Geralt choked on the swig he was taking of the maaras-lok and put the jug aside, coughing and wiping at his mouth.

"You're not even dicking me around, are you?" he asked. But then, bubbling up from somewhere that seemed to be forgotten utterly when he was sober, Geralt gave an honest laugh.

It wasn't the worst compliment he'd ever been given, frankly. It sounded much more reverential, and much less asinine, but such a thing wouldn't have been strange to hear out of Lambert's mouth.

Followed but an, "but ugh, don't fall in love with me."

Geralt felt boneless and exhausted, now that the adrenaline was fleeing his system, thanks to a witcher metabolism.