( 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.
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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.