abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] head down, hands up

[ That's a sigh he's given before. He shifts atop the table entirely, hooks a foot around a chair and plants it on the scratched wooden seat. ]

Not by age. [ Functionally? He'd say as much. No one else was out there, dragging his brothers into getting things done around the keep. ] I'd hardly pledge myself as obedient. But I learned to pick my battles.

[ He gives a half-shrug. He's as stubborn as they come; he won't pretend he isn't. It's just been tempered with age, with a desire not to turn everything into a fight merely because it can be. He's never found a time when it helped. Not when they only have each other, when they're the few remaining. ]

Bitterness is the quickest monster to seed for those like us. [ It's a life none of them asked for, and it's one that can only ever lead to more losses. He knows how it is, to be surrounded by the people you love at the same time they remind you of all the things you never asked to become. (They may or may not be reaching that stage of inebriation that occasionally gives rise to sentiments Jaskier would call fucking maudlin.) ] For some, it never stops growing.

( His expression slips into something solemn as he listens, eyes settling down on the bar — but not actually looking at it. Reflecting, replaying, running through the mental list of every bitter hunter he ever met.

It's a common theme, but it's not as common as it seems to be with Witchers. He remembers Geralt briefly mentioning humans devastating his people — bitterness would practically be a given, he figures. )

I get that. God knows I've been there. Being bitter might be better than the alternative. Where I'm from, ninety-nine percent of the time people aren't raised into it. They start hunting after they lose somebody. That seed is mostly just... hate.

( You hate whatever brought you into the life, you hate that it took away someone you loved. Hate compels you to hunt it, but after you kill it, it doesn't actually fix anything. You still hate, so you carry that hatred on to the next hunt, and the next, and eventually you get a little blind to shades of grey. You ride that hate until it gets you dead.

He pulls his eyes up from the bar top again and levels them on Geralt, studying his expression. )

And what about you? Are you bitter?

[ Yeah. There's that, too. A bitterness that blooms into hate or fear or both. The humans did destroy most of his kind. But his own were not exactly innocent before or afterwards. It isn't that he thinks they deserve to be hated in turn—only a recognition that it all runs in a sort of cycle. He's thought, often, that humans told themselves Witchers felt nothing because they were afraid of what they would feel if they could.

His gaze flicks up, somehow a little surprised by the question. He studies Dean in return and wonders if that's what he saw in someone close to him. His father, wasn't it? That lost their mother to a demon? ]

I was. [ His answer comes without pause. It's something he accepted about himself a long time ago. ] I moved on.

[ Mostly. If he digs deep, it's still there. He's not certain it ever entirely goes away. ]

Besides, could be worse. Could've been assigned to a life sorting grain in some backwater hamlet.

[ There are few upsides to what they do, but it isn't entirely void of them. Most live and die where they're born. They don't get to hop on a horse and go see the mountains any time they want. ]

( His only answer initially is a thoughtful but unsurprised hum. He figured that might be the case — it's the same for him about that hate thing. He's had his moments of it, could have descended down that dark road, but managed to course-correct. He doesn't hunt out of hate, he doesn't kill monsters indiscriminately. His father, on the other hand...

Let's just say he wouldn't be too thrilled to learn about Cas or Benny. Or Geralt, for that matter.

Could've been assigned to a life sorting grain in some backwater hamlet.

That one earns a soft snort of a laugh. Funny how similar things are across universes — his consolation thought is could've been shoveling shit in the boonies. Not too far off.

Anyway, Jaskier would be right. They are getting a little sad sap here, so he pushes himself off his stool and claps a hand on Geralt's shoulder. )

Come on. Time to introduce you to Baby. Let's do this.

( The beauty of the Horizon: being able to immediately sober himself up a little before he gets behind the wheel. The second beauty: never losing his keys. They're in his hand by the time he reaches the driver's side door. )

Edited 2022-04-14 17:56 (UTC)

[ Geralt does not think twice about taking the half-empty bottle of whisky with him as he follows Dean out the door. It is not because he's a passenger; it's that the concept of going into a car less than sober is not one which Geralt holds any awareness of. He's mounted his horse drunk before, and he was hardly the first. Not like much happens as a Witcher except you take a bruise in a fall.

It also takes a hell of a lot more alcohol to bring him to a state where his reflexes are no longer fully functioning. As it is, he's loose and more prone to talking, but entirely steady.

The car sits sleek and shiny in the late afternoon sun. It's always caught his attention, the material. He remembers thinking as such, too, when he saw Amos' spaceship: the amount of metal and steel. To him, these remain expensive materials to mine and forge. Enough that it's startling to see it used in such large quantities.

He peers through the window. His remark is drier than the Cadens' desert. ] Does she speak?

( Riding around less than sober is a thing they have in common — unfortunately way less kosher when it's a car, and way more illegal. His track record is far from pristine, and that habit (however infrequent) is definitely on the less great end of the spectrum. The good news is, they're in the Horizon. He could detonate a friggin' grenade on the dashboard and they'd still be fine. )

Sure she does.

( Said in a sort-of grunt as he leans over to pointedly open up the passenger's side door. Get in, nerd. Not that he doesn't think Geralt could figure out a damn door handle, he's just impatient. )

You just gotta listen real close. Shh.

( He holds up one hand — hold, listen, you hear that?

And then the other cranks the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life. He beams proudly and announces: )

She purrs like a friggin' panther.

( Or... like a pack of panthers. Maybe one giant panther. )

[ The door swings open. A split second pause, and then Geralt gets inside. His default is wariness, where strange metal contraptions that purportedly go fast are concerned. He did ride a modern lift once, though, so he's slowly adjusting.

The seats are plush. He hasn't any idea what the fuck the amount of mirrors are for. Is it a vanity thing?

He stares a little dead-eyed at Dean, one eyebrow raised. If he were anyone else the sudden rumble would visibly surprise him. Since he's who he is, Dean receives slightly higher raised eyebrows. That's. Hm.

He needs another drink for this. He takes one. He's agreed to something he can't tell if he'll regret or enjoy far more than he'll ever admit. Possibly both.

(He's too fucking old for what's in store, he just knows it. He has well-honed instincts for these things.) ]

This is the sound of a chernabog before it tears your insides.

[ All he knows is if his horse made this noise, he would not ride her. He's here, though. He's committed. So. There's a vague gesture for Dean to take them on the road already. ]

( Should it feel as satisfying as it does when Geralt takes a drink over the sound of his engine? Probably not, and yet... )

No idea what that is.

( He announces cheerfully, reaching out to turn on the stereo. It's an integral part of the experience. )

Buckle up, Buttercup.

( It's a warning, not an actual recommendation. Not only would Geralt probably not know what a seatbelt is, the idea that he'd need one is laughable.

He puts the car in drive. Things start out easy enough, with him gently reversing away from the bar — using the rearview mirror, which might help answer that question. As soon as the angle's good enough, though...

He gasses it. Gravel sprays outward as he swoops them around and onto the road. They hit about 35 and he lets them cruise at it for a few seconds in case Geralt needs to adjust — and then it's 45, 55, 65 down sprawling rural highways. Trees blur, wheels turn, Dean keeps his eyes on the road mostly, save for the occasional glance Geralt's direction to catch the look on his face. )

[ Of course he hasn't.

And no, Geralt doesn't. Know, that is, what a seatbelt is or what he's even meant to buckle. He can hear the wheels spin; they do not creak and roll unsteadily as a wagon might, and in that sense, it is more pleasant. In the other sense, it is. Fast. Geralt has gone fast but even the quickest horse can hardly come near.

There's a look Dean will find on Geralt's face. It's the look of a man who is experiencing something beyond his ability to determine how he feels. Give him a few minutes. It reminds him, a little, of when he was still young, still close enough to boys all of them, and they would find an icy slope atop a peak in the Blue Mountains and slide right down. (Someone absolutely cracked their skull once.) Except this is endless, a path that does not stop or slow.

Thrilling is not quite a word Geralt ever uses for himself. But it's clear he isn't not enjoying this, even if the first remark out of his mouth is, ] You humans die far too easily to be in these.

( That earns a full-blown laugh out of him; unfiltered, head thrown back, teeth on display and all. Hard not to — this is his element, his happy place. Behind the wheel of his car, hauling ass down the road with a friend in the passenger's seat and nobody immediately in danger. It feels good. )

Well, you're not wrong about that, brother.

( No argument here. Too many car crashes in the good old US of A to pretend otherwise. He does ease off of the gas, lets them slow down to cruising speed now that he's achieved what he set out to accomplish. Showed off the potential for hauling ass, now it's time to settle into the potential peace.

He can't resist throwing out a petulant remark under his breath, though: )

Never seen a friggin' horse do that, have you? That's a solid neigh.

( Get it

Like

Nay, because

horse )

[ It's difficult to tell if the road exists or if they're riding along an illusion of one in the Horizon. Might not make a difference in the end. Maybe it's Dean's obvious enjoyment, maybe it's the genuine novelty—all the same, Geralt seems to settle into it, initial apprehension aside.

That play on words absolutely gets a squint from him, though. No comment. ]

Surprised you even learned to ride.

[ The trees wind by as he looks out the window. It's a steadier, smoother motion than the gait of a horse. More than a handful he's met have told him horses are rare in their world, if present at all, that only arriving here did they start to learn. For Geralt, it's difficult to imagine. He can't remember ever not growing up with a horse. ]

Yeah, well.

( He offers up an absent, throw-away shrug. )

You spend enough time in Texas, it's kind of a requirement. Plus, chicks dig it.

( Not that he spent more than a few months in Texas at a time. The more truthful answer here is that he thinks cowboys are fucking awesome. Chicks dig cowboys, but not as much as Dean digs cowboys.

And so it goes for a little while longer, sweeping down rural roads and around the occasional curve — sometimes smooth, sometimes a little too fast, but either way he steers them gently back to the bar eventually.

Congrats, Geralt. You passed the Baby test. Truly an important milestone to overcome. )

[ CLOSED ] head down, hands up

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