A forty year old man who had just been taken from the grasp of torturers, so perhaps a little neediness could be forgiven. And there aren't very many people that Geralt would have even considered doing something like this for-- just Ciri, really, and Jaskier. Yennefer would never ask him for something so vulnerable, and the idea of any of the other witchers needing this? Absurd.

Just a twelve year old girl and a middle-aged bard.

A middle-aged bard who had followed him across the Continent for two decades and, apparently, trusts Geralt of fucking Rivia with his life, despite all evidence that he shouldn't. But in time, maybe he could prove himself worthy of Jaskier's trust.

"Yes. Go to sleep."

He shifts, bringing Jaskier with him as he does, so that he can lean back against the headboard of the bed; it'll be a more comfortable position for him to maintain and an easier angle for the bard to lay at. He's forty, after all-- going the whole night with his neck in an awkward position will just make him stiff the next morning. Geralt tilts his head towards Jaskier's, the bard's hair brushing against his nose--

floral oil, lute wax, parchment--

"I'm here." His voice is a low rumble in his chest. "You're safe."

And he would still be there in the morning, when Jaskier woke up-- in no small part because he literally can't get out from under the bard without waking him.