middaeg | [ CATCH-ALL ] snakes are biting at my heels

With the enforcer distracted and the chimera with him, Berserker wastes no time in getting the hell out. That was way too close and he's annoyed at himself for being careless enough to get into the situation in the first place. He gives the briefest of glances to Ygraine before he goes, both irritated that she had to help him and grateful to her for picking up the slack.

He'd seen where Geralt went and is quick to follow his steps with the freed monsters in tow. It's no easy task getting them to go where he needs them, but at least they're all listening to him. The disguised dragon is the last to go -- he doesn't even pause to look back for Ygraine. He directs the monsters to go ahead, to follow the runes while he stays behind. Where are they...?

He continues ahead, deliberate in his pace as he seeks out the other two. Actually caring about someone beyond their usefulness to him is still so alien that he can't accept that's what's driving him -- part of it is his protective instincts from his transformation and that's entirely what he chalks it up to. It's that and nothing more...A convenient lie.

Geralt can't properly answer Waver's question, because he doesn't know. But if the answer turns out to be arrested, then he'll be depositing the young turnskin with the Resistance and fully committing to this terrorist gig, probably. Iorveth would be proud. Iorveth would also probably know a much better way to strategist all of this - unfortunately there's no guerrilla military leader here, just a witcher.

"Nearby," is what he decides on, and hopes it's not a lie.

Time always seems to move slowest when he wants someone to hurry the fuck up. Geralt stands there with Waver, debating on whether or not to go, for what feels like too long but what's really only minutes. At last, something scrapes into his attention. He hears people approaching before he sees them - but the shuffling, anxious gait of freed monsters raises no alarm. Animal eyes glint in the low light as Geralt tries to make out where Berserker is through the slow, nervous procession. He spies the chimera and asks, and just gets a muttered thumb over his shoulder. On his way, alright. Geralt hefts Waver up a little more solidly and begins to backtrack, intent on meeting the dragon halfway.

It's good enough for Waver. Or if it's not, it isn't like he can do anything about it. So he nods, and closes his eyes again to wait. Like this, he can't even help by tracking the scent or listening for footsteps, at least not as well as Geralt can on his own. He feels a little useless, but mostly, he's got too much else to worry about to really care right now.

So he's basically just a sack of potatoes with dog ears that Geralt has to heft around for a bit, sorry.

At least he perks up a little when he hears others speaking, lifting his head enough to watch, though he doesn't try to interact with any of the freed Monsters. It's a relief. He can't tell for sure, but it seems most of them made it out, perhaps even all.

It's not too much longer until he sees the two of them, a sense of relief washing over him. He keeps the same pace as he heads over to maintain his normal indifference. The angry from before has cooled considerably, though it flares up as he sees Waver again. Caring is definitely not something he enjoys.

"All of them got out with me. I don't know about the witch for sure. She was holding up that asshole."

He wants to take Waver from him, but makes no motion to do so. It's a weakness to care. Despite the turnskin being an ally, he made a mistake -- that's why he ended up like his. Berserker's usual apathy made it easier to apply these kinds of judgements; without that armor it's so much more difficult.

"Idiot," he says to Waver, though there's no real venom in his voice, "...How are you holding up?"

"He's stable, but he still needs something to counteract what's in his system sooner rather than later." Geralt doesn't actually think it's 'poison', but it's an easy shorthand for 'recklessly drugged with enough shit to effectively act as an overdose or poison anyway'. That Waver is holding on well right now is good, and Geralt doesn't want to squander that by dragging their heels on getting him well. That's like daring fate to fuck with them.

Berserker doesn't strike him as someone who'd be actively concerned about Ygraine, so Geralt doesn't ask. He'll absolutely go back for her, but he needs to get a handle on this, first.

Once the two monsters have caught up - a little, he's not going to wait around forever, "Come on. There are halfway camps set up down here, we'll have to set him up in the first one we find."

It's belated, but he finally catches the scent of a familiar dragon, right as Berserker approaches them, close enough to touch. Waver looks unwell, feverish and clearly having trouble maintaining focus, but the good news is that he is conscious and aware enough that he recognizes Berserker. He even uses his grip on Geralt's shoulder to prop himself up enough that he's slightly less sack-of-potatoes flopped and more almost sitting up, peering up at Berserker in a way that makes it seem he really needs glasses.

"...sorry," he mumbles, wilting a bit at the scolding, even though it's comparatively light. Still, it's a relief to see Berserker hadn't been caught, himself.

Geralt is right, too. Sooner rather than later is probably for the best. Waver slumps more in his arms again, satisfied now that Berserker has rejoined them and trying to save his strength.

"Ugh... feel sick." Obviously. He hadn't really meant to say it aloud, but it just slips out in a soft whine. Closing his eyes doesn't help that much, but for now, it's the best he can do. Waver buries his face in Geralt's shoulder, trying to breathe in his scent and distract himself enough that the muted feeling of his senses not working properly stops being quite so disorienting and uncomfortable.

"Shut up," he says to Waver, but again, there's no real cruelty to his words. It's more a firm 'stop talking because you might make it worse' than anything.

Considering how bad his luck is, he doesn't want to push it either. The sooner Waver gets taken care of, the sooner he can go back to not caring. It would get rid of this knot in his stomach and put an end to the nagging worry at the back of his mind. Berserker can already feel the headache coming on...

"Let's go, then," he says as he starts walking again. He lets himself get ahead despite not being too familiar with the sewers -- it's so he doesn't have to look at Waver. It doesn't feel as bad when he can't see him. Emotions have done nothing but complicate his life.

"I took everything worth carrying off the slaver that had him. Might be something there that can help or give an idea what you're dealing with."

Waver is too grown up to be held like this, but Geralt puts a hand on the back of his neck anyway, the posture almost automatic. Muscle memory from comforting Ciri after a nightmare. He follows Berserker, his baseline calm demeanor maintaining its status quo. He tries to stretch his hearing all around them - now would be a very bad time for any surprises.

"Show me while we're walking," he says, in the name of expedience. "He reeks of mandrake, and it's nearly overpowering whatever else is mixed in with it. Something to make it a lasting paralytic." Fortunate that this particular root smells the same here as it does at home; Geralt's very familiar, seeing as it's one of the few things that's still toxic to a witcher if touched or ingested without proper preparation. "I might have to give someone a shopping list, if they don't have something usable on hand."

Plenty of Resistance cells are outfitted with heavy duty first aid, used to rescuing monsters in all states of duress, but Geralt doesn't want to just assume there'll be a panacea waiting.

Wow, Berserker... rude. But fine. He'll shut up. At least Geralt is being nice!!

Actually, it really is a huge relief that Geralt has been willing to carry him and offer some physical comfort throughout, though. It's helped Waver stay as calm as he can, and at least attempt to stay clear-headed, even if that's been a failure from the start through no fault of his own. With Berserker back as well, he lets them worry about it and allows himself to drift, the rest of the world sliding off into a faint buzz around them, muffled in Geralt's scent and the sounds of their footsteps.

When Geralt's hand covers the back of his neck, Waver relaxes noticeably. He's quiet the rest of the way, keeping his head down, trusting them both implicitly.

Edited 2019-09-24 00:25 (UTC)

If Berserker were being nice, it would be cause for concern, let's be real here.

He slows down enough to walk alongside them, still not wanting to look at Waver. The pang of guilt at his condition isn't something he wants to think too much on, so he focuses on what he pulled off the slaver instead. It's a few bottle, some empty, some not. This is nowhere near his expertise, but it's the only thing he can think of to do to help. They have vague labels that allude to their purpose and not much beyond that. He has no interest in opening them right now.

"This is what I found. Doesn't look like much, might be worthless to our cause."

But it's all he has; it's the only way he can find some sense of control in this situation.

There's no possible juggling act like this, so Geralt just has Berserker hold up each item very close to his face so he can inspect things - which surely looks hilarious, it's a shame Wavygravy is too KO'd to appreciate it.

"Parsley oil with .. something synthetic and.. belladonna?" muttering to himself. He recoils his head slightly with an offended sniff. "Very rotten henbane mash. No wonder he's debilitated. This has got to be purged out of his system."

Someone's coming their way - more than one someone, Geralt realizes, the vaguely distorted sound of the tunnel evening out with proximity. It's a human (witch or not, he can't tell), and the monster he sent up ahead earlier. The human has a small lamp stone stitched to his chest. "He's hurt?" the man asks, coming up to them and peering at Waver. Geralt explains the situation, but the Resistance member doesn't have anything premade in his medic's bag - which he hands off to Berserker upon hearing about Ygraine. He lets them know that the next path crossing has hollowed-out rooms they can use, and then heads off the way they came. After a moment of dithering, the freed monster follows, determined look on his face.

"Look in there for anything green marked 'alchemy paste' or 'rebis', honeysuckle, and white oil."

Sorry, Berserker. Geralt shifts Waver a bit in his arms, and speeds his gait up.

Even though he's apparently gone silent (taking that 'shut up' pretty literally?) Waver isn't entirely out. He listens to them discuss whatever Berserker is showing Geralt, and the more they talk, the more alarming it's sounding. Geralt's diagnosis of what he might have been fed makes sense-- but it's not comforting in the slightest. Waver's hand braced on his shoulder tightens, nervous. His breath hitches, but he doesn't look up while the Resistance member is filled in. In return, he explains to Geralt -- if he's not already aware -- that Turnskins are especially sensitive to hensbane, how it cripples their senses and strength, and that it's often used in conjunction with the compulsion if a Monster is too resistant or rowdy.

Waver listens too, burying his face further against the side of Geralt's neck with a quiet groan. It's not until Geralt shifts him and speeds up, and the change in movement is momentarily disorienting enough that Waver raises his head with a soft hiss of discomfort. It doesn't hurt, but it feels... bad. He just feels bad.

"Rune worked," he mumbles, voice strained and shaky. Scared. "S-so... plan B... I guess. That fucking... b-bastard..."

Berserker's expression changes slightly as Waver speaks -- if he could understand these godforsaken emotions, he'd know it was empathy he's feeling. He wants to comfort him and offer some sort of physical affection, but he doesn't. It's rare he shows affection at all and though he trusts Geralt, he's an outsider and he's unwilling to show much vulnerability in front of him. Still, the need gnaws at him and he chokes it back, letting it fester like everything else. He can learn to deal with this discomfort.

A distraction presents itself in the form of the medic bag in his hand. Berserker has a task and it's like any other, one he does with precision and efficiency. He digs through the bag in search of the items Geralt asks for. Everything's at least labeled, if in absolute disarray. A couple of the needed items are in there, however...

"Alchemy paste and white oil, no honeysuckle."

He'd gone through the contents at least twice, absolutely sure he didn't miss it.

"You can check again once we get him settled, but I don't see any in here."

Berserker is practically radiating tension, but there's nothing Geralt can do about it. He figures the guy's just pissed, which is completely understandable. The witcher pats Waver's shoulder, not comforting in a mothering way, but good for something, perhaps.

"Someone'll have to get some." Someone, probably not a monster. But it's a necessary ingredient, so if there's not a stash in another operative's supplies, a witch will have to run an errand. And soon.

Nothing but footsteps, for a short while. Up ahead lights flicker around the movement of other people.

"Is he dead? The merchant."

He doesn't need to be coddled overmuch; the closeness and simple touch are enough, especially when he feels so faraway and uncomfortable otherwise. Just something to distract him and keep him reassured. He puts his head back down, and nods against Geralt's shoulder at the question.

"Yeah, I killed him. I made sure it was silent...It should be mistaken for a heart attack."

The detached way he speaks of the murder is chilling; it sounds like he's talking about a daily routine, something boring and inconvenient. For him, of course, it was. When wholesale slaughter is your daily routine, you tend to get blase about it.

Berserker slows down as they approach the path the Resistance medic mentioned. They're missing something they need and he's thinking about making a bad decision.

"I can go get what you need." Yes, that's a great idea, go back into the city when you're still potentially a suspect in illegal activities and a monster in disguise. What could possibly go wrong?

"Good."

And that's that.

Geralt doesn't slow, only casting a brief look at Berserker as he passes to indicate c'mon, they don't have all day with this. There aren't too many Resistance members in the small area, but it's most of the monsters that Berserker set loose. One witch is standing in knee-deep muck and directing traffic, getting ready to set off. Geralt takes the liberty of commandeering one of the cots carved into the wall, shifting Waver down onto it. Probably uncomfortable, stone with a blanket thrown over it, but he needs both his hands to go through shit.

"I need you with Waver," Geralt says once he's sat down on his knees. He looks up at Berserker. "He doesn't know me as well. If something happens and he panics, it could be bad for him."

This is potentially more dramatic than is strictly truthful, but it's a possibility. Mostly, he just doesn't want the dragon to run off and endanger himself, and he's willing to bet 'no don't it's dangerous' is not a warning that would be heeded.

Reluctantly, Waver lets go when Geralt sets him down onto the barely-covered stone, dazedly looking up at their new surroundings. He refuses to lie down, instead holding onto Geralt's arm as long as he can and pushing himself up to a sitting position before he has to let go. His grip shifts down to grasp the stone ledge he's on instead, white-knuckling the edge and the thin blanket covering it. With effort, Waver looks between Berserker and Geralt while they talk.

In reality, he doesn't care that much who stays with him and who goes on the errand, but he agrees with Geralt more due to Geralt's superior knowledge of alchemy than because it occurs to him right now that it's unsafe. The most pressing concern in Waver's mind, understandably, is getting that clarifying potion as soon as possible.

"Just... hurry up and... go," he growls, hopefully cutting off any potential arguing. Before he throws up on someone's boots.

Geralt's bet is a safe one -- Berserker absolutely would have done the petty thing and gone anyway if he'd said it was too dangerous. Deferring to logic works quite well, though, and there's no protest from the dragon. He simply nods as he sets the medic bag down nearby.

"Fine, I'll stay here. You go and get what you need."

He does step away for a moment to get a nearby witch to dispel the glamour on him, tired of hiding behind it. Once that's taken care of, he returns to Waver's side. The discomfort he's feeling at his condition hasn't abated, he has to do something to relieve it. Despite the fact there are others nearby, he gives into his want to comfort the turnskin and kneels down in front of him. He hesitates for a moment before putting his arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

"You're lucky I've learned mercy, otherwise I might have left you there."

While Berserker steps away, Geralt runs a palm over Waver's forehead, and makes sure he's steady. "You'll be alright," he tells him. "Just gonna suck for a bit."

Encouraging. Sometimes life hurts, but pain is just pain, and Geralt's confident that Waver will pull through - so long as he gets this antidote under control. (He's confident Waver would pull through anyway, but letting it go would mean permanent damage, and that's not acceptable.) He pushes to his feet and exchanges places with Berserker, and then he's off, either to pilfer the ingredient from someone else nearby or to make the world's fastest shopping trip. He'll be back after your exchange of FEELINGS.

Waver instinctively leans into the touch, more or less nuzzling Geralt's palm, eyes closed. He looks up again when he hears Berserker move, watching him anxiously while he talks to one of the other people around. A witch. The glamour fades.

Despite Berserker's gruffness, his return is welcome; Waver feels more comfortable when he's close enough to touch, or at least speak to without having to raise his voice. He doesn't think he has the strength to shout.

Though he does have enough to growl, so maybe that's a good sign.

"No. Not funny." Even if it's probably not a joke, which actually kind of makes it worse. Berseker, you are so bad at comfort.

Even so, it's easier to just lean against him when Berserker puts his arms around him. Waver stops gripping onto the stone for dear life and shifts his grip to Berserker's wrist instead, struggling to take deep, even breaths. Or as close as he can manage.

"Is there... a blanket, or somethin'...?" He's practically naked, and freezing. And Berserker's dragon body is nowhere near as warm as he'd like.

Berserker is very bad at comfort -- all he does is say mean things that may or may not be cruel jokes. He's still learning, though it's not likely he'll ever be good at this kind of thing.

He's content to sit there holding Waver for just a bit longer. While he'd never say he was concerned for his well-being, it's obvious in the way he acts (just don't call him on it). He only lets go when Waver asks about a blanket. Dragons aren't exactly the warmest creatures, no. Berserker takes off his cloak and wraps it around him. It's wool, so it's good for trapping heat and it has a couple of familiar scents in the fibers, too.

"I could tell you all the ways you're an idiot, but it's pointless. You're lucky," Berserker says as he cups Waver's chin, stroking his cheek with his thumb, "that I've learned to care."

He presses his forehead against the turnskin's, his eyes closed. This gentle affection is still so strange for him, but it feels good. He's terrible with words, so this is the only way he can really think to comfort Waver. It eases his own discomfort by letting him feel that he's still here and in one piece. He didn't fail his ally...no, his friend.

Burrowing into the familiar scents, Waver's too upset and exhausted to offer much protest, though his jaw goes tight when Berserker effectively calls him an idiot anyway. He doesn't appreciate the implication that it's somehow his fault he's in this situation, and he's about to say so when Berserker continues what he was saying-- and derails Waver would-be complaints with confusion.

He probably shouldn't be so surprised, considering their entanglement of relationships, but Berserker has been very straightforward about being practical and nothing more. Waver's not sure what to do with this confession of... caring? Or whatever it is...

He just leans into the touch automatically, mumbling something about Berserker being the idiot. It's awkward. He feels so helpless, so unmoored, struggling to focus on his surroundings when nothing makes sense or feels or smells right.

Even if he sucks at words, Berserker's doing one thing right: keeping hold of Waver, keeping him grounded and present. Even when Waver closes his eyes, they're still forehead to forehead, sharing warmth. Mostly Waver's warmth, probably. But that's all right.

Edited 2019-09-26 23:53 (UTC)

There's so much more he could say, but he doesn't. Soft, careful words aren't his strong suit and Waver doesn't need anymore cruelty. Instead, he continues to comfort him physically. The ache in his chest eases a little bit, though it seems selfish to take comfort in this himself; he's not the one who ended up being sold, not like that. It brought back the painful memories from this place in the shared dream.

He strokes Waver's hair and ears as he pulls back just a little bit. The touch isn't exactly confident -- he's still so unsure about how to comfort anyone at all. He knows what he's learned to enjoy and what feels good, all he can do is mimic that. It's so far outside what he knows. Berserker keeps him close with his other arm, refusing to let their be much space between them. He can't offer much in the way of body heat, hopefully the closeness is enough. He even wraps his wings around the turnskin in a bit of an odd hug.

"You're stronger than I thought..."

Emotions are a nuisance.

It's a little awkward having to lean forward on the edge of the bench like this, and Waver ends up leaning more of his weight onto Berserker when he hugs him closer. The wings feel a little odd on his bare skin, but the shelter is strangely comforting. Already, everything feels weirdly far away and wrong, but the way Berserker's wings block out the world feels natural, buffering the muted sensation by putting him in a much smaller world that he doesn't have to strain to focus on. Waver begins to relax, curling up with one foot propped up on the edge of the makeshift cot/bench and leaning into Berserker's arm.

The compliment -- if that's what it is, backhanded as it sounds -- feels unearned. Waver only sighs.

He changes the subject.

"D'you get... erryone else out...?" Waver saw some of them, but frankly, he's been a bit preoccupied.

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