Jaskier, he thinks, forgives too easily-- with just a few words, he casts off his anger and reluctance like an unwanted cloak, the bitter tang of it disappearing from his scent. He smells sweet and light and welcoming, a familiar thing that had followed him for twenty years, and there's a part of Geralt that wants to fall forward and push his face into the bard's neck and just breathe. He shoves the impulse aside, of course; Jaskier is injured and their renewed friendship is only fledgling. That kind of contact would be too intimate, friends do not bury their faces against their friends' bodies to memorize the nuances of their scent.
He's caught in a hug before he can move out of Jaskier's reach, however, and though the bard is covered in bandages and his old cloak, he's still very much undressed. The scent of him is inescapable, mixed with Geralt's from wearing his clothes, and that combination is something that he has to steel himself against-- heady like sweet wine on an empty stomach. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he settles for patting the bard gently on the side, like he would pet Roach's flank after a long ride.
When finally released, Geralt grunts in lieu of a verbal response. Jaskier can keep his apologies and the witcher's cloak besides, Geralt will be fine without it. It's only practical that the bard switch from his flashy, attention-seeking doublets to something more subdued, anyway, and even as the weather gets cooler as autumn sets in, Geralt will manage without the cloak. And if Jaskier agrees--
Well. Geralt hasn't even asked yet, and it's not something that he has to do tonight. The bard might not even want to winter in Kaer Morhen, where his only company will be a bunch of witchers and a child surprise, holed up in a decaying fortress until the spring thaw. He would likely prefer the comforts of Oxenfurt or Novigrad, though it would pain Geralt to have to leave him there.
He fetches the tray while Jaskier gets comfortable; the mattress is decent and the sheets are clean, which is about all that anyone could ask for. The food is... serviceable, some cheese and bread and pottage, the now lukewarm cider, but Geralt can't really complain. Jaskier is far better at charming nicer fare from the cooks than he is, especially at this time of night.
"Eat."
He pushes the tray towards him on the bed. Jaskier can eat whatever he wants from it; Geralt will finish whatever is left over. The bard needs sustenance more than he does after his captivity, and a witcher can go for days longer than a human on little to no rations.
no subject
He's caught in a hug before he can move out of Jaskier's reach, however, and though the bard is covered in bandages and his old cloak, he's still very much undressed. The scent of him is inescapable, mixed with Geralt's from wearing his clothes, and that combination is something that he has to steel himself against-- heady like sweet wine on an empty stomach. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he settles for patting the bard gently on the side, like he would pet Roach's flank after a long ride.
When finally released, Geralt grunts in lieu of a verbal response. Jaskier can keep his apologies and the witcher's cloak besides, Geralt will be fine without it. It's only practical that the bard switch from his flashy, attention-seeking doublets to something more subdued, anyway, and even as the weather gets cooler as autumn sets in, Geralt will manage without the cloak. And if Jaskier agrees--
Well. Geralt hasn't even asked yet, and it's not something that he has to do tonight. The bard might not even want to winter in Kaer Morhen, where his only company will be a bunch of witchers and a child surprise, holed up in a decaying fortress until the spring thaw. He would likely prefer the comforts of Oxenfurt or Novigrad, though it would pain Geralt to have to leave him there.
He fetches the tray while Jaskier gets comfortable; the mattress is decent and the sheets are clean, which is about all that anyone could ask for. The food is... serviceable, some cheese and bread and pottage, the now lukewarm cider, but Geralt can't really complain. Jaskier is far better at charming nicer fare from the cooks than he is, especially at this time of night.
"Eat."
He pushes the tray towards him on the bed. Jaskier can eat whatever he wants from it; Geralt will finish whatever is left over. The bard needs sustenance more than he does after his captivity, and a witcher can go for days longer than a human on little to no rations.