Jaskier bundles himself up in front of the fire, stretching out his limbs as the temperature in the room starts to rise and his muscles start to thaw out. It's not exactly a luxury cabin, and the hearth will only do so much to keep the place warm, but with enough blankets and shared body heat, they should at least be comfortable enough to sleep. Or, well, comfortable enough for Jaskier to sleep; Geralt would maintain his usual vigilance, even if the likelihood of a Nilfgaardian ambush is slim this high up the mountain. But there are other dangers-- wolves, wyvern, the occasional basilisk. Nothing that a witcher couldn't handle, but too much for a bard.
Even if he doesn't have the strength or training of a witcher, though, Jaskier is still observant. The lack of sleep and strenuous pace has started to wear on even a witcher, more than what Geralt could reasonably conceal. He hasn't taken a look at his reflection in several days, but Geralt's certain that there are dark circles under his eyes, a haggardness to his face. His jaw is a little itchy with stubble that's getting on its way to being a beard.
"In a minute."
He takes some of the food, mostly the jerky and pickles, and digs around in one of the drawers-- there, the one with a false bottom, and underneath it is a bottle of vodka, one that he'd hidden here years ago so that one of his brothers wouldn't drink the damn thing before he could. There aren't any glasses, but they've shared before. Geralt returns to the bard's side, sitting down heavily in front of the fire and getting under the blankets with him. It's good, both because it's practical and because Jaskier is safe and solid and warm against his side.
"This place only gets used in autumn, on hunting trips. Provisions for the winter," he says, popping open the lid of the pickles and yanking the cork out of the vodka bottle. "Won't be anyone coming down this late in the year. Lucky it's still stocked."
Geralt takes a piece of the jerky and bites into it-- venison, he thinks. A bit tough, but edible, and most importantly, safe for humans. He pushes the bag towards Jaskier.
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Even if he doesn't have the strength or training of a witcher, though, Jaskier is still observant. The lack of sleep and strenuous pace has started to wear on even a witcher, more than what Geralt could reasonably conceal. He hasn't taken a look at his reflection in several days, but Geralt's certain that there are dark circles under his eyes, a haggardness to his face. His jaw is a little itchy with stubble that's getting on its way to being a beard.
"In a minute."
He takes some of the food, mostly the jerky and pickles, and digs around in one of the drawers-- there, the one with a false bottom, and underneath it is a bottle of vodka, one that he'd hidden here years ago so that one of his brothers wouldn't drink the damn thing before he could. There aren't any glasses, but they've shared before. Geralt returns to the bard's side, sitting down heavily in front of the fire and getting under the blankets with him. It's good, both because it's practical and because Jaskier is safe and solid and warm against his side.
"This place only gets used in autumn, on hunting trips. Provisions for the winter," he says, popping open the lid of the pickles and yanking the cork out of the vodka bottle. "Won't be anyone coming down this late in the year. Lucky it's still stocked."
Geralt takes a piece of the jerky and bites into it-- venison, he thinks. A bit tough, but edible, and most importantly, safe for humans. He pushes the bag towards Jaskier.
"Eat."