His expression flickers between amusement and something more contemplative. He finishes rinsing out his hair, which—for once—has been let loose from its leather cord.

"Should've sent you to the lake like us. Plenty of room. Patches of ice to sit on."

Fits at least several dozen boys, though it hardly matters when most don't make it past their first few months. He rises from the tub, reaching for a towel as he steps out. Water drips onto the tiles below. Geralt pays it little mind as he carelessly scrubs his hair dry.

Sensing Blake's unease, his eyes linger on the other man, watching the scrape of the razor's edge. Funny that Blake asks him first. If something is wrong.

He pauses. Lowers the towel. He does not consider himself an easy man to read, but he's met his share of the ones who see more than most. It's not accurate to say he hates it, but. On occasion, he does. And he could claim he's all right. Tell Blake to mind his own fucking business. In truth, Geralt has not spoken to anyone about what happened. Not really. He's informed them; he's listened to Steve. He has not said much of it himself. What would it accomplish? But Blake doesn't know Nero, nor what Nero truly meant to him, and it grants a distance that does not exist with others.

After a moment, he fastens the last button on his trousers and settles for a cautious, "It'll pass."