Jaskier had been furious, that the Witcher was ignoring him, that Geralt wasn't taking him seriously, that he'd even gotten so drunk that he was behaving like this--but that fury was snuffed by a cold wash of unpleasant shock as he was thrown onto the bed. Geralt caged him in, rested his weight across Jaskier's thighs, and the bard went still as death on reflex.

"What I always say?" Jaskier repeated in a tone that was caught somewhere between indignation and distraction. He stared at the slit, amber eyes above him and there was a strange disconnect. The longer he stared the more pronounced the feeling was and, as it mounted, so too did the sinking sensation in his stomach. He couldn't make out Geralt's face with the moonlight cast over his back, couldn't pick out more than the light as it spilled over his shoulders.

He couldn't imagine those glowing eyes in Geralt's face.

Which was, frankly, ridiculous. Of course they were in Geralt's face--Geralt was right there. They were clearly his eyes. He knew what Geralt's face looked like. Why couldn't he reconcile those eyes with Geralt's face? Why did he feel as though he were staring down a snake and not a Witcher? His heart stuttered and Jaskier's gaze danced over Geralt's shape.

Geralt would never hurt him. (He wasn't easily taken by surprise. He'd promised it wouldn't happen again. He had a steel sword for--)

"Geralt," Jaskier tried again, voice forcibly jovial, and his placating laugh fell flat. "Please, I know I panic about everything, but we really have to go. Please--"

His hand was shaking a bit as he settled it on the Witcher's own, a physical counterpoint to his request--to his pleading. Surely Geralt would understand--he liked to be rough and tumble but he could shut it off. Jaskier had seen him do it. He'd grouse and huff and give Jaskier a look--he was being an idiot. Geralt would never hurt him.

They'd laugh about this later.