( An instinct rises in him like an echo — something old, something new. Something that cropped up in that alternate timeline, but not... not so late that it feels entirely fake. His memories, blurry and inconsistent as they are, hold the impression that they started something well before godhood ever took root in either of them.
Back when they were still people. Back when they were still themselves.
And it stuck around long enough to become familiar, to become a habit. In another life, this would be the kind of moment where he'd close the distance between them because he was comfortable enough to do it, because he'd done it a hundred times before. It would be chaste, but it would telegraph something he's always been terrible at putting into words.
This isn't that life, it's not who they were in what he considers reality. There's the matter of what he deserves, and what he manages to ruin when he puts his hands on it.
So, after a few too many seconds locked in place, his hand falls away from Geralt, and his eyes drop back down to the table before them. Lamely, his throat thick, he simply says: )
Good.
( And he wraps his hand around the bottle instead. )
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Back when they were still people. Back when they were still themselves.
And it stuck around long enough to become familiar, to become a habit. In another life, this would be the kind of moment where he'd close the distance between them because he was comfortable enough to do it, because he'd done it a hundred times before. It would be chaste, but it would telegraph something he's always been terrible at putting into words.
This isn't that life, it's not who they were in what he considers reality. There's the matter of what he deserves, and what he manages to ruin when he puts his hands on it.
So, after a few too many seconds locked in place, his hand falls away from Geralt, and his eyes drop back down to the table before them. Lamely, his throat thick, he simply says: )
Good.
( And he wraps his hand around the bottle instead. )