Eskel, sandwiched between the two of them, turns his face against the side of Geralt's neck and inhales deeply, shamelessly. He hasn't fallen asleep in Geralt's bed in a long time, but the nostalgia, the safety, the reassurance of Geralt being so close is more balm for his pains than any amount of white gull and narcotic tincture. He slings an arm across Geralt's broad chest, mumbles something unintelligible, and is snoring within moments.

He sleeps more deeply than he has in a long time and finally doesn't dream of the leshen's roots crawling under his skin.