Jaskier moves and Geralt sees it out of the corner of his eyes, and though his reflexes are sharpened by by his heightened senses and decades of training, he expects a thrown pillow so little that it hits him right in the side of the head. His eyes, when they're turned back to the bard, are wide and stunned, mostly from the fact that he actually threw a godsdamned pillow at him and started yelling. There's quite a bit of yelling, really, and a rather impressive list of insults that the bard has leveraged at him.
Geralt stares at him for a few long moments, dumbfounded.
"...I am not cockeyed."
That is entirely not the point of any of this, but Jaskier has never dared to speak to him like this before and it's the first thing that comes to his mind after that wave of insults. Hell, no one has spoken like this to him, except perhaps Vesemir, and even then only when Geralt was young and stupid and needed a firm hand and a firmer lecture. Jaskier, who barely knows how to hold a sword the right way around and regularly ran to Geralt whenever he needed to be protected, is chastising the man who was called a butcher with nothing but anger and frustration in his scent.
Jaskier is only ever fearless around Geralt.
Then he catches a hint of salt, the metallic tang of iron, and it drags him out of his stupefaction. Geralt curses again and reaches for the bard, runs a hand over his back until he feels warm wetness. When he pulls it back from under the cloak, there are red smears; he probably ripped some of his scabs.
"Stop fucking moving, you're tearing everything open again," he growls, and he does not think about how Jaskier has said that exact same thing to him in the past. But it's different-- he is a witcher, and his mutated body was made to be ripped and torn. "And stop fucking yelling, are you so foolish that you'd forget you're a wanted man?"
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Geralt stares at him for a few long moments, dumbfounded.
"...I am not cockeyed."
That is entirely not the point of any of this, but Jaskier has never dared to speak to him like this before and it's the first thing that comes to his mind after that wave of insults. Hell, no one has spoken like this to him, except perhaps Vesemir, and even then only when Geralt was young and stupid and needed a firm hand and a firmer lecture. Jaskier, who barely knows how to hold a sword the right way around and regularly ran to Geralt whenever he needed to be protected, is chastising the man who was called a butcher with nothing but anger and frustration in his scent.
Jaskier is only ever fearless around Geralt.
Then he catches a hint of salt, the metallic tang of iron, and it drags him out of his stupefaction. Geralt curses again and reaches for the bard, runs a hand over his back until he feels warm wetness. When he pulls it back from under the cloak, there are red smears; he probably ripped some of his scabs.
"Stop fucking moving, you're tearing everything open again," he growls, and he does not think about how Jaskier has said that exact same thing to him in the past. But it's different-- he is a witcher, and his mutated body was made to be ripped and torn. "And stop fucking yelling, are you so foolish that you'd forget you're a wanted man?"