Jaskier is so much like Dandelion that Geralt can't help looking at him fondly, reaching over to pat his hand where it rests on his scarred forearm. There's that touch of worry and discomfort in his scent, recognizable because it's so similar between the two bards. Dandelion hated to think about that wound, too, though he never shied away from kissing it whenever it was revealed to him.
"Witchers do heal faster than humans," he says, and he knows that those words are exactly the kind of thing that riles up bards. But that's a pretty damn good impression of his deep, rough growl, he has to admit. "Though I certainly heal better with a little salve and some bandaging."
And that was what his bard was good for-- getting him the potions that he needed or putting salve on wounds that he couldn't reach and bandaging them up. Helped keep him alive, even if it didn't make his wounds any prettier.
"Dandelion's a shit seamstress," he says after a moment or two of mulling over Jaskier's anecdote, "and he isn't any better on skin. He puked the first time he saw me with worse than some bruises and scrapes, too. Spared his doublet, didn't spare his shoes."
Then complained about how he'd just thrown up a belly full of piss ale all over his pretty embroidered leather. Geralt had been less than sympathetic at the time, but that was in large part due to the fact that he had a rather troublesome wound that he was bleeding profusely from. Puts him in a sour mood, a gaping hole in the side.
"I told him that vomit doesn't stain as badly as a few pints of witcher blood, and that's why I wore so much black." Geralt sighs. "Would've thought I punched him, by the look on his face. Fussed over me for the rest of the night."
And that had been an experience that was, somehow, simultaneously both uncomfortable and... kind of nice. Geralt wasn't used to being fussed over-- hell, he wouldn't take to it well even now. But the fact that Dandelion cared so much about whether he lived or died was a novelty that was hard to pass up even if, at the time, Geralt assumed that it was solely entrenched in self-preservation. If Geralt died, after all, Dandelion lost his protection against monsters, bandits, and angry fathers.
"It was... strange. Most humans wouldn't go out of their way to help a witcher, even if one fell over at their feet. You and Dandelion did more than just that."
They stayed, too. Even after the work had been done, they stayed and were there the next time it happened, and the next, despite how terrifying it was for them. It took Geralt far longer than it should've to realize why.
The patting of his hand is appreciated, bringing a tiny smile to his lips. Just as Geralt predicts, though, he huffs at the mention of witcher healing - but at least he doesn't comment on it. This Geralt has the decency of not denying how important it is when someone helps, and by the gods, Jaskier's always wanted to hear that. It helps making his scent a little sweeter, even if not completely so.
Hearing Dandelion's a shit seamstress takes him by surprise. Of all the differences between their worlds, this one he doesn't see coming, simply because from what he's heard about Dandelion so far (and noticed in the wardrobe) says the bard takes care of his looks as much as Jaskier does. Doesn't he have the basic sewing skills to allow his doublets to survive the road?
"Your punches are nowhere as bad as your bleeding." He offers with a wrinkled nose, obviously speaking from experience. "But I'm glad to hear he knew what to do after."
It's been nice, having a Geralt that's appreciative in general. You and Dandelion did more than just that is much more direct, though, just like the apology he received earlier - directed at him. New Geralt barely knows him yet doesn't shy away from telling Jaskier he matters, from expressing how important it is what he's done for his witcher.
Jaskier can swear his heart is about to explode.
He hugs his lute close, overwhelmed by all these contradictory feelings inside of him, and before he notices what he's doing, he lets his head fall on New Geralt's shoulder. There's a pause before he speaks again, voice a mere murmur.
"Do you think Yennefer needs me to bring Dandelion back to you? I can continue to do more than that here." This isn't moving on or just enjoying the moment before going home, this is him being a fool again. But he can't help it, he's hurting and desperate to find his place in life again, to find a meaning behind the last twenty years that isn't just heartbreak. "I promise I won't sing about any scars Dandelion has already covered."
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?"
Be glad you were never on the receiving end of my fist.
"...bollocks."
The curse is mumbled before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. For fuck's sake, of all the things to be different... It's kind ironic, though, because of all the mistreatment he's received from Geralt through the years, the punch is the one thing he never resented him for, not truly. Geralt expressing an emotion for a change? Never a bad thing, and Jaskier did insult him. It is frustrating that he's been the only one to be punched for it -Geralt should be defending himself like that from everyone that insults him, really, there's a reason why Jaskier's had so many arguments at inns and taverns, getting them both in trouble- but it never truly bothered him.
He's looking at it differently now, after the mountain.
New Geralt isn't going to like this, he can tell. But the witcher is probably already smelling his hesitation, knowing something is going on.
"If I must be glad then it's over the receiving end having been my guts and not my face." He replies with the lightest tone he can muster. "These lovely lips must stay unbruised to keep singing to the innkeepers and kissing their maids."
Will he ever feel ready? Melitele's tits, he wants to believe so. He hates that he's letting this affect him so much, usually he loves and moves on much faster. The situation is unique, he reminds himself, a relationship of twenty years that built his reputation and career isn't the same as a fling, or even what he had with the Countess. Clinging to a new Geralt isn't the healthiest alternative either but...
He's so, so done with everything. Jaskier wants to be wanted, need, and New Geralt is, well. Offering him exactly that. He's weak and wanting, can anyone truly blame him for giving in?
"Thank you." His tone is softer now, his scent showing he's calming down, settling in. Not completely happy yet but at least allowing himself to rely on this distraction. "And sorry you've lost your bard because of this. I never thought the witch would take my need to get away from it all so extremely." A thought suddenly comes to his mind, and he can't help snorting. "...or maybe she was trying to grant him his wish as well."
Geralt's expression darkens at Jaskier's confession, an angry thundercloud despite the lightness of the bard's tone. His guts and not his face. It had been a pulled punch, probably, because it didn't seem like it harmed him very much, but that's not the point. The point is that there should be no circumstance in which Geralt raises a hand to Jaskier in earnest. A cuff upside the head when he was being particularly stupid or troublesome, sure, or a little slap to the arm, but never a closed fist.
He's a witcher, after all. He's strong, and a misjudgment of his strength could easily hurt the bard severely. And for what? To punish him for an off-color comment or for chasing after the wrong skirt? Trifles compared to what could be lost.
"Hm."
Classic Geralt-brand brooding. A more emotionally competent witcher he may be, but there are some habits that never quite leave.
But Jaskier's tone and his scent soften, and that in turn helps to blunt the edge of Geralt's bad mood. Even if Jaskier's been poorly treated before, he's here, and he's safe, and there are no ungrateful witchers around to break his heart.
"There's nothing for you to apologize for," he says with a shake of his grey head. "You didn't ask the sorceress to do any of this."
That last comment, though, Jaskier's sudden thought, makes Geralt frown. Could that be true? Would Dandelion have wished to get away from him, to go somewhere that Geralt couldn't follow? He'd never tried to restrict Dandelion's wanderlust or demanded that he stay, but perhaps he had felt trapped anyway. Geralt had been so sure that he was happy, but he'd also once thought that he was in love with Yennefer, so he isn't exactly the most reliable judge of such things.
"Dinner will be ready soon," he says, because food is a safe topic. "Will you come?"
Jaskier's head is up and frowning at Geralt as soon as he hears that grunt. Hell no!
"Ooooh nononono, don't you dear start brooding on me, you obstinate wolf!" And that's one finger poking at Geralt's chest. "I thought you were supposed to be the less emotionally constipated one! Use. Your. Words." Each word is punctuated by a poke before the hand is taken back. Huff! Silly witchers.
It's true, though, he didn't ask the sorceress to do this. But he wants to show some sympathy, especially since they were screwed over like a third party. Nothing like at all like Old Geralt's accusations, where his misery came from his own stupid choices. So Jaskier mumbles another thanks before smiling at the invitation. It's such a little thing but it makes a big difference.
"Of course! Dinner sounds lovely, and you can tell me your stories while we share some wine."
And maybe this time he gets to flirt a little more with the maids. Would it be weird, though, now they both know how the other feels? Speaking of...
Jaskier is already standing up to leave, but only take two steps before he stops. A new thought has come to his mind, one that squeezes his heart and makes him smell nervous as hell. It's a crazy thought, one that could hurt him anymore, but now that it's in his brain it won't go away and he knows he better deals with it sooner than later. At least they're having a moment here, better make use of the occasion instead of letting his mouth say too much by accident later.
"May I ask you a question?" He doesn't turn around, for the first time ever not daring to look at golden eyes when he speaks. "It's-- I promise I don't mean anything deeper at all with it, you have my word as a bard... which you probably think it's not worth much, do you not, the word of a storyteller. Right then, I swear on my bloody lute, it's not a proposition and I have no expectations, I'm not asking anything of you, a simply yes or not will do. I just have this need to know..."
Jaskier's finger pokes him in the chest, though it's about as effective as poking at a rock. The huffy, offended expression that he levels at the witcher is still kind of endearing, like an angry puppy nipping at his heels.
"It's nothing important," he says, and that's probably an answer that he'd heard before from the emotionally incompetent Geralt, too. "And it isn't anything that you could answer, anyway."
He wouldn't know what's in Dandelion's mind, after all. They're similar, not literally the same person.
The bard is only a few steps away when he stops, something apparently on his mind. Something important, since it makes his scent go strangely anxious and insecure. All of the qualifiers before he gets to the actual question are also concerning, though they do make him terribly curious as to what he's so worried about. Something that could sound like a proposition? What, is he going to ask what Dandelion's like in bed, or, even worse, what Geralt is like in bed?
The answer, of course, is good, though for one awkward moment, Geralt wonders if some aspects of his sex life with the bard would be... surprising, or if he'd pegged Geralt as quickly as Dandelion had.
Do you think I'm attractive?
Well. That's certainly a tamer question than Geralt was expecting.
He takes a moment and lets his eyes wander over the bard's figure, going from the bottom up. He's tall, though not as tall as Dandelion, broad shouldered and sturdy. His clever tailoring hides some of it, making him look more delicate than he is. There's a boyish charm to his features, and his eyes are so very blue, like cornflowers.
"Yes," he replies, standing up from his spot under the window. "You are an attractive man."
He gives the bard a wry smile. "Fishing for compliments?"
Indeed, that's an answer he's heard before, so of course he has to huff again. Not only the answer is the same he'd get at home, the way Geralt decides to act on it also matches. So much for an emotionally superior witcher...
"Just because I can't provide an answer, it doesn't mean I can't offer a friendly ear to help you sort your troubles. It can't possibly be worse than fishing for a djinn to solve them."
Talking to his best friend in the world? Bad. Asking a djinn to put him to sleep and possibly getting wish side-effects? Good. Classic Geralt logic.
Those golden eyes have always carried so much weight in them, so intense they are with decades of watching humanity and monsters (sometimes being one and the same). It isn't often that Jaskier has trouble meeting them, but now? Feeling them on his very human body, checking him out? Well, it's something else for sure. It makes him feel almost naked - exposed.
Then the answer comes and, well. Jaskier smiles, his hear beating a little faster. Dandelion is one lucky son of a bitch, isn't he?
"Thank you." He says with the deepest sincerity, almost feeling like he's a teenager again, getting giddy over the simplest of compliments. But then New Geralt makes that question and he laughs, providing the distraction he needs. He has the answer he needed and his soul feels a little cozier for it, now he can go back to his usual histrionics. "Geralt, you wound me!" After hanging his lute on his back, he opens his arms as he follows the witcher back to the dining room. "Surely you must know any bard worth his money has many a way in his sleeves to fish for compliments, more subtle and effective that such a direct question!" Subtle, Jaskier? Really? "Not even Queen Calanthe herself was inmune to my hunt for flattery, and thank the gods for that, considering the pickle you put us in."
It's generally well-known that bards love flowery compliments and effusive praise, that they blossom when they're showered with pretty words and fine flattery. Comes with the territory of being poets. One might think, then, that simply calling Jaskier attractive would be too bland, praise that lacks too much in sound and fury to faze him.
Geralt knows a secret about bards, though-- they understand the value of words, too. Praise from a mouth that rarely gives any is a far greater treasure than from a mouth that overflows with it at all times.
Jaskier's scent finally sweetens, pleased with the answer that he received. And his mood lifts with it, returning some good humor to him. He even goes back to his dramatics and grand gestures, following Geralt towards the dining room despite his faux offense. The smell coming from the kitchen is heavenly, and just what Geralt needs after his long afternoon ride. A heavy dinner, plenty of good wine, and pleasant company. It's a better life than Geralt would've ever dared to dream of, decades ago.
He huffs a laugh at the bard's ego, amused at his lack of shame. It's a word that has never played much of a role in his vocabulary-- a man shameless to the core.
"Us? I didn't put us into any kind of trouble, just myself," he says, and, as they enter the dining room, the food is just being brought out to the table. It's that Touissantois stew this evening, the one that's heavy and rich and full of hearty vegetables, and the meat has been braised in red wine until it's tender. The staff here know that Geralt prefers something filling and simple over any kind of frippery; they save that for Dandelion's preferred, elaborate desserts.
"You weren't even there, you spent the whole thing at that balladry competition in Oxenfurt," he continues, pouring out glasses of wine, "losing to Valdo Marx while I had to deal with Calanthe's schemes."
Hiring a witcher to masquerade as a knight so that he could deal with her monster problem. Was it the best job he'd ever taken? Gods, no. But it had ultimately gotten him his daughter, so he probably couldn't complain too much.
Dinner smells amazing, especially for Jaskier, who hasn't had anything other than tavern food for a little over a month. The chosen dishes do not surprise him, even if they're of a better quality than what old Geralt would usually get in inns, they still match his preferences. simple meat, simple vegetables, and alcohol. Another thing that stays the same across worlds.
Some other things aren't staying the same, it seems. Jaskier approaches his chair, ready to sit and wink at the maids that are bringing the food, but suddenly decides against it. Geralt's word have him puffing up again and such dramatics need him to be standing up for better gesturing - and there's a lots of it, joined by a gaping mouth. Oh boy, here we go.
"LOSING TO VALDO MARX! ME! HOW DARE YOU! The nerve! The scandal! The hearsay!"
Never mind the fact he did lose to Valdo Marx once or twice, but that had been back on Oxenfurt, when their rivalry was just getting started. Ages ago, no during bloody Cintra, long after Jaskier earned his reputation thanks to Toss a coin. Geralt be ready for the finger wagging, because here it comes, right into his face.
"And what do you mean I wasn't there? I DRAGGED you there, you-- him. Dragged him." Fuck, this is confusing to follow when he's being over emotional. "It was the whole point! I needed a bodyguard! That's why he blamed me for--" Okay, wait, no, not going there. Jaskier puts his hands on his hips in his usual offended housewife mode, utterly baffled by the idea of a Geralt (even this one) going to a noble party by his own decision. "If Dandelion didn't get you there, how did you even manage to attend one of the most important banquets of the decade?"
Geralt just looks vaguely bemused at the finger that gets waggled in his face. Jaskier's deeply upset by the implication that he loses to Valdo Marx, even in a different world, and to be honest? Dandelion had been so deeply upset with himself that he had failed to best his rival that he'd fallen into a pit of melancholy until Geralt had met up with him again. Mostly, he thinks, because everyone else had gotten tired of listening to the bard bemoan his tragedy and wanted new ears to wring sympathy from.
"Dandelion wasn't invited to play at Cintra's court, though I'm sure he'd be beside himself with envy to know that you were," he says. "I was there because Calanthe hired me to take care of a monster problem that she claimed would show up at the banquet. Made me attend the thing disguised as a knight."
Sir Ravix of Fourhorns. Well, once upon a time he had wanted to be a knight, and, like all childish dreams, he should've known that it would be a shit gig.
"Did it end the same for you? With Duny rushing in, the fight, Pavetta's magic?" He huffs, like just remembering the night is an annoyance. "Should've known the coin was too good for a simple job. Working for royalty is more of a headache than it's worth."
He sets the bottle of wine down-- the label says Butcher of Blaviken, a joke that Geralt can appreciate now that he's thirty years away from the title carrying any weight-- and hands a glass over to Jaskier. Bards need things in their hands, otherwise they'll just gesticulate all over the place.
"I wouldn't have wanted Dandelion there, anyway. The fight after Duny arrived was chaotic, and he could've been badly hurt in the melee. He's decent with a dagger now, but he wasn't then."
Jaskier has been feeling very sympathetic for Dandelion so far, but also quite envious, for obvious reasons. So he can't help feeling his ego pleasantly stroked when New Geralt mentions Dandelion would feel a bit envious in return - finally, one for Jaskier's favor! It's not much, but he'll take it.
Two things help him distract from his indignation: the already mentioned ego stroking, and Geralt mentioning how he got to attend the banquet. In fact, he isn't only distracted, he's outright laughing. Oh, this is amazing, he can't believe Dandelion missed it.
"You? Dressed as a knight?" More laughter. "Did Mousesack make fun of that outfit too?"
He better had, Jaskier won't accept judging for his choices in his world and not this one. It was a perfectly good plan and the druid ruined it! After finally sitting down, the glass of wine -bottle unnoticed for now- is accepted with a mumbled thank you and Jaskier takes a sip before replying. Oh damn, that's fucking good wine. He's missed it.
"At least you did get coin out of it." A nod at the question, amusement obvious in blue eyes, because a huffing Geralt is an adorable Geralt in every world. "Indeed. Sir I-don't-get-involved got, to nobody's surprise, involved. And asked for the Law of Surprise instead of one hundred years of Roaches." Jaskier shakes his head. Unbelievable. "I wrote a whole ballad about it, which I've never gotten to sing to Princess Cirilla. Queen Calanthe has banned all songs that mention the White Wolf in Cintra."
A pause follows as Jaskier considers the rest while sipping more wine, staring at the glass right after. That's very classic Geralt, too, not wanting the bard around in case he may get hurt. And Jaskier always has the same answer ready for that little problem, the question is - is his heart still in it? After all that happened?
One look into golden eyes and he knows he'll always be a fool.
"...you wouldn't have let anything happen to him."
"So there's no world where Mousesack doesn't mock me."
He says it with good humor; he and the druid are good friends, after all. What's a little poking fun at bad disguises between friends? Mousesack saw through the disguise immediately, anyway. It would've been useless to keep up the farce.
Jaskier takes his wine and Geralt can see his approval in the first sip. It really is a good wine, and one that Dandelion was fond of as well, despite the name. He hadn't been amused when Geralt had returned with a few bottles, all bearing his old moniker on their labels. He'd called him ungrateful, and Geralt had had to show him how very grateful he is for everything that Dandelion has done for him that night.
He winces at the mention of the Law of Surprise-- he never learns, apparently. After having just seen the kind of chaos that the law could wreak, what does he do? Go and call for it immediately after all that horseshit had gotten resolved. Of course it bites him in the ass. He had been quite literally asking for it.
"I admit, calling for Law of Surprise wasn't my best moment." And admission! From Geralt! It's a less momentous occasion for him than for his very stubborn counterpart. "And neither was how I handled it afterward."
Geralt of Rivia, deadbeat dad. He really wasn't racking up the wins then. But he eventually pulled his head out of his ass, it just took about twelve years and getting Law of Surprised the same child twice. Destiny had decided that he would be a father and it wasn't going to take no for an answer.
Jaskier looks at him with those cornflower blue eyes and says the most obvious truth of Geralt's life.
"Yes," he says and sits down at the table as well, bringing his glass of wine with him. "But I'd still rather have him out of danger than in the middle of it. He's got a great talent for attracting trouble, though."
It's one of Dandelion's great talents, aside from music and poetry. A troublemaker through and through.
"There's one thing I want to know," he says. "Why did you need a bodyguard at a royal banquet? You couldn't have known about Duny or that Calanthe would want him dead."
Jaskier snorts around the fork he's taken to his mouth when Geralt says that hadn't been his best moment (no shit) and raises his eyebrows at the rest. He shouldn't be surprised, this is a Geralt after all, but well... he's come to think this one treated his people better, made better decisions when it came to relationships. Then again, he did say he used to be a brooding grunter too, didn't he?
Head tilted, blue eyes look intensely at the witcher again, this time filled with curiosity.
"But you claimed her in the end, didn't you? Your Child Surprise. You mentioned a 'Ciri' when I arrived, and I didn't want to believe what I was hearing."
Because the one at home is also a deadbeat dad. Jaskier visiting Cintra to play every now and then doesn't make up for that, especially not when Calanthe doesn't allow him to sing about said deadbeat dad.
And here comes the next surprise - Geralt can't truly guess why Jaskier would need a bodyguard? Really? Everything he's heard about Dandelion so far tells him they're similar in that aspect too. Surely new Geralt has had to keep cuckold husbands away too, especially considering that comment.
"Dandelion attracts trouble yet you need to ask that question?" He asks as he raises his eyebrows again, and he takes another sip of wine before continuing. "To quote your counterpart - I hid my sausage in the wrong royal pantry."
But he doesn't sound like he regrets a single minute of it. Because he doesn't.
"I did," he confirms. "It took me longer than it should've, but I went back for her."
And it was one of the best decisions that he'd made in his life. He and Yen were hardly perfect parents-- though, who is?-- but they had tried their best and Ciri had grown into a strong, confident, and intelligent woman. She's more dangerous than Geralt is, and he couldn't be more proud of her.
Jaskier answers his question, though, with an answer that he oughtn't be surprised of. Of course he'd gotten himself into trouble with someone's husband, what else could be expected of a version of Dandelion? Shameless philanderers, the lot of them. It's a universal constant-- if Dandelion exists, in whatever form, he must grope for trout in peculiar rivers.
"I should've guessed," he replies. "I'm surprised I haven't run into any of your bastards by now, there must be at least half a dozen of them from all of the pantries that you've hidden your sausage in. Or Dandelion's, I mean."
The Continent must be peppered with blue-eyed, musically talented and incurably mischievous children, all because of the spectacular reproductive success of one very horny bard. It's probably impressive, except that it so often gets Dandelion into hot water. His dalliances have become fewer and further between in recent years, though-- there could be many explanations for it, perhaps the most obvious being that he's a man of nearly fifty. Despite the fact that he's quite spry and limber for his age, he couldn't be jumping out of windows and outrunning angry fathers every other night.
Will Old Geralt go back for her too, Jaskier has to wonder. His first instinct is to snort, but another part of him has to wonder about the longer than it should've bit. Wouldn't that apply at home too? Then again... that could also mean the witcher getting together with his bard could be possible, and that's laughable in his case.
Ugh, better think about something else.
Like food! Jaskier digs in the stew once more, which is a simple recipe but still delicious... and of course that's the moment Geralt chooses to use the b-word, making Jaskier choke on a potato. He coughs and pats his chest, his mind running through thousands of sex encounters and double checking he's never done anything stupid. (Of course, if you ask anyone, they'll tell you all of his encounters were stupid.)
"BASTARDS!" He finally manages to gasp. "I would never!" His voice is raspy, so he picks up the bottle of wine to refill his glass. "If there's someone in any world that understands how crappy it is to have an absent father it's--"
And that's when he sees it: the name of the wine. Jaskier's face goes pale, his eyes wide. Is this supposed to be a joke? Is this world so different that these words mean something else? But what kind of world thinks the word butcher is a positive thing?
Jaskier chokes at the mere mention of illegitimate children, which... well, is probably quite a concern for him, because of all the philandering. If there is one single good thing that ever came from the witcher mutations, it's Geralt's sterility-- no bastards for him, thank you. And perhaps the immunity to disease. The witcher remembers without fondness an unfortunate dalliance of Dandelion's that resulted in him having... an unwanted gift from his paramour in the form of the clap. He'd complained incessantly until they found an appropriate healer who could cure him.
Geralt is sipping at his wine when the bard refills his own glass and notices the label for the first time. He's almost pleased to note that Jaskier has the exact same reaction to the bottle as Dandelion did when he saw it-- eyes wide, mouth open in indignation. Clearly, whatever he had expected to see on that bottle, it hadn't included the moniker that he'd spend the past few decades trying to get rid of.
"It's a bottle of wine, Jaskier," he replies, knowingly and willingly being a shit. "It's from the Belgaard vineyard, you can tell from the crest, right there."
He points at the bottom of the bottle's label, where the coat of arms of the vineyard in question is drawn, along with its bottling year. He's being very helpful right now, isn't he, Jaskier? Providing information.
"Oh, don't you get all smartarse on me, you buffoon of a witcher!"
People always call Jaskier a peacock, which is incredibly accurate of course, but a comparison to a blowfish should be considered. Here he is, puffing up again, huffing in indignation and wagging a finger at Geralt to scold him like a housewife - which isn't far off, really, considering the decades spent together on the same crappy beds and sharing food.
"I'm willing to bet my lute on Dandelion having worked hard all these years to erase this slandering, malicious 'nickname'--" He puts the bottle down just so he can do air-quotes with both hands. It's part of the dramatics, okay. "And you're allowing them to sell wine with it on its label?"
Jaskier gets punched for using it, yet the rest of the world gets fucking wine. How is that fair? Have his songs been for nothing?
Dandelion, too, has been compared to a peacock, and while Geralt would be inclined to agree just based on the fact that he's about as vibrantly dressed as one, he can say that Dandelion has never attempted to peck him to death for feeding him, which is more than he can say for the flocks of peacocks that have decided to call Corvo Bianco their home. The little bastards hate him and he can't, for the life of him, figure out why, and just has to assume that it's because he's a witcher. And thus he is burdened with the task of tending to a flock of birds that never mastered the concept of not biting the hand that feeds them.
Jaskier wags a finger at him. It's so familiar that Geralt is almost pleased at the fact that he's being scolded. He's terribly offended about the name on Dandelion's behalf, and Geralt watches him with an expression of deeply fond amusement, just like he would if his bard was sitting in front of him, lodging the same complaints.
"Mostly I was thinking about how a bunch of nobles were going to pay two hundred crowns apiece for wine named after a man they despised," he says. "Though I can see that you aren't as amused by that as I am."
And, really, the only people who are ever going to see a bottle of this stuff are nobles with enough coin to buy it, and Geralt has never given a shit about what nobles think, present company excluded.
"Not amused!" Huff, huff. "Not amused he says! How observant of you, Geralt of Rivia!"
The wine is good, though, that much he does agree with. And the idea of getting back at nobles, well. The finger is lowered, which should tell Geralt the concept is good as well. It's the perfect amount of revenge and petty, just like when Jaskier enjoys singing tavern songs usually enjoyed by the lower class in taverns at fancy banquets, the same enjoyment he used to get from proving people wrong about Geralt and watching them toss a coin as the song tells them too.
The same kind of enjoyment he gets when he imagines rubbing his success on his family's faces, a thing he hasn't done yet only because that would require going back to Lettenhove, and he isn't stepping in that hellhole ever again. He made a promise to himself.
So yes, Jaskier approves of the idea, so he deflates... at least a little bit. It's not over yet.
"The man they despise has other names he could've chosen." He comments as he goes back to poking his stew with his spoon. "Like, oh I don't know, White Wolf. Or Gwynbleidd! Then they would be drinking their hate for you and their hate towards elves! How about 'Witcher Elixir'? You had so many options to choose from over destroying decades of you best friend's work!"
Should he be using 'best friends', he wonders, considering they're more here. Geralt didn't use a particular word to define them, Jaskier realizes, other than friend, so better keep it like that for now. Not gonna ruin a witcher/bard relationship like the one that got destroyed at home.
"Destroyed? I doubt it. There's surprisingly little that I can do to make a dent in the decades of reputation-building that Dandelion dedicated himself to."
Like it or not, in the eyes of the common folk, Geralt is the White Wolf, heroic slayer of monsters and defender of the innocent. And, unfortunately, potential deflower-er of their daughters, though Geralt blames all of that on the bard's surprising aptitude for writing bawdy songs about his cock and ability to satisfy lovers. Dandelion had claimed, at the time, that he wrote them purely to improve Geralt's reputation in the brothels and get him better service, but they seldom stayed as brothel-songs. One of them that had gotten particularly popular was supposedly about the witcher giving 'fencing lessons' to a young lady, and afterwards Geralt received an annoying number of requests from bored noblewomen about becoming their fencing tutor. Geralt had threatened Dandelion with a tutoring if he let another song like that get out of hand, and in hindsight the bard had been surprisingly interested in what that might entail.
Best friend, Jaskier says. It's true enough, so whether he calls him best friend or lover or whatever else, it's fine. He's all of those things and more.
"But you're right, Dandelion was just as angry when he saw it," Geralt says, and he has the decency to at least look a little chastened about it. "I found a few ways to make it up to him. He never stays angry with me for very long."
What did he do to make it up to him? Who knows. Maybe he rubbed his feet, or listened to him try out his latest compositions. There are all sorts of things that a strong, willing witcher could do to please a humble bard.
The mental images start flooding his mind as soon as Geralt finishes saying up to him. Which is already awkward by itself, but made worse by the fact that he doesn't know what Dandelion looks like, so Jaskier is picturing a slightly different version of himself wearing the clothes he saw in the wardrobe earlier under this older, kinder Geralt, who is trying to please his bard after making him angry...
"...yeah, well." Woah there, his throat is getting rather dry, what could've possibly caused that? He takes another sip of wine before continuing. "It's the least you could do for him."
He brings his attention back to the stew for a moment, taking advantage of the pause to reassess his thoughts. He didn't lie to Geralt when he told him that knowing about his relationship with Dandelion didn't make him uncomfortable, but it's not like is easy to hear about it either. He can accept it, and be happy for his alternate self, but he doesn't want it haunting his thoughts, whispering mean things about what it means for himself.
"So. A whole estate and your own brand of wine, and of course a daughter. Have you actually retired, Geralt?"
Geralt has many ways of begging for Dandelion's forgiveness, and only some of them involve the things that Jaskier's thinking about. Amazingly enough, he does know of ways to please his bard that don't require anyone to be unclothed, but... well, it certainly helps.
There's silence for a few moments, which they both use to eat a little more. It's a nice dinner, and there has always been a part of him that is pleased when he keeps Dandelion well-fed and comfortable. Perhaps it stems from those times when contracts had been scarce and the bard's hard work had gone towards keeping his belly full, too. This might be a different bard, but there's still satisfaction in his comfort. And, anyway, Jaskier has just come in after who knows how many months on the road-- he could use a few good meals to fill him out a bit.
"Something like that," he says, "or at least half-retirement. I'll still take a few contracts, if they aren't too far, but... I'm not walking the Path."
He's wandered the Continent enough. Now he has an estate and a bard to come back to every night, and brothers and a daughter who plan to overwinter in his house, sorceresses who sometimes drop by. It's more than he deserves, but Geralt wants to rest for a little while. Maybe he's even earned a little rest.
Yeah, definitely not a sentence Jaskier thought he would hear in his lifetime. Such a big difference from when they slow and get killed. And there it is again, the Cintra conversation sneaking into his thoughts once more, because somehow it's always haunting him, even after all these years.
I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.
He should've seen the signs, Jaskier thinks, the mountain incident could've been prevented, and-- he's doing it again, thinking about how foolish he feels. He's supposed to be enjoying this little vacation, gotta concentrate on the good. Food, wine, and a story from an old-but-not-really friend. Keep yourself together, self!
"Wow." He finally comments after whistling his surprise. "Decades later you're still full of surprises. And you don't get bored or restless here? Do you feel accomplished? Do you feel..."
A pause to worry his lower lip, calloused fingers rubbing the spoon between them as blue eyes search gold for answers. He doesn't know exactly what kind of answers he wants (needs), just... answers.
"Restless, sometimes. That's when I go and find a contract. Toussaint's got its fair share of monsters, I'll always be needed somewhere."
And it's good, sometimes, to go out and feel useful again. Feel like he has a purpose. The Path was bloody and brutal and there were times that he truly hated it, but it was also simple. Kill monsters, get coin. Protect the people from the teeth and claws that waited in their woods, regardless of whether they praised you or cursed your name. But when he thinks about packing everything up onto Roach, about camping on the ground for weeks on end and sleeping in his armor with his swords within reach, about stitching up both himself and his armor until it's more mending thread than leather-- he's tired. He's tired and this house is comfortable and Dandelion's arms are welcoming.
"If I said anything but yes about being accomplished, I think Dandelion might have my head. There's thirty years' worth of poetry and songs about how accomplished I am."
Which isn't exactly the same thing-- having someone say that you're impressive and actually feeling like anything that you've done is worthwhile are two very different things. Geralt drinks again, taking that moment to prepare a real answer. Jaskier wants a real answer, and Geralt has always had a bard-shaped weak spot in his heart. Perhaps his honesty is the something else that the sorceress had thought that Jaskier needs.
"There's no end to the Path. No real metric for success, other than survival. If you aren't killed by ghouls for a bounty of thirty crowns a head, you're as successful as any other witcher is," he says. "I suppose I should feel proud about killing monsters and saving men. But the best thing I've done? What's really left a mark on the world?"
It's not blood and violence. He's had enough of that in his life, enough to know that it's not the glorious thing that the ballads made it out to be.
"I found a scared little girl in the woods and raised her to be a strong, kind, intelligent woman who can do whatever she wants. That's the best thing I ever did." He leans back in his chair, and just thinking about Ciri makes his face soften. "I think I can be content with that being my greatest accomplishment."
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"Witchers do heal faster than humans," he says, and he knows that those words are exactly the kind of thing that riles up bards. But that's a pretty damn good impression of his deep, rough growl, he has to admit. "Though I certainly heal better with a little salve and some bandaging."
And that was what his bard was good for-- getting him the potions that he needed or putting salve on wounds that he couldn't reach and bandaging them up. Helped keep him alive, even if it didn't make his wounds any prettier.
"Dandelion's a shit seamstress," he says after a moment or two of mulling over Jaskier's anecdote, "and he isn't any better on skin. He puked the first time he saw me with worse than some bruises and scrapes, too. Spared his doublet, didn't spare his shoes."
Then complained about how he'd just thrown up a belly full of piss ale all over his pretty embroidered leather. Geralt had been less than sympathetic at the time, but that was in large part due to the fact that he had a rather troublesome wound that he was bleeding profusely from. Puts him in a sour mood, a gaping hole in the side.
"I told him that vomit doesn't stain as badly as a few pints of witcher blood, and that's why I wore so much black." Geralt sighs. "Would've thought I punched him, by the look on his face. Fussed over me for the rest of the night."
And that had been an experience that was, somehow, simultaneously both uncomfortable and... kind of nice. Geralt wasn't used to being fussed over-- hell, he wouldn't take to it well even now. But the fact that Dandelion cared so much about whether he lived or died was a novelty that was hard to pass up even if, at the time, Geralt assumed that it was solely entrenched in self-preservation. If Geralt died, after all, Dandelion lost his protection against monsters, bandits, and angry fathers.
"It was... strange. Most humans wouldn't go out of their way to help a witcher, even if one fell over at their feet. You and Dandelion did more than just that."
They stayed, too. Even after the work had been done, they stayed and were there the next time it happened, and the next, despite how terrifying it was for them. It took Geralt far longer than it should've to realize why.
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Hearing Dandelion's a shit seamstress takes him by surprise. Of all the differences between their worlds, this one he doesn't see coming, simply because from what he's heard about Dandelion so far (and noticed in the wardrobe) says the bard takes care of his looks as much as Jaskier does. Doesn't he have the basic sewing skills to allow his doublets to survive the road?
"Your punches are nowhere as bad as your bleeding." He offers with a wrinkled nose, obviously speaking from experience. "But I'm glad to hear he knew what to do after."
It's been nice, having a Geralt that's appreciative in general. You and Dandelion did more than just that is much more direct, though, just like the apology he received earlier - directed at him. New Geralt barely knows him yet doesn't shy away from telling Jaskier he matters, from expressing how important it is what he's done for his witcher.
Jaskier can swear his heart is about to explode.
He hugs his lute close, overwhelmed by all these contradictory feelings inside of him, and before he notices what he's doing, he lets his head fall on New Geralt's shoulder. There's a pause before he speaks again, voice a mere murmur.
"Do you think Yennefer needs me to bring Dandelion back to you? I can continue to do more than that here." This isn't moving on or just enjoying the moment before going home, this is him being a fool again. But he can't help it, he's hurting and desperate to find his place in life again, to find a meaning behind the last twenty years that isn't just heartbreak. "I promise I won't sing about any scars Dandelion has already covered."
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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?"
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"...bollocks."
The curse is mumbled before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. For fuck's sake, of all the things to be different... It's kind ironic, though, because of all the mistreatment he's received from Geralt through the years, the punch is the one thing he never resented him for, not truly. Geralt expressing an emotion for a change? Never a bad thing, and Jaskier did insult him. It is frustrating that he's been the only one to be punched for it -Geralt should be defending himself like that from everyone that insults him, really, there's a reason why Jaskier's had so many arguments at inns and taverns, getting them both in trouble- but it never truly bothered him.
He's looking at it differently now, after the mountain.
New Geralt isn't going to like this, he can tell. But the witcher is probably already smelling his hesitation, knowing something is going on.
"If I must be glad then it's over the receiving end having been my guts and not my face." He replies with the lightest tone he can muster. "These lovely lips must stay unbruised to keep singing to the innkeepers and kissing their maids."
Will he ever feel ready? Melitele's tits, he wants to believe so. He hates that he's letting this affect him so much, usually he loves and moves on much faster. The situation is unique, he reminds himself, a relationship of twenty years that built his reputation and career isn't the same as a fling, or even what he had with the Countess. Clinging to a new Geralt isn't the healthiest alternative either but...
He's so, so done with everything. Jaskier wants to be wanted, need, and New Geralt is, well. Offering him exactly that. He's weak and wanting, can anyone truly blame him for giving in?
"Thank you." His tone is softer now, his scent showing he's calming down, settling in. Not completely happy yet but at least allowing himself to rely on this distraction. "And sorry you've lost your bard because of this. I never thought the witch would take my need to get away from it all so extremely." A thought suddenly comes to his mind, and he can't help snorting. "...or maybe she was trying to grant him his wish as well."
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He's a witcher, after all. He's strong, and a misjudgment of his strength could easily hurt the bard severely. And for what? To punish him for an off-color comment or for chasing after the wrong skirt? Trifles compared to what could be lost.
"Hm."
Classic Geralt-brand brooding. A more emotionally competent witcher he may be, but there are some habits that never quite leave.
But Jaskier's tone and his scent soften, and that in turn helps to blunt the edge of Geralt's bad mood. Even if Jaskier's been poorly treated before, he's here, and he's safe, and there are no ungrateful witchers around to break his heart.
"There's nothing for you to apologize for," he says with a shake of his grey head. "You didn't ask the sorceress to do any of this."
That last comment, though, Jaskier's sudden thought, makes Geralt frown. Could that be true? Would Dandelion have wished to get away from him, to go somewhere that Geralt couldn't follow? He'd never tried to restrict Dandelion's wanderlust or demanded that he stay, but perhaps he had felt trapped anyway. Geralt had been so sure that he was happy, but he'd also once thought that he was in love with Yennefer, so he isn't exactly the most reliable judge of such things.
"Dinner will be ready soon," he says, because food is a safe topic. "Will you come?"
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"Ooooh nononono, don't you dear start brooding on me, you obstinate wolf!" And that's one finger poking at Geralt's chest. "I thought you were supposed to be the less emotionally constipated one! Use. Your. Words." Each word is punctuated by a poke before the hand is taken back. Huff! Silly witchers.
It's true, though, he didn't ask the sorceress to do this. But he wants to show some sympathy, especially since they were screwed over like a third party. Nothing like at all like Old Geralt's accusations, where his misery came from his own stupid choices. So Jaskier mumbles another thanks before smiling at the invitation. It's such a little thing but it makes a big difference.
"Of course! Dinner sounds lovely, and you can tell me your stories while we share some wine."
And maybe this time he gets to flirt a little more with the maids. Would it be weird, though, now they both know how the other feels? Speaking of...
Jaskier is already standing up to leave, but only take two steps before he stops. A new thought has come to his mind, one that squeezes his heart and makes him smell nervous as hell. It's a crazy thought, one that could hurt him anymore, but now that it's in his brain it won't go away and he knows he better deals with it sooner than later. At least they're having a moment here, better make use of the occasion instead of letting his mouth say too much by accident later.
"May I ask you a question?" He doesn't turn around, for the first time ever not daring to look at golden eyes when he speaks. "It's-- I promise I don't mean anything deeper at all with it, you have my word as a bard... which you probably think it's not worth much, do you not, the word of a storyteller. Right then, I swear on my bloody lute, it's not a proposition and I have no expectations, I'm not asking anything of you, a simply yes or not will do. I just have this need to know..."
He's rambling, he knows. A deep breath.
"...do you think I'm attractive?"
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"It's nothing important," he says, and that's probably an answer that he'd heard before from the emotionally incompetent Geralt, too. "And it isn't anything that you could answer, anyway."
He wouldn't know what's in Dandelion's mind, after all. They're similar, not literally the same person.
The bard is only a few steps away when he stops, something apparently on his mind. Something important, since it makes his scent go strangely anxious and insecure. All of the qualifiers before he gets to the actual question are also concerning, though they do make him terribly curious as to what he's so worried about. Something that could sound like a proposition? What, is he going to ask what Dandelion's like in bed, or, even worse, what Geralt is like in bed?
The answer, of course, is good, though for one awkward moment, Geralt wonders if some aspects of his sex life with the bard would be... surprising, or if he'd pegged Geralt as quickly as Dandelion had.
Do you think I'm attractive?
Well. That's certainly a tamer question than Geralt was expecting.
He takes a moment and lets his eyes wander over the bard's figure, going from the bottom up. He's tall, though not as tall as Dandelion, broad shouldered and sturdy. His clever tailoring hides some of it, making him look more delicate than he is. There's a boyish charm to his features, and his eyes are so very blue, like cornflowers.
"Yes," he replies, standing up from his spot under the window. "You are an attractive man."
He gives the bard a wry smile. "Fishing for compliments?"
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"Just because I can't provide an answer, it doesn't mean I can't offer a friendly ear to help you sort your troubles. It can't possibly be worse than fishing for a djinn to solve them."
Talking to his best friend in the world? Bad. Asking a djinn to put him to sleep and possibly getting wish side-effects? Good. Classic Geralt logic.
Those golden eyes have always carried so much weight in them, so intense they are with decades of watching humanity and monsters (sometimes being one and the same). It isn't often that Jaskier has trouble meeting them, but now? Feeling them on his very human body, checking him out? Well, it's something else for sure. It makes him feel almost naked - exposed.
Then the answer comes and, well. Jaskier smiles, his hear beating a little faster. Dandelion is one lucky son of a bitch, isn't he?
"Thank you." He says with the deepest sincerity, almost feeling like he's a teenager again, getting giddy over the simplest of compliments. But then New Geralt makes that question and he laughs, providing the distraction he needs. He has the answer he needed and his soul feels a little cozier for it, now he can go back to his usual histrionics. "Geralt, you wound me!" After hanging his lute on his back, he opens his arms as he follows the witcher back to the dining room. "Surely you must know any bard worth his money has many a way in his sleeves to fish for compliments, more subtle and effective that such a direct question!" Subtle, Jaskier? Really? "Not even Queen Calanthe herself was inmune to my hunt for flattery, and thank the gods for that, considering the pickle you put us in."
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Geralt knows a secret about bards, though-- they understand the value of words, too. Praise from a mouth that rarely gives any is a far greater treasure than from a mouth that overflows with it at all times.
Jaskier's scent finally sweetens, pleased with the answer that he received. And his mood lifts with it, returning some good humor to him. He even goes back to his dramatics and grand gestures, following Geralt towards the dining room despite his faux offense. The smell coming from the kitchen is heavenly, and just what Geralt needs after his long afternoon ride. A heavy dinner, plenty of good wine, and pleasant company. It's a better life than Geralt would've ever dared to dream of, decades ago.
He huffs a laugh at the bard's ego, amused at his lack of shame. It's a word that has never played much of a role in his vocabulary-- a man shameless to the core.
"Us? I didn't put us into any kind of trouble, just myself," he says, and, as they enter the dining room, the food is just being brought out to the table. It's that Touissantois stew this evening, the one that's heavy and rich and full of hearty vegetables, and the meat has been braised in red wine until it's tender. The staff here know that Geralt prefers something filling and simple over any kind of frippery; they save that for Dandelion's preferred, elaborate desserts.
"You weren't even there, you spent the whole thing at that balladry competition in Oxenfurt," he continues, pouring out glasses of wine, "losing to Valdo Marx while I had to deal with Calanthe's schemes."
Hiring a witcher to masquerade as a knight so that he could deal with her monster problem. Was it the best job he'd ever taken? Gods, no. But it had ultimately gotten him his daughter, so he probably couldn't complain too much.
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Some other things aren't staying the same, it seems. Jaskier approaches his chair, ready to sit and wink at the maids that are bringing the food, but suddenly decides against it. Geralt's word have him puffing up again and such dramatics need him to be standing up for better gesturing - and there's a lots of it, joined by a gaping mouth. Oh boy, here we go.
"LOSING TO VALDO MARX! ME! HOW DARE YOU! The nerve! The scandal! The hearsay!"
Never mind the fact he did lose to Valdo Marx once or twice, but that had been back on Oxenfurt, when their rivalry was just getting started. Ages ago, no during bloody Cintra, long after Jaskier earned his reputation thanks to Toss a coin. Geralt be ready for the finger wagging, because here it comes, right into his face.
"And what do you mean I wasn't there? I DRAGGED you there, you-- him. Dragged him." Fuck, this is confusing to follow when he's being over emotional. "It was the whole point! I needed a bodyguard! That's why he blamed me for--" Okay, wait, no, not going there. Jaskier puts his hands on his hips in his usual offended housewife mode, utterly baffled by the idea of a Geralt (even this one) going to a noble party by his own decision. "If Dandelion didn't get you there, how did you even manage to attend one of the most important banquets of the decade?"
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"Dandelion wasn't invited to play at Cintra's court, though I'm sure he'd be beside himself with envy to know that you were," he says. "I was there because Calanthe hired me to take care of a monster problem that she claimed would show up at the banquet. Made me attend the thing disguised as a knight."
Sir Ravix of Fourhorns. Well, once upon a time he had wanted to be a knight, and, like all childish dreams, he should've known that it would be a shit gig.
"Did it end the same for you? With Duny rushing in, the fight, Pavetta's magic?" He huffs, like just remembering the night is an annoyance. "Should've known the coin was too good for a simple job. Working for royalty is more of a headache than it's worth."
He sets the bottle of wine down-- the label says Butcher of Blaviken, a joke that Geralt can appreciate now that he's thirty years away from the title carrying any weight-- and hands a glass over to Jaskier. Bards need things in their hands, otherwise they'll just gesticulate all over the place.
"I wouldn't have wanted Dandelion there, anyway. The fight after Duny arrived was chaotic, and he could've been badly hurt in the melee. He's decent with a dagger now, but he wasn't then."
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Two things help him distract from his indignation: the already mentioned ego stroking, and Geralt mentioning how he got to attend the banquet. In fact, he isn't only distracted, he's outright laughing. Oh, this is amazing, he can't believe Dandelion missed it.
"You? Dressed as a knight?" More laughter. "Did Mousesack make fun of that outfit too?"
He better had, Jaskier won't accept judging for his choices in his world and not this one. It was a perfectly good plan and the druid ruined it! After finally sitting down, the glass of wine -bottle unnoticed for now- is accepted with a mumbled thank you and Jaskier takes a sip before replying. Oh damn, that's fucking good wine. He's missed it.
"At least you did get coin out of it." A nod at the question, amusement obvious in blue eyes, because a huffing Geralt is an adorable Geralt in every world. "Indeed. Sir I-don't-get-involved got, to nobody's surprise, involved. And asked for the Law of Surprise instead of one hundred years of Roaches." Jaskier shakes his head. Unbelievable. "I wrote a whole ballad about it, which I've never gotten to sing to Princess Cirilla. Queen Calanthe has banned all songs that mention the White Wolf in Cintra."
A pause follows as Jaskier considers the rest while sipping more wine, staring at the glass right after. That's very classic Geralt, too, not wanting the bard around in case he may get hurt. And Jaskier always has the same answer ready for that little problem, the question is - is his heart still in it? After all that happened?
One look into golden eyes and he knows he'll always be a fool.
"...you wouldn't have let anything happen to him."
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He says it with good humor; he and the druid are good friends, after all. What's a little poking fun at bad disguises between friends? Mousesack saw through the disguise immediately, anyway. It would've been useless to keep up the farce.
Jaskier takes his wine and Geralt can see his approval in the first sip. It really is a good wine, and one that Dandelion was fond of as well, despite the name. He hadn't been amused when Geralt had returned with a few bottles, all bearing his old moniker on their labels. He'd called him ungrateful, and Geralt had had to show him how very grateful he is for everything that Dandelion has done for him that night.
He winces at the mention of the Law of Surprise-- he never learns, apparently. After having just seen the kind of chaos that the law could wreak, what does he do? Go and call for it immediately after all that horseshit had gotten resolved. Of course it bites him in the ass. He had been quite literally asking for it.
"I admit, calling for Law of Surprise wasn't my best moment." And admission! From Geralt! It's a less momentous occasion for him than for his very stubborn counterpart. "And neither was how I handled it afterward."
Geralt of Rivia, deadbeat dad. He really wasn't racking up the wins then. But he eventually pulled his head out of his ass, it just took about twelve years and getting Law of Surprised the same child twice. Destiny had decided that he would be a father and it wasn't going to take no for an answer.
Jaskier looks at him with those cornflower blue eyes and says the most obvious truth of Geralt's life.
"Yes," he says and sits down at the table as well, bringing his glass of wine with him. "But I'd still rather have him out of danger than in the middle of it. He's got a great talent for attracting trouble, though."
It's one of Dandelion's great talents, aside from music and poetry. A troublemaker through and through.
"There's one thing I want to know," he says. "Why did you need a bodyguard at a royal banquet? You couldn't have known about Duny or that Calanthe would want him dead."
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Jaskier snorts around the fork he's taken to his mouth when Geralt says that hadn't been his best moment (no shit) and raises his eyebrows at the rest. He shouldn't be surprised, this is a Geralt after all, but well... he's come to think this one treated his people better, made better decisions when it came to relationships. Then again, he did say he used to be a brooding grunter too, didn't he?
Head tilted, blue eyes look intensely at the witcher again, this time filled with curiosity.
"But you claimed her in the end, didn't you? Your Child Surprise. You mentioned a 'Ciri' when I arrived, and I didn't want to believe what I was hearing."
Because the one at home is also a deadbeat dad. Jaskier visiting Cintra to play every now and then doesn't make up for that, especially not when Calanthe doesn't allow him to sing about said deadbeat dad.
And here comes the next surprise - Geralt can't truly guess why Jaskier would need a bodyguard? Really? Everything he's heard about Dandelion so far tells him they're similar in that aspect too. Surely new Geralt has had to keep cuckold husbands away too, especially considering that comment.
"Dandelion attracts trouble yet you need to ask that question?" He asks as he raises his eyebrows again, and he takes another sip of wine before continuing. "To quote your counterpart - I hid my sausage in the wrong royal pantry."
But he doesn't sound like he regrets a single minute of it. Because he doesn't.
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And it was one of the best decisions that he'd made in his life. He and Yen were hardly perfect parents-- though, who is?-- but they had tried their best and Ciri had grown into a strong, confident, and intelligent woman. She's more dangerous than Geralt is, and he couldn't be more proud of her.
Jaskier answers his question, though, with an answer that he oughtn't be surprised of. Of course he'd gotten himself into trouble with someone's husband, what else could be expected of a version of Dandelion? Shameless philanderers, the lot of them. It's a universal constant-- if Dandelion exists, in whatever form, he must grope for trout in peculiar rivers.
"I should've guessed," he replies. "I'm surprised I haven't run into any of your bastards by now, there must be at least half a dozen of them from all of the pantries that you've hidden your sausage in. Or Dandelion's, I mean."
The Continent must be peppered with blue-eyed, musically talented and incurably mischievous children, all because of the spectacular reproductive success of one very horny bard. It's probably impressive, except that it so often gets Dandelion into hot water. His dalliances have become fewer and further between in recent years, though-- there could be many explanations for it, perhaps the most obvious being that he's a man of nearly fifty. Despite the fact that he's quite spry and limber for his age, he couldn't be jumping out of windows and outrunning angry fathers every other night.
That's clearly the reason why.
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Ugh, better think about something else.
Like food! Jaskier digs in the stew once more, which is a simple recipe but still delicious... and of course that's the moment Geralt chooses to use the b-word, making Jaskier choke on a potato. He coughs and pats his chest, his mind running through thousands of sex encounters and double checking he's never done anything stupid. (Of course, if you ask anyone, they'll tell you all of his encounters were stupid.)
"BASTARDS!" He finally manages to gasp. "I would never!" His voice is raspy, so he picks up the bottle of wine to refill his glass. "If there's someone in any world that understands how crappy it is to have an absent father it's--"
And that's when he sees it: the name of the wine. Jaskier's face goes pale, his eyes wide. Is this supposed to be a joke? Is this world so different that these words mean something else? But what kind of world thinks the word butcher is a positive thing?
"...Geralt. What the fuck is this?"
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Geralt is sipping at his wine when the bard refills his own glass and notices the label for the first time. He's almost pleased to note that Jaskier has the exact same reaction to the bottle as Dandelion did when he saw it-- eyes wide, mouth open in indignation. Clearly, whatever he had expected to see on that bottle, it hadn't included the moniker that he'd spend the past few decades trying to get rid of.
"It's a bottle of wine, Jaskier," he replies, knowingly and willingly being a shit. "It's from the Belgaard vineyard, you can tell from the crest, right there."
He points at the bottom of the bottle's label, where the coat of arms of the vineyard in question is drawn, along with its bottling year. He's being very helpful right now, isn't he, Jaskier? Providing information.
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People always call Jaskier a peacock, which is incredibly accurate of course, but a comparison to a blowfish should be considered. Here he is, puffing up again, huffing in indignation and wagging a finger at Geralt to scold him like a housewife - which isn't far off, really, considering the decades spent together on the same crappy beds and sharing food.
"I'm willing to bet my lute on Dandelion having worked hard all these years to erase this slandering, malicious 'nickname'--" He puts the bottle down just so he can do air-quotes with both hands. It's part of the dramatics, okay. "And you're allowing them to sell wine with it on its label?"
Jaskier gets punched for using it, yet the rest of the world gets fucking wine. How is that fair? Have his songs been for nothing?
"What the hell were you thinking?"
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Jaskier wags a finger at him. It's so familiar that Geralt is almost pleased at the fact that he's being scolded. He's terribly offended about the name on Dandelion's behalf, and Geralt watches him with an expression of deeply fond amusement, just like he would if his bard was sitting in front of him, lodging the same complaints.
"Mostly I was thinking about how a bunch of nobles were going to pay two hundred crowns apiece for wine named after a man they despised," he says. "Though I can see that you aren't as amused by that as I am."
And, really, the only people who are ever going to see a bottle of this stuff are nobles with enough coin to buy it, and Geralt has never given a shit about what nobles think, present company excluded.
"And it's not bad."
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The wine is good, though, that much he does agree with. And the idea of getting back at nobles, well. The finger is lowered, which should tell Geralt the concept is good as well. It's the perfect amount of revenge and petty, just like when Jaskier enjoys singing tavern songs usually enjoyed by the lower class in taverns at fancy banquets, the same enjoyment he used to get from proving people wrong about Geralt and watching them toss a coin as the song tells them too.
The same kind of enjoyment he gets when he imagines rubbing his success on his family's faces, a thing he hasn't done yet only because that would require going back to Lettenhove, and he isn't stepping in that hellhole ever again. He made a promise to himself.
So yes, Jaskier approves of the idea, so he deflates... at least a little bit. It's not over yet.
"The man they despise has other names he could've chosen." He comments as he goes back to poking his stew with his spoon. "Like, oh I don't know, White Wolf. Or Gwynbleidd! Then they would be drinking their hate for you and their hate towards elves! How about 'Witcher Elixir'? You had so many options to choose from over destroying decades of you best friend's work!"
Should he be using 'best friends', he wonders, considering they're more here. Geralt didn't use a particular word to define them, Jaskier realizes, other than friend, so better keep it like that for now. Not gonna ruin a witcher/bard relationship like the one that got destroyed at home.
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Like it or not, in the eyes of the common folk, Geralt is the White Wolf, heroic slayer of monsters and defender of the innocent. And, unfortunately, potential deflower-er of their daughters, though Geralt blames all of that on the bard's surprising aptitude for writing bawdy songs about his cock and ability to satisfy lovers. Dandelion had claimed, at the time, that he wrote them purely to improve Geralt's reputation in the brothels and get him better service, but they seldom stayed as brothel-songs. One of them that had gotten particularly popular was supposedly about the witcher giving 'fencing lessons' to a young lady, and afterwards Geralt received an annoying number of requests from bored noblewomen about becoming their fencing tutor. Geralt had threatened Dandelion with a tutoring if he let another song like that get out of hand, and in hindsight the bard had been surprisingly interested in what that might entail.
Best friend, Jaskier says. It's true enough, so whether he calls him best friend or lover or whatever else, it's fine. He's all of those things and more.
"But you're right, Dandelion was just as angry when he saw it," Geralt says, and he has the decency to at least look a little chastened about it. "I found a few ways to make it up to him. He never stays angry with me for very long."
What did he do to make it up to him? Who knows. Maybe he rubbed his feet, or listened to him try out his latest compositions. There are all sorts of things that a strong, willing witcher could do to please a humble bard.
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"...yeah, well." Woah there, his throat is getting rather dry, what could've possibly caused that? He takes another sip of wine before continuing. "It's the least you could do for him."
He brings his attention back to the stew for a moment, taking advantage of the pause to reassess his thoughts. He didn't lie to Geralt when he told him that knowing about his relationship with Dandelion didn't make him uncomfortable, but it's not like is easy to hear about it either. He can accept it, and be happy for his alternate self, but he doesn't want it haunting his thoughts, whispering mean things about what it means for himself.
"So. A whole estate and your own brand of wine, and of course a daughter. Have you actually retired, Geralt?"
Never thought he would see the day, honestly.
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There's silence for a few moments, which they both use to eat a little more. It's a nice dinner, and there has always been a part of him that is pleased when he keeps Dandelion well-fed and comfortable. Perhaps it stems from those times when contracts had been scarce and the bard's hard work had gone towards keeping his belly full, too. This might be a different bard, but there's still satisfaction in his comfort. And, anyway, Jaskier has just come in after who knows how many months on the road-- he could use a few good meals to fill him out a bit.
"Something like that," he says, "or at least half-retirement. I'll still take a few contracts, if they aren't too far, but... I'm not walking the Path."
He's wandered the Continent enough. Now he has an estate and a bard to come back to every night, and brothers and a daughter who plan to overwinter in his house, sorceresses who sometimes drop by. It's more than he deserves, but Geralt wants to rest for a little while. Maybe he's even earned a little rest.
"I haven't been north of Maribor in over a year."
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Yeah, definitely not a sentence Jaskier thought he would hear in his lifetime. Such a big difference from when they slow and get killed. And there it is again, the Cintra conversation sneaking into his thoughts once more, because somehow it's always haunting him, even after all these years.
I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.
He should've seen the signs, Jaskier thinks, the mountain incident could've been prevented, and-- he's doing it again, thinking about how foolish he feels. He's supposed to be enjoying this little vacation, gotta concentrate on the good. Food, wine, and a story from an old-but-not-really friend. Keep yourself together, self!
"Wow." He finally comments after whistling his surprise. "Decades later you're still full of surprises. And you don't get bored or restless here? Do you feel accomplished? Do you feel..."
A pause to worry his lower lip, calloused fingers rubbing the spoon between them as blue eyes search gold for answers. He doesn't know exactly what kind of answers he wants (needs), just... answers.
"...happy?"
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And it's good, sometimes, to go out and feel useful again. Feel like he has a purpose. The Path was bloody and brutal and there were times that he truly hated it, but it was also simple. Kill monsters, get coin. Protect the people from the teeth and claws that waited in their woods, regardless of whether they praised you or cursed your name. But when he thinks about packing everything up onto Roach, about camping on the ground for weeks on end and sleeping in his armor with his swords within reach, about stitching up both himself and his armor until it's more mending thread than leather-- he's tired. He's tired and this house is comfortable and Dandelion's arms are welcoming.
"If I said anything but yes about being accomplished, I think Dandelion might have my head. There's thirty years' worth of poetry and songs about how accomplished I am."
Which isn't exactly the same thing-- having someone say that you're impressive and actually feeling like anything that you've done is worthwhile are two very different things. Geralt drinks again, taking that moment to prepare a real answer. Jaskier wants a real answer, and Geralt has always had a bard-shaped weak spot in his heart. Perhaps his honesty is the something else that the sorceress had thought that Jaskier needs.
"There's no end to the Path. No real metric for success, other than survival. If you aren't killed by ghouls for a bounty of thirty crowns a head, you're as successful as any other witcher is," he says. "I suppose I should feel proud about killing monsters and saving men. But the best thing I've done? What's really left a mark on the world?"
It's not blood and violence. He's had enough of that in his life, enough to know that it's not the glorious thing that the ballads made it out to be.
"I found a scared little girl in the woods and raised her to be a strong, kind, intelligent woman who can do whatever she wants. That's the best thing I ever did." He leans back in his chair, and just thinking about Ciri makes his face soften. "I think I can be content with that being my greatest accomplishment."
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