[ CLOSED ] when I'm like this, you're the one I trust

[cointosser]

Who: Jaskier, Ciri, Geralt, eventually Sam?
When: First week of October
Where: The desert outskirts of Cadens
What: Jaskier attempts to help Ciri learn magic with disastrous results.
Warnings: Bodily injury, may move to mild body horror depending.



[With the climate they found themselves in, it only made sense for them to really embrace their new... eccentric talents. At least, that was what Jaskier tells himself, and when he tells himself it -- regarding Ciri, in particular -- it all makes sense, of course. If they are all gifted with magic, then it only makes sense to make use of it.

After all, it's free. And they need skills to make a living off of. As far as he understands, Ciri is, er, well. Like Geralt. A hunter.

Magic, hunting. It all fits together.

Okay, fine. He's terribly bored also. And he's tired of being the only one with magic around here. (He's still avoiding the whole plant thing. He prefers not to think about it, actually.]

All right, my dear. I -- well, I don't claim to know many, er, spells, but we can start on what I started on. Simply a little bird. [He, of course, adds a completely unnecessary flourish to his movements, and a bit of sparks, holding out his hand with a dove sitting on his palm.]

It's a bit hard to describe. I sort of... imitated watching it, I suppose.

[He sort of definitely wants to see Ciri try to imitate his flourish.]

Comments

[falcony]

[ if sam were more on it, he might think to explain to geralt that the owner isn’t someone to worry about. that the only person she actually knows is here is jaskier, and that sam has told her a “couple of others are staying over” and very little else. as it stands, though, sam doesn’t really think of it, so he’s not quite able to bring that reassurance. maybe after he sleeps, maybe after he starts thinking a bit more clearly.

content that geralt sits, sam goes back to the bags. tries to reorient himself to keep moving. what he needs to do next. his hands move to a bag, or a basket, or a box, and stop mid-reach by the sound of geralt’s voice. leave that he says, and sam turns - ready to argue, to make some comment about how geralt isn’t really in a state to be making demands, but what he finds is a look that tells him arguing isn’t going to get him anywhere and sam let’s put a sigh of his own. alright, alright, he gives - and moves to sit in the chair closest to the offered extra bowel.

there is a moment where sam hopes that maybe this will be one of those times that they will simply lapse into silence, because geralt is that type of person, and while sam usually is okay with providing the commentary, in this moment he is just. tired. the kind of tired that only comes after prolonged periods of stress, of the rise and fall of adrenaline. everyone is back, now. everyone is safe. and sam…god, sam doesn’t know what he wants. but the stew is actually smelling really good.

sam digs in, only pausing when it’s geralt who breaks the silence, offering unprompted updates. commentary. i’m hard to put down. sam snorts and takes another bite of stew, finding it comforting, warm. ]

Yeah, I’ve figured that much. [ and then, after letting himself finish the bite. glancing across the table towards the mess of white hair, the lines of his shoulders. sam considers his next thought - because geralt opened this door, by offering his update, and now sam can’t quite bring himself to close it yet. ]

Can I ask you something? [ sam asks, watching geralt eat for a moment. whatever answer geralt gives is enough, because sam keeps watching him, expression neutral. ]

Could I have killed you? With whatever that was?

[gynvael]

[ What Geralt's got in his hands for their midnight supper, he isn't paying much attention to. It's warm and more than decent, which is about all that matters. He's eating to eat, with the sort of absentminded efficiency of a man who rarely sits to enjoy a meal. Part of him is debating if he can get away with another nap once Sam's taking one of his own (if Sam's taking one, but Geralt's hoping he will soon); the other part of him knows he should keep an eye on things. At least while the hours are dwindling into sunrise.

In the brief pause, Geralt is silent. He doesn't look to Sam for more. He'd only wanted to say that much—let Sam know he's fine; that it'd been nothing extreme (sometimes he passes out, it happens)—but when Sam speaks, he does glance up. It's only here that it strikes him exactly what was on Sam's mind this entire time.

His expression shifts. A small knit emerges between his brows. The risk had been calculated, but it'd been a risk nonetheless. ] I don't know. His vitality was draining. I gave him mine, through you. [ His choice of words is careful, not wanting Sam to believe he'd taken what'd not been willingly given. ] Perhaps you could've. I don't think you would have.

[ His decision at the time, he'd made it in an instant; only now is he reflecting back on it. And he realizes that, in that moment, he'd simply trusted Sam with all of it. Jaskier's life, his own. That whatever the outcome, Sam's judgment would be sound. It's a burden he'd not meant to put on the other man. He just—couldn't think of what else to do. Still can't. ]

I wouldn't have involved you, if there'd been another way. [ It's not quite an apology; Geralt doesn't regret what happened nor would he have done it differently. But it is an explanation, for what he knows left Sam in...a position he might've not wanted. Which is something Geralt understands too well. ]

[falcony]

[ once the question leaves him, there is a small part of sam that almost wishes he could take it back. that his question had, in a way, broken up whatever easy silence he’d almost wanted there, just a few moments prior. but the larger part of him need to know, knows himself well enough to know that the question would haunt him for days to come, if he didn’t ask now.

as it stands, geralt doesn’t completely cut him off. and while his expression does shift, does seem to close down a little, he still answers. and sam is glad for that. glad for the words he shares, because while sam doesn’t understand how, in a shallow sense it does. make sense. his vitality was draining. i gave him mine, through you.

(it will hit sam later - what that means. how geralt did, in a way, put it all in sam’s hands. sam, who doesn’t understand magic, who just met these people months ago, who doesn’t understand more than he does, when it comes to their lives. that geralt had trusted him, that ciri had, that jaskier - even in the midst of his hallucinations - had clasped his hand. told him to stay. but that will be later, when he has a moment to slow down. to sleep. to catch up. )

for now, sam merely nods. accepts that, as an explanation. his eyes fall to his good, then, the spoon stirring in the seasonings and potatoes and meat. he’s thoughtful, considering all that has just happened, all that it could possibly mean, so much that he almost misses what geralt follows up with. almost. ]

I’m glad you did. [ he says, taking a bite and looking up and over to the other man. and maybe he should be hurt by that, by the knowledge that geralt wouldn’t have involved him, if he had another choice. but sam also knows how that goes, knows that no matter what, that’s the type of person geralt will be - a preference to only, ever, rely on himself. that, sam is used to.

he finishes his bite and watches geralt for another few moments. finding that he is, actually, fairly content with that answer. it’s another moment before sam’s eyes fall back to the stew, another bite. another few moments of chewing. ]

Thanks, by the way. [ he says, a bit suddenly. it’s mid bite, so it takes him a moment before he can swallow down the rest. ] For involving me. I’m glad I was there.

[gynvael]

[ His gaze stays on Sam for a moment or two longer after Sam nods. Then he goes back to eating. To his credit, he's rapidly making his way to the bottom of the soup. (Sam will probably discover, in the coming days, that there'll be no trouble making sure the food is finished while Geralt is around.) Geralt hears the sincerity behind Sam's words, when he says I'm glad, but he also takes it as something of a courtesy, of a way for Sam to indicate I don't mind that you did. It is not, in other words, a surprise for him to hear it. Naturally, Sam would make it known that he doesn't find it an imposition for Geralt to have needed his help. Not until Sam adds more does Geralt's attention snap back up.

For awhile, he's silent. He puts his spoon in the bowl. He's stopped eating, at once distracted and uncertain. There is being amenable, being willing to help, and then there's this. Whatever this is. Geralt isn't sure, but it leaves him suddenly out of place. Off balance. Because as of late, he's started to feel comfortable with where he stands with Sam, with what's between them. Now it feels like there's more (has there always been more?), out of nowhere, and he didn't see it coming at all.

Possibly someone else would've accepted it, replied with a casual I should be thanking you, left it at that. And shit, if Geralt weren't so damn tired, if he'd not had such a week (month, year), he may have found it in himself to do the same.

Then again, perhaps not. He is who he is, at his core never fully ready to make room for people in his life. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he found himself grasping at a reason to begin to withdraw. When he replies, it isn't with skepticism or disbelief; he believes Sam, trusts Sam means what he's saying, and that's almost what's throwing him off in the first place. Instead, it's with an open bluntness, a fracture of trepidation bleeding through. ] I don't know why the fuck you're thanking me, Sam.

[falcony]

[ sam isn’t surprised, by the sudden reaction. if anything, he’d almost been expecting it, turning his eyes back to his bowl as if actively avoiding the sudden reaction. because he’d known, somehow, that it would hit harder with geralt than it might with anyone else. anyone else, who could have shrugged it off, offered a simple reaction.

or there is this witcher, this person, who sam has gotten to know over the last few months. who he has worked with, fought with, simply talked. he knows the type, the sort to hold onto everything they’re feeling and hope, by some miracle, it won’t have to go anywhere at all. sam’s seen it first hand, and also has seen what can happen with that.

he takes his time with his next bite, scraping the sides of the bowl with his spoon. and maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with how tired he himself feels. that he doesn’t feel the need to be subtle. to ease into what he wants to say, or have said. that it means something to him, down in his core, that this is happening at all. that jaskier had squeezed his hand and told him to stay. that ciri had come back with him at all, despite the tired, unsure way she’d looked at him. that geralt - always on his guard, always watching the backs of the people around him, had looked at him. had left this all in his hands. when sam does finally look back up, those gold eyes are staring back at him, blunt and with a fracture of color. of something that suddenly, as if for the first time this night, feels unsure.

sam snorts, which maybe isn’t the easiest or nicest way to react at first, pointing his spoon towards geralt. ]

Because you could have tried to handle this all alone. You could have showed up and either grabbed Jaskier and left, or shut me out entirely. [ it’s something that sam has thought about, since. in the moment, he wouldn’t have let it happen, his attention so wholly on jaskier and his decreasing state. but thinking back, if geralt really hadn’t wanted him there, he wouldn’t have been. ] You didn’t. You let me help. [ sam shrugs, letting the spoon fall back in his bowl, eyeing the remains of the stew he has left, before he stretches and sits back. ] Which- I mean- I would have chased you down and made you let me, but I didn’t have to.

[ he gestures to the table, stacked with bags even now, the two of them log by candlelight and surrounded by sleeping bodies. ]

So. Thank you.

[gynvael]

[ If he carried the level of self-awareness to realize it, Geralt might have understood a part of him hoped Sam would take that jagged, bristling response and use it as a reason to withdraw in return. They could establish that careful distance again that Geralt so often took pains to maintain, a distance that's beginning to slip more and more when it comes to Sam for reasons he can't explain. For reasons he doesn't want to examine.

But this is Sam. So that's not what happens.

A length of time passes before he even starts to form a reply. Sam's said aloud what Geralt knows but which he just. Isn't ready to face. The idea that he trusted Sam not only in that desperate moment—he can accept that; Jaskier was dying, he'd had no other choice, and Sam's a steady presence he could rely on in the midst of chaos—but after, too. When he was on the verge of collapse. Because he knows, if he'd needed to, that he could've held himself together. Or at least struggled to do so to the bitter end. Instead he'd—leaned on Sam, without thinking twice, and not once had he fought to stay conscious once Sam was there. Hadn't questioned whether it was a bad idea or if he'd wake up in a worse position. On the most basic level, he'd felt safe.

And now Sam's thanking him for it, like it's important, like it means something that Geralt has let him in. Like the trust of a Witcher is worthwhile to have. He wants to tell Sam it is not. That, at some point, Sam will find cause to regret it. (He knows what he is, how he is, when it comes down to it.)

He sighs. The sound is accepting but also resigned for more than one reason. Sam's going to trip over himself one day, running after everyone constantly. ] Use the reprieve from chasing me down, at least, to get some fucking sleep tonight.

[falcony]

[ there is a long pause, here, that sam knows is geralt processing. one of the first things he picked up about the witcher were what these pauses had to mean - thoughts, ideas, things moving more quickly in the silence than if spoken aloud. sam respects it, because he knows it’s geralt’s way of making it day to day - internalizing, observing, remembering. it’s the processing he wonders about, the acknowledging, but hey. what else was sam for?

geralt sighs, accepts the thanks, and sam - content, happy that it went by without too much argument. also content, honestly, that geralt decides it’s enough of an answer that he doesn’t have to keep watching sam with that look. like he was lost, like he was undeserving. instead, the sound geralt makes is resigned, and sam nods and sits back up again, trying to push himself back to finishing his soup. eating. and then-

god, the hypocrisy is not lost on him, in either direction. sam shake his head, picking up his spoon to keep eating. ]

I’m not about to take resting advice from someone who literally had to pass out before he’d take a seat on my couch. [ that is when sam considers, when his eyes go to his soup and then to geralt’s almost clean bowl, before pushing his own across the tables ] It’s not bad, right?

[gynvael]

[ Geralt snorts at that. Sam's got a point, but it doesn't change Geralt's, either. ] Mm. You should.

[ He isn't insisting, though, just prodding. His bread mops up what's left in his bowl, and he shoves that in his mouth, too. He's better—head no longer as heavy, and warmth returned to him—so the food's done its job. Where the candle by them has started to burn low, he idly lights a couple others with a gesture. Then Sam slides his bowl over.

He pauses. After a second, he takes it. Yeah. Not bad at all. ] Better than what I bother making.

[ Which is a low bar, admittedly. At least around here, with Jaskier's ability to sprout rooted vegetables and a handful of herbs, they've managed most days a meal that's a slight improvement over salted meat and bread. He goes back to eating at the same steady pace. For the most part, he isn't letting himself pick apart what Sam's said. About not shutting him out. Perhaps he will, later, or it might simply stay buried. A piece of knowledge he's not outright rejected, but won't examine too closely, either. Some things are best left unravelled. ]

[falcony]

[ he's glad his point is seen, even if sam knows that it won't change geralt's mind. he's too stubborn, just as sam would be, which is half the reason sam's expression remains light. easy. like a laugh that hasn't quite disappeared. ]

Mm. [ not quite an echo of geralt, but close, just for the joke's sake. but it only lasts a moment or so before sam shakes his head. ] No- I will. [ because even sam wilson knows his limits. it's taken him this long to figure them out, maybe, but he's no super soldier, or witcher, or whatever else he could be. he is just him, just doing his best.

he ends up running a hand across the back of his neck, over the back of his scalp. he feels the exhaustion in his bones. of three days of worry, of stress. he's in his own apartment, now, and everyone is under this roof. settled in their separate rooms, sleeping or resting or sitting at this table, across from each other, talking about stew. sam almost laughs at the image they make, his eyes glancing up towards the suddenly lit candles. a brow lifts, something akin to show off written across his face. ]

You cook? How did I not know that? [ another smile, another joke, before sam is pushing himself up out of the seat. he looks to the piles of food, the corner of this room he's turned into a kitchen, and feels his limbs grow even heavier with the idea of trying to unpack the boxes and bags they'd just left sitting there.

the couch isn't looking too bad, if he's being honest. he exhales, again, before walking around the table ]

[gynvael]

[ The faintest smile crosses his face in return. The first since he rushed through that door, probably. He's not relaxed quite yet, but he's—better. Somehow Sam being here, it eases a weight he'd not entirely realized he was carrying. He can count on him, on the chance anything more goes wrong tonight.

Ideally not. They both need the rest. Sam looks worn to the bone. Geralt feels it, too. Like if he laid down, he'd fall the fuck asleep again in a second. He does catch that look, though. It makes him cock his head. He'd cast without thinking, an action he's done a thousand times, but now that Sam's reacted, Geralt lights another candle, more deliberately. Because he can. And because he thinks Sam may be curious. ]

Rumour has it we eat our meat raw. [ He says it like it's a joke, too; an offhand remark. The kind he might've made often.

He puts away what's left of the bread and follows Sam around the table to the couch. Geralt sits down on one end—not falling so heavily onto the cushions as before, but still...sinking a bit. It's calm now. Near silent. The hour's late enough even the streets and taverns are largely cleared out as folk return to their beds. Shit, he just. Wants to make it through to morning. If he can have a quiet night, that's all he'll ask for. ]

[falcony]

[ sam catches the smile with just enough time to feel his own grow marginally, the feeling something mutual in the air. like, knowing that jaskier is in the clear, that ciri is tucked away in alina's bedroom, that it's now both him and geralt, awake and whole, that things may finally be able to settle. like everything, finally, is in the clear. he's not so optimistic to think nothing bad will come, again, but he can hold onto that feeling for the night itself. the city has calmed, the people are falling asleep, and as sam all but collapses onto the other side of the couch - falling into the cushions with a thud - he thinks maybe, just maybe, it's about time to let the exhaustion catch up to him.

geralt cocks his head at sam's curious look, lighting another candle across the room, and sam watches it happen. finds the trick to be useful, more than anything. he supposes he could ask - about what kind of magic that's supposed to be, how sam can learn to do it too, maybe, to keep him from having to get up every time, but for now sam just makes a sort of alright then sort of look and settles back.

at the joke, sam lets out a snort - like it's the kind of reaction he'd have given before, like he has some ongoing familiarity with the rumors made of witchers. ]

Whoever's starting these rumors need a better hobby. [ he says easily, feeling himself settle back into the corner of the couch. this is getting dangerous, he thinks, feeling like he's finally given up on holding the heaviness of his limbs at bay, crossing his arms over his chest more for the sake of having somewhere to put them than anything else. ] They're getting a little cliche.

[ sam yawns, feeling a bit like a kid trying to hold off falling asleep and somehow, despite it all, knowing it's going to hit him anyway. ]

[gynvael]

[ He makes a sound that passes for, No need to tell me, and leans back on the couch. Every part of him aches, weighing down each limb. Sam doesn't say much else after that; Geralt's not one to fill the silence for the sake of it. He lets it drift over them. Watches the flames flicker. Eventually, he can hear Sam's breathing start to even out. When he looks over—hm. Yeah. Sam's dead to the world.

Geralt gives it another ten, fifteen, minutes. Make sure Sam isn't going to stir. Then he gets up to check on the windows and doors, peers into both Ciri and Jaskier. Alina. They're sleeping, too.

For the first time, there's finally nothing happening. (Thank fuck.)

Geralt returns to the couch to toss a blanket over Sam. He doesn't sit back down, though, not wanting to fall asleep himself. He takes up residence on a nearby chair instead. That's where he stays for the rest of the night, keeping one eye on Sam and the other over the rest of the home. ]