Jo Harvelle runs on 100 proof attitude power (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tobeclosetohim) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2022-11-14 09:43 am
tobeclosetohim) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-11-14 09:43 am
Jo's eyes open, and the feeling of not hurting anymore is incredibly disorienting. So much of her thought process had been caught up in not letting it get past the grit of her teeth, slow her stride, bow her posture, or keep her from acting at a moment's notice. Even still, as she pushes up, she reaches for her thigh, and it's whole: her thigh and her jeans.
And then a flicker she'd rather not, sends her hand to her stomach,
before she turns on the bed, drops her feet off, and makes her hands move
set on the edge of the bed by her thighs, takes the moment she hadn't in the maze.
Because it's all just. Because she's going to die, and she knows that, has known it, but she got to live it. More than once. How it'll happen. Bright colors and deep pain and what it feels like to bleed out and blur away, it's still stuck in the back of her throat. She lets herself hold it for a few more seconds. A sound of her gun. The ripping sensation. Helplessness sculpted out a biting refusal to be just that. Her mom. Dean.
No. No. Still not yet. Maybe when the day ends.
(Maybe not until it happens.)
Jo pushes herself to stand. Weight in her toes. Headed for the door without another pause, letting it shut behind her, and headed to the door only one down. Banging on it with slightly more force than standard steadiness.
And then a flicker she'd rather not, sends her hand to her stomach,
before she turns on the bed, drops her feet off, and makes her hands move
set on the edge of the bed by her thighs, takes the moment she hadn't in the maze.
Because it's all just. Because she's going to die, and she knows that, has known it, but she got to live it. More than once. How it'll happen. Bright colors and deep pain and what it feels like to bleed out and blur away, it's still stuck in the back of her throat. She lets herself hold it for a few more seconds. A sound of her gun. The ripping sensation. Helplessness sculpted out a biting refusal to be just that. Her mom. Dean.
No. No. Still not yet. Maybe when the day ends.
(Maybe not until it happens.)
Jo pushes herself to stand. Weight in her toes. Headed for the door without another pause, letting it shut behind her, and headed to the door only one down. Banging on it with slightly more force than standard steadiness.
If she needs any more evidence that whole nightmare did actually go down for all parties involved and wasn't just some phenomenally screwed up solo hallucination, she gets it when Dean's door swings open a few seconds after knocking. He's not hurt, he's bearing no scars or marks from their time in the maze — hell, he's even wearing his I'm about ten minutes from stripping this off and going to sleep but I'm still technically dressed clothes.
No, it's the stupid wings that are still puffed up at his shoulder blades, feathers all askew and ruffled, the bird equivalent of bedhead or something. No twigs, no leaves, no branches, but that's about the only difference between how they looked at Jaskier's treehouse and how they look now. He can't get 'em to go back in, or- go away, or whatever it is they do when they're not there.
That annoyance is plainly written in his features — not that he needs another reason for it, considering everything that just went down.
"Aren't you a little short to be a girl scout?" He says flatly, by way of greeting.
No, it's the stupid wings that are still puffed up at his shoulder blades, feathers all askew and ruffled, the bird equivalent of bedhead or something. No twigs, no leaves, no branches, but that's about the only difference between how they looked at Jaskier's treehouse and how they look now. He can't get 'em to go back in, or- go away, or whatever it is they do when they're not there.
That annoyance is plainly written in his features — not that he needs another reason for it, considering everything that just went down.
"Aren't you a little short to be a girl scout?" He says flatly, by way of greeting.
It's a right sight, indeed. Dean opens the door, dressed for bed or whatever it is he wears while doing the whole meditation for the Horizon thing when someone else isn't in the room (cause it's not the whole clothed shebang she got on day whatever back in week one). But even without the mess of the adopted tree and super messed up hair and clothes she'd last seen, there's still a full-on catastrophe going on over his shoulders. Jo's body cants back, taking it in, surprise registering briefly before it's chased off by his words.
"Do not make me miss thin mints. The list is long enough already." And god, isn't it? It's not the same making anything she wants in the Horizon, and the other is a list, but that's neither here nor there when she's waving her hands to make him back up and pushing into the room even before he starts moving at all. "How did you manage to mess those up here, too?"
Beat. "And more importantly, when the hell did the Horizon get a Horror Show Maze?"
"Do not make me miss thin mints. The list is long enough already." And god, isn't it? It's not the same making anything she wants in the Horizon, and the other is a list, but that's neither here nor there when she's waving her hands to make him back up and pushing into the room even before he starts moving at all. "How did you manage to mess those up here, too?"
Beat. "And more importantly, when the hell did the Horizon get a Horror Show Maze?"
Edited 2022-11-14 17:38 (UTC)
He pulls a face at thin mints, telegraphed judgment. Thin mints, really? Everyone knows Samoas are the superior cookie. Fortunately for them both, he's not in the mood to get into a heated debate over socially acceptable child labor multi-level marketing snack food. His quiet scoff will have to suffice.
Stupidity aside, he allows himself to be herded in without question, peeling away toward his bed to give her room to navigate around the small space.
"They were already out when I woke up, they won't go back in," he sighs grumpily, perching on the edge of the mattress, primary feathers dragging across the floor like a damn broom. Whatever, it doesn't matter, they're not important. They'll fall off eventually, they just like to be a huge useless pain in his ass at the most inconvenient times. "As for the VR version of Pan's Labyrinth nobody asked for... I don't know. It's gotta be a Singularity thing. It wouldn't be the first time."
Stupidity aside, he allows himself to be herded in without question, peeling away toward his bed to give her room to navigate around the small space.
"They were already out when I woke up, they won't go back in," he sighs grumpily, perching on the edge of the mattress, primary feathers dragging across the floor like a damn broom. Whatever, it doesn't matter, they're not important. They'll fall off eventually, they just like to be a huge useless pain in his ass at the most inconvenient times. "As for the VR version of Pan's Labyrinth nobody asked for... I don't know. It's gotta be a Singularity thing. It wouldn't be the first time."
"No?" There's a deeper question in it.
People keep saying that a lot, but there's not a whole lot people have done to fill those gaps. It's not even anyone's fault she can exactly lay at the feet of. The first month maybe, but the last month and some weeks have been insane between Libertas and whatever was going on now. It's not hard to imagine there's been a lot more fuckery like it, but different before it got to these stages, too.
There's a consideration of him sitting there, and she almost asks, almost, but no one's been asking for the last long while through a whole damn lot, where it came to Dean just pulling here places, or collapsing over her, and it doesn't feel all that necessary to need those kinds of the words at the moment. Instead of a question, it's more of an order. "Don't move."
As Jo gets onto his bed behind him.
People keep saying that a lot, but there's not a whole lot people have done to fill those gaps. It's not even anyone's fault she can exactly lay at the feet of. The first month maybe, but the last month and some weeks have been insane between Libertas and whatever was going on now. It's not hard to imagine there's been a lot more fuckery like it, but different before it got to these stages, too.
There's a consideration of him sitting there, and she almost asks, almost, but no one's been asking for the last long while through a whole damn lot, where it came to Dean just pulling here places, or collapsing over her, and it doesn't feel all that necessary to need those kinds of the words at the moment. Instead of a question, it's more of an order. "Don't move."
As Jo gets onto his bed behind him.
"No," he affirms, the last bits of smartass attitude bleeding out finally with a tired exhale. "It's flared up a couple times since I've been here."
There's something incredibly grim about that comment, it lingers in the lines of his brow, in the corners of his eyes. In the crow's feet wrinkles that are just starting to find a home, too solemn to be called laugh lines. Any further maudlin explanation goes out the window, thankfully, because she takes that opportunity to start crawling around on his bed like this is a freshmen dorm and the RA is out of town.
"Wait- what, why?"
It's a demand, but it's thrown out there while being perfectly complicit. He doesn't move, other than to twist his head far enough to try and get a look over his shoulder. Doesn't do him much good, because over his shoulder's just a crapload of feathers blocking the view.
"If you start plucking me like a chicken, Jolene, I swear to god..."
There's something incredibly grim about that comment, it lingers in the lines of his brow, in the corners of his eyes. In the crow's feet wrinkles that are just starting to find a home, too solemn to be called laugh lines. Any further maudlin explanation goes out the window, thankfully, because she takes that opportunity to start crawling around on his bed like this is a freshmen dorm and the RA is out of town.
"Wait- what, why?"
It's a demand, but it's thrown out there while being perfectly complicit. He doesn't move, other than to twist his head far enough to try and get a look over his shoulder. Doesn't do him much good, because over his shoulder's just a crapload of feathers blocking the view.
"If you start plucking me like a chicken, Jolene, I swear to god..."
"I should pluck you bald as a baby just for that,"
Jo rolled her eyes at the replacement name. "Stop wiggling."
There's a momentary urge to grab his something—it starts as a thought about the generic grabbing his shoulders, but there's so much more wings everywhere that shoulders would take a few to find—but it turns into nothing. God. She's never actually been this close to them. She had seen them across from her, had them thrown out over her under a collapsing building, but never from right here, from right behind.
Never considered reaching out to touch them.
"Tell me about some of those other times." Jo's hand hovers, unsure where to start or how. Top, bottom. Wings aren't like hair. She'd never wanted a bird for a pet. Jo snorted, quiet, as the thought connected in a second way right after. Then, she reached out to brush a collection of the small feathers down the right direction, one of the smallest disastrous of the helter-skelter mess of patches, sending herself back to words. "Other ways this place had messed with everyone before I got here."
Jo rolled her eyes at the replacement name. "Stop wiggling."
There's a momentary urge to grab his something—it starts as a thought about the generic grabbing his shoulders, but there's so much more wings everywhere that shoulders would take a few to find—but it turns into nothing. God. She's never actually been this close to them. She had seen them across from her, had them thrown out over her under a collapsing building, but never from right here, from right behind.
Never considered reaching out to touch them.
"Tell me about some of those other times." Jo's hand hovers, unsure where to start or how. Top, bottom. Wings aren't like hair. She'd never wanted a bird for a pet. Jo snorted, quiet, as the thought connected in a second way right after. Then, she reached out to brush a collection of the small feathers down the right direction, one of the smallest disastrous of the helter-skelter mess of patches, sending herself back to words. "Other ways this place had messed with everyone before I got here."
[ Jo's scampered off to Nocwich for the open weekend for a number of reasons. To put some distance between her and that fuckery of the last few weeks; to take a day break from her work in Libertas, shifting from freelance for anyone who needed hands to now doing it under Jayce and Viktor's contracts; and because Dean seems to have taken everyone's bad mood from the fuckery weeks and to be hoarding into his chest like gold, and she's been carefully keeping herself inches from snapping back at him hard so far. But that's wearing.
Nocwich is cool and calm. A little less bustling than the last time she was here. She's sure this is still more than when the borders and portals are closed, but it's less than when it was loudly teeming with as many Summoned as could make it, piling into it like a reverse ant hill creation. She's been here most of the day already. She spent some time in the morning in the gambling hall, and she'd walked the streets, double-checking what she could remember of this place from her first visit. (The answer isn't as much as she'd like, but it was a quick, crazy week then, too.)
Still, she's out ambling through shops when she decides she'd like some lunch and gets directions to the closest tavern. She's been enjoying a little bit of breathing away from people for a few hours, but she doesn't even feel a pang of regret when it slides away as she spots Ciri already at the bar. ]
Hey — [ Jo says, by her only way of announcement. ]
I was wondering when I'd see you again.
Jo's got more than a few knives on her, but it's still a grating thing not to be able to bring her sword here. Or anything larger than a knife. She's pretty sure the number of knives currently on her is probably breaking that rule, too, but it's not like anyone's going to know without a dedicated patdown. Post a few hours in the Hunting Grounds, picking up a crossbow and giving it back; it needles a little deeper even. That not having of something more substantial.
Jo contracted off what she hunted to a butcher with contacts for a tanner and a few other people. She hadn't been listening. She did it for the money, which bothers her, in all of this. It's been a month since she got out the doors of Caden and over two since she first got to go hunting here. But this? Isn't hunting.
Or it is. But it's not the kind of hunting that's digging deeper into Jo's bones the longer she can't do it. The zombies had softened that for a handful of days, but this place isn't home, and she can't do the only job she wants to, needs to, be doing here. And four months is starting to grate harder and harder. At least when she was locked in her mother's bar, hunters were still coming in and out who were doing the job. No one is here.
It's in the back of her teeth. She hit the gambling hall yesterday. She hit the Hunting Grounds this morning. She's done more than she needs to keep up her part of everything. Getting more into her pocket to get herself back to the right setup (for a life that doesn't need that set up, even if she does).
Which leaves her at ends. It leaves her wandering aimlessly through the streets, which is how she finds herself among the newest shops with pieces brought in from all the locations to sell to other Summoned. She browses some book spines, even while thinking the Bunker has a billion she hasn't read yet. Then, she moves on to the potions. They're all sizes and colors, and Jo doesn't even know if she cares, but she ends up asking the guy next to her without much more than a first glance.
"What are you looking for?"
Jo contracted off what she hunted to a butcher with contacts for a tanner and a few other people. She hadn't been listening. She did it for the money, which bothers her, in all of this. It's been a month since she got out the doors of Caden and over two since she first got to go hunting here. But this? Isn't hunting.
Or it is. But it's not the kind of hunting that's digging deeper into Jo's bones the longer she can't do it. The zombies had softened that for a handful of days, but this place isn't home, and she can't do the only job she wants to, needs to, be doing here. And four months is starting to grate harder and harder. At least when she was locked in her mother's bar, hunters were still coming in and out who were doing the job. No one is here.
It's in the back of her teeth. She hit the gambling hall yesterday. She hit the Hunting Grounds this morning. She's done more than she needs to keep up her part of everything. Getting more into her pocket to get herself back to the right setup (for a life that doesn't need that set up, even if she does).
Which leaves her at ends. It leaves her wandering aimlessly through the streets, which is how she finds herself among the newest shops with pieces brought in from all the locations to sell to other Summoned. She browses some book spines, even while thinking the Bunker has a billion she hasn't read yet. Then, she moves on to the potions. They're all sizes and colors, and Jo doesn't even know if she cares, but she ends up asking the guy next to her without much more than a first glance.
"What are you looking for?"
Edited 2022-11-15 05:26 (UTC)
It is, shortly, after his conversation with Dean that Geralt makes a decision. She's the only one here who knows Dean better than he. And while some of this stems from concern for Dean, it extends further. Notably, Dean is around many of Geralt's people. Julie, Nadine.
Ciri.
He's not interested in waiting to see what might come of the man's unsteady temperament, apparently born of a curse, left to fester.
His lettering is tidy, in a hand that carries the distinct edges of his era. Unsigned—but it's probably clear who it's from.
Ciri.
He's not interested in waiting to see what might come of the man's unsteady temperament, apparently born of a curse, left to fester.
His lettering is tidy, in a hand that carries the distinct edges of his era. Unsigned—but it's probably clear who it's from.
We need to talk.
It's Dean.
There's a really short list of the who, after she rocks back a little surprised. It's different looking, and she too aware, too certain that it isn't Cas. The only person she can think of who would send her something this to the point. Which. Leaves Geralt. It's weird. But, just as weirdly, it's probably the safest starter of topics and one she will return on. Her brows pinched, and she was not unaware of Dean's increasing irritation with everything breathing. Existing.
Were they keeping it to words? To the Horizon?
Did he want her to meet him somewhere?
(Is it strange, the whole concept isn't as repugnant as it once was?)
ℍ𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕖?
Were they keeping it to words? To the Horizon?
Did he want her to meet him somewhere?
(Is it strange, the whole concept isn't as repugnant as it once was?)
Part of him isn't certain he'll receive an agreement to meet, or even an answer. But she does, and then he is contemplating—for the first time since they've met—where he wants to meet Jo. To talk.
Geralt has, in his collection, a number of taverns that the other Summoned do not frequent. Places he goes when he wishes to be left alone, which is often. The Silver Cog is one of them. It's in a rougher, less pleasant part of town, but that makes it an ideal place to discuss matters uninterrupted, amongst a crowd too drunk to remember what they're even saying.
He'll be nursing a drink already when she arrives. There's a considering sort of look when he sees her, like he's aware neither of them quite expected to find themselves doing this. He isn't sure how he feels about it. Decides not to think too deeply on the matter. He doesn't...hate it, and perhaps that'll do for now.
As is his habit, Geralt doesn't bother with lead-up or meandering small talk. The moment she's seated, he delves into it. "I spoke to Dean some days ago. He's...not himself. You know him well. Thought if anyone noticed anything, too, it'd be you."
The Silver Cog.
South end.
Geralt has, in his collection, a number of taverns that the other Summoned do not frequent. Places he goes when he wishes to be left alone, which is often. The Silver Cog is one of them. It's in a rougher, less pleasant part of town, but that makes it an ideal place to discuss matters uninterrupted, amongst a crowd too drunk to remember what they're even saying.
He'll be nursing a drink already when she arrives. There's a considering sort of look when he sees her, like he's aware neither of them quite expected to find themselves doing this. He isn't sure how he feels about it. Decides not to think too deeply on the matter. He doesn't...hate it, and perhaps that'll do for now.
As is his habit, Geralt doesn't bother with lead-up or meandering small talk. The moment she's seated, he delves into it. "I spoke to Dean some days ago. He's...not himself. You know him well. Thought if anyone noticed anything, too, it'd be you."
Jo doesn't answer, but she doesn't dither about collecting everything she has with her. Geralt's lucky in this instance: she isn't in Libertas already and isn't in the middle of sword practice; she'd been halfway through catching a meal. But food can wait compared to the topic, which tangles a weight around her neck and ribs as she situates her sword and grabs the small satchel of holding.
She doesn't need directions. She hadn't lied to Ciri three months back when she said she was mapping and memorizing the streets. She's never been in it, but she has the weathered, batter sign of the place in her mind, and where off that is, within having just read it. It's a bit of a walk, but she's direct and focused enough that shop owners she might usually talk to are briskly walked by without so much as a nod.
If there's some judgment for the look of the place, it's not about its location or clientele. It's more about the bones of the building. There isn't quite as much stepping in. Ragtag bunches of the kind found in the black were her whole life's bread and butter. Her copper gaze shifts over them all until it finds Geralt, but her expression doesn't turn any specific way when she heads for the open seat next to him, sliding into it without any fanfare or even a wave to the barkeep.
Jo's first reaction, even though she's come this far for good reason, is the want to snap her mouth shut, to not say anything; disparaging family not-to-family is a rule one doesn't break. Except. Whatever they are, Geralt's important enough Dean would have left over him; whatever they are, it's important enough that Geralt contacted her of all people, because he's worried about Dean. Whatever she is or isn't adjacent to either of those, she's not blind.
"Yeah." Jo nods stiffly, pushing past thorns for a middle somewhere between those. "He's--" Does it feel like a betrayal? Maybe. But, also, fuck her, but it's nice not to be one of only two people to notice in-house, and it being noticed outside the Bar and the Bunker, well, that's another point in the problem column. She settles for: "It's like he's looking for fights where there aren't any."
She doesn't need directions. She hadn't lied to Ciri three months back when she said she was mapping and memorizing the streets. She's never been in it, but she has the weathered, batter sign of the place in her mind, and where off that is, within having just read it. It's a bit of a walk, but she's direct and focused enough that shop owners she might usually talk to are briskly walked by without so much as a nod.
If there's some judgment for the look of the place, it's not about its location or clientele. It's more about the bones of the building. There isn't quite as much stepping in. Ragtag bunches of the kind found in the black were her whole life's bread and butter. Her copper gaze shifts over them all until it finds Geralt, but her expression doesn't turn any specific way when she heads for the open seat next to him, sliding into it without any fanfare or even a wave to the barkeep.
Jo's first reaction, even though she's come this far for good reason, is the want to snap her mouth shut, to not say anything; disparaging family not-to-family is a rule one doesn't break. Except. Whatever they are, Geralt's important enough Dean would have left over him; whatever they are, it's important enough that Geralt contacted her of all people, because he's worried about Dean. Whatever she is or isn't adjacent to either of those, she's not blind.
"Yeah." Jo nods stiffly, pushing past thorns for a middle somewhere between those. "He's--" Does it feel like a betrayal? Maybe. But, also, fuck her, but it's nice not to be one of only two people to notice in-house, and it being noticed outside the Bar and the Bunker, well, that's another point in the problem column. She settles for: "It's like he's looking for fights where there aren't any."
So she's noticed, as well.
A few seconds of silence greets that. The thing is, he knows what's going on, inasmuch as Dean's outlined the situation. And while he is not here to spill Dean's secrets on his behalf, he frankly isn't sure Dean will tell him if things are getting worse. Not because he doesn't trust Dean, but because something tells him Dean may not be capable recognizing it in time to tell him.
So after a moment, he says, "He came looking for one with me. When I finally dug it out of him, he told me a curse followed him from home. That it's...affecting him." He pauses. Has Dean told her about this? If not, she knows now. "My concern is it may escalate beyond seeking fights."
His concern is also what the fuck to do about the curse, but that is a larger problem which requires time. Time, and answers that seem near-impossible to retrieve. He isn't opposed to asking for Jo's help—as strange as it is to admit, where Dean is concerned, were he to involve anyone else it'd only be her—but like Jo, he's unwilling to immediately lay down every card over what Dean has confessed. It feels...hasty. And he has little desire to go behind someone's back, friend or no. That's a layer of complication he doesn't need in his life.
A few seconds of silence greets that. The thing is, he knows what's going on, inasmuch as Dean's outlined the situation. And while he is not here to spill Dean's secrets on his behalf, he frankly isn't sure Dean will tell him if things are getting worse. Not because he doesn't trust Dean, but because something tells him Dean may not be capable recognizing it in time to tell him.
So after a moment, he says, "He came looking for one with me. When I finally dug it out of him, he told me a curse followed him from home. That it's...affecting him." He pauses. Has Dean told her about this? If not, she knows now. "My concern is it may escalate beyond seeking fights."
His concern is also what the fuck to do about the curse, but that is a larger problem which requires time. Time, and answers that seem near-impossible to retrieve. He isn't opposed to asking for Jo's help—as strange as it is to admit, where Dean is concerned, were he to involve anyone else it'd only be her—but like Jo, he's unwilling to immediately lay down every card over what Dean has confessed. It feels...hasty. And he has little desire to go behind someone's back, friend or no. That's a layer of complication he doesn't need in his life.
Edited 2022-11-16 00:19 (UTC)
Oh. That get's all of Jo's attention in a snap. He said a lot of words, but her brain boiled it down to six (a curse followed him from home), and from those six, just one (curse; Dean is cursed), in less time that it took to pull a suddenly alert, confused breath in her nose.
"What curse?"
Jo hates that she's basically been proven a second time, months later, not to know something big right there in the face of Geralt, but even more so, she's rather attached to the flicker of a reaction that spawns the image of punching Dean is his face for doing this to her again. But deadly seriousness and concern still wins out over all the rest, backdropping every emotion and thought that isn't gathering the information first.
How, and who, and what, and how they break it now get front center stage.
"What curse?"
Jo hates that she's basically been proven a second time, months later, not to know something big right there in the face of Geralt, but even more so, she's rather attached to the flicker of a reaction that spawns the image of punching Dean is his face for doing this to her again. But deadly seriousness and concern still wins out over all the rest, backdropping every emotion and thought that isn't gathering the information first.
How, and who, and what, and how they break it now get front center stage.
"The Mark of Cain," he replies. If he catches the shift in her expression, he doesn't remark on it. Instead, he draws the rune etched onto Dean's skin. Holds up the parchment to her. "You know it?"
She may have seen it. It's prominent on Dean's arm, though Geralt isn't certain if Dean's been covering it since it began to, mm. Develop. Angry and irritated, like a fresh brand. When he'd noticed it weeks ago, it'd been little more than a flash of a scar.
Whatever is happening, it's progressing at a noticeable pace. And Dean—Geralt doesn't think Dean was hiding it so much as burying his head in the sand. Not until Geralt confronted him did Dean even seemed to realize he was being an uncharacteristic bastard. Even for him.
She may have seen it. It's prominent on Dean's arm, though Geralt isn't certain if Dean's been covering it since it began to, mm. Develop. Angry and irritated, like a fresh brand. When he'd noticed it weeks ago, it'd been little more than a flash of a scar.
Whatever is happening, it's progressing at a noticeable pace. And Dean—Geralt doesn't think Dean was hiding it so much as burying his head in the sand. Not until Geralt confronted him did Dean even seemed to realize he was being an uncharacteristic bastard. Even for him.
Jo does recognize the symbol. She's seen it a handful of times on Dean's arm. A wide thing, angry but smooth, more like a blister or a burn than any cut. But never seeming to be headed toward healing away. But she hadn't been paying a lot of attention to it. Scars, burns, sometimes even broken bones, were two and three dozen e both back home and here.
"Cain like Cain and Able?"
She half-scoffs the names duo, but it dies at the lift on seriousness. Because insane though it might be? There was currently one angel in this one place—there had been two before Cas vanished—and The Devil was at court in Thorne, and she'd gotten her Demille close-up more than once with him. Thinking it was insane Lucifer was real didn't make him not real, and denial only got you dead faster.
"Cain like Cain and Able?"
She half-scoffs the names duo, but it dies at the lift on seriousness. Because insane though it might be? There was currently one angel in this one place—there had been two before Cas vanished—and The Devil was at court in Thorne, and she'd gotten her Demille close-up more than once with him. Thinking it was insane Lucifer was real didn't make him not real, and denial only got you dead faster.
Geralt lifts a hand in answer. Fuck if I know. The name Cain is as meaningless to him as the name Lucifer. Merely a man, as far as he's aware. Or. Was a man. Dean never said what Cain became by the time they spoke.
Not mortal. That much is for certain.
"He didn't mention Abel. You're familiar with the curse, then?"
Because no: it doesn't occur to Geralt that this is simply a well-known tale written in her world. He's operating solely on the idea that this is a tried and true curse: named after the man who seemingly was afflicted first, then passed along.
Myths come to life are far less of a thing on the Continent.
Not mortal. That much is for certain.
"He didn't mention Abel. You're familiar with the curse, then?"
Because no: it doesn't occur to Geralt that this is simply a well-known tale written in her world. He's operating solely on the idea that this is a tried and true curse: named after the man who seemingly was afflicted first, then passed along.
Myths come to life are far less of a thing on the Continent.
Edited 2022-11-16 04:56 (UTC)
He huffs, absently mutters another disgruntled comment under his breath — something along the lines of I freakin' dare you, but ultimately does as he's been told. Settles in, stops wiggling, instead sitting stiffly like he's waiting for her to jab him with a safety pin or something. Obviously no such treachery happens. Kind of the opposite, actually. Fingers go threading through the most irritated, itchy tangle of feathers, straightening and orienting in a way that feels not all too dissimilar from having fingernails run through his hair.
Two or three more seconds pass before the muscles in his back start to relax of their own accord — and eventually as they talk, he finds himself slumping. Softening. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands together between them.
"Spent a couple days sharing dreams with each other. Nightmares, mostly. Before that, it was memories. Bumping into another summoned had like a fifty-fifty shot of throwing you both face-first into your own personal history. Few of us learned a little too much about each other that way."
Two or three more seconds pass before the muscles in his back start to relax of their own accord — and eventually as they talk, he finds himself slumping. Softening. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands together between them.
"Spent a couple days sharing dreams with each other. Nightmares, mostly. Before that, it was memories. Bumping into another summoned had like a fifty-fifty shot of throwing you both face-first into your own personal history. Few of us learned a little too much about each other that way."
It gets easier with that first patch. She has more of an idea of direction, and she's starting to work out how to move them gently from the wrong direction to the right one. She doesn't let it change the set of her mouth, but they're delicate, which alone feels unnerving. Breakable. Like a wrong move too far might snap them. Make that joke they were tossing all too real.
"Wow," is for his answer, as she's lifting carefully to turn some of the longest ones back into the apparent pattern and set they should be in rather than twisted and fluffed. "Not feeling too bad about missing any of that."
It's half a lie. Jo doesn't want to have had to deal with it—to have been forced to share her dreams, nightmares, or memories—but it doesn't go so far as being fine with the other hand of that balance, being he'd been here alone. Or not alone; him and Cas; them alone. She'd rather take that hell and help than leave them in the wind, spinning.
"Wow," is for his answer, as she's lifting carefully to turn some of the longest ones back into the apparent pattern and set they should be in rather than twisted and fluffed. "Not feeling too bad about missing any of that."
It's half a lie. Jo doesn't want to have had to deal with it—to have been forced to share her dreams, nightmares, or memories—but it doesn't go so far as being fine with the other hand of that balance, being he'd been here alone. Or not alone; him and Cas; them alone. She'd rather take that hell and help than leave them in the wind, spinning.
Jo's expression barely shifts at the raise of that hand, even though her gaze goes to it and then back to Geralt's face. A slight bit more frown forms at realizing he doesn't know that answer, and it's a big, times insanity, leap. It feels both too insane and just insane enough to be true when it comes to Winchester Bullshit.
"No." She shook her head. "That's a guess, and an insane one at that."
She says it like maybe it will dispel the growing consideration. Or the fact she hates that there aren't computers here to look it up. Or the easy, straightforward truth, that Dean knows the answer, but Dean isn't here, because something is happening bad enough with Dean he isn't invited to the discussion.
"No." She shook her head. "That's a guess, and an insane one at that."
She says it like maybe it will dispel the growing consideration. Or the fact she hates that there aren't computers here to look it up. Or the easy, straightforward truth, that Dean knows the answer, but Dean isn't here, because something is happening bad enough with Dean he isn't invited to the discussion.
Page 1 of 3