There's a unique flow that Blake slots into well, easily taking on the simple instructions. Being useful is like a balm, at least, a distraction from what could easily become too heavy for him to carry. It makes room in his head, allowing for him to process a bit more quickly than before.
He recaps a bottle, a thoughtful hum expressing itself in an almost relieved-sounding breath out. There's something very humanizing about knowing the depths of a persons suffering; if Blake could live to a hundred, he'd probably retain those scars just as long. It serves a reminder, just the same as Geralt's careful observations, and he scratches at his jawline, at the scar he still bears (along with so many more) from that time underground. Abraxas doesn't let him forget, and on days when the weather is particularly bad, the scars itch and ache and feel tight. Ready to tear. Today, it's exceptionally bad, even with the wash.
"I'm thirty," he says, amused. Enjoy being haunted for seventy years more is quite the sentiment. For some reason, it only softens Blake's demeanor. He reaches to clasp Geralt's forearm, squeezing once gently. For as aloof as he can appear, there's a trend towards tactile contact that proves Blake isn't entirely lacking in the same kind of humanity being attributed to the Witcher. "I hope I can still care as much at your age. Or that I look anywhere near as good." Credit where credit is due.
The gloves he'd made Geralt draw his attention and he drifts away to inspect them more thoroughly. He'd seen Geralt wear them and he can tell they're used more often than ceremoniously for Blake's benefit and observation. He doesn't sense Geralt's the type for that, anyway. But that he keeps anything at all — even something so simple as a piece of cordage — speaks in strange ways to Blake. Who keeps gifts out of pity? Guilt, perhaps, but there's none of that here. Then again, what sentiments could he truly inspire that aren't based solely on the uneven displays over the past year? Blake rubs his thumb over the palm of the glove, impressed with the ruggedness that's been maintained. He can see changes he would make now, but doesn't dare take them. Instead, he places the gloves back, gingerly hoping to return them perfectly even if he isn't trying to hide this intrusion.
"You said to hang, but I really oughta get out of your hair." When you've been deemed little more than second-hand, you worry about overstaying your welcome. Blake likes this home and he appreciates the people here. He wants to be able to come back and feel it's for a better reason than his own desperation.
no subject
He recaps a bottle, a thoughtful hum expressing itself in an almost relieved-sounding breath out. There's something very humanizing about knowing the depths of a persons suffering; if Blake could live to a hundred, he'd probably retain those scars just as long. It serves a reminder, just the same as Geralt's careful observations, and he scratches at his jawline, at the scar he still bears (along with so many more) from that time underground. Abraxas doesn't let him forget, and on days when the weather is particularly bad, the scars itch and ache and feel tight. Ready to tear. Today, it's exceptionally bad, even with the wash.
"I'm thirty," he says, amused. Enjoy being haunted for seventy years more is quite the sentiment. For some reason, it only softens Blake's demeanor. He reaches to clasp Geralt's forearm, squeezing once gently. For as aloof as he can appear, there's a trend towards tactile contact that proves Blake isn't entirely lacking in the same kind of humanity being attributed to the Witcher. "I hope I can still care as much at your age. Or that I look anywhere near as good." Credit where credit is due.
The gloves he'd made Geralt draw his attention and he drifts away to inspect them more thoroughly. He'd seen Geralt wear them and he can tell they're used more often than ceremoniously for Blake's benefit and observation. He doesn't sense Geralt's the type for that, anyway. But that he keeps anything at all — even something so simple as a piece of cordage — speaks in strange ways to Blake. Who keeps gifts out of pity? Guilt, perhaps, but there's none of that here. Then again, what sentiments could he truly inspire that aren't based solely on the uneven displays over the past year? Blake rubs his thumb over the palm of the glove, impressed with the ruggedness that's been maintained. He can see changes he would make now, but doesn't dare take them. Instead, he places the gloves back, gingerly hoping to return them perfectly even if he isn't trying to hide this intrusion.
"You said to hang, but I really oughta get out of your hair." When you've been deemed little more than second-hand, you worry about overstaying your welcome. Blake likes this home and he appreciates the people here. He wants to be able to come back and feel it's for a better reason than his own desperation.