Jaskier sits behind him, legs draped over his shoulders so that his feet dip into the water. If they had been at an inn with a wooden tub, the bard would've had to pull up a chair behind him to get the right angle, but this way is easier with how the pools are carved down into the rock. Geralt brings one hand up to wrap around the bard's ankle, his thumb tracing lightly over the firm tendon that runs up the back of his heel. He hums softly at the gentle scratch of nails over his scalp as Jaskier finger-combs his hair into some kind of order, keeping it out of his face for his shave.
The bard chatters away while he soaps up Geralt's face, using a particular kind that he favors for this purpose because of its good lather. He only half pays attention to what's being said, preoccupied with his soothing touch, the delicate way he handles Geralt's face. He hears Jaskier's warning about the blade and the cold touch of it doesn't alarm him as it would if it came from anyone else; it's just Jaskier, though, wielding a straight-razor against his cheeks with a steady hand. Geralt tips his head when Jaskier requires it, tips his head back against Jaskier's belly when he needs to get at his throat.
"Twenty-four years," Coën says, a touch thoughtfully. Assuming that Geralt wouldn't have started traveling with a literal child, that means-- "The road's been surprisingly kind to you, bard. You must be at least forty. Most men your age would at least have started going gray."
Jaskier is at least forty-- a bit past that, Geralt thinks, though it's always been hard for him to keep track of human ages. What is a forty year old man supposed to look like? Jaskier has always just looked like Jaskier. He remembers that Yennefer had made remarks about his age during the ill-fated dragon hunt, commenting on the state of the crow's-feet around his eyes, but when Geralt opens his to look up at him, he doesn't see much there at all. He must be different from the day that Geralt met him, when he was barely out of boyhood. But his skin is still smooth and supple, his eyes cornflower blue, his lips soft and pink. Boyish good looks, it'd probably be called. How long are humans supposed to hold onto that kind of thing?
"Hm." His brow furrows. Perhaps Jaskier is just naturally predisposed to looking young, either because of simply good genes or from a touch of something nonhuman in his lineage. If the philandering is a family trait as well, it could be very possible for something to have gotten into the bloodline because of a promiscuous great-grandparent. Elf, maybe. Or perhaps selkie or merrow, since Jaskier has mentioned that his home is situated near the ocean. It's nothing that matters much, but it could explain his youthful looks lasting a little longer than they should.
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The bard chatters away while he soaps up Geralt's face, using a particular kind that he favors for this purpose because of its good lather. He only half pays attention to what's being said, preoccupied with his soothing touch, the delicate way he handles Geralt's face. He hears Jaskier's warning about the blade and the cold touch of it doesn't alarm him as it would if it came from anyone else; it's just Jaskier, though, wielding a straight-razor against his cheeks with a steady hand. Geralt tips his head when Jaskier requires it, tips his head back against Jaskier's belly when he needs to get at his throat.
"Twenty-four years," Coën says, a touch thoughtfully. Assuming that Geralt wouldn't have started traveling with a literal child, that means-- "The road's been surprisingly kind to you, bard. You must be at least forty. Most men your age would at least have started going gray."
Jaskier is at least forty-- a bit past that, Geralt thinks, though it's always been hard for him to keep track of human ages. What is a forty year old man supposed to look like? Jaskier has always just looked like Jaskier. He remembers that Yennefer had made remarks about his age during the ill-fated dragon hunt, commenting on the state of the crow's-feet around his eyes, but when Geralt opens his to look up at him, he doesn't see much there at all. He must be different from the day that Geralt met him, when he was barely out of boyhood. But his skin is still smooth and supple, his eyes cornflower blue, his lips soft and pink. Boyish good looks, it'd probably be called. How long are humans supposed to hold onto that kind of thing?
"Hm." His brow furrows. Perhaps Jaskier is just naturally predisposed to looking young, either because of simply good genes or from a touch of something nonhuman in his lineage. If the philandering is a family trait as well, it could be very possible for something to have gotten into the bloodline because of a promiscuous great-grandparent. Elf, maybe. Or perhaps selkie or merrow, since Jaskier has mentioned that his home is situated near the ocean. It's nothing that matters much, but it could explain his youthful looks lasting a little longer than they should.