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Jaskier is a tad bit too friendly for Geralt's liking. He's aware the bard is a people's person, every bit friendly, every bit social, every bit Geralt isn't. Always throwing tavern owners smiles and winks in favor of easing the prizes of a nightly stay, offering a couple of songs for free in favor of getting the cleanest of baths for him, with towels and scents, the warmest of suppers.
Geralt has spoken against it more than once, and more than once has Jaskier shrugged it off nonchalantly.
"Nonsense, Geralt!" he says tonight, with an enthusiastic flick of his hand, as he gets his lute out of his case, "it's no bother, no bother at all." He tugs at the strings to make sure the tuning is right. "And I don't fancy going to sleep to that horrid stench of selkiemore guts all over your lovely mane," he scrunches up his nose and makes another gesture towards the witcher's face.
Geralt grunts. After surveying the many tables and deciding that there is no imminent threat, not yet visibly-drunk customers, he walks over in direction to the stairs, dripping blood and mud all over the wooden floor and leaving the bard to entertain his public.
But he returns soon enough, clothes changed and smelling every bit citric as that freshly-cut soap. He'll blame it on hunger, later on, after the next song ends and Jaskier charmingly bids his audience farewell to come and join him on the last table at the back, squinting at him and telling him he should have made the most of it while he had the chance.
"Down already?!"
"Yes."
Jaskier slumps down on the seat in front and chugs his cup of ale.
"What's that smell?" he smiles, leaning slightly towards Geralt, who lets out a grunt in response. "What's that?"
"Oranges, I think," he provides, frowning at the faintest of grins tugging at the bard's lips.
"Yes, I thought so," Jaskier nods, "do you like it?"
Geralt takes a gulp of his own drink and keeps his face impassive.
"Do I like oranges?"
Jaskier rolls his eyes almost immediately, shifting in his seat and bringing a spoonful of porridge to his mouth.
"It, Geralt. The soap."
"It's... fine."
"Fine?! Well that's another hour of me playing there, for you to smell just fine!"
The witcher finally heaves out a sigh. He's thoroughly exhausted from a whole week of riding and sleeping rough, from making do with thin blankets in the cold and wet soil of the forest at nighttime. He can only guess what Jaskier must be feeling like.
"Just finish your food," Geralt starts, "have an early night, we can pay the full price."
Jaskier opens his mouth to say something but quickly averts his eyes. Geralt feels like kicking himself.
"We have coin," he continues, and he thinks he sees Jaskier clench his jaw, "to spare."
The bard mimics one of his grunts and doesn't meet his eye.
"Yeah, well."
He pushes the half-empty pot towards the center of the table and slides off the seat.
"I'm not tired. You go have a lie down yourself," he picks up the lute and gives Geralt an uncharacteristic icy glare, "and stop lurking. It's bad for business."
This time it's Geralt who opens his mouth but swallows his words. No sound comes out. He stares at the bard as he resumes his position at the center of the crowd and joyfully receives his praise and cheers.
Lurking?
Geralt doesn't lurk.
He just keeps an eye on him.
When has Jaskier ever been bothered by his presence?
Is this about about the soap? It certainly feels like the energy dropped after that point in the conversation.
But how can soap be offensive?
Fuck, he doesn't get it.
And he doesn't stay, either. He leaves Jaskier to woo his strangers, sing to them, smile at them, he doesn't think of it twice as he climbs the stairs up to their room again and gets into the bed with freshly-changed sheets.
They smell too clean.