Every minute longer this conversation goes-- if it could even be called a conversation, it's devolved into something more like an argument, or just a screaming match-- Geralt feels more and more like it's not just a mis-step that he took, it's a fatal one, where there's no solid ground stand on. A step right out into the void, and this is just the vertigo before the long, long fall.
Only a few days before things went to shit. This has to be a record.
"Deserve better?" There's an incredulity in his tone, like Jaskier told him that-- well, like he told him that Geralt of fucking Rivia deserves better than a tumultuous relationship with an emotionally unavailable sorceress. Sounds like exactly what he deserves, a broken relationship with an equally broken woman. "And I should go back to what, Jaskier? Nothing? Paying thrice as much to bed whores who reek of disgust? At least Yen told me that she fucking wanted me, and directly, not hiding it in songs and hoping that I'll parse what's true and what's embellishment."
When he'd said whatever you want, he'd meant it, but he'd also wanted for there to be a clear answer for it. For Jaskier to say 'we are friends', and it be so, or 'we're traveling companions' or, hell, he would have even taken 'we're nothing', even if hearing that would've been like taking a harpoon to the chest. He could have survived that blow, even if it hurt. What he doesn't want is this uncertainty, saying one thing and meaning another and leaving him to try to sort through the mess of it. Half of Jaskier's songs are lies to begin with, so how's he supposed to tell the things that the bard means from the things that are just another example of respect not making history?
"I don't talk in fucking riddles, Jaskier, whatever you want means whatever you want!"
He feels like he wants to rip out his fucking hair for how much of a mess this is, how little control he feels like he has over the situation. Every time he tries to clear it up, it just seems to get worse, like a struggle in a silty river. The more you try to swim, the cloudier the water gets.
"Don't tell me what your fucking song says, tell me what you're saying. Tell me what pleases you, and it's yours."
There's something like a plea in his voice, like desperation; give him solid ground to catch his feet on.
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Only a few days before things went to shit. This has to be a record.
"Deserve better?" There's an incredulity in his tone, like Jaskier told him that-- well, like he told him that Geralt of fucking Rivia deserves better than a tumultuous relationship with an emotionally unavailable sorceress. Sounds like exactly what he deserves, a broken relationship with an equally broken woman. "And I should go back to what, Jaskier? Nothing? Paying thrice as much to bed whores who reek of disgust? At least Yen told me that she fucking wanted me, and directly, not hiding it in songs and hoping that I'll parse what's true and what's embellishment."
When he'd said whatever you want, he'd meant it, but he'd also wanted for there to be a clear answer for it. For Jaskier to say 'we are friends', and it be so, or 'we're traveling companions' or, hell, he would have even taken 'we're nothing', even if hearing that would've been like taking a harpoon to the chest. He could have survived that blow, even if it hurt. What he doesn't want is this uncertainty, saying one thing and meaning another and leaving him to try to sort through the mess of it. Half of Jaskier's songs are lies to begin with, so how's he supposed to tell the things that the bard means from the things that are just another example of respect not making history?
"I don't talk in fucking riddles, Jaskier, whatever you want means whatever you want!"
He feels like he wants to rip out his fucking hair for how much of a mess this is, how little control he feels like he has over the situation. Every time he tries to clear it up, it just seems to get worse, like a struggle in a silty river. The more you try to swim, the cloudier the water gets.
"Don't tell me what your fucking song says, tell me what you're saying. Tell me what pleases you, and it's yours."
There's something like a plea in his voice, like desperation; give him solid ground to catch his feet on.