While the horses enjoy their grazing time in the meadow, Geralt shows Jaskier the berry-picking ropes. He is, at least, paying attention, and it seems more or less like most of the information is retained in his flighty head. Not that it's exactly hard, so the bar isn't set very high, but Geralt is at least fairly certain that he won't fuck anything up too badly and pick bad berries or unripe ones or something.
If only it meant that he would shut up for a little while.
While Geralt digs his way through the tangled mass of a blueberry bush, searching for the best berries while also trying to avoid getting stung by bees, Jaskier continues to chatter. It's a wonder that the man doesn't swallow a bug with how much he has his damn mouth open, though Geralt almost wishes that he would-- it would teach him a valuable lesson.
Geralt only grunts in response to the friends question, not deigning it with a verbal reply. He knew that he shouldn't have given the musician his personal phone number, and now it's coming back to bite him right in the ass. If he'd just told the guy to call him on the landline, they would've been able to avoid this whole stupid friends business. And, besides, responding once or twice to a cat meme with 'cute' or, on one occasion, 'what the fuck am i looking at' does not a friendship make.
He emerges briefly from the blueberry bush to swat a few bees off of his arms. He's been stung once or twice in the process, and uses the edge of his thumbnail to scrape the stingers out of his skin. Jaskier asks about Yen, but not for information about her-- just to know if she's something he can't talk about.
"There's nothing to go into," he replies. "She's Ciri's mother. That's it."
It's at that point that Geralt looks up, just in time to see Jaskier snacking on some of the wild strawberries. The strawberries have done well this year, full and ripe and sweet, and when he bites into the flesh, his lips are wet and shiny with juice. Geralt has the sudden odd urge to find out what the strawberries taste like, and realizes probably a moment too late that he's staring at Jaskier's mouth. He turns away, back to the bush, and goes back to his blueberry hunt out of the need to have his hands doing something. Otherwise, he isn't... entirely sure what he might do with them.
no subject
If only it meant that he would shut up for a little while.
While Geralt digs his way through the tangled mass of a blueberry bush, searching for the best berries while also trying to avoid getting stung by bees, Jaskier continues to chatter. It's a wonder that the man doesn't swallow a bug with how much he has his damn mouth open, though Geralt almost wishes that he would-- it would teach him a valuable lesson.
Geralt only grunts in response to the friends question, not deigning it with a verbal reply. He knew that he shouldn't have given the musician his personal phone number, and now it's coming back to bite him right in the ass. If he'd just told the guy to call him on the landline, they would've been able to avoid this whole stupid friends business. And, besides, responding once or twice to a cat meme with 'cute' or, on one occasion, 'what the fuck am i looking at' does not a friendship make.
He emerges briefly from the blueberry bush to swat a few bees off of his arms. He's been stung once or twice in the process, and uses the edge of his thumbnail to scrape the stingers out of his skin. Jaskier asks about Yen, but not for information about her-- just to know if she's something he can't talk about.
"There's nothing to go into," he replies. "She's Ciri's mother. That's it."
It's at that point that Geralt looks up, just in time to see Jaskier snacking on some of the wild strawberries. The strawberries have done well this year, full and ripe and sweet, and when he bites into the flesh, his lips are wet and shiny with juice. Geralt has the sudden odd urge to find out what the strawberries taste like, and realizes probably a moment too late that he's staring at Jaskier's mouth. He turns away, back to the bush, and goes back to his blueberry hunt out of the need to have his hands doing something. Otherwise, he isn't... entirely sure what he might do with them.