Before, Jaskier had always taken Geralt's shut ups more gracefully, with better humor. But that was before-- before the mountain, before Geralt had not just ruined his relationship with Yennefer, but also with Jaskier. Everything ruined, all in one fell swoop. It's probably impressive, how quickly the witcher managed to drive people away from him.
There's a venom in Jaskier's voice when he says witcher that Geralt's never heard from his mouth. Others, yes, but not him. And there's something equally bitter that makes its way into his scent, angry and sharp, and it almost doesn't matter what he says, not when the tone and his smell say it all for him.
Jaskier doesn't want his help. Geralt frowns, the expression putting deep furrows in his brow. Well-- too bad. He might not want it, but he's going to get it.
Geralt helps him with his clothes where he can, trying to keep him from having to bend or stretch and put pressure on his injuries, both for practical reasons and because hearing his pain makes the vice-thing twist tighter in his chest. With each piece of clothing removed, more injuries are revealed-- his abused back, his ribs and stomach mottled in red and purple, turning into greens and yellows where the bruises have started to heal. His legs, criss-crossed with the marks from a whip. Geralt is intimately familiar with the pain that a whipping can cause; there are towns that have blamed the arrival of a witcher for a plague or a crop blight or some other thing that was beyond his control.
He's pulling supplies out of his pack, his jar of medical salve and rolls of clean bandages, when Jaskier complains about the cold. His big hand rests on Jaskier's shin, left there from where he'd been inspecting a particularly nasty mark, and he feels the trembling start. He stands and goes to the fireplace, adding more wood and stoking it up so that the room warms. When he returns to Jaskier's bedside, he puts the cloak back around his shoulders; it doesn't matter if he gets blood on it, Geralt's bled on it plenty before.
There are more things that he'll need before he can tend to the bard, though. Water, for one thing, both for Jaskier to drink and for cleaning him. Washcloths, food, maybe a little hot mulled wine, if he could manage it. He's on his way to the door before he remembers some fragment of manners and says,
"Wait here. I need to get some things to tend to you."
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him, to fetch what he can as quickly as he can. When he returns, his errand had been mostly successful-- he has a large pitcher of water and a bowl, some cloths to wash him with and a little soap, whatever food could be scrounged up from the kitchen this late at night. No mulled wine, but there is a mug of cider that had been warmed for him.
no subject
There's a venom in Jaskier's voice when he says witcher that Geralt's never heard from his mouth. Others, yes, but not him. And there's something equally bitter that makes its way into his scent, angry and sharp, and it almost doesn't matter what he says, not when the tone and his smell say it all for him.
Jaskier doesn't want his help. Geralt frowns, the expression putting deep furrows in his brow. Well-- too bad. He might not want it, but he's going to get it.
Geralt helps him with his clothes where he can, trying to keep him from having to bend or stretch and put pressure on his injuries, both for practical reasons and because hearing his pain makes the vice-thing twist tighter in his chest. With each piece of clothing removed, more injuries are revealed-- his abused back, his ribs and stomach mottled in red and purple, turning into greens and yellows where the bruises have started to heal. His legs, criss-crossed with the marks from a whip. Geralt is intimately familiar with the pain that a whipping can cause; there are towns that have blamed the arrival of a witcher for a plague or a crop blight or some other thing that was beyond his control.
He's pulling supplies out of his pack, his jar of medical salve and rolls of clean bandages, when Jaskier complains about the cold. His big hand rests on Jaskier's shin, left there from where he'd been inspecting a particularly nasty mark, and he feels the trembling start. He stands and goes to the fireplace, adding more wood and stoking it up so that the room warms. When he returns to Jaskier's bedside, he puts the cloak back around his shoulders; it doesn't matter if he gets blood on it, Geralt's bled on it plenty before.
There are more things that he'll need before he can tend to the bard, though. Water, for one thing, both for Jaskier to drink and for cleaning him. Washcloths, food, maybe a little hot mulled wine, if he could manage it. He's on his way to the door before he remembers some fragment of manners and says,
"Wait here. I need to get some things to tend to you."
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him, to fetch what he can as quickly as he can. When he returns, his errand had been mostly successful-- he has a large pitcher of water and a bowl, some cloths to wash him with and a little soap, whatever food could be scrounged up from the kitchen this late at night. No mulled wine, but there is a mug of cider that had been warmed for him.