of cold feet and warm nights.
Such a mundane, simple thing. Something you don’t think twice about. Something you just do.
Lie down, close your eyes, relax.
Except for Geralt, it has never been this easy.
He doesn’t like sleeping, and there’s always a good excuse not to — a new hunt, potions to prepare, Roach to take care of. Anything to not have to face the demons that are waiting for him as soon as he attempts to close his eyes.
It’s not easy, living life on the brink of exhaustion and constant sleep deprivation, but somehow, he mangages. Somehow, he manages to get by on naps here and there and the odd night of sleep every once in a while.
That is, until he meets a certain bard. One who loves sleeping, and is adamant on getting his rest every night.
“I need to preserve my looks, Geralt — you couldn’t possibly understand.”
The first time Jaskier’s cold feet touch Geralt’s, the Witcher nearly puts a knife to his throat. They’re so icy that he seriously wonders if Jaskier is still alive, and has not, in fact, died, the only logical explanation for the bard’s body temperature.
“It’s not my fault that it’s so fucking cold in this room, Geralt,” he answers, his feet slowly making their way up Geralt’s legs until they’re pressed in between his thighs, cold enough to cause goose bumps.
“Get your feet off me,” he retorts back, but there’s no real edge to his voice — not when it’s been years since someone has touched him as innocently as that, even more so without pay.
But Jaskier doesn’t budge, and moments later Geralt can feel a skinny arm sneak around his waist and pull him in close. How Jaskier possesses such strength, he does not now.
Maybe that lute is actuallly heavier than it looks.
Still, he doesn’t fight back. He could easily push Jaskier away, even kick him out of bed.
But, even with human icicles stuck between his legs, Geralt can feel himself calm down.
Jaskier’s chest is pressed to his back, the rhythm of his heartbeat slow and steady, a silent lullaby. Somehow, it’s working.
And without having a good excuse, Geralt reaches for the hand that is pressed to his stomach, interlacing their fingers.
For once, there’s no response, no witty comeback. Just a gentle squeeze to his hand and an even gentler kiss pressed to his neck.
Somehow, the night feels less daunting to face.
Yes, the nightmares are still going to be waiting for him. But for the first time, Geralt doesn’t have to face them alone, not with a bard by his side who is holding him so tightly that Geralt fears there may be bruises left on his skin.
He smiles before closing his eyes.
How well they would go with his scars.
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