[ One day, Geralt will ask Sam about half this stuff, but today is not that day. He settles in instead, finding a sort of familiarity with the hum of what Kay has tried her best to explain about the TV and the buzz of conversation just outside the front door.
He does look at Sam at that choice of words: abrupt, off-guard, like he wasn't expecting that exactly. Survivor, as though it's significant, as though it's a title or a mark earned. They've all survived some shit, have they not? Out there, back home. His childhood was drenched in blood and bodies strewn, same as Vesemir, same as what's left of them at Kaer Morhen, but he's never borne the illusion that their experiences are unique. He knows, too well, what humans did to the elves. That Witchers are not the only children discarded by their mothers. Not the only children molded for some purpose or other beyond their choosing.
It's this, rather than Sam's next question, that has Geralt pausing too long. It feels like Sam's recognized a facet of him that isn't real (except it is; it is, and he simply doesn't want to think of that way) but he can't find the words to explain why it leaves him uneasy. Or why it even fucking matters. When Sam shrugs, Geralt meets it with a vague tip of bottle in return. ]
If I get ever there, I'll let you know. [ He doesn't expect he will, so. A moot discussion. He's ended up alone before. He's spent decades alone. Not much difference, to do it for however many more he'll have in front of him.
Geralt catches Sam's smile, the lightness that Sam's extending. Part of him tries to grasp it, but he can't quite manage as well as he wants, even as he responds in kind: joking, a bit, and yet not because Sam has become that. Someone Geralt thinks is maybe good he's got around. Hard time included. ] Is that what you're here to do with me?
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He does look at Sam at that choice of words: abrupt, off-guard, like he wasn't expecting that exactly. Survivor, as though it's significant, as though it's a title or a mark earned. They've all survived some shit, have they not? Out there, back home. His childhood was drenched in blood and bodies strewn, same as Vesemir, same as what's left of them at Kaer Morhen, but he's never borne the illusion that their experiences are unique. He knows, too well, what humans did to the elves. That Witchers are not the only children discarded by their mothers. Not the only children molded for some purpose or other beyond their choosing.
It's this, rather than Sam's next question, that has Geralt pausing too long. It feels like Sam's recognized a facet of him that isn't real (except it is; it is, and he simply doesn't want to think of that way) but he can't find the words to explain why it leaves him uneasy. Or why it even fucking matters. When Sam shrugs, Geralt meets it with a vague tip of bottle in return. ]
If I get ever there, I'll let you know. [ He doesn't expect he will, so. A moot discussion. He's ended up alone before. He's spent decades alone. Not much difference, to do it for however many more he'll have in front of him.
Geralt catches Sam's smile, the lightness that Sam's extending. Part of him tries to grasp it, but he can't quite manage as well as he wants, even as he responds in kind: joking, a bit, and yet not because Sam has become that. Someone Geralt thinks is maybe good he's got around. Hard time included. ] Is that what you're here to do with me?