“This is my 12th trip, of this length,” Geralt says. “Done others that were a little shorter. Others still that were longer.”
“Really?” Jaskier blows out a breath. “Is it always this bad?”
“This one has been particularly potent in smell, but other than that--” Geralt huffs. “Out of twelve, there was only one time where we reached our destination without at least one casualty.”
Jaskier blinks. “Wait. What?”
“Usually, one or two. Stabbings are common. All out brawls are rarer, though they happen. Highest count I’ve seen was 25 wounded, 7 dead.”
“Fucking shit,” Jaskier hisses, his exhaustion wiped from his face to make space for a raw kind of shock. He looks a little sick.
Maybe it is self-punishment then, that makes Geralt continue briskly, in a low voice. “I was responsible for three of those.”
Jaskier’s eyes snap to him. There is a moment where Geralt feels caught in his gaze. The silence seems to be endless. But then--
“Self-defence,” Jaskier says. There is no question in his voice. No inkling of hesitation. Must be the mod. There is no way he can be certain.
Geralt answers the hidden question with a nod and says, “There is a reason I chose the grate, Jaskier.”
“It was safe. Easily defendable. ” He pauses and a flush comes over his face. “And I asked you to leave it.”
“Christ,” Jaskier swears softly. He rubs a hand to the back of his neck and shakes his head. A few strands of hair fall in front of his face, hiding his eyes. “I basically asked you to follow me into the lion’s den.” He chuckles slightly. It is a bitter thing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted as much as I did.”
Geralt shrugs. He’s glad Jaskier doesn’t look at him when he says, “Turns out you tame lions.”
