[ normally, sam is more acutely aware if others. usually, sam is more concerned with those others than even himself. be it the concussion or his injuries or whatever else, though, sam doesn’t catch the tension in geralt, or how the he retracts his hand. doesn’t offer it back.
sam pulls himself up, to his feet. he keeps his eyes on the ground under him, to his own hands and limbs, to literally anything else except for the scene around them. there’s a rolling in his gut, but he can’t tell if it’s the concussion or something else. he swallows, to keep it down, to keep his focus anywhere else, and for that reason it makes him jump when geralt hands him the bandages - a tension shooting through him before he notices what it is he’s handing off. what it’s about. ]
Right. [ he doesn’t look at geralt’s face, something keeps him from it, but he does take the strips of fabric, does make as quick a job as he can of wrapping them around his arm and middle, trying his best to keep his hands steady.
his mind is spinning - on the bodies, in what they’re doing here, on the blood. and maybe it’s the sheer difference of it that has sam so unmoored, how just a few minutes before they’d been joking, nearly laughing, and then - this. he doesn’t even know their faces, their names. he’d caught the bloodied doll, he’d heard the comments they’d made. they weren’t anywhere near decent people, maybe, but-
sam’s stomach lurches, but he keeps it down with a final tightening of the bandage with his teeth. pulling himself fully back together - or as much as he’s going to be able to. he feels sick, but he can’t attach it onto one specific thing, but when sam looks up to see where geralt had busied himself, the feeling increases. unsteady, uncertain, unsure. ]
Ready when you are. [ sam gets out, walking over to where geralt had kicked off his dagger. the dagger he couldn’t bring himself to use. ]
no subject
sam pulls himself up, to his feet. he keeps his eyes on the ground under him, to his own hands and limbs, to literally anything else except for the scene around them. there’s a rolling in his gut, but he can’t tell if it’s the concussion or something else. he swallows, to keep it down, to keep his focus anywhere else, and for that reason it makes him jump when geralt hands him the bandages - a tension shooting through him before he notices what it is he’s handing off. what it’s about. ]
Right. [ he doesn’t look at geralt’s face, something keeps him from it, but he does take the strips of fabric, does make as quick a job as he can of wrapping them around his arm and middle, trying his best to keep his hands steady.
his mind is spinning - on the bodies, in what they’re doing here, on the blood. and maybe it’s the sheer difference of it that has sam so unmoored, how just a few minutes before they’d been joking, nearly laughing, and then - this. he doesn’t even know their faces, their names. he’d caught the bloodied doll, he’d heard the comments they’d made. they weren’t anywhere near decent people, maybe, but-
sam’s stomach lurches, but he keeps it down with a final tightening of the bandage with his teeth. pulling himself fully back together - or as much as he’s going to be able to. he feels sick, but he can’t attach it onto one specific thing, but when sam looks up to see where geralt had busied himself, the feeling increases. unsteady, uncertain, unsure. ]
Ready when you are. [ sam gets out, walking over to where geralt had kicked off his dagger. the dagger he couldn’t bring himself to use. ]