abraxaslogs | as we circle the moon [open]

Ehhhhh what's a little trespassing between--enemies? Annoyances, maybe.

He'd offer Geralt the same for his domain if he really wanted to be even, but Lucifer's domain has no locked doors, nothing particularly of interest for anyone to snoop around through. The greatest oddity is now a cracked mirror at the bottom of his lake, the only way he could "get rid" of the damn thing.

"Peace is overrated," he gripes, giving no indication either way if he did know peace. He wouldn't accurately have an answer. "Existence is boring without discord."

Annoyances, most certainly. If he saw an enemy of everyone who made to kill him, that would be a long fucking list. Besides, he hasn't much reason to push things one way or another. He'd told Dean he's content to let Lucifer see what he wants in the Witcher. He means it.

"And yet here you are." Geralt flips open a map of Nocwich, studying it idly. He's been curious what lies beyond the Square they're herded into. His tone is dry, offhand. "Taking cover, and whinging yourself breathless."

Discord for others, and not for himself, evidently. Though Geralt can admit he finds some small curiosity in the idea that Lucifer would go out of his path to avoid Dean Winchester. And Geralt now, too, it seems. It's all very...petty. Humanly so. He's received enough of a theology lesson from Dean to sense the irony behind that.

He makes a mocking mumble before drinking his wine. "Not all discord is visible," he gripes, too close to the truth, but really, he's not one to ever, ever resort to drinking. Not that Geralt knows that. He maybe would have had better luck staying in Thorne, but that... had a chance of running into people that did know him and would want to talk.

He's not sure what would be worse: that, or Geralt.

He does take a glance at the map. "They're not going to let you roam on free, but by all means, give it a shot, I want to know if there's political fallout."

Silence greets that answer for some time. It is not a sentiment he disagrees with, in truth.

Geralt goes through his beer as though it were water: casually, without much thought, and he has another one brought before long. Whether or not Lucifer plans on lingering, Geralt means to settle here for the night, and maybe some of that is his stubborn desire to remain unbothered.

His eyes remain on the map, but there's a quirk to his eyebrow. He hasn't any intention of slipping out under anyone's nose—yet. Doesn't hurt to be prepared. Last time they were on this little peninsula, things hadn't exactly gone smoothly, and if he needs to know what's occurring where, he wants the information on hand. Lucifer needs to know none of this, however. So Geralt says nothing of it.

"You want to know a lot of things," he replies. Gathered that much from Lucifer's hounding of him in that cellar. How did his blood taste, by the way? Not informative, clearly.

They both already know that they are equally stubborn.

But Lucifer is out of funds, so if he wants to continue that stubbornness, he should stop going through this bottle so fast.

"Information is power," he says blithely. "Not all of us charge headfirst into suicide." That would be a dig at the Winchesters, specifically Dean. And before Geralt thinks to say anything about what Lucifer did in the woods, he adds, with a click of his tongue, "and I've miscalculated once." Not again.

"Mm." Yes. He's heard that one before, many times.

As for Dean, inasmuch as he's beginning to gather exactly how Dean is after all these months, he also isn't interested in discussing Dean's nature or tendencies with a demon. Worth noting, though, that Lucifer considers those woods a miscalculation. Or at least claims he does, anyhow.

But seeing as the demon likes to talk, Geralt simply prompts, "Only once?"

Look, he hasn't any real wish to carry on a conversation with Lucifer, but. May as well let him chatter away. At worst, it'll amount to nothing. At best, Geralt may uncover a few things to consider down the line. Or Lucifer will grow bored and fuck off. He'll be satisfied with that outcome, too.

He grins sharply, not as sharp as the guy that bit him though. "Only once." Here. And, you know, combat specifically is what he's decided to count. He's not considering the absolute social fallout of his life, courtesy of the Heralds.

Lucifer does like to talk, but he is cautious about what he gives out, despite popular opinion. At least he's careful if he's not angry.

Or emotional.

Or afflicted.

Little things.

Getting Geralt to talk though, that's the hard part.

So, ever the irritant, Lucifer turns on his stool and throws up his legs onto the one empty stool between the two of them, and his elbow thumped on the bartop, facing Geralt with his full-focus now. The bottle moves safely to be cradled in his lap.

"I thought you weren't much of a talker until you got lost into growly beastmode and learned the difference," he says, completely nonchalant.

His gaze flicks briefly to the side at Lucifer before he returns to what he's doing. True. He didn't care to exchange any words with Lucifer up until the demon landed beneath his stairs, and that had been. Minimal. Brief. Then he forgot every fucking soul he ever loved. Which is not, despite Lucifer's assertion, the reason he didn't engage, but if Lucifer wants to believe that Geralt sees no reason to correct him.

Tonight is the most they've ever spoken.

He's silent for a while. Makes a vague contemplative noise in answer. Lucifer is right: he isn't much of a talker. Rarely finds contributing to a conversation worth his efforts.

But he does speak up, given time. "And what else did you learn?"

"Your blood tastes gross," Lucifer answers blandly. He holds up his wine bottle. "Definitely would not make good wine, so at least you don't have to be concerned with someone mistaking you for a wolf and trying to bottle it up."

Not that Lucifer imagined his was much better, but he'd argue that it isn't his blood, despite how utterly bound up he is through this vessel.

"It's happened," Geralt answers, a causal deadpan that's difficult to tell whether he means it or not.

(It has. Mistaken for a werewolf, not. Bottled for wine.)

Regrettably (or fortuitously, as it were), Geralt doesn't actually recall the taste of Lucifer's blood. He won't admit it, but it wasn't...he wasn't paying too much attention during that entire. Encounter.

He considers, briefly. "That stolen body of yours. You keep it in the Horizon."

What of his real form? Why not use it? Is he...hiding it?

A snort is the only reply to 'it happened.'

Hilarious.

The rest of his commentary though...

"Ugh." Ugh. Michael said the same thing about the Horizon and his appearance. He holds up his bottle of wine and cocks his head at it as though somehow consulting it to judge how drunk he is. Which is. Not at all. Not enough.

He raises his brows at Geralt and shakes his head. "Nope. That information doesn't come for free." Maybe to Geralt the answer wouldn't seem like a big deal but to Lucifer it's just a constant annoyance.

Which means tell him something interesting in trade.

But, he assumes, the rest of their night will just lapse into a precarious peace, full of silence and the clink of bottles.

His eyes take on not exactly a glint, but it's close. He peers at Lucifer for a moment longer. Apparently, he's found an unexpected sore point.

Lucifer is right: silence is all that greets that. Geralt returns to his ale and map, ignoring the demon for the evening until one of them takes their leave.

It's probably Geralt who goes first; he has places to be, and once his second drink has emptied, he slips out without a glance back. Lucifer, he thinks, reminds him more of the mages back home than anything, and he can't say how he feels about that. Nothing good, really. (If he ever finds out Lucifer has become friends with Istredd, it will make perfect sense.)

as we circle the moon [open]

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wrapping!