[ He leans some of his weight on Sam, though he's steadier on his feet than he was before. If he notices the guilt that keeps flaring up in the other man, he makes no comment. It's not that he wants to ignore how Sam's feeling. He just isn't sure what else to say. He's never made it a secret, who he is, what he is; people can take him or leave him as they will, and if Sam has changed his mind, has decided he wants to be here even with what he now knows, then Geralt will not go out of his way to drive him off. He tried that once with Jaskier already, and he still feels like a bastard for it.
Perhaps he's learning. A little.
His lips twitch. ] I'd like to see it.
[ Geralt doesn't realize he never actually answered Sam's question. He's not entirely awake. When Sam tells him they're going for the bed, he decides not to argue. Bed sounds fine. Great. The couch has been shit for his back, his ribs, his everything. The room's not large, which is for the best. It takes a few steps to reach the bed. He half-drags himself, half-sinks onto the mattress. He's not certain how easy sleep will come now that he isn't pulled under by his body giving out. Doesn't matter. He'll try to get some. He needs it.
Sam does, as well. He wants to tell Sam to go get some damn rest already, that those shadows under his eyes are nearly bruising. Geralt doesn't need to be watched over, anyhow; he's battered, sore, but he isn't dying. He'll recover, given a week or two. But fuck, he's too tired to prod at anyone else to take care of themselves. Probably doesn't have much room to talk, either. He lays gingerly on his side, letting his eyes fall shut instead. He imagines Jaskier will harass Sam when he wakes up later. ]
no subject
Perhaps he's learning. A little.
His lips twitch. ] I'd like to see it.
[ Geralt doesn't realize he never actually answered Sam's question. He's not entirely awake. When Sam tells him they're going for the bed, he decides not to argue. Bed sounds fine. Great. The couch has been shit for his back, his ribs, his everything. The room's not large, which is for the best. It takes a few steps to reach the bed. He half-drags himself, half-sinks onto the mattress. He's not certain how easy sleep will come now that he isn't pulled under by his body giving out. Doesn't matter. He'll try to get some. He needs it.
Sam does, as well. He wants to tell Sam to go get some damn rest already, that those shadows under his eyes are nearly bruising. Geralt doesn't need to be watched over, anyhow; he's battered, sore, but he isn't dying. He'll recover, given a week or two. But fuck, he's too tired to prod at anyone else to take care of themselves. Probably doesn't have much room to talk, either. He lays gingerly on his side, letting his eyes fall shut instead. He imagines Jaskier will harass Sam when he wakes up later. ]