Jaskier yowls his displeasure at the interruption like a cat in heat, and while Geralt certainly understands his frustration, he would appreciate it being expressed in a quieter fashion. Especially because he hears the nekkers become more agitated after his yelling fit, and that means that it's going to be an even more annoying job, and it is already deeply annoying. He buckles himself into his armor while the bard mopes, fetches his silver sword, and leaves the cottage to vent his frustrations on the monsters. Once those are dispatched, he follows their tracks back to a nest, and must go through the process of destroying that, too, lest more of the little bastards show up. And, because Geralt cannot possibly be given a break, even once, the nekkers had decided that the best place for their nest was in a hollow where all the run-off from the manure piles went.
Chireadan lets him use the rain barrel outside to clean himself afterwards.
They are able to leave early the next morning, with full bellies and a generous re-stocking of Geralt's medical supplies. All in all, it could have been a far worse stop, the previous night's mishap aside.
They make for the southern pass of the Kestrels, and the further north they go, the more bitter the air becomes. The morning frost can hardly be called morning, as it lingers until the afternoon some days. The cold is coming early, and it's what Geralt had feared-- there may already be snow on the way up to Kaer Morhen. Now it is a matter of hoping that there isn't much, that it's still traversable by a bard and the horses. Geralt cannot allocate precious time for rest, even though the pace is hard on Jaskier-- even he can't keep up his customary stream of chatter.
It gives Geralt time to think. Some might argue that Geralt with time to think is an eminently bad thing, but, if nothing else, the road is good for it. His thoughts are mostly preoccupied with this thing that's burgeoning between himself and Jaskier, the transition of their relationship from something strained and undefined right into would-be lovers. His mind keeps returning to what the bard had said in the cottage, about being open to the idea.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he is selfish. Bringing a third into the bed with them-- despite the fact that they had yet to even make it to bed themselves-- is another opportunity for Jaskier to find someone more suited for him, someone with more to offer than a mutant. Though it is likely that only a whore would deign to grace the bed of a witcher, even with Jaskier to improve the situation, the bard has fallen for whores before. Too risky.
And thoughts of that brings his mind to what he had thought of between himself and Jaskier and Yen. It's impossible, of course, unless the bard and the sorceress manage to suddenly put aside their quarrels with each other, which all seem to stem from a source awkwardly Geralt-adjacent. And though they do snipe at each other every time they are together, Yen doesn't do it out of disinterest; she would not speak to him if she found him boring. It has also not escaped his notice that, those squabbles aside, they are not dissimilar from each other-- they enjoy good food and good liquor and other fine things, prefer comforts and luxuries. Yen would make an excellent subject for any number of ballads, being just as steeped in, as Jaskier put it, death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak, with the bonus of being an incredible beauty and in possession of a reputation that doesn't need rehabilitation. Mages are well-respected wherever they go, and in her company, Jaskier would never need to sleep on a lice-infested palliasse, or make camp in the rain, or eat stringy rabbit stewed over a campfire. She would keep him dressed in as much fashionable silk as he desires. They would make a striking pair, his bright colors and her stark blacks, like a raven in the company of a nightingale.
One might think, in fact, that based off of temperament and interests, Jaskier and Yennefer are far better suited for each other than Geralt is for either one of them.
Sours the fantasy a little, that.
They stop one afternoon to water the horses and refill their skins, and the bard seems to appreciate the chance to wash himself up a little in the stream. The water is brilliantly cold, fresh run-off from the mountain peaks, and Geralt has kept his hands busy with the waterskins while Jaskier bathes his face. That's likely why he didn't hear him, he was too busy splashing water on himself to listen properly.
Geralt's mouth twists; of course there's enough fucking river, Jaskier. It's a river.
"Not that." He caps the waterskins once they're full, keeping his eyes on them as he gets them ready to hang back from the saddlebags. "What you said in the cottage, about a third."
It had been days ago, sure, but Jaskier couldn't have forgotten? Or perhaps he had, and Geralt was bringing it up for nothing. Geralt stands with the filled containers and carries them to the horses, attaching one to each and making sure that they're secure.
"I would prefer not to share."
But that is, ultimately, all it is-- a preference. A suggestion. If Jaskier insists, Geralt will still give him what he wants, even if that's a body that isn't his warming the sheets.
no subject
Chireadan lets him use the rain barrel outside to clean himself afterwards.
They are able to leave early the next morning, with full bellies and a generous re-stocking of Geralt's medical supplies. All in all, it could have been a far worse stop, the previous night's mishap aside.
They make for the southern pass of the Kestrels, and the further north they go, the more bitter the air becomes. The morning frost can hardly be called morning, as it lingers until the afternoon some days. The cold is coming early, and it's what Geralt had feared-- there may already be snow on the way up to Kaer Morhen. Now it is a matter of hoping that there isn't much, that it's still traversable by a bard and the horses. Geralt cannot allocate precious time for rest, even though the pace is hard on Jaskier-- even he can't keep up his customary stream of chatter.
It gives Geralt time to think. Some might argue that Geralt with time to think is an eminently bad thing, but, if nothing else, the road is good for it. His thoughts are mostly preoccupied with this thing that's burgeoning between himself and Jaskier, the transition of their relationship from something strained and undefined right into would-be lovers. His mind keeps returning to what the bard had said in the cottage, about being open to the idea.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he is selfish. Bringing a third into the bed with them-- despite the fact that they had yet to even make it to bed themselves-- is another opportunity for Jaskier to find someone more suited for him, someone with more to offer than a mutant. Though it is likely that only a whore would deign to grace the bed of a witcher, even with Jaskier to improve the situation, the bard has fallen for whores before. Too risky.
And thoughts of that brings his mind to what he had thought of between himself and Jaskier and Yen. It's impossible, of course, unless the bard and the sorceress manage to suddenly put aside their quarrels with each other, which all seem to stem from a source awkwardly Geralt-adjacent. And though they do snipe at each other every time they are together, Yen doesn't do it out of disinterest; she would not speak to him if she found him boring. It has also not escaped his notice that, those squabbles aside, they are not dissimilar from each other-- they enjoy good food and good liquor and other fine things, prefer comforts and luxuries. Yen would make an excellent subject for any number of ballads, being just as steeped in, as Jaskier put it, death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak, with the bonus of being an incredible beauty and in possession of a reputation that doesn't need rehabilitation. Mages are well-respected wherever they go, and in her company, Jaskier would never need to sleep on a lice-infested palliasse, or make camp in the rain, or eat stringy rabbit stewed over a campfire. She would keep him dressed in as much fashionable silk as he desires. They would make a striking pair, his bright colors and her stark blacks, like a raven in the company of a nightingale.
One might think, in fact, that based off of temperament and interests, Jaskier and Yennefer are far better suited for each other than Geralt is for either one of them.
Sours the fantasy a little, that.
They stop one afternoon to water the horses and refill their skins, and the bard seems to appreciate the chance to wash himself up a little in the stream. The water is brilliantly cold, fresh run-off from the mountain peaks, and Geralt has kept his hands busy with the waterskins while Jaskier bathes his face. That's likely why he didn't hear him, he was too busy splashing water on himself to listen properly.
Geralt's mouth twists; of course there's enough fucking river, Jaskier. It's a river.
"Not that." He caps the waterskins once they're full, keeping his eyes on them as he gets them ready to hang back from the saddlebags. "What you said in the cottage, about a third."
It had been days ago, sure, but Jaskier couldn't have forgotten? Or perhaps he had, and Geralt was bringing it up for nothing. Geralt stands with the filled containers and carries them to the horses, attaching one to each and making sure that they're secure.
"I would prefer not to share."
But that is, ultimately, all it is-- a preference. A suggestion. If Jaskier insists, Geralt will still give him what he wants, even if that's a body that isn't his warming the sheets.