gait, tight attention — Geralt reminds him of someone else he knows, although Bruce Wayne would at least have bothered to introduce himself around his (feined) annoyance.

"Don't have a hissy fit," he says, finally matching Geralt's gait. God, his legs are long, aren't they? But Blake's tenacious even if he has to rush to keep up. "I just thought it was the puur-fic opportunity to take it to the re-tail store. C'mon, don't be a sourpuss."

Blake holds his breath, waits, and wonders if maybe he's about to be growled at. Hey, no one said he couldn't have a sense of humor, even if it's like a needle in his haystack of troubles.

[gynvael]

Geralt's annoyance is occasionally feigned in the sense that he is willing to move on once he's made it clear that he is, in fact, annoyed.

That is not the case here. He swings around abruptly—stepping directly into the other's path, whether the man is ready to stop or not. On the chance he's bumped into, Geralt does not move nor does he seem to even care. There is a distinct rumble in his chest which can be called a growl.

Geralt is willing to put up with an inordinate amount of horseshit; he possesses far more patience than one would expect from him at first glance. Just ask Jaskier. But those are things earned from him. Usually also helps when he isn't in a shit mood following a month imprisoned and one of his closest friends dead.

"I have not got time for your nonsense. Tell me what you want or fuck off."

[oversight]

Blake does, in fact, find himself very nearly chest-to-chest with Geralt. Or, well, close enough (and doesn't that couple of inches make a hell of a difference?). Stopped just short, he can feel the heat that gathers between them, that's how close they are, and with Blake having to look up, it would be easy to feel three inches tall. Maybe he does.

"Oh, uh," he manages with a single step back, and he finds his hand scrubbing at the back of his neck a moment later. There's a scar there, too, and he scrapes a nail at it like a reminder. "No, I—" His eyes are pinging up and down but he doesn't manage to meet Geralt's eyes again.

(He's always had trouble making friends, more so keeping them, and yet he's still surprised every time it happens that he isn't accepted. When his easy smile [made uneasy due to recent events] isn't effective, it's certainly not his personality bringing people in. Too tense. Too squirrely. Too judgemental. He usually has more tact.

And where had his spine gone, anyway? Had he left it in the pit, broken and tangled like his thoughts? Two months ago, he would have crinkled his forehead and asked what was wrong. Two months ago, he would have asked how can I help and he wouldn't have stopped without doing just that.)

"You're right," Blake agrees and he's reminded of another cascading interaction he'd had lately, tumbling the idea of friendship right into the dirt. Even reminding himself everyone has extenuating circumstances doesn't take the knot from his chest. Blake clears his throat and it tastes like kicked-up dust. "My bad," he croaks, hands up in surrender as he backs away.

[gynvael]

Somehow, Geralt doesn't expect the man to take on the disposition of a kicked puppy: stepping back with practically his tail between his legs.

Maybe it reminds him of a certain bard's face after he told him to fuck off, too. (A year where he told himself it did not matter and he needed no one following him about.) Maybe he catches the lingering scars that match his that reminds him they're all dealing with shit.

Or he's simply grown soft (softer) in his old age.

"Wait." He sighs. Great. Fuck. "If you want to talk, then buy me a drink. I just—" A pause. "Prefer not to be cornered on the streets. It's been a long month."

A long year. Two. It isn't quite an open apology, but it's as close to one as comes from Geralt directed at a near-stranger.

[oversight]

At least there's one thing they can agree upon, with Blake himself finding the past month (two, three) unbearable in a way that he hasn't yet found words for.

In his own world, he was never quite so ineffective, although as often out of his element. Bouncing back takes time, he tells himself, but the sleepless nights, the prickling paranoia, and the sidelong looks of concern are only a few indications that he's not so elastic anymore. Even Mags had expressed her concern, pulling him aside and accusing him of avoiding her and of not taking care of himself (which wasn't untrue). He'd been more careful to skirt her after that. Careful all the way to Aquila and back.

He starts and stops. He's been doing that a lot lately.

"No, that's—" Blake recognizes this for what it is, or so he thinks, anyway. (Pity. It's pity, a voice tells him, and of course, it's his own. He feels eight again, when his cherubic face had blazed hot with anger, when he'd fought off tears and platitudes and came to the stark realization that he was alone, all by himself in a big world.)

Abraxas feels very large, too.

"You're busy." Blake shakes his head, contrite. "Maybe another time," he lies, and he offers a thin smile, not even all that fragile when you look at it. A wave later, mostly an awkward lift of his hand, and he's off the way he came, towards the apothecary, not willing to look back, not able to wonder if it's appeased the bite of Geralt's frustration or merely left him less certain.

The hole in him grows, widening more and more into a cavelike structure, not unlike the one he'd faced just the same as Geralt not all that long ago. He's clawing at the walls, he really is, trying to pick himself back up. He's scrabbling to find some purchase and some days the traction's just not there.

It was a stupid joke, anyway, as most of them tend to be.