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The night is cold and dark, not a single star shining in the car as Geralt stares into the flames of the campfire. The hilt of his sword is gripped tightly between his hands and he rests his chin on the top. The fire will need to be put out soon but Geralt is loathed to do so so soon into the night. Jaskier is curled up on the ground. His lute grasped tightly to his chest and his long brown cloak covers his entire frame. His hat is lying on the ground next to him. Geralt stares at it for a few seconds before standing up and picking the hat from off the ground. He beats the dust off it and then tucks into Roach’s saddlebags.
Jaskier grumbles in his sleep and Geralt sees the shiver that runs down his spine. It’s too soon to put the fire out, Jaskier will get too cold without the warmth beside him. The poet should have been in a nice warm inn but they’d been run out of town together. It had been a chance meeting in a tavern. Geralt had been happy to see his friend chugging a tankard of ale on one of the old wooden benches. His lute had been on the table in front on him and Jaskier’s eyes had lit up when he saw Geralt approach. Geralt had watched Jaskier’s performance as if his friend were the only thing that mattered in the world.
When Jaskier performs he forgets the hatred and death that follow him like the darkest shadow. The warmth of Jaskier’s voice and the way his eyes crinkle in the corner when he smiles. Jaskier treats Geralt with such affection that sometimes Geralt forgets that he is a witcher.
He can just be Geralt, and that’s enough for Jaskier.
The joy hadn’t lasted long as the owner of the tavern tried to throw Geralt out for being a witcher. Jaskier had stopped playing and immediately begun to argue very loudly that witchers were protecters and Geralt had every right to drink as any other human in the tavern. Geralt had tried to placate his friend calmly before a fight occurred but in the end he’d had to draw his sword in order to escape in one piece with Jaskier shielded behind him.
Another shiver wracks through Jaskier’s body and Geralt dampens the fire with a quick sign. He lies next to Jaskier, wrapping his arms around his friend’s body. The movement wakes Jaskier who groans and glances behind him. His soft brown hair is tussled and the lines of his clothes have imprinted into his cheeks. Geralt smiles at his friend. He looks like a mess.
“Geralt?” Jaskier mutters in the darkness of night.
“Sleep. Jaskier. You’ll get cold on your own.”
Jaskier nods. “You’re always good to me, Geralt.”
Geralt shakes his head. “No, Jaskier. You are good to me.”
Jaskier laughs but they fall into a comfortable silence until they fall asleep by the glowing embers of the fire.