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Jaskier hissed as he pulled off his boots. He was in pain. So much fucking pain. In his defence, he hadn’t woken up with plans of following a witcher to the End of the World. He’d thought it would be a few round in the tavern and then hopefully get enough to coin to get a room at the inn for the night.
But nooooo.
No, instead, he was stuck in the middle of a dark forest, huddling up to a witcher that possibly hated him in a desperate attempt to stay warm, and he feet felt like they were on fire! He really hadn’t been kidding when he’d told Geralt that he wasn’t wearing the right footwear. Geralt grunted next to him as he accidentally elbowed the witcher in the side in his efforts to pull off his boots.
“You’re bleeding,” Geralt grumbled.
“Ah, well, yes… it would appear that way,” Jaskier replied through gritted teeth, grimacing down at the state of his feet as he wiggled his toes.
Geralt cursed and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “What the fuck, bard?”
“What?” he whined.
“Where are your socks?”
Jaskier just shrugged. He’d worn through all his socks and hadn’t been able to afford new ones. It was that or lute strings and he needed the strings to earn a living.
“You’re a fucking liability, bard,” Geralt huffed, but stood up to root through his saddle bags. After a moment the witcher threw something at him and he almost fell into the fire trying to catch it.
Jaskier felt his expression soften as he looked down at the bundle in his hands. It was a thick black pair of socks. So maybe Geralt didn’t hate him after all.
Jaskier was a nobleman by birth. He was used to a certain standard of living, and even his time at Oxenfurt had been luxurious compared to his life on the road. It had been a bit of a culture shock, to say the least. He’d gone from having servants all his life to having to borrow socks from a near stranger.
Jaskier was also quickly learning that he’d been very fortunate with the pair of socks that Geralt had given him. They had been clean, which apparently was a huge achievement for the witcher. They’d bathed in the river after a couple of days on the path and Jaskier had washed his clothes, much to Geralt’s despair. The witcher, however, had only washed himself… and then put his grubby clothes back on!
Jaskier had been appalled. It was disgusting and honestly, Geralt was beginning to stink. When Jaskier asked, Geralt grunted about preferring to wash his clothes when he had a room at an inn, and not wanting to be caught off guard by monsters. Jaskier supposed he had a point, but then again Jaskier had had a monster hunter guarding his back whilst he waited for his clothes to try.
By the time the did reach a town, Jaskier had taken to walking at least a few feet away from Geralt. His poor nose couldn’t cope anymore. When they finally reached their shared room, Jaskier honestly thought he was going to be sick as Geralt pulled off his socks. He’d never seen anything so disgusting in his life.
Jaskier retched and covered his hand with his mouth. Geralt just raised an eyebrow at him.
“Alright, bard?”
“Mhmm, just peachy.”
Geralt chuckled. “You’ll want the first bath.”
“Excuse me!” Jaskier cried, grimacing at the witcher. “I think you’ll find that-”
“Cleaner water.”
Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut and his protests died on his lips. “Right, yes. Thank you, Geralt, but melitele’s tits, you are at least washing your socks next time! I absolutely refuse to let you carry on like this. Fuck, it stinks!”
Geralt just shrugged. “You have my spare pair.”
Jaskier looked down at his own feet. His socks weren’t exactly pristine but they’d been washed a couple of times. More importantly they were thick, woolen and black. They were so obviously Geralt’s, no one could miss that, and Geralt had been so kind as to lend them to him. Jaskier looked back up at his stinky witcher, and despite the hellish smell, he realised he was a little in love with him.