His gaze matches Blake's amusement. He's not one for false reassurances. Pain doesn't go away. Once you hurt, it leaves a mark. Even decades later, you'll feel it. But you can carry on. You can still find a purpose for living. It isn't the end of everything.

Blake's hand lands on his arm. Geralt looks contemplative, but makes no further remark. Not even when Blake reaches for the gloves. They're well-used and well looked after; Geralt grants little attention to his appearance, but he takes care of his equipment. If one wondered what he bothered to spend his money on besides ale, one need only look at his swords and saddlebags. The gloves are a decent make. Would be a waste to throw them in a drawer.

The finished concoction goes into a cabinet. Geralt cocks an eyebrow. "And undo all that fucking scrubbing?"

He won't stop Blake if the man insists on leaving, but Geralt's invitations are not extended out of courtesy. It's a question of practicality. What's the point of bathing if you'll only run headlong back into a swirling gale of sand and grit?

Still, he recognizes that Blake is, perhaps, a little like a wandering stray. (A little like he was once.) Peering in for brief comforts before slipping away. He doesn't mind.