[ This, all of it, it's rooted in the void of his mind. He doesn't know Steve, fails to understand him in a way he should after three hundred years; he catches on too late the fact that Steve would feel sidelined. Dismissed. Because if he'd had those memories, he'd recall the times Steve confessed how he felt lacking, and Geralt has always (though he doesn't quite know it now) made sure Steve knew he was not.
But right now, he isn't thinking about Steve; he's not been able to think of much at all beyond the holes and gaps. Between Ciri's refusal to be near him and a sense that he cannot protect the people closest to him as he is, it's difficult not to be lost in his own shit.
So what he wants to do is leave. Remove himself from the fight before he does something he regrets. Steve's magic has grown, but so has Geralt's, and he's realized his grasp on his abilities is spotty at best. His Signs are never as controlled as they should be. His flashes of strength come and go. Whether Steve can take it or not isn't the point. He hates it—the sensation of things spiralling out of control. It's what he feels now as he stalks off through the snow, brushing by Dean without a word.
At least, until Steve catches up to him. The words don't register so much. Taunts are easy to ignore; that part is ingrained in him, shrugging off insults and challenges as he walks away. It's the hand grabbing his shoulder that sparks something cold and sharp. A flash of other hands on him, pulling roughly through thick snow and dark stone walls.
He spins around. His eyes are a hollow black; he doesn't really see Steve, just a target. One he knocks to the ground again—this time with a backhand that goes beyond mere warning. His sword begins to sing, the way it does when the blade is primed for more than light swordplay. ]
no subject
But right now, he isn't thinking about Steve; he's not been able to think of much at all beyond the holes and gaps. Between Ciri's refusal to be near him and a sense that he cannot protect the people closest to him as he is, it's difficult not to be lost in his own shit.
So what he wants to do is leave. Remove himself from the fight before he does something he regrets. Steve's magic has grown, but so has Geralt's, and he's realized his grasp on his abilities is spotty at best. His Signs are never as controlled as they should be. His flashes of strength come and go. Whether Steve can take it or not isn't the point. He hates it—the sensation of things spiralling out of control. It's what he feels now as he stalks off through the snow, brushing by Dean without a word.
At least, until Steve catches up to him. The words don't register so much. Taunts are easy to ignore; that part is ingrained in him, shrugging off insults and challenges as he walks away. It's the hand grabbing his shoulder that sparks something cold and sharp. A flash of other hands on him, pulling roughly through thick snow and dark stone walls.
He spins around. His eyes are a hollow black; he doesn't really see Steve, just a target. One he knocks to the ground again—this time with a backhand that goes beyond mere warning. His sword begins to sing, the way it does when the blade is primed for more than light swordplay. ]