Fine, But First...

Fine, but first...

Something flickered in Jaskier's eyes; the journey of a decision, start to finish, and then the bard huffed a breath, shoulders slumping.

"Fine. But first," he uttered, almost thoughtful, turning away.

He spun quick enough that all he had time to register was the flash of surprise on Geralt's face before he punched him, knuckles meeting his jaw in a move that undoubtedly hurt the musician more than the Witcher.

"Cock, bollocks and a Witcher's cunt!" the bard yelped, shaking out his hand. His captors hadn't even removed his rings and he was certain they were embedded forever on his fingers.

Geralt blinked slowly, one hand coming up lethargically.

"I'm not sure what I'm more surprised by," Geralt murmured, touching a fingertip to the blood dripping from his nose. "The fact that you just punched me, or that it was a decent hit.”

Jaskier stayed sullenly silent, clutching his hand to his chest with a scowl.

"Let me check your hand," Geralt sighed, reaching for him.

"Don't fucking touch me, you utter horse's arse!" Jaskier shrieked, slapping his hand away.

"Jaskier–"

"Don't Jaskier me!" the bard refuted again, and Geralt raised a brow, grinding his teeth.

"Julian, then?" he growled. "Sandpiper, perhaps? What should I call you if not your name?"

Jaskier fell silent, staring wild-eyed at him. "I'm not–"

"Stupid and kind hearted enough to take on Nilfgaard's purges?" Geralt challenged, voice soft. "It's exactly the sort of thing the Jaskier I know would do."

"You don't know me," Jaskier laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "What's my favorite color, Geralt? What flower am I allergic to, hm? What did I study at Oxenfurt, even? When's my birthday?"

"Blue. You're not allergic to any flowers; you ate dog’s bane, which is poisonous to everything. You studied historical poetry and the art of lyrical literature in your first year, song-smithing and composing in your second and the lute for three, alongside several other string instruments, but the lute is your favorite.

Your birthday is Belleteyn, and you tell everyone it gives you magical fucking skills, even though that's horseshit. You hate ginger root and some prick called Valdo Marx and being cold and the first song you ever wrote was called Dixie's Dandy Dally."

He'd started off angry, mettle meeting mettle, but by the time he was done his voice was level, almost fearful, chest heaving for breath as he met Jaskier’s stunned gaze.

"You talk. A lot," he ground out evenly. "So much I sometimes imagine cutting out your tongue. But when you talk; I listen. I've listened to you for over twenty years, Jaskier."

“You didn’t know me enough not to send me away,” Jaskier whispered, gaze falling. “You didn’t care enough.”

“I cared too much. And I destroy the things I care about,” Geralt answered. He reached out slowly, palm open; invitation. “If you’d let me, I’d like to try and fix what I’ve broken.”

Silent deliberation. After a moment, Jaskier heaved a forceful exhale and raised his bruising hand.

“Perhaps you’d like to start with my knuckles, then?”

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