Geralt pulls the cloak so that it's at least covering Jaskier's legs, keeping him a little warmer. Humans are so susceptible to temperatures, this one in particular, even with the fire blazing. Geralt had scoffed at it before, when they were on the road together and Jaskier complained about the chill, but would still stoke up the fire or give him an extra blanket, if only to quiet him.
One night, when the weather really had turned far more bitter than Geralt expected and he was truly concerned about the bard's ability to endure it, he'd shared a bedroll with him. He'd discovered that night that Jaskier snores when it's cold, and the knowledge haunts him.
He makes an annoyed grunt at Jaskier's sarcasm, reaching for the bandages to get him wrapped up. The pressure from the wrappings will stop the bleeding and keep the salve in place, and, gods willing, he'd heal quicker. The witcher has to reach around his torso to cover his wounds, leaning in close enough that Jaskier can probably feel the warmth of his body.
"It isn't the same. You're a bard, not a witcher."
And by virtue of that, every ounce of Jaskier's blood was worth more than Geralt's. A witcher's body was made to withstand so much, and he could lose pints and still keep going, leave wounds untended and still heal from them. He wouldn't need this to survive, the careful binding of his injuries, tying the knot just so and tucking it away so that it wouldn't catch on anything. He pulls a bottle of yellowish oil out of his pack, uncorks it-- there's the faint smell of celandine-- and pours some onto his fingers. He'll try to rub some of it into the bruises on the bard's face, if he'll let him get that close, to take down the swelling.
"You are foolish. Didn't you hear me?"
He'd said it, he told him that the blessing he'd wished for wasn't a blessing at all.
"I just found you, I'm not going to fucking leave after I've been riding across half the damn Continent." What a waste of time that would be for everyone. "And the things I said on that mountain were... I was angry. I lost my temper."
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One night, when the weather really had turned far more bitter than Geralt expected and he was truly concerned about the bard's ability to endure it, he'd shared a bedroll with him. He'd discovered that night that Jaskier snores when it's cold, and the knowledge haunts him.
He makes an annoyed grunt at Jaskier's sarcasm, reaching for the bandages to get him wrapped up. The pressure from the wrappings will stop the bleeding and keep the salve in place, and, gods willing, he'd heal quicker. The witcher has to reach around his torso to cover his wounds, leaning in close enough that Jaskier can probably feel the warmth of his body.
"It isn't the same. You're a bard, not a witcher."
And by virtue of that, every ounce of Jaskier's blood was worth more than Geralt's. A witcher's body was made to withstand so much, and he could lose pints and still keep going, leave wounds untended and still heal from them. He wouldn't need this to survive, the careful binding of his injuries, tying the knot just so and tucking it away so that it wouldn't catch on anything. He pulls a bottle of yellowish oil out of his pack, uncorks it-- there's the faint smell of celandine-- and pours some onto his fingers. He'll try to rub some of it into the bruises on the bard's face, if he'll let him get that close, to take down the swelling.
"You are foolish. Didn't you hear me?"
He'd said it, he told him that the blessing he'd wished for wasn't a blessing at all.
"I just found you, I'm not going to fucking leave after I've been riding across half the damn Continent." What a waste of time that would be for everyone. "And the things I said on that mountain were... I was angry. I lost my temper."