Chapter Text
"Fuck me dead, if it isn't Geralt of fucking Rivia!" (1)Came the emphatic cry from across the town square.
An ordinary day became very strange with that single shouted... greeting.
If the words themselves hadn't swivelled Jaskier’s head in an instant to look the accent would have - nasal yet insouciant and informal with oddly flattened vowels. It was quite unfamiliar to Jaskier - a feat in itself for someone so well travelled.
Then he saw the man who uttered it, and his mouth dropped open. He bumped to a stop on Geralt's solid shoulder, who'd stopped to stare at the man. This tall, handsome stranger reminded Jaskier of nothing so much as a heraldic lion.
Up until a moment ago, they were having a fairly standard visit in a small town. Geralt was getting repairs done, Roach was having a rest, Jaskier had schmoozed his way into performing at the local tavern because they were short on coin due to his terrible tendency to cheat at cards - poorly - when he was tipsy. They were on their way for Geralt to seek contracts when they heard that outrageous cry.
After calling out, the man swaggered towards them at a relaxed speed, loaded down with a saddle and gear. The lion-like characteristics of him came most of all from a wild mop of sun kissed hair, flowing out from beneath a wide brimmed hat pushed far up his head, and a golden tan. The reinforced leather armour he wore did nothing to reduce the impression, being made of a haphazard collection of tans and browns. In fact, the leather was so varied, and the whole person so covered in road dust, it was a little hard to tell where his armour ended and his golden skin began.
He was a tall, rangy man, his grin wide and toothy, and very white framed by his richly hued tan. His inhuman yellow eyes smiled so much and so well that he had deep crows feet. What oddity was this? A relaxed, smiling Witcher, walking through a town like no matter where he was, he belonged there. He was like the sun to Geralt's moon. Jaskier was entranced.
Geralt just gave a resigned sigh when he saw the man.
"Play along." He gritted out to Jaskier before they got any closer to one another.
"What?" Jaskier asked, distractedly, his hand at his own collar.
"He's foreign. You'll get used to him." Geralt elaborated sparely, his expression softened by fondness as he gave a casual wave of acknowledgement to the man.
"You do know this spectacular creature?" Jaskier asked, intrigue colouring his tone.
"Yes." Geralt said shortly, and then the strange Witcher was running up to him, arms open, dropping his gear on the ground. A few nearby villagers backed away at the sight of two witchers on a collision course.
"Geraaaallt! Ya mad cunt(2). Shouldn't you be dead by now?" The strange Witcher said, scooping the shorter Geralt up and wrestling him side to side a bit before putting him back on his feet and shifting his weight from foot to foot instead as they continued to hug. Jaskier continued to gawp, this time at Geralt too, for allowing this outlandish behaviour.
"Bazza." (3) Geralt returned more calmly, clapping the strange Witcher on the back resoundingly. Then they parted and stood back a surprisingly large distance from one another, given the enthusiastic warmth of the greeting. Bazza took a wide stance, hands resting on the hilts of a pair of massive knives, only a single sword amongst his gear. The Witchers smiled at one another as they looked each other over carefully.
“Dear Master Witcher, I’m honoured to make your acquaintance.” Jaskier said with melodious richness and a courtly bow towards Bazza.
“Born with a silver spoon up yer arse were ya?” (4) Bazza grunted at Jaskier, then dismissed his presence entirely to speak with Geralt again. Jaskier went apoplectic with insulted shock, gaping like a stranded fish, but Geralt just caught his eye and shook his head minutely. Jaskier shut his mouth, and frowned as he reconsidered.
"Ya got anywhere to be this arvo?" (5) Bazza asked Geralt, sounding earnest, serious.
"Just... piss farting around." (6) Geralt replied with a casual shrug and a pleased little smile, and Jaskier goggled even more - if possible - at Geralt's use of this strange dialect. "Why?"
"Then knock back a stubbie with me. My shout." (7) Bazza says in an oddly intense but relaxed fashion, communicating an emotion Jaskier couldn't quite identify. He looked back and forth between one and the other witcher, trying to decipher what was happening. Especially as Geralt’s eyes were now crinkled into a mirror of Bazza’s own happiness. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open again.
Then Bazza seemed to finally notice him once more, and sized him up with a dismissive look.
"Careful mate, y'll catch flies." (8) He demonstrated his meaning by clicking his mouth shut. "Who’s this wanker anyway?" (9) Bazza gestured at Jaskier while looking at Geralt in distaste, as though wondering why anyone would voluntarily be associated with someone so richly dressed.
Geralt looked at Jaskier for a moment, considering his reply then deliberately engulfed Jaskier’s shoulder in a friendly hold. Jaskier relaxed at the comforting gesture, until Geralt started speaking.
"This cunt is my mate Jaskier. He's a prissy little shit but he can't half sing." (10) Jaskier tried to match the enthusiastic approval Geralt forced into his tone with the insults coming out of his mouth, and failed.
He made a offended noise at Geralt, but got no further before Bazza’s expression lit up.
"This sooky muso's the Jaskier?" (11) Bazza said in enthusiastic disbelief, finally turning the full weight of his attention to Jaskier. Who now prickled up to his full height, exceedingly annoyed to be at the butt of insults he didn't even fully understand. Bazza seemed unfazed. "Maaate. Ripper song that Toss-a, ye’ve done me a solid, ya poncy dickhead. I owe you one." (12)
"Ex-cuse me?!" Jaskier spat each syllable out vehemently, looking affronted but not entirely sure how offended he should be and at what. His feet shuffled as he tried to find a stance that correctly communicated his outrage.
Bazza laughed easily and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't getcha knickers in a twist, I’m just taking the piss." (13)
"What piss?" Jaskier said hotly, he had liked this dialect to start with, but was feeling exceedingly sour about it now that he was at its mercy.
"... Out of ya." Bazza finished the saying, brow furrowed, which left Jaskier completely unenlightened, as he was totally ignorant of it.
"What?" Jaskier spluttered.
"He means we're just joking around." Geralt explained patiently.
"Yeah, I don't mean I'm accostin' ya in the dunny." (14) Bazza chuckled at the thought.
"Dunny?" Jaskier asked, lost again. He'd thought he'd enjoy a smiling, sunny, happy witcher, but this one had him completely off kilter.
"Shit house." (15) Bazza said plainly, then moved the conversation onwards. "Come on, ya stuffy Northern bastards, let's get that drink I was yakking about." (16) He gestured back toward the tavern. Then he ruffled Jaskier’s hair like he was a kid before he could stop him.
"We talked about a drink?" Jaskier asked Geralt plaintively, looking as ruffled of expression as he was of hair, and trying to latch onto any positives in the situation.
Heralt seemed amused by Jaskier's plight, and just clapping his hand on Jaskier's back before following Bazza’s lead.
Bazza picked up his gear and wandered off towards the tavern. Jaskier wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream biting insults at the man, or just scream in utter bewilderment. What sort of strange fae creature insulted strangers with utter smiling relaxation?
"Knocking back stubbies means drinking bottles of beer." Geralt explained as they followed. “He’s paying.” Geralt nodded at Bazza.
“Oh.. “ Jaskier didn’t know what to make of the man buying him a drink after insulting him so resoundingly.
"I'm Bazza by the way, I come from out Wagga Wagga way, in Wiradjuri country." (16) Bazza introduced himself to Jaskier as the pair caught up to him.
"Jaskier, bard." Jaskier said in reflexive cold civility, feeling utterly deflated, looking at Bazza warily. He noted this made the stranger look at him approvingly, weirdly. "I've never heard of .. Wiradjuri before." He said, doing his best to pronounce the unusual sounds of it.
"Yeah, because some prick decided to rename the whole place Van Diemens Land without asking any of the locals about it." (17) Bazza explained irritably, face a solid blank of anger.
"Oh. The Great Southern Land." Jaskier said, voice breathy with fascination, remembering his Oxenfurt studies of a land so far off it seemed utterly wreathed in myth and mystery. No wonder he felt like he was talking to a fae creature with an alien language.
"On the noggin." (18) Bazza confirmed. "Anyway, the past fortnight's been utter horse shit and wank. Come spin a yarn with me. I'll shout'cha a Rum and cola if it's not too exy. I'd getcha beer, but the piss around here tastes like a vampire took a slash in horse pie." (19) He said, and then entered the tavern.
Jaskier tried to fathom why a vampire would be cutting pies, and what it had to do with beer quality, he was about to ask but Geralt just caught his eye and shook his head to head off a long and ridiculous conversation.
"Cheers, mate." Geralt said, answering for the both of them. Jaskier trailed after him like a forlorn but colourful flag. They found and sat at a free table. Once they were seated, Jaskier tried to fathom what was happening.
"Why did he insult you.. And me... so much? He appears to genuinely like you." And you him, Jaskier thought jealously, as soon as he felt sure the background tavern noise would give him the privacy to voice the question despite Wotcher senses.
Geralt sat, and made himself comfy, looking very thoughtful before explaining as best he could. "It's a practice I named 'calling a spade a spade'. By putting someone's character in an unflattering light, you show you care about them genuinely, without having any illusions about who they really are."
"He likes you." Geralt added, to give Jaskier context.
"That's... weird." Jaskier mused, trying to run the conversation through his mind again to figure out what rwally happened and whether he should still be offended. He hadn't gotten very far when Geralt continued.
"What you need to know is that Bazza won't try to humiliate you if you don't act superior. And other than your ego, he's harmless... Unless you're not harmless, of course." He mused.
"So, much like you then.” Jaskier replied. “OK.. so.. if I just.. speak plainly, he'll ... like it?" Jaskier asked, figuring that if Geralt and Bazza shared a fair few traits in common, he might have a chance of understanding him.
"Pretty much. Don't flatter him, and don't insult him either, you don't know him well enough to do it right." Geralt advised.
"Thank you dearly, Geralt. I admit I was utterly discombobulated." Jaskier said, finally feeling like he could - perhaps - converse with the lion-like witcher without being completely lost and simultaneously enraged.
Bazza plopped three cups of what Jaskier assumed was 'Rum and Cola' in front of them.
"Where's your horse?" Geralt asked, once Bazza was properly settled.
"Fucking bruxa full on took a chunk outta Jazza, 'bout a week ago, poor thing carked it. Been on shank's pony ever since." (20) Bazza said, face tight with anguish.
"Mate." Geralt said sympathetically, with feeling.
"It was pretty crook." (21) Bazza admitted sadly.
"You must be... devo." (22) Geralt said, seriously. "You need a hug mate?"
"Too right I do." Bazza said, and Geralt scooted over so he could wrap an arm around Bazza’s shoulders, which slumped as soon as he did so, expression moving to barely restrained grief. They stayed that way a long time, Bazza silently weeping. This left Jaskier at a complete loose end, so he gingerly sipped his drink, which turned out to be quite sweet to balance the bitterness, and he drunk most of the rest of it before the conversation continued.
They stayed in that awkward tableau until Bazza sniffed, straightened, and gave Geralt a final thump of a pat on the back before they separated to sit in their own distant seats again.
"She was the best little dobby you could ever ask for." (23) Bazza lamented, and downed half of his cup.
"Too right." (24) Geralt replied, and sipped his own. Which was apparently the right answer.
"Too right." Jaskier echoed quietly, and did the same.
Eventually, the mourning silence was ended by Bazza. "What are you fuckers doing here anyway?" (25) he asked genially.