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"You didn't have to do this," Jaskier says, for the umpteenth time since they walked into the manor.
Another party for some reason or another; Geralt isn't sure of the details, only that Jaskier mentioned his presence had been requested by an old acquaintance. It's gone from crowded to packed, and Geralt feels a headache starting behind his eyes from the bright lights and the cacophonous chatter and the mix of too many perfumes in one space.
"I know," he says, again, for the umpteenth time. He looks askance at Jaskier, dressed in his finery and fitting in seamlessly with the noble crowd. When Jaskier looks back, the greeting smile he'd given a passing lady falling from his mouth, he adds, "but I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it."
"Hardly a promise," Jaskier tuts, waving a hand. They make their way into the mass, and Geralt keeps close to Jaskier's back, eyes roaming the room, marking exits, suspicious lords, potential problems. Never at rest, a witcher. "Nothing you don't do on the daily, at any rate. Which I'm very thankful for, by the way, the, uh, saving me from cuckolds that would see me become a eunuch for real."
"It worked at the time, didn't it?"
"Yes, but my pride, Geralt!"
It makes Geralt smile, if only to himself. "Better your wounded pride than you dead by some jealous husband's hand, hm?"
Jaskier huffs, but when he looks at Geralt again there's a twinkle in his blue eyes and a grin on his face. "By far. So thank you."
Geralt only hums, and then Jaskier's attention is on some lady who comes up to speak to him. He lets himself fade into the background as Jaskier does his thing, falling into his role as the bard's bodyguard. It works for them in situations like this, when Jaskier is surrounded by people who'd see him come to harm for some slight he'd done them in the past. Keeps Geralt on his toes, at any rate.
Just over an hour in this fashion, though, and Geralt is biting back a grimace as the throbbing behind his eyes gets worse. The lights are too sharp-bright and the chatter rings in his ears, swallowing his thoughts, and he wants nothing more than to escape to a dark, silent corner.
A hand on his arm brings his gaze to Jaskier's concerned expression. His brow is furrowed, and Geralt has the sudden urge to reach out and smooth his thumb between those blue eyes. "What?"
"Really, Geralt, we can leave," Jaskier says, softly. "I know you don't like these things."
"I'm fine," Geralt insists. He lets Jaskier's hand stay where it is; it's comforting. He makes another pass of the room with his gaze so he doesn't have to look at those blue eyes full of worry and compassion. "You haven't seen your friend yet."
"And I can see him any time." Jaskier tilts his head, trying to catch his eyes again. "You're in obvious discomfort, dear heart. We can go."
But he looks—not quite disappointed at the thought, but resigned. Geralt knows he'd been looking forward to this party for days now, a chance to dress up and do his hair and wear the new perfume he'd bought and charm his way through a crowd of people more suited to his preferred lifestyle than Geralt.
Geralt, who lives on the road and wears clothes made for travel and battle instead of flair and prestige, who sleeps beneath the stars more often than in a bed, who smells of horse and dirt and the shit of whatever monster he'd slayed that day because a bath is a luxury, not a readily-there convenience.
Jaskier has given up much of his comforts by choosing Geralt, and asks for little in return. Geralt feels it's only right he do the same the few times Jaskier ever asks.
"We stay," Geralt insists. The idea of disappointing Jaskier by making him leave early doesn't sit well in his chest, and he pushes it away along with the discomfort of his headache. "I'm fine."
Jaskier purses his lips and raises his eyebrows, like he doesn't believe a word out of Geralt's mouth, but the way he relaxes tells Geralt he won't press. Much.
"Are you sure?" he asks still, hopeful. His blue eyes shine with thanks and Geralt thinks he wants to drown in the happiness there. Whatever he did to put it there, he wants to continue doing—it's something he's coming to realize he never wants to exist without again.
"I'm sure."