Dandelion has some basic skills-- he can bandage wounds and build a fire and knows how to recognize the herbs that Geralt needs for his potions. Can even collect them properly, and he's good at keeping track of how low the witcher's supplies get. But stitching? Well, luckily for him, he either had the coin for seamstresses in town to patch up his doublets, or he could cajole a witcher into doing it for him. And now, he rarely tears his clothes at all.
Punches? An interesting thing to compare-- it's not as though he ever raised a hand to Dandelion, at least not more than an admonishing smack. (Once he'd given a good swat to the bard's ass when he'd thrown him over his shoulder and carried him away from a bar brawl, and, gods, Geralt was an idiot for not recognizing why his scent spiked sweet and lusty. He'd blamed it on the pretty barmaids and Dandelion's unrelenting libido.)
"Be glad you were never on the receiving end of my fist," he says, his tone as light as that rumbling baritone can ever get. A joke, because the idea of hurting Dandelion intentionally like that? Ridiculous.
The bard's head rests on his shoulder, a warm and familiar weight. If Geralt closes his eyes and ignores the difference between their scents, he could almost believe that everything is normal, that Dandelion is next to him as he always has been.
There is a terrible fragility to Jaskier's voice when he speaks, asks him a little desperate question that makes Geralt's heart ache for him. The Geralt from his world really did a number on him, didn't he?
"I don't know," he answers, because it's the truth. "I don't know enough about any of this to say for sure. But if she doesn't, and it won't hurt anything, I don't think that Dandelion would mind if you stayed. And maybe you don't have to be swapped at the same time. Maybe she could send you back another day, when you feel ready."
When, or if. Readiness can be a difficult thing to determine. Sometimes, people are never ready, even with all the time in the world.
"I would never force Dandelion to go back to a place that makes him miserable. How could I demand the same of you?"
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Punches? An interesting thing to compare-- it's not as though he ever raised a hand to Dandelion, at least not more than an admonishing smack. (Once he'd given a good swat to the bard's ass when he'd thrown him over his shoulder and carried him away from a bar brawl, and, gods, Geralt was an idiot for not recognizing why his scent spiked sweet and lusty. He'd blamed it on the pretty barmaids and Dandelion's unrelenting libido.)
"Be glad you were never on the receiving end of my fist," he says, his tone as light as that rumbling baritone can ever get. A joke, because the idea of hurting Dandelion intentionally like that? Ridiculous.
The bard's head rests on his shoulder, a warm and familiar weight. If Geralt closes his eyes and ignores the difference between their scents, he could almost believe that everything is normal, that Dandelion is next to him as he always has been.
There is a terrible fragility to Jaskier's voice when he speaks, asks him a little desperate question that makes Geralt's heart ache for him. The Geralt from his world really did a number on him, didn't he?
"I don't know," he answers, because it's the truth. "I don't know enough about any of this to say for sure. But if she doesn't, and it won't hurt anything, I don't think that Dandelion would mind if you stayed. And maybe you don't have to be swapped at the same time. Maybe she could send you back another day, when you feel ready."
When, or if. Readiness can be a difficult thing to determine. Sometimes, people are never ready, even with all the time in the world.
"I would never force Dandelion to go back to a place that makes him miserable. How could I demand the same of you?"