Having always been fairly empathetic — he gets that from his mother, apparently — Blake only notes a difference here because of its strength. Does he suspect magic? Not quite, but as he watches Geralt, only meeting eyes briefly in the reflection, he can't help the desire to be more than just a nuisance. Or a peeping John (but how could he not notice).
"Yeah, so I've heard." The reply is so gentle, it might as well be a light breeze coming through an open window. He's back to smoothing his face a moment later, half-mumbling around his work. "Just hope it doesn't take me a hundred years to know it, too." Is that crass? Blake feels like he understands what Geralt is both expressing and suppressing, and while there is always an eagerness for details, he doesn't deem it fair to invade the other man's space only to drive him out. Still, the undercurrent has Blake in its tow, and he knows he can't fight it forever.
Blake wonders where Jaskier's gone, whether he's giving Geralt space or perhaps dealing with something of his own. Hard to tell, when the sense permeating this home reads almost... oppressive.
"Hang out. I'll make us food." The invitation's backward, he realizes: it's not his space or his food. Offering is tantamount to insanity, all things considered, but suddenly Blake can't bear the despair he feels at the idea of them separate in this house, but alone.
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"Yeah, so I've heard." The reply is so gentle, it might as well be a light breeze coming through an open window. He's back to smoothing his face a moment later, half-mumbling around his work. "Just hope it doesn't take me a hundred years to know it, too." Is that crass? Blake feels like he understands what Geralt is both expressing and suppressing, and while there is always an eagerness for details, he doesn't deem it fair to invade the other man's space only to drive him out. Still, the undercurrent has Blake in its tow, and he knows he can't fight it forever.
Blake wonders where Jaskier's gone, whether he's giving Geralt space or perhaps dealing with something of his own. Hard to tell, when the sense permeating this home reads almost... oppressive.
"Hang out. I'll make us food." The invitation's backward, he realizes: it's not his space or his food. Offering is tantamount to insanity, all things considered, but suddenly Blake can't bear the despair he feels at the idea of them separate in this house, but alone.