[ 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. ))

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[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.