Geralt doesn't allow very many people into his room; even the other witchers don't generally hang around in it. They might enter if he's there and they require him for something, but they don't have any interest in the things that he puts in it. Jaskier, on the other hand, is fascinated by everything, even the things that aren't all that special. The labels on his potion ingredients, for instance, are simply for convenience's sake; he can't smell the ingredients when they're sealed up in jars, and many of them look similar at first glance, so a label is the easiest way to distinguish between them quickly. Jaskier likely wishes that he was so meticulous about labeling his actual potions, but he can tell the difference between those by sight.
The bard seems charmed by his books and journals, though they would hardly be the kind of material that he'd want to read. All about monsters and potions, not a bit of poetry to them. Geralt makes a mental note to look through the library later and see if he could track down anything that Jaskier might want to read; he thinks that there were some elven history books in there at one point.
Of course, he's most enthused by the little gifts that he'd given Geralt that survived the trip to Kaer Morhen. It's not everything-- there had been a few, more delicate things that Jaskier had given him that simply couldn't withstand the harshness of his lifestyle. A bottle of bath salts had broken, a handkerchief had been ruined by rotfiend ichor. Delicate things don't always survive a witcher's Path.
Geralt barely feels the grip of Jaskier's arms around his middle through his armor, and after chastising him briefly about wanting to go get their things, the bard starts pulling at the laces and buckles that fasten it. He needs little input from the witcher by this point to get the leather off, only occasionally requiring him to move an arm so that he can slide off a spaulder or to bend over to pull the main cuirass off. Geralt ought to clean it and oil it before going to bed, but... he's exhausted, and it weighs heavier on him now that he doesn't have some desperate purpose driving him forward. Everyone that he cares about are safe. Jaskier is safe, his child surprise is under the watchful supervision of Vesemir, his brothers are accounted for.
"Hm."
That particular flavor of grunt is just for the sake of acknowledgement, confirming that he did, in fact, hear that words were spoken to them and possibly understands their meaning, but offers no further response. He gets through the buttons on his shirt-- and about halfway through, debates the merits of ripping it, but that would also require effort so he just continues on the path that he started-- but can't muster the energy to actually take it off, or the rest of his clothes. Fuck it, he's slept in worse states than this before. Geralt walks to the bed and pitches himself forward onto it, without bothering to get underneath the covers or even take off his boots. The bed frame groans underneath the sudden addition of his weight but holds firm.
no subject
The bard seems charmed by his books and journals, though they would hardly be the kind of material that he'd want to read. All about monsters and potions, not a bit of poetry to them. Geralt makes a mental note to look through the library later and see if he could track down anything that Jaskier might want to read; he thinks that there were some elven history books in there at one point.
Of course, he's most enthused by the little gifts that he'd given Geralt that survived the trip to Kaer Morhen. It's not everything-- there had been a few, more delicate things that Jaskier had given him that simply couldn't withstand the harshness of his lifestyle. A bottle of bath salts had broken, a handkerchief had been ruined by rotfiend ichor. Delicate things don't always survive a witcher's Path.
Geralt barely feels the grip of Jaskier's arms around his middle through his armor, and after chastising him briefly about wanting to go get their things, the bard starts pulling at the laces and buckles that fasten it. He needs little input from the witcher by this point to get the leather off, only occasionally requiring him to move an arm so that he can slide off a spaulder or to bend over to pull the main cuirass off. Geralt ought to clean it and oil it before going to bed, but... he's exhausted, and it weighs heavier on him now that he doesn't have some desperate purpose driving him forward. Everyone that he cares about are safe. Jaskier is safe, his child surprise is under the watchful supervision of Vesemir, his brothers are accounted for.
"Hm."
That particular flavor of grunt is just for the sake of acknowledgement, confirming that he did, in fact, hear that words were spoken to them and possibly understands their meaning, but offers no further response. He gets through the buttons on his shirt-- and about halfway through, debates the merits of ripping it, but that would also require effort so he just continues on the path that he started-- but can't muster the energy to actually take it off, or the rest of his clothes. Fuck it, he's slept in worse states than this before. Geralt walks to the bed and pitches himself forward onto it, without bothering to get underneath the covers or even take off his boots. The bed frame groans underneath the sudden addition of his weight but holds firm.