Touch prompt! 14: After a bruise
“What is that?”
Geralt’s bard is staring at him in horror.
Eskel flinches out of habit but quickly forces himself to calm down. There’s no reason that Jaskier would react to his scars like that, not when he’d met him a few days prior and paid no such mind to the disfiguration, jabbering brightly instead about how Geralt’s told him so much about you, Eskel, I just know we’re going to be the very best of friends!
(Eskel had looked to Geralt, bemused. Since when does Geralt tell anyone so much about anything?)
Before Eskel can parse the bard’s horrified expression, Jaskier strides to his side and places three feather-light fingers on his collarbone. “Whatever happened to you, darling? This looks dreadful, it must hurt something awful. I’ve a salve of arnica in my pack, I’ll have to fetch it for you.”
Eskel feels warmth flood his face at the tenderness of the fingers on the deep mottled bruise, the earnest concern on Jaskier’s face. He seems to be awaiting an answer, Eskel realizes suddenly, so he says, “Had a tussle with a couple of wraiths the night before I headed up. Got shoved chest-first into a sarcophagus. Not my greatest night.”
Jaskier tuts sympathetically, pulling the loose shirt collar back and over his shoulder to better assess the bruising. Behind him, Geralt leans against the doorframe, a strange, soft smile on his face, one Eskel’s rarely seen since they were boys.
“Now you stay right here and I’ll be back with the arnica. Geralt, can you help him get this shirt off?” Jaskier flits to the staircase, darting up three steps at a time.
Eskel stares at the floor. He can feel the slight pressure from the fingertips linger.
Geralt laughs, not unkindly, as Eskel pulls the thin shirt over his head. “I’d say you get used to it, but...”
The silence hangs between them until Jaskier returns with his usual gusto, brandishing the rich, golden substance in a squat glass jar. “Here we are,” he says, dipping into the medicine before he brings a gentle hand to Eskel’s bruised chest. He massages him carefully, delicate fingers rubbing the salve into the discolored skin of his neck, collarbone, and shoulder.
Eskel blinks furiously at the unexpected moisture welling in his eyes.
Jaskier glances to meet his eyes, but instead of mockery or worse, pity, he answers with a soft, knowing smile. He plants his left hand on Eskel’s unbruised shoulder, ostensibly to ground himself as he works on the other, but the overwhelming feeling of warmth that floods through the witcher knows that it’s for his benefit, as well.
He lets the bard continue his ministrations, unnecessary as they may be, and doesn’t question it when the touch lingers, just skimming the area with gentle, affectionate fingers.
And long after Geralt and his bard have gone to bed, Eskel sits by the fireplace. For the first time in years, he feels truly human.
