There was apology in the light touch that grazed the back of his neck. It was quiet, without words or really action--it was a note of understanding and it meant everything. Jaskier's chest loosened a bit, with that brush of fingers, his shoulders sagged just so.

This was fine. Geralt was alive.

Jaskier sat for a moment, as content in the silence as could be expected. When Geralt broke it, sniffing in something like disdain, Jaskier craned and shot him a look of almost comically mock offense. The mood was broken just as quickly as it settled.

"Excuse me! I didn't hear you complaining!" Jaskier objected even as he dragged himself up and fetched the bag in question.

It took a moment to maneuver the emptied plates to the side, to find a spot on the floor where they fit, but he did. He set the bag next to the Witcher and then plunked himself down on the bed next to him.

"True, I may have added a bit of lavender for the sake of it, but bog herbs aren't fragrant, Geralt, and I have to sleep near you, you know."