Geralt makes a mental note for himself-- let the bard ride Roach every once in a while, if it means so much to him. But, really, if they're going to make the trek to Kaer Morhen together, Jaskier will need his own horse. Not even just for riding; Roach won't be able to carry the supplies for two grown men and Geralt's weight, and if he just loads Roach with their things, their pace will be slowed considerably. Another horse is a significant expense, and he can't let Jaskier pick out his own because he knows the bard won't be able to tell good horseflesh from bad, but it'll be worth it.
He hums at the apology. It's not particularly needed and Geralt isn't looking for one. The bard bundles himself back up in the cloak and he assumes that he's had enough, that his emotional outbursts were the last straws on the back of his failing stamina. The bed's decent and clean and the pillows will be fine once they're put back into shape--
But Jaskier apparently wants nothing to do with the pillows anymore, and instead rests his head on Geralt's lap. This is... new. Geralt is nearly a century old, but the bard has managed to surprise him again. His head is a warm weight on the witcher's thigh and his heart rabbits in his chest, too quick for him to be truly relaxed. It slows, though, the longer he lays there, and Geralt can only assume that it's because his presence is a comfort to Jaskier.
He just doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands.
After Jaskier's heart and breathing have slowed enough that he's certain that he's asleep, Geralt pulls some of the blankets over, covering him in more than just his cloak. He lets his hand rest on the bard's shoulder, then closes his eyes and settles into meditation. He could have tried to sleep, but his mind is too restless for it, filled with concerns about Nilfgaard and the trail to Kaer Morhen.
He is pulled out of his meditation some time later by movement on his lap and a soft, distressed noise. His eyes open to the dark room, empty save for the two of them; his hand had been halfway to his swords, an unconscious reaction from years of having to defend against dangers in the night. There are no external dangers here, though, that he can cut down with steel.
"Jaskier?" His hand tightens on the bard's shoulder. "Jaskier, wake up."
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He hums at the apology. It's not particularly needed and Geralt isn't looking for one. The bard bundles himself back up in the cloak and he assumes that he's had enough, that his emotional outbursts were the last straws on the back of his failing stamina. The bed's decent and clean and the pillows will be fine once they're put back into shape--
But Jaskier apparently wants nothing to do with the pillows anymore, and instead rests his head on Geralt's lap. This is... new. Geralt is nearly a century old, but the bard has managed to surprise him again. His head is a warm weight on the witcher's thigh and his heart rabbits in his chest, too quick for him to be truly relaxed. It slows, though, the longer he lays there, and Geralt can only assume that it's because his presence is a comfort to Jaskier.
He just doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands.
After Jaskier's heart and breathing have slowed enough that he's certain that he's asleep, Geralt pulls some of the blankets over, covering him in more than just his cloak. He lets his hand rest on the bard's shoulder, then closes his eyes and settles into meditation. He could have tried to sleep, but his mind is too restless for it, filled with concerns about Nilfgaard and the trail to Kaer Morhen.
He is pulled out of his meditation some time later by movement on his lap and a soft, distressed noise. His eyes open to the dark room, empty save for the two of them; his hand had been halfway to his swords, an unconscious reaction from years of having to defend against dangers in the night. There are no external dangers here, though, that he can cut down with steel.
"Jaskier?" His hand tightens on the bard's shoulder. "Jaskier, wake up."