It's tense. Jaskier runs his tongue over his teeth and grimaces at the metallic taste, holds himself a little tighter where he leans against the bed post-- a bed post, yes, isn't that nice? It is. It's the nicest Inn they've seen in a while; the bed itself is clean, they have a drafting desk, a table with a water basin and fresh rags-- not so fresh anymore, who's fault is that--? and a complimentary bowl of fruit.
His gaze slips to the Witcher's boots, but no higher. He knows the man is staring freely at him, slouching against the wall opposite-- and what a sorry sight he is. Blackened eye and bruise dusting his cheekbone, another across his jaw, split lip and bloodied nose; his fingers twitch but they ache from the bruises blossoming across his knuckles, so he stills them. He parts his lips.
The Witcher beats him. "Jaskier--"
"If you're going to say I've done wrong," he says, "I know it. I don't care."
"Jaskier." The boots shift, the bard turns his gaze away as he tics his jaw.
"I'd do it again," the bard breathes. "I will do it again-- as many times as I have to, Geralt. You might think it irrational or stupid, but--"
"You're a bard." You stay put, I take the punches.
"I'm not incompetent."
"No," the Witcher amends. "You aren't."
"I hate it," he says. Geralt is close enough now that Jaskier can't turn him out of his sights, reaching up to ghost his fingers along the bruises dusting his face. The bard dips his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
"I know," Geralt murmurs, and he does. He just doesn't know what to make of it. Bards don't raise fists for Witchers, no one raises fists for bards-- except Jaskier does, the evidence is beaten into his face and fists, and Geralt does too ( every other minute, really ). "How are your hands?"
Jaskier falls into himself, just a little bit, shoulders hunched as he breathes in. He'll never get over the man asking after him, as rare as it is. "Fine," he says, quietly. He opens his eyes, unfurls his arms after a moment, spreads his hands between them and allows his posture to relax. "They, um--" they hurt. A dull incessant throbbing that he can't shake. "... look worse than they are," he finishes.
The Witcher hums somewhere deep in his chest, takes them by the wrist and it comes to him rather suddenly that they're awfully close. He bites his lip and the split opens again-- there's little he can do, stuck between a rock and a hard place ( a bed post-- again, a post! It's rather fancy-- and a Witcher ).
"They're starting to swell," Geralt mumbles. "Ought to get the salve, otherwise Marx might come for your title."
Jaskier raises his head, and it takes a moment-- Geralt peers down at him with just the barest hint of a smile and it clicks and the bard can't help his grin or the laugh that bubbles out from behind it. Damn it all, he thinks. They stand chest to chest in this moderately spacious lodging, caged against a bed post, and he wants-- well, it doesn't matter what he wants because he can't, but another bit of laughter spills freely from his lips.
"Bollocks," he says, instead. "Valdo can sing as well a cat in heat, and I could outplay him with one hand."
The Witcher hums. Belatedly, the bard thinks, it resembles a purr. "I don't doubt that."
"Oh," he says. "So you do take it back about my fillingless pie--"
"Jaskier."
"-- and all it took was one barside brawl to admit it? Why, had I known--"
"I change my mind," the Witcher mutters. He lowers Jaskier's hands, brings one of his own up to dust against the bruise on his eye. They aren't holding hands, per se, but Geralt keeps his fingers curled loosely around the bard's wrist at their sides-- You'll never let me live this down, will you?
The bard gasps, feigning offense. "You can't just take it back, Witcher. It's a step in the right direction, at the very least; you're that much closer to admitting I'm your very best friend in the whole wide world."
"Hmm."
"Oh, come on," he says, "Thirteen years--"
The Witcher furrows his brows. His hand falters, lowers some to rest at the bard's jaw. "What?"
Jaskier raises his own brow. "What?" he echoes.
"You said--"
"Yes," he agrees. "Thirteen years. I'd know, I do chronicle our adventures."
Geralt blinks again. "That isn't right--"
The bard scoffs. "It most definitely is," he says. "You might not bother to keep track, but I do. I have from the start, it's my job--"
"Jaskier--"
"How am I to immortalize your efforts if I can't even tell a man when and where it happened--" the Witcher's hand slides back up; his palm runs against his forehead, smoothes his hair back-- Jaskier blinks. "Geralt?"
"How old are you?" the Witcher inquires.
He blinks again. "What a rude question--"
"Jaskier--"
The bard wrinkles his nose, but relents easily enough. "Thirty-five--" Geralt lilts his head. "Why so curious all of a sudden?"
"You look--" Jaskier narrows his eyes-- "Young," the man finishes. His hand pushes back further and some of Jaskier's hair falls back into his face.
"Young," the bard echoes, plainly. He'd noticed, gods, yes, he'd noticed quite some time ago. "Yes, thank you, I am young--"
"No--"
"No?"
"Jaskier."
"Geralt," the bard counters. "While I may, regrettably, be going up in years, I am not yet forty-- no, don't speak-- and I do well to take care of myself, thank you very much--"
"Bard," the Witcher huffs--
"I moisturize--"
"You look the same as the day I met you," Geralt says, tersely.
"I know," he breathes, "I'm naturally very pretty--"
Geralt snorts, more so in disbelief than anything-- "Thirteen years."
"I take very good care of myself."
They lapse into a sort of silence that Jaskier can't quite pin a name to-- charged, perhaps. Pensive.
Geralt parts his lips--
"Your medallion," the bard interrupts. "Is it tingling?"
"It hums," the Witcher corrects, then pauses. "And no, but--"
"Then that's proof enough, isn't it? I'm not bewitched or cursed. It hardly changes anything, anyhow." He tilts his head a bit. Except-- well, it changes quite a few things, actually, but he doesn't really want to think about them. Geralt purses his lips and Jaskier wrinkles his nose again. "You're just jealous--"
"Jealous," the Witcher deadpans.
The bard nods. "Jealous," he says. "In any case," he continues, lifting a hand to push lightly at the man's chest. "Might we move on to the part where we tend to my hands?" Just putting his palm flat seems to irritate his knuckles-- he grimaces, even if it is bearable.
"I have half a mind to leave it," the Witcher says.
"Because you're jealous?" Jaskier huffs, and Geralt gives him a very pointed look. The bard shifts uncomfortably. "I told you," he says, "I won't just leave it as you do--"
"What would you have me do?" the Witcher cuts him off. "Start some mindless brawl? Show them I'm exactly what they say?"
"You care," the bard says. "That's exactly why I'll keep doing it. I don't mind it--"
"I do--"
"Yes--" he wrinkles his nose again and pulls his hands back, crossing his arms over his chest once more. Geralt's hand falls from his hair, so he turns his gaze toward the window. "I know you do, but I care about you, and you know by now that you can't do a thing to stop me. I wont let some boistering idiot degrade you to a whole tavern, I've made it my livelihood--"
"Jaskier."
"And then something more than my livelihood," he says. "I've made up my mind, Geralt, might as well make peace with it."
Geralt huffs, then-- "Fine--" and Jaskier meets his gaze with a rather startled quickness.
"Next time," the Witcher says-- and he's sure there will be a next time, because the bard just can't keep himself out if trouble; he gravitates toward it, or it comes for him-- and the bard stares expectantly. "When you throw, make sure not to bend your wrist. Otherwise you might snap it."
He pulls away, then, before Jaskier can make some quip or snark something, and turns toward their packs for the salve.