Ohhh, ho, ho, you scurry. You don't think you do, but sometimes, when someone says just the right thing -- the wrong thing for you -- you scurry. And then you give them those stupid, big eyes, like you're hurt about it.
[He doesn't really know what he's saying. It's not like he cares anymore. But for all the things that have happened to him, it almost feels better to focus on the small things. The things where no one died. It's just him, nursing a bottle, trying to get away from what the world is and what it shall be.
Away from bodies upon bodies. All the people he couldn't save. All the ones he did, and the fates he'll never know. Away from Geralt acting as if losing his family doesn't matter. As if it is one more obstacle in a life that will never really cease, until he's cut down.
Who else is going to pick up the mantle, now he's gone? Jaskier was going to go back. To save more of them. As long as the help kept coming --]
Why not tonight? You were enjoying your solitude well enough, I imagine. [It's foolish that Jaskier is so easily bullied, because he sits on the edge of the bed, and he begins taking off his boots -- or trying, with slippery fingers, and he's trying so hard not to look at his right hand, to not even see a slip of the tips -- even though he means to go. Somewhere. He's not sure where.
But he stays. Because Geralt wants his company and he can't just say what he fucking wants.]
I don't want to remember these things, Geralt. [His voice is small, one boot off and rolled across the floor, and the other still clinging to his foot.] When I woke up, I thought -- I thought, of course, they'll tell me it was only a dream. And then I can put it behind me, tucked into a pocket, and be me. Be Jaskier. But things don't happen that way, do they? A man's life simply does not change over the course of a night, but mine did.
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[He doesn't really know what he's saying. It's not like he cares anymore. But for all the things that have happened to him, it almost feels better to focus on the small things. The things where no one died. It's just him, nursing a bottle, trying to get away from what the world is and what it shall be.
Away from bodies upon bodies. All the people he couldn't save. All the ones he did, and the fates he'll never know. Away from Geralt acting as if losing his family doesn't matter. As if it is one more obstacle in a life that will never really cease, until he's cut down.
Who else is going to pick up the mantle, now he's gone? Jaskier was going to go back. To save more of them. As long as the help kept coming --]
Why not tonight? You were enjoying your solitude well enough, I imagine. [It's foolish that Jaskier is so easily bullied, because he sits on the edge of the bed, and he begins taking off his boots -- or trying, with slippery fingers, and he's trying so hard not to look at his right hand, to not even see a slip of the tips -- even though he means to go. Somewhere. He's not sure where.
But he stays. Because Geralt wants his company and he can't just say what he fucking wants.]
I don't want to remember these things, Geralt. [His voice is small, one boot off and rolled across the floor, and the other still clinging to his foot.] When I woke up, I thought -- I thought, of course, they'll tell me it was only a dream. And then I can put it behind me, tucked into a pocket, and be me. Be Jaskier. But things don't happen that way, do they? A man's life simply does not change over the course of a night, but mine did.