Jaskier yells for him to look at him and his fingers grab Geralt's chin, turning his head to meet those cornflower blue eyes. They're fearless and angry and bright, and Geralt can't look away. There's a twitch in the witcher's jaw when Jaskier mentions Eskel-- he hadn't thought that the bard had literally jumped into bed with his brother the second that he was out of his sight, but the admission that golden eyes only ever makes Jaskier think of him jolts something in his chest. The bard's fingers are tight against Geralt's face and he doesn't try to shake them off, lets him pull him around as he wishes.
Those fingers leave his face sooner rather than later, though, and he feels where they had been even after they're gone, like he had left marks. Geralt wants those hands back on him, even if it's just to pull him. He would want it even if it's just to strike him.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels forward and his voice dies in his throat. He had fled Vizima because he had felt that terrible want all the way to his bones, but wanting isn't love, is it? He has little time to contemplate it before Jaskier turns, stomps off to the bookshelf and retrieves the potion book, the one with the silk ribbon in it. He slams it down onto the desk; then the gwent desk, the horse carving. The little gifts that he'd given Geralt over the years that had made their way to Kaer Morhen, because-- because they were things that Jaskier had given him, and he had wanted them to survive. Was that borne out of lust? Probably not, because the bard had given him that ribbon before he had ever started to notice long legs and blue eyes. It had been blue once, blue like Jaskier's eyes, but sunlight and time had dulled it to a steely gray.
Bringing up the death of Clovis is a low blow, though, and one that Geralt feels acutely-- Clovis had been in his cohort, and, aside from Eskel, the only other one that had been left alive.
What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?
"Love," he replies, and his voice comes out hoarse, throaty in a way that doesn't make Jaskier weak at the knees. "I can't love you, not in the way that you love me. Whatever capacity I had for it was burned out of me in the Trials. Even if I said the words to you, they would be nothing but words."
The word without the sentiment behind it is worse than a lie.
"And what is left over-- they botched me, Jaskier, when they made me."
It's the only reasonable conclusion that he can come to; they made him wrong, when they gave him the extra mutagens. Something went wrong, left him with scraps of emotions instead of scouring him clean. Flaws on the inside instead of the outside, that couldn't be seen so easily. Had the mages known at the time...
"They left me with echoes of what any other man would feel, but nothing more than that. I won't deceive you into thinking that there's something more in me when what I have is too paltry to be worth anything to you."
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Those fingers leave his face sooner rather than later, though, and he feels where they had been even after they're gone, like he had left marks. Geralt wants those hands back on him, even if it's just to pull him. He would want it even if it's just to strike him.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels forward and his voice dies in his throat. He had fled Vizima because he had felt that terrible want all the way to his bones, but wanting isn't love, is it? He has little time to contemplate it before Jaskier turns, stomps off to the bookshelf and retrieves the potion book, the one with the silk ribbon in it. He slams it down onto the desk; then the gwent desk, the horse carving. The little gifts that he'd given Geralt over the years that had made their way to Kaer Morhen, because-- because they were things that Jaskier had given him, and he had wanted them to survive. Was that borne out of lust? Probably not, because the bard had given him that ribbon before he had ever started to notice long legs and blue eyes. It had been blue once, blue like Jaskier's eyes, but sunlight and time had dulled it to a steely gray.
Bringing up the death of Clovis is a low blow, though, and one that Geralt feels acutely-- Clovis had been in his cohort, and, aside from Eskel, the only other one that had been left alive.
What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?
"Love," he replies, and his voice comes out hoarse, throaty in a way that doesn't make Jaskier weak at the knees. "I can't love you, not in the way that you love me. Whatever capacity I had for it was burned out of me in the Trials. Even if I said the words to you, they would be nothing but words."
The word without the sentiment behind it is worse than a lie.
"And what is left over-- they botched me, Jaskier, when they made me."
It's the only reasonable conclusion that he can come to; they made him wrong, when they gave him the extra mutagens. Something went wrong, left him with scraps of emotions instead of scouring him clean. Flaws on the inside instead of the outside, that couldn't be seen so easily. Had the mages known at the time...
"They left me with echoes of what any other man would feel, but nothing more than that. I won't deceive you into thinking that there's something more in me when what I have is too paltry to be worth anything to you."