( In the back of his mind, he feels something. A pull, or a force, or the implication that he might be in orbit around something. A strange echo of present and future, or of present and past — the timeline's abstract, it doesn't make linear sense, but frankly it ain't the first time he's had to live with the sensation of two timelines in his mind at once. It's a disorienting thing if you think about it too hard. Fortunately, he's more than happy not to over-analyze whenever he can get away with it.
His fingers flex absently beneath the bandages. He casts his eyes down to them for one lingering moment, and then drags them back up to Geralt, looking. Really looking. )
Home. ( He says simply, and then easy as breathing: ) You coming?
( Because anywhere that's home to him is always an option to be home for Geralt, too. The door's always open, the invitation always unspoken. This was true in that other life, but that other life doesn't matter — it was true before all that, too. They both know it.
It just feels... bigger, now. Truer. More concrete, now that he knows where their lives end, now that they both know that this place is endgame for both of them. )
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His fingers flex absently beneath the bandages. He casts his eyes down to them for one lingering moment, and then drags them back up to Geralt, looking. Really looking. )
Home. ( He says simply, and then easy as breathing: ) You coming?
( Because anywhere that's home to him is always an option to be home for Geralt, too. The door's always open, the invitation always unspoken. This was true in that other life, but that other life doesn't matter — it was true before all that, too. They both know it.
It just feels... bigger, now. Truer. More concrete, now that he knows where their lives end, now that they both know that this place is endgame for both of them. )