Jaskier is indignant that he asked about any promiscuous grandmothers in his family tree, but for all he knows, promiscuity could be hereditary. In that case, Jaskier had to get it honestly from somewhere, and it could very well be the same place that he got his touch of whatever is making his face stay youthful. And, really, you'd think that Jaskier would love to talk about anything that would be scandalous to his family, considering how much he dislikes them. A grandmother who dallied with mer-folk or selkies would fit that bill quite nicely.
Geralt's frown deepens when he mentions Vesemir's sex life. He doesn't know what his pseudo-father got up to during those years when he actually left the keep and he doesn't want to. Hell, he doesn't know what Vesemir gets up to for the entire rest of the year and the less he knows about it, the better.
"Hm."
A touch of elf blood, generations back. It could explain his face, the way that he's managed to avoid the ravages of time that plague the rest of his contemporaries, but--
A touch of elf blood that far back wouldn't change much about his lifespan. Maybe it would extend his life a little, but probably not more than half a decade. A pittance in comparison to the disparity in their lifetimes. More likely, it will just allow him to hold on to his youthful appearance for longer into his life, let him always look good for his age. If he had been a quarter-something-- whether elf or merrow or selkie-- he could have had decades more life, maybe even enough that by the time he was getting old, Geralt would be, too.
"I'm not worried," he says, and that's half-true. He's not worried about what Jaskier thinks he's worried about. "And if you had messed around with magic, I would have known. If nothing else, from the disaster you would've caused."
That last bit is just a tease, and he softens it with a squeeze to Jaskier's ankle, then runs his hand up the bard's warm calf. He's struck, not for the first time, by the strength in his legs, and since Jaskier has spent so much time in the past rubbing all of the kinks out of Geralt's muscles, perhaps he ought to consider returning the favor...
"Yeah, I'm done with this," Lambert says, levering himself up out of the bath. "You two can keep watching whatever the fuck this," he gestures towards Geralt and Jaskier, "is, but I've had enough."
The youngest Wolf takes a towel and stalks off to get dressed before leaving; Eskel sighs and hauls himself out of the bath as well. "Try not to take too long, Geralt," he says, "we've still got the wall to finish before we get snowed in."
Coën follows a minute or two afterward, getting reluctantly out of the bath. "I should make sure that Lambert doesn't go up on the roof by himself, he might fall. See you later, Geralt. Jaskier."
And then they're alone again.
"Pass me the file from your bag," Geralt says. "I should get you to the library soon."
no subject
Geralt's frown deepens when he mentions Vesemir's sex life. He doesn't know what his pseudo-father got up to during those years when he actually left the keep and he doesn't want to. Hell, he doesn't know what Vesemir gets up to for the entire rest of the year and the less he knows about it, the better.
"Hm."
A touch of elf blood, generations back. It could explain his face, the way that he's managed to avoid the ravages of time that plague the rest of his contemporaries, but--
A touch of elf blood that far back wouldn't change much about his lifespan. Maybe it would extend his life a little, but probably not more than half a decade. A pittance in comparison to the disparity in their lifetimes. More likely, it will just allow him to hold on to his youthful appearance for longer into his life, let him always look good for his age. If he had been a quarter-something-- whether elf or merrow or selkie-- he could have had decades more life, maybe even enough that by the time he was getting old, Geralt would be, too.
"I'm not worried," he says, and that's half-true. He's not worried about what Jaskier thinks he's worried about. "And if you had messed around with magic, I would have known. If nothing else, from the disaster you would've caused."
That last bit is just a tease, and he softens it with a squeeze to Jaskier's ankle, then runs his hand up the bard's warm calf. He's struck, not for the first time, by the strength in his legs, and since Jaskier has spent so much time in the past rubbing all of the kinks out of Geralt's muscles, perhaps he ought to consider returning the favor...
"Yeah, I'm done with this," Lambert says, levering himself up out of the bath. "You two can keep watching whatever the fuck this," he gestures towards Geralt and Jaskier, "is, but I've had enough."
The youngest Wolf takes a towel and stalks off to get dressed before leaving; Eskel sighs and hauls himself out of the bath as well. "Try not to take too long, Geralt," he says, "we've still got the wall to finish before we get snowed in."
Coën follows a minute or two afterward, getting reluctantly out of the bath. "I should make sure that Lambert doesn't go up on the roof by himself, he might fall. See you later, Geralt. Jaskier."
And then they're alone again.
"Pass me the file from your bag," Geralt says. "I should get you to the library soon."