[ Even without listening to the steadying of their heartbeats, it's easy to tell when Jaskier and Cirilla both begin to slip away. He watches them eat and drink; reaches out to catch the remainder of the orange slipping from Jaskier's hand before it hits the ground. It's his first night, he realizes, outside of a cell. No bars. No guards. No cellmates to ignore. Most of all, he can hear again when someone approaches. If there's anyone outside their room, approximately how many are downstairs. The opening and closing of a door each time patrons come and go.
He pops the rescued orange in his mouth: not by slice, just the entire quarter that's left. What's there of the bread gets eaten, too, now that the two of them are asleep. With Ciri's head on his shoulder, he decides not to move until he's certain she won't wake. He lets himself doze instead. Couple hours. Then he wakes. Jaskier's still sprawled on the ground, Ciri's still snoring away beside him.
A moment of hesitation passes. Examining how he feels is not where he wants to be right now. Or at any moment, but especially not now, in the late hour. So he doesn't let himself think twice about it as he carefully scoops Ciri up and carries her over to the bed. The blankets are worn, but they are clean. They're tucked around her while he tries not to dwell on how exactly he took her to Kaer Morhen. What happened along the way, what happened afterwards. Where that scar came from. (It looks like a blade, not a claw.)
He drops one of the blankets on top of Jaskier, too, on his way towards the windows that overlook the city below. He pushes it open to get some—not fresh air, but. Air, at least. A breeze, to offset the warm night. Sunrise can't come soon enough. He wants the distraction of something to do, of places to look for, supplies to search out. Eventually, the room is stifling enough he winds up on the eaves outside altogether. It's where he stays, right up until Jaskier stumbles out to find him. ]
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He pops the rescued orange in his mouth: not by slice, just the entire quarter that's left. What's there of the bread gets eaten, too, now that the two of them are asleep. With Ciri's head on his shoulder, he decides not to move until he's certain she won't wake. He lets himself doze instead. Couple hours. Then he wakes. Jaskier's still sprawled on the ground, Ciri's still snoring away beside him.
A moment of hesitation passes. Examining how he feels is not where he wants to be right now. Or at any moment, but especially not now, in the late hour. So he doesn't let himself think twice about it as he carefully scoops Ciri up and carries her over to the bed. The blankets are worn, but they are clean. They're tucked around her while he tries not to dwell on how exactly he took her to Kaer Morhen. What happened along the way, what happened afterwards. Where that scar came from. (It looks like a blade, not a claw.)
He drops one of the blankets on top of Jaskier, too, on his way towards the windows that overlook the city below. He pushes it open to get some—not fresh air, but. Air, at least. A breeze, to offset the warm night. Sunrise can't come soon enough. He wants the distraction of something to do, of places to look for, supplies to search out. Eventually, the room is stifling enough he winds up on the eaves outside altogether. It's where he stays, right up until Jaskier stumbles out to find him. ]