He watches Lucifer go, his shoulders still tense, his fingers still tightly wrapped around the blade he should not have. Knuckles gone white with the barely-restrained effort of holding back. His molars set and lock, a muscle in his jaw thumping tersely for a few long seconds after Geralt asks his question.

Is he okay?

The desire to follow after Lucifer, to slam him into a wall, to impale him, claws at his chest, at the back of his throat, he can taste it on his tongue. He chews on it.

"No," he grunts finally, breaking his dead stare with the back of Lucifer's head to glance down at his hand. The blade is gone. His fingers flex with its absence. Bluntly, "I wanna slit his throat and throw him off the side of the damn ship."

Then, he figures he'd be pretty god damn okay. Peachy, in fact. A ray of friggin sunshine.

But he's not going to, and he telegraphs as much in the look he finally levels at Geralt. He's not going to, so you can take it easy. Take a deep breath. Maybe that's reassuring. He's under control, he's just not happy about it.