[He raises his brows in acknowledgement of that, tipping the mug back until it's drained. Gods. They really need to invent the refilling ones he has in the Horizon. They're so much easier to deal with. And cheaper.

He drops a few coins on the table for the next tender to grab, who goes by their table and simply drops a full pitcher in front of them. It's clear that Jaskier's got the tavern folk trained at this point.

Why not? He has coin. He worked bloody hard for it.]

You and Geralt both. Always hearing much more than everyone would be comfortable with. [Previously, it didn't bother him. Previously, he had never put effort into hiding something. And it was funny, sort of. In a shitty way. He has an entire alternate ego he crafted over a year, and his hand is what he wants to hide.

It's the first time talking doesn't feel like a balm that will help him. It's more like a chore.

He draws his thumb around the lip of his mug. He shouldn't say it. He shouldn't. It's terribly self-indulgent in the worst way. Pitying. But he says it because he's Sam, and since he met Sam he has always been this easy, easy company.] It's been a long time since anyone's cared to check up on me. [He refills the mug, purses his lips, already hates he said it. He doesn't need people to check up on him, either. He was doing well. He was helping. And the more he helped, the closer it felt he was getting to being all right again. To being something more than a brokenhearted bard. Something more than a man who could have done better.

In the end, though, wasn't that the sum of all their failures? The harrowing fact that, indeed, they could have all done better?]

I could go on and on about how I don't need it, as we all could. But who can deny the joy it brings when a friend shares what's important to you?