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Jaskier had never before been so outraged at a monster. Sure, he'd been attacked quite a lot on the roads. And sure, Geralt had been wounded a fair amount while killing them, but still! They'd never had the audacity to trash his backpack.
Geralt disagreed. The witcher had no idea what he was talking about! The most valuable things he carried around were his bloody swords, and they never left his person.
But Jaskier? Jaskier loved his valuables, took his jewellery and silk doublets everywhere he went, just in case any of the cities Geralt took them to in search of monsters would need a bard to perform. Jaskier was a bit weaker than Geralt though, so he couldn't exactly carry his bags on his back (he refused to admit that the true issue was the sheer volume of clothes he stuffed into the bags rather than his own strength).
And now that Geralt had killed the beast, the bastard who chose to destroy Jaskier's backpack, it was time to assess the damage.
There was… nothing. Nothing left at all!
"Geralt!" Jaskier called out, near tears. "Mourn with me!"
Geralt raised an eyebrow. Which, in Jaskier's Fluent Witcher, meant 'I don't understand this so you're probably being an idiot'.
Jaskier gasped, outraged. "My dear witcher! Do you not understand the gravity of the situation at hand?! My clothes are destroyed!" He picked up a strip of torn blue silk, clutching it to his chest.
"Clothes are clothes." Geralt muttered, in his unbothered Witcher-y way. "Buy more at the next town."
Jaskier froze where he was collapsed on the ground. "Excuse me? Buy more?"
"...Yes." (Geralt could tell he'd overstepped somehow, but he refused to back down to the bard.)
"At the next town?! Dear heart, this level of stitching can only be found in Oxenfurt! I bought this doublet only last winter! We'll have to turn back, right away."
Geralt was unimpressed. "Bard, Oxenfurt is a month away."
"And?!"
"You'll have to go without for now."
Jaskier pouted, looking at Geralt sadly. He reminded Geralt of a puppy somehow.
Geralt insisted. "No, Jaskier." Jaskier opened his mouth to complain again, but he was interrupted. "Just borrow some of mine until you find new clothes," he teased, "they should fit you just fine, you're smaller than me."
Jaskier puffed up like an angry badger. "I am not! I'll have you know that I am just as tall as you are!" He narrowed his eyes, "Just because you witchers have giant oversized muscles that could tear a boulder in half–"
Geralt had ignored his little rant, and instead pulled a shirt and trousers out of his own satchel to toss at Jaskier's face. "There."
He walked away, not seeing Jaskier's budding smirk. (Geralt would later regret his ignorance.)
Honestly, what was taking Jaskier so long? If Jaskier was any slower they'd have to make camp that night instead of continuing on to the next town. It would really slow them down.
Maybe he should just count down a few minutes then hunt the bard down. Yes, that was a sound plan–
"Witcher! Why is it that you have such appalling taste?" Jaskier exclaimed. "I understand the black and the leather - I've treated enough wounds from tears in cotton, at any rate - but why are they so… fitted, and, and… unstylish?!"
If Jaskier hadn't complained about this so many times before, Geralt might have rolled his eyes. Instead he just turned to face him. And stared.
Staring didn't seem to make much of a difference to the sight of Jaskier, wearing his clothes.
Well, obviously, that part had been expected. What was not was how neatly the clothes fit him; the bard had either stuffed the shirt (unlikely) or somehow had muscles? How could he have muscles like that? Like a witcher's?
…Geralt may have to rethink his opinion of the bard. Maybe Jaskier wasn't quite as he thought; he came across as rather careless, belongings aside. His attitude towards trips and balls and really any occasion didn't seem to portray the Jaskier he was seeing now, what with the man clearly working out besides all the walking by Roach. They'd only met up again for summer a couple weeks ago, after all.
"Well?" Jaskier prompted, "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Geralt still couldn't find words. He returned to his usual, a simple 'hmm' that seemed to communicate his feelings just fine.
"I suppose, fashion aside…" the bard struck a rather dramatic pose, somehow striking despite its pointlessness in the isolated forest, "I make anything look good, don't I, dear heart?"
Geralt smirked, suddenly finding his confidence. He leaned in close. "You'd be the pride of Oxenfurt in a potato sack, darling."
Geralt ignored Jaskier's flustered gasp, already turning away with a slight grin. "We best return to Roach, get moving before it gets dark."
Audible footsteps hurried after him: "Now, listen here-!"