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

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.

Geralt gives a shrug back. He's not one to keep track of Dean's flying lessons. Sam's flying, Dean's flying, Jaskier's a damn bird; apparently everyone has found their wings these days.

"Mm-hm." Claws. Like he's confirming he has five fingers on each hand.

He glances behind Nero, as if noticing for the first time the man hasn't got his tail in the Horizon. Interesting. Something about this reminds him of when they all survived the Trials, and he remembers Lambert grabbing him one day—some weeks later, out in the stables—and going, Your hair's grown fucking white. And it certainly fucking had.

He passes off the remainder of his liquid chips to Nero. Doesn't remark on the tail or the arm. If they took stock of everything unusual between them, they'd be here until spring.

Hᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪʟᴇs ᴀᴡᴀʏ ( ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ )

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