abraxaslogs | Hᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪʟᴇs ᴀᴡᴀʏ ( ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ )

It'd be impossible to miss anyone else driving up without the obnoxious roar of another car, sleek enough that Nero clocks it for the usual kind carrying around rich douchebags. He ignores it, for the most part, with only a single peek over the hood of his van (which rumbles in annoyance, even though it's been turned off.) There's always smoke in the driver's seat now, and Nero's just let it linger there. Unconscious desires or whatever. It's not like he's lonely.

(Wanda and Himeka are great, but no one else is Nico.)

Weird thing was, and only thing worth mentioning, was Nero had been sure he was the only one using this place.

"Hey!" The word's a bark as he leaves the nozzle drizzling into the take, rounding his van with a scowl. "You better got a damn good reason --" His brows raise, and his frown smooths out. The Devil May Cry script, sculpted out of blue neon light across the side of the van, buzzes and blinks, almost in recognition. "Geralt. The fuck. What're you doin' here?" He peers further towards the Impala, (which, he can admit, is a hell of a car, but not really what he expects Medieval Grandpa over here driving.) Nah, he's got company.

It never occurred to him Geralt might have friends.

"Hey. Nice wheels. Can't imagine you're teachin' the old man how to drive in that thing."

There might be an edge of annoyance in there. Even if he can make fantasy muscle cars in the middle of his mind palace, he's not dumping his van. For one, you can't fit a jukebox in that thing.

Edited 2023-01-06 04:09 (UTC)

Look, if you're gonna be realistic in the Horizon, you do it right or you don't do it at all. Cars come with keys, cars take gas, there's a gas station, it's the little things. It's about the process, and he'll die on this hill.

He's not expecting Geralt to full-on slap the guy's window, though. Apparently these two know each other — not all that surprising. For as much as he seems like a hermit at times, Geralt's got connections all over the damn place. Dean's learned this over the last year.

His eyebrows raise nearly up to his hairline at the guy who emerges. A beat later at the supposition, Dean scoffs softly.

"Not on his life," dude doesn't even know about gasoline yet, like hell he's getting behind the wheel of the Impala. Instead, he nods his head further down beyond the trunk, to the motorcycle parked just behind him. "Guy's been riding around on E since dinosaurs roamed the earth. I'm teaching him about the sacred rite of full tanks and gas station nachos."

He nods his head at Nero's van. Offers up a mild, only somewhat dubious, "Shaggin' wagon, huh?"

Dean might catch that they more than just acquainted. There's a rare familiarity in how Geralt leans back against Nero's van—unfazed by the bizarre shit that's attached to and is inside it—and an even rarer edge of fondness when he indicates towards the younger man.

"Nero. Also kills monsters. Hard to put down. Like me."

The most extended introduction Geralt has granted. Normally he stops at a name, if that. Congratulations, Nero.

In retrospect, it's only fitting Dean and Nero cross paths. They share a certain...likeness. (In annoying the fuck out of him.) Possibly, it says more about Geralt than it does about either of them, that he's chosen both Dean and Nero as some of his closest companions. Very few could convince him to indulge them in what he considers a superfluous excursion across the Horizon to pump nonexistent gas.

Yeah, he gets that a lot. Probably the hair.

Okay, he does crack a snicker at guy's been running around on E. Yeah, that's sure as hell one way of puttin' it. And the apple doesn't fall far from the tree -- but at least Ciri didn't spew ridin' around in the van. He has a sneaking suspicion Geralt might.

Even if he's got motorcycle experience. And not for nothing, but he's starting to guess where that accessory came from.

"Also, huh?" Nero gives the guy a look over. He's... well. He's sure a guy. And his little added comment -- totally unnecessary, by the way -- makes Nero's nose wrinkle. "Dude." But there's a distinct sort of smoky, feminine laugh that seems to come from the van. Maybe alone, he'd tell Nico to shut the fuck up.

As if she can feel it -- or whatever his head thinks of her -- there is a voice: He wishes!

Nero goes on like he didn't hear anything. The van rocks slightly, and at the window very close to Dean appears the giant face of a black panther, nose pressed to the glass. It fogs up. Nero ignores her, too. "Is this how you introduce everyone, G? "Hey, meet this other guy, he's also good at killin' things." Boy, you starting up a hunter convention, too? Hope it's close enough to drive."

Now that he thinks about it, this guy does look familiar. It hits him -- he must've seen him in that bar. Right. The swaggering guy. From way back. Nero's not made it there much for a while, considering he's too busy chasing out gods in the forest. (Or trying to.)

He almost can't believe Geralt is hangin' out with him. "Guess that roadhouse's close enough."

Oh yeah, he's picking up on that familiarity alright. This some real big brother energy going on here — he'd know, that's his specialty. Like recognize like. It's an interesting thing to see radiating off Geralt, and it makes Nero a Person of Interest immediately.

"Like you as in, what, a Witcher? That why you guys have the same hai- Jesus Christ- !" About midway through the question, there's just a fucking panther. Just a god damn fucking panther, appearing in the freaking passenger's seat like that's just a thing that happens. He jerks back, hands up, startled enough that he nearly knocks into one of the gas pumps. "Dude! Why the hell is Bagheera in your passenger's seat?!"

Yeah, they're not glossing over the big predatory cat. That sure is a thing that exists. Dude's deadass just gonna stand there pretending it's normal? Come on.

Nero's gaze at Dean couldn't be flatter, because he already knows where he's going with it. But as much annoyance is building in his chest, the shadow somehow's the one who relieves all of it.

Because Dean being shit-scared of that thing is hilarious. Nero's only half a step from slapping his knee when he laughs at him.

"Yeah, man, you never seen a panther before?" Shame V probably wouldn't see the humor in it. Or maybe he would. He did like that dark shit, if that book was anything to go by. (He's not thinking about the book.) "Gotta have a co-pilot."

He's totally fucking with him. And yes, he's glossing over it. She's just. There. Sniffing against the window, and now pawing against it now that Dean's made such a racket.

"And no, I'm not a freakin' Witcher 'cause I got white hair. It's hereditary. Cool it with the judgement."

Maybe he sees why Geralt hangs out with him. Funny. All the things another hunter must've seen and a fake panther makes him freak.

A convention. Comedic. "I can barely stand you two."

Even amongst hunters—or especially amongst them—Geralt is reluctant to make friends.

He glances over his shoulder, not blinking at the cat. He's met it before, and that aside—he keeps a wolf on his grounds. A wolf he leaves behind when Dean is with him. He does understand the wariness, after the things he's seen.

And though he can't tell if it's the same wariness that's rearing its head here or if Dean's simply reacting to the presence of a large cat in general, he smacks Nero's chest with the back of his hand: an indication for him to not be (any more of) a little shit about it. Particularly not to open the door and let the damn thing out.

In any case, this is not why Geralt's been dragged halfway across the Horizon. He lifts one of the nozzles—not a fucking clue what he's meant to do with it.

"Show me already."

Yes he's seen panthers before — in the freaking zoo, or the Jungle Book maybe. He's never seen a panther riding shotgun in a van before, excuse him for not expecting one to start fogging up the glass two feet from his face. He shoots it a periodic wary glance from the corner of his eye as they talk. Takes an oh-so-subtle step further back, in case the damn thing decides to go busting through the window or something.

"Right..."

Gas. The reason they're here.

And so begins the ritual — pick your fuel type, unscrew the gas cap, stuff the nozzel in — followed by the most important part.

The snack food aisle.

"Come on," he slaps Geralt's chest with the back of his hand, then offers Nero a little sup nod. "You can come too, Mowgli. Time to introduce our caveman friend here to the glory that is gas station nachos."

Onward and forth they go, into the cracky little station proper. Behind the counter sits one skinny, pale guy manning the register, a book held aloft in his left hand conspicuously missing its smallest finger, and a glance at the stool will reveal a prosthetic leg from the right knee down. He doesn't pay them much mind as Dean leads them over to the counter sporting a rolling hot dog machine, nacho stand, and frozen drink machine. The poor man's buffet.

The smile Geralt gets in return is completely unapologetic. Why, he'd even go so far to say that Geralt's comment is loving. Way nicer than most of the things Credo ever said to him.

But whatever Geralt's hit against him says, Nero doesn't invite Shadow out of the van, and she does nothing more than keep her eyes on all of them -- which is more about the fact she likes shoving her face into everything, even after he dressed her down for almost killing him and that guy with the gunsword.

Nero rolls his eyes at the nickname, but at least it's a reference he gets. He gets all of this -- gettin' gas, clapping the door closed again. He gives the van a bang on the side so the panther doesn't get too restless. He gets, too, the best part: mostly because it was the few seconds he'd get a reprieve from Nico.

"Always been a hot dog guy myself. Combine that with the liquid cheese -- that's real cuisine." And, oh yeah, Geralt's getting himself a hot dog, hastily wrapped in wrinkly paper and a halfway crushed bun, shoved at him. "When it gets real dire, you crush up the chips on top. For the crunch."

He may have learned some gremlin-eating ways from Nico, but this one he takes full responsibility for. Kyrie cooks a hell of a meal, but sometimes a guy just wants... liquid cheese. And crunchies.

A man can grow familiar with anything. Even the ritual of what Dean calls pumping gas.

Pump it he does.

Geralt eyes the figure behind the counter. A second or two as he decides whether the man is of the Summoned or a created humanoid not unlike Julie's barman or partiers. Given they're thoroughly ignored, he presumes the latter. Grants it no more thought than that. Humans crafted in the Horizon are frequently...peculiar.

Dean guides him to the counter full of food that'd have once been foreign and are now. Still foreign, but a bit less. He's had hotdogs. Tasted a deep fried Oreo. Liquid cheese on what he recognizes as chips are no longer that baffling.

Still fucking strange. He takes the hotdog.

"Referring to cheese as liquid helps no one's appetite." He peers dubiously at said...thing of liquid cheese. Pries the dispenser door open with zero regard to property. Removes the jug of yellow goop inside the machine. Sniffs.

His nose wrinkles. "That's foul."

There they stand at the gas station buffet, Dean next to Geralt, Geralt next to Nero, either of them shoving junk food in the middle man's hands. Dean leans around him to pin Nero with a serious look as soon as the mention of combining hot dogs and nacho cheese falls from his brilliant lips. With the utmost solemnity, he declares, "You're a genius."

All this time he's been living on gas station cuisine and he never thought of that? What the hell's wrong with him?

Whatever. Loaded up with his little plastic tray, he points a cheese-coated chip at Geralt.

"Don't knock it until you try it."

The impact of those words are probably lost, though, as a single perfect, pure-white wing drifts down from somewhere just over his shoulder and lands ever so delicately atop the cheese sauce before Geralt's face.

Nero puffs up maybe a little more than is necessary for such an inconsequential bit of praise -- especially over a cheese-covered hotdog. Unfortunately, this is probably the first time he's ever been called a genius in a capacity that wasn't sarcasm.

Over a hotdog.

"I know," he says with the ease of a man who may be breaking a little on the inside.

The ease at which a man's opinion about another dude can change.

Nero claps Geralt on the shoulder. "For real, man. It tastes awesome." Neither of them need to harp on the experience much; it is just that. An experience. The same way learning to ignore the guy behind the counter is an experience. You just sort of ease into it. An unspoken rule. No one is acknowledged unless they gotta go to the counter.

The way it should be --

Nero looks up after the feather besmirches the good name of the cheesedog. "Think you've got a pigeon infestation," Nero throws towards the guy behind the counter. It's an unspoken rule, but at certain times, it must be broken.

He flicks the feather off the dog for Geralt. Except it sticks to his finger because of the cheese.

Goddammit.

He wipes it off on his pants. Whatever. Horizon, right? "Promise, if you don't like this, I'm giving up any culinary prowess I've ever claimed to have."

He's never claimed to have any. That's why he lives with Himeka and only makes cheese.

Perhaps breaking Geralt's assumption about his NPC status, the guy behind the counter doesn't even look up from his book when he responds, "No we don't, the raccoons eat the pigeons."

And that's all. Carry on, gentlemen.

Multiple events are occurring at once, between the food in his hands, the man who just spoke up (wait—), and the feather that drifts gently onto his yellow cheese goop. Geralt raises an eyebrow.

That. Is not a promising sign.

"You didn't tell me you're moulting inside the Horizon, as well."

No one's informed Geralt of Dean's distaste for the term, but even if they had, Geralt would still use it. Because that is what's happening. Jo showed him a bag stuffed with enough downy feathers to make a queen's pillow.

He sighs. He'll eat the hot dog, then address the question of Dean's shedding feathers afterwards. When he bites down, it is crunchy, gooey, and resoundingly salty. Tastes a bit like a cheese soup that's been thickened over many days, then warmed under the sun. It is not...good. Objectively speaking. And yet he can't claim to dislike it, either.

The truth of the matter is, Geralt is not a discerning diner. Excessively sweet desserts? Not to his taste. Meat and bread are different. He is not man who knows how to season with anything except copious amounts of salt and onion. And nearly everything he eats comes with cheese. The flavour is unnatural, but not completely foreign.

Hm. He takes another bite.

At moulting, the serene look brought upon by the delight of gas station quality cheese dip is wiped from his face. Geralt effectively kills the mood, and for a moment his expression flickers into something flat. Stoic, unhappy.

He'd say a few things were they not in mixed company, but they are, so he swallows them down like a bitter pill. If everybody could stop accusing him of moulting sooner rather than later, that'd be freaking fantastic, thanks.

Also, never, ever use the term queen pillow in that or any order at him, ever.

Instead of All That, he points his chip at Geralt's food and announces, "You're welcome."

He knows the face of joy when he sees it. Your blank Witcher face can't hide it from him, okay. Geralt is a man that has been moved by the spirit, and now all three of them (four, if we count the guy behind the register) are on the same cheesy page about it. Praise be.

Oh. Yeah. Nero knows the raccoons. He's been here before. And you know what? That's a good fuckin' point.

He makes only a "hm" noise in acknowledgement.

Which is all before Geralt's comment. Nero looks between the two of them. No offense, but Dean's not exactly hard to read, and for whatever reason this is obviously a sore spot. (Ask him about sore spots!) But hey, at least Geralt digs the cheesedog.

"Told you." As if Geralt looks like someone with discerning taste. Come on. They're friends here. Nero gets his own tray of minimally warm tray of nachos and pumps some cheese on top, giving Dean the whole look-over as he pops one in his mouth (after sprinkling some dehydrated-looking jalapenos on top.) "So.... what part of you is molting, exactly?" His nose wrinkles immediately after asking.

Geralt frowns. He's not told anyone anything, thank you. But yes. Fine. He doesn't hate it, though he still maintains the smell is unappealing. He leans back against the counter and shakes his head at Nero.

A touch too late, seeing as Nero's already well on his way to asking. Doesn't matter. He knows Nero will let it go if Dean won't answer, which is fair. The entire situation with Dean is...

Complicated.

In the meantime, Geralt swipes a bright yellow chip from Nero's flimsy tray.

He doesn't need to. They can see it, Geralt. They can feel it. Gas station food connoisseurs can sense these things.

Nero's question earns another bitchface — levelled not at Nero himself but at Geralt, all annoyance pointed at the source of the blame for it coming up in the first place. A beat or two passes wherein he considers whether or not to tell them both to mind their own damn business, but ultimately it ends in a long, agitated sigh.

He rolls his shoulders out, and somewhere mid-stretch, the wings emerge — existing with neither a bang nor a whimper. No fanfare, no magical shimmer, they just weren't and now they are, a massive set jutting out from behind his shoulders. The wing span's bulky and a little unwieldy, and the left one immediately knocks over an entire rack of lawn gnomes.

This prompts the skinny guy at the front to look up from his book finally, just long enough to protest with a monotone-annoyed sounding, "Dude. Really?"

Dean gives him an apologetic grimace, waves his nacho tray, and offers up an apologetic, "I can pay for that."

"They're twelve fifty each," Skinny Cashier deadpans, and the now-winged Dean begrudgingly foists his nachos into Geralt's hands so he can dig around for his wallet to pull out a fifty dollar bill. He pointedly holds it up, then strides over to deposit it on the counter. In doing so, a clearer view of the feathery annoyances on his back can be seen.

They are, indeed, molting — and new feathers are not growing in to replace the ones that are missing. It's not bad, but it's visible. They're shabby. It's obvious something unhealthy's going on.

"Keep the change."

It's not like he wasn't gonna ask. The dude just dropped pigeon fluff on the cheesedog. What kind of guy isn't gonna ask?

But Geralt stealing his shit does distract him. He flicks at his hand (but somehow does not steal back his chip. Call it generosity.) "Hey. Watch it." Very generous, actually. Last man to try to steal his food lost a finger.

Nero's still eating his nachos when Dean's wings all but, uh, pop out. White brows raised, he looks over the things and feels two things -- a sort of bemused confusion, and a sour taste at the back of his throat when he thinks of Credo. Of the Order's angels. It's not enough to make Nero think of grabbing his sword -- he does, at least, trust Geralt's judgement that much -- but it's enough that he puts his nachos down (safely on a counter.)

"Huh."

He looks between them, gives Geralt a look like you knew about this?, then watches Dean turn his back to pay for some shitty broken gnomes (he does not comment on the idea of paying for something that is totally not real). When his back is turned, Nero's arm ripples as it changes -- turning scaled, the nails into claws, with valleys of blue running between. The glow is faint, but it's there.

By the time Dean's turned back around, Nero's all human again. For, like, a second. "Pretty nice. Got some too."

He will not be out-winged. Besides, what the fuck has he got to hide anymore? Nero's own wings appear behind him, neatly folded against his back, jointed, clawed fingers holding onto his shoulders. He shifts and one begins to unfurl -- before knocking over a rotating rack of chip bags.

"Shit. Sorry." That's to the guy already annoyed behind the counter. The wing shifts and begins picking up the fallen bags along with Nero's actual arms. "Mine don't molt, though." The glance he gives Dean is a mix between wary and worried. "Are you sure they're supposed to do that?"

Admittedly, his intention was not to make it a topic, but in between all of the bullshit they do in and out of the Horizon, Geralt can only suppress so much about the problems Dean is exhibiting. Which, frankly, is a long fucking list.

He also trusts Nero will not dwell on any of this. Once they leave the Horizon, he knows Nero will dismiss Dean as the man who shed a feather and didn't like the giant cat in the van, then think no more of it.

That is, until Dean goes and summons his wings, sending what appear to be a caricature of dwarves scattering. Geralt's eyes flick to Dean, the wings, to Nero, back to Dean. He takes the tray pushed into his hands. Watches as Dean pays this man with currency that is completely meaningless inside the Horizon. His brows draw downward, a considering look as he studies the wings. He can't say he's surprised by their appearance, but seeing it is particularly concerning.

He glances at Nero. At the ripple over his arm.

When Nero's own set of wings come out, Geralt dodges to the side with narrowed eyes as one nearly smacks him. For fuck's sake—

"We're leaving." They can both take their wings and continue the conversation outside. Before the entire shop is knocked down.

Nero goes and almost immediately starts knocking shit over where Dean left off with his own bizarre looking set of wings, and for a moment there... even as weird as it is, he's gotta admit, there's a deep sense of this guy gets it unfolding. Relatable.

He'd probably feel that a little bit less if he'd seen the arm do the arm thing, but that skirted completely past him.

To his we're leaving, the guy at the front only responds with a long, tired sigh. Much like using currency is completely pointless here, physically picking up their mess is utterly unnecessary — and yet, Jack's going to do it anyway, because it doesn't occur to him to magically will things back into place. Such is the nature of humanity sometimes.

"Yeah," Dean agrees briskly, yanking his nachos back and offering up one more apologetic wave before leading them out the door and back into the parking lot. As they go, he absently glances at Nero's wings again and mumbles a faintly annoyed, "Why do yours get hands?"

At least that would make them useful.

"All right, all right, grandpa, hang on --" He got at least half of the chips back, but if they're leaving, uh -- "Here." He leaves his own money on the counter for the guy, except Fortuna is not exactly America ~~in that vague video game way~~, so what he does leave is a bunch of coins printed with faces no one on this plane has ever seen. But hey. They're real silver.

Nero makes sure to scoop his nachos back up as they walk back out, ducking under the door so his wings can fit. One of the wing-hands holds his nachos as he stops to tighten the laces on his boots, but that's really just him showing off.

Thank fuckin' god they aren't made of real feathers. Jeez.

"They just came that way." And the tail, but he's not dealing with the tail in the Horizon. Not yet. That's a whole -- detached thing he's not thinking about. "I mean, you can fly, right? You really gonna complain?"

Though it's weird. Nero isn't sure what to peg him as. Not a demon, but not not a demon, either. Does Geralt know? He knew about the wings in the first place. And humans aren't walkin' around with wings -- unless they're trying to turn themselves into demons.

It's not Dean's fault he's wary. Nero's had bad experiences with humans becoming something that isn't human anymore.

"Come on, Geralt, you're up next in this bunch of freaks. When're your wings gonna drop?"

Nothing else is destroyed on their way out. He finishes the rest of his hot dog in another bite and leans back against the window outside the shop.

His gaze shifts to Nero. He can sense the questions swirling, but he also doesn't know what that change in Nero's arm means. Only that it's indicated something not quite right. Which, yes. He's aware. Dean's been off for months. What Nero might be sensing is not so much an entity as a curse. Or both.

Gods help Vesemir if the four of them had developed wings after the Trials.

"No wings," he replies. "Singularity bestowed me with claws, though."

And teeth. He's not fond of it, but he can't deny its uses. At least he isn't the only one sprouting...gifts.

You can fly, right?

The face Dean makes probably immediately casts some doubt on that assertion, something he immediately affirms with a mumbled, faintly defensive, "Ish."

He can fly in the sense that Cas possessed him one time and training wheels'd him through the basics, so now when he jumps off cliffs he doesn't immediately plummet to the ground. He's like a half-step above paragliding. He can fall with style.

No comment on the claws, though he's tempted to say and freaky black eyes. Probably not helpful commentary, and who's he to go spilling people's weird body horror secrets Geralt.

Ish.

Nero gives Geralt a significant look, raising his brow while mouthing yikes. That must be pretty humiliating, huh? Big ol' molting wings, and the guy doesn't even know how to use them?

Maybe it's best that way. Not for nothing, but this whole thing is kind of... really fuckin' weird.

"Claws?" He loses the plot for a second, looking Geralt over. What the hell do claws have to do with this guy's weird-ass wings? The faint touch of the demonic? He doesn't get the same thing off Geralt, though; it would've come through a lot earlier than now.

From the --

Oh. Right.

Nero's gotten so used to the tail now he didn't even notice it hasn't popped up off his ass in the Horizon. One of those out of sight, out of mind, things. "Oh. Yeah. Right. Me too. I mean --" He has claws, but not because of the Singularity. It felt way less fucking shady hanging out with people involved in demon business; here he suddenly feels out of place. A whatever-the-fuck Geralt is and a demon-human-angel. Yet Nero still feels like the weirdest one here.

He was just born this way.

"A tail. I guess."

Take your shot when you can, Dean. They all have issues.

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gynvael - 2023-02-14 16:16 (UTC) - Expand