[ Whether Sam is home or not, Geralt has half a mind to tell Jaskier to just break the lock and go inside and fix it for Sam later: they're already here, and he's no desire to ride anywhere else. He's barely hanging onto Roach as it is. Sam is in, though. He can hear the heartbeat, the footsteps, the flutter of Red's wings.
He knows better than to dismount on his own, waits until Sam is by the horse's side before he begins to ease himself off. It's a graceless tumble; his fingers grip someone's shoulder—Sam's or Jaskier's, he can't tell—and he lands awkwardly, but he lands. The truth is, he's fairly certain he isn't that injured. Maybe. Possibly. He's had far worse, far closer calls. None of his wounds are fatal. Nadine did a good job piecing him together, and all he needs is time to heal (perhaps to fix the stitches he tore), but he hasn't gotten that time since he left Nott. Hadn't gotten much of it before he arrived in Nott, either. He's expended every reserve he's had inside him and then some. His body aches in places he's forgotten exists, his head feels like it's been tossed in an ocean storm for a week. He's not ever needed sleep so fucking badly before. If he can plant his face onto Sam's couch, he'll be satisfied.
That's where he stumbles to, in fact: if either of them have the bed in mind, Geralt appears disinterested in walking the extra few feet to get to it. He falls onto the cushions. A jagged, heavy breath hitches in his chest. He props himself up on one hand. His arm burns, bone-deep. As Nadine's medicine wears off, the pain begins to creep back in.
He should say something. Ask about Ciri. Tell Sam about Mal. Everything feels excessively slow, sluggish. He blinks hard at his feet instead, willing the ground to stop wobbling. ]
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He knows better than to dismount on his own, waits until Sam is by the horse's side before he begins to ease himself off. It's a graceless tumble; his fingers grip someone's shoulder—Sam's or Jaskier's, he can't tell—and he lands awkwardly, but he lands. The truth is, he's fairly certain he isn't that injured. Maybe. Possibly. He's had far worse, far closer calls. None of his wounds are fatal. Nadine did a good job piecing him together, and all he needs is time to heal (perhaps to fix the stitches he tore), but he hasn't gotten that time since he left Nott. Hadn't gotten much of it before he arrived in Nott, either. He's expended every reserve he's had inside him and then some. His body aches in places he's forgotten exists, his head feels like it's been tossed in an ocean storm for a week. He's not ever needed sleep so fucking badly before. If he can plant his face onto Sam's couch, he'll be satisfied.
That's where he stumbles to, in fact: if either of them have the bed in mind, Geralt appears disinterested in walking the extra few feet to get to it. He falls onto the cushions. A jagged, heavy breath hitches in his chest. He props himself up on one hand. His arm burns, bone-deep. As Nadine's medicine wears off, the pain begins to creep back in.
He should say something. Ask about Ciri. Tell Sam about Mal. Everything feels excessively slow, sluggish. He blinks hard at his feet instead, willing the ground to stop wobbling. ]