PSL Family Obligations with Monsterbytrade

[whatupbuttercup]

"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?"

Comments

[monsterbytrade]

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."

[whatupbuttercup]

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?"

[monsterbytrade]

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.

[whatupbuttercup]

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."

[monsterbytrade]

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.

[whatupbuttercup]

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.

[monsterbytrade]

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.

[whatupbuttercup]

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.

[monsterbytrade]

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.

[whatupbuttercup]

"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."

[monsterbytrade]

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."

[whatupbuttercup]

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.