Geralt's released him slowly, carefully, and Jaskier managed to keep himself from trembling as he did. He was so keenly aware of how the Witcher gradually shifted his weight, as he moved to a safe pantomime of their previous position, as his head dropped against Jaskier's sholder, just barely--Jaskier hated himself for flinching there. It was foolish. Geralt answered him, which he hadn't honestly expected the Witcher to do--he'd hoped, of course, but an answer and one given so clearly was not--he hadn't--
Fuck.
The bed bounced just a bit as Geralt rolled away and it was several seconds before Jaskier could make his stupid, traitorous limbs move. For as easily as he'd been pushed into the position, unwinding his arms from behind his back was an ungainly and difficult affair. He laughed as he did but it was a hollow, poorly acted thing.
Of course Geralt wouldn't have hurt him. He knew better. He had been playing at roughness--that was just his way. Jaskier took a deep breath and sniffed. It wasn't much to push himself up on his elbow, to drag a hand through his horribly rumpled hair.
"Friends? How positively sentimental, Geralt--" Jaskier mused distantly as he pulled himself back together. He hoped the Witcher would let it go, his tone and his mocking, he couldn't seem to help himself. It was just how he'd always--it was habit. A very bad habit. Geralt was safe, he was being stupid. Geralt was his friend. He shifted and darted a glance at the Witcher--his expression was the same as it ever was. He didn't stare long enough to make out the subtleties of it and, instead, twisted until he could sit upright.
"Well," he said and, at long last, sounded back to himself. If rather unhappy. "Sorry I drove you away from your dinner for naught at all. It's not--I'm not usually that easy to catch by surprise. It won't happen again."
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Fuck.
The bed bounced just a bit as Geralt rolled away and it was several seconds before Jaskier could make his stupid, traitorous limbs move. For as easily as he'd been pushed into the position, unwinding his arms from behind his back was an ungainly and difficult affair. He laughed as he did but it was a hollow, poorly acted thing.
Of course Geralt wouldn't have hurt him. He knew better. He had been playing at roughness--that was just his way. Jaskier took a deep breath and sniffed. It wasn't much to push himself up on his elbow, to drag a hand through his horribly rumpled hair.
"Friends? How positively sentimental, Geralt--" Jaskier mused distantly as he pulled himself back together. He hoped the Witcher would let it go, his tone and his mocking, he couldn't seem to help himself. It was just how he'd always--it was habit. A very bad habit. Geralt was safe, he was being stupid. Geralt was his friend. He shifted and darted a glance at the Witcher--his expression was the same as it ever was. He didn't stare long enough to make out the subtleties of it and, instead, twisted until he could sit upright.
"Well," he said and, at long last, sounded back to himself. If rather unhappy. "Sorry I drove you away from your dinner for naught at all. It's not--I'm not usually that easy to catch by surprise. It won't happen again."