Forty-two. Forty-two year old men had lines around their eyes, didn't they, and around their mouths. Laugh lines-- from years of smiling and laughing and talking. Jaskier should've had those, just by virtue of living a life full of mirth, but his face is smooth as ever. Maybe it isn't exactly the same as the face he had at eighteen, less of the lingering boyish baby-fat around the cheeks, but it's still barely aged past that. Mid-twenties, maybe?
He looks the same as the night before the banquet in Cintra, when Jaskier had knelt before him while he soaked in the bath and said maybe someone out there will want you.
Oh, Geralt thinks. He really had missed so many things, hadn't he? Someone had already wanted him, even back then. But that would have nothing to do with why he looks the same as he did around that time, he should focus on the more important things. He doubts that it's the result of a potion; even if Jaskier had stupidly rummaged through his potion bag and gotten into something that he shouldn't, it wouldn't have made him youthful, it would've killed him. Yen possibly had something that would have this kind of result, but she'd never give it to Jaskier. And Geralt would have noticed if he'd been going to mages for aging treatments or if he'd been using magic to keep himself young.
"Hm," it's a considering hum. He reaches up with one hand and grazes his fingers along the smooth edge of Jaskier's jawline. "You haven't aged. How did I not notice?"
"You've seen his face for twenty fucking years and didn't notice that it never changed? Fuck, none of you are allowed to call me unobservant ever again," Lambert says. "If you do know why, bard, never tell him. He'll drive himself crazy trying to figure it out, it'll be hilarious."
Geralt frowns in annoyance, mostly because Lambert's right and he would gnaw at this mystery until he gets an answer that satisfies him. "It can't be anything magical. Medallion would've picked up on it. Could be a touch of elf in your bloodline. Or selkie or merrow, since you lived near the coast."
"If it's selkie, it's distant. And they're rare, anyway, I haven't even heard of anyone coming across one," Coën says.
"And Geralt could've had one in his fucking bed and wouldn't have figured it out even if he was balls-deep in--" Lambert adds, and is mercifully interrupted by Eskel shoving his head underwater.
"Did you have any particularly promiscuous grandmothers? Or great-grandmothers," Geralt asks, with all the tact that could be expected of him-- that is to say, none at all. It's probably a good thing that Jaskier isn't holding a blade to his throat anymore. "Ones that went to the shore often without their husbands, maybe."
And maybe fished for pike in peculiar rivers, to reuse a phrase that he'd once used on Jaskier.
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He looks the same as the night before the banquet in Cintra, when Jaskier had knelt before him while he soaked in the bath and said maybe someone out there will want you.
Oh, Geralt thinks. He really had missed so many things, hadn't he? Someone had already wanted him, even back then. But that would have nothing to do with why he looks the same as he did around that time, he should focus on the more important things. He doubts that it's the result of a potion; even if Jaskier had stupidly rummaged through his potion bag and gotten into something that he shouldn't, it wouldn't have made him youthful, it would've killed him. Yen possibly had something that would have this kind of result, but she'd never give it to Jaskier. And Geralt would have noticed if he'd been going to mages for aging treatments or if he'd been using magic to keep himself young.
"Hm," it's a considering hum. He reaches up with one hand and grazes his fingers along the smooth edge of Jaskier's jawline. "You haven't aged. How did I not notice?"
"You've seen his face for twenty fucking years and didn't notice that it never changed? Fuck, none of you are allowed to call me unobservant ever again," Lambert says. "If you do know why, bard, never tell him. He'll drive himself crazy trying to figure it out, it'll be hilarious."
Geralt frowns in annoyance, mostly because Lambert's right and he would gnaw at this mystery until he gets an answer that satisfies him. "It can't be anything magical. Medallion would've picked up on it. Could be a touch of elf in your bloodline. Or selkie or merrow, since you lived near the coast."
"If it's selkie, it's distant. And they're rare, anyway, I haven't even heard of anyone coming across one," Coën says.
"And Geralt could've had one in his fucking bed and wouldn't have figured it out even if he was balls-deep in--" Lambert adds, and is mercifully interrupted by Eskel shoving his head underwater.
"Did you have any particularly promiscuous grandmothers? Or great-grandmothers," Geralt asks, with all the tact that could be expected of him-- that is to say, none at all. It's probably a good thing that Jaskier isn't holding a blade to his throat anymore. "Ones that went to the shore often without their husbands, maybe."
And maybe fished for pike in peculiar rivers, to reuse a phrase that he'd once used on Jaskier.