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It's good, Geralt supposes, that this didn't happen nearer the beginning or end of the year. He'd still survive without a roof over his head or a fire in his camp, but it wouldn't be pleasant.
Not that anything about this is pleasurable, regardless.
He's not stopped moving since Blaviken.
For the first few days, he was able to keep to the roads and camp by the side of them, having outstripped any particularly daring pitchfork-wielding townsfolk within a few hours of hard riding. After those few days, the story travelled faster than he could. Now, no matter where he goes, he's greeted with angry, fearful people who'd sooner take the risk of attacking him than allow him more than a few steps into their community. Even the road isn't safe. Any mercinary, any bandit or vagabond, any noble wishing to prove his mettle by ridding the world of the Butcher of Blaviken, anyone who might be interested in the fame or potential reward afforded by such a feat is keeping a keen eye out for white hair and yellow eyes.
It'll pass before too long, he tells himself. For all humans love a good monster story and an opportunity to vent their fear and hatred, they have short attention spans. As he gains some distance from it, both geographically and in time, people would lose interest. They have to.
Or they won't. But he isn't thinking about that.
In the meantime, Geralt's sticking to the roads less travelled, avoiding humans, and drawing as little attention to himself or his whereabouts as possible. He isn't sure if anyone is bothering to track him, but either way, a fire is a luxury he can do without until he knows for sure. As is staying in any place long enough for more than a few hours rest and food. He's in no fit state to defend himself without making everything worse, including the weight of his own conscience.
He hasn't properly slept, bathed, or eaten a cooked meal since that night with Renfri.
He thinks he still has her blood under his fingernails.
Not that there's any way to tell, given the mingled human and animal blood caking his hands and patches of his skin and clothing. Eating fresh, uncooked meat is a messy affair, and for once he's almost glad of it.
Something crashes through the foliage nearby and curses. This wouldn't be cause for concern under other circumstances, but the situation being what it is, Geralt has his sword in his hand in seconds. There's also the fact that he heard nothing of this person approaching until now, when they're almost on top of him. He should have heard them well before now.
Geralt barely has a moment to react before his campsite is invaded by a bedraggled man in a long red coat and a lace trimmed chemise that's seen better days.
His already non-too-happy expression sours still further upon seeing Geralt. "Oh. It's you."
Geralt says nothing.
The man laughs bitterly and looks around, as though there'll be another campsite set up nearby, or perhaps a nice, cozy inn. "Of course. Of course this happens now! Fate truly is a fickle bitch with an awful sense of humour."
He isn't a threat. At least, not that Geralt's exhasted senses and mind can discern. He's angry, and reeks of anxiety, but that's hardly anything new.
What is new is the stranger plopping himself down nearby uninvited and eyeing him in silence, as though expecting that Geralt has something to say to him. For all that he's covered in fear-laden sweat, the man doesn't flinch in the face of Geralt's filthy, wild appearance, nor his wary glare.
"I didn't follow you, if you're wondering," he tells Geralt. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone else entirely, and I got turned around." He waits for Geralt to respond, but seems unsurprised when he's met with silence. "Oh, don't scowl! You know, I'm the one who should be angry, here."
Geralt continues to scowl.
The man eyes Geralt's dinner with a familiar look of disgust, but doesn't comment. "Last I heard, you were with the princess. Where is she?"
Geralt glares down at the dirt. Surely if he's found some reason to be angry at Geralt, he should already know what happened? "Dead."
"I'm sorry, Geralt." The man sighs, world-weary and full of unexpected sympathy.
Silence falls, and Geralt's too bewildered and exausted to leave as he'd intended. Who is this man? The way he speaks to Geralt, he feels he should know him. Or at least know of him. He's clearly no peasant, and Geralt wonders for a moment whether he's a former employer, or perhaps a relative of Renfri's, but he hadn't known her fate and Geralt would surely remember meeting him before.
There's an air of hesitation in the man's next words. "What happened?"
Geralt doesn't answer. He doesn't owe anything to this stranger, and he isn't sure he has the words even if he did.
The man stands and moves towards him, and Geralt startles, sword raised.
"Woah!" The man's eyes are wary as they should be, but if Geralt didn't know any better, he'd say there's concern in there, too. He raises his hands, but continues moving closer until he can hand Geralt a cloth-wrapped parcel.
Geralt watches him a moment before accepting it. He can tell before he opens it that it's food, but he still stares at it in blank confusion.
"Geralt... are you alright?"
"Why?" Geralt asks.
The man frowns. "Why what?" He looks down at the little parcel of travelling rations and his frown clears. He rolls his eyes. "I might be angry with you, but I don't enjoy watching you struggle needlessly, Geralt. Your nonsensical witcher digestive system may be able to handle raw meat just fine, but that doesn't make it pleasant or advisable. Nor something I particularly want to see."
Geralt begins to pick at the food. He's in no position to turn down charity.
"Seriously, though. What happened?" The man prods. "I know things weren't all rosy and wonderful last time I saw you, but this has to be a new low, even for you. You look like shit. Or, more accurately, you look like you're covered in shit. When was the last time you bathed?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Geralt snarls, humiliation and still-new hurt mingling with his confusion until he can't contain himself. He's sure he's never met this man before. Never even seen him before.
Something in the man's expression closes off, going reserved and speculative. "Geralt," he says carefully. "Do you remember the last time we met?"
"We've never met!"
He nods, slowly. "I suppose I should introduce myself, then." He spends a moment watching Geralt before he does so. "I'm Jaskier, master bard."
Whatever he's looking for in Geralt's reaction, he must not find it. Geralt doesn't much care. "Never heard of you."
"It's customary to introduce yourself in turn."
"You already know who I am."
Jaskier tilts his head in acknowledgement. "Humour me."
"Geralt of Rivia. Witcher." Geralt grins mirthlessly. "Butcher of Blaviken."
"I see."
Sees what? Is that all the reaction Geralt's bloody new moniker incites?
"And the princess...?"
"Butchered with the rest."
"In Blaviken," Jaskier repeats. "And since then, you've been..."
Geralt doesn't fill in that blank for him.
"Quick question," Jaskier says lightly. "How long ago was all this? And, completely unrelated, have you perhaps hit your head recently?"
"If you want any more conversation, you'd better have more food," Geralt tells him shamelessly.
Jaskier ignores him, seemingly distracted by some internal puzzle he's trying to put together. He keeps looking around, squinting and mouthing silently to himself.
An hour later, the self-proclaimed master bard is still sat musing to himself, seemingly at ease with a bedraggled, gore encrusted witcher nearby and with no obvious intention of leaving any time soon.
"Shouldn't you be finding the friends you were going to meet," Geralt says, trying his best to make it a dismissal and not a question.
Jaskier breaks his reverie, only to wave Geralt off. "If they know what's good for them, they won't have waited for me."
Geralt tries to imagine what business a man like Jaskier could have in the middle of nowhere with people who daren't wait for him and fails. Not that he can't come up with anything, more that he can't match any with Jaskier's oddly unruffled demeanour.
"Is there any reason you haven't made a fire?" Jaskier asks.
Geralt ignores him. He already gave his price; no food, no conversation.
"Surely we're a little far off the beaten path to worry about being noticed?" Jaskier continues.
Geralt gives up on waiting him out and lies down. He won't sleep with a stranger so close by, but he can at least close his eyes and let his mind drift a little. He's learned to take what he can get when it comes to rest.
The bard leaves some time before full dark, and Geralt drifts into restless sleep not long after.
When he wakes, there's another small pouch of food left in his eyeline.
It's easy to forget about the strange bard over the following days. There's enough to worry about staying alive and getting as much of the continent between him and Blaviken as possible without dwelling on some inconsequential encounter.
Eventually he does get far enough that he isn't run out of every village on sight, but he still isn't welcome. In many, he can buy a few supplies, push his luck to an ale or two if the taverns are dingy enough, take a contract if those offering it are truly desperate. But he can't rent a room or a bath, and nor can he linger. He still daren't attempt a larger town, much less a city. It's a survivable new norm and he tells himself he'll grow accustomed to it soon enough.
It's been a miserable week of rain and mud, and he decides that the next place he comes across with a tavern, he'll try his luck ordering a hot meal.
The one he finds isn't as dark as he'd like it to be under the circumstances, but the patrons and barmaid alike are well distracted by the performance of what must be a travelling bard. He's talented enough and seemingly novel enough that it's unlikely he's a resident of an out of the way village with a drowner problem. Regardless, with every eye on the musician, Geralt is able to reach the bar and successfully order a drink and food before anyone so much as glances in his direction.
Then the bard takes a break.
Geralt's long settled into the darkest corner he could find, and his hood is pulled down low enough to hide his eyes, but he still makes a little more haste in finishing his food and drink.
He almost thinks he's got away with it when a familiar voice chimes at his elbow.
"Geralt! I thought that was you. You're looking... Well, not well, but-"
Geralt stands to leave, only to find a hand pushing down gently on his shoulder to keep him in his seat. He tenses but he daren't make a fuss and draw attention from the rest of the tavern.
"I owe you an apology," Jaskier tells him, taking the seat opposite and meeting his eye.
He can't imagine what for, but Geralt lets the bard speak.
"I'm angry with someone else and I took it out on you. You're clearly not having the best time of it, and it was unfair of me to make it any worse," Jaskier recites.
Geralt looks back at his food. "Fine."
"I'd like to make it up to you."
Geralt frowns and doesn't look up. Just a few more bites and he'll have finished his meal.
"You needn't look so perturbed, I'm well aware you don't want anyone's interference and I won't push it on you," Jaskier says, a trace of bitterness mingling with wry amusement in his voice. "You can finish your meal in peace. I only ask that you allow me to buy you another ale, and hopefully ward off any rotten vegetables should anyone catch a telling glimpse of those lovely but highly recognisable features of yours."
"Not necessary."
"I beg to differ."
Geralt stops and looks up at Jaskier. He looks stubborn but not aggressive. Whatever he's trying to do here, he doesn't give the impression of having any hidden agendas. "Fine."
Jaskier offers a tentative smile. "I'll order you some more food, as well. Might as well get it while it's on offer, right?"
At Geralt's lack of denial, he leaps up and sprints over to the bar to place the order, bringing back a drink for himself as well. Much as he'd like to tell the idiot to fuck off, Geralt says nothing when Jaskier re-takes his seat.
"You're a little cleaner than last I saw you," Jaskier comments.
Again, a surge of humiliation at someone having seen him covered in filth and looking more like the monsters he hunts than the people he protects. "River." A deal is a deal, he supposes. He told Jaskier before that his price for conversation was food, and Jaskier has more than paid it.
That earns him a sad flicker at the edge of Jaskier's mouth. "Of course." He watched the merry patrons awhile as Geralt starts in on his second course. "Blaviken's a shithole," he blurts unprompted.
Geralt tenses and scans his surroundings, as though the quiet mention of Blaviken might have alerted everyone in the room.
Jaskier sighs. "I just mean, you aren't missing much there. Who cares if you never have to go back to save their necks from nasties? The rest of it will calm down, you'll see. Things will get better."
It's the same thing Geralt's been telling himself since it happened, but hearing aloud makes it sound so unlikely.
"Anyway, I suppose I'll leave you to it. My audience awaits!"
Neither says goodbye, and Jaskier isn't leaving the building. Neither is Geralt just yet. The promise of the bard distracting the patrons just a little while longer has him relaxing in his seat a hair. He might be able to stay, to nurse his ale and enjoy the warmth a little.
It's less that he forgets about the bard again, and more that he doesn't have the room to spare him a thought. Things haven't got any better. As the days begin to shorten, monster activity reaches its peak as many of the creatures attempt to gorge themselves before winter. It's this and this alone that is Geralt's saving grace. People are desperate, and desperate people will overlook who and what he is if he can serve their purpose.
He has to enforce a strict minimum of half his pay up front, and still ends up cheated more often than not, but it's enough to keep him going.
He still can't frequent inns and taverns as much as he used to, and he still hasn't managed a hot bath or a soft bed since before Blaviken, but most blacksmiths won't turn him away if he pays extra and is discreet about his patronage, and similar can be said for those selling travelling supplies.
He survives. He will keep on surviving.
Only a few weeks and he'll be headed back to Kaer Morhen, where, with any luck, Lambert will only taunt him or berate him for making the path harder for the rest of them for the first few days, and Geralt can settle in to lick his wounds in peace. Vesemir's gaze will be hard to meet, but no one will think much of it if Geralt spends most of the winter going about his business on his own and avoids their usual comradery.
It's with that thought firmly in mind that he sets out from the inn that he hadn't bothered to ask for a room at, but who had agreed to keep watch over Roach and his saddlebags while he dealt with whatever was killing people in the sparse woods around the village.
The ground is marshy and flooded in a way that speaks of rainstorms that never quite eased off after a too-hot Summer, and not a normal state of being. The ground unsteady, the trees struggling in the excess moisture, everything smelling of rot and mould.
The kikimore he finds is out of its element and non-too happy about it.
The fight is long and arduous, the kikimore freshly fed and Geralt himself not in his finest form, and he emerges so covered in cold filth he comes close to tears over the thought of finding a chill river or stream to rinse off in. He's never understood the human expression of being willing to trade your right arm for something, but right now he might honestly consider trading a limb for a long soak in scaldingly hot water and dry bed to go to after.
There's little hope of avoiding attention as he enters the inn, so he steels himself for a brisk march to pick up his things and the remainder of his pay before he sets off in search of a campsite with easy access to fresh water. He'd have rinsed off first, but the job took longer than he'd have liked, and a good hour of searching for water hadn't turned up anything but stagnant muck and the run-off from stagnant muck.
A wave of warmth and the smell of food hits him as he enters, his want letting them eclipse the smell of sour beer and body odor. A part of him twinges with the unwanted fantasy of being invited to stay. It'd happened once or twice before.
Before Blaviken, that is.
"Ah, Geralt!"
Geralt hesitates in his purposeful approach to the bar.
Jaskier appears in front of him like some bizarre fae vision, smiling with that same bittersweet expression he's aimed Geralt's way the last two times they've met. "You look like you've been dragged through a swamp by your hair!"
Not far from the truth to be honest. There was definitely some hair pulling and dragging involved. His scalp still aches.
"Come on, outside with you. Let's get you rinsed off," Jaskier says, gesturing over his shoulder at the barmaid, who somehow seems to know what he's asking and nods in response.
He leads Geralt around to the side of the building, where there's a dirt yard and a tap with a bucket underneath it.
It's a far cry from the bath still taunting Geralt's mind's eye, but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't still a step up from walking around like this indefinitely in hopes of finding a clean enough body of water to bathe in, and he sets to pumping water and sloughing off muck with vigor.
If it bothers him that this is the second time Jaskier's seen him so contemptibly dirty and disgusting, then that's neither here nor there.
By the time he's clean enough to contemplate trying his luck for a drink and a hot meal - based on last time, there's a chance Jaskier's presence could smooth things over enough that the staff and patrons might be persuaded to turn a blind eye to his presence - Jaskier's long since gone back inside, and the barmaid has come out.
"If you'll come with me, witcher," the girl says, and Geralt thinks it must be desperately wishful thinking how little fear or disgust he hears in her voice. Instead she speaks with a wary politeness few managed with him even before Blaviken.
"Where?"
"Master Jaskier bade me come get you," she replies unhelpfully, still in that strangely normal way.
Geralt follows her more out of novelty than anything.
She takes him inside, bypassing the bar entirely to take him to a ground floor room with a steaming bath in the middle of it.
Geralt's mind goes blank, his attention fully on the mirage in front of him and completely missing the room's occupant for a good few seconds.
"Thank you, Bett," Jaskier says warmly, dismissing the barmaid.
Geralt waits to find out what the bard wants of him.
"Are you alright?"
The concern has to be a trick, either of the bard's or of Geralt's own mind.
"Geralt?" Jaskier steps in closer to catch his gaze and Geralt is forced to meet worried blue eyes.
"Fine."
"Right," Jaskier says doubtfully. "Well, I'm off to earn us some supper, but you can feel free to stay in here once you've finished your bath. I'll bring food back with me."
It takes until Jaskier has already closed the door behind him before Geralt can wrap his head around the words.
Your bath.
The bath, steaming and faintly sweet smelling, filling his senses with tantalising heat, is for him.
It takes another few moments before Geralt can force his shocked and weary limbs into motion, but once he does he all but tears his clothes off in his haste. Every second outside of the water is agonizing.
More agonizing still is the sweet, painful bliss of the water closing over his bruised and battered skin.
So lost to the overwhelming sensations of hot water covering his skin and his scalp and the heat loosening his muscles and the sudden exhaustion dragging down his bones at the first hope of rest, he doesn't think about having to wrestle his cold, stained, ripped clothes back on once he climbs out. When the thought does appear, he dismisses it with a resigned mental shrug. The bath and the warm, quiet room are already more blessings than he'd imagined he could possibly receive today, and it'll take more than future unpleasantness to mar it.
When at last he - reluctantly - opens his eyes and begins to think of removing himself from the now rapidly cooling water, he's presented with yet more unasked for blessings. There, by the door where Geralt hadn't cast a single glance since coming in and spotting the bath, is Geralt's pack, complete with a clean, dry change of clothes, and no sooner has he registered this, than Jaskier reappears with a trencher of hot food and a pitcher of ale. Or rather, two trenchers, one of which is deposited in his hands before he has a chance to get out of the bath.
"Still soaking away, I see," Jaskier says with an overly familiar grin. "Surely the water must be almost cold by now? Here, let me get you some hot to top it up."
Jaskier is back out the door before Geralt can get a word in edgewise, his own food abandoned on the bed.
Geralt's stomach is full and his plate empty by the time Jaskier returns, lugging a bucket of freshly boiled water as promised and pouring it in with little care for the mess he makes as displaced water sloshes over the sides of the tub.
"There you go!" Jaskier says cheerily, seemingly only remembering his food when he turns to sit on the bed. "Better?"
Geralt hums an affirmative, still bewildered by and wary of this man and his unlooked for kindnesses.
"Ro- Your horse, is she stabled?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt may be tired and slower on the uptake than usual, but there's nothing wrong with his hearing. Quick as he was to cut himself off, Jaskier seems to know Roach's name. Jaskier seems to realise his verbal sip up has been caught and gives Geralt a rueful smile, though he offers no explanation or excuse. "If not, I'm sure we can get her settled down after you've finished. Best not keep her waiting too much longer, though, or she won't be happy with you."
"Who are you?" Geralt asks.
Jaskier doesn't insult either of their intelligence by pretending he doesn't know what Geralt means. "A friend. I mean you no harm, Geralt, I promise. Nor do I need anything from you."
Geralt huffs and raises an eyebrow.
"If nothing else, if you never believe a single other word that comes from my lips, believe this: you need never fear me or my intentions," Jaskier swears with more solemnity than he looks capable of most of the time. A heartbeat later, his irascible persona is firmly back in place. "Now, if you've quite done turning yourself into a prune, you can go and get your contract settled and I can take my own turn immitating the contents of a stew."
He gets up and approaches the bath, hands reaching out to Geralt's hair as easily as he might reach for his lute. He freezes with his fingers twisted in the tangled locks. "Sorry, I... Well, I've no excuse really." He begins to extricate himself and Geralt makes a decision.
"Go ahead. Saves me the trouble," Geralt tells him.
Long, strong, nimble fingers slide against his scalp and shivers run down Geralt's spine. It's been so long since anyone touched him, much less gently. Even longer since it was such an innocent touch.
The bard starts up humming as he washes Geralts hair, combing his fingers through it firmly enough to dislodge the knots without pulling more than necessary, and scrubbing against his scalp with a rhythm that has Geralt's eyes drooping and his breath slowing and deepening.
When he stops, it takes all of Geralt's restraint not to grab at his wrist and keep those fingers on his skin.
"Come on then, up you get," Jaskier instructs, wrapping Geralt in a towelling cloth when he obeys and further overwhelming Geralt with his nearness.
People don't get close to Geralt like this. Even lovers and whores approach him side on, instinctually avoiding squaring up to him. His brothers likewise avoid any body language that could be seen as aggressive or dominating. Hugs are approached at an angle, even as they jostle roughly, and personal space is maintained at all other times except sparring.
He reaches up to towel Geralt's hair, leaning ever closer in the process, and it snaps the last thread of Geralt's self-control.
"Geralt?" Jaskier asks uncertainly.
Geralt doesn't move his hands from where they've come, almost without his direction, to rest on Jaskier's waist. The bard doesn't back away, so neither does Geralt.
Jaskier licks his lips.
Geralt licks Jaskier's lips.
"Mmm," Jaskier moans into the kiss like he's tasting unexpectedly fine wine, leaning into it without hesitation or reservation.
At first, at least.
Their arms are fully wrapped around each other, hands wandering and bodies pressed together, when Jaskier detaches his mouth and leans his forhead against Geralt's, taking a bracing breath.
"This isn't right," he mutters to himself, then extricates himself completely. "This isn't right," he repeats.
Geralt doesn't try to stop him. Doesn't try to argue.
Whatever Jaskier imagines he sees in Geralt's carefully neutral expression, his own crumples. "No, love. Whatever you're thinking, it's nothing against you. I-"
Geralt watches as Jaskier paces away from him and then back again, though no longer so close.
Jaskier pushes his fingers through his hair and seems to gather himself. "There are things you don't know. It isn't fair to you. You don't know what-" Another breath, pushed out through pursed lips. "Geralt, I told you not ten minutes ago that you need never fear me or my intentions, and that remains true. I won't let it be otherwise."
The idea that Geralt should ever fear the man seemed ridiculous, but Geralt's been around long enough to know better. Jaskier could harm him in any number of ways should he so choose, and that's if he's only what he appears to be - a foppish bard with poor instincts for self-preservation. There's so much Geralt doesn't know about him that could make him so much more dangerous.
Still. "I don't care."
"Geralt..."
He just wants to be touched. Right now there's nothing he needs more than to feel human, even as he knows he's not. To feel like someone Jaskier needn't fear. To feel like something, someone, who can be touched gently and face on and without hesitation or revulsion.
Jaskier's given him so much already, but he wants still more.
"Whoever you are, I don't care," Geralt says, reaching for the man as Geralt never allows himself to reach.
And Jaskier allows it.
"Damn you, Geralt. As if I ever had the heart to refuse you," Jaskier mutters dramatically. He follows up with a far less dramatic and more petulant, "If you regret this, it's all your own fault. You don't get to blame me for it later."
Geralt ignores him and kisses him again. He has far too many regrets to care about the prospect of so small a one in the future.
He'd thought Jaskier kissed without reservation before, but now he finds that Jaskier had still been holding back. He's firm to the point of skirting around roughness, taking Geralt's mouth like it's owed to him and walking him back towards the bed with a commanding hand on Geralt's hip. He kisses like he knows Geralt and won't allow him quarter to to put up a defense. Like he's expecting a defense.
Geralt doesn't give him one.
Whatever Jaskier wants, Geralt lets him take and rejoices in being taken. He's too tired for wariness, too broken to pretend to be unaffected.
Despite Jaskier's new intensity and forcefulness, there's still gentleness in his touch when he strokes his fingers over Geralt's cheek, down his neck. Still care in how he holds himself above Geralt and avoids caging him or bearing down on him.
Geralt leaves as soon as they're done. Jaskier, loose and sated in the bed, doesn't try to stop him. It seems Geralt has finally figured out what the bard wants from him.
He gathers his things, bolsters his resolve to leave the comfort of Jaskier's room for the damp, unsheltered camp he'll have to pitch as soon as he's far enough from town to be able to sleep, and goes to collect his pay. He isn't shortchanged, which is yet another pleasant surprise, and he takes the chance to stock up on a few supplies from the inn's stores while he has an amenable broker.
And at last it is time to leave this bubble of comfort behind him and go back to the reality he lives with.
He's still battling with himself as he heads for the hitching post, ashamed of feeling so despondent and of the lingering voice in his head asking if maybe he went back Jaskier might not mind if he stayed the night.
Those thoughts and feelings all vanish in an instant when he reaches it.
Roach is gone.
The sweeping wave of panic prevents him from thinking clearly for an embarrassing amount of time, the thought of the one companion and one comfort remaining in his life being taken from him overwhelming even his decades of witcher conditioning. When at last he gathers his wits enough to think beyond a wordless howl of fear and despair, he chastises himself for the weakness and foolishness, especially when a clear mind enables him to pick up her scent and the sound of her whinny.
He finds her in the stables by the inn.
Jaskier is with her, his doublet hanging open indecently and his hair still in disarray. Roach is tolerating him, just barely. Possibly smelling Geralt on him, or else won over by Jaskier's lack of nervousness even when she nips at him, only avoiding her teeth and joking about the assault on his person with that same practiced familiarity he shows around Geralt.
Jaskier glances up at him with a smile as he enters, though after catching sight of Geralt's expression, the smile becomes apologetic and rueful. "Didn't mean to make you worry. You were gone awhile and I saw her outside and just thought the lady might want to get to bed."
Geralt doesn't answer. If Roach weren't already settled in, increasingly relaxed as Jaskier grooms her with respectful but unwary caution, Geralt would already have snatched her away, possibly (probably) laying Jaskier out with a punch on the way out. As it is, he's reluctant to force her back out onto the road when she now expects a comfortable night and a full belly.
"I thought you might be legging it," Jaskier says lightly. "I wanted to see if I was too late to convince you to stay, and I'm not above emotional blackmail, especially where it involves spoiling your noble steed."
Geralt folds his arms.
"I'll have you know, I've promised her fresh hay and apple cores. On your head be it if you disappoint her," Jaskier adds, a twinkle in his eye that says he knows he's winning.