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The weather was supposed to be clear. The hedgewitch said so, and Geralt sniffed at the air the way he does and frowned and nodded, and Jaskier knows that even if Geralt will cheerfully risk his own life, he's actually quite careful with his squishy human companion, and also he would never risk Roach if he had another option.
So Jaskier actually suspects some mage or other is mucking with the weather, because they're just about halfway through the mountain pass when the stormclouds start blowing in above them, dark and ominous and moving much faster than Jaskier thinks the wind can account for. Geralt squints up at the sky and hums unhappily. Jaskier peers down the rocky path behind them. "Can we make it back to town?"
Geralt hums again, even more unhappily, and shakes his head. Which is fair; they've been climbing for at least three hours now, and even if going downhill is faster, it's not that much faster…especially if those clouds start disgorging their contents.
"This way," Geralt says, and turns off the main path onto a tiny little goat-track, barely wide enough for Jaskier's boots. Roach picks her way delicately along, as graceful as any goat, with Geralt leading her and Jaskier trailing behind. It starts to snow after a few minutes, great fluffy white flakes that are sparse at first and then grow thicker with worrying swiftness. Jaskier loses sight first of the trees around them, then of Geralt ahead of Roach, then of Roach, all but the flicking of her tail. He stumbles along, shivering as the temperature drops with unnatural speed, until Roach's tail disappears entirely and he comes to a halt, staring around at the blinding whiteness surrounding him, too cold even to properly despair.
And then Geralt appears out of the snow, stark black armor more beautiful than any sunrise, and wraps a hand around Jaskier's arm, guiding him forward. Jaskier follows as fast as he can, stumbling through the snowdrifts, and after only about a dozen steps the snow suddenly lightens and he finds himself standing in the entrance to a narrow cave.
"Oh thank fuck," Jaskier breathes.
Geralt huffs a wordless response and pushes Jaskier further into the cave. "Get out of your wet things," he orders as he goes to a clearly miserable Roach and starts untacking her.
Jaskier nods; he knows as well as Geralt does the dangers of wet clothes in cold weather, and the light coat he put on this morning, in anticipation of perfectly pleasant temperatures, is soaked through with melting snow. He tucks his lute case carefully into the most sheltered spot in the cave, lays out their bedrolls, and strips down to his braies, teeth chattering horribly, then dives into the heap of blankets and cocoons himself like a caterpillar.
Geralt leads Roach over and has her lie down between the bedrolls and the cave entrance, then takes off his armor and - kneels down like he's going to meditate instead of joining Jaskier in the bedroll-cocoon.
"Why are you over there?" Jaskier asks, bewildered.
Geralt blinks at him. "Humans don't -"
"Oh fuck that," Jaskier says briskly. "I'm cold, so are you, we'll be warmer together. Get over here."
Geralt looks deeply baffled, but he does get to his feet and come hesitantly closer. Jaskier wriggles until he's not quite as snugly wrapped and sticks a hand out to gesture Geralt to join him. Geralt lies down warily; Jaskier sighs and flops over next to him, shoving at the blankets and Geralt until they're both covered.
Geralt lies still as death. Jaskier slings an arm over his chest, wincing internally at the chill of Geralt's body beneath his worn tunic. "I don't have cooties, you know."
"It's not that," Geralt says awkwardly.
"Neither do you," Jaskier says, as gently as he can.
Geralt makes a soft, confused sound. Jaskier sighs again. "You don't. Witcherness isn't catching, as far as I can tell."
"It's not," Geralt agrees. "But most people don't believe that."
Jaskier huffs. "Most people are idiots. And I grant I am also occasionally an idiot, but not about this."
Geralt hums. "Just about women. And music. And shoes. And -"
"Oh, shush, you," Jaskier says indignantly. "I am a bard, we're supposed to be flirtatious and obsessed with our art and well-dressed and flamboyant, the same way witchers are supposed to be all brooding and armored and gruff."
Geralt hums thoughtfully, as if he'd never thought of that. Jaskier rolls his eyes and cuddles closer. "Are you going to pretend to be a log all night?"
Geralt is still for another long moment, and then he relaxes and even lets out a very quiet chuckle. "Log would be useful. Could build a fire."
Jaskier whacks his chest, grinning. "Awful witcher. You have a terrible sense of humor."
"Mm," Geralt agrees, and to Jaskier's delight rolls over to put an arm over Jaskier's waist and shift closer. Sandwiched between Geralt and Roach, Jaskier is actually something close to warm.
"There, see?" Jaskier mumbles. "Just as useful as a log."
Geralt snorts softly. "Don't make a song of it."
Jaskier giggles. "Oh, now I have to! Let me see - Hire a witcher for all of your needs / from audit accounting to pulling up weeds / from helping with harvest to walking the dog / for a witcher is useful as much as a log!"
Geralt sighs from the bottom of his chest. "Bards," he says mournfully.
"We're incorrigible," Jaskier agrees. "You should come to Oxenfurt sometime! Get three or four of us in a tavern at the same time and it's absolute chaos in the best way. Usually. Unless it's me and Valdo in which case there might be stabbings."
Geralt makes a soft, bewildered noise. Jaskier grins. "We've got a proper feud going. He stole some of my songs, you see, and had the gall to improve one of them and then claim that meant he'd written it. Unfortunately Priscilla kept me from actually maiming him. Now we mostly sing angrily at each other."
"I see," Geralt says, still sounding bewildered.
"Everyone's got drama," Jaskier says sleepily, nestling closer; now that Geralt's under the covers, he's warming up nicely, and Roach is a solid wall of heat behind Jaskier, and really it's quite nice, given that they're in a cave in a snowstorm. "Bards, butchers, bakers, barmaids. Wool merchants and wiredrawers and weavers and even witchers, I bet."
Geralt snorts. "Even witchers," he agrees in a tone that suggests there's a story there, and maybe someday Jaskier will even manage to tease it out of him. Not right now. Right now he's tired and warm and safe and about to doze off and sleep away the storm. He cuddles closer, and Geralt lets him, even tucks his chin over Jaskier's head and tangles their feet together.
"'S good," Jaskier murmurs. Geralt hums again.
And as Jaskier is dozing off, drifting in the hazy darkness just before true sleep, he hears Geralt whisper, "Yes, it is."