[There is an ease in laying out beside Geralt, a normality, after a thousand nights (not consecutively, of course) of camping beside him, sleeping in bedrolls beside each other or together in an inn room (half the time it's all Geralt can afford.) This bed is rather nice compared to most of the ones they've shared, and even Jaskier can hear activity outside the room... not the loud, raucous buzz of a busy tavern, but a gentle shuffling, a door closing. Muffled words. Was Ciri back? Had Sam gone out to talk to her?
She must be all right. Geralt would not be here otherwise. Certainly not lying in bed. Getting the Witcher to still when he wasn't meditating was hard enough.
Jaskier snorts.] I'm not so sure you wanted to scare me off. [He leaves that in the air, more of a tease than a character analysis, but Jaskier, despite his endless words and hollers and boundless energy has always been quite perceptive. The White Wolf in the corner of the pub, tucked in a bench with his two swords beside him, radiating an aura of get the fuck away from me -- a man who took a job for shit pay on what almost appeared to be mere whim, who offered him a walk back to town with no further explanation.
Who came running back from his mission because a bard had blown up.
Jaskier pinches Geralt's cheek.] Who could be afraid of this? It'd be like being afraid of a baby griffin.
[He has to be twice as annoying for being twice nearly dead. And because his heart is squeezing painfully with overwhelming affection for this Witcher. It's not the first time he's saved Jaskier's life, but, fuck -- it's a reminder of what he'll do to save it.
It has never been a joke to him, really, the thought of Geralt as a knight. Well. Outside his abysmal attitude.]
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She must be all right. Geralt would not be here otherwise. Certainly not lying in bed. Getting the Witcher to still when he wasn't meditating was hard enough.
Jaskier snorts.] I'm not so sure you wanted to scare me off. [He leaves that in the air, more of a tease than a character analysis, but Jaskier, despite his endless words and hollers and boundless energy has always been quite perceptive. The White Wolf in the corner of the pub, tucked in a bench with his two swords beside him, radiating an aura of get the fuck away from me -- a man who took a job for shit pay on what almost appeared to be mere whim, who offered him a walk back to town with no further explanation.
Who came running back from his mission because a bard had blown up.
Jaskier pinches Geralt's cheek.] Who could be afraid of this? It'd be like being afraid of a baby griffin.
[He has to be twice as annoying for being twice nearly dead. And because his heart is squeezing painfully with overwhelming affection for this Witcher. It's not the first time he's saved Jaskier's life, but, fuck -- it's a reminder of what he'll do to save it.
It has never been a joke to him, really, the thought of Geralt as a knight. Well. Outside his abysmal attitude.]