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Geralt’s limbs shook so much he was practically vibrating with exhaustion as he dragged himself up the creaky staircase of the inn. He could barely walk, vision swimming and head uncomfortably light, perilously close to passing out right there on the stairs. The witcher knew it was down to more than just blood loss from the nasty gash on his shoulder, his accelerated healing only being able to work so fast – even if it didn’t quite pain him just yet with the toxic mix of potions coursing through his veins.
He must have looked a sight; Geralt knew that much. He’d pushed the limits of his toxicity tolerance on this contract, the last of the night’s patrons in the tavern down below giving him one of the widest berths Geralt could remember. But mercifully, they’d let him be and Geralt was able to make his way up to the room he and Jaskier were renting unhindered. It was a good thing too – Geralt wasn’t sure he could so much as talk with the state he was in, let alone explain he wasn’t a threat. The lights and sounds of the tavern had been agony enough, so much so that Geralt had seriously considered turning back around and waiting out the toxicity effects in the forest – the rain and water-logged ground be damned.
Double dosing on thunderbolt had been a bad fucking idea – any witcher knew that. But the chort was dead now, and that was all that mattered. The battle had been hard, even more so with the ground beneath his boots almost a bog, and exhaustion clung heavy to Geralt’s bones. He’d get the reward from the alderman in the morning – when he looked a little less like a monster himself.
When he came to a stop outside his and Jaskier’s room at the inn, Geralt almost collapsed. He swayed precariously on unsteady feet and had to rest his forehead against the near-rotting wood of the door for a moment to regain his senses. The world spun, even with his eyes closed.
Geralt fumbled with the handle of the door, pressing down and leaning against it further to push it open. It was a small mercy that Jaskier had the sense to keep the door unlocked, assuming quite rightly that Geralt would return sometime during the night. Of course, Geralt had his own key, but he knew for a fact he didn’t have the coordination to use it with how numb his hands felt.
He tried to be quiet as he shuffled forwards into the bedroom, shakily shutting the door behind himself. The room was blissfully dark, more so than the corridor had been, and it was a blessed relief to Geralt’s senses. The toxicity had forced his pupils to dilate terribly, and it would be hours before he was able to stomach so much as the flicker of a candle without pain. In the dark, Geralt could hear Jaskier’s slow, rhythmic heartbeat as loud as a drum. He could have cried with how much he wished it was himself lying there, asleep, without a care, painless.
Though Geralt would endure all manner of suffering before he admitted it, the bard’s scent calmed him like nothing else. As much as he told himself that the effect was down to sheer familiarity, the truth of Geralt’s feelings for the brunet were hard to ignore. With the almost involuntary relaxation that Jaskier’s scent brought, the undeniable feeling of home , the adrenaline in Geralt’s muscles began to dissipate, leaving him even weaker as a result.
The world heaved and spun before Geralt’s eyes, knees threatening to buckle. Still close to the door, Geralt reached out blindly to the dresser pushed up against the wall, trying to steady himself. His hand collided with cool clay instead, the empty pitcher resting atop the dresser instantly falling to the floor with a smash.
Geralt flinched at the noise.
A snort and an immediate increase in Jaskier’s heart rate indicated the bard had woken. He bolted upwards, no doubt startled, before calling out into the darkness.
“Geralt?”
Once again, the witcher couldn’t help but fold in on himself slightly from the noise. It was as if the intensity of his already sensitive senses had been set to the maximum, even the feeling of wind on his skin was too much to bear. Geralt knew he wasn’t good company at that moment and kicked himself for waking Jaskier up.
He grunted in affirmative, trusting that Jaskier would recognise him from that. Predictably, the bard was quick to sigh out in relief, sitting up completely and reaching for the box of matches on the bedside table, intending to light the oil lamp. Geralt braced himself for the inevitable but couldn’t help but flinch as the match was struck.
“Geralt! You’re back!” the bard exclaimed. Geralt’s ears were ringing. “I’ve been so worried about you! It’s different when I come with you, of course, but I hated not knowing you were-“ Jaskier cut himself off abruptly once the oil lamp was lit and he was able to see Geralt’s unsteady form more clearly, the witcher still braced against the dresser across the room.
The light had Geralt in agony, but he kept his eyes open nonetheless. Jaskier wasn’t someone he could bring himself to turn away from, even then. While the brunet paused, no doubt shocked by Geralt’s appearance, his veins direly dark and skin as pale as the dead, the witcher couldn’t detect even the faintest flicker of fear in Jaskier’s scent.
And that was why he loved Jaskier, even when he was being a prick or Geralt was in pain. He’d never once looked upon Geralt with fear (even when Geralt had punched him), never viewed him as less than human or a monster for what he was. Such kindness was rare, even among the virtuous. Geralt was resolute about keeping that adoration to himself, though. What he and Jaskier had was good . Geralt was loath for it to end.
“You certainly look a little worse for wear,” Jaskier remarked, pulling himself out of bed. This dance was a familiar one between the two, the bard often helping him after contracts. But even so, Geralt knew Jaskier had never seen him quite so high on toxicity. He’d have to adjust their routine that night.
“Quieter, please…” Geralt breathed. His voice was gravelly, vocal cords partially seized and unwilling to cooperate. Jaskier paused again, swallowing.
“Is this better?” His voice was softer, barely a whisper, yet it still held the same concern and melodic element to it that Geralt had fallen in love with. The witcher grit his teeth and nodded, squinting his eyes as the flame in the lamp flickers when Jaskier picked it up.
“Too bright…” he gritted out. Jaskier’s gaze flicked between Geralt and the lamp.
“Oh, the light?” he whispered. “I think I know what you mean – I had a friend back in Lettenhove that experienced the same kind of overload occasionally…” And then Jaskier trailed off, unsure of an alternative. “…If you need my help, I’ll need the light to see – we can’t all have amazing night-vision like yourself.”
Geralt grunted, an admittance that he did indeed need Jaskier’s help. He felt no shame in doing so, either. He never did around Jaskier.
“Right then… the light will have to stay lit I’m afraid…” Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “What about a blindfold?” The other man tensed up at the idea, a disapproving sound leaving him. Blindfolds were something one used with hostages and criminals – their overwhelming association was with danger, something Geralt was all too keenly aware of in his heightened state. Jaskier allowed the question to sit for a moment, taking note of Geralt’s obvious displeasure before he asked another. “Do you trust me?”
The answer was obvious. At any other time, Geralt might have been better at mediating his response, but not then.
“With my life.”
That certainly seemed to take Jaskier off guard. He blinked rapidly for a moment before schooling his face into an easy, confident calm. Geralt was grateful for it; he needed all the assurances the other was willing to give lest he float away on a sea of pain and sensory overload.
“Then trust me with this, I’ll take care of you but only if you let me.”
There was a long pause between the two, Jaskier ever patient, before Geralt finally nodded.
Jaskier released a breath.
“Alright…” He sighed. “Bandages should do the trick.”
Geralt watched, too unsteady to let go of the dresser lest his legs crumble beneath him, as Jaskier made his way over to their bags that had been discarded in the far corner of the room earlier that evening. He swallowed thickly, tongue feeling far too big for his mouth, as Jaskier searched for the one that contained their medical supplies. Fortunately, Geralt wasn’t left to wait long.
“Here we go…” Jaskier whispered, almost to himself than to the witcher. He straightened up, setting their medical supplies down on the bed and approaching Geralt with a long swathe of linen. Jaskier kept his movements surprisingly slow, reassuring and steady, nothing like his usual flitting about. Geralt was grateful for the change of pace, heart beating out of his chest and feeling much like a horse about to bolt no matter how much he told himself he was safe.
He couldn’t help but feel disconcertingly powerless, useless to aid Jaskier in his endeavour as the bard came to his side. Being doted on, even after years of travelling with the brunet, was something Geralt hadn’t allowed himself to grow comfortable with.
Hunched over as he was, arms supporting a good deal of his weight as he leant on the dresser, Jaskier stood taller than the witcher.
“Ok?” Geralt nodded stiffly, head bobbing up and down in almost painful jerks.
Jaskier set his lips into a thin line of focus as he set about blindfolding the witcher. He worked quickly, hands firm but gentle, doing his best not to snag any of Geralt’s hair in the process. The bandage was wound around his head once, and then twice, and then a final third time before Jaskier tied it off. He spent a good few seconds fussing with the knot, no doubt fretting over if it was too tight or not secure enough. Geralt thought it was perfect.
Like this, the light from the lamp, although still visible, was far less blinding to Geralt’s sensitive pupils – even with his eyes closed. A dim orange still filtered in behind his eyelids, but it was manageable and with none of the sharp discomfort he’d felt in his head before.
Though it was a relief, the absence of one of his senses set Geralt on edge at the same time. His chest welled with a confusing mix of panic and gratitude. He was vulnerable like this – his overactive mind screamed it at him. Shutting off that part of his consciousness, the part used in combat, was impossible. Danger, danger, dange-
A warm hand smoothed over Geralt’s wrist, a thumb brushing over his hammering pulse point.
Jaskier.
Geralt released a breath harshly, not having been aware he’d stopped breathing all together. He sucked in another, chest stuttering as he tried to regain control over his lungs. The hand stayed gentle and soothing throughout. Geralt couldn’t sense any other movement in the room.
“Good job.”
Geralt shivered, swallowing again lest he say something he’d regret.
“Let’s get you sat down, hmm? You look like you’re about to keel over."
Another jerky nod came from the witcher.
“Right then…”
Jaskier’s grip on Geralt’s wrist tightened, a second hand tentatively making its way around Geralt’s back, ready to support him the moment he faltered. Geralt appreciated it immensely, stumbling like a new-born fawn as he followed Jaskier’s careful direction, leaning heavily on the bard’s arm. “Just turn around here – like that, yes – and take hold of my arms so you can sit down…”
A heavy breath left Geralt as he collapsed onto the soft mattress beneath him. He heard the tell-tale clink of glass from his left from the vials Jaskier had discarded on the bed earlier. Jaskier gave an approving hum from somewhere opposite him, still keeping a reassuring hand on Geralt’s forearm.
“Is there anything I should be getting you for the toxicity?”
“Nah…” Geralt grunted. Articulating anything further than that was impossible with the poison racing through his system. His mouth and throat felt like sandpaper and Geralt knew all the water in the world wouldn’t help. He kicked himself for not replenishing his golden oriole supply before taking on the contract. He’d only remembered his complete lack of it until it was too late.
“Ok…” Jaskier paused, considering which angle to start from.
Though Geralt was grateful for the blindfold, he mourned the fact he couldn’t gaze at the bard’s face.
“Let’s get this armour off, shall we?”
Following through with Jaskier’s suggestion, even with the brunet’s aid, was a struggle to say the least. In several places, Geralt’s armour had been dented, the twisted metal digging into his skin and making removal far more uncomfortable than it needed to be. As Jaskier worked on removing the armour and padding around Geralt’s injured shoulder, he couldn’t help the pained grunt that left him. He was almost worried his teeth would shatter with how hard he was gritting them.
“Sorry…” Jaskier made a soothing sound of understanding but didn’t stop with his task. They both knew a little pain now would absolve Geralt from a bucket load of it later.
As his breastplate was set heavily on the ground with a clunk, Geralt felt as if he were crawling out of his skin. It was an effect of the high toxicity he knew, skin hypersensitive, but that didn’t make it any more bearable. Each pass of his undershirt felt like needles, the hem of his trousers digging agonisingly into his waist.
He needed them off.
Looking back on the events that followed later, the witcher would no doubt be filled to the brim with embarrassment, perhaps so much so that a rare blush would make it onto his face, the strength of it surpassing his mutations. But in that moment, all Geralt cared about was escaping the pain – getting himself as comfortable as he could in an unavoidably uncomfortable situation.
He began to paw at his shirt, pushing the material up ineffectively but too uncoordinated to do anything else about it. Geralt grunted in frustration. Jaskier paused where he’d finally managed to tug off Geralt’s boots.
“Geralt?”
If the witcher had still retained the ability to cry, he would have.
“Off…” He grumbled, voice like the thunder of an approaching storm.
Jaskier didn’t move.
“Hurts…”
That got the other man’s attention. Jaskier’s quick hands sprung into action, pulling a little frantically at the ties of Geralt’s shirt.
Geralt could smell Jaskier’s apprehension in the air, and something else too, but was too overwhelmed to put a name to it. He hissed as the bard tugged his shirt over his head, very nearly disturbing the blindfold. It fell to the floor at their sides with an alarmingly wet sound, no doubt soaked with blood from the wound that still plagued Geralt’s shoulder.
Geralt huffed with relief as the offending material left him. Sure, he was a little cold now, but that discomfort paled in comparison to what the shirt had caused. He could feel the sweat beginning to dry on his back and chest, tacky and damp.
Jaskier said nothing for several long moments. He was no longer touching Geralt, breathing shallow and quick to the witcher’s ears. Was something wrong? Without his vision, Geralt didn’t know. The familiar nauseous anxiety he’d been feeling earlier, that had dissipated into something more manageable in the last few minutes, came back in full force. Geralt toyed with the idea of removing his blindfold to check on the bard, even though he knew the action would leave him in agony.
“Right then…” Jaskier’s voice broke around the phrase.
Geralt’s thoughts paused their downward spiral.
“I’m afraid I can’t do much about the grime – if we ordered a bath at this time of the night, we’d get kicked out for sure – you saw the look on that innkeeper when we arrived, didn’t you?”
The other man was speaking quickly, words rapid as if he were nervous. Geralt couldn’t fathom why for the life of him.
“I think the sheets will survive though, you’ve looked worse… menacing black veins not included… let’s get that shoulder fixed and you can sleep it off, hmm?”
Geralt squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and nodded determinedly. He knew it would hurt. Of course, it would. He was sensitive to even the lightest of touches – a needle going through his skin, disinfectant being poured over the wound – it would be like swallowing fire. But still, Geralt knew it was necessary, lest he be in even more pain when his toxicity finally lowered.
With the blindfold, he couldn’t see Jaskier’s facial expression, but he knew the brunet well enough to imagine what he looked like – a small frown crinkling the space between his eyebrows and lips set as he focused his attention on Geralt. There was a gentle squeeze to the witcher’s shoulder, comforting even in the silence that lay between them. Jaskier may have been a loudmouth at heart, but he was remarkably good at knowing when Geralt needed silence. He didn’t flinch from the gentle squeeze as he would have had it been anyone else, most of the touches feeling like a hot knife on his skin. Geralt trusted the other implicitly, with his life – he had for a while. He never slept more deeply on the path than he did when next to his bard.
There was the clinking of vials and the shuffling of sheets before the mattress next to Geralt dipped, Jaskier keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder throughout. His thumb skirted around the edge of the injury, careful not to aggravate it any more than needed in his examination.
“What was it that caused this? Should I be worried about some kind of antivenom?” Jaskier murmured.
“Was its horn – less likely to get infected than its claws… and chorts don’t have venom anyway, bard…” Geralt added, just because he could. His heightened senses made him more irritable than usual but Jaskier’s thick skin was well established.
“Right… I’ll give it a clean anyway, just to be safe if that’s ok?”
Geralt grunted and gave a stiff nod.
Jaskier’s hands left him as he went about gathering what supplies were needed and Geralt internally mourned the loss. All types of self-control were more difficult with such high levels of toxicity and it took everything Geralt had not to whine and lean into where he sensed the bard sitting next to him. But even so, he controlled himself. Jaskier was more likely to indulge him if he did such a thing, sure, but it wouldn’t mean anything. Good things like that didn’t happen to people like Geralt.
“It’ll be over before you know it, ok?” Jaskier’s hand returned to Geralt’s shoulder, steadying him. It was only then the witcher realised he’d been shaking. Geralt swallowed and did his best not to tense up at the pain he was sure would follow. He gave another jerky nod.
Predictably, the moment the white gull-soaked rag touched Geralt’s skin, it burned more than dragon's fire. He sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth, entire face scrunching up as he fought to control his body’s reactions. Years of training at Kaer Morhen and subsequent seasons on the path had honed his senses and reactions, making it second nature to lash out at anything that caused him pain. Then, that reflex was strong, but Geralt would rather die than hurt Jaskier.
Instead, he focused on keeping his heart rate slow, knowing that the more it raced, the worse this would be. Geralt focused on Jaskier’s as well, the steady thump behind his ribcage and the slow breaths the bard took even and measured despite the fact he had to be uncomfortable at causing Geralt pain. Jaskier’s own calmness helped immeasurably. If the bard was relaxed, Geralt knew he could be too.
“Sorry…” Jaskier sighed once he deemed the wound successfully cleaned. He smoothed three fingers up Geralt’s shoulder and brushed his hair away delicately.
The gesture was oddly reverent, as if Jaskier had to do it somehow – but Geralt didn’t have the extra attention to spare to question it any further.
“All clean now,” the bard continued. “I’m gonna stitch you up now, stop it from scarring too badly…”
“’m covered in them already,” Geralt grunted, voice almost inaudible with how low and gravelly it had become in his pain. “Another won’t make a difference…”
“That may be true, but it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be treated with all the care I can afford.” Jaskier’s tone turned remarkably firm, and in his haze of overwhelmed agony, Geralt let the matter drop and allowed himself to be cared for. “As you know, I’m pretty handy with a needle – my clothes would never have survived this long otherwise. I’ll try to be quick…”
Jaskier didn’t wait for Geralt’s permission this time. Doing so would have given the witcher too much time to tense up. The first pass of the needle was nothing short of searing. Geralt was sure he passed out for a flash, vision turning a bright white behind his blindfold. A sound bubbled up from his throat and Geralt couldn’t stop this one. It was pained, wounded and seeking comfort.
“I know…” Jaskier soothed, clicking his tongue in sympathy. “Shh… It’ll be over before you know it…”
He didn’t pause his stitching long enough to squeeze Geralt’s arm again no matter how much the other man wished he would. A kind touch was all he needed just then. His bottom lip wobbled uncontrollably.
And then suddenly, the searing stinging was gone. Geralt wasn’t sure if he’d lost time in his agony, or if Jaskier was just that quick – though it felt like an eternity and no time at all at once. That small mercy didn’t seem to matter though. Geralt gasped like a drowning man, chest heaving as he struggled to get his breathing under control. He was barely aware of Jaskier as he stood up, a delicate hand cradling the back of Geralt’s head.
“You’re hyperventilating, darling.” Once again, the bard was unfailingly calm. “Try to match my breathing if you can, it’ll make everything else easier to deal with…”
Gently, he used his grip on Geralt’s head to guide the witcher forwards a little, until his forehead was pressed to the bard’s stomach. Jaskier’s other hand rubbed at his back, almost cuddling the witcher as he exaggerated slow, deep breaths for Geralt’s benefit.
Though he would never admit it later, either to himself or to Jaskier, the coddling helped immensely. Face pressed into Jaskier’s stomach, Geralt’s senses were more muted. His vision was now completely dark where before light had still been leaking through, even with his eyes closed and the layered blindfold. Jaskier’s gentle touches tingled pleasantly – so unlike the pinpricks anyone else’s fingers would have brought. His nose was filled with nothing but the bard’s scent, floral and spicy at the same time due to the ridiculous perfumes Jaskier favoured when he could.
It took some time, sure, but with some effort, Geralt was able to get his breathing back under control.
“There we go…”
Dexterous fingers carded through his hair.
“Thought I’d lost you for a second, hmm? It was a lot, I know – but you did so well, you were so brave…”
On any other occasion, Geralt would have found the comments patronising. But then, he soaked them up as bread would a warm bowl of soup.
“It’s all done now, though… no more, I promise…”
Geralt sniffed wetly, no doubt creating a stain on Jaskier’s sleep shirt.
“How about I get you some water, hmm?”
Geralt nodded. Speech seemed like too much at that point. Jaskier smoothed Geralt’s hair away from his face once more and gently pushed him backwards until the witcher was sitting upright again. He couldn’t help the small, sad, inquiring sound when Jaskier broke contact with him but Geralt was too exhausted to care.
From across the small room, Geralt heard movement; the sound of a pitcher being picked up and a metal mug being filled with water. A drink sounded like a fantastic idea to Geralt. He was just relieved he’d knocked over an empty pitcher earlier instead of the one Jaskier was using now.
He tracked Jaskier’s footsteps as the brunet returned to him. A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, his other intertwining with Geralt’s own briefly before pressing the mug between them.
As Geralt lifted the mug to his lips, he could feel his arm shaking precariously. He spared a moment of self-pity, growling internally once again at the fact he’d made such a basic mistake as to overdose on potions – ashamed to be knocked down by something so trivial.
No doubt noticing his struggle, Jaskier closed a steadying hand around Geralt’s wrist – allowing him to drink for himself but there to support him all the same. He said nothing yet the patience and acceptance in his demeanour was perceptible. Geralt could have cried, not knowing how much he’d needed it until then. He swallowed thickly after taking several gulps of the tepid water before lowering the mug with Jaskier’s help. The hand on his shoulder stayed throughout.
“I think you should try and sleep it off, don’t you? Wake up in the morning and feel better?” he suggested, taking the mug from Geralt and setting it on the bedside table. Though sleep sounded like a fantastic idea, riding out the rest of the toxicity while blissfully unconscious, he doubted he’d be able to.
Geralt shook his head but couldn’t articulate any further than that. Though his wound had been seen to, everything was still far too overwhelming for the witcher to settle. His shoulder still throbbed from the treatment, his ears rang with the noise of what seemed like the entire town, nose able to pick up the scents of everyone that had rented the room in the last fortnight. No. Geralt was far too keyed up and uncomfortable to rest.
Jaskier wasn’t put-off by Geralt's non-verbal nature. If he was, he would have left a long time ago – years ago, even.
“Maybe I can help you a little then? If you still can’t sleep after, that’s fine. But even just relaxing would do you some good.”
If Geralt’s eyes had been open, he would have blinked in confusion. Instead, the best he could manage was a quiet grunt and a frown, turning his face to where he heard Jaskier’s voice coming from, standing above him. The bard took the sound for what it was: a question not needing to be uttered.
“Let’s get you settled on the bed…”
There was hasty movement and Geralt noted a marked increase in Jaskier’s heart rate. Bottles and medical supplies were cleared from the rest of the bed, clattering a little as Jaskier discarded them in a heap on the floor. Usually, Geralt would have chastised him for handling such important supplies so roughly, but he was curious to see what Jaskier had in mind and all too in need of a guiding hand to lead him.
The mattress dipped as Jaskier sat down, a little further from Geralt than before. The witcher could sense him lifting his legs up onto the bed, likely sitting propped up against the headboard.
“Come lay down… yes, on your good side, that’s it-“ Jaskier’s voice was like a warm blanket, and with a tentative tug to his bicep, Geralt found himself obeying. He turned on the bed, doing as Jaskier asked and moving to lay on his good side. The world seemed to roll, everything off-kilter with a blindfold and high toxicity. It was almost enough to make him vomit. When his hand found the bard’s leg, though, he paused.
“You can put your head in my lap, darling – it’ll help, and I’ve been told my lap is rather comfortable.”
Geralt heard the smile in his voice.
If he’d been in his right mind, more capable of controlling his emotions and wants, Geralt would have refused. The suggested position was far too intimate between friends, treading perilously close to that line Geralt was terrified to cross. What if something in his reaction gave away just how much he wanted this? Jaskier’s comfort that evening could have brought a tear to his eye and Geralt was loath to give that up. Still, the smooth tone, the warm lap and the hand rubbing soothingly over Geralt’s upper back was too much to resist.
Tentatively, like a horse that might bolt at any moment, and with Jaskier’s careful touches guiding him, Geralt lay down, his head nestled safely atop Jaskier’s thigh.
The witcher was tense for a moment, unsure of this new position. It felt… vulnerable but not in the alarming, dangerous way he was used to. After a handful of deliberating seconds ticked by, Geralt relaxed. Yes. This was comfortable. A vast improvement to sitting up.
And then there were hands in his hair, nails scratching oh so lightly over Geralt’s scalp. He went boneless in the bard’s lap, sagging against him and the lumpy straw mattress beneath them both. Unable to stop himself, he arched up into the contact, prompting a small puff of air as Jaskier gave a light chuckle. Though Geralt couldn’t see, he had a fond smile on his face, practically warming the room with it.
Geralt’s heart rate began to slow and settle, back into its usual slow rhythm. Jaskier seemed to settle too, relaxing into the contact and the position, comfortable and propped up by pillows. Geralt could feel himself beginning to slip, pleasantly surprised to find that having someone so close, having someone pet his hair, worked wonders for his over-sensitised state. Now that he’d experienced it, and knew how good it felt to be held, Geralt knew it would be something he’d crave so much more in the coming months. But maybe, if Jaskier had been willing to do it tonight, he’d be willing to do it again.
The bard’s ministrations were slow, indicating Jaskier’s own relaxed state. Geralt spared a moment to feel guilty that he’d disturbed Jaskier’s rest with this at all, though not enough to move away and allow him to lay down properly again. Geralt wouldn’t give up his space on Jaskier’s lap for anything in the world.
Unbeknownst to the usually perceptive witcher, the bard was thinking the exact same thing.