“And witchers are taught to work alone,” Lambert points out in return. “Sure, we don’t usually get caught up in problems like ‘getting cursed by a faerie you getting trapped in a life-draining pillar of darkness,’ but ... if you didn’t learn to patch yourself up, if you weren’t prepared enough for what you’re up against, you die. Alone, and pathetic. A lot of witchers have.”

Lambert exhales.

“But that was then. We—” he gesticulates around himself. “We’re all right here. And I know if we’re going to figure out something about all this we’re going to need each other. I need you. Even if it’s not always in the way you want me to. I ... I don’t know, that probably doesn’t make sense.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, nose scrunched childishly, only to wince as it brushes over his recent (Strange-inflicted) injuries. Uggggh, he hates talking so much.