[ When this shit began, Geralt hadn't wanted anybody with him. The initial weeks—he spent it alone. Even now, months can still span an eternity, and that's how this feels as of late. Maybe it's to do with how he can't remember those decades. Not in any way that matters, not more than bits and pieces. All he has are months.
Now that it's winter, he's finally let Dean join him. And with Dean, Steve—a young man whose face is only partially familiar. A faded dream. Even his memories of Dean are fragmented.
He does trust him. That much, he knows.
He's agreed to a round of light sparring, if only because the footwork is ingrained in him. There is a comfort to doing something he feels like he knows, that isn't frustratingly foreign. In retrospect, he should've kept it between him and Dean instead. They've done this before; Dean can handle himself. But Dean seems fond of the boy, and the steady warmth they shared the night before lulls him into a sense of being better.
The first half hour is unremarkable. The second—he can't say what changes. (He seldom can.) The clash of steel on steel, perhaps. It echoes too sharply between his ears. Reverberates too heavily in his bones. He smells blood and flames where there are none, and when the weapon swings towards him, he reacts on instinct—a parry instead of a block, meant to knock his opponent to the ground, hard.
Abruptly, he withdraws. Fuck. An apology sits on the tip of his tongue. He should offer the boy a hand to his feet. But the urge to leave seizes him, before much worse happens, and he turns on his heel without a word. Steve, he thinks, will know better than to try to stop him. ]
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Now that it's winter, he's finally let Dean join him. And with Dean, Steve—a young man whose face is only partially familiar. A faded dream. Even his memories of Dean are fragmented.
He does trust him. That much, he knows.
He's agreed to a round of light sparring, if only because the footwork is ingrained in him. There is a comfort to doing something he feels like he knows, that isn't frustratingly foreign. In retrospect, he should've kept it between him and Dean instead. They've done this before; Dean can handle himself. But Dean seems fond of the boy, and the steady warmth they shared the night before lulls him into a sense of being better.
The first half hour is unremarkable. The second—he can't say what changes. (He seldom can.) The clash of steel on steel, perhaps. It echoes too sharply between his ears. Reverberates too heavily in his bones. He smells blood and flames where there are none, and when the weapon swings towards him, he reacts on instinct—a parry instead of a block, meant to knock his opponent to the ground, hard.
Abruptly, he withdraws. Fuck. An apology sits on the tip of his tongue. He should offer the boy a hand to his feet. But the urge to leave seizes him, before much worse happens, and he turns on his heel without a word. Steve, he thinks, will know better than to try to stop him. ]