Jaskier sniffles.   

Geralt grits his teeth and tries not to sigh.  He doesn't care, he tells himself as he listens to the bard shuffle and grumble against the cold ground across the fire. The fool had wanted to follow him, after all, entirely against his wishes.  Perhaps spending a few nights sleepless and chilled will finally be enough to shake the bard loose and free Geralt from his summer-long shadowing... And honestly, it's not Geralt's fault that Jaskier only has provisions as fair-weathered as he is:  one light jacket to his name, a thin bedroll, not even weather-proofed, for fuck's sake-

Jaskier sniffles again then his teeth chatter, a quiet ticking.

Geralt does sigh then and before he can change his mind, he drags himself out into the cold night air.  He hears Jaskier's rustling shift, feels his eyes on him as he digs through his saddlebag and pulls out his well-worn cloak from where it was folded at the bottom.  It smells strongly of horse and sweat but there aren't any guts dried to it...it will do. He shakes it out, and gives it a toss in Jaskier's general direction. The boy just blinks at him in surprise and Geralt growls, exasperated.

He gestures to the cloak.

“You're cold,” he says.

The bard stops gaping at him and scrambles one arm out of his ineffective covers, pulls the cloak in with him and starts wrapping himself up in it. Good.  Geralt takes a few pieces of kindling from their small reserve and tosses them into the dying fire, stokes it back to life.  He might have to go for more firewood if he is going to keep the flames going all night.  He is still assessing when the shivering hulk of bedroll speaks.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue, dear witcher,” Jaskier stammers. He sounds like a hinge in need of oiling. It should be grating.  It should be.  “I fear I'm not entirely prepared for the change in seasons...So kind of you to take notice...”

“I couldn't sleep,” Geralt snaps, “with your teeth rattling.”

Jaskier laughs, like he isn't the most annoying human Geralt has ever met. His laugh is almost as warm as the fire and it prickles at Geralt's skin.

“Oh,”  Jaskier gasps, when he gets a hold of himself, “Oh, dear, you aren't joking...Well, Geralt, I'm sorry, I will try to be quieter next time I'm slowly freezing to death, if it please you.”

“No next time,” Geralt says and the bard stills and stares at him. Geralt still doesn't understand why this fool would want to follow him to the ends of the world – for songs of all things! – and fate has finally given him an opportunity to cast him off once and for all...

“...No...no next...?”

In the flickering light, Jaskier looks impossibly young and crestfallen and... godsdamnit.  

“We will find you some warmer things. When we next stop for supplies.”

At Jaskier's answering grin, he huffs, turning back to stoke the fire good and high,