[ Waking brings him to consciousness with a startled jerk. The taste of blood is in his mouth, a ghost of it. His entire back feels like it's on fire, which has been par for the course for the past two weeks. He ignores it, peers instead through the candlelit room, fire in the hearth, and finds Sam seated nearby.
Oh. Right.
Fuck. He's woken up in so many different places lately—the dungeons, the woods, Julie's tavern, the desert—at this point, it's hard to remember where the hell he's supposed to be. But he's home. In a sense. As close to home as he's got in this forsaken sphere. He can try to heal up at last. Get back on his feet. Put this behind him. (If only it were that easy.)
His gaze lingers on Sam for a second. Last time they parted, it'd been—he isn't upset with Sam. Or angry. It's nothing like that. If he let everyone who looked at him as though...if he let each instance bother him, he'd never move on. In the end, it's a simple case of not wanting to be around someone who clearly sees him in a certain light. That's all. It's not as though they'd been friends for any significant amount of time.
Regardless, he appreciates Sam for helping put him back together all things aside. He can get out of the man's way tomorrow or so. Repay him for fucking up his couch and pillows. (It's empty here. Geralt prefers it like that, but he knows Sam had several housed here once and it's not hard to notice how they've vanished one by one.
Speaking of. He doesn't bring it up yet. Sam's got plenty on his mind.) ]
sam.
Oh. Right.
Fuck. He's woken up in so many different places lately—the dungeons, the woods, Julie's tavern, the desert—at this point, it's hard to remember where the hell he's supposed to be. But he's home. In a sense. As close to home as he's got in this forsaken sphere. He can try to heal up at last. Get back on his feet. Put this behind him. (If only it were that easy.)
His gaze lingers on Sam for a second. Last time they parted, it'd been—he isn't upset with Sam. Or angry. It's nothing like that. If he let everyone who looked at him as though...if he let each instance bother him, he'd never move on. In the end, it's a simple case of not wanting to be around someone who clearly sees him in a certain light. That's all. It's not as though they'd been friends for any significant amount of time.
Regardless, he appreciates Sam for helping put him back together all things aside. He can get out of the man's way tomorrow or so. Repay him for fucking up his couch and pillows. (It's empty here. Geralt prefers it like that, but he knows Sam had several housed here once and it's not hard to notice how they've vanished one by one.
Speaking of. He doesn't bring it up yet. Sam's got plenty on his mind.) ]
Hey.