abraxaslogs | Here Comes the Rain Again [ closed ]

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Here Comes the Rain Again [ closed ]

Who: John Blake & Co.
When: Post event #17 - Epulum
Where: Free Cities
What: Following the celebration-turned-investigation, Blake returns to the Free Cities to find Norman Jayden is missing. While presumed to have been sent home, Blake doesn't find himself entirely convinced, especially with the change in weather...
Warnings: N/A

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For a few months after he was sixteen, Blake had lived doorway to doorway with little more than the clothes on his back. He could have stayed at St. Swithin's. They had offered him two more years — it was in the funding — and it wasn't pride that drove him away so much as a heart-heavy practicality learned long, long ago: Any space he takes is room someone else doesn't have. And so he'd gone, opting instead to risk the streets where he'd spent most his days anyway.

Staying clean, especially getting showers and washing his clothes, had been difficult enough with fifty other boys, but lacking funds and steady housing only complicated the matter. More than once from the catwalks, he'd taken advantage of an unlocked apartment, opting to go in through a window and risk law enforcement over the dingy and dangerous YMCA showers. It hadn't been an easy or glamorous life by any means, but he'd still reveled in the warm water and the feeling of being fresh and clean, often fragrant of soap for hours as a reminder of what life could be.

It's such longing thoughts that have brought him to Geralt, the begging question entirely due to Blake's own meager domicile's lack of private amenities combined with the recent storms. If he doesn't scrub up soon, there's no telling how long it might be before the frayed ends come loose and he finds the rope he's hanging on by no longer serving its purpose.

"You don't know how much I need this," he says, perhaps rhetorically. Does he stink? Probably. Any worse than anyone else? Nah. But there's emotional grime in a layer that's thick enough that he feels caked: It's sorrow at Jayden's departure, shame at his own ineffectiveness as a Summoned, annoyance over the ever-changing storms, haunting anguish from the pit, and frustrations of all sorts, which does not preclude at all the sexual aspects of being thirty and living smack dab in the middle of a population of beautiful, complicated people (who all somehow glisten immaculately in the sun or brood appealingly in the shade).

It's a lot. And admitting as much when asking for something so simple as this feels akin to leaving himself vulnerable in an idiotic way because he's choosing comfort over security.

Geralt rarely has words to spare, so Blake isn't expecting much by way of questions or commentary. Instead, he's relying on the Witcher's storied reputation of reliable silence as they move through the house Geralt and Jaskier share. It's certainly a feast for the eyes, although Blake's certain to keep his head down to only sneak glances unless otherwise presented with a run of the place. He's not here to take advantage of anyone's hospitality, especially when he's got nothing to offer in return.

True to form, Geralt simply directs Blake straight down the corridor, passing by the three bedchambers and a multitude of potted plants. This house is a luxury that Geralt is not entirely unused to—Yen likes her comforts—but which was seldom his to have in any permanent manner. Until now.

Why Blake has come here, Geralt chose not to question closely. The man clearly hasn't many places to turn nor, apparently, much by way of coin. And though Geralt does not do charity, denying Blake such a small thing feels akin to throwing a scruffy stray out onto the street without a scrap.

So. Here they are.

Wordlessly, he pushes open the door. The copper tub sits inside. Towels, soaps, oils. Scents. Seems fairly self-evident. A small fuzzy leosylph peers around Geralt's ankle. He nudges it away with his foot.

"Don't use that." He points at a glass bottle at the far end. He does not explain why it should go untouched, but one may guess it's to do with Jaskier, not Geralt. "Eat what you want afterwards. I'll be in the cellar."

Kitchen has a plate of hand pies to spare, and Blake looks...hm. Like shit.

The door shuts.

The brevity strikes a cord, although Blake places no blame on Geralt for it, instead reminded that it's just the way. If Geralt weren't feeling hospitable, he wouldn't have agreed; Blake needs to believe that, if nothing else, because when the space isn't his own (as it often isn't or hasn't been), the burdensome, out-of-place feelings begin to flood back. Of places meant to be safe, but were anything but, and of welcoming smiles that turned to grimaces far too quickly.

He hesitates to say anything at all and thereby misses his chance to suggest Geralt stay for comapany's sake, the door instead closing him in firmly. And while it could be little more than a prison for him to stew in his upset, there's something about the space and its array of sensations that can't be entirely overlooked for its pleasantries.

Fresh water, fine soap, clean towels: Blake touches everything. Lifting bottles to his nose, he's almsot overwhelmed by the array pleasant scents. Some he even recoginzes. And while trailing his fingertips across the copper tub, waiting for it to fill, it's hard to feel like a guest and not an intruder. Maybe because there is no denying the flush he feels sliding naked into the water while wondering if Jaskier and Geralt had fit in it recently, together or otherwise, to soothe away their own concerns.

That envy and sadness could linger just the same as appreciation and relief feels incredibly cruel, too. Here he's getting what he needs (and what he's asked for) but it's never enough because it's not meant for him. And nothing has been for so long — not schools or familes or jobs — so why even worry about it now? It's not just a lot, it's too much. So much so that pushes himself under the waterline for far longer than necessary, depriving himself of senses in hopes of limiting the turmoil...

He's clean and a bit more connected when he finally finds his way to the cellar an hour later. The clothes he's changed into are old — practically his first proper outfit — but aside from being a little ill-fitting, they'll do the job. Perhaps more striking is that Blake's demeanor has changed, too. Some edges have softened, in fact, which leads him to announce, "This might not be the best you've seen me, but it feels pretty damn good."

Descending the stairs, his hand follows the wall and he ducks pointlessly to look for that familiar white-haired figure before reaching the landing. His still-damp hair is partially wrangled, but he pushes fingers through it as he looks around, curious as to whether Geralt's going to put him to work for use of his tub or not.

Their home has few visitors, and even fewer Geralt trusts to wander about freely. He doubts Blake is here to cause trouble; he actually isn't sure why Blake is here beyond the man's claim to need a wash. Which. Perhaps that is all, but he's starting to learn it's never so straightforward with Blake.

The door to the lab is left open, the strong smell of herbs drifting past the threshold. Blake's footsteps approach as Geralt empties a reddish powder into a small vial.

Blake looks better. Not the best, but better.

"You smell like the bard," he remarks.

He moves his sword out of the way—left unsheathed for once. The bejewelled phoenix affixed to the hilt glints in the lamplight. With a crackle of heat from his palm, he ignites a flame beneath the glass gourd, filled with a cloudy liquid.

"You can't see shit out there." His eyes do not leave his task. Gently, the alembic begins to drip. "Stay until the dust clears."

There have been small breaks in the storm, but right now, it's whipping into a frenzy.

At some point Blake lifts his arm, wrist held under his nose to test for bard. He's sure it's there, but having been steeped in it, the essence is gone to him. Instead, he smells the inner workings of this lab — less appealing, more so unfamiliar, but not unpleasant by any means — and perhaps something of Geralt in the mix, too.

He shrugs. "You make me sound pitiful." It's not untrue, and even as he says as much, he's smiling ruefully. There's a sense that Geralt can (and will) scruff him and toss him right out if he misbehaves too egregiously. He certainly doesn't have the grace that Jaskier might otherwise inspire. Still, he's as surprised by Geralt's invitation to stay as he was about the man's decision to allow him to bathe: That is, not too much at all. He's much softer than he looks.

He settles at the workstation next to Geralt, his inquisitive gaze trying to make sense of what's laid before him. At Viktor's he's used to something different and more mechanical. This alchemical approach, if that's what it is, still feels unreal. Perhaps because it's only been recently that he's even tried magic (and at Jayden's behest, no less).

"What is it?" The underlying question, unspoken but maybe obvious by Blake's ready hands: And can I help?

Mm. Geralt's eyes flick upwards. Blake said it, not him.

He looks back down. "Sword oil. I had a blacksmith who helped with enchantments before he vanished, but back home...this was how we did it."

No spells, only alchemy. The problem is the lack of ingredients, but he's beginning to find substitutes. He's experimenting with a corrosive coating, something that lets him cut through armoured monsters with fewer risks and less effort. He's a little tired of aiming for the narrow strip along the underbelly and nearly losing his fingers for it every time.

Besides, he hates it when his blade bounces off the thick carapace.

Blake's waiting hands receive a mortar and pestle. He drops a large scorpion tail into the stone bowl with no instruction. A mortar and pestle is for one thing and one thing only; he assumes Blake can put it together. Does he need the help? No, but he can't say he minds an extra hand. If Blake is staying, he may as well make himself useful.

"Don't taste it," Geralt adds, deadpan.

Imagine being insisted upon to stay only to be told to make yourself useful! Luckily, Blake is the type of peron who would fuss regardless, who couldn't stop himself from helping, anyway. So he takes to the task, elbowing Geralt gently in the process for the light teasing he's given. Aside from one very unfortunate incident involving dehydration during his time in the pit, he's not one of those Summoned known for randomly tasting things.

"Guess I never thought of a sword needing oil, but how else would you do it?" His grinding is precise, not that the tools don't do most of the work. He works at it studiously, watching as the tail becomes little more than a dark powder. "We don't use swords where I come from."

His lips twitch very faintly. He adjusts the alembic until the droplets flow a little more freely. Tools in the Free Cities are more refined than the Continent, but they're familiar. Most of the lab contains labelled jars, carefully sealed specimens, a shelf of leather bound books and notes.

"So I've learnt." Blake registers as somebody from the same sort of sphere as Dean or Sam, though his accent is especially foreign in places. "You've never said what you do."

Back home, that is. Blake doesn't give the impression of a soldier, but something about his demeanour isn't entirely that of a common civilian, either.

Perhaps he's curious.

Blake's finished work is placed back where the mortar had come from, leaving the ingredients in order to better observe the tubes and flames. He moves around, from one side of the Witcher to the other, a meandering pace that would be better controlled with a string of tasks to keep his curiosity and hands at bay.

He debates on his answer, uncertain what to say. He could say nothing at all — Geralt would respect it — but that's a shitty response after everything that's been done for him. Still, the story is somehow both remarkable and mundane, hardly forced warfare and magical destinies, but nothing akin to a lackluster life.

"For a while, it was law enforcement," Blake finally responds, haltingly. "Think... small cog in a massive machine. Thousands servin' millions." As one of the largest cities on the eastern seaboard, Gotham requires no less than thirty thousand cops at the best of times. "But — (and maybe it's not like this where you come from) — but what I saw behind the curtains of that political production didn't sit right with me."

Blake lifts a jar to the light, peering into its contents. They're wings, he thinks. Paper-thin, with falanges, they ironically remind him of bats from home were they to have fine decorations like a moth or butterfly. When he sets them down, the powder from the wings fluoresces as it drifts gently to the bottom.

"Quittin' wasn't hard. Some stuff happened," the young man says, a halting tone belying his tendency to minimize the severity of nearly everything relating to his life. It's a real fucking problem.

"Group of para-military terrorists took over. Laid siege to the city, cut us off, starved us, kept us scared. Spent five months workin' undercover 'cause any cop they found on the street was culled.

"They wanted us to eat ourselves alive and we almost did," he admits, softly. And the worst part is that it's not even the first or second time it's happened, albeit every time in massively different ways. As if Gotham must be constantly tested for its loyalty to itself, Blake has lived through Ra's, Scarecrow, Dent, Joker, Talia, and Bane. And that's in the last decade, not mentioning his youth at all. "We saved the city in the end, or well, we— we stopped the terrorists, but it's hard to know what's gonna come next."

A nuclear explosion, a physically and emotionally fraught city, a crumpled infrastructure, not to mention billions in repairs: Nothing but uncertainty in that.

And where is Blake? Hiding in the cellar presumably light years away behind the deadliest person he can find that still possesses the necessary moral fiber to do the right thing. That is why Geralt is so often Blake's choice in his time of need, and while he feels guilty for being able to give nothing in return, the slow application of pressure to Blake's steadfast being is squeezing him to death.

He's used to being alone, but he's also used to being of service and having a purpose. Being here, he never hoped to avoid a new purpose, either. Abraxas had other plans, though, and try as he might, it's been difficult for Blake to deny the karmic implications. Many of his colleagues, including his old partner, Ross, died below ground, half-starved and sick, if not injured from explosions or other action. He'd touched that fear and suffering for a fraction of the time; in a year he hadn't healed nearly enough to consider himself capable of maintaining, let-alone helping others. When he'd come to visit Geralt in jail, it had been a cry for help in many ways, and it wasn't even asked for the sake of himself, at least not beyond the relief of knowing if he happened to fail — a very real possibility — someone else would know where and how to pick up.

He leans back against the table, arms crossing. There's a bookcase that draws his eye, but he's staring right through the spines. It feels like this is the most of consequence he's said to anyone in a long time and the more he admits, the harder it becomes to keep going.

"Already told you 'bout the kids—" His orphanage of sixty-five, and the foundation trying to serve one-point-five million at-risk kids (and so many more to still come through the system post-disaster), both represent only a portion of his focus upon returning. What he doesn't say, especially about the lasting legacy placed into his hands — the responsibility held firmly beneath that cape and cowl — is that it's only for him, and destined to be a thankless, brutal, lonely endeavor. Even if he does everything right, with access to every dollar necessary to back him, every support member in the know, the only guarantee seems to be that he'll be at least as broken as Bruce was after a decade, except with none of the benefits of the rigorous and precise training of his predecessor.

It's basically a death sentence. Or a suicide mission, depending on how you look at it.

What little relaxing he'd done in the tub will be quickly undone with this line of thinking. It drives him inward, much like this storm, but there's no shelter there from being whipped back and forth. Blake hates the sense of it, both dizzying and obstructive.

"No pressure," he muses with a quiet laugh, squeezing at the nape of his neck.

While Blake weighs his answer, Geralt picks up the mortar and tips out the black powder onto a scrap of parchment.

He interrupts the story once, holding out his hand for a wooden bowl next to Blake. "Pass that to me."

Bowl acquired, he lets Blake continue while he adds the powder. Law enforcement is not a term they use, but he can gather what it means, something akin to the city guard or a king's guard. Those who carry out the laws of the land. He can see how one might grow disillusioned with that sort of corruption. Where Blake served, if it's as large as he claims—then the ones in power undoubtedly wield their authority with little regard for commoners.

So retaliation is no surprise, either. Isn't that how it often is? An eternal cycle. The people rise. They crown a leader and root out his enemies. And a new power controls the villagers below.

The politics are not what catches his attention, though. It's what Blake says about a culling.

Geralt has only shared very little of himself—the majority of it unwillingly, when the shadowed birds descended. He thinks of their time in the mines—when he found him lost in the tunnels. Blake is less skittish now, but Geralt senses the turmoil lingers beneath the surface.

He retrieves a glass vial. "When I was a boy," he begins, adding a few oily drops to the powder, "a mob of humans descended on our home. To purge the Continent of our kind. I hid in the cellar with the other children. The bodies were endless."

He pours the viscous substance into another small bottle, adds the distilled liquid, and gives the vial a shake.

"The massacre was a hundred years ago. To this day, I dream of it." He glances up. "Just because a wound still pains you doesn't mean it isn't healing."

There's a unique flow that Blake slots into well, easily taking on the simple instructions. Being useful is like a balm, at least, a distraction from what could easily become too heavy for him to carry. It makes room in his head, allowing for him to process a bit more quickly than before.

He recaps a bottle, a thoughtful hum expressing itself in an almost relieved-sounding breath out. There's something very humanizing about knowing the depths of a persons suffering; if Blake could live to a hundred, he'd probably retain those scars just as long. It serves a reminder, just the same as Geralt's careful observations, and he scratches at his jawline, at the scar he still bears (along with so many more) from that time underground. Abraxas doesn't let him forget, and on days when the weather is particularly bad, the scars itch and ache and feel tight. Ready to tear. Today, it's exceptionally bad, even with the wash.

"I'm thirty," he says, amused. Enjoy being haunted for seventy years more is quite the sentiment. For some reason, it only softens Blake's demeanor. He reaches to clasp Geralt's forearm, squeezing once gently. For as aloof as he can appear, there's a trend towards tactile contact that proves Blake isn't entirely lacking in the same kind of humanity being attributed to the Witcher. "I hope I can still care as much at your age. Or that I look anywhere near as good." Credit where credit is due.

The gloves he'd made Geralt draw his attention and he drifts away to inspect them more thoroughly. He'd seen Geralt wear them and he can tell they're used more often than ceremoniously for Blake's benefit and observation. He doesn't sense Geralt's the type for that, anyway. But that he keeps anything at all — even something so simple as a piece of cordage — speaks in strange ways to Blake. Who keeps gifts out of pity? Guilt, perhaps, but there's none of that here. Then again, what sentiments could he truly inspire that aren't based solely on the uneven displays over the past year? Blake rubs his thumb over the palm of the glove, impressed with the ruggedness that's been maintained. He can see changes he would make now, but doesn't dare take them. Instead, he places the gloves back, gingerly hoping to return them perfectly even if he isn't trying to hide this intrusion.

"You said to hang, but I really oughta get out of your hair." When you've been deemed little more than second-hand, you worry about overstaying your welcome. Blake likes this home and he appreciates the people here. He wants to be able to come back and feel it's for a better reason than his own desperation.

His gaze matches Blake's amusement. He's not one for false reassurances. Pain doesn't go away. Once you hurt, it leaves a mark. Even decades later, you'll feel it. But you can carry on. You can still find a purpose for living. It isn't the end of everything.

Blake's hand lands on his arm. Geralt looks contemplative, but makes no further remark. Not even when Blake reaches for the gloves. They're well-used and well looked after; Geralt grants little attention to his appearance, but he takes care of his equipment. If one wondered what he bothered to spend his money on besides ale, one need only look at his swords and saddlebags. The gloves are a decent make. Would be a waste to throw them in a drawer.

The finished concoction goes into a cabinet. Geralt cocks an eyebrow. "And undo all that fucking scrubbing?"

He won't stop Blake if the man insists on leaving, but Geralt's invitations are not extended out of courtesy. It's a question of practicality. What's the point of bathing if you'll only run headlong back into a swirling gale of sand and grit?

Still, he recognizes that Blake is, perhaps, a little like a wandering stray. (A little like he was once.) Peering in for brief comforts before slipping away. He doesn't mind.

Geralt's accusation brings a spark of laughter and it feels even more genuine than the last as it escapes him. Blake can see that there's little sense in leaving if his purpose is to be clean, but even with masks and layers, there's no stopping the world from depositing grit across the whole of him again. Even inside they aren't wholly safe from it because it comes through cracks on gusts of wind and is tracked in on the bottoms of boots. He's cleaner than he was and that's what matters to him at the moment.

Surprised that it's earned a comment at all, though, he paces closer, chin tilted up, arms crossed, and fingers twitching against his sides. "As opposed to undoing the peace and quiet? Maybe." Blake cocks an eyebrow right back at him. "And nevermind the risk to Jaskier's closets..."

His eyes remain on Blake for another moment. Then he begins to clean up the remnant of powders and empty bowls.

"Peace and quiet never stay long."

If not Blake, something else would chase it away. Truthfully, he's a little restless as it is; he dislikes being trapped inside for any length of time, and though the house is larger than the room they once had, it isn't anywhere near the size of Kaer Morhen.

In any event: "Watch the door when you leave. I don't need that damned thing escaping again."

He means the little leosylph, which he's already chased through the fucking storm once. One might think a singular experience would teach it a lesson, but apparently, Coram possesses the same amount of self-preservation as Jaskier after a perceived slight.

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Here Comes the Rain Again [ closed ]

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