[ The sky's long dark by the time Geralt is jerked back into the waking world. A stone weighs his chest down as he sits up with a quiet groan. His head throbs dully, his throat is dry, but he is awake. And no longer on the verge of collapse.
He lights a candle from across the room, letting the bit of light fill the room. He doesn't technically need it to see. He just doesn't want to startle Sam if the man's awake somewhere by wandering about in the darkness. The house is quiet, steady heartbeats around him, which means everyone's here. Safe.
Gingerly, Geralt stands, testing his weight. He's steady, so he slips near-silently into the area that serves as the kitchen. Finds himself some water, a loaf of bread he doesn't bother slicing. He tears a chunk out of it. He'll buy another tomorrow to replace it. His appetite isn't there, but he's aware he'll do no one any good without food in him. He intends to get out of Sam's hair by morning. Afternoon. The man has enough on his mind—Geralt isn't even supposed to be here; he'd had plans to keep looking into Mal—and he doesn't want to add his problems onto that already heavy plate Sam carries with him. Sam's done more than enough for all of them. Even if Sam's never going to say a damn thing about it.
Whether Sam's been awake this entire time or he's only just gotten up, that's where he'll find Geralt: perched on a kitchen table in dim candlelight, a half-eaten loaf of bread in his hands and an apple to the side, looking like shit but nonetheless an improvement over a few hours ago. ]
sam; late night.
He lights a candle from across the room, letting the bit of light fill the room. He doesn't technically need it to see. He just doesn't want to startle Sam if the man's awake somewhere by wandering about in the darkness. The house is quiet, steady heartbeats around him, which means everyone's here. Safe.
Gingerly, Geralt stands, testing his weight. He's steady, so he slips near-silently into the area that serves as the kitchen. Finds himself some water, a loaf of bread he doesn't bother slicing. He tears a chunk out of it. He'll buy another tomorrow to replace it. His appetite isn't there, but he's aware he'll do no one any good without food in him. He intends to get out of Sam's hair by morning. Afternoon. The man has enough on his mind—Geralt isn't even supposed to be here; he'd had plans to keep looking into Mal—and he doesn't want to add his problems onto that already heavy plate Sam carries with him. Sam's done more than enough for all of them. Even if Sam's never going to say a damn thing about it.
Whether Sam's been awake this entire time or he's only just gotten up, that's where he'll find Geralt: perched on a kitchen table in dim candlelight, a half-eaten loaf of bread in his hands and an apple to the side, looking like shit but nonetheless an improvement over a few hours ago. ]