Geralt's already pretty sure that Jaskier's feeling better by the time he makes it out of the shower-- he was singing in it, loud enough that Geralt had heard him out near the kitchen, so that boded well. Those suspicions are confirmed by the musician himself, when he returns freshly washed and dressed in a yellow matching pajama set. It suits him, really-- walking around barefoot in a cozy apartment, comfortable and soft and smelling faintly of expensive floral shampoo.
Jaskier asks him a question and Geralt hums in response, mostly missing it. His head feels a little slow, and there's an odd little tingly feeling making its way across his scalp-- tired, probably. There's been a lot of work to be done on the ranch and he's always been bad at getting enough sleep. He'll just drink a strong cup of coffee and he'll be fine to drive back home.
"Black. Strong."
He lets Jaskier's chatter wash over him while he busies himself with making coffee, some long rambling story about making jam and cookies from the fruit that Geralt had sent him home with. Something about the cookies being something he ate when he was a child, something about a grandmother? Geralt isn't paying much attention, not to the words, at least-- the sound of his voice is nice, the rhythm and cadence of it soothing. It doesn't really matter too much, anyway, Jaskier doesn't seem to require much input from him and seems fine with just having a warm, living body to chat at.
Then the musician is standing on the other side of the counter, the tray of cookies and brownies sitting between them, and Geralt doesn't remember how he got there? One moment he was chatting on the other side of the kitchen, then he was right there, looking at him expectantly. Geralt frowns; why does he feel so fucking stupid? It's almost like all of those times when he was a kid and he would sneak out at night to--
oh.
"Jaskier," he says, and even his own voice sounds strange to his ears, "what the fuck was in those brownies?"
He has a very good idea of what was in those brownies, now, and it means that he's not going to be able to drive home until the morning, which really makes his plans to meet Eskel first-thing to do some repairs on the goat enclosure more difficult. He might have to text him. God, he might have to text him while high, this is a fucking nightmare.
no subject
Jaskier asks him a question and Geralt hums in response, mostly missing it. His head feels a little slow, and there's an odd little tingly feeling making its way across his scalp-- tired, probably. There's been a lot of work to be done on the ranch and he's always been bad at getting enough sleep. He'll just drink a strong cup of coffee and he'll be fine to drive back home.
"Black. Strong."
He lets Jaskier's chatter wash over him while he busies himself with making coffee, some long rambling story about making jam and cookies from the fruit that Geralt had sent him home with. Something about the cookies being something he ate when he was a child, something about a grandmother? Geralt isn't paying much attention, not to the words, at least-- the sound of his voice is nice, the rhythm and cadence of it soothing. It doesn't really matter too much, anyway, Jaskier doesn't seem to require much input from him and seems fine with just having a warm, living body to chat at.
Then the musician is standing on the other side of the counter, the tray of cookies and brownies sitting between them, and Geralt doesn't remember how he got there? One moment he was chatting on the other side of the kitchen, then he was right there, looking at him expectantly. Geralt frowns; why does he feel so fucking stupid? It's almost like all of those times when he was a kid and he would sneak out at night to--
oh.
"Jaskier," he says, and even his own voice sounds strange to his ears, "what the fuck was in those brownies?"
He has a very good idea of what was in those brownies, now, and it means that he's not going to be able to drive home until the morning, which really makes his plans to meet Eskel first-thing to do some repairs on the goat enclosure more difficult. He might have to text him. God, he might have to text him while high, this is a fucking nightmare.