Geralt stares at Sam, distracted for a good thirty seconds. He's known Sam's life was full of its own complications—of a war he's glimpsed—but somehow, Sam effectively telling him this same thing occurred to him is...nearly absurd. To say the least. The fuck are the chances? He wants to ask, but he can't find the right question. Where does he begin? The part where Sam mentions it isn't the same, or the fact that he almost glosses over saying it, as if it's simply an event that has a risk of occurring?
There's a conversation here, he thinks, that needs to be had when they're not both dealing with. Everything. All of this shit.
The heaviness of Sam's answer distracts him in a different way, in any case. Geralt blinks once. He hadn't thought Sam would refuse, but this is more than a man agreeing to help. And yeah. He remembers what Sam told him the last time they spoke. It's one thing to hear it in that single moment and another to see how much Sam means it. For awhile, Geralt doesn't know what to say. An extraordinarily small number of people exist who he understands would go to great lengths for him. Each of them are intimately aware of who and what he is. Sam is...not. Not really. Not in the way that matters.
But now is not the time to crack that surface. So despite the shadow that flits over his gaze, he only nods. If he can know Cirilla is safe, he'll take it. Out of everyone, she's...it feels like she's the one he's failed too many times. ]
She doesn't deserve to be there. [ There's an implication that Geralt is leaving himself out of that category.
That he owes Sam a favour in return sits on the tip of his tongue, but he holds it back. It's gone a bit beyond that, hasn't it? Owing one. Whether Geralt intended it or not (and he hadn't, at all), they've moved into something else. ] If you ever need me, you'll have me.
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Geralt stares at Sam, distracted for a good thirty seconds. He's known Sam's life was full of its own complications—of a war he's glimpsed—but somehow, Sam effectively telling him this same thing occurred to him is...nearly absurd. To say the least. The fuck are the chances? He wants to ask, but he can't find the right question. Where does he begin? The part where Sam mentions it isn't the same, or the fact that he almost glosses over saying it, as if it's simply an event that has a risk of occurring?
There's a conversation here, he thinks, that needs to be had when they're not both dealing with. Everything. All of this shit.
The heaviness of Sam's answer distracts him in a different way, in any case. Geralt blinks once. He hadn't thought Sam would refuse, but this is more than a man agreeing to help. And yeah. He remembers what Sam told him the last time they spoke. It's one thing to hear it in that single moment and another to see how much Sam means it. For awhile, Geralt doesn't know what to say. An extraordinarily small number of people exist who he understands would go to great lengths for him. Each of them are intimately aware of who and what he is. Sam is...not. Not really. Not in the way that matters.
But now is not the time to crack that surface. So despite the shadow that flits over his gaze, he only nods. If he can know Cirilla is safe, he'll take it. Out of everyone, she's...it feels like she's the one he's failed too many times. ]
She doesn't deserve to be there. [ There's an implication that Geralt is leaving himself out of that category.
That he owes Sam a favour in return sits on the tip of his tongue, but he holds it back. It's gone a bit beyond that, hasn't it? Owing one. Whether Geralt intended it or not (and he hadn't, at all), they've moved into something else. ] If you ever need me, you'll have me.