[ His gaze stays on Sam for a moment or two longer after Sam nods. Then he goes back to eating. To his credit, he's rapidly making his way to the bottom of the soup. (Sam will probably discover, in the coming days, that there'll be no trouble making sure the food is finished while Geralt is around.) Geralt hears the sincerity behind Sam's words, when he says I'm glad, but he also takes it as something of a courtesy, of a way for Sam to indicate I don't mind that you did. It is not, in other words, a surprise for him to hear it. Naturally, Sam would make it known that he doesn't find it an imposition for Geralt to have needed his help. Not until Sam adds more does Geralt's attention snap back up.
For awhile, he's silent. He puts his spoon in the bowl. He's stopped eating, at once distracted and uncertain. There is being amenable, being willing to help, and then there's this. Whatever this is. Geralt isn't sure, but it leaves him suddenly out of place. Off balance. Because as of late, he's started to feel comfortable with where he stands with Sam, with what's between them. Now it feels like there's more (has there always been more?), out of nowhere, and he didn't see it coming at all.
Possibly someone else would've accepted it, replied with a casual I should be thanking you, left it at that. And shit, if Geralt weren't so damn tired, if he'd not had such a week (month, year), he may have found it in himself to do the same.
Then again, perhaps not. He is who he is, at his core never fully ready to make room for people in his life. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he found himself grasping at a reason to begin to withdraw. When he replies, it isn't with skepticism or disbelief; he believes Sam, trusts Sam means what he's saying, and that's almost what's throwing him off in the first place. Instead, it's with an open bluntness, a fracture of trepidation bleeding through. ] I don't know why the fuck you're thanking me, Sam.
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For awhile, he's silent. He puts his spoon in the bowl. He's stopped eating, at once distracted and uncertain. There is being amenable, being willing to help, and then there's this. Whatever this is. Geralt isn't sure, but it leaves him suddenly out of place. Off balance. Because as of late, he's started to feel comfortable with where he stands with Sam, with what's between them. Now it feels like there's more (has there always been more?), out of nowhere, and he didn't see it coming at all.
Possibly someone else would've accepted it, replied with a casual I should be thanking you, left it at that. And shit, if Geralt weren't so damn tired, if he'd not had such a week (month, year), he may have found it in himself to do the same.
Then again, perhaps not. He is who he is, at his core never fully ready to make room for people in his life. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he found himself grasping at a reason to begin to withdraw. When he replies, it isn't with skepticism or disbelief; he believes Sam, trusts Sam means what he's saying, and that's almost what's throwing him off in the first place. Instead, it's with an open bluntness, a fracture of trepidation bleeding through. ] I don't know why the fuck you're thanking me, Sam.