They get dressed without any further incident, which Geralt mostly chalks up to the fact that Jaskier's libido has been recently satiated. Hopefully he would remain satiated at least until the evening; there's too much work to be done between all the repairs and Ciri's training to take a sex break in the middle of the day.
Jaskier chats companionably the entire way back up to their rooms, apparently content to carry the lion's share of the conversation. He grabs Geralt's hand along the way, just to twine their fingers loosely together as they walk, and the witcher finds that anything that he would've said has dried up in his throat. The bard's hand is the same as it always has been, smooth-skinned except for the callouses he earned from countless hours of playing the lute, but it feels so warm when pressed against Geralt's palm. Has he always been so warm?
He lets go when they reach their room. He has to, of course, because he needs to go and fetch the supplies he'll need for copying and re-binding the books in the library, but even so-- Geralt's hand feels cold without it.
There's a brief flash of light as the coin arcs through the air, and Geralt catches it. He turns it over a few times in his hand. It doesn't have all of the marks and divots that he'd expect on a coin that's been in circulation for over twenty years, all because it's been tucked away safely in Jaskier's lute case. Safely and uselessly, a memento of something that hadn't happened the way that he remembered. Geralt could give him better keepsakes than this, things that are more practical than a coin that never gets spent. Even the rings and other gaudy baubles that Jaskier has from other lovers or that he bought for himself have their purposes beyond just sitting in a pocket-- they can be hocked for cash if necessary.
"It's a coin," he says, and tosses it back to Jaskier. "Use it to buy something. Even if I had given it to you then, it would've been so that you could've fed yourself, not to sit in your bag."
What good is a coin unless it's spent, after all? He would be content with any coin that he put into Jaskier's hands going towards keeping him warm and fed and cared for. For a hot meal or the shelter of an inn or a bath to clean off the dust of the road. Better even for it to be used on a brothel stay, he'd suppose. That would be satisfying a need, too.
And that goes double for when he'd been eighteen. He's a hale man these days, but when he'd been that young, he'd been lean and wiry and still growing into his own skin. Any coin that he'd gotten should've gone towards filling his belly, because stale bread picked up from the floor wasn't enough.
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Jaskier chats companionably the entire way back up to their rooms, apparently content to carry the lion's share of the conversation. He grabs Geralt's hand along the way, just to twine their fingers loosely together as they walk, and the witcher finds that anything that he would've said has dried up in his throat. The bard's hand is the same as it always has been, smooth-skinned except for the callouses he earned from countless hours of playing the lute, but it feels so warm when pressed against Geralt's palm. Has he always been so warm?
He lets go when they reach their room. He has to, of course, because he needs to go and fetch the supplies he'll need for copying and re-binding the books in the library, but even so-- Geralt's hand feels cold without it.
There's a brief flash of light as the coin arcs through the air, and Geralt catches it. He turns it over a few times in his hand. It doesn't have all of the marks and divots that he'd expect on a coin that's been in circulation for over twenty years, all because it's been tucked away safely in Jaskier's lute case. Safely and uselessly, a memento of something that hadn't happened the way that he remembered. Geralt could give him better keepsakes than this, things that are more practical than a coin that never gets spent. Even the rings and other gaudy baubles that Jaskier has from other lovers or that he bought for himself have their purposes beyond just sitting in a pocket-- they can be hocked for cash if necessary.
"It's a coin," he says, and tosses it back to Jaskier. "Use it to buy something. Even if I had given it to you then, it would've been so that you could've fed yourself, not to sit in your bag."
What good is a coin unless it's spent, after all? He would be content with any coin that he put into Jaskier's hands going towards keeping him warm and fed and cared for. For a hot meal or the shelter of an inn or a bath to clean off the dust of the road. Better even for it to be used on a brothel stay, he'd suppose. That would be satisfying a need, too.
And that goes double for when he'd been eighteen. He's a hale man these days, but when he'd been that young, he'd been lean and wiry and still growing into his own skin. Any coin that he'd gotten should've gone towards filling his belly, because stale bread picked up from the floor wasn't enough.