Geralt z Rivii (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gynvael) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2022-08-03 10:08 pm
gynvael) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-08-03 10:08 pm
[ CLOSED ] so hold your fire
Who: Geralt + Various
When: August
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: Catch-all for the month
Warnings: Drawing blood, medical talk, talk of experiments, headbanging, moglad
(( starters in the comments below. find me at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))
When: August
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: Catch-all for the month
Warnings: Drawing blood, medical talk, talk of experiments, headbanging, moglad
(( starters in the comments below. find me at
no subject
Still. Dean says, If I stay, he stays, and he leaves behind any thoughts of walking away.
Through the exchange, Geralt is silent. He doesn't care about defending himself; he can't give a fuck what she thinks. She can believe what she wants or call him what she wants; he's long used to it. But he does care about Dean being caught in the middle of this nonsense because she's too entangled in her own bullshit.
He lets his gaze linger on Dean for a moment. "He looked after someone important to me."
As in: yes. The trust goes both ways. It's meant for Dean as much as it is for her. Maybe more so.
no subject
But his following words —
slams into a word that might be worst, most unexpected
s i n c e r e
— are the first things since the moment Jo walked in the door that nearly made her back up.
Because she's not. She's nowhere near ready to talk about it. She's only really ready to snap about it.
(Jo'd tried to come here, tried to let it have a few seconds to be something else, something without someone else's scrutiny and baggage fucking with what was expected of her to see in it too, to just try for whatever it was, wasn't, might be, just her and it; a twice dead tête-à-tête, and this was what met her inside the door.)
She hates him.
Jo hates that it suddenly feels worse than if he'd thrown a bucket of ice water on her. She'd have something to stay madder about then. Because he never thinks. And thinks too much but doesn't want people to figure out he does. (He brought it here. Kept it here. And it can't mean nothing. And she can't think about that either.) Jo looks off to a side, listening to Dean say he'll just leave it.
If she wants. He brought it, and she can rip it away.
How deep does she know The Roadhouse doesn't ever turn away its own?)
Her throat clenches for a breath that won't go down, a swallow that's dry as the air outside of here. An ultimatum set to the tune of a plea and played too well, too soon. Fuck she hates him, and she hates that it works. That Dean gets in her head, and other places, in a way almost no one else does. That when it's words when they come, Jo's focus flicks back behind Dean, and the only thoughts she has about that admission about what Dean did is also one she doesn't want: he does that.
She looks back at Dean; it's still more of a glare than anything else, but there's something cracked through it, again, and it's hard to tell if it makes her any softer, any less dangerous, or even potentially more for such a straight, true score of a shot. "Fine." It comes out harder than her expression, if quieter than her last words.
"But I reserve the right to change my mind." It gets stronger, sterner, if not louder, as her willpower forces words to level themselves out. "At any time." Beat. "And if i—" Her words stop, her teeth press, and there's a heavy breath out of her nose. "—if he does anything—" like he will, it implies; like they always do "—maybe I do throw you both out on your asses then."
It's a yes. It's a tacit agreement to at least trust Dean.
But it's not pretty, not with her chest cracked wide again.
no subject
His attention shifts momentarily. Just a fleeting, flickering look back at Geralt accompanied by the soft, silent nodding of his head.
Yeah. They have an understanding about that. Doesn't need a conversation, doesn't even necessitate a word from him about it.
He shifts his focus back to her, back to this, the far more precarious thread of conversation unfolding still.
Fine.
Some of the tension breaks. His shoulders soften from the rigid stone he hadn't even realized they'd locked into, a relief that creeps in centimeters down his spine. His hands come up again — in surrender this time, fingers fanned, wrists twisting outwardly.
"Deal. Road haul me if you wanna, I'll give you the damn keys."
His car is parked outside. He'd let her behind the wheel to drag his ass up and down the blacktop strip. That's how much he stands by what he's saying.
He gives it just another tentative second, glancing between the two of them, waiting for another shoe to drop. When it doesn't, he slowly leaves the space between them to round the bar and look for a bottle of something strong. Don't know about the two of them, but he sure as shit could use it.
The heavy bottle thunks down on the hardwood, and as he pulls the glasses out, he figures he might as well go ahead and answer the question she hasn't asked yet.
"He's a Witcher. Not a demon. Not a shifter. It's more like a hunter on steroids. That's it."
no subject
He's not bitter about it. Not these days. It's simply how people are. But it does mean he has little desire to go out of his way to reassure her or jostle for his right to exist. That's something he decided he was finished with long before she ever walked this earth.
So while he lets Dean explain what he is, he adds nothing to it. Does not say there are shifters and dopplers who live quiet lives keeping to themselves. He just joins Dean by the bar, as though the air isn't thick and heavy, as though he isn't sharing this space with someone who could so easily belong with the mob that set torch to his home. She's important to Dean, that much is apparent—and it is for Dean's sake that he's still here, keeping the peace.
The instant the first glass is filled, he empties it. If Dean doesn't refill it quick enough, he'll do it himself.
no subject
Jo has no patience for Dean's stupid, flippant mouth about giving her the keys to the Impala he would never hand over and is intensely more aware of it as Dean walks away from between them, and she's sans a divide from the. From. Geralt. She tries it once in her head, at least. She makes no promises and has no need to be polite about saying it out loud. She can't believe she's agreed to even this much. She'd rather take a chair to him still.
She's going to find someone who can make her a gun if it kills her.
Agreeing not to go after someone is nothing near agreeing to be friendly.
Or to stop looking at him like she might welcome a cockroach infestation faster.
She won't put her back to him, but Jo slowly follows the direction of where Dean went, and it's still disortienting as fuck for Dean Winchester to be behind that bar. He moves around behind it like he knows what's back there— grabbing bottles and cups like it's normal. That's a whole other bag of nails to go driving into her skin.
Jo takes a stool, not close. Doesn't care. It's precisely what it looks like, and she has just as many apologies as the fucks she snarled about earlier. Does she want a drink? Maybe. Would she have gotten one if neither of them had been here, to begin with? Probably. Making her want one even more so now. Except there's no want even to pretend they are going to have some kind of tea party talk now.
It's get the kind of look Ellen would have been proud to pass on, clipped barely touched that mountain of black leather over there. She's not even going to pretend the guy falls into any 'that's it category' that Dean wants to smooth over as it being something simple. All this makes every bit of her usually charming, flirty lead-up in conversations with new people on either side of the aisle stone-cold serious.
"And the eyes?"
no subject
There's a lot wrong with this world. If she got in trouble and he wasn't around but Geralt was? He knows the dude would keep her safe.
If she'd freaking let him.
It's imperative that he help get her along to that point.
So he puts on his clown shoes, and answers the question in a blunt, boisterous tone that suggests he's full of complete and utter bullshit.
"Jaundice," he answers, thunking a glass down in front of her and filling it up. By the time he's finished Geralt's already downed his and he's looking at the bottle expectantly, so Dean tops the guy off again before he bothers finally pouring his own drink. "Look at him. Walking liver cirrhosis. I've been trying to schedule an intervention, maybe pencil him in for a few AA meetings, but then he goes looketh who's a fucking hypocrite, so we're at an impasse."
Yes, he does his best impression of Geralt's voice. It is low, gravelly, too British, and just... awful. Truly.
no subject
He can almost hear Dean shifting gears. He knows. What Dean is doing, he knows. He can even appreciate that Dean is trying. He also doesn't think it's worth the effort, and it shows in the way his gaze slides back towards the other man. There's a lot he could say. A lot he doesn't care to.
In the end, he settles for a gentle but no less blunt, "Don't."
He can agree to leave things be without extending more than that. Convincing people he isn't a monster with a little defusing humour? When they've made up their minds? No. He's drawing a line—and he wants Dean to know that. This impulse to turn a frosty barely-there tolerance to a genuine truce, he understands it. He does. He can't blame Dean for hoping. But predicating it upon skirting his true nature for her comfort is not what he wants. He's no desire to play along with that.
no subject
She's proved she wasn't cowed by bigger people than Dean Winchester.
Her gaze is so much steadier than it was earlier. She doesn't look away.
If he has to stay, she gets to ask. She'll burn the whole bush down.
There's only a shift to Dean when he opens his mouth, and instantly Jo rolls her eyes with an annoyed flare of her nostrils at the very first word. She doesn't want a long-winded joke where Dean pretends he's an excellent comedic mediator when it comes to laying down bullshit instead of facts. Jo doesn't want to be defused like a child who will come around once made to smile, instead of someone with every right to ask. She half into the thought, when Geralt's the one who tells him to stop. A single word, and her brown furrows.
Not liking that they're on the same page,
not even when she slices that with,
"At least he's not stupid."
This said as though Jo was speaking to Dean while looking at Geralt. Third person. Almost dismissive, like he isn't there while staring right at him. Except. Her eyes narrow a touch, and it turns on a pin the very next second. Because she hasn't looked away. Because he said no to the bullshit distraction before she could.
It's to him, to Geralt, as though Dean said nothing instead.
"I wasn't kidding. You want me to play at all, shoot straight."
no subject
He deflates immediately. Shoots Geralt a significant look, equal parts apologetic and appealing. Look, he's trying, okay? He doesn't know what in the hell else to do here, and he can't just do nothing.
Now's about the time he focuses on his own drink, finally — one that he fills, downs immediately, and then refills again within the span of just a few seconds. It has the air of a man distinctly frayed, just a touch desperate, and incredibly tired.
Second drink already halved again in a big swallow, he finally pulls up a stool behind the bar, so he can settle onto it heavily across from them — smack in the middle ground between the two, the third point on the equilateral triangle.
"Fine," he mutters to himself, relenting and promptly giving up any facade of good humor. "I guess we'll stay awkward."
But he'll leave Jo's question to Geralt, let him choose whether or not to answer it. Boundary identified, he's not one to try and cross those when they're made clear.
no subject
Now isn't the time to get into it, though. So a look is all Dean receives. A look, and the faintest sharpening of his gaze towards her when she says, At least he's not stupid. It is a quick, almost protective, flash. Then it's gone.
After a moment, he does grant an answer. Perhaps not one she's looking for, though. He doesn't give a fuck. There are limits as to how much he's willing to let pass; he's already overlooked more than usual out of respect for Dean.
"Play or don't. I've made no threat towards you. I owe you nothing more. It's not my job to placate every passing human who deems the colour of my eyes too monstrous for their sensibilities."
no subject
She can't entirely lie to herself. She's too good at lying, and the lies of hunters who might as well have acting awards, not to see through it. She might have had in the very most minor one percent expected more, because of Dean. What he'd said. She should know better than to trust that impulse in the face of facts, shouldn't she?
Jo turns, breaking eye contact with nothing else to it, like it's nothing more than the wind in her hair, turning herself so that it brings her back to facing across the bar rather than down it. She lets her heels hook on the bottom rung on the stool. She doesn't miss, doesn't have to look, hadn't since not long after her legs got long enough. Her feet barely even make a sound catching there.
She picks up her drink and toasts it toward Dean. "Strike one."
Then Jo downs it flat — insanely glad to feel something burn — and holds it out to him.
no subject
Somewhere in the distance (or maybe just in the background of his mind), not for the first time this week and surely not for the last, Simon & Garfunkel begins to play.
Ah, yes. He's familiar with this sense of futility.
Like this is the world's most morbid drinking game, he downs his glass. He's played his whole hand here, he's got nothing to contribute to bridge this gap between the two of them.
He fills his glass again, slides the bottle Jo's direction, and waits for the return-fire.
no subject
Mostly the latter. When he's done, he's done.
Besides. Something tells him Dean has several conversations he needs to have with his...friend. Geralt is well aware he is only one contributing factor to what's at play here.
He leaves without comment—without much of anything at all. The only parting gesture he gives is a brief nod at Dean before he simply walks out the door.