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[niespodzianka]

( any format, go nuts. might be nsfw peppered thru. )

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some night early in the month

[whattaprick]

[ Lambert doesn’t usually seek Geralt out. Living in happy communal harmony was never really the point of being a witcher, so much as amicably interacting when their respective tasks called for it, but he’s still got a decent chunk of change from the job last month — inasmuch as catching a witch with designs to fuck up the city is a job — and with the nippier temperatures, he’s less inclined to spend a lot of time outdoors.

He wonders if hibernation is going to be a thing, hopes it isn’t. With his luck, he’d wake up in spring to his room being vandalized.

But anyway, back to finding Geralt, or trying to. Puca magic comes to him second nature now, so it’s easy enough to focus on the thought of the other witcher and let instinct turn him in the right direction, liquor bottle and mugs dangling carelessly from each hand. ]

[niespodzianka]

[ Early in the month means that the pressure building at the back of Geralt's head is just a dull buzz for now, and he can still ignore it. Or so he thinks. He's more irritable than usual, even though it's hard to tell; not like he runs much commentary about it.

He's at home, on the back deck on the main level of the narrow townhouse, working at installing an enchanted ... hot tub. Look. Gwen who is still living in the basement endorses it, and Geralt thinks it'd be nice to sit outside and contemplate the universe in a giant pot of hot water. ]

Something wrong?

[ He asks this without looking up from aligning a board. Lambert doesn't usually want to talk. ]

[whattaprick]

[ A tub that Lambert's sure to never use ever in the winter ... well, depending on how hot the water actually gets, but the downside of tubs is that you have to get out sometime. ]

Figured you could use a break. [ He waggles a bottle at him, meaningfully. ] And we haven't had a drink since we got here.

[niespodzianka]

[ Once a weenie about the cold, always a weenie about the cold, Geralt would say. He's grown halfway accustomed to it, himself. Or maybe it's just that nothing will ever feel like real cold again after being frozen repeatedly by Caranthir's world-hopping magic.

Geralt sits up, leaning against the railing and giving Lambert's bottle an appraising look. ]

Alright. You at least can pick something besides watered down piss, probably.

[whattaprick]

Bite your tongue, I've never given you anything that didn't get you drunk. [ Even if at times that resorted to mixing alchemical solvents with whatever would cut the taste. He'll find somewhere to plunk his ass down and set the mugs and bottles down beside him, working the cork out -- with claws, no less. Finally good for something. The first one he gets open is alcoholic enough to pick up on even from a distance. ]

Seadog's got all kinds of crap sitting on the back shelves. Some of it's even gone magical. Maybe we should set a still up in the basement, start making our own booze.

[niespodzianka]

I've made plenty of potion base, [ he says with a shrug. (Look, if you can make wine in a toilet in prison, Geralt can be doing this in his bedroom, in small batches. The shut u get used 2 as a witcher, man.) ]

Nobody here's got any constitution. It's embarrassing.

its basically magic viniq don't @ me

[whattaprick]

But now you've got real magic, so you can do better than potion base. Have some imagination, like the people around here do. [ On to working open the second bottle after he's poured out a measure into each of the first. This one is a little different -- what pours out doesn't look so much like alcohol as it does as shimmery, iridescent paint.

Once it hits the alcohol already in the mug, some chemical reaction triggers a shift -- and Lambert grins as he hands Geralt what looks like a cup of the night sky, stars suspended in inky liquid. There must be fruit in the concoction, whatever it is, because it smells faintly of crushed berries, remnants of some long-ago summer harvest. ]

nerd

[niespodzianka]

Shortcutting potion-making just lands you with shit potions.

[ Geralt's not interested in using more magic than he absolutely has to, anyway. Or using 'potions' made by people jiggling ingredients in a jar and casting a spell. Fuck no. He wants things to work and not kill him or turn his hair pink.

He mutters, ] Speaking of.

[ What the fuck is this, Lambert. ] Since when are you such a girl?

[whattaprick]

[ Wow, Geralt. This is why it’s never worth being nice to you!!! Lambert rolls his eyes. ]

Please, if I was actually a girl, you’d treat me better. [ He pours himself his own drink; the ratio of sparkly shit to alcohol is higher. ] Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.

[ Or have knocked it back, in any case, which is what Lambert is proceeding to do: mixed with the alcohol, the magic fizzes warmly through his body, feeding the gnawing hunger that the lack of a Bond seems to bring. ]

[niespodzianka]

[ Just when Geralt was hoping Lambert was going to be sensible about booze, he does this. For shame. The older witcher tries a little bit of it, but it's the magic, not the alcohol, that makes him wrinkle his nose after. A flicker of agitation that has nothing to do with Lambert spasms in him. ]

Definitely a girl. [ It makes him think of Yen drinking their awful paint thinner without complaint, but doesn't mention her aloud. He's not in the mood to hear any peanut gallery comments. ]

So uh, how are .. you.

[whattaprick]

If you don’t want it, then I’ll take it. [ Lambert shrugs, meaning it, even if the firm buzz of rising intoxication in the back of his head says otherwise. He pours another drink, skipping the sparkle this time, and snorts at the question that doesn’t have enough of a lilt to sound like a question. ]

Took you a few months to come up with that one, did it? As fine as anyone who turns into a monster once a month can be. [ And as someone whose usual partner in crime of choice has up and fallen into a ditch somewhere or otherwise isn’t responding to his messages ... which sucks, but isn’t that par for the course. ]

Ask me again a couple of drinks in and maybe you’ll get a better answer.

[niespodzianka]

[ Lambert can definitely have his sparklebooze, Geralt's more than happy to stick to straight alcohol. It doesn't make his headache worse. ]

Some people seem happy with it. [ Paloma gets to eat. Berserker - well, maybe he's just not much for complaining. ] Though if I were you I'd lodge a complaint with the mirrors about being a werebunny.

[ It's impossible to not give Lambert at least a little shit. He's so ruthless with monsters at home, it really does seem like the universe getting back at him. ]

Granted, I didn't love transforming, when it was going around. I know it sucks.

[whattaprick]

[ Hence Lambert offering the mug now topped up with just alcohol, beckoning for Geralt’s still sparkly mug. Time for swapsies. ]

Sure didn’t sound like it sucked for you. [ He answers, snidely, one ear swiveling to waggle at Geralt. These aren’t just ornamental. ]

You gonna bond any of them yet, or what?

[niespodzianka]

[ Yes yes, swapping mugs. Good. But then Geralt just rolls his eyes, which are thankfully free of blue-green succubus markings. ]

Not my fault I can't keep 'em away. [ Insufferable. A brief spark of worry appears then vanishes, consumed by his mutant calm; he'd fucked around with Berserker in the kitchen without even bothering to check if anyone else was home, too agitated with everything, half-desperate for the distraction the other man provided. Maybe Lambert just heard a woman, though. ]

I'm not taking any bonds.

[whattaprick]

Why the fuck not?

[ If Lambert had realized at any point that Geralt had fucked around in the place they eat, he would probably have given him no end of shit about it; as it is, Geralt just gets a look of disbelief before Lambert rolls his eyes. ]

Never mind, let me guess ... starts with a Y, ends in ennefer?

[niespodzianka]

[ Geralt is quiet for a moment, not snapping back, taking the time to eat his initial go fuck yourself instinct and take a drink. ]

You're not interested in understanding or believing me. About most anything, but especially when it comes to Yen.

[ So ... why should Geralt offer up personal information just for Lambert to shit on it. Not in the mood. ]

[whattaprick]

[ Lambert shrugs, carelessly, taking another hearty chug from his mug as his ears twitch lazily. ]

Isn't it better, knowing whatever you say isn't gonna change what I think? It's not like you think my opinion matters.

[ The liquid in in the mug sloshes, motes of light catching and reflecting in Lambert's eyes. ]

I already get that you're crazy about her. Does anyone else here even know she exists?

[niespodzianka]

You aren't that stupid, [ Geralt says tiredly. Lambert's 'ha ha I don't give a shit about anything' is weaponized, and he knows it. ] Knock it off.

[ Geralt's not interested in playing into the minefield Lambert's set up; being so much of an asshole that no one wants to talk to you, ever, and then insisting nobody would want to in the first place, or whatever other traps he's set up as coping mechanisms. He gets it but it's just exhausting. ]

I like that not everybody knows my business, here.

[whattaprick]

[ The younger witcher snorts, kicking out his legs — stretching longer with every full moon, it seems, enough to bring him and Geralt closer to eye level when standing, not that they talk about that either. ]

Yeah, that sure was a real problem back home, wasn’t it? [ He takes his mug in two clawed hands, rocking the contents back and forth. ]

Guess it helps you don’t have a loudmouth writing songs about you. And that nobody here knows what a witcher even is.

[niespodzianka]

It does help. Though he doesn't do that, anymore. [ Dandelion had joked around about it, particularly when they were running with the Scoia'tael, but none have never come to fruition. Geralt knows why. ]

He wishes he hadn't, but he won't say so, because saying so would be worse, probably.

[ Geralt, what the fuck. Seemingly aware of not making any sense, he pulls a brief grimaced expression before taking a drink. ]

[whattaprick]

Been sitting on that one for a while, have you? [ Lambert quips, finally stopping playing with his drink to take another gulp himself.

He doesn't know Dandelion, not really, but through secondhand stories he knows enough-- ]

He didn't sound like the type who liked admitting having any regrets. Then again, neither is most anyone else.

[ Present company and self included. ]

[niespodzianka]

He mourned and moved on.

[ Geralt was, after all, definitively dead, and gone for years. Not everyone held on obsessively like Triss. (Thank the gods.) Witchers might be used to weird shit and difficult to emotionally disturb, but Geralt's friends have had a rougher time with it.

Dandelion was his best friend. They are still friends, and always will be, but they're both different people and there are no seamless transitions. ]

The eulogies people have written are based on his works, and his word that Yennefer and I died. Someone sang one in a tavern we were stopped at, in Vizima. It's just a different world for both of us.

[whattaprick]

[ Even by witcher standards, coming back from the dead is a little outside the realm of normal. They're trained from boyhood to accept death as part of the job; nobody ever bothered training them for what to do if they might come back.

Lambert doesn't really have a frame of reference for it, but then again? It's probably highly unlikely that anyone does, except maybe Yennefer. In this, as in a lot of other things, Geralt is yet another exception.

The younger witcher rocks back a little, studying Geralt's expression from under half-lidded eyes. ]

Do you wish it wasn't? [ And then, as though to breeze over the uncharacteristically serious question, he goes on with. ] Well, if we ever make it back, at least you'll have a hell of a story to tell him.

[niespodzianka]

This isn't the first time I've lived in another world. At this point I'm not sure he'd believe me.

[ He drains the cup, thankfully sparkle-free. He'd probably choke down an awful enchanted cocktail if a pretty girl offered it to him, but not Lambert, who he can comfortably tell to sod off about it. This is better. ]

I don't wish anything. Things are what they are.

[whattaprick]

He should believe you. You don't have enough imagination to make up something this stupid. [ Lambert says cheerily. ] Besides, everyone wants something. If you really didn't care how things are, why bother getting your hair cut? Or building a fancy tub out here when you've already got a fancy bathroom upstairs?

[ Which is worlds away from figuring out repairing a relationship that isn't exactly broken, and a bit of a nonsense answer in itself besides. Maybe it's the magic and the alcohol together to blame, the flush already high on Lambert's cheeks as he snickers and quaffs the last of his mug. He reaches for the bottle again, thankfully still steady enough to pour himself a measure without further mishap, before setting it down and beckoning a hand at Geralt. ]

Good, right? [ Good by witcher standards meaning probably strong enough to sear paint and stomachs for anyone else, but just enough to hurtle them briskly along the road to pleasantly tipsy (and later, inevitably regretful). ] Want another?