Geralt smells the blood before he enters the room. He quickens his step and pushes open the door to find Jaskier dabbing at a cut in his forehead and scowling.
“What happened?” he asks, batting Jaskier’s hand away so he can see. He takes his chin in his hand and carefully turns his head to the side. The gash is bleeding sluggishly but it isn’t deep. He tuts. “Who did you piss off this time?”
Jaskier’s lip wobbles almost imperceptibly. “Just some arsehole in the tavern.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow.
“He made some thoughtless remarks,” Jaskier says, defensively.
“You’re an idiot,” he scoffs, grabbing the rag from Jaskier’s hand and dabbing at the cut. He’s careful not to jostle the rough edges, just to pat away the grime. That done, he wrings the rag out and wipes at the trail of blood that’s wending down his face. “You should learn when to back down.”
Jaskier’s cheeks colour, a dusting of pink spreading across them. “He was being unappreciative of witchers.”
“So you started a fight with him?” He tosses the rag aside and brushes the loose hair away from Jaskier’s eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light.
Jaskier’s lips purse and the blush deepens.
“Like I said,” Geralt finds an undeniably fond edge creeping into his voice and he fights down a smile. He takes Jaskier’s face in his hands instead, running his fingers along the temples. He is warm and soft beneath his fingers. “Idiot.”