( He trudges alongside Geralt, content to be a step behind, to let the other guy take the lead and set the pace as they walk. It's important, he thinks, that it doesn't feel like Dean's constantly trying to steer the ship. He's not in a hurry — he never has been, here. This whole amnesia thing... the recovery process... he's had endless patience for it, and maybe that sets him apart from a few of the other people who know and love Geralt. People who are eager to be remembered, people who feel hurt, or lost, or frustrated the longer they're around him without those memories flooding back.
Dean doesn't feel it. It doesn't feel personal, it doesn't pain him as much, and it leaves him better suited to be the one that's here. The one that's waiting, even if their whole history is a gaping blank space. It'll come when it comes. He's seen the progress. They have time. The more years pass without them aging and dying, the more time Dean understands them to have.
As far as he's concerned, his obligations and responsibilities haven't changed just because Geralt doesn't remember his half of the dynamic, and so his answer is only to scoff out a dismissive: )
Shut up, nerd.
( At first, at least. Snow crunches beneath their boots for a few more quiet steps, until he looks over at Geralt with an expression that's slightly more serious. )
Yeah, I do. But- not because I think you need me. Just so you know. I know you'd be fine out here figuring it out yourself.
[ Occasionally, Geralt feels like the one with the least patience about it is himself. It would be easier were his memories not so unpredictable. A few solutions, he's steered away from—the ones that promise decades worth of memories back at once. Right now, he may not recall his past, but he at least knows where he is, who he's with. (Most of the time.) He can't risk losing that, too.
In the end, time seems to be the best cure. Slow and steady. The wait is simply hard. For him and others.
He huffs softly. ] I'm not asking you to leave. [ Just so Dean knows, too. ] But it might take a few years.
[ Perhaps longer. He isn't certain. Some memories glide back quickly; others remain stubbornly out of reach. He doesn't know how any of this works. Nobody can tell him. He was not a natural being to begin with, and now he's become...something more. And it isn't as though he fell and hit his head. The spell that struck him was. Unique.
He may have avoided Haelva since. It isn't exactly her fault, but the situation is complicated. As it often is. ]
I did have a dream about the Balrog. [ So there's that. ]
( He knows that the outlook is years and not months. He knows what he's signed up for might be closer to a decade than not. It's just-- what's a decade in the face of everything? It wouldn't be too much to ask of him back in that first lifetime of theirs, when they were all staring down the barrel of a mortal gun. It's definitely not too much now, when it seems like sometimes Dean blinks and an entire century has passed.
He's here for the long haul either way. It's okay. It's where he belongs, where he knows he's supposed to be — for as long as Geralt isn't asking him to leave.
Any note of somberness is chased away immediately with a wide, canine-flashing smile. The pure pride beaming out of him is immeasurable. )
Hell yeah you did!
( This is the first he's hearing of it, don't mistake that enthusiasm for knowing. It's as startling as it is awesome, and he's so freaking stoked.
But he also cannot repress the urge to be a little shit, and so he ventures oh-so-sincerely: )
Did you remember I kicked that thing's ass bare-handed?
( Or do you remember that it's totally a fake ass movie thing? How much can he screw with Geralt right now? )
[ Good to know he still remembers how to lighten Dean's mood with nonsense.
Geralt squints. He does not, in fact, recall where this Balrog originated. He only remembers the monster itself, though the burnt-off edges of those images tell him he wasn't involved in the fight. But he did watch it. So...it must've been Dean who did the deed.
Barehanded seems a slight exaggeration, though. ]
I know you must've had a sword. [ He frowns. ] Or a staff.
[ Since when does Dean wield a staff? Maybe he shouldn't push too hard on the memory right now. ]
Was I there? [ This feels like a story Dean told him once. It would explain why some of the details that surfaced were so fucking absurd. ]
( He elects not to comment on sword or staff — first off, because it would ruin his credibility by doubling down, but secondly, because commiting to either one would make him Gandalf when it's obvious to literally anybody with eyes and a working brain he's Aragorn.
Which makes Geralt's role obvious.
He scoffs. )
Of course you were, you don't remember? You had this fru-fru bow and arrow thing going on. And a legging phase, I kept trying to tell you, Gerald, leggings aren't pants, but you weren't having it.
( If it weren't obvious by now he's screwing around, the way he smirks and sways to nudge Geralt's shoulder with his probably gives it away. )
[ Fru-fru bow gives it away, if nothing else—Geralt does not use a longbow, that much he is certain of—but the cheeky glance doesn't hurt. ]
Fuck off. [ This is what he gets for being the elder one. (Where have the rest of his brothers gone?) ] Are you sure I tolerated you for three hundred years?
[ That's a mystery he needs to solve when his memories return.
They trek up the snowy path towards the cabin. He's laid out the training yard as close to what feels right as he can. Each time he recalls a little more, he moves a bit here or there, building a familiar place he can look at. It's working, a bit. Pieces coming back. ]
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no subject
Dean doesn't feel it. It doesn't feel personal, it doesn't pain him as much, and it leaves him better suited to be the one that's here. The one that's waiting, even if their whole history is a gaping blank space. It'll come when it comes. He's seen the progress. They have time. The more years pass without them aging and dying, the more time Dean understands them to have.
As far as he's concerned, his obligations and responsibilities haven't changed just because Geralt doesn't remember his half of the dynamic, and so his answer is only to scoff out a dismissive: )
Shut up, nerd.
( At first, at least. Snow crunches beneath their boots for a few more quiet steps, until he looks over at Geralt with an expression that's slightly more serious. )
Yeah, I do. But- not because I think you need me. Just so you know. I know you'd be fine out here figuring it out yourself.
no subject
In the end, time seems to be the best cure. Slow and steady. The wait is simply hard. For him and others.
He huffs softly. ] I'm not asking you to leave. [ Just so Dean knows, too. ] But it might take a few years.
[ Perhaps longer. He isn't certain. Some memories glide back quickly; others remain stubbornly out of reach. He doesn't know how any of this works. Nobody can tell him. He was not a natural being to begin with, and now he's become...something more. And it isn't as though he fell and hit his head. The spell that struck him was. Unique.
He may have avoided Haelva since. It isn't exactly her fault, but the situation is complicated. As it often is. ]
I did have a dream about the Balrog. [ So there's that. ]
no subject
He's here for the long haul either way. It's okay. It's where he belongs, where he knows he's supposed to be — for as long as Geralt isn't asking him to leave.
Any note of somberness is chased away immediately with a wide, canine-flashing smile. The pure pride beaming out of him is immeasurable. )
Hell yeah you did!
( This is the first he's hearing of it, don't mistake that enthusiasm for knowing. It's as startling as it is awesome, and he's so freaking stoked.
But he also cannot repress the urge to be a little shit, and so he ventures oh-so-sincerely: )
Did you remember I kicked that thing's ass bare-handed?
( Or do you remember that it's totally a fake ass movie thing? How much can he screw with Geralt right now? )
no subject
Geralt squints. He does not, in fact, recall where this Balrog originated. He only remembers the monster itself, though the burnt-off edges of those images tell him he wasn't involved in the fight. But he did watch it. So...it must've been Dean who did the deed.
Barehanded seems a slight exaggeration, though. ]
I know you must've had a sword. [ He frowns. ] Or a staff.
[ Since when does Dean wield a staff? Maybe he shouldn't push too hard on the memory right now. ]
Was I there? [ This feels like a story Dean told him once. It would explain why some of the details that surfaced were so fucking absurd. ]
no subject
Which makes Geralt's role obvious.
He scoffs. )
Of course you were, you don't remember? You had this fru-fru bow and arrow thing going on. And a legging phase, I kept trying to tell you, Gerald, leggings aren't pants, but you weren't having it.
( If it weren't obvious by now he's screwing around, the way he smirks and sways to nudge Geralt's shoulder with his probably gives it away. )
no subject
Fuck off. [ This is what he gets for being the elder one. (Where have the rest of his brothers gone?) ] Are you sure I tolerated you for three hundred years?
[ That's a mystery he needs to solve when his memories return.
They trek up the snowy path towards the cabin. He's laid out the training yard as close to what feels right as he can. Each time he recalls a little more, he moves a bit here or there, building a familiar place he can look at. It's working, a bit. Pieces coming back. ]