[Jaskier pauses before he can start pacing, his heart beating underneath Geralt's hand. He doesn't need to feel the beats; he can hear them. How they tighten, quickened. Jaskier pats the hand, feeling the scars that cover it now.

It's always been a potential danger, even on the Continent. It's simply a variable of life. The only thing he can say now is he handles a bit of injury far better than he used to.

Less crying about death, for one.]

It only took you, what, a century to accept it? [He bends down with a smile, placing a slightly drunk smooch right on Geralt's forehead. He's perfect that way. He's Geralt that way. Jaskier saw it when he was but a lad of eighteen, and he sees it now in his old age, clearer than ever.] I'm all right. I promised you, didn't I? I would never think to deprive the White Wolf of his bard.