Jo doesn't answer immediately. Trying to figure out what she even thinks (feels?) about that word. Saved. Had there even been a handful of seconds to think that? A few? Even one? She hadn't stopped firing. She hadn't listened to Dean. Then she was slammed into by a hellhound that felt like a train and looked like nothing, falling hard before everything was a crescendo of red-hot and screaming. There was not much looking back after that.
Jo doesn't know what to say to that. If there is anything to say to that. It's written in blood. It's written in stone. It's etched itself inside her head.
( I'll see you on the other side, probably sooner than later.
Make it later. )
For someone else, anyone else, she might have a line, spun golden with sparkling attitude. But Geralt's never gotten more than the flat bluntness of her at her edges, she doesn't lie and smile for him, hasn't ever, and she doesn't want to know if she can plunge her hand into the center of herself, find her spine, and squeeze hard enough until her mouth makes itself something else to remember instead.
When it's this real, this close, this bare. What she will do, and why she will do it.
no subject
Jo doesn't know what to say to that. If there is anything to say to that.
It's written in blood. It's written in stone. It's etched itself inside her head.
probably sooner than later.
Make it later. )
For someone else, anyone else, she might have a line, spun golden with sparkling attitude. But Geralt's never gotten more than the flat bluntness of her at her edges, she doesn't lie and smile for him, hasn't ever, and she doesn't want to know if she can plunge her hand into the center of herself, find her spine, and squeeze hard enough until her mouth makes itself something else to remember instead.
When it's this real, this close, this bare.
What she will do, and why she will do it.