[ If Geralt were not about to keel over, he might've even returned Jaskier's smile. As it is, he's already up, trying to exit.
When Sam catches up to him (of course Sam catches up to him), Geralt isn't thinking when he starts to push Sam off—an animal impulse that does not want to be touched when he's weakened—but Sam's grip does ground him, and his scent is familiar. He lets himself put some of his weight on Sam. The questions register; he simply hasn't got the mind to answer them right now, so he starts towards the couch instead. Likely, he leans too heavily on Sam getting there, but at least they make it and his knees don't buckle. He'll take it.
He collapses onto the couch with a grunt. His head is pounding, and the tips of his fingers tingle. He's cold in a way he almost never is—a deep chill underneath the surface of his skin. He takes a second to close his eyes before he looks back at Sam: focused, for the moment. ]
You haven't done anything to me. [ It bothers him, more than a little, more than it should, that this is Sam's first thought. Like he'd done something wrong. Which he hadn't. Sam did exactly what Geralt needed him to, without hesitation, and he can count on one hand the number of people he can trust to do so. The last thing he wants is Sam regretting that. ] You saved his life. I owe you.
[ Fuck. He's too tired to put effort into staying upright; now that he's sitting, he wants to be vertical altogether. He grapples around the cushions on the couch, knocks a couple to the ground so he can lay back. The truth of it is, it doesn't occur to him that Sam finds his condition alarming to any real extent, and he's too out of it to read Sam how he normally might've. Geralt's been at death's door so often, this isn't anywhere near the worst. He needs sleep, something to eat when he wakes. As long as he's breathing, his body will sort itself out. That's what they made him for. ]
She thinks she did it. [ Geralt doesn't explain; his eyes are already slipping shut. Is Ciri here? He needs to talk to her, and he's worried she's vanished somewhere again. (Like before.) ] Look in on her for me.
no subject
When Sam catches up to him (of course Sam catches up to him), Geralt isn't thinking when he starts to push Sam off—an animal impulse that does not want to be touched when he's weakened—but Sam's grip does ground him, and his scent is familiar. He lets himself put some of his weight on Sam. The questions register; he simply hasn't got the mind to answer them right now, so he starts towards the couch instead. Likely, he leans too heavily on Sam getting there, but at least they make it and his knees don't buckle. He'll take it.
He collapses onto the couch with a grunt. His head is pounding, and the tips of his fingers tingle. He's cold in a way he almost never is—a deep chill underneath the surface of his skin. He takes a second to close his eyes before he looks back at Sam: focused, for the moment. ]
You haven't done anything to me. [ It bothers him, more than a little, more than it should, that this is Sam's first thought. Like he'd done something wrong. Which he hadn't. Sam did exactly what Geralt needed him to, without hesitation, and he can count on one hand the number of people he can trust to do so. The last thing he wants is Sam regretting that. ] You saved his life. I owe you.
[ Fuck. He's too tired to put effort into staying upright; now that he's sitting, he wants to be vertical altogether. He grapples around the cushions on the couch, knocks a couple to the ground so he can lay back. The truth of it is, it doesn't occur to him that Sam finds his condition alarming to any real extent, and he's too out of it to read Sam how he normally might've. Geralt's been at death's door so often, this isn't anywhere near the worst. He needs sleep, something to eat when he wakes. As long as he's breathing, his body will sort itself out. That's what they made him for. ]
She thinks she did it. [ Geralt doesn't explain; his eyes are already slipping shut. Is Ciri here? He needs to talk to her, and he's worried she's vanished somewhere again. (Like before.) ] Look in on her for me.