Jaskier makes an exaggerated, dramatic gesture at the mention of Yen, much like he would in their younger days when Geralt trailed after her, lovesick on a djinn wish, and the bard had hated the way their meetings would always end in terrible arguments. At the time, Geralt had thought that it was because it didn't fit the fairy-tale notions of romance that Dandelion had in his head, but as an older and wiser man, he knows otherwise. That bitterness had left Dandelion in time, had been nearly purged from him after the djinn wish had been broken, and had been gone entirely by the time that he had taken up residence in Corvo Bianco. Much to Geralt's discomfort, he and Yen get along disturbingly well at times, and he has the sneaking suspicion that they get along best when they're talking about him over bottles of wine.

When Jaskier sees the table, the way it's set for two as though this is a steady routine, two old men who sit down for breakfast every morning and talk about their days-- there's sadness there, leaching the warmth out of his scent. Geralt would prefer even the anger and bitterness to sorrow, and he watches the path that Jaskier takes across the room, the brush of his fingers over the surface of the table. It's an old piece of furniture but well made, still standing up to the march of time.

"I promise you, I'm not a mushroom-induced hallucination," Geralt says, and he really can't help the fond, exasperated smile on his face, the kind that he always gets when Dandelion says some ridiculous thing. "And I'd recommend that you stay away from them, anyway. Dandelion swore them off after they gave him visions of Valdo Marx eating all of his poetry journals."

A truly terrifying dream, to be sure. And maybe the anecdote will spare Jaskier from a similar experience some time in his future.

"Sit with me, Jaskier," he says. "You look tired, and I hate how you smell like sadness. I don't know if I can help you with that, but at least be sad on a full stomach."