( Geralt won't have to wait long — it becomes readily apparent soon enough that Dean isn't doing anything of import. After taking Steve in, after a long conversation and a longer drink and eventually letting the guy retire for the night for some privacy, Dean's posted up outside the front doors, perched comfortably on the frigid stone stairs in a comfortable slump. Beside him, a brazier of fire burns hot enough to chase away the wayward, drifting flakes of snow that escape the trees.
At his side are two mugs. One, he's been drinking from. The other is full.
His elbows anchor heavy on his knees, and in his hands, a curved carving knife works methodically over a small hunk of wood he's peeling small strips from. It takes shape slowly under his calloused fingers, and in the shadow-cast firelight, he looks far more like a man than most of their Summoned god-kin do anymore. He looks small. Centuries old, of course, but while some of them wear an eternal otherworldly youth, Dean looks like a man closer to his late forties in the lines at his eyes.
He's always looked a little tired. Some people get to see it more clearly than others, and he doesn't bother hiding it from Geralt. Doesn't straighten his posture, or even bother looking up from his carving once Geralt finally escapes the trees. He just pauses his work long enough to lift that full mug in a silent offering.
His countenance still seems a little stern, a little disapproving, but the gesture should help make it clear — I'm annoyed with you, but you're still welcome here. )
[ Geralt takes a seat. He reaches for the mug, but doesn't drink. There was not, he recognizes, any doubt that his return would be accepted. Where the certainty comes from, he can't explain. He simply knows. It's etched deeper than memory.
The silence blankets them, thick as the snow. He's often had little to say, but these days, he has even less. Every time he reaches for the words, it's as if they disintegrated with his past. Like he's not entirely sure how to string his thoughts together anymore. Part of him wants to believe he didn't used to be this way—but perhaps he isn't recalling that accurately, either.
Eventually, he puts the mug back down. The fire pops. ] Is he okay?
[ Feels important to start there, though he can guess what the answer will be from Dean. He just—he'd wanted to try, with Steve. He supposes they all did. Nobody's to blame, he realizes that. But he can't help thinking he never should've agreed to let Steve stay past the night. It's too soon. He remembers too much and not enough all at once. There are things that creep against the edges of his mind he isn't ready for. ]
Of course he is. ( The answer comes immediately. His hands resume their careful carving; little curls of wood fall away and litter the stairs at their feet, swallowed by snow. ) He's been through worse than you popping him a mean one in the jaw.
( Physically and emotionally. The latter was a harder hit than the former, yeah, but still. Nothing Steve won't recover from. Nothing Geralt needs to bear too much guilt over, though a little remorse about it ain't the worst thing.
It's hard. Dealing with stuff like this. Health stuff. Mental stuff. Recovery and rehabilitation, interpersonal dynamics, the strain it puts on family. It's hard, but he's confident in all of them. Confident enough in the strength of their bonds that something like this... it's just a rock in the road. Something to jostle them as they drive on over it. Geralt and Steve will recover. They're not like-
They're not like some families. Distant memories that desire to resurface, but the synapses are missing, and they fade away again before they can bear fruit.
After a pregnant silence, he finally gives into the urge to ask: )
[ A noncommittal noise acknowledges he heard. He'll speak to Steve after. He wanted to talk to Dean first—to gauge the situation before something else fucks them both up again.
That, and Steve is a far simpler topic than how he himself is feeling. He doesn't really know, in truth. What he does know is what he needs to do.
Approaching matters delicately is not his strong suit, and so after a minute, he simply says: ] I can't be here. [ Too many fucking bones in the ground that he can't see. He keeps tripping over them. ] I'm leaving tonight. For Sam's.
[ Sam seemed the most obvious choice. These northern snowy mountains aren't doing him any good. He'd thought the familiarity would help, and at the beginning, it had. But now it's beginning to haunt him in ways he can't explain. For the first time, he wants to go south. Away from all the things that are so tightly wound up in what he once was. Maybe the distance will help him untangle what happened here. ]
( Dean's answer is, for a long moment, silence. He carves. Wood shavings fall away. The ones that don't, he blows on until they scatter.
He might be centuries old, but some things about his personality are static. Some don't change, no matter how much time has passed. His knee-jerk instinct to take that personally is one of them, at his heart he's always the guy that gets left behind in hotel rooms. For jobs, for college, for whatever — people always leave you, Dean. Just because a toxic part of his brain tells him that's the truth doesn't make it the truth, though, and maybe real aging, real maturity, is learning to recognize the flaws in your own thinking. Learning to check those impulses, feel them, think about them, understand that they're not always right, and let them go.
Geralt's fighting his own battles. He's got his own reasons. If he feels like he needs to do that somewhere away from here, Dean can only trust him to know what's best for himself.
And so, after almost too many seconds have passed, he finally looks over. )
[ Geralt waits out the swelling silence. He does not grasp the intricacies of Dean the way he used to, but between the remnants of memories and the time they've spent together, he knows Dean carries his family close.
And that is what they are. He can feel it.
He can't promise when he'll return. So he doesn't try. For Geralt, with centuries more spread out ahead of them, it isn't a question of if he'll be back, only when.
Sooner than decades, he hopes. He'd like to know who he is by then. ]
You gave me back a lot of myself. [ He wants Dean to know that. They are miles from where they started, even if it doesn't always feel like enough. ] I won't forget. Again, [ he adds dryly, finally reaching for his mug to drink. ]
( Not if, but when — it took a long time for him to start thinking like that, but it's a testament to how much they've been through that he does. Learning to let people go was one of the lessons he struggled with the most. Learning that they might actually choose to come back was harder — but once that sank in, the rest became easier. Choosing people who also choose him. What a goddamn revelation.
The smile at his lips is sad, but it's a smile nevertheless. He turns his eyes back down to his rudimentary little caving, its shape angular and jagged but steadily more distinct. )
I know you won't. Hell, maybe one day you'll remember how that finally makes us even.
( Those are old memories, though. He wouldn't mind so much if they stayed buried.
Another few seconds of work, and then he holds his crappy little carving out for Geralt to take. It's a motorcycle. )
[ He'll miss what they had here. A brief period of calm. But they always knew it would be temporary. As much as he regrets what transpired, he can see it for the push he needed. He can't spend his days in the forest with just Dean, hoping time will grant him its favour.
He needs to find his way back to Ciri. ]
One day.
[ His eyebrow lifts. He turns his palm up and Dean places a lumpy carving in the middle of it. It's roughly hewn, but perfectly recognizable. For a moment, he thinks he can hear the clink of pungent liquor in glass jars, the creak of steel.
Geralt weighs the wooden bike in his hand. Then he slips it into a pocket and stands. ] Don't drink all the ale without me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
At his side are two mugs. One, he's been drinking from. The other is full.
His elbows anchor heavy on his knees, and in his hands, a curved carving knife works methodically over a small hunk of wood he's peeling small strips from. It takes shape slowly under his calloused fingers, and in the shadow-cast firelight, he looks far more like a man than most of their Summoned god-kin do anymore. He looks small. Centuries old, of course, but while some of them wear an eternal otherworldly youth, Dean looks like a man closer to his late forties in the lines at his eyes.
He's always looked a little tired. Some people get to see it more clearly than others, and he doesn't bother hiding it from Geralt. Doesn't straighten his posture, or even bother looking up from his carving once Geralt finally escapes the trees. He just pauses his work long enough to lift that full mug in a silent offering.
His countenance still seems a little stern, a little disapproving, but the gesture should help make it clear — I'm annoyed with you, but you're still welcome here. )
no subject
The silence blankets them, thick as the snow. He's often had little to say, but these days, he has even less. Every time he reaches for the words, it's as if they disintegrated with his past. Like he's not entirely sure how to string his thoughts together anymore. Part of him wants to believe he didn't used to be this way—but perhaps he isn't recalling that accurately, either.
Eventually, he puts the mug back down. The fire pops. ] Is he okay?
[ Feels important to start there, though he can guess what the answer will be from Dean. He just—he'd wanted to try, with Steve. He supposes they all did. Nobody's to blame, he realizes that. But he can't help thinking he never should've agreed to let Steve stay past the night. It's too soon. He remembers too much and not enough all at once. There are things that creep against the edges of his mind he isn't ready for. ]
no subject
( Physically and emotionally. The latter was a harder hit than the former, yeah, but still. Nothing Steve won't recover from. Nothing Geralt needs to bear too much guilt over, though a little remorse about it ain't the worst thing.
It's hard. Dealing with stuff like this. Health stuff. Mental stuff. Recovery and rehabilitation, interpersonal dynamics, the strain it puts on family. It's hard, but he's confident in all of them. Confident enough in the strength of their bonds that something like this... it's just a rock in the road. Something to jostle them as they drive on over it. Geralt and Steve will recover. They're not like-
They're not like some families. Distant memories that desire to resurface, but the synapses are missing, and they fade away again before they can bear fruit.
After a pregnant silence, he finally gives into the urge to ask: )
What about you?
no subject
That, and Steve is a far simpler topic than how he himself is feeling. He doesn't really know, in truth. What he does know is what he needs to do.
Approaching matters delicately is not his strong suit, and so after a minute, he simply says: ] I can't be here. [ Too many fucking bones in the ground that he can't see. He keeps tripping over them. ] I'm leaving tonight. For Sam's.
[ Sam seemed the most obvious choice. These northern snowy mountains aren't doing him any good. He'd thought the familiarity would help, and at the beginning, it had. But now it's beginning to haunt him in ways he can't explain. For the first time, he wants to go south. Away from all the things that are so tightly wound up in what he once was. Maybe the distance will help him untangle what happened here. ]
no subject
He might be centuries old, but some things about his personality are static. Some don't change, no matter how much time has passed. His knee-jerk instinct to take that personally is one of them, at his heart he's always the guy that gets left behind in hotel rooms. For jobs, for college, for whatever — people always leave you, Dean. Just because a toxic part of his brain tells him that's the truth doesn't make it the truth, though, and maybe real aging, real maturity, is learning to recognize the flaws in your own thinking. Learning to check those impulses, feel them, think about them, understand that they're not always right, and let them go.
Geralt's fighting his own battles. He's got his own reasons. If he feels like he needs to do that somewhere away from here, Dean can only trust him to know what's best for himself.
And so, after almost too many seconds have passed, he finally looks over. )
Okay. Whatever you think you need to do.
no subject
And that is what they are. He can feel it.
He can't promise when he'll return. So he doesn't try. For Geralt, with centuries more spread out ahead of them, it isn't a question of if he'll be back, only when.
Sooner than decades, he hopes. He'd like to know who he is by then. ]
You gave me back a lot of myself. [ He wants Dean to know that. They are miles from where they started, even if it doesn't always feel like enough. ] I won't forget. Again, [ he adds dryly, finally reaching for his mug to drink. ]
no subject
The smile at his lips is sad, but it's a smile nevertheless. He turns his eyes back down to his rudimentary little caving, its shape angular and jagged but steadily more distinct. )
I know you won't. Hell, maybe one day you'll remember how that finally makes us even.
( Those are old memories, though. He wouldn't mind so much if they stayed buried.
Another few seconds of work, and then he holds his crappy little carving out for Geralt to take. It's a motorcycle. )
no subject
He needs to find his way back to Ciri. ]
One day.
[ His eyebrow lifts. He turns his palm up and Dean places a lumpy carving in the middle of it. It's roughly hewn, but perfectly recognizable. For a moment, he thinks he can hear the clink of pungent liquor in glass jars, the creak of steel.
Geralt weighs the wooden bike in his hand. Then he slips it into a pocket and stands. ] Don't drink all the ale without me.