Vesemir is a difficult man to read, even for those who know him well. And Geralt has known him for nearly a century now, since he was a scared six-year-old, so there probably isn't anyone left alive who knows him better. But even Geralt sometimes has a hard time getting a read on exactly what his meanings are. This one is-- a little bit of a jab, and also a warning, if he has to hazard a guess. He has the feeling that Vesemir will want to speak to him soon, and that it will be about the bard, and the Path, and what wants are allowed to a witcher.
He isn't looking forward to it, but it's easier to not think about it when Jaskier's fingers are twined with his.
After Geralt offers the bard whatever room he pleases, that sour worried smell creeps back in. He doesn't try to anticipate what Jaskier will pick; if he wants nothing, than there can be no disappointment. But he's not displeased that the bard wants to share his room with him, even if the choice is a little perplexing. This isn't like all those times when they had shared rooms at an inn and it was a matter of saving precious coin, or like Oxenfurt, when they were only given one dormitory. There are enough bedrooms that Jaskier could take a different one every week and not run out, could keep all of his notebooks and his lute there so that he could practice and compose to his heart's content without being bothered. And there's nothing that says that he has to sleep in the same room as Geralt to fuck him, so it isn't that.
If he had just wanted Geralt's room, than he could've had it, but he wants the room and a witcher in it, too.
"If that's what you want, than it's yours."
When he'd said that he doesn't speak in riddles, it had been true-- he'd said that he would give Jaskier whatever he wants, so he does. The room is his.
Geralt leads him to the end of a winding hallway, to the last room on the left. When he opens the door, everything is as he left it last winter-- there's little by way of decoration or ornamentation, the furniture spartan and pragmatic, the fireplace made of sturdy stonework. Geralt lights it with a quick sign, to start warming the place up for its new human occupant. The bed is large and sturdy enough to fit a witcher, and covered in thick blankets and furs to fight against the winter draughts. There's a worktable along one wall, sitting underneath a set of shelves that contain potion ingredients of various types, all labeled in, quite frankly, awful handwriting. There's a low bookshelf crammed full of bestiaries, monster manuals, and potion-brewing compendiums, as well as a few less obviously witchery books like botany guides. Several of the lower shelves are dedicated to leather-bound journals of varying sizes and quality-- his hunting notes, where he keeps track of all of the details of his hunts and the monsters that he encounters. On top of the bookshelf, there's a little wooden carving of a horse, standing proudly on a gwent deck that's in far better condition than the one that Geralt usually carries around. A potion manual that he'd been reading before he left last year still sits there, too, and the page is marked with a silk ribbon that Jaskier had once used to tie his hair back. He'd known that it would end up ruined if he took it on the road; it would survive much longer as a bookmark.
Once they're both in the room, Geralt would like little more than to lay down on the bed and sleep, without even bothering to take his armor off. Instead, though, he turns to the door.
"I'll fetch our things."
The bags were still on their horses, after all. If Eskel was feeling kind, he might have at least brought them in from the stables, but considering that he had been volunteered by Vesemir to take care of the horses to begin with, he probably wasn't.
no subject
He isn't looking forward to it, but it's easier to not think about it when Jaskier's fingers are twined with his.
After Geralt offers the bard whatever room he pleases, that sour worried smell creeps back in. He doesn't try to anticipate what Jaskier will pick; if he wants nothing, than there can be no disappointment. But he's not displeased that the bard wants to share his room with him, even if the choice is a little perplexing. This isn't like all those times when they had shared rooms at an inn and it was a matter of saving precious coin, or like Oxenfurt, when they were only given one dormitory. There are enough bedrooms that Jaskier could take a different one every week and not run out, could keep all of his notebooks and his lute there so that he could practice and compose to his heart's content without being bothered. And there's nothing that says that he has to sleep in the same room as Geralt to fuck him, so it isn't that.
If he had just wanted Geralt's room, than he could've had it, but he wants the room and a witcher in it, too.
"If that's what you want, than it's yours."
When he'd said that he doesn't speak in riddles, it had been true-- he'd said that he would give Jaskier whatever he wants, so he does. The room is his.
Geralt leads him to the end of a winding hallway, to the last room on the left. When he opens the door, everything is as he left it last winter-- there's little by way of decoration or ornamentation, the furniture spartan and pragmatic, the fireplace made of sturdy stonework. Geralt lights it with a quick sign, to start warming the place up for its new human occupant. The bed is large and sturdy enough to fit a witcher, and covered in thick blankets and furs to fight against the winter draughts. There's a worktable along one wall, sitting underneath a set of shelves that contain potion ingredients of various types, all labeled in, quite frankly, awful handwriting. There's a low bookshelf crammed full of bestiaries, monster manuals, and potion-brewing compendiums, as well as a few less obviously witchery books like botany guides. Several of the lower shelves are dedicated to leather-bound journals of varying sizes and quality-- his hunting notes, where he keeps track of all of the details of his hunts and the monsters that he encounters. On top of the bookshelf, there's a little wooden carving of a horse, standing proudly on a gwent deck that's in far better condition than the one that Geralt usually carries around. A potion manual that he'd been reading before he left last year still sits there, too, and the page is marked with a silk ribbon that Jaskier had once used to tie his hair back. He'd known that it would end up ruined if he took it on the road; it would survive much longer as a bookmark.
Once they're both in the room, Geralt would like little more than to lay down on the bed and sleep, without even bothering to take his armor off. Instead, though, he turns to the door.
"I'll fetch our things."
The bags were still on their horses, after all. If Eskel was feeling kind, he might have at least brought them in from the stables, but considering that he had been volunteered by Vesemir to take care of the horses to begin with, he probably wasn't.