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“I'm going to do it.” Jaskier declared, with an air of authority that he absolutely did not possess.
Geralt barely looked up from the couch. He had wriggled so much that he was nearly upside-down, PlayStation controller in one hand, bag of crisps stuck on the other. On the television, his character jumped over a brick wall on horseback. “Why? It's stupid.”
“It's not stupid,” Jaskier said, “it's a test of endurance. A battle of wills. If I can do this, I can do anything, Geralt. I'll scale mountains. I'll become a master of Krav Maga. I'll--”
“Do the dishes once in awhile?”
“Let's not get too wild.” Jaskier perched on the arm of the couch.
“No-Nut November? Jaskier, you won't last a day. You're the horniest person I've ever met.” Geralt squinted at the television – he wasn't wearing his reading glasses – and on-screen his horse tripped over some rocks and fell. “What—no! Aw, she was my favourite horse.”
“They're all your favourite.” Jaskier pointed out, and then breezed past the topic before Geralt could point out the differing qualities each colour of horse presented. 'The cowboy game', Jaskier called it, no matter how often Geralt told him it was 'Red Dead Redemption'. “Anyway, I am not that horny. I can control myself.”
“You made me take you to A&E once because you got a friction sore on your dick.”
“So? That could happen to anyone.”
“One time when you were drunk you tried to fuck the armchair.”
“It looks shapely in the dark!”
“Then there was the time--”
“Alright,” Jaskier barked, “so I have a healthy libido. This will make my triumph all the more impressive.”
“Hmm.” Geralt pushed himself up into a proper sitting position. “Bet you won't make it a week.”
“Oh yeah?” Jaskier asked, chin jutting haughtily, “Want to put money on that?”
“Sure. Fifty quid.”
“Double it, you coward.”
Geralt leaned forward so his nose was almost brushing against Jaskier's. He grinned, slow and devilish, and Jaskier felt his cheeks grow hot. “Two hundred.”
“You're on.” Jaskier hoped his voice didn't sound as high as it did to his own ears. “When I win, I'm gonna spend the money on champagne and cake, and take the most decadent bath.”
“When I win, I'm going to put the money in my savings account.”
“Urgh!” Jaskier threw his hands up, standing. “Go back to your cowboy game. I'm going to go make a luxury bath playlist.”
“You start at midnight tonight, don't forget.” Geralt smirked.
“Ooh, right you are. Better make hay whilst the sun shines!” Jaskier said, bolting for the stairs.
Geralt stared, thinking about the implications of that statement. Then he yelled in Jaskier's wake, “I'm not taking you to A&E again!”
The next morning, Geralt awoke to the unusual scent of fresh espresso and the sound of Jaskier singing 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' in what he probably thought was a low warble. Panicked, he glanced at his alarm clock. Had the power gone out? Was he late?
Green digital numbers informed him that it was seven twenty-seven, three minutes before Geralt was due to rise.
“What the fuck?” Geralt muttered, shucking the covers from himself. Jaskier never woke up early. His style could be better described as rolling outside seconds before his bus arrived, half-a-piece of toast in his mouth, one shoe untied.
Something was wrong.
Geralt shrugged into a terrycloth bathrobe and trampled down the stairs. Jaskier looked up from the kitchen table, jam-laden toast before him, shirt ironed – ironed! – and hair styled. He grinned.
“Are you sick?” Geralt blurted.
“What? No! I feel fabulous, actually. Did you know how much time there is in the morning when one doesn't spend thirty minutes in the shower?”
“Is that why the water is always bloody tepid when I get in?” Geralt asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“Maybe.” Jaskier took a slurp of his three-sugars, two-shots espresso, and fluttered his eyelashes. “Coffee?”
Geralt huffed. “Yeah. Black, no--”
“No sugar, no milk, I know. Nothing exciting. Should I use decaf? God, might as well just drink dirt water.”
“And you might as well drink sugar water.” Geralt said, turning back to the stairs. He was eager at the prospect of a hot shower.
Jaskier snorted. “One day you'll surprise me, Geralt.”
Jaskier got home after Geralt that evening, stumbling over the threshold, a paper bag from their local Chinese restaurant in his hand. Hitting the mute button on David Attenborough's narration of sperm whale behaviour, Geralt craned his head towards the door. Jaskier threw his coat at the hooks, missed them entirely, and did not bother to correct his sloppiness.
“Got you Mongolian lamb.” Jaskier said, crinkling the bag.
“You look like shit.”
“Has anyone ever told you how charming you are?” Jaskier flopped onto the couch, pulling the fast food containers out. “Maybe I look like shit, but you smell like it.”
“Haven't showered yet. Cardio day.” Geralt pulled open the plastic lid of his food. “How much do I owe you?”
Jaskier waved him off. “Your shout next time.”
“Cheers.” Geralt split a pair of wooden chopsticks in two, and began to eat. Beside him, Jaskier tucked into his chicken lo mein.
“So, how was your day?” Jaskier asked, watching a whale twirl about on the screen in front of them.
Geralt shrugged. “Gym, then museum, then spin class. They're redoing the Velociraptor exhibit, so I gotta oversee that over the next few weeks.”
“Make sure they don't put in anything about scales?” Jaskier grinned into his bite.
“If I don't see at least five references to feathers, I'm fucking quitting.”
“You say that every time they redo something.” Jaskier said.
“Luckily for them, they've yet to fuck up.”
“Or you're unwilling to give up your position on the Natural History Museum board, admit it.”
Geralt smiled. “Yeah, alright.” He grabbed the remote, and hit the volume button.
“Despite the enormous size of blue whales, we know very little about them. Their migration routes are still a mystery and we have no idea where they go to breed.” Sir Attenborough said, his voice as hypnotically soothing as ever.
“Maybe they go to a club. A blue whale fuck club. Do you reckon whales are into BDSM?” Jaskier slorped up a noodle.
“No, I don't.” Geralt said.
“They must be, a little. I mean, they're into breath-play--”
“Jaskier,” Geralt groaned, “just because they have blowholes does not mean they're into erotic asphyxiation.”
“How would you know? Are you a whale? Citation needed.” Jaskier nudged into Geralt's side.
Finally, Geralt cracked a smile. “Maybe, maybe they match up on fin-der.”
Jaskier stared blankly at him.
“You know, like Tinder. But for whales. Fin-der--”
“Oh, I got the joke. I am just wondering how it is that you're single. It's a great mystery to me.”
“Says the man whose last relationship was with a sock puppet.”
“God, that thing was soft inside!” Jaskier sighed lovingly, and sank further back into the couch cushions. “Turn it up, would you? I wanna hear the wee-oo-ee whale noises.”
Geralt did as he was bid.
The townhouse they rented was comfortable and neat, but it was a bit on the older side, much like many properties in London. The wall separating them from their neighbours was sturdy and sound enough to absorb any noise, but the internal walls might as well have been made from tissue paper. Next door to him, Geralt heard Jaskier tossing and turning.
Well, it had been a full twenty-four hours. He was probably regretting his November choices already. Geralt smirked privately in the dark.
“Bloody—stupid pillow.” Jaskier mumbled, only slightly muffled.
Sucks to be him, Geralt thought. He closed his eyes, focusing on his own body; where it ached slightly from the day's exercises, where he needed to stretch or release tension. As he meditated, he heard Jaskier sigh in frustration.
Geralt's cock twitched between his legs.
It wasn't as though he'd taken the stupid vow. Geralt was free to pleasure himself as he saw fit. Something about the knowledge – that he had one over Jaskier – thrilled through him, made his prick plumpen up, laying thick against his stomach.
He didn't give it much thought. Lazily, Geralt took himself in hand, stroking himself slowly, squeezing his fingers tight around the head of his dick to smooth a blurt of precome down his shaft. There was no need to tease himself, nor build it up. He jacked himself luxuriantly, knowing his own body well, pausing only to palm his balls when they began to draw tight.
Geralt groaned when he came, toes curling, streaks of come shooting hot up his belly.
Sated in the aftermath, he caught his breath. It was only when he was wiping the mess from himself with a handful of tissues that he realised there was no noise coming from Jaskier's room. Complete silence.
Thinking upon it, Geralt rarely made noise when masturbating. It was just a release, something he did in the shower in the evening, or like now, just before he slept. But he had this time, hadn't he? He'd moaned and panted like he was putting on a fucking show.
Shame curled around him for a moment. Jaskier had obviously heard. Then Geralt recalled their bet, and Jaskier's stupid stubborn haughtiness, and he began to relax again. He swallowed a chuckle.
So what if Geralt tended to his own needs? Perhaps it'd teach Jaskier a lesson in humility when he lost. Smugly, Geralt rolled over in his bed, and drifted into sleep.
At seven-thirty, Geralt's alarm beeped exactly four times before it was silenced. He yawned, stumbling out of bed, headed to the bathroom to piss. On his way down the hallway, he noticed Jaskier's door was open.
Once showered and dressed, Geralt went downstairs, prepared for a second morning of early-bird Jaskier. But the kitchen light was off, and Jaskier's coat was gone. The dirty dishes beside the sink advertised the fact that Jaskier had clearly gone to work already.
Odd, Geralt thought. Jaskier worked freelance in the music industry, writing tunes for advertisements and other corporate gigs. He detested it with a fiery passion. It was a stop-gap, a way to make rent whilst he worked on his other compositions, hoping eventually to get signed to an indie label. Geralt thought he was good enough for it; more than good, truthfully.
As he poured himself a sensible bowl of muesli and oat milk, peeling a banana, Geralt wondered if Jaskier was avoiding him. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had arisen. If Jaskier had an issue, he'd take it up with Geralt. That was how they worked.
Geralt ate his breakfast in blissful silence, looking over his Wednesday schedule.
When Geralt descended the stairs on Friday to find a vacant house, he could no longer ignore his suspicions. Wednesday night, Jaskier had grabbed some drinks with a few of his musical friends. Nothing unusual there. Thursday morning, Geralt awoke to an absent Jaskier again. Thursday night, Jaskier had texted Geralt to let him know that he was staying late in the office to finish a project up.
Geralt was being avoided.
How was he supposed to tackle this issue? Shoot Jaskier a text: 'sorry for jacking off the other day'? Ridiculous. Maybe that wasn't even what this was about. Geralt fretted over his breakfast, fiddling with his phone. Finally, he typed out a message.
-Are we good?
Fuck, he sounded like a needy girlfriend. Geralt pushed his phone away whilst he drank his coffee, pretending not to eye it when it lit up with a response. He washed both his and Jaskier's dishes, and then thumbed the screen active.
-Yes! What do you mean?
It was accompanied by a smiley face and a duck emoji, which was fairly standard for Jaskier. It was, however, missing the two pink hearts he usually tacked on the end. Geralt narrowed his eyes.
-You haven't been around. I don't know. Just checking.
Geralt yanked his coat on and grabbed his gym bag. He was locking the front door when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Resisting the urge to look immediately, he settled himself in his car.
-Work's been hectic. Lad's night tonight? Friday! I'll get the wine?
Two ducks, but still no hearts. Geralt sighed heavily, before responding.
-Sounds good. I'll make us pizza. You can choose the film.
Damn it, he must've been feeling guilty, because Geralt never willingly allowed Jaskier to decide upon their viewing material. He rested his head on the steering wheel. It'd be okay; he'd make his from-scratch pizza dough, load Jaskier's pizza with three kinds of cheeses, drink fizzy pink wine and suffer through a rom-com. Then this weird dynamic would go away.
Comforted by this plan, Geralt started the car, and began his day.
“I got us Pianeta Organico Rose Spumante!” Jaskier announced his return from work, practically leaping through the front door.
“Is that the one from Aldi?” Geralt asked, poking his head out of the kitchen.
“Yup!” Jaskier lugged the box in, setting it on the table. “Had a special for half a dozen!”
“Chuck one in the freezer.” Geralt said, checking on the rising dough. “Pizza will be another thirty minutes.”
“Oh, goody,” Jaskier clapped his hands, “that'll give me time to choose a film. What are you in the mood for?”
“Does it matter?”
“Nope!” Jaskier grinned, and shut the fridge door. He skipped into the lounge room.
Geralt found himself smiling. When he went to get the toppings from the fridge, he saw a bottle of his favourite Bordeaux claret, placed in the crisper drawer to chill just slightly. He breathed a small, fond sigh. Everything was fine.
“Oh God,” Jaskier sobbed into the last piece of his pizza, “Henry is such a randy bastard. Fuck him. Fuck him, Geralt.”
“He really is.” Geralt agreed, tipping back the dregs in his glass. The claret was long gone, and he was joining Jaskier in the fizzy-pink, which wasn't all that bad if you'd already had five glasses of wine. “S'what happens when you're a king. You get all horny.”
“Is it? I feel like I'd be, all, y'know. Scared. Too much responsibility. I'd be more like Elizabeth the first.”
“The virgin queen?” Geralt scoffed.
“Oi, yeah, she was called that, but that doesn't mean she didn't fuck. Bet she did. Smart, though. Why would you let a man near your throne? Urgh, look what Henry the eighth did.” Jaskier wiped his face with his hand. “Poor Anne.”
“You chose The Other Boleyn Girl. We could've watched Corpse Bride.”
“That one is sad too!” Jaskier wailed. “That poor skeleton lady.”
“Yeah but doesn't she turn into butterflies, or whatever?”
“Hah!” Jaskier threw a cushion at Geralt, who took it to the face. “I knew you were watching it. Acting like you were on your phone the whole time.”
“I was half-watching it.” Geralt said, pouring more wine for Jaskier, and then himself.
“Yeah, yeah.”
On the screen, Natalie Portman delivered a heartfelt speech as Anne Boleyn, facing the executioner's blade. Jaskier shuddered. Geralt hit the pause button.
“Okay, that's enough. You're getting sad-pouty-face.”
“Geralt!” Jaskier reached for the remote. “I wanna know what happens!”
“You know what happens, you numpty.” Geralt held it out of reach, so Jaskier ended up sprawled in his lap, all grabby fingers.
“Oh, sod you.” Jaskier wriggled onto his side so he was facing Geralt. “Maybe it'll be different this time.”
Geralt smiled. “Wanna watch YouTube clips of circus cats?”
Jaskier brightened. “Yes! I found the best one the other day. Hang on, let me sync it up.”
He didn't move from his sprawl across Geralt's lap, and Geralt didn't urge him to. Together, they watched a Persian cat take four-and-a-half minutes to jump through a hoop. When it finally did, they both cheered.
“We should quit our jobs and become cat trainers.” Jaskier said.
“Mmm. Lot of money in cat training.”
“Pro'lly.” Jaskier agreed, finishing his glass. “Geralt?”
“Yeah?”
“I'm drunk.”
Geralt laughed. “Same.”
Jaskier giggled with him. “Fuck, this week has been a nightmare. So much work – this fucking ad, I swear. It's for a couch? Or something? I don't fucking care. And then that whole thing on Tuesday night--”
Both of them froze up. Jaskier clapped his hand theatrically over his mouth. Geralt felt heat surge into his cheeks.
“I knew you were pissed off.” Geralt mumbled.
“No! Not pissed. Um.” Jaskier pushed himself up from Geralt's lap, fiddling with the hem of his own shirt. “Just. Fuck, it's been like, a week--”
“Five days.”
“Whatever. An eternity! I heard you, and, well. It was hot.”
“I didn't... I wasn't thinking.” Geralt could not meet Jaskier's eyes.
“S'the thing. Your body, it's up to you – I took on this challenge. But I, um. I wasn't expecting... well, for all of this. So yeah, I kind of, I avoided you. Thought you were teasing me.”
Geralt bit his lip. “I wasn't. At first. And then... I think I was.”
“Knew it.” Jaskier whispered. “Oh, I knew it. Cheater.”
“Look, we're both, we're fucking drunk. Let's sleep on it, talk it out over a hot breakfast.”
Jaskier sighed. “Yeah, you're right.”
Awkwardly, they both stood up, filing towards the stairs. Before they went into their separate rooms, Jaskier paused.
“Geralt?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For tonight. I had fun. I've... missed you.”
Geralt's smile was small. “I missed you, too.”
That night, both their bedrooms were quiet.
Although he didn't set his alarm, Geralt still woke up around seven-thirty, ever a creature of habit. Sensibly, he'd drank a mixture of water and electrolytes before he'd slept, but a headache still bit behind his eyes. Maybe drinking red wine and then cheap rosé wasn't the smartest choice he could've made.
The previous evening's events paraded through Geralt's memory as he went through the sluggish motions of rising and dressing. He winced, supposing that he ought to get into the kitchen to start cooking. It was either that or think about the gravity of the things both he and Jaskier had said.
To his surprise, Geralt had been beaten to the kitchen yet again by Jaskier, who was fluttering about in a self-made nest of chaos. Ingredients were strewn about the bench-tops and the table. On the stove, a pot was bubbling, and a pan was sizzling.
“Geralt!” Jaskier greeted enthusiastically. “Morning!”
“Morning.” Geralt said carefully, eyeing the mess. “You do know that it's Saturday, right?”
“Yes, yes.” Jaskier opened a carton of eggs.
“And that you should be hungover?”
“Yet I am not!” Jaskier grinned. “Spun the wheel and cheated death, this time.”
“You also know,” Geralt continued, “that you can't cook to save your life?”
“Oh, rude. It's just a fry-up. Any half-wit could make that, Geralt.” Jaskier folded his arms, huffy.
With uncanny comedic timing, the frying pan burst into flames, ignited by spitting grease.
“Shit!” Jaskier exclaimed, running for the sink, turning the tap on.
“No, no, no, no!” Geralt bellowed, shoving Jaskier away from the water. He snatched up the lid to their biggest pot, and carefully slid it over the licking flames. Then he shut the stove off. Geralt exhaled loudly, and turned. “Jaskier, seriously? Water on a grease fire?”
“What? Water puts fire out!”
“Not all fires! Would you put water on an electrical fire?”
Jaskier tapped his fingertips together. “...Yes?”
“Oh for fuck's sake—no. You are banned from breakfast. You are banned from anything that isn't the toaster.” Geralt glared at the contents of the pot. The baked beans inside had burnt to the bottom. He didn't even want to deal with the frypan.
“It's supposed to be greasy,” Jaskier whined, throwing the window open to air out some of the smoke before the fire alarm went off, “I thought adding butter would help.”
Geralt sat at the table and put his face in his hands. “So much for our serious talk.”
“You're welcome?” Jaskier leaned against the counter.
Snorting, Geralt glanced at Jaskier. “Why are you up, anyway?”
“Couldn't sleep. Having a lot of trouble sleeping.”
“Jaskier, this No-Nut November thing is getting ridiculous.”
“You're just saying that because you're going to lose.”
“No, I'm saying it because we almost fell out over it, and then you nearly burnt the fucking house down!”
“It's one more day!” Jaskier burst, whirling on the balls of his feet to clutch at the edge of the sink. “One day. I can make it.”
“One day until the end of our bet, yes, but twenty-three days after that.” Geralt said.
Jaskier made a strangled sound. “Fuck. Fucking fuck. Oh, God. You're right.”
“So just... drop it. Give it up. I won't even collect on the bet.” Geralt tried to keep the irritation from his tone.
“Not monetarily, maybe, but I'll never hear the end of it. 'Remember when you couldn't go a week'? I can hear your voice already. No, I won't break.” Jaskier pushed away from the counter. “So you give it up. Stop being such an ass.”
“I'm being an ass?” Geralt sputtered.
“Yeah, you are! Just, fucking leave it, okay?” Jaskier stormed out of the room and up the stairs.
Geralt glared at his exit, flinching when Jaskier's bedroom door slammed. He drew in a series of breaths, trying to calm himself. No, he thought. This could not stand.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Geralt knocked on Jaskier's door.
“Go away.”
“Jaskier, open the door.”
“Go away!”
Geralt grunted, and wrenched the knob. It was locked, but the sheer strength of his grip popped the handle clean off, and the door swung open. Jaskier stared, open-mouthed, curled on the end of his bed. Geralt looked between him and the doorknob in his hand, and let it fall to the ground.
“You said it was hot.”
“What?” Jaskier sniffed.
“When you heard me. You liked it.” Geralt took a step into the room.
Jaskier swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Did I?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you—you said you were teasing me.” Jaskier defended. “Why would you do that if you didn't think it was hot, too?”
“I did think it was hot.” Geralt admitted, his voice a smoke-rough husk. “I felt like I had control over you in some way. I liked it.”
Jaskier licked his lips. “Is that... is that why you said my name?”
Geralt blinked. “What?”
“When you... finished. I heard you moan my name.”
Had he? Fuck, Geralt couldn't remember. He recalled being vocal, and the intense and brief pleasure of it all. It was entirely possible that with his lowered defences, he'd let Jaskier's name slip.
“Yeah.” Geralt decided, taking another step forward. Jaskier shivered. “Yeah, I wanted you to hear. Wanted you to know.”
“Fuck.” Jaskier whimpered.
“Thought about you all smug and sure before. Thought about you pressing your ear to the wall to hear me stroking myself faster. I thought about how fucking hard you'd be, Jaskier, and how you could do nothing about it.” Geralt placed one hand on the bed, bending down. “Liked it.”
“God, Geralt, please.” Jaskier squirmed, back pressed against the wall.
“Won't collect on the bet at all, Jaskier.” Geralt purred, crawling towards Jaskier slowly. “Not if you want this. Not if you want to lose this way.”
“I do.” Jaskier begged, spreading his legs to allow for Geralt's bulk. “I do, I wanna lose. Fuck, please.”
“Good.” Geralt grinned, ivory-gleaming, and ducked his head down to press his lips to Jaskier's.
Their kiss was clumsy, tongues slipping, teeth clashing, until they found a rhythm in one another. Jaskier made a filthy sound and Geralt let it roll down his throat, sucking the bounce of Jaskier's bottom lip until it swelled. He began to undo Jaskier's shirt, and they parted for breath.
“No, not—can't be fucked with that, Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, “just my jeans. I'm not, can't last. Fuck.”
“I've got you.” Geralt shushed him, nuzzling into the warmth of Jaskier's neck, bite-kissing the skin there. His hands slid straight down to the button-fly of Jaskier's trousers, straining taut with his erection. Geralt popped them open, and Jaskier's cock sprung free.
“No underwear?” Geralt clicked his tongue. “Easy access. I like it.”
Jaskier let his head roll back to hit the wall. “Yeah? Any time, Geralt. Always be ready for you.”
“Fucking good.” Geralt growled, licking his own palm spit-shiny, and wrapping it around Jaskier's leaking prick. He squeezed gently, and Jaskier jerked his hips forward, moaning. The urge to tease him was difficult to resist, but Geralt managed. He began to slick his huge hand up Jaskier's cock, thumb brushing the ridges of him, finding what made his breath hitch. Hard, fast strokes.
“Oh-oh yes, that's—fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier panted, rolling in time with Geralt's rhythm, “I'm gonna come, I'm gonna--”
Geralt held Jaskier as he came, feeling him shiver, working his prick through every swollen spurt. His orgasm seemed to be endless, a noisy and desperate thing, leaving the both of them sticky with come. When Jaskier began to flinch, Geralt eased his grip, but did not pull away.
“Fucking hell, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed reverently, “you put that sock puppet to shame.”
Geralt burst out laughing, reaching over Jaskier to grab some tissues to wipe up the worst of the mess. “That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in bed.”
“Mmm.” Jaskier stretched, cat-like, before he seemed to remember his manners. “Fuck, sorry, do you want me to...?”
Geralt shook his head. “I'm fine. I mean, I'm horny, but this was about you.”
“About quashing my triumph.” Jaskier said, although he was still smiling.
“I feel like we both won, actually.”
“Yeah.” Jaskier said, pressing his forehead against Geralt's. “Yeah, you're right.”
When Jaskier came home from work on Monday evening, he heard music playing from upstairs. Curious, he dumped his bag and coat on the floor, and trotted on up.
“Geralt?”
“In here.” The voice came from the bathroom.
Jaskier rounded the corner and gasped. The room was lit with dozens of tea-light candles. A bunch of roses and peonies sat in a vase. There was a wooden bath-tray across their tub, upon which sat a tablet playing music from Spotify, a wrapped paper package from Lush, a massive slice of chocolate cake, and a bottle of Bollinger in a champagne bucket.
“But—I didn't—the bet?” Jaskier squeaked, tears leaping into his eyes.
“Bollocks to the bet.” Geralt stood, sleeve rolled up from checking the bathwater. “You deserve the most luxurious bath. I'm sorry work has been so shit.”
Jaskier sniffled. “Geralt, this is so sweet.”
Smiling, Geralt pressed a kiss to Jaskier's temple. “Enjoy, okay?” He began to leave, but paused in the doorway. “But Jaskier?”
“Yes, Geralt?”
“I'm still not driving you to A&E again.”
The door closed, and Jaskier giggled madly.