whatupbuttercup | PSL Family Obligations with Monsterbytrade

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PSL Family Obligations with Monsterbytrade

"It's fine," Jaskier repeated in slight singsong to Cantata. The horse appreciated the tone but did not, unfortunately, speak any human languages and could not return the sentiment. Jaskier, far from mollified despite his pronouncement, repeated the words again and let out a slow, manic sort of huff as he sat upright in his saddle and stared dead ahead. Were they walking, he'd be gesturing and flitting about--as it was, he had to tolerate simply twitching his feet and shuffling awkwardly in place.

"This is --fine," he announced again, louder, and his voice had a reedy quality. It was up about half a register from his normal speaking tone. He reached and adjusted the collar of his finest doublet. He looked ready for a party--he looked positively regal on his beautiful horse, in fact, and nobody would fault him. (That was a lie, they would all fault him for something--no. Focus. Fuck, there was nothing to focus on.)

He glanced sidelong at Geralt and opened his mouth, ready to give his warning again, but snapped it shut. Geralt had agreed to come (with surprisingly little begging on Jaskier's part) and Jaskier had given him his frantic assurances and instructions on the spot. He wanted, very desperately, to repeat them all but he knew it would do nothing but annoy the man riding alongside him. The warnings ate at his nerves, though, and Jaskier had so very few nerves left--they frayed with truly astounding speed as they rode down the blind lane and closer to his familial home.

"Now--and, once again, I cannot stress this enough--there is absolutely no call to seek out any conversation, whatsoever," Jaskier blurted suddenly, repeating himself for what had to be the fourth time this morning. One would think that Geralt was an eager participant, ready to sample the wines and chat up the wealthy attendees, rather than...well, he was basically a hostage. Or...no. Jaskier was a hostage, Geralt was his...emotional support warrior? This situation really defied colorful metaphor.

Geralt was going to suffer with him, or at least next to him, and that counted for everything.

"You will definitely be sought out, and that will be--" the bard made a noncommittal slightly strangled noise and waved his hand. Whatever he'd omitted, his expression did not imply a pleasant conversation was an option. "Just...act naturally or, if you prefer: evade. Evasion is a perfectly viable plan. I'd do it if I could." Jaskier continued and fidgeted, his hands stroking through Cantata's lovely mane rather than keeping firm hold on the reins. Fortunately, the golden horse was more than used to following Roach by now and didn't wander.

"Honestly, you know, I won't be even the slightest bit upset if you suddenly vanish, or even if you directly offend anyone--in fact, feel encouraged. The more offensive you are, the less offensive I'll seem--oh, or perhaps not, they might blame me for it anyway--" Jaskier babbled. "I'd prefer it if you didn't stab anyone, mostly, but I can't really cast aspersions on that given how likely I am to stab someone--maybe myself. Oh! If I were stabbed I wouldn't have to attend, you wouldn't have to attend!"

"Geralt, would you mind terribly stabbing me really quickly?" Jaskier asked and there was a not insignificant part of his tone that was serious.

It was an absolutely gorgeous day.

The summer sun was up but Lettenhove was an excruciatingly temperate bit of the continent, even high summer wasn't uncomfortable here. The trees were green, lush, and swaying. The grass was inviting, dotted with wildflowers that should have died out come the end of spring, and there were little colorful birds darting above them, flitting this way and that between the dense leaves. Clearly there were no hawks to be found anywhere nearby.

The road they traveled on was paved with an even set of matching stones, interwoven into a pattern, a bit of a rarity for a place this rural, and both the road and foliage alongside it was excruciatingly well kept. The lane wound this way and that through the thick trees, but whatever dampening effect the meandering, tree-laden nature of the road was meant to have, it wasn't up to the task of keeping out the sounds of the party ahead of them.

They were close enough, then, that even Jaskier could hear particularly boisterous bursts of laughter and the sounds of the distant string quartet. Fuck.

"Just a little stabbing," Jaskier plyed, his expression a touch desperate. "Please?"

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"Jaskier."

The name had been patiently repeated every time the bard managed to take a breath while their horses walked the well-manicured but winding path. The place was lovely in a... planned, sort of way. Of course, as they went on and Jaskier rolled right over every mention of his own name and into a high sort of babble, the scenery took second-place to simply staring at his friend and wondering if he'd manage to take a breath before he fell straight off the kelpie. Geralt had smelling salts but he'd rather not waste them on stopping Jaskier trying to talk himself into his own grave.

Geralt had agreed to come today (with only a small amount of begging) because of the particular register that Jaskier's voice seemed to keep climbing into every time he mentioned how very fine his family was, and how lovely the wedding of his cousin was sure to be, and how all involved would be pleased to see a Witcher, of course, because Lettenhove strove to uphold the old ways--

Honestly, Geralt had agreed to come because Jaskier was usually not so terrible a liar and that, coupled with the off-tune pitch, set the witcher's nerves strangely on edge.

When Jaskier finally acknowledged his companion-- only because he was searching for the nearest pointy object which might cause a fatal wound, apparently, since he was eyeing the sheathed swords hanging from Roach's saddle and not Geralt himself-- Geralt kneed Roach closer to the bard. Unfortunately for Jaskier it was not to put the swords within his reach. Their knees brushed, banged lightly, and then Geralt reached out and soundly flicked the man in the temple.

"Drink, keep quiet, and we'll be gone in the morning."

There was no doublet or silks for the witcher, but he had allowed himself to be talked into a pair of dark trousers that had actually been tailored for him (which, if he ever had the occasion to need to do again, Jaskier would not be allowed in the building whilst it happened), a thin, fine linen shirt, and a leather jerkin that had not a stud, nail, or mended hole from a monster to be found upon it. To the already stuffy look Geralt had even allowed Jaskier to wrap a completely ornamental belt around his waist. His hair was near shimmering when the sun dashed through the canopy to catch it and rightfully so for the amount of soap that Jaskier had severely and at length lathered into his scalp while mumbling about how no one really cared about appearances anyway.

No. No, Geralt did not like the tone that Jaskier's family put into the man's voice.

The path turned and the trees opened quite suddenly on a sprawling and beautiful villa, set clearly with purpose to catch a small hill and the views around it. Flowers hung everywhere, either growing or strung to the point where the entire front of the place glowed as the interwoven white and burgundy petals caught the sunlight and set a gorgeously-planned fire. Only a blind man would have not known something special was going on here today-- actually, perhaps a blind man would know as well; Geralt's nose wrinkled at the smell. Despite all things, it seemed that there were some preferences that were hereditary.

Roach had stopped walking without the pressure of the witcher's legs and the kelpie pulled up beside her; the golden horse reached out and bit discreetly at the mare's mane. Roach only tossed her head but the jangling of her tack pulled Geralt's attention back from the overwrought house to the man at his side. "Drink," he growled, because after seeing the house and the state of Jaskier's face it seemed to bare repeating, "and keep quiet. We'll be gone in the morning."

"Right," Jaskier agreed faintly and let out a quiet, flagging laugh as, despite everything he wished, he urged Cantata forward and toward his familial home.

The estate was quiet lovely, definitely not worthy of all the dread pouring off the bard. It was an old stone building that had been meticulously up-kept, had paned glass windows, many with extravagant stained glass paintings in them, and the fountain out front bubbled becomingly as they approached down the lane. There were several carriages out front and, if one watched, they would spot a servant or two now and again, darting from the front of the house toward the back.

The house seemed, to Jaskier, to loom rather terribly. It didn't, not in reality, it had only the barest hint of a third floor and the facade wasn't terribly imposing or dramatic. All the same, the bard grew stiffer and more agitated as they approached.

Around behind the house, they'd have set up tents and archways of flowers. There would probably be a temporary floor put out, to spare fine slippers from grass stains, and he'd be shocked if the seating weren't nicer than an outdoor affair called for. There would be a wealth of food and expensive wine, of course, but probably all carried by servants rather than spread out on a table. The string quartet were all very skilled (and undoubtedly expensive) musicians--nothing but the best for his cousin Iris and...whatever her husband's name was. Hildebrandt? Jaskier had never met the man but, frankly, if Iris liked him at all he was guaranteed to be a certifiable nightmare of biting manners and absolute noble repose.

Jaskier recognized the man who came to greet them as they rode up. He would take their horses. His name was Archibald and he'd been with the household long enough that Jaskier had known him as a young boy. He looked older but, by in large, identical to how Jaskier recalled him. He greeted Jaskier briefly, with a nod and his given name, which was uncomfortable, but even the bard could see how harried the man was. (How many people were here if they managed to discomfit the servants so?) Still, Archibald was absolutely polite and begged their forgiveness for his brevity as they dismounted in the shadow of the villa.

He'd take excellent care of Roach and Cantata for them, Jaskier had no doubt, but letting them out of his sight made this all more real. He did not care for that at all.

"Drinking--let's go find drinks--" Jaskier encouraged.

As much as Jaskier spoke before coming to the house, he seemed to have fallen completely mute after it came into view. Aside from the wedding decorations Geralt wouldn't say that the place was all that pretentious; it was well made and well kept, the windows beautifully set against the rest of the place. His measure-stick was his companion, however, and the only thing worse than an off-pitch Jaskier was a silent Jaskier.

Geralt dropped off his horse and handed his reins to the man Jaskier seemed to recognize, nodding a brief thanks. He knew, somewhat, that Jaskier had come from money but he hadn't even set foot inside of the house and the wealth of the entire operation was already on display.

Julian.

He grunted agreement at Jaskier words and lead the way inside when it was clear that Jaskier's feet didn't feel like moving. He didn't need to turn to hear the bard catch up as they stepped inside the propped double doors and into the large foyer, more flowers here as well as curving staircases with impressive wrought railings. The next room was a large and open, another grand set of glass doors on the opposite wall swung open to the outside veranda and entirety of the affair. It was hard to take in everything from their position hardly past the foyer, for it seemed that every conceivable thing that might be in a wedding had been erected across the green of the expansive back garden.

He'd been wrong a moment ago. Money seemed a loose term, now. Wealth perhaps, was better. Geralt looked at Jaskier and considered the man sleeping on a bedroll and couldn't quite reconcile the two things. Jaskier had grown up in this easy opulence?

Geralt grabbed two glasses off a moving tray and pressed one into Jaskier's hands even as he was lifting the other to his lips.

The manor was, as most manors are, an unchanging fixture meant to withstand the test of time. Apart from the flowers (which were new), literally nothing about the foyer was different from Jaskier's last memory of it, a decade prior. The bard froze when he entered the house, assaulted by the suddenly familiar patter of background sounds--the clink of glasses, the shuffle of feet against thick rugs, the distant laughter through glass doors--he had a moment of sheer terror as he looked up at the chandelier and felt time fold in on itself.

Had his travels been a dream?

Had he never left?

Surely he hadn't just imagined it all--

Geralt--thank Melitele the Witcher had agreed to come with him--pressed a stemmed glass of wine into Jaskier's hands and he drank it all in one long pull. The maid Geralt had grabbed the drinks from was still nearby and, as Jaskier leaned, she offered him a second glass and took the empty before shuffling away. Jaskier would have downed that one too, in short order, had a voice not resounded from across the hall, just inside those glass double doors.

"Julian Alfred Pankratz! As I live and breathe!"

Jaskier went rigid at Geralt's side and stared in mute horror as one of his cousins approached with arms outstretched and a grin on his face. It was not a happy grin but it could have been mistaken for one--there was a meanness and an excitement to the man (What was his name? Ethan? Fuck if he remembered.) like he was ready to make a scene and watch the fallout.

"You made it! We had been taking bets that you would be waylaid," Ethan greeted as he approached.

If Geralt had thought that Jaskier dressed extravagantly, the bard looked nearly under-dressed next to his cousin. Ethan (or whatever his name was), was clad head to toe in a pristine white jerkin and breeches. His slippers were white with goldwork sewn into the delicate leather. His jerkin had a pattern of whitework and teal beetlewings embroidered into it. It looked like tulips on a white field.

Ethan was larger than Jaskier, but only just. He clapped the bard on the shoulder hard, gripping and shaking him in a familiar, masculine sort of embrace. Then, and only then, did he let his gaze drift across Jaskier to Geralt at his side. It was a darting look, assessing and uncomfortable, and fell away just as quickly as it landed. Clearly Ethan was of the brand of nobility that took uncomfortable slights and wholly ignored them.

Geralt, it seemed, qualified as an uncomfortable slight.

"I see you brought a friend," Ethan commented in a tone that was prescriptively polite and just this side of taunting. "Iris will be delighted."

She would not.

"Wonderful," Jaskier announced faintly and looked sidelong at Geralt, an edge of panic in his face. Ethan ushered him toward the doors and Jaskier went willingly, a vague smile on his face.

"Come, both of you, everyone has been dying to see you again! How long has it been, Julian? It must be years, now. Since you abandoned your education, at least!"

The party in the back was a picture in noble extravagance. White was, apparently, the color of the day. Everyone but the Groom and the groomsmen were clad head to toe in outfits of pristine white. (The groom and his party, by contrast, wore deep burgundy. It was awful.) There was an occasional dash of gold or ivory among the group, flashes of fine color or jewelry, but it was otherwise a sea of blank outfits and brilliant floral arrangements. The only colors that broke up the scene were the servants, each clad in the family livery, that dashed to and fro between groups of laughing and chatting nobility.

At the end of the temporary tile they'd set out to cover the grass, there was a raised dais with a gazebo. The string quartet currently occupied it but, given how the seating faced, it was undoubtedly where the couple would be wed. Ethan dragged them out and, at once, the quiet greetings and snide comments started.

"Julian, my dear, is that you?"

"Bit roadworn aren't you, cousin?"

"I never would have imagined I'd see you in--what is that--Cintran fashion? Oh, Julian--life must be hard for a bard. Hah! See what I did there!"

"So glad you finally deigned to grace us with your presence, Julian."

"Your cousin will be elated that you've taken time from your busy schedule as a vagabond, just to attend her wedding!"

"Getting a bit thin, cousin--busking for food doesn't seem to be a talent of yours."

There was little to do but follow along like a mule tied to a completely terrified lead horse, being spurred on by an idiot.

Geralt only grunted at the idiot-- dressed ostentatiously enough to offend-- as he was given no real acknowledgement at all. A fine representation of a class that should have already died out due to inbreeding. He reminded himself that these were Jaskier's people before a metaphor he'd been seeking all day long to describe Jaskier's actions finally leapt to the tip of his tongue. A soldier returning to war. Geralt swallowed the thought as his eyes narrowed at the broad-shouldered man who pulled them both outside, the witcher's knuckles paling slightly under his sudden tight grip on his glass. He forced himself to relax it, lest he break it the delicate flute into pieces.

In the sea of guests that gleamed across the lawn like the sun falling on ocean foam, Jaskier in his deep golden doublet (it was Cintra fashion, and Cintra was a powerhouse of the Continent) and Geralt in his habitual dark colors stood out like the sorest of thumbs. As the barrage of welcomes were thrown at Jaskier like darts at a board there was a small mental itch at the back of the witcher's mind-- had Jaskier been so worried that he'd forgotten the dress code? Such details were normally far enough within the bard's wheelhouse that it felt strange that he should have missed something so large. They were both used to standing out, certainly, but only Geralt understood how to be an outsider.

Each dart landed and Geralt watched Jaskier's smile grow, his laugh easy enough to sound pornographic. Geralt realized that his fingers had tightened again and he swallowed the glass down just to get it out of his hand-- he turned to the plump woman who had called Jaskier a vagabond and pushed it at her chest, savoring the shocked look on her face even while his own face remained passive. He looked to Jaskier. "You promised you'd introduce me to--" ah. Fuck. "--him," Geralt finished, nodding his chin in a direction at random as he hooked fingers into Jaskier's elbow and pulled him away. Anywhere but there. Obviously there was no one at all that he'd been promised to be introduced to.

He stopped them in the shade of a large tree. "Why are we here? The truth, Jaskier."

They hadn't been here an hour and this was already one of the least pleasant experiences of Jaskier's entire life. The dress code hadn't been mentioned in the letters, either from his cousin or from his mother, and Jaskier's gold doublet looked positively excruciating next to the finer, more delicate fare around them. He may as well have shown up in full Nilfgaardian regalia.

Geralt followed in tow as Ethan dragged him out and, mercy of mercies, remained at his side even as his cousin drifted off to tell everyone that the beloved son had returned from his worldly travels and time as a tradesman. There were a few relatives here that Jaskier truly cared for, some younger cousins who were probably confined to the house whilst everyone drank and made "merry" on the lawn, but he could find none of them in the sea of white.

Geralt, wonderful, clever Geralt dragged him away from some distant relatives, past the edge of the floor and under a tree and Jaskier finally, finally had a moment to breathe. (For just a moment he'd been horrified that he had promised to introduce Geralt to someone but, no, anyone he might've was trapped in the house.) Jaskier was breathing like he'd run a mile by the time they stopped and gamely resisted the urge to drag his hand through his hair as he formed an answer.

"Well--ah--that's sort of multifaceted, my friend," Jaskier admitted a bit awkwardly. "You're here for...well...this and one other thing, unimportant, not worth fretting over--I, on the other hand, am here for a few reasons....

"Primarily...the woman being wed was once my best friend," Jaskier said and there was a strained, sad note to it. "And I swore to her a blood oath, when we were very young, that I would...well, she has barred me from handing her off to her husband for many reasons, but I have to attend, at least."

Jaskier took a deep breath, then, and seemed to calm a bit. With only Geralt standing and staring at him, his expression vaguely impatient, some normalcy began to settle over the bard once again.

"I have...also decided to try and take this opportunity to be...very thoroughly disinherited. That will involve a conversation with my parents, in person. It seemed...easier than faking my death, when I first considered it...but I think I might've been wrong."

He turned that pained, false smile on Geralt and it covered his grimace nicely.

"On the plus side, if I manage it, then Iris will probably forgive me for...everything shy of fucking up her wedding's aesthetic. More liquor?"

Geralt obligingly swiped two small thimbles off a passing tray and handed only one of them to Jaskier-- the other he reserved for himself because it took him quite a lot of liquor to feel the effects that he was certain, suddenly, that he was going to need to get through the night. He turned the shot up, swallowed, and then uncaringly dropped the glass against the soft moss-covered roots of the tree. "Do you care if she forgives you?" That seemed the first and most important question. Geralt wasn't going to get involved but Jaskier was his friend and all the rest were farts in the wind.

"And what is the other thing I am responsible for? Spit it out." Better now that later, when he was half-drunk and more angry and Jaskier told him that he had promised him to pick the embroidery out of some asshole's doublet with his eyes closed for entertainment.

Geralt took his halting, uncomfortable admissions in stride. It was quite remarkable and the shot he snatched up and pressed into Jaskier's hands remained as the bard tried to process the first of his follow ups.

Did he want Iris to forgive him?

Yes, enough that the very idea, the possibility, made his chest tighten suddenly and uncomfortably. He had given up that hope more than a decade ago--fuck, the idea startled enough that Jaskier actually felt himself getting misty-eyed over it. He frowned and shook his head and downed that shot without bothering to answer.

No answer was, in its way, an answer, was it not?

"Now, don't be mad," Jaskier continued idly, the burn of the shot making his voice a bit rough. Something changed in his countenance then--the terror of the party didn't lift, but he was able to set it aside, and his normal, wheedling, cajoling cadence peeked through.

"I may--may, mind you--have promised that you would regale a few of my relatives with...tales of your hunts."

It wasn't the idiotic promise the bard had given that made Geralt suddenly loom closer to Jaskier, hedging him back somewhat against the wide, rough trunk of the tree-- though the still look on his face could have been anger as easily as it could have been its opposite. He wasn't angry; in fact the witcher had written off the words almost as quickly as they'd fallen from Jaskier's lips. Jaskier could promise the sun and the stars but that didn't mean Geralt felt any overwhelming need to jump as high as possible in order to try and pluck them down. No, the words didn't matter at all; what had struck him soundly was the voice that the bard had managed them in. Geralt hadn't truly noticed the friction of the skin that that Jaskier had sunk behind until it was drawn aside and his nostrils flared slightly as if catching a sea breeze through a cracked window in a cloistered room.

So he stepped into Jaskier's space as he watched the way the slanting sun caught the bard's face, the light blush on his cheeks that was either alcohol or shame. His fingers rose and hovered, knuckles just shy of touching the high, round slant of that pink skin-- and then fell. Geralt lifted his head and looked over the people milling about in their finery. "If she cared about you showing up looking like a preening swan then she would have told you. Where are your parents?"

Because if one had a boil then it should be lanced right away. Geralt had never been a man to put aside a cure out of fear of the remedy; now that Jaskier had brought him here (for a few 'tales of hunts'), he could deal with the more immediate consequences of his actions.

For just the barest of moments, as Geralt stepped in and loomed, Jaskier mistook the expression on his face for anger. It would have been justified, of course, this whole situation was a series of thinly veiled ruses and Jaskier had knowingly dragged the Witcher into them. They were surrounded by awful people who loathed him (and Geralt by proxy), and weren't going to be free of them for at least a full day. There were hours, long, excruciating hours of this left to endure. Geralt had every right to be cross with him...but the look on his face wasn't anger.

Normally, Jaskier prided himself on his general ability to read Geralt. However misguided his pride regarding that skill was, he could usually navigate the boldest of the Witcher's emotional notes with some reliability. That particular nonexpression though, in this setting, hadn't hit quite right and Jaskier was flummoxed.

Geralt lifted a hand--but no touch followed.

Jaskier's fool heart ached.

"My parents?" Jaskier repeated and it was a beat before his face twisted with surprise and something akin to panic. "You...want to find them now?"

He considered the Witcher, the party beyond, the time of day--anything, everything really, so long as it spared him having to answer that question. There was nothing stopping him from seeking them out, they could do it now, before the ceremony began. It would be easy. His gaze listed back to the house and he wondered just how likely he was to run into Iris if he went wandering the halls--technically it was his house. He could be in there.

Jaskier took a deep breath and reached to push his hair off his forehead. He wasn't sure when he'd broken into a cold sweat, but he had, and his fringe was stuck to his brow.

"Right, sure, okay," he added distantly and looked back at the party. They were being watched. His relatives weren't even being subtle about it, staring and conversing and laughing as they looked him in the eye. Fuck.

Jaskier shifted unconsciously and put Geralt more firmly between himself and...all of them. (If pressed, he would have insisted it was just because he could hide behind the man's greater, muscular bulk, like ducking behind a tree, nothing more...and he would have been lying.)

"They're back in the house," Jaskier said and drew a deep, steadying breath. "I am...sure you don't want to--meeting them is a chore on a good day. Would you...rather stay here?"

There were a dozen questions in that halting offer, all unspoken, all painted in some shade of desperation. He gave Geralt an out, because Geralt was his friend and nobody deserved to have his parents inflicted upon them...but Jaskier clearly would have preferred to have his fingers broken, one by one, rather than chat with them alone.

He would, if Geralt declined to go with him, he just--it would be excruciating.

It felt like a lose-lose question-- would Geralt like to stay here amongst the eyes of Jaskier's entire family, most of who seemed at first blush to be miserable, grandstanding, miserly elitists? Or would he come like to meet the couple who, ostensibly, had driven Jaskier out of his family home because he had decided that he would rather devote his life to education and music than finance and producing heirs to inherit it? Geralt blew a breath through his nose and held one staring man's eyes long enough that his already voluminous moustache seemed to bristle further before he averted his eyes.

Rightly so. Just because Geralt did not wear a sword did not mean that he would tolerate less bullshit than he would on any normal day. Besides, Jaskier had slipping back into that slightly grating tone that did nothing for him at all. Geralt realized that prolonged exposure to the bard like this had set him slightly on edge. What did he care if these people like him? He didn't, of course, but he had thought... for Jaskier...

That had been before they'd gotten here. What Geralt had mistaken for anxiousness to please was, after only a double-handful of minutes spent amongst these people, clearly not where his friend's head was at all. "I'll go with you," he said. Jaskier wouldn't have given him an option if he didn't want him there in some capacity. That much he understood.

Jaskier sagged as he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. The sudden wash of relief was the only thing that gave him energy to move back toward the house. He didn't spare a glance at his relatives, or another at the upstairs windows, and soldiered forward until they were back in that gods' damned foyer again. This time, for better or worse, there was no Ethan to drag them out to the party and Jaskier had to lead the way.

His parents would be in one of two rooms, that he knew, and both of them required a trip up one flight of stairs. Jaskier's momentum carried him up the flight in the foyer easily enough, but the first step onto the floor of the second story was utterly surreal. His bedroom was just to the left, second door past the corner. His governess' rooms were past that. Would Iris be in those? No, she would be in the guest rooms to the right--fuck, they would have to pass her to get to the upstairs drawing room, or to the flight to his father's study.

Jaskier's steps halted as he stared down that hallway and his hands fidgetted at his sides.

"Actually!" He started brightly, the sudden lilt in his tone covered his overwhelming terror rather well, he thought. (He was a coward, he would admit as much.)

"It might be best to do the regaling first," Jaskier suggested and glanced back at Geralt. The Witcher had followed after him and stood at the top of the stairs. Jaskier felt a sharp, strange disconnect at the sight of him--Geralt and his family home were not, in the bard's mind, compatible images. The strangeness of seeing them both together reminded Jaskier of vertigo and he shoom his head to dismiss the feeling.

"Someone should have a good day, at least," he added softly and, in the deathly stillness of the house, it still felt terribly loud.

Jaskier motioned quickly and spun on his heel. He was running, if only metaphorically, but he just...he couldn't. Not yet. He started at a quick clip and headed toward his--that is, the room he grew up in. For as rigid as he'd been when he stared down the hall that lead his parents, now he very nearly had a skip to his step.

He was certain it wouldn't be a surprise, Geralt's hearing was superb and while his parent had certainly made an attempt at soundproofing the music room, they hadn't done it that well. Geralt would know the sounds of rough housing at a distance, surely, yet Jaskier still remained coyly silent as he moved down the hall. Geralt surely heard the shouts and screams from the music room long before Jaskier opened the door, but Jaskier still treated it as a grand reveal anyway.

Perhaps it wasn't a surprise for the Witcher so much as the cousins on the other side.

The bard threw open the double doors to the music room with gusto and all the noise inside came to a shocked and terrified halt as they banged against the wall. Jaskier barged in, chest puffed out and hands on his hips.

"What's all this, then? Who is touching my--"

He couldn't finish his posturing before he was set upon. A dozen children, none older than ten, gasped in unison and charged him. Their game, something that had clearly involved pretending at a grand battle between the piano and the chaise, was abandoned instantly. A chorus of delighted shouts of "Julian!" drowned out anything and everything else Jaskier had to say. He was nearly toppled over as several flung themselves at his legs and hugged.

If there was a question about why Jaskier ever suffered his family, this surely was the answer.

Watching Jaskier was a strange experience. The set of his shoulders, the clip of his gait-- it was all very unlike Jaskier, as if this place, these people, had made him something different. Diminished him, somehow. Even Geralt, who would never say as much out loud, could acknowledge that there was something irrepressible about Jaskier that drew people to him. His talent helped, of course, and the loud fashion statements that he enjoyed making, but it was more than that. It was how he stood, how he spoke, how he... invited everyone to look and see the world as he did, as if by doing so they might enjoy it just a little more. That was Jaskier.

This man with him now was not that person. He was quiet and small. Geralt disliked it immensely; it was all very wrong.

When Jaskier started down one side of the hall only to stop and about face-- Geralt almost grabbed him. Forced a course of action that might end this entire charade. But the hallway was wide and the troubadour was across it, his pace quicker and his shoulders suddenly thrown back. Geralt mounted the last step and went after him, opening his mouth only to close it as the heard sounds of a shuffle coming from somewhere further on. The tattoo of feet on hardwood, muffled... laughter? But Jaskier was already flinging open the door and speaking and by the time Geralt had made it into the room there were a herd of small bodies practically dragging the man to the ground. Geralt's lips drew into a line-- and then relaxed. Children. The room was filled with children, who were clearly delighted to see Jaskier. Geralt dragged in a deep breath, a knot between his shoulders loosening.

"Julian, you said you'd come and visit--"

"Teach me the harpsichord, momma says its only for priests and beggars--"

"I'm almost as tall as you now!"

Geralt folded his arms across his chest and leaned a shoulder against the the doorframe to watch.

"Are you staying up here with us?"

"It's so boring, Julian, they won't let us play with the 'strumets!"

"My papa said that Julian would have to sit with us, he doesn't fit anywhere else."

"Julian is smaller than your papa!"

The cacophonous barrage of questions was so unlike downstairs that it had Jaskier laughing in seconds. As little sense as Jaskier made downstairs, he made perfect sense in this particular room. Their boundless energy and curiosity were things he actively fostered (to the chagrin of their parents) and all of them were elated to see him.

"If he's staying to play he's on our team!" This cry, from one of the older children, was met by a number of gasps and objections regarding fairness. The resounding argument to the contrary, positing that it was, in fact, fair to have Julian pick sides, was a simple one:

"Not fair!"

"Yes it is!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yes-huh!"

The argument raged and captivated a good number of the children, but not all of them. One of them, a young girl of about four, caught sight of the Witcher in the doorway. She stared with a careful, hawkish scrutiny, put together what she was seeing, and let out a high pitched wail of delight. She charged at him, clearly unconcerned with his intimidating posture, his dark clothes, or the fact that she probably weighed less than any weapon he'd ever picked up. She was just tall enough that, if she stretched, she could have grabbed his hand. Unfortunately, it was tucked up across his chest, well outside of her reach, so she bounced on her heels, stretched up high, and made grabby hands up at him.

She started a merry chant that sounded rather like 'Wisher' repeated amid girlish squeals, and every other set of eyes in the room snapped to Geralt. Jaskier, who was still chuckling and had his little cousin Tristan with arms wrapped around his neck, looked back and gave Geralt a grin that was--well, alright, it was a bit wicked. Mischievous, really. Definitely smug.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet--"

His introduction, much like his greeting, was drowned out as all the energy in the room redirected to Geralt. Just over half the children in the room scrambled from Jaskier's side to Geralt's, all wide-eyed and awestruck, and the torrent of questions that fell on him was so similar to the ones thrown at Jaskier, they would be indistinguishable from a distance.

"You're the one the song is about!"

"My mom won't let me sing that song, says it's for louts--"

"I don't have coins, I'm not allowed, will you still be my friend?"

"Wisher--Wisher--Wisher--"

"Did you reaaaaally let that monster eat you to kill it?"

"You're tall."

Geralt noticed the sharp, considering cut of the girl's gaze, her eyes very blue-- not unlike Jaskier's-- but was not prepared for the sounds or the charge that were to follow. He drew himself up slightly as those damp, small digits clutched at the air about the end of the metal-trimmed belt that dangled against his thigh. She was... persistent.

When the rest of the children turned toward him, not unlike a pack of wolves scenting prey, Geralt very nearly stepped back. He might have were it not for that particular look from across the room, the smile that slyly exposed teeth and narrowed eyes. "You set me up," he growled in Jaskier's direction before directing his yellow gaze downward to the small band of assorted-sized children.

Children and cats-- both generally were the first things in the room to warn of witchers. Geralt was so used to children screaming or crying at the sight of him, as if the boogeyman that their parents whispered to make them behave had suddenly shown up to take them away, that this very clear... adoration? Stuck halfway between his throat and his chest as if he'd swallowed a bite of dinner wrong.

"I did let the Selkie Maw eat me," he said, his flat, uncompromising voice a rough counterpoint compared to the flushed upswell of the childrens' queries. Out of the onslaught it was the easiest of the questions to answer-- though perhaps not the one that any parent would have appreciated. "They're only vulnerable from the inside."

The whole group of children listened with rapt attention as Geralt delivered his answer. (Well, except for little Isolde, who desperately wanted to hold his hand and was still perched on her tip-toes making the attempt. She was nothing if not determined.) Unfortunately, if Geralt had hoped that answering them would result in fewer questions, he was sorely mistaken.

"Did it chew you?"

"Of course it didn't chew him!"

"I don't see any teeth marks!"

"Maybe they're on his back, you don't know!"

"It must have hurt!"

"Does it hurt to get eaten?"

"He's huge, the silkyma must have been even huge-r if it ate him whole! How big was it, was it this big? This big?"

"You saved the town right! There was a town, wasn't there Julian, and he saved it?"

"You have a horse, Julian said you have a horse, where is it?"

"I want to pet the horsey!"

Jaskier watched the Witcher's expression shift from amusement to suspicion, then to keen and absolute discomfort. His reaction to the children was so obvious and open that it had the bard preening. They gathered, nearly to a man (Tristan had managed to get his arms around Julian and the young boy refused to release him, which was fair. His sister was the one trying the same ploy while softly chanting Wisher.) and crowded Geralt in the doorway, surrounding him and staring up with awe and wonder. They asked and poked and, in more than a few cases, grabbing at his pant legs or shirtsleeves and tugged politely so he might answer their questions.

"I can't believe you're all behaving like this," Jaskier lamented as he stood up, Tristan held securely against his hip. All the children went a little worried at that, paled in that same way that Jaskier had when he walked out into the party, and the Bard's crowing expression faltered for just a beat. He hadn't meant to--shit--

"I bring you a real, live Witcher and you haven't even invited him to play?" Jaskier finished and there was an instant uproar among the group. The boy who'd demanded Julian was a fair addition backpedaled and demanded Geralt join his team. The others argued emphatically that Geralt be on their team. One boy was adamant that Witchers don't pick sides so he can't be on any team. They debated, their energy redirected to each other, and only a few kept their attention on the man in the doorway.

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PSL Family Obligations with Monsterbytrade

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