"There's always magic involved." He mumbles. "Fucking witches."
This is what he gets for not wanting to paint them all under the same Yennefer brush like a bigot? Fuck them all, seriously.
I am Geralt, the man says, and Jaskier feels a turmoil of emotions attempting to explode in his chest. Looking at him is almost like seeing a distorted picture from being dizzy or drunk, or hell- high. There's so much he recognizes yet at the same time, so much that feels wrong. It gets on his nerves. He feels confused, overwhelmed and... and...
Vulnerable.
That's it, that's the word. Vulnerable and exposed, and he hates it. This man treats him like he knows him, like he understands him, knows intimate details of his life, and he's... kind, which Jaskier wants to cling to but also infuriates him to no end. Even if he is Geralt, it's a still not good thing, not exactly. Sure, it means he isn't in any danger, but the pain from the mountain is still fresh, and he swore to himself he wouldn't give in again, he wouldn't follow the asshole around, wouldn't give him any more years of his life...
Jaskier wants to cry. He should be showering the man with questions, trying to uncover a new mystery, instead he feels anxious and helpless - wary, quiet, so much unlike himself. And that's because he doesn't know how to react without a breakdown (which he won't have, won't give this ass the pleasure). He wants to jump into those witcher arms and run away from him at the same time.
She is more talkative than you, he wants to reply out of habit. Except it isn't accurate, because this 'Geralt' has said more in a few minutes than Jaskier is used to hear from him in a whole week. One thing is true though, as much as it pains him: he won't achieve anything staying here in the stable. And food does sound nice...
Bollocks. Is it really breaking his word to himself if he doesn't have much of a choice?
"Where am I anyway?" He asks after putting the brooch back in the lute case, which he hangs back on his shoulder to follow notGeralt out, keeping more than a couple of inches between them. Even the brushing of their arms would destroy him, he's sure. "This is obviously not Oxenfurt."
The bard smells even more alarmingly like anxiety and stress, and Geralt has an almost instinctive need to try to alleviate it. That's what he's done in the past-- his mere presence is usually enough to put Dandelion at ease, and anything that isn't solved by simply being there can be solved with a few words or action. There's a surprising amount of Dandelion's troubles that can be fixed either by Geralt looking menacing-- though the things that need that particular brand of problem-solving have dropped off considerably since he's been living at Corvo Bianco and sharing Geralt's bed-- or by letting the bard rest his head on his chest and listening to him talk.
He imagines that this wouldn't go over very well in this instance.
But answering questions? That he could do.
"You're definitely not in Oxenfurt," he replies. "Toussaint, actually. This is the Corvo Bianco estate. It's, uh. Mine. Payment for a contract."
He starts to lead the bard back towards the villa, where, in all likelihood, breakfast would already be laid out for them. The usual kind of breakfast that they would make for any normal day-- eggs and ham with bread and butter as Geralt preferred, fruit pastries and fragrant herbal tea for Dandelion.
"I take it that you don't go by Dandelion. So... Buttercup? Is that what I should call you?"
"Payment for a contract." Jaskier repeats with obvious skepticism in his voice, eyebrows raised as well. "And you accepted it."
There must be servants in a place like this, he imagines. Tons of things to be in charge of when managing an estate. It's not an image that Jaskier can link to fucking Geralt of Rivia, in all honestly - but then again, everything seems to be covered by this layered of wrongness around here. Perhaps he needs to start getting used to it.
Toussaint. Fuck, that's incredibly far from Redania. But what would he get out of arriving to Oxenfurt anyway? The same madness? More not-strangers acting like they knew him and calling him the wrong name? Can't be worse than being stuck with a weird version of Geralt, he supposes.
A Geralt that is trying to make conversation.
Cornflower blues glance at him, unsure of what to make of this. It's what he's always wanted, part of him says. It's too late, the other replies. And judging from the few clues he has so far, well - if there's a notGeralt, does that mean he knows these things because there is a notJaskier as well? It can't be - because then it would mean there's a bard out there who didn't take care of Geralt's wounds.
Then again, maybe that's not a bad thing after all. It means that notJaskier isn't a fool.
"It's Jaskier. Yes, as in buttercup." He huffs, internally being thankful for having something to concentrate all these frustrated feelings on. "A name that has no trouble being taken seriously, thank you very much!" A bit of the dramatics make their appearance then: the tone is raised a little, a finger is wagged for a couple of seconds before it goes back to holding the strap of the lute case so tightly, knuckles on both hands are almost white. It's not much, but boy, does it help.
Another typical gesture of his shows up right after: the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, showing he's concentrating on the mess that is his mind at the moment. He has so many questions about this notGeralt - questions related to this mystery, of course, but also just questions that want to make their way out simply because this guy seems to actually be willing to answer them, which is crazy in itself. But he shouldn't be caring! He can't allow himself to fall for it again!
"The witch that opened the portal-" He finally starts explaining, thinking that sticking to hard facts will distracting from... pretty much everything else. A safe topic, if you will. "-I think she sent me here on purpose. She said Oxenfurt isn't what I need right now."
Dandelion is certainly a fool, but he's Geralt's fool.
Jaskier takes obvious offense at Dandelion's previous assessment of his name, even going so far as to wag his finger in Geralt's direction. The witcher smiles at the display; it's so very familiar, so much like Dandelion that he couldn't help the way his expression goes soft. He takes the admonishment with all the grace that he would take it from his own bard, and makes note of his preferred name.
"Jaskier it is."
Jaskier's tongue pokes out over his bottom lip as he thinks. It's, again, something that Dandelion does when he's concentrating very hard on his verses, and something that Geralt finds stupidly endearing. For all the ways that Jaskier is not like Dandelion, there seems to be plenty of ways that they are so terribly, unbelievably similar.
They make it into the villa as Jaskier is explaining his problems with witches and portals, and Geralt can't fault him to sounding so aggrieved about it all.
"I fucking hate portals," Geralt says, because that's an opinion that absolutely needs to be voiced right now. "Well, if portals are at the root of this, I should call Yen. If she can't sort it out, Ciri ought to be able to."
He walks them into the dining room-- he has a fucking dining room, it still amazes him sometimes-- and breakfast is already out and piping hot. Geralt sits at the table like he owns the place, which he does, and forgets that Jaskier isn't the same man who would just take a seat across from him like he also owns the place (which he doesn't). Geralt is already buttering up multiple rolls to go with his small mountain of eggs and ham. Witcher appetite.
"You can drop your things anywhere. Dandelion lives here with me, so if the two of you have been swapped--" he waves his knife vaguely in the air and shrugs. Might as well stay until they sort it out, right? There's plenty of space here, and he might need to be in the same location to cross back into his own world anyway. Plus, when has a bard ever turned down free room and board?
There's a pot of herbal tea and pastries set on the other side of the table, awaiting their usual bard. Lavender and lemon balm tea in the pot, papal creams and apricot kolaczki on the plates.
"He usually eats sweet things for breakfast, but if you want something else, don't worry about it."
The benefit of having a kitchen staff. Granted, Geralt was probably the easiest person alive to cook for, he just wanted half a dozen eggs and a massive slab of ham for breakfast and he was content as a pig in shit. Dandelion-- and, he assumes, Jaskier-- has more expensive taste than he, and a more refined palate or whatever.
Those smiles and looks of affection are completely missed by Jaskier - he simply can't look at the man in the eye, only stealing glances every now and then. And he thinks it's a good thing he doesn't, because then her name comes up (of course, of fucking course, THAT had to stay the same) and he doesn't think he could've dealt with seeing his face when he mentioned her.
The laughter that escapes him is incredibly sarcastic and sour.
"I take it back!" He exclaims, dramatics finally making a full appearance, tone high and bitter, arms thrown in the air in frustration. Her presence haunts him even at times like this, and he hates her more for it. "You are Geralt of Rivia."
Geralt of Rivia, always wrapped around her little finger.
He's about to make a very skeptical question about the other half of that statement (because 'Ciri' can't possibly mean who he thinks it means, there's only so much wrongness he can take) but then they make it to the dining room, and Jaskier freezes once again when several things hit him at the same time.
The fact there's indeed a notJaskier around, who chose a different flower for his name and didn't take care of his witcher's scars.
The fact this notJaskier may be in his world right now.
The fact this notJaskier lives together with motherfucking Geralt in a vineyard, like retired old men.
Why don't we leave tomorrow?
And in the middle of it all, his favorite breakfast, as if waiting for him. It's almost... domestic.
We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.
It takes him a moment to get his heart unstuck from his throat to be able to speak, but Geralt can probably still smell the sadness coming off him in waves.
"N-no. It's fine. It's... perfect, really."
And yet he doesn't sit down yet. He walks slowly to the table and lets his fingertips brush the fine wood as it was the most precious thing in the world.
That is, if you'll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.
"...maybe I did make it to Oxenfurt and I just happen to be high on Psilocybe mushrooms."
Because accepting this as real will only finish destroying what is left of his heart.
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."
If you hate to smell my sadness, then stop making me sad in the first place.
He's two seconds away from saying exactly that, but a glance makes him aware of the wrongness again -the scar, the white shirt, that beard- and the words get stuck in his throat.
If you want to help, then send me to Oxenfurt.
Except he's already ruled that one out too, hasn't he? His bratty nature is trying his best, but sadly Jaskier has to accept the truth once again: beggars can't be choosers - he's stuck in an awful situation, and running away is actually the worst option. Even worse than heartbreak.
At least notGeralt brings up a topic that Jaskier can concentrate his negative feelings on, and so he puffs up as he puts his things on another chair before sitting down across the witcher, huffing yet managing to be gentle to his lute anyway. Oh boy, here comes the rant.
"AND my quills as well!" He replies with the highest indignation as he pours tea in his cup, but not before opening his doublet to show the delicate chemise under it. It seems notGeralt's warning is coming too late, Jaskier has already been through that terrifying experience too. "Including the golden one I got in Vizima! And that dimwitted shit-dripping lute-torturer son of a hymm had the NERVE to smile at me to show me all the little sparkly barbs sticking to his repulsive teeth!"
The way he tells it, one believe it actually happened instead of being a drug-induced hallucination. But this is Jaskier, storyteller extraordinaire, famous for his songs for a reason. And as far as his emotions go, Valdo Marx deserves to be insulted in any occasion that lends itself for it, even imaginary ones.
There's more where that came from (when isn't there?) but Jaskier chooses this pause to bite on a papal cream and he instantly deflates, head angled back just a little it as he hums with delight.
"Melitele's tits, these are good." He tilts his head and yells in the general direction of the hallway, completely sure a maid must be waiting nearby in case 'the lord of the house' (snort) needs something extra for his breakfast. "My compliments to the chef, for their fine pastries have appeased this humble bard's sweet cravings!"
It's odd, what things are apparently fixtures of their two worlds. Jaskier and Dandelion, both having the same ridiculous mushroom-based dreams about the troubadour of Cidaris eating their hard-written verses. And... other accouterments, apparently. Geralt shakes his head a little, smiling until he finishes buttering a roll and can hide his smile by eating.
The bard bites into one of the pastries and there's a blissful expression that overtakes his face. It's a very familiar gesture, one that's so painfully similar to Dandelion's that he almost feels-- well. This is not Dandelion, no matter how much he may sometimes act like it, and it would be best to remember that. He even calls out to the maid like Dandelion would, knowing that she tends to stand in the hallway, just in case he needs another pot of tea or if Geralt needs more bread.
"Of course, Master Dandelion!" She ducks her head in only for a moment, and thus misses the fact that the sweets-loving bard sitting at the table and dressed in bright colors is not, in fact, the one that's usually there.
Geralt waits until the bard has at least had a chance to fill his stomach with pastries and tea before moving along to any difficult conversations. But it is a subject that must be breached, and better that Geralt asks the questions than Yennefer.
"So," he says, leaning back in his chair with his empty plate pushed to the side, "a witch opened a portal to take you to Oxenfurt, and you ended up in my stables instead. Dandelion's gone and likely has switched places with you--" and is probably about to get himself into trouble, knowing him "--and the witch that swapped you said that this is where you need to be. That about it?"
A summary of the facts, as they have been given to Geralt. It certainly ranks highly on his scale of Weird Shit that he's had to deal with, but at least it's only contained to himself, Dandelion, and Jaskier.
"Were you wintering at Oxenfurt? That's the usual time that Dandelion and I would split."
Geralt to Kaer Morhen, Dandelion to Oxenfurt to teach all winter long and collect his thoughts about all of the things that he'd seen with Geralt throughout the year, turn them into songs. They would then meet again in Spring, once the world had thawed enough for Geralt to make the trip back down the mountain.
Having a maid actually answering isn't surprising, his guess comes from the experience of knowing how this type of household works. Being called Dandelion again, however, brings him back to reality from his emotional high. Fuck, he wishes she had made an appearance so he could've flirted with her, just to provide a different kind of distraction.
Instead, he's stuck with his thoughts again. And he hates it. He hates silence, as well, so it's a miracle that he manages to finish breakfast without uttering another word. A new record, really - while food is usually a good way to slow down his babbling, it's never been a force strong enough to stop him from talking at all. The issue is, all the questions and topics that come to his mind end up related to this Geralt's life, and he's trying to keep it from being personal, no matter how his curiosity itches to take out his notebook and write down everything he sees and hears.
And he'll be caught dead before he chitchats about the bloody weather. Ugh, he has a reputation to maintain!
NotGeralt stays silent as they eat as well, which Jaskier isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. On one hand, it's familiar, reminding him of home, but he should be thinking about home in the first place? On the other hand, this Geralt seems to be talkative, so this silence should be a sign of something, and it irritates Jaskiet that he can't tell of what exactly. A Geralt he can't read gets on his nerves, but should he really be so offended at the thought? Didn't he learn that all his readings had been wrong just a month ago? And would notGeralt talking truly be any better, when the kindness and good humor also freak him out a little bit? Gods, there's such a mess in his head right now.
At least the food and tea are good.
By the time the questions come, Jaskier is growing restless. He still doesn't look directly at notGeralt, sticking to stealing glances every now and then, and fidgety fingers find entertainment in turning his empty tea cup over and over as if he needed to see the details painted on it from every angle, like admiring a statue.
"I didn't show up in your stables - it was a little farther away, definitely outside, if that matters." Because of magic energies or some shit, who knows. "I came closer while looking for help, I found Roach instead. The rest does sound right."
The next question is harder, and Jaskier finds himself wincing, a leg bouncing along. The urge to run away returns, but he has nowhere to go. Bollocks.
"Yes, I usually do winter at Oxenfurt. But it wasn't winter yet." And before notGeralt jumps on that, he hurries to add a question of his own, not wanting to explain why he was going home before schedule. "You've been nothing but unruffled at the concept of alternate versions of your life, witcher."
Okay, maybe that's not exactly a question. But the point still stands!
Geralt nods, makes a mental note about Jaskier's location. There could be some importance to it-- some indication of the magic that was used or something. Any detail could be valuable to Yen when she does her evaluation, so Geralt will have to write it down in one of his hunting journals before he forgets. Either way, it's good to have his understanding of the situation clarified. He prefers to have a clear picture of events.
Hearing that Jaskier was going to Oxenfurt before winter, though, is surprising, and it likely shows in his raised white eyebrows. It's a good thing that Jaskier is expecting that Geralt would ask questions about this state of affairs, because his mouth is open to do so when the bard cuts him off. Thankfully for him, Geralt's used to being unable to get a word in edgewise.
"It's not the first time I've been introduced to the possibility," he says. "I've been in other worlds. Not exactly willingly, but--" Geralt waves a hand, as though saying it doesn't matter. "The idea of there being more than one of me is new, and I can't say that I exactly want to meet myself, but you're living proof of there being more than one version of Dandelion."
Geralt is a witcher, though, and is hard to throw off the scent. He's answered Jaskier's question, and now he has to keep talking lest he lose the thread of the conversation to the bard.
"Why were you going to Oxenfurt so early in the year? Bored of traveling with your world's version of me?"
He's been in other worlds. Bloody hell, now that sounds like a story - one that deserves way more than a wave of the hand (of course it wasn't willingly, that sure sounds like Geralt-shenanigans). The urge to take out his notebook hits him again, and so does the need to fucking run when the witcher makes his next two questions.
Bollocks.
After twenty years of not being asked anything, this is when he finally gets a Geralt that doesn't let a topic drop. What happened to blessed silence? Getting more and more nervous, Jaskier starts tapping the teacup with his spoon, matching the rhythm of his bouncing leg. He doesn't know how to navigate this Geralt - then again, did he ever really know how to navigate any Geralt?
If life could give me one blessing...
Probably not.
"No." It's all he says before moving on, trying to still dance around the subject because he's nothing but stubborn and determined. "If it wasn't an accident and that witch sent me here through a portal with purpose, can't we just hire another to do the same in return?"
Because if he stays here any longer he's going to freaking explode.
Jaskier is... nervous. Geralt doesn't need a witcher's senses to know that, not considering the fact that he's tapping the side of his teacup with his spoon. It's perfectly in rhythm with his bouncing leg, which is somehow both deeply annoying and also very concerning. A fidgety Dandelion is usually a Dandelion that's hiding something, and probably something that he should know about before it bites them both in the ass.
Equally concerning-- the very curt, perfunctory response. Bards never give brief responses, especially not these bards. They talk and talk until you're not sure which way is up.
Geralt will have to consider his approach carefully. With Dandelion, he would just ask him what's going on directly, but this is not Dandelion. This is Jaskier, the man who does not know him like his own bard knows him, intimately and completely. He doesn't trust him like his bard does. And trust is a very important thing.
"I don't know if just any mage would work," he replies after a moment, having considered the question. "Sending someone between worlds isn't easy. And I don't think we should risk sending you through a poorly-made portal."
Or trying to bring Dandelion back through one. He would prefer it if both bards got to their intended destinations in one piece. He knows that he'd be deeply upset if Dandelion returned to him in multiple pieces, and he can only assume that Jaskier's Geralt would be displeased.
Geralt stands and walks over to a cabinet, opening one of the doors to reveal a number of bottles of various liquors. He pulls out a bottle of vodka and a pair of glasses, then returns to the breakfast table and sets them down, pouring out a measure of liquor into each. He pushes one across to Jaskier.
"It's a bit early in the day for it," he says with a shrug, "but you look like you could use it."
"But it was a random mage that threw me here!" He exclaims with a return of the dramatics, both hands thrown in the air to match his exasperation. "I didn't go to anyone special, it was just a dipstick of a witch working at a city for easy coin!"
Usually this would be one of those moments where he wouldn't mind to quickly agree with Geralt - he likes observing magic and monsters, but not meddling with it. People may like to make fun of his sense of self-preservation, but Jaskier still knows what to run away from. And something that not even a witcher wants to touch is high on that list, if not top spot.
That's a rational line of thinking, however, and Jaskier is feeling many things at the moment, but rational isn't one of them. He wants to be out of here as soon as possible, to leave before this world where Geralt is gentle and wants him around pushes his anger away and plants the seeds of hope again.
He can't go through that again. He can't.
Luckily the witcher knows exactly what he needs: to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Jaskier doesn't hesitate to grab the glass and chug the vodka in one go, letting the liquor do its thing as he slowly accepts the inevitable aspect of his current situation.
"Bollocks." He mumbles with a little sigh as he puts the glass back on the table with a little more force than he intended, the sound of it hitting the wood echoing in the dining room. He finally dares to look at Geralt then, mind braver with alcohol in his veins, and makes a grabby hand at the witcher. "If you're going to contact Yennefer, then pass me the bottle."
Because there's no way he'll suffer both her and not-really-except-yes-Geralt at the same time while fucking sober.
"Any sorceress throwing you across worlds isn't a dipstick of a witch, Jaskier," he says, "and definitely not if she can take someone from this world while she's at it."
Jaskier drains his glass of vodka quickly, needing the liquid courage. Geralt doesn't judge him for it-- gods know the both of them have used alcohol as a coping mechanism before. And, if nothing else, Dandelion tends to have an even looser tongue after he's gotten a few drinks into his stomach, and the vodka might similarly loosen Jaskier's. He pours another measure for him.
"Might've helped if you got her name," he adds, but if Jaskier had known the sorceress' name, he probably would've said it by now. They might have tried to track her down in this world, see if she could undo what her alternate universe counterpart had done. It doesn't matter at this point, though-- what's done is done. Geralt gives the vodka bottle over, putting it into Jaskier's grabbing hands. Let him deal with having to interact with Yennefer, even at a distance, however best suits him.
"Yen left me a xenovox," Geralt explains. "Let me fetch it and we'll see if she can help."
He keeps it in his bedroom, in a drawer. Yen had given it to him only for emergencies, anyway, not to use for social calls, so he rarely has occasion to use it. When he returns with the small object, he places it on the breakfast table and speaks.
"Yen? If you're there, I need to talk to you."
There are a few soft noises that filter over the box, perhaps like it's being picked up and placed in a more convenient location. The swish of cloth, the sound of footsteps.
"I hope it's for something important," the sorceress' voice drifts out of the device, clear enough that she might as well have been in the same room. "I'm quite busy."
"You always are," he says. "Look, did you notice anything strange happening in Toussaint? A fluctuation in Chaos or something?"
"I may have," she says, in a tone that Geralt knows means that she certainly did and doesn't like the fact that he knows.
"Something went wrong with some portals," he tells her. "Dandelion is gone, and I have a... version of him from another world sitting at my breakfast table."
"Maybe not a dipstick but still a bitch." He mumbles before downing his second shot. "Nobody in town knew her name, and I wasn't in the mood to try to charm it out of her. I only wanted to get the hell out of Hengfors."
And isn't that telling? Geralt is right about alcohol losing Jaskier's tongue, there goes a couple of details into whatever is going on in this bard's head - which isn't pretty, to say the least. Especially if he wasn't in the mood to flirt. At least Geralt does pass him the bottle, allowing him to silence his loud feelings for at least a moment - he's already drinking when the witcher leaves the room.
"Xenowhat now?" He asks a little too late.
Maybe a special kind of messenger bird? Whatever. If it means not having to see her, Jaskier approves. He continues to drink as he considers his next move - he should wait for notGeralt to come back, he supposes, wouldn't want him to think a portal got him again. Perhaps he could ask for a room then, or at least the library, and stay in there writing (or pretending to) and reading and avoid the rest of the world until he could find a way back home. He can't spend his whole stay here drunk just to be able to look at notGeralt's face.
Although the idea is very tempting...
He's in the middle of chugging again when Geralt puts down a little object on the table and--
What the everlasting fuck.
Jaskier chokes on the vodka, spitting some on the table and all over his pants. Fuck, those are nice pants! Somehow he manages to glare at Geralt as he pats his chest and coughs, blue eyes filled with anger: a mix of what he brought with him already and new frustration provoked by being made talk to the witch and sounding like an drunk idiot in the process.
"Something went wrong?! She did it on purpose!" Here comes the flapping of his hands as he raises his voice, alcohol definitely helping him cut loose. "I asked for Oxenfurt, she SAID she would send me somewhere else instead! To my face! Obviously nothing went wrong on HER end!"
Jaskier chokes on his vodka when Yen speaks, clearly not expecting her voice. Not familiar with xenovoxes, apparently-- well, that's an oversight, but it is technically better for Jaskier to be part of this conversation. He's the one who got tossed across worlds, after all, Yen might need details that only he would know.
"Well, he certainly complains like Dandelion," she says, and Geralt frowns because, accurate or not, the comment is purposefully inflammatory. The bard is already defensive and uncomfortable, making him more so isn't ideal.
"She told him that he needed to be here," Geralt supplies, in the hope that this information would make some sense to another sorceress.
"I don't know the minds of other sorceresses," Yen says, "nor would I generally care to. Her reasons for doing this are ultimately unimportant. If it were simply a matter of sending this bard back where he comes from, it would be a straightforward task, though perhaps not an easy one."
"But?"
"But, I assume that you want Dandelion back as well. That complicates matters." Yen hums, as though considering her options. "It's an unusual enough situation to intrigue me. Very well, Geralt, I'll see what can be done. Entertain your new bard for a little while, I'll need to do some research."
"Yen, wait--" Geralt starts to say, but he's cut off by the sorceress.
"I'll contact you when I'm ready for you. Good-bye, Geralt."
The xenovox goes silent. Geralt grumbles at it, but there's little that he can do with Yen on the other side of the Continent. If she doesn't want to answer, she won't answer, and neither hell nor high water would be able to make her change her mind.
Uncomfortable? Geralt, please. Yennefer being an arse to him is the most home-like thing he's seen so far after Roach. This is actually safe territory he can easily deal with! (Which says a lot about the heartbreak Geralt left him with, to be honest.)
"I suppose some things stay true across all worlds - like being a bitch."
...okay, not his best work. But he's tired, heartbroken, confused and tipsy. Not exactly feeling very witty at the moment.
At least Geralt explains the rest to her. The fact the situation 'intrigues her' makes Jaskier roll his eyes and drink more - so if this hadn't intrigued her, she wouldn't be helping Geralt. Typical. When she says good-bye without leaving room for more, Jaskier decides to be very mature and stick his tongue out at the xenovox. It's dumb but damn, it feels right.
"I am not some child that needs to be entertained." Big words after the gesture he just made. And he definitely gets bored easily as well, but he needs to be against Yennefer's words on principle. After one more sip, he finally puts the bottle down and looks at his pants. "I need to change before this stains." A sigh. "I guess I'm stuck here for a while. May I ask for a room?"
It's an admonishment, but only slight. If they had been sitting on the same sides of the table, it may have been accompanied by a light slap to the arm, but nothing more. Yen hardly needs Geralt to defend her-- she can defend herself against Dandelion perfectly well on her own, she can probably handle his alternate universe counterpart, too.
He's certainly not at his best, too, if he can't get more creative than bitch. Or more mature than sticking his tongue out at an inanimate object. Well-- he's had a trying day, no doubt, and he's halfway to drunk, so maybe he can be forgiven for not being particularly witty.
The bard asks for a room, which is... fine, of course. There are plenty of rooms. He could have more than one, if he wants, and sleep in different rooms as he pleases.
"Of course," he says. "Pick whichever one you want. If you go down the hall, the last door on the right is a study that Dandelion liked to write in. You can use it if you want. It gets good light."
And had a lovely view of the vineyards, which Dandelion had said was immensely important for his creative flow, when he had claimed it for his own. Though if Jaskier went through all of the guest rooms, he wouldn't find a bedroom with this world's version of Filavandrel's lute and a closet full of foppish clothes-- because they were all in the master bedroom. The lute on a stand next to a rack housing a pair of swords, doublets hung up in the closet next to plain linen shirts. A book of antique poetry on the nightstand on the right side of the bed, a manual of rare potion recipes on the nightstand on the left, the side that was nearest to the door. Other little signs of cohabitation.
"You're welcome here," he says, "for as long as it takes to get you back home. You don't have to worry."
Oh, look, there goes another thing that stays the same in all worlds: Geralt jumping in to defend her. Jaskier drinks to that as well.
Geralt gets a nod at his words, followed by a snort. He sincerely doubts he'll get any writing done soon, Her Sweet Kiss being the last thing he was able to produce... a month ago. Being stuck here doesn't exactly help his mood either, which frustrates him even more, because he should be getting one hell of an unique experience and thousands of stories worth of ballads.
But no, his visit to another world includes Geralt of fucking Rivia, because of course it does, and Jaskier feels the weight of that golden gaze squeezing his heart by the second.
He stands up and gathers his things (yes, including the bottle of vodka, that's his now), then turns towards the hallway, ready to find a room to disappear into... but Geralt goes and says more. Nice words, gentle words, words that crawl under his skin with their care. It drives him crazy, it gets on his nerves, it hurts. So much. Accepting it to be real means the situation at home becomes even more unfair in contrast.
"Stop being so bloody nice!" Now that's something he never thought he'd ever say. His voice is snappy, his shoulders shaking as he speaks without turning around because even if he feels braver now thanks to the alcohol, he's afraid of finding the kindness of those words in those golden eyes as well. "I know I'm only needed to keep some-- some-- magical connection thingy or whatever to your bard. Worry not, I'll be out of your hair. This place is huge--" His voice breaks then. "--it won't be hard to keep on avoiding you until it's all over."
Keep on avoiding you. His stomach twists when he says that 'you', confusion appearing again and making his head hurt. Or maybe that's just the vodka...?
Jaskier gathers his things and the scent of him keeps getting worse and worse, despite all of Geralt's efforts to be kind. It's as though the kindness is the problem, or that Geralt is, just inherently hurting him through existing. It's a hard thing for him to wrap his head around, this younger version of his dearest friend who can barely look at him without smelling like pain.
Stop being so bloody nice, he says, then continues on with some absolute rot about avoiding Geralt for the rest of his time here. Telling him that he'd be out of his hair, as though the witcher would want or expect the bard to be anywhere but. Geralt basically invites Dandelion to be, on a daily basis. What would he do with his life if he didn't have a chatty musician in it?
The delicate approach-- admittedly not Geralt's strong point, even on the best days-- has not been particularly effective. Fine, then, he'll just have to try what usually works better for him, which is asking blunt questions until he gets answers. Works on monster hunts, it'll work on the bewildering interpersonal relations of the alternate universe counterparts of himself and his bard. Geralt stands, the legs of his chair squeaking on the floor from the abrupt movement, and crosses the room; it takes him no more than three strides. His body is between Jaskier and the hall. The bard could get around him if he must, but he couldn't take the direct route out of the room.
"What did I do to you, Jaskier?" he asks, voice low and imploring. Talk to me, it begs. "Tell me. What did the man in your world who has my name do to you?"
Yennefer is under the impression that she must simply exchange one bard for another-- perhaps Geralt will need to tell her that she has to bring another witcher into the world, solely for him to have the unique experience of being able to literally beat the shit out of himself.
The delicate approach hasn't been a complete failure - the invite to drink with him (aka having alcohol in his veins) is definitely helping speed this along. If this has been Geralt from home, Jaskier would've already sent him to hell the minute he saw him. As it stands now, however, looking at this familiar yet strange witcher confuses him too much, throws him off his center. He wants to avoid him, to look the other way, not to melt under the kindness of those words.
Geralt is almost begging to talk. Geralt never begs, especially not to lose his blessed silence.
And so it's the alcohol that allows him to confront all this - which makes him even madder, because never has he need liquid bravery to use his tongue or to look at Geralt in the eye. The situation is unique, he reminds himself, he has all the right in the world to feel vulnerable and lost. Besides, he doesn't want to lose this anger, he can't be that fool again - and if he requires vodka to keep those emotions from fleeing, so be it.
Having the witcher suddenly block his way makes him flinch, but this time he's ready to fight back, the questions and the begging and just the possibility of that being actual worry finally make him snap.
"Tossed me aside like an old dog!" He cries out, hurt clear in his eyes, his voice, his scent. Only one hand gesturing since the other still has the vodka, but that has never been a problem when it comes to his dramatics. "Twenty years of loyalty-" Not so young after all, is he? Just like Dandelion, the young spirit carries on his looks as well. "-of trying to understand grunts, of holding your fucking guts! Only to be blamed for all the shit in your life!" You again, and some part of him knows it's incorrect, but he isn't thinking clearly at the moment. He only sees those golden eyes and white hair and the rage flows. "So go fuck yourself, Geralt of Rivia! Now move aside or I'll change the song to throw a bottle at your witcher!"
Geralt knows when men are lying to him, and the pain and hurt in Jaskier's scent rings true as anything. What he describes to Geralt is a terrible betrayal, a man taking two decades of loyalty and care and friendship, all for lies about how the bard has caused all of his troubles. That has never been true-- even if he had gotten into trouble at times and needed Geralt's help getting back out of it, the witcher never begrudged him for it. Never blamed him for the things that went wrong in his life, because Geralt's life is his own godsdamned responsibility. Not Jaskier's, not Yen's, not even fucking Destiny's.
So hearing that this betrayal came at his hands is a shock. Nearly incomprehensible, really-- how could someone who's supposed to be him act in a way that's so diametrically opposed? How could there be a world where Geralt of Rivia doesn't love his bard-- whether he goes by the name Dandelion or Jaskier, a rose by any other name-- and cherish him as his truest friend?
"I don't understand," he says, and he'll weather having a bottle thrown at him if it will end with him getting some clarity. "I never sent Dandelion away. I never said anything like that to him. Why would I lie? And why would he ever believe it?"
Not only could he not imagine saying those things to his friend, he couldn't imagine Dandelion standing there and taking it and believing him. If he had told him that he was responsible for all the shit in his life, Dandelion would've told him that he was full of it and then immediately gone on to list all the ways that he had been the instrument of his own misery, probably in iambic pentameter or something. By the end of it, Geralt would've been the one apologizing and would've probably been talked into going to another banquet with the bard, to keep him out of trouble-- for free, of course.
"Dandelion has always been a friend to me. Is it... isn't that the same, for you?"
The bottle is definitely raised, but Geralt keeps talking, and it reminds Jaskier that this isn't the one from home, the one that broke his heart into pieces in the first place. And shouldn't that be a lesson not to fall for it again? But oh he's weak and wanting - Jaskier needs people, needs this kindness, needs a fucking hug right now to confort him. How can he blame the guy for something he didn't do when he's hurt over someone doing the same to him?
How can he not give in to this care and worry he so desperately needs when it comes from the voice he's dreamed about since he was 18? It's a very powerful combo.
"Stop it. Stop--" Being so nice, he wants to say, but he can't. He can't even mean it, he wants this tenderness to evolve him. Yet each word is at the same time a needle that reminds him with sharp pain of what he could have if he had been born in the right world. "--stop rubbing it in. Stop making me feel like-- like an imbecile."
Why would he ever believe it? Gosh, such a simple question that feels like a kick to his stomach. He's dealt with similar questions a lot the past two decades - why would he follow a mutant? Why would he accept being treated like that? So many courts wanted him, and Oxenfurt itself too, yet he insisted on following Geralt. Jaskier would start singing the praises of his best friend in the whole world then, explaining actions speak louder than words. Life had been unkind to the witcher, he only needed some kindness to learn to relate to others better. He knew Geralt, he had no reason to believe his insults - or so had he thought.
Why would he ever believe it? What a question. If he believed what Geralt said so easily, then... it's because he had reasons to, right? Easy to defend the witcher against other people's insults, but when it comes to believing it himself...
Bollocks. He's such an idiot.
"I THOUGHT I WAS!" He suddenly cries out, the bottle of vodka being dropped to the floor so he can use his hand to cover his face instead. He promised he wouldn't have a breakdown, that the asshole isn't worthy of one, but alcohol and being hit in the face with the version of their relationship he's always craved for have his emotions off-center, unable to really control them (not that he's even been good at that anyway, wearing his heart in his sleeve as he does). It's overwhelming to say the least, and so some tears appear on those blue eyes. "I shaved him, for fuck's sake! I held a blade to his bloody witcher neck, and I thought that meant--"
Something. Anything. At least some kind of progress. Trust?
Everything that he says seems to push Jaskier closer and closer to an emotional breakdown; he can smell it on him, like an oncoming storm. Geralt is starting to get a clearer picture of the man that he is in Jaskier's world, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like the idea that he is the kind of cruel man who would toss aside a loyal friend so callously, leaving him wrecked.
I thought I was.
Jaskier drops the bottle, and the glass is thick enough that it withstands the fall. More importantly, though, his hand rises to cover his face, but it can't hide the salt smell of his tears. Bitterness and grief, and Geralt hates it, hates the shake of his shoulders and the quiver in his voice, the pain so obviously etched into him.
He'd shaved him. Held a blade to his throat, ran it over his skin. In more recent years, Geralt had let Dandelion trim his beard for him-- the bard claimed that he did a neater job of it, though Geralt suspects that it's more that he wanted to put his expensive oils in it, soften up the hair so that he didn't get beard burn all over his lips and thighs. But even before that, he had let Dandelion shave him on the occasions that he couldn't do it himself, either due to injury or fatigue. He would never have allowed anyone to put a blade to his neck if he didn't trust them completely.
"I'm sorry," he says, bringing his hands to Jaskier's shoulders, a gentle touch. If he had been more certain that doing so wouldn't break him further, he might have pulled him into an embrace. "You shouldn't have been treated so poorly. I know that I'm not him, and he should be the one saying this to you, but-- I'm sorry, either way."
The touch makes him tense, but it's only for a short moment - the voice is apologizing and the hands aren't pushing him away. It's not real, or well, it's not coming from the one he would want it to come from. But can he be blamed for instantly deflating anyway? Can he be blamed for taking a step forward and resting his forehead on that broad chest? For seeking warmth and comfort?
Hasn't he earned it after two decades? He's just so fucking tired.
"...thanks. And-- I'm sorry too. I made you lose your bard yet you still were nice to me, even when I yelled at you. But you aren't him. You shouldn't be..." Apologizing. Getting Jaskier's crap. He sighs. "It's confusing, looking at you. I should know better and yet... I know those golden eyes. I know that starlight hair, that sharp jaw, that deep voice. I recognize the unique scent of Roach." It could be taken as a jab, but for once, he doesn't mean it that way. "Some details are wrong but the rest... you're just older. More scarred. I look at you and I want to throw something at your stubborn head but then you speak kindly to me, you actually use your words, and I just want to give in again. Like a fool."
Because that's what he is, there's no other explanation. His heart is being torn apart by these conflicting feelings, never has he been so overwhelmed by his own emotions - yet here he is, sadness still coming off him in waves, but also calming down under Geralt's attention. Because no matter what happens he continues to be a sucker for it. A fool indeed.
"I haven't sung about the White Wolf in a month." He finally confesses as a shaking hand reaches up to grab a handful of white shirt (a color that isn't black? so wrong). "But my reputation haunted me. I only wanted to go home, get away from it all. Was that really too much to ask for?"
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This is what he gets for not wanting to paint them all under the same Yennefer brush like a bigot? Fuck them all, seriously.
I am Geralt, the man says, and Jaskier feels a turmoil of emotions attempting to explode in his chest. Looking at him is almost like seeing a distorted picture from being dizzy or drunk, or hell- high. There's so much he recognizes yet at the same time, so much that feels wrong. It gets on his nerves. He feels confused, overwhelmed and... and...
Vulnerable.
That's it, that's the word. Vulnerable and exposed, and he hates it. This man treats him like he knows him, like he understands him, knows intimate details of his life, and he's... kind, which Jaskier wants to cling to but also infuriates him to no end. Even if he is Geralt, it's a still not good thing, not exactly. Sure, it means he isn't in any danger, but the pain from the mountain is still fresh, and he swore to himself he wouldn't give in again, he wouldn't follow the asshole around, wouldn't give him any more years of his life...
Jaskier wants to cry. He should be showering the man with questions, trying to uncover a new mystery, instead he feels anxious and helpless - wary, quiet, so much unlike himself. And that's because he doesn't know how to react without a breakdown (which he won't have, won't give this ass the pleasure). He wants to jump into those witcher arms and run away from him at the same time.
She is more talkative than you, he wants to reply out of habit. Except it isn't accurate, because this 'Geralt' has said more in a few minutes than Jaskier is used to hear from him in a whole week. One thing is true though, as much as it pains him: he won't achieve anything staying here in the stable. And food does sound nice...
Bollocks. Is it really breaking his word to himself if he doesn't have much of a choice?
"Where am I anyway?" He asks after putting the brooch back in the lute case, which he hangs back on his shoulder to follow notGeralt out, keeping more than a couple of inches between them. Even the brushing of their arms would destroy him, he's sure. "This is obviously not Oxenfurt."
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He imagines that this wouldn't go over very well in this instance.
But answering questions? That he could do.
"You're definitely not in Oxenfurt," he replies. "Toussaint, actually. This is the Corvo Bianco estate. It's, uh. Mine. Payment for a contract."
He starts to lead the bard back towards the villa, where, in all likelihood, breakfast would already be laid out for them. The usual kind of breakfast that they would make for any normal day-- eggs and ham with bread and butter as Geralt preferred, fruit pastries and fragrant herbal tea for Dandelion.
"I take it that you don't go by Dandelion. So... Buttercup? Is that what I should call you?"
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There must be servants in a place like this, he imagines. Tons of things to be in charge of when managing an estate. It's not an image that Jaskier can link to fucking Geralt of Rivia, in all honestly - but then again, everything seems to be covered by this layered of wrongness around here. Perhaps he needs to start getting used to it.
Toussaint. Fuck, that's incredibly far from Redania. But what would he get out of arriving to Oxenfurt anyway? The same madness? More not-strangers acting like they knew him and calling him the wrong name? Can't be worse than being stuck with a weird version of Geralt, he supposes.
A Geralt that is trying to make conversation.
Cornflower blues glance at him, unsure of what to make of this. It's what he's always wanted, part of him says. It's too late, the other replies. And judging from the few clues he has so far, well - if there's a notGeralt, does that mean he knows these things because there is a notJaskier as well? It can't be - because then it would mean there's a bard out there who didn't take care of Geralt's wounds.
Then again, maybe that's not a bad thing after all. It means that notJaskier isn't a fool.
"It's Jaskier. Yes, as in buttercup." He huffs, internally being thankful for having something to concentrate all these frustrated feelings on. "A name that has no trouble being taken seriously, thank you very much!" A bit of the dramatics make their appearance then: the tone is raised a little, a finger is wagged for a couple of seconds before it goes back to holding the strap of the lute case so tightly, knuckles on both hands are almost white. It's not much, but boy, does it help.
Another typical gesture of his shows up right after: the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, showing he's concentrating on the mess that is his mind at the moment. He has so many questions about this notGeralt - questions related to this mystery, of course, but also just questions that want to make their way out simply because this guy seems to actually be willing to answer them, which is crazy in itself. But he shouldn't be caring! He can't allow himself to fall for it again!
"The witch that opened the portal-" He finally starts explaining, thinking that sticking to hard facts will distracting from... pretty much everything else. A safe topic, if you will. "-I think she sent me here on purpose. She said Oxenfurt isn't what I need right now."
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Jaskier takes obvious offense at Dandelion's previous assessment of his name, even going so far as to wag his finger in Geralt's direction. The witcher smiles at the display; it's so very familiar, so much like Dandelion that he couldn't help the way his expression goes soft. He takes the admonishment with all the grace that he would take it from his own bard, and makes note of his preferred name.
"Jaskier it is."
Jaskier's tongue pokes out over his bottom lip as he thinks. It's, again, something that Dandelion does when he's concentrating very hard on his verses, and something that Geralt finds stupidly endearing. For all the ways that Jaskier is not like Dandelion, there seems to be plenty of ways that they are so terribly, unbelievably similar.
They make it into the villa as Jaskier is explaining his problems with witches and portals, and Geralt can't fault him to sounding so aggrieved about it all.
"I fucking hate portals," Geralt says, because that's an opinion that absolutely needs to be voiced right now. "Well, if portals are at the root of this, I should call Yen. If she can't sort it out, Ciri ought to be able to."
He walks them into the dining room-- he has a fucking dining room, it still amazes him sometimes-- and breakfast is already out and piping hot. Geralt sits at the table like he owns the place, which he does, and forgets that Jaskier isn't the same man who would just take a seat across from him like he also owns the place (which he doesn't). Geralt is already buttering up multiple rolls to go with his small mountain of eggs and ham. Witcher appetite.
"You can drop your things anywhere. Dandelion lives here with me, so if the two of you have been swapped--" he waves his knife vaguely in the air and shrugs. Might as well stay until they sort it out, right? There's plenty of space here, and he might need to be in the same location to cross back into his own world anyway. Plus, when has a bard ever turned down free room and board?
There's a pot of herbal tea and pastries set on the other side of the table, awaiting their usual bard. Lavender and lemon balm tea in the pot, papal creams and apricot kolaczki on the plates.
"He usually eats sweet things for breakfast, but if you want something else, don't worry about it."
The benefit of having a kitchen staff. Granted, Geralt was probably the easiest person alive to cook for, he just wanted half a dozen eggs and a massive slab of ham for breakfast and he was content as a pig in shit. Dandelion-- and, he assumes, Jaskier-- has more expensive taste than he, and a more refined palate or whatever.
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The laughter that escapes him is incredibly sarcastic and sour.
"I take it back!" He exclaims, dramatics finally making a full appearance, tone high and bitter, arms thrown in the air in frustration. Her presence haunts him even at times like this, and he hates her more for it. "You are Geralt of Rivia."
Geralt of Rivia, always wrapped around her little finger.
He's about to make a very skeptical question about the other half of that statement (because 'Ciri' can't possibly mean who he thinks it means, there's only so much wrongness he can take) but then they make it to the dining room, and Jaskier freezes once again when several things hit him at the same time.
The fact there's indeed a notJaskier around, who chose a different flower for his name and didn't take care of his witcher's scars.
The fact this notJaskier may be in his world right now.
The fact this notJaskier lives together with motherfucking Geralt in a vineyard, like retired old men.
Why don't we leave tomorrow?
And in the middle of it all, his favorite breakfast, as if waiting for him. It's almost... domestic.
We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.
It takes him a moment to get his heart unstuck from his throat to be able to speak, but Geralt can probably still smell the sadness coming off him in waves.
"N-no. It's fine. It's... perfect, really."
And yet he doesn't sit down yet. He walks slowly to the table and lets his fingertips brush the fine wood as it was the most precious thing in the world.
That is, if you'll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.
"...maybe I did make it to Oxenfurt and I just happen to be high on Psilocybe mushrooms."
Because accepting this as real will only finish destroying what is left of his heart.
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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."
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He's two seconds away from saying exactly that, but a glance makes him aware of the wrongness again -the scar, the white shirt, that beard- and the words get stuck in his throat.
If you want to help, then send me to Oxenfurt.
Except he's already ruled that one out too, hasn't he? His bratty nature is trying his best, but sadly Jaskier has to accept the truth once again: beggars can't be choosers - he's stuck in an awful situation, and running away is actually the worst option. Even worse than heartbreak.
At least notGeralt brings up a topic that Jaskier can concentrate his negative feelings on, and so he puffs up as he puts his things on another chair before sitting down across the witcher, huffing yet managing to be gentle to his lute anyway. Oh boy, here comes the rant.
"AND my quills as well!" He replies with the highest indignation as he pours tea in his cup, but not before opening his doublet to show the delicate chemise under it. It seems notGeralt's warning is coming too late, Jaskier has already been through that terrifying experience too. "Including the golden one I got in Vizima! And that dimwitted shit-dripping lute-torturer son of a hymm had the NERVE to smile at me to show me all the little sparkly barbs sticking to his repulsive teeth!"
The way he tells it, one believe it actually happened instead of being a drug-induced hallucination. But this is Jaskier, storyteller extraordinaire, famous for his songs for a reason. And as far as his emotions go, Valdo Marx deserves to be insulted in any occasion that lends itself for it, even imaginary ones.
There's more where that came from (when isn't there?) but Jaskier chooses this pause to bite on a papal cream and he instantly deflates, head angled back just a little it as he hums with delight.
"Melitele's tits, these are good." He tilts his head and yells in the general direction of the hallway, completely sure a maid must be waiting nearby in case 'the lord of the house' (snort) needs something extra for his breakfast. "My compliments to the chef, for their fine pastries have appeased this humble bard's sweet cravings!"
Humble. Right. Whatever you say, Jaskier.
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The bard bites into one of the pastries and there's a blissful expression that overtakes his face. It's a very familiar gesture, one that's so painfully similar to Dandelion's that he almost feels-- well. This is not Dandelion, no matter how much he may sometimes act like it, and it would be best to remember that. He even calls out to the maid like Dandelion would, knowing that she tends to stand in the hallway, just in case he needs another pot of tea or if Geralt needs more bread.
"Of course, Master Dandelion!" She ducks her head in only for a moment, and thus misses the fact that the sweets-loving bard sitting at the table and dressed in bright colors is not, in fact, the one that's usually there.
Geralt waits until the bard has at least had a chance to fill his stomach with pastries and tea before moving along to any difficult conversations. But it is a subject that must be breached, and better that Geralt asks the questions than Yennefer.
"So," he says, leaning back in his chair with his empty plate pushed to the side, "a witch opened a portal to take you to Oxenfurt, and you ended up in my stables instead. Dandelion's gone and likely has switched places with you--" and is probably about to get himself into trouble, knowing him "--and the witch that swapped you said that this is where you need to be. That about it?"
A summary of the facts, as they have been given to Geralt. It certainly ranks highly on his scale of Weird Shit that he's had to deal with, but at least it's only contained to himself, Dandelion, and Jaskier.
"Were you wintering at Oxenfurt? That's the usual time that Dandelion and I would split."
Geralt to Kaer Morhen, Dandelion to Oxenfurt to teach all winter long and collect his thoughts about all of the things that he'd seen with Geralt throughout the year, turn them into songs. They would then meet again in Spring, once the world had thawed enough for Geralt to make the trip back down the mountain.
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Instead, he's stuck with his thoughts again. And he hates it. He hates silence, as well, so it's a miracle that he manages to finish breakfast without uttering another word. A new record, really - while food is usually a good way to slow down his babbling, it's never been a force strong enough to stop him from talking at all. The issue is, all the questions and topics that come to his mind end up related to this Geralt's life, and he's trying to keep it from being personal, no matter how his curiosity itches to take out his notebook and write down everything he sees and hears.
And he'll be caught dead before he chitchats about the bloody weather. Ugh, he has a reputation to maintain!
NotGeralt stays silent as they eat as well, which Jaskier isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. On one hand, it's familiar, reminding him of home, but he should be thinking about home in the first place? On the other hand, this Geralt seems to be talkative, so this silence should be a sign of something, and it irritates Jaskiet that he can't tell of what exactly. A Geralt he can't read gets on his nerves, but should he really be so offended at the thought? Didn't he learn that all his readings had been wrong just a month ago? And would notGeralt talking truly be any better, when the kindness and good humor also freak him out a little bit? Gods, there's such a mess in his head right now.
At least the food and tea are good.
By the time the questions come, Jaskier is growing restless. He still doesn't look directly at notGeralt, sticking to stealing glances every now and then, and fidgety fingers find entertainment in turning his empty tea cup over and over as if he needed to see the details painted on it from every angle, like admiring a statue.
"I didn't show up in your stables - it was a little farther away, definitely outside, if that matters." Because of magic energies or some shit, who knows. "I came closer while looking for help, I found Roach instead. The rest does sound right."
The next question is harder, and Jaskier finds himself wincing, a leg bouncing along. The urge to run away returns, but he has nowhere to go. Bollocks.
"Yes, I usually do winter at Oxenfurt. But it wasn't winter yet." And before notGeralt jumps on that, he hurries to add a question of his own, not wanting to explain why he was going home before schedule. "You've been nothing but unruffled at the concept of alternate versions of your life, witcher."
Okay, maybe that's not exactly a question. But the point still stands!
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Hearing that Jaskier was going to Oxenfurt before winter, though, is surprising, and it likely shows in his raised white eyebrows. It's a good thing that Jaskier is expecting that Geralt would ask questions about this state of affairs, because his mouth is open to do so when the bard cuts him off. Thankfully for him, Geralt's used to being unable to get a word in edgewise.
"It's not the first time I've been introduced to the possibility," he says. "I've been in other worlds. Not exactly willingly, but--" Geralt waves a hand, as though saying it doesn't matter. "The idea of there being more than one of me is new, and I can't say that I exactly want to meet myself, but you're living proof of there being more than one version of Dandelion."
Geralt is a witcher, though, and is hard to throw off the scent. He's answered Jaskier's question, and now he has to keep talking lest he lose the thread of the conversation to the bard.
"Why were you going to Oxenfurt so early in the year? Bored of traveling with your world's version of me?"
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Bollocks.
After twenty years of not being asked anything, this is when he finally gets a Geralt that doesn't let a topic drop. What happened to blessed silence? Getting more and more nervous, Jaskier starts tapping the teacup with his spoon, matching the rhythm of his bouncing leg. He doesn't know how to navigate this Geralt - then again, did he ever really know how to navigate any Geralt?
If life could give me one blessing...
Probably not.
"No." It's all he says before moving on, trying to still dance around the subject because he's nothing but stubborn and determined. "If it wasn't an accident and that witch sent me here through a portal with purpose, can't we just hire another to do the same in return?"
Because if he stays here any longer he's going to freaking explode.
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Equally concerning-- the very curt, perfunctory response. Bards never give brief responses, especially not these bards. They talk and talk until you're not sure which way is up.
Geralt will have to consider his approach carefully. With Dandelion, he would just ask him what's going on directly, but this is not Dandelion. This is Jaskier, the man who does not know him like his own bard knows him, intimately and completely. He doesn't trust him like his bard does. And trust is a very important thing.
"I don't know if just any mage would work," he replies after a moment, having considered the question. "Sending someone between worlds isn't easy. And I don't think we should risk sending you through a poorly-made portal."
Or trying to bring Dandelion back through one. He would prefer it if both bards got to their intended destinations in one piece. He knows that he'd be deeply upset if Dandelion returned to him in multiple pieces, and he can only assume that Jaskier's Geralt would be displeased.
Geralt stands and walks over to a cabinet, opening one of the doors to reveal a number of bottles of various liquors. He pulls out a bottle of vodka and a pair of glasses, then returns to the breakfast table and sets them down, pouring out a measure of liquor into each. He pushes one across to Jaskier.
"It's a bit early in the day for it," he says with a shrug, "but you look like you could use it."
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Usually this would be one of those moments where he wouldn't mind to quickly agree with Geralt - he likes observing magic and monsters, but not meddling with it. People may like to make fun of his sense of self-preservation, but Jaskier still knows what to run away from. And something that not even a witcher wants to touch is high on that list, if not top spot.
That's a rational line of thinking, however, and Jaskier is feeling many things at the moment, but rational isn't one of them. He wants to be out of here as soon as possible, to leave before this world where Geralt is gentle and wants him around pushes his anger away and plants the seeds of hope again.
He can't go through that again. He can't.
Luckily the witcher knows exactly what he needs: to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Jaskier doesn't hesitate to grab the glass and chug the vodka in one go, letting the liquor do its thing as he slowly accepts the inevitable aspect of his current situation.
"Bollocks." He mumbles with a little sigh as he puts the glass back on the table with a little more force than he intended, the sound of it hitting the wood echoing in the dining room. He finally dares to look at Geralt then, mind braver with alcohol in his veins, and makes a grabby hand at the witcher. "If you're going to contact Yennefer, then pass me the bottle."
Because there's no way he'll suffer both her and not-really-except-yes-Geralt at the same time while fucking sober.
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Jaskier drains his glass of vodka quickly, needing the liquid courage. Geralt doesn't judge him for it-- gods know the both of them have used alcohol as a coping mechanism before. And, if nothing else, Dandelion tends to have an even looser tongue after he's gotten a few drinks into his stomach, and the vodka might similarly loosen Jaskier's. He pours another measure for him.
"Might've helped if you got her name," he adds, but if Jaskier had known the sorceress' name, he probably would've said it by now. They might have tried to track her down in this world, see if she could undo what her alternate universe counterpart had done. It doesn't matter at this point, though-- what's done is done. Geralt gives the vodka bottle over, putting it into Jaskier's grabbing hands. Let him deal with having to interact with Yennefer, even at a distance, however best suits him.
"Yen left me a xenovox," Geralt explains. "Let me fetch it and we'll see if she can help."
He keeps it in his bedroom, in a drawer. Yen had given it to him only for emergencies, anyway, not to use for social calls, so he rarely has occasion to use it. When he returns with the small object, he places it on the breakfast table and speaks.
"Yen? If you're there, I need to talk to you."
There are a few soft noises that filter over the box, perhaps like it's being picked up and placed in a more convenient location. The swish of cloth, the sound of footsteps.
"I hope it's for something important," the sorceress' voice drifts out of the device, clear enough that she might as well have been in the same room. "I'm quite busy."
"You always are," he says. "Look, did you notice anything strange happening in Toussaint? A fluctuation in Chaos or something?"
"I may have," she says, in a tone that Geralt knows means that she certainly did and doesn't like the fact that he knows.
"Something went wrong with some portals," he tells her. "Dandelion is gone, and I have a... version of him from another world sitting at my breakfast table."
Surprise! It's witcher horseshit again.
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And isn't that telling? Geralt is right about alcohol losing Jaskier's tongue, there goes a couple of details into whatever is going on in this bard's head - which isn't pretty, to say the least. Especially if he wasn't in the mood to flirt. At least Geralt does pass him the bottle, allowing him to silence his loud feelings for at least a moment - he's already drinking when the witcher leaves the room.
"Xenowhat now?" He asks a little too late.
Maybe a special kind of messenger bird? Whatever. If it means not having to see her, Jaskier approves. He continues to drink as he considers his next move - he should wait for notGeralt to come back, he supposes, wouldn't want him to think a portal got him again. Perhaps he could ask for a room then, or at least the library, and stay in there writing (or pretending to) and reading and avoid the rest of the world until he could find a way back home. He can't spend his whole stay here drunk just to be able to look at notGeralt's face.
Although the idea is very tempting...
He's in the middle of chugging again when Geralt puts down a little object on the table and--
What the everlasting fuck.
Jaskier chokes on the vodka, spitting some on the table and all over his pants. Fuck, those are nice pants! Somehow he manages to glare at Geralt as he pats his chest and coughs, blue eyes filled with anger: a mix of what he brought with him already and new frustration provoked by being made talk to the witch and sounding like an drunk idiot in the process.
"Something went wrong?! She did it on purpose!" Here comes the flapping of his hands as he raises his voice, alcohol definitely helping him cut loose. "I asked for Oxenfurt, she SAID she would send me somewhere else instead! To my face! Obviously nothing went wrong on HER end!"
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"Well, he certainly complains like Dandelion," she says, and Geralt frowns because, accurate or not, the comment is purposefully inflammatory. The bard is already defensive and uncomfortable, making him more so isn't ideal.
"She told him that he needed to be here," Geralt supplies, in the hope that this information would make some sense to another sorceress.
"I don't know the minds of other sorceresses," Yen says, "nor would I generally care to. Her reasons for doing this are ultimately unimportant. If it were simply a matter of sending this bard back where he comes from, it would be a straightforward task, though perhaps not an easy one."
"But?"
"But, I assume that you want Dandelion back as well. That complicates matters." Yen hums, as though considering her options. "It's an unusual enough situation to intrigue me. Very well, Geralt, I'll see what can be done. Entertain your new bard for a little while, I'll need to do some research."
"Yen, wait--" Geralt starts to say, but he's cut off by the sorceress.
"I'll contact you when I'm ready for you. Good-bye, Geralt."
The xenovox goes silent. Geralt grumbles at it, but there's little that he can do with Yen on the other side of the Continent. If she doesn't want to answer, she won't answer, and neither hell nor high water would be able to make her change her mind.
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"I suppose some things stay true across all worlds - like being a bitch."
...okay, not his best work. But he's tired, heartbroken, confused and tipsy. Not exactly feeling very witty at the moment.
At least Geralt explains the rest to her. The fact the situation 'intrigues her' makes Jaskier roll his eyes and drink more - so if this hadn't intrigued her, she wouldn't be helping Geralt. Typical. When she says good-bye without leaving room for more, Jaskier decides to be very mature and stick his tongue out at the xenovox. It's dumb but damn, it feels right.
"I am not some child that needs to be entertained." Big words after the gesture he just made. And he definitely gets bored easily as well, but he needs to be against Yennefer's words on principle. After one more sip, he finally puts the bottle down and looks at his pants. "I need to change before this stains." A sigh. "I guess I'm stuck here for a while. May I ask for a room?"
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It's an admonishment, but only slight. If they had been sitting on the same sides of the table, it may have been accompanied by a light slap to the arm, but nothing more. Yen hardly needs Geralt to defend her-- she can defend herself against Dandelion perfectly well on her own, she can probably handle his alternate universe counterpart, too.
He's certainly not at his best, too, if he can't get more creative than bitch. Or more mature than sticking his tongue out at an inanimate object. Well-- he's had a trying day, no doubt, and he's halfway to drunk, so maybe he can be forgiven for not being particularly witty.
The bard asks for a room, which is... fine, of course. There are plenty of rooms. He could have more than one, if he wants, and sleep in different rooms as he pleases.
"Of course," he says. "Pick whichever one you want. If you go down the hall, the last door on the right is a study that Dandelion liked to write in. You can use it if you want. It gets good light."
And had a lovely view of the vineyards, which Dandelion had said was immensely important for his creative flow, when he had claimed it for his own. Though if Jaskier went through all of the guest rooms, he wouldn't find a bedroom with this world's version of Filavandrel's lute and a closet full of foppish clothes-- because they were all in the master bedroom. The lute on a stand next to a rack housing a pair of swords, doublets hung up in the closet next to plain linen shirts. A book of antique poetry on the nightstand on the right side of the bed, a manual of rare potion recipes on the nightstand on the left, the side that was nearest to the door. Other little signs of cohabitation.
"You're welcome here," he says, "for as long as it takes to get you back home. You don't have to worry."
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Geralt gets a nod at his words, followed by a snort. He sincerely doubts he'll get any writing done soon, Her Sweet Kiss being the last thing he was able to produce... a month ago. Being stuck here doesn't exactly help his mood either, which frustrates him even more, because he should be getting one hell of an unique experience and thousands of stories worth of ballads.
But no, his visit to another world includes Geralt of fucking Rivia, because of course it does, and Jaskier feels the weight of that golden gaze squeezing his heart by the second.
He stands up and gathers his things (yes, including the bottle of vodka, that's his now), then turns towards the hallway, ready to find a room to disappear into... but Geralt goes and says more. Nice words, gentle words, words that crawl under his skin with their care. It drives him crazy, it gets on his nerves, it hurts. So much. Accepting it to be real means the situation at home becomes even more unfair in contrast.
"Stop being so bloody nice!" Now that's something he never thought he'd ever say. His voice is snappy, his shoulders shaking as he speaks without turning around because even if he feels braver now thanks to the alcohol, he's afraid of finding the kindness of those words in those golden eyes as well. "I know I'm only needed to keep some-- some-- magical connection thingy or whatever to your bard. Worry not, I'll be out of your hair. This place is huge--" His voice breaks then. "--it won't be hard to keep on avoiding you until it's all over."
Keep on avoiding you. His stomach twists when he says that 'you', confusion appearing again and making his head hurt. Or maybe that's just the vodka...?
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Stop being so bloody nice, he says, then continues on with some absolute rot about avoiding Geralt for the rest of his time here. Telling him that he'd be out of his hair, as though the witcher would want or expect the bard to be anywhere but. Geralt basically invites Dandelion to be, on a daily basis. What would he do with his life if he didn't have a chatty musician in it?
The delicate approach-- admittedly not Geralt's strong point, even on the best days-- has not been particularly effective. Fine, then, he'll just have to try what usually works better for him, which is asking blunt questions until he gets answers. Works on monster hunts, it'll work on the bewildering interpersonal relations of the alternate universe counterparts of himself and his bard. Geralt stands, the legs of his chair squeaking on the floor from the abrupt movement, and crosses the room; it takes him no more than three strides. His body is between Jaskier and the hall. The bard could get around him if he must, but he couldn't take the direct route out of the room.
"What did I do to you, Jaskier?" he asks, voice low and imploring. Talk to me, it begs. "Tell me. What did the man in your world who has my name do to you?"
Yennefer is under the impression that she must simply exchange one bard for another-- perhaps Geralt will need to tell her that she has to bring another witcher into the world, solely for him to have the unique experience of being able to literally beat the shit out of himself.
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Geralt is almost begging to talk. Geralt never begs, especially not to lose his blessed silence.
And so it's the alcohol that allows him to confront all this - which makes him even madder, because never has he need liquid bravery to use his tongue or to look at Geralt in the eye. The situation is unique, he reminds himself, he has all the right in the world to feel vulnerable and lost. Besides, he doesn't want to lose this anger, he can't be that fool again - and if he requires vodka to keep those emotions from fleeing, so be it.
Having the witcher suddenly block his way makes him flinch, but this time he's ready to fight back, the questions and the begging and just the possibility of that being actual worry finally make him snap.
"Tossed me aside like an old dog!" He cries out, hurt clear in his eyes, his voice, his scent. Only one hand gesturing since the other still has the vodka, but that has never been a problem when it comes to his dramatics. "Twenty years of loyalty-" Not so young after all, is he? Just like Dandelion, the young spirit carries on his looks as well. "-of trying to understand grunts, of holding your fucking guts! Only to be blamed for all the shit in your life!" You again, and some part of him knows it's incorrect, but he isn't thinking clearly at the moment. He only sees those golden eyes and white hair and the rage flows. "So go fuck yourself, Geralt of Rivia! Now move aside or I'll change the song to throw a bottle at your witcher!"
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Geralt knows when men are lying to him, and the pain and hurt in Jaskier's scent rings true as anything. What he describes to Geralt is a terrible betrayal, a man taking two decades of loyalty and care and friendship, all for lies about how the bard has caused all of his troubles. That has never been true-- even if he had gotten into trouble at times and needed Geralt's help getting back out of it, the witcher never begrudged him for it. Never blamed him for the things that went wrong in his life, because Geralt's life is his own godsdamned responsibility. Not Jaskier's, not Yen's, not even fucking Destiny's.
So hearing that this betrayal came at his hands is a shock. Nearly incomprehensible, really-- how could someone who's supposed to be him act in a way that's so diametrically opposed? How could there be a world where Geralt of Rivia doesn't love his bard-- whether he goes by the name Dandelion or Jaskier, a rose by any other name-- and cherish him as his truest friend?
"I don't understand," he says, and he'll weather having a bottle thrown at him if it will end with him getting some clarity. "I never sent Dandelion away. I never said anything like that to him. Why would I lie? And why would he ever believe it?"
Not only could he not imagine saying those things to his friend, he couldn't imagine Dandelion standing there and taking it and believing him. If he had told him that he was responsible for all the shit in his life, Dandelion would've told him that he was full of it and then immediately gone on to list all the ways that he had been the instrument of his own misery, probably in iambic pentameter or something. By the end of it, Geralt would've been the one apologizing and would've probably been talked into going to another banquet with the bard, to keep him out of trouble-- for free, of course.
"Dandelion has always been a friend to me. Is it... isn't that the same, for you?"
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How can he not give in to this care and worry he so desperately needs when it comes from the voice he's dreamed about since he was 18? It's a very powerful combo.
"Stop it. Stop--" Being so nice, he wants to say, but he can't. He can't even mean it, he wants this tenderness to evolve him. Yet each word is at the same time a needle that reminds him with sharp pain of what he could have if he had been born in the right world. "--stop rubbing it in. Stop making me feel like-- like an imbecile."
Why would he ever believe it? Gosh, such a simple question that feels like a kick to his stomach. He's dealt with similar questions a lot the past two decades - why would he follow a mutant? Why would he accept being treated like that? So many courts wanted him, and Oxenfurt itself too, yet he insisted on following Geralt. Jaskier would start singing the praises of his best friend in the whole world then, explaining actions speak louder than words. Life had been unkind to the witcher, he only needed some kindness to learn to relate to others better. He knew Geralt, he had no reason to believe his insults - or so had he thought.
Why would he ever believe it? What a question. If he believed what Geralt said so easily, then... it's because he had reasons to, right? Easy to defend the witcher against other people's insults, but when it comes to believing it himself...
Bollocks. He's such an idiot.
"I THOUGHT I WAS!" He suddenly cries out, the bottle of vodka being dropped to the floor so he can use his hand to cover his face instead. He promised he wouldn't have a breakdown, that the asshole isn't worthy of one, but alcohol and being hit in the face with the version of their relationship he's always craved for have his emotions off-center, unable to really control them (not that he's even been good at that anyway, wearing his heart in his sleeve as he does). It's overwhelming to say the least, and so some tears appear on those blue eyes. "I shaved him, for fuck's sake! I held a blade to his bloody witcher neck, and I thought that meant--"
Something. Anything. At least some kind of progress. Trust?
A sob. "Turns out I've been nothing but a maid."
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I thought I was.
Jaskier drops the bottle, and the glass is thick enough that it withstands the fall. More importantly, though, his hand rises to cover his face, but it can't hide the salt smell of his tears. Bitterness and grief, and Geralt hates it, hates the shake of his shoulders and the quiver in his voice, the pain so obviously etched into him.
He'd shaved him. Held a blade to his throat, ran it over his skin. In more recent years, Geralt had let Dandelion trim his beard for him-- the bard claimed that he did a neater job of it, though Geralt suspects that it's more that he wanted to put his expensive oils in it, soften up the hair so that he didn't get beard burn all over his lips and thighs. But even before that, he had let Dandelion shave him on the occasions that he couldn't do it himself, either due to injury or fatigue. He would never have allowed anyone to put a blade to his neck if he didn't trust them completely.
"I'm sorry," he says, bringing his hands to Jaskier's shoulders, a gentle touch. If he had been more certain that doing so wouldn't break him further, he might have pulled him into an embrace. "You shouldn't have been treated so poorly. I know that I'm not him, and he should be the one saying this to you, but-- I'm sorry, either way."
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Hasn't he earned it after two decades? He's just so fucking tired.
"...thanks. And-- I'm sorry too. I made you lose your bard yet you still were nice to me, even when I yelled at you. But you aren't him. You shouldn't be..." Apologizing. Getting Jaskier's crap. He sighs. "It's confusing, looking at you. I should know better and yet... I know those golden eyes. I know that starlight hair, that sharp jaw, that deep voice. I recognize the unique scent of Roach." It could be taken as a jab, but for once, he doesn't mean it that way. "Some details are wrong but the rest... you're just older. More scarred. I look at you and I want to throw something at your stubborn head but then you speak kindly to me, you actually use your words, and I just want to give in again. Like a fool."
Because that's what he is, there's no other explanation. His heart is being torn apart by these conflicting feelings, never has he been so overwhelmed by his own emotions - yet here he is, sadness still coming off him in waves, but also calming down under Geralt's attention. Because no matter what happens he continues to be a sucker for it. A fool indeed.
"I haven't sung about the White Wolf in a month." He finally confesses as a shaking hand reaches up to grab a handful of white shirt (a color that isn't black? so wrong). "But my reputation haunted me. I only wanted to go home, get away from it all. Was that really too much to ask for?"
It seems it was in the eyes of that bloody witch.
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