abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] on the ice i'm afraid

[ For a few seconds, Geralt lays back, limbs loose and veins buzzing. His hair spills tangled around him. Jaskier's weight drapes atop, familiar. Comfortable.

He opens his eyes. Jaskier looks down at him with sincere expectation. He sighs, but the curve of his lips is amused. Hm. With what will he stroke bard's ego? ]

Your cock is as talented as your singing.

[ That answer, maybe, is also very him. Because he's poked at Jaskier's singing before, and yet he is also here, clearly satisfied with Jaskier in his bed. More than. So Jaskier can interpret that how he wants—but Geralt knows the truth of what he means by it. And he thinks Jaskier will, too. ]

[Jaskier barks a laugh.]

I knew it! I knew it, you stodgy bastard! You lying rat! [Of course, he already knew it. It doesn't matter. Jaskier is truly giddy in the aftermath of orgasm, no matter where he is, and his grin is at least half-drunk when he kisses Geralt, bites his lips, then falls to his side once they've deftly untangled.

Mog gives a curious meow, and Jaskier waves a hand at him.]

Well, do not worry, my friend. [He lays back, catching his breath, gone soft and glowing all to himself.] I will be here to fuck and sing at you for many, many years to come, as much as you may harden to hear it.

[The bed dips at their feet as something begins pawing at the side of the sheets, as if the gryphon knows the show has all ended. Jaskier ignores him.] Now I say we recover, we drink, and -- well, I may sing at you a bit tonight. I've been writing something new. Now you have to listen.

[ Idiot. Geralt wrinkles his brow at the assault. He gives Jaskier a shove as the bard is rolling off. ] Fuck off.

[ He tucks an arm under his head. Cadens is still foreign even after all this time. It's home now, but a new home. This. The inn with its furs and warm hearth and chill outside the frosted windows—it takes him back to their days on the Continent. Just the two of them. In and out of cheap taverns, thick forests, shitty villages who can barely afford to pay him a coin.

He doesn't like to think himself nostalgic. Or sentimental. But he does miss it.

Absently, he shoos the gryphon off. Tries not to think about how the years for a human are so much shorter than his own. ]

Jaskier. I've had to listen to your nonsense for two decades. [ A new song, hm? ] Let's hear it, then.

[Ah, the final loving words of the dearest Witcher.

It might be the same for Jaskier. In fact, it. It is. Everything about Nocwich is nostalgic. Perhaps that's why he feels such deep affinity for the wolves (though Sten being one of the most attractive men he's ever laid eyes on did not her.) And was it not the last season they spent together? What little time Jaskier was still in Kaer Morhen was still brutal winter, with snow pouring over the mountains, and the long hallways frozen to absolute quiet.

At least this place has some good bloody heating in place. But the life that the werewolves embrace -- this eternal night, the spirit of the woods, the nature surrounding them -- it was the life he lived once, too, before he found himself settling. For the elves. For those who he could help.]

And there will be two decades more, you cad. Be nice to Mog! [At least Jaskier has the decency to pull the blankets up around him and help his gryphon onto the bed. Which, as said gryphon begins walking over his legs and only just misses his groin, Jaskier recognizes he may have made a mistake.

He will not correct it, as Mog begins winding between them to his favorite spot: the top of Geralt's pillow.]

Very well. But only listen. I'm not asking for feedback. Not yet.

[He drinks a bit of wine from the nightstand, petting down Mog's back as he moves past. Then, he sings. It's clearly a song about Nocwich, invoking the night, and glowing golden eyes in the dark, of bodies moving together between skin and fur.

Now, with his newfound chaos, he knows it. He can describe it. The power of being human, and then flowing into a form that is decidedly not.]

[ He's perfectly nice to the damn animal. He's built it a bed.

There's a grunt when the gryphon curls on his pillow, just above his head. Geralt quirks an eyebrow, though he makes no comment as Jaskier begins to sing. Hardly the first time he's been serenaded with one of Jaskier's drafted compositions. He's heard every iteration of a song, lyrics and melody evolving as the bard works.

Poetic. Of course Jaskier would make the werewolves the subject of his next song. A natural sort of romance to them. ]

Had a feeling you were working on something. [ He can always tell when Jaskier's been especially inspired. As promised, he offers no commentary on the song itself.

Geralt lifts onto an elbow, watching Jaskier for a moment. The notes fade into the air. He turns over what's been on his mind—something he's meant to tell Jaskier. ]

Do you remember the cellar you found beneath Kaer Morhen? From last winter?

After I met with werewolves? The sort that aren't trying to kill everyone they meet? Of course I must write about them!

[But regardless of the order he's given Geralt, he looks satisfied with his response. Of course, there is no criticism of Geralt's he would take to heart anyway -- the man does not have a mind for music, which perfectly suits him considering his career.

It feels good, though. To have sung it in full for the first time. When he turns to see Mog already curled up on top of Geralt's head, sitting on a bunch of his hair, Jaskier can sense he chose the correct first audience to test it on.

Mog falling asleep to his music has always been a good sign. (Ignoring he always falls asleep on top of Geralt if he can... which is what the Witcher gets for spoiling him with the bed.)

Jaskier turns to him. Well. Not exactly the image he wanted his song to invoke. Oh, does he remember the torture-cellar he stumbled into with a gigantic man who sort of went momentarily insane, then apologized to him for it? The one with the stains and smell of blood? That cellar?

It is a good thing Jaskier has been freed from his curse.]

Of course I remember. It's a bit difficult to forget.

[ Mm. Yeah. Fairly sure Mog would fall asleep to the dulcet tones of a Witcher's snore. What does that creature do except sleep and eat?

Despite himself, Geralt reaches up and gives Mog an absent scratch between the ears. The song lingers in the air. He will not admit that he has missed hearing Jaskier sing. There was a time some months back he worried Jaskier had lost whatever muse drove his music. A bard without song is like a Witcher without his swords.

He didn't bring up the cellar to dwell on shitty memories. No, it's— ]

I tore it down. With Dean. [ He looks over at Jaskier. ] I need something in its place. I thought...

[ You could help. ]

You what?

[His gaze snaps onto Geralt's face, turning so he can stare him down. He was not sure why Geralt brought it up in the first place, but that was far, far from the first thing he may have guessed the point would be.

It's true that he has not gone to Geralt's domain in some time. For one thing, they live together, and for another... Jaskier does not have any good memories of Kaer Morhen, unfortunately. He recognizes it is home to Ciri and Geralt, but it is rather frightful to him. A memory of the things he was there to witness. The slaughter.

And he took Dean there? Geralt trusted Dean enough to show him that cellar?

Huh.]

Something much more fun, I imagine. [In the basement of Kaer Morhen. Far be it from Jaskier to make judgements on what is in another man's domain. When he received those... memories.. even his own was a terrible place.

But this is big. He recognizes that. That something has shifted in Geralt.] I think you need a place you feel safe. [Jaskier releases him from his gaze, laying down beside Geralt on his side.] I know you're a big strong Witcher, and Kaer Morhen is your home, but wasn't there any other place you felt that? True safety?

[ It's been there for a long while, hasn't it? That room. He turns on his side, fingers curling into his palm. It isn't like him, to ignore something of that nature for all this time. He just kept pushing it aside. Telling himself he'll take care of it later. ]

Mm. Happenstance. The Horizon—you know.

[ Portalled people into places they shouldn't be. That cellar amongst them. A dungeon, really. Dark and cold and windowless, bolted shut. But it's true he trusted Dean enough to let him help break it apart. It isn't gone, only in pieces. Geralt knows he wants to keep something of it, that—as he admitted at the time—it doesn't feel right to erase its existence entirely. He just isn't sure what. Maybe it'll come to him.

In the meantime. Where else if not the walls of Kaer Morhen? He considers. The woods? His swords by his side? He wants to argue that it isn't as though he felt unsafe in his Horizon. The memories haunting him are...ghosts. Nothing more. But that isn't true, and Jaskier knows it.

His answer comes after a stretch of silence. ] The temple in Ellander. I was sent to it as a boy. There was a priestess, Nenneke. She looked after us.

[ Jaskier must know her. That temple is one of the most prominent. Nenneke has tended to it and its students for decades. Though the last time he set foot in the temple, he left it bloodstained. Seems to be the case lately, where he goes. Still. Of his childhood memories, his time at the temple ranks some of the calmest. ]

Edited 2022-12-21 08:01 (UTC)

Happenstance.

[No, no, he understands. But it is quite a rare thing he would ever describe Geralt as finding himself into happenstances.

However, Jaskier feels the question he offers is important, and Geralt will take the answer seriously, so he is quiet while he waits. Mog is already purring in his favorite spot, ears flicking where Geralt's hair tickles the tips. He's trained Mog well. He knows not to interrupt very important things.

All he does is sleep and eat. He is a perfect companion.]

Oh, yes! I've heard of it. I've even had a rare chance to visit. Quite some time ago. [But not so long ago he cannot recall the long halls, the dim stone. A stone that somehow managed to be warm -- a bit more than Kaer Morhen, if you ask him.]

Then we make that. [Jaskier smiles, flicking a bit of Geralt's hair out of the Witcher's face.] And yes, I will be honored to help you, my friend. You needn't even ask.

[Technically, he hadn't yet.]

[ What does Sam do? Geralt has never asked, now that he thinks about it—not for lack of interest, but because Sam's always presented himself as a soldier (former, mostly, rather than present) and that's been sufficient for Geralt. Soldiers, no matter the world, are generally the same.

Steve's arrival adding to the mix has made him wonder, though. ]

Here? Or back home?

[ He's aware Steve is—was—no longer in Sam's life, has not been for a good chunk of time. The way Sam told it, Geralt presumed Steve dead, but he knows there's more to it that's...complicated. Not a betrayal, exactly. An unexpected decision, maybe. ]

[ Make it. Build a temple, beneath Kaer Morhen? Geralt hums. Is it foolish the idea never crossed his mind? To simply create a different structure altogether within another? He's seen what other people have made: creations that defy logic and rules. He's just...always stuck to what he knows. What he remembers.

He rolls his eyes, but there's no exasperation behind the gesture. His fingers curl around Jaskier's wrist. He rests his thumb over the pulse for a second. ]

It'd be warmer. [ That isn't the reason Jaskier has avoided stepping into Kaer Morhen. They aren't talking about the real reasons. They don't need to. ] You could visit without the winter.

[ Is he inviting? Asking? He isn't sure. He blames Jaskier not at all for feeling unsure around his domain. For not wanting to be in it. But...he has not forgotten their time at the beginning, when they didn't remember each other and yet had been friends for a lifetime, anyhow. When Jaskier would come riding along up the snowy path to his cabin, and the ice would melt, flowers peeking through.

Funny, to hold nostalgia for a time that wasn't quite real. That lasted hardly three fucking weeks. And yet—even now, he looks back on those days. ]

[If it were any other topic, Jaskier knows he would absolutely hassle Geralt about this. About this... what is it but nothing less than an offering? Laid out for him like an unrolled carpet? Geralt may be undefinable to others, but Jaskier can see what, exactly, the Witcher is attempting to say between all these vague observations.

He smiles.]

I don't know. A part of me misses it sometimes.

[The reference does bring it to mind, too. He had not recognized it in those moments, so full of... of youthful vigor, and that desire for adventure. He feels like he's bloody aged a decade since then, since his first foray into the Horizon, where everything felt so bright and wonderful, even the sad bits.

He did not recognize that when he would visit the man he knew but didn't, that winter would melt into spring. The snow would melt as he made his way towards the cabin, and the caravan never stuck in mud nor did the horses slow.]

Though I do believe spring suits me much better now. [He flutters his fingers, and a small puff of camomile petals float onto Geralt's face.] We'll start it as soon as you're ready.

[ It is the sort of remark Geralt only makes when the afterglow of sex is heavy. Leaves him saying shit he might usually think twice about.

His nose wrinkles as the petals shower him. He blows them off. A few land in his hair. ]

Spring's always suited you, Jaskier.

[ Hence the flowers. The magic that chose the bard. It need not be said how different it is to the magic that's chosen Geralt. Or manifested within him, as it were. He closes his eyes, releasing a contented breath. ]

Go to sleep before you suffocate me in your flowers.

[ It's a fair question, and Steve's pace slows slightly as he thinks it over. ]

I meant here, but I guess it applies back home too.

[ They've had the talk by now, about what happened to Steve when he left to return the Stones. About why Sam had been left to take on the mantle of Captain America, and it hadn't come easily. (How could it?) It's something he's still processing, if he's honest, and he hadn't expected this to come up with Geralt of all people.

Though maybe he should have, given how close he knows he and Sam have become. ]

Actually, things are a lot less complicated here. I'm offering him support where I can, but he was doing just fine without me.

[ Again, he means this in a genuine way, completely without any sort of resentment. If anything, he sounds proud. ]

[ Geralt glances over, absorbing that for a moment. Steve does sound proud. And though he's always heard the admiration in Sam's voice when the topic of Steve's come up, that still catches his attention. ]

Sam spoke of you as a friend, but you speak of him as his mentor.

[ It's interesting, that's all.

Less complicated to be sure, though. He doesn't know if it applies to him—things feel no more or less complicated than when he was on the Continent—but. It does help, knowing no one is after Ciri here. Her secret is protected.

For now. ]

[ A mentor. Is that right? Steve thinks of Sam as a friend and a partner first and foremost, but there's no denying the fact that he had trained him up to be an Avenger right alongside Wanda and Vision. He'd needed less teaching in most cases, already having the experience of a soldier, but the work that an Avenger did was on a whole other level, and Sam didn't have enhancements. Natasha had plenty to show him from that perspective too. ]

I never really thought of it like that, but I guess you're not wrong. Sam knew what he was doing, but... joining a superhero team is a whole different ballgame.

[ He probably shouldn't use baseball terms with someone like Geralt. Well, too late.

Taking note of a tavern on the right hand side of the street that's both open and not overly rowdy from the sound of it, Steve nods toward it and leads them inside. ]

Find a table. I'll get us drinks.

[ It may not really have been his fault that Geralt had to leave the last place, but he wants to make up for it all the same. ]

[ A what? Steve receives a raised eyebrow at that term.

Geralt isn't expecting Steve to pay up what he owes now—or at all—but he'll not complain. He finds a seat that's undoubtedly typical of him: in a corner, against the wall, door in view. It's a quieter place, bit cleaner, with a few candles beginning to light for the setting sun.

He picks up the conversation as though it'd not been interrupted. ] Sam said he was a soldier. But we shared some memories. Early in.

[ As in: he's aware Sam is more than a soldier. He's seen some of it, through Sam's eyes. Things that, to this day, he isn't sure what to make of. Never seemed that important to ask, beyond the bits and pieces Sam's told him over a few ales. He saw enough, though. Let's just say he wasn't surprised when Sam showed up with some wings strapped to him, like a fucking steel bird. ]

You also fly?

[ They've sat together in a tavern once before, in Libertas before it had been bombed to hell. Steve has some idea of what sort of drink Geralt likes for that reason, and joins him holding a pint in each hand. He sets the drinks down on the table as he sits, not at all thrown off when Geralt picks up right where they'd left off.

They shared memories, huh. That's not so different from sharing dreams, which is something Steve experienced shortly after arriving here. He gets the idea, anyway.

He lets out a huff of a laugh at that question, then shakes his head. ]

No, I usually rely on him for the air support. When he was in the military he received special training with those wings as part of his pararescue unit.

[ And now he has them here, thanks to Tony. Steve's glad that Tony's had that as a project to keep him occupied, somehow working out how to make a version of them even with the downgraded technology available. Though if anyone could do that, it's him. ]

He's not enhanced, not like most of the rest of us on the team. He's got that specialized skillset, but no additional power or resilience beyond that of a normal person. Of course, powers aren't the only thing you need to be effective in a fight.

Edited 2023-01-13 23:12 (UTC)

He's mentioned. Sorry I missed his trials in the sky.

[ If he learned anything about experimental inventions through the Free Cities, it's that they never go as planned. And Sam does not provide him with that many opportunities to give the man shit.

Though Steve, he notices, answers the question with details about Sam more than about himself. Worth noting, if not surprising. He can understand. He isn't too inclined to discuss his own circumstances. Still, his interest was caught when Steve had said So am I the last time they spoke; now with the added remark of enhancements, Geralt decides to pull on that thread.

In the way he prefers. Directly. ]

Is that what you are? Enhanced?

Edited 2023-01-15 17:02 (UTC)

[ Steve figured that Geralt got the general gist of what he was during their last conversation and hadn't been interested to learn any of the grittier details, but it seems now is the time. He gives a quick nod before taking a long sip from his glass.

He doesn't mind talking about it, really. It's the most important decision he's made in his life, but it still was his decision. Which makes all the difference. ]

I volunteered for an experimental project run by the military. They were hoping to make a super-soldier to help them win the war. Enhanced strength, speed, resilience...

[ Steve pauses then, glancing down at himself. At a broad chest, muscled arms that will stay that way regardless of how much or how little he exercises, and so on. He's had ten years with it now, but even so... ]

I didn't always look like this. Used to a be a lot smaller.

[ To give Geralt an idea of just how involved this project really was. ]

[ Now why doesn't that sound familiar. Winning a war seems to be the common denominator. Against other humans, against monsters. But it's the second aspect which catches his attention. Geralt raises an eyebrow: intrigued, not skeptical.

Hard to imagine Steve smaller. ]

I've never heard of mutations taking effect in a grown man. [ Not successfully. Or...that would be the kindest presumption. It's possible the mages simply found children easier to recruit and mould and train, and chose not to bother with refining the process for the adult form. ] Witchers have always been created from boyhood.

[ The information is dispensed matter-of-fact, a little distantly. As though he's skipping over the implications behind what he's saying. ]

[ Mutations? Is that what Geralt would call it? It's not entirely wrong, as the combination of the serum and the vita rays had altered Steve's very genetic makeup.

What's implied next is what truly grabs Steve's attention, though, and he gives Geralt a long look as it sinks in. A Witcher. That's what he is, and it's why he isn't like a normal human. But it was done to him when he was a boy?

Steve doesn't hide his disdain. He doesn't think he needs to. Surely by now Geralt has come to understand how messed up that is, even if he hadn't realized it when he was just a kid. ]

Always? Just how long has it been going on? And who's behind it?

[ He can't quite remove the outrage from his voice, though it's not like he's speaking loudly or making a scene. ]

[ Geralt's gaze shifts up, then back down. Not wholly dismissive—maybe a sense that for all he understands the reaction, he doesn't know what to do with it. Only when he stepped off the Continent did he begin to come across it. Back home, the history of the Witchers is nothing new—and few gave a shit. ]

Dead. [ Is the eventual blunt answer. ] Hasn't been another Witcher in a century.

[ He doesn't get into it, how much his own were at fault as the mages, the humans. His mother may have given him away and the mages may have administered the Trials, but it was a Witcher who dragged the wagon of young boys up the mountain.

He rests his fingers on the lip of his mug. He considers asking how many like Steve were made, too. But he's not certain it matters a damn anymore. ] Suppose we're both one of a kind here.

[ A century. Meaning that Geralt is at least that old. Technically so is Steve, but it isn't the same unless Geralt was also frozen for seventy or so years. Which he's going to say is probably pretty unlikely. ]

... Huh. Yeah. Guess we are.

[ He raps his fingers against the tabletop for a moment before realizing it's probably obnoxious and drawing his hand into his lap. He heaves out a long sigh. ]

Do you remember much from before it? Or can you pretty much not imagine another way?

[ Steve could offer condolences, but he doesn't think they would mean much to Geralt. Like it or not, this is his life, and he seems to have made some sort of peace with it. You would have to after that long. ]

[ CLOSED ] on the ice i'm afraid

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