Jaskier, unlike Geralt, was not a superhuman warrior monk dead-set on fighting the world into submission. He had been injured before, in life, and knew just how terribly humiliating such care could be. He cast his eyes about the room as he helped Geralt up, helped him hobble, and felt the soft growling as each movement pulled terribly at his stitches. He let Geralt settle and fetched a slew of bath supplies from his bag.
Then Geralt had to...congratulate him? It was a mixed message--a reminder of what Jaskier was doing his level best not to think about and a thanks for doing it anyway. He went still as he thought on it and decided, as with most great and stressful traumas, that it was best put off for when he could get very, very drunk.
He stood and it was as if a switch had been flipped behind his tired eyes. He was too exhausted to hide that, but at once he was all cheer and casual ease, as though he hadn't just lowered his--his best friend into a half filled bath so he could scrape the blood and stench from him. Jaskier returned to the side of the tub with an assortment of scented cremes and powders--a half dozen things the Witcher would have been loathe to let him use on himself, let alone on him.
"Nonsense," Jaskier announced and set out his tools along the floor by the bath. He drew up the one stool this room had and plunked himself down along the side. "You may smell like something died, but I had every confidence in you."
It was a lie told as smoothly as the slide of silk. Jaskier rolled up his sleeves, smiled, and broke into one of his nicer and gentler bathing cremes. It was meant for his face--to moisturize and cleanse without so much as stinging the eyes. It smelled of lavender and rosewater and cost ten crowns a container. He used it without hesitation to start washing Geralt's back, skating the rows upon rows of stitches as he gently cleaned the sweat off him.
Just like always.
"You were a bit rough around the edges, of course, but not so poorly as all that. You perked right up after we washed the bog off, and then slept like a newborn babe when you'd had that potion," Jaskier babbled, idly, as he washed. Geralt healed bruises quickly, almost alarmingly so, but even a Witcher's abilities couldn't wipe away the delicate yellows and greens and dark splotches around some of these wounds. This would take time.
"I do think I shall leave the stench out of the final ballad--you sweat like a horse, Geralt--I'm sorry to say. And the vomiting, also, for that matter. That never goes over well with a room of drunks--tempting the hand of fate, as it were."
no subject
Then Geralt had to...congratulate him? It was a mixed message--a reminder of what Jaskier was doing his level best not to think about and a thanks for doing it anyway. He went still as he thought on it and decided, as with most great and stressful traumas, that it was best put off for when he could get very, very drunk.
He stood and it was as if a switch had been flipped behind his tired eyes. He was too exhausted to hide that, but at once he was all cheer and casual ease, as though he hadn't just lowered his--his best friend into a half filled bath so he could scrape the blood and stench from him. Jaskier returned to the side of the tub with an assortment of scented cremes and powders--a half dozen things the Witcher would have been loathe to let him use on himself, let alone on him.
"Nonsense," Jaskier announced and set out his tools along the floor by the bath. He drew up the one stool this room had and plunked himself down along the side. "You may smell like something died, but I had every confidence in you."
It was a lie told as smoothly as the slide of silk. Jaskier rolled up his sleeves, smiled, and broke into one of his nicer and gentler bathing cremes. It was meant for his face--to moisturize and cleanse without so much as stinging the eyes. It smelled of lavender and rosewater and cost ten crowns a container. He used it without hesitation to start washing Geralt's back, skating the rows upon rows of stitches as he gently cleaned the sweat off him.
Just like always.
"You were a bit rough around the edges, of course, but not so poorly as all that. You perked right up after we washed the bog off, and then slept like a newborn babe when you'd had that potion," Jaskier babbled, idly, as he washed. Geralt healed bruises quickly, almost alarmingly so, but even a Witcher's abilities couldn't wipe away the delicate yellows and greens and dark splotches around some of these wounds. This would take time.
"I do think I shall leave the stench out of the final ballad--you sweat like a horse, Geralt--I'm sorry to say. And the vomiting, also, for that matter. That never goes over well with a room of drunks--tempting the hand of fate, as it were."