Jaskier's fingers carefully trace over the scar that bisects Geralt's eye, a wound that has long-since healed over. He allows it, lets Jaskier touch to his heart's content-- Dandelion had done the same before, though usually accompanied by some flowery prose about his bravery and noble features. The tip of Jaskier's tongue is just poking past his bottom lip, and it is almost unbearably endearing.

"It's quite old, and probably not as interesting as you'd like it to be. A parting gift from the cockatrice of Spalla," he replies. But then Jaskier mentions holding in his guts, and Geralt cocks his head to one side, a curious, almost canine gesture. "You held my guts in, too? The bruxa, up near Kerack?"

He still has the scar, a horizontal slash that runs just above his navel. It had been deep and terrible and he remembers Dandelion's pale, horrified face, holding his intestines in with one hand and feeding him potions with the other. It had all turned out fine, of course, though he remembers how, in the hours of agony while he healed afterward, how he had found comfort in Dandelion's presence. How, when in terrible pain, he had found solace in the touch of his hand on his feverish brow.

Maybe that was when he had first started to realize how much Dandelion meant to him.

Jaskier reaches down and pushes up the sleeve on Geralt's arm, revealing a tapestry of criss-crossing scars. He recognizes the map of tough tissue that twists across his skin-- seems intimately acquainted with it, in fact. But their appearance is different, which seems strange if Jaskier otherwise knows how they were made.

"I tended to them," he says. "The ones that I could, at least. Usually with salve, stitched if I could manage it."

So the ones on his right arm were worse than his left, simply because he's worse at stitching left-handed and bad stitches could be more detrimental than just letting a wound heal on its own.

"Why? I assume that your Geralt knows how to take care of his wounds."