Work Text:
Solely on the basis of a distinct lack of flatmates, Jaskier can comfortably say he's got a good thing going with his flat, even if every single floorboard creaks ominously whenever he so much as breathes loudly. Which generally means whoever should call on him will surely hear him coming down the three flights of stairs the moment any part of his body touches even a splinter of wood or fibre of carpet.
Thus Jaskier cheerfully takes his time making his way to the front door just to be a cock about it. One might say it's on brand for him, if one were to feed into the capitalist paradigm.
(It's entirely possible Jaskier is fighting off a rough night following a week of too much social media, thus his brain is nearing mush levels of incoherency.)
People truly should not be calling on him expecting him not to take his jolly time given how on the last occasion he hurried, his sock slipped on the polished wood and the bruising only finally completely faded within well over a month. Being an arse is simply a bonus. It's bodily integrity he's after, first and foremost.
The glass panes in the top part of the front door, below the square transom window, are thin leaded glass inserts set in a triangular shape. Even if the person currently on the other side weren't tall enough for the upper part of their face to level the glass, the pale white hair would give them away regardless. That is, if Jaskier hadn't received a very succinctly-worded text far too early that very morning.
Those words replay across his brain as his smile, perhaps initially fond, willfully transforms into an obnoxious smirk once he's got the latch open and the door swinging.
"Is this the part where you ask whether someone's ordered a slutty pizza?"
Geralt seldom happens by these days, for more than a couple of reasons no one wants to get into. Might as well milk the grumpiness for as long as he allows Jaskier free reign. Which translates to hardly minutes on a good day, if that.
"You're still here," Geralt grunts out by way of a greeting, which makes little to no sense. Scratch that; it makes absolutely no sense. But something like confusion must easily telegraph, as Geralt instantly follows it up with, "Same house as last time."
Last time. Geralt's voice static over the messaging app he used to use. A bad public wi-fi connection somewhere in Berlin if Jaskier recalls correctly. A stay cut short. Barely the appearance of politeness to inform Jaskier, indirectly, that he's not lying dead in a ditch somewhere.
"I'm a creature of habits," Jaskier replies. He doesn't move to allow Geralt in, leaving him standing in the doorway looking unfairly casual where anyone else would appear awkward.
It's spring. A light smattering of morning rain is just now dying down before the next shower starts up near noon. Wind still going strong, it kicks up the ends of Geralt's hair in flattering swirls around his face and shoulders. Jaskier's hand clenches on the edge of the door where he's holding it open, though he wills himself to unclench his white-knuckled grip into a casual hold.
"You got my message." It's not a question. Geralt has confirmation by way of Jaskier's reply to said message that he has, in fact, received it.
Friendships are... complex. Or so he has heard. Or was it relationships? A friendship's a relationship, right? Something to think about after Geralt's left again.
Speaking of which—his knickers must be slowly driving a wedge into his arse by this point, given Jaskier's stubbornly not allowing him inside just yet. Even Geralt has been known to feel an emotion once in a while, mostly annoyance. Jaskier should put him out of his misery before the crease between his brows deepens concerningly. Those stage lights are unforgiving, after all.
Wordlessly, he turns to lead the way upstairs, even if Geralt knows his way around better than most. Even though Jaskier should at least offer to help carry his guitar up the narrow stairs, he's not about to make it seem as if this is his idea of spending a delightful morning before being off to work. Because Jaskier didn't invite him—wouldn't reach out first, not after last time—therefore Geralt can do his own carrying, thank you very much. He must be used to it by now. Used to carrying more than that, too—and there Jaskier goes again with the uncomfortable truths. No one sees his lip curl, but it does before he stomps that train of thought into momentary non-existence.
The front door closes firmly behind him. By the time they climb the second flight, Jaskier's feeling much more charitable.
He breathes out through his mouth and asks, "Coffee?"
The grunt is undeniably a yes. It's as much as he's going to get.
*
He sets up Geralt in his old room. As in, the room Geralt occupied when he was here last. It's just another bedroom Jaskier offers up to anyone staying over who's not sharing his bed. This is normal. Casual. Friendships goals, what.
They leave Geralt's unreasonably large rucksack and his guitar to head over to the kitchen. It's a larger one than he's seen in other parts of the city, but it easily doubles as a second living room of sorts, the table in the middle large enough to sit around to swap stories with a dozen people at once, cramped seating easy to ignore after the second round of drinks once the street lights are on and the conversation is flowing.
His espresso machine is overdue a cleaning by about a week, if not more, but it turns on and buzzes shortly to life without complaint. Jaskier ignores Geralt's obvious stare at his back and concentrates on pretending his presence is necessary towards his coffee machine working properly, even though he's simply hovering wordlessly in front of it as the porcelain cup starts filling.
Geralt, thankfully, doesn't comment on it. Small mercies.
Everything in Jaskier's refrigerator is some soy or almond byproduct, which Geralt doesn't particularly enjoy but puts up with while he's here. Because it's not on Jaskier that Geralt always just sort of crashes into his life, barely announcing himself beforehand, unconcerned with Jaskier's anything outside of the days to a week he intrudes on his existence.
Geralt drops in, asking for a place to stay in advance, offering to pay for however many days he ends up crashing on Jaskier's very comfortable pull-out sofa-bed in a bedroom of his own, and Jaskier never takes him up on it, never expects or asks for a cent, but Geralt usually pays for food and buys them booze and leaves a bottle of nice vodka for Jaskier to find with a monosyllabic note the next day when the flat's Geralt-free and strangely quiet, because even though Geralt's never been particularly verbose, certainly not compared to Jaskier himself, he's got a presence, Jaskier can feel him in his place, in his space. It's uncanny to notice after he's gone, his absence. Not that Jaskier will ever say anything about it to him, won't mention it to their friends, to himself even if he can help it.
Even though Jaskier likes vodka, gets properly sloshed on it at least two nights out of the week, and the hangover is hardly that bad, he resents the nice branded label and the nice alcohol contained therein and the (as nice as Geralt could ever sound in writing) note, all of these things more and more, especially since their absence after... last time.
Now, he finds the most likely to offend milk he possesses and an extra coaster, which happens to be from... Blaviken. The coat of arms is simple yet distinctive to Jaskier's eye, who stares at it for a seemingly unending second before mentally shrugging and flipping it over and down on the table.
It catches the condensation dripping down the side of the milk carton. Next to it, Jaskier places a Wizard of Oz-themed coaster purchased from a Madame Tussauds in Berlin ages ago, but, here, there's nothing to indicate its origin. On top of it, the espresso cup is a little too big for what his machine can manage, dwarfing the liquid.
"Enjoy." He adds a flourish Geralt doesn't see as he's rounding the table and pulling Jaskier's offerings closer, scrunching his nose up minutely at the milk before pouring some in.
Normally, Jaskier'd make a cup for himself. But he's jittery and on the brink bursting out of his skin, left in tatters. Which is probably the most normal thing given Geralt's here.
Geralt's here.
He could scream, scream for days.
He waffles around the kitchen, wiping counters and washing the occasional glass or plate for something to do that isn't stuttering, innocuous gestures each time Geralt's phone, residing at the edge of the table, blinks red with another notification he's ignoring. Frankly, the fact that he's placed it on the table at all, within view, right next to his free hand, rather than it being lost at the bottom of his rucksack, is kind of terrifyingly novel. Jaskier doesn't know if it's meant to mean something, but, if it does, Geralt's certainly not going to make it easy for him to find out.
He's rearranging his spices, lost in thought and counting the minutes until he's supposed to actively hurry for work, when Geralt rises from his seat and leaves the room. Presumably to shower the train and bus smell off himself. No other conceivable reason to climb to the last floor, where Jaskier's bedroom resides. His steps are heavy on the stairs.
Jaskier should let it go. He should wash the cup, put the milk away. Mind his own business.
"You playing a gig here, then?" he yells out from the bottom of the stairs, having practically teleported there seemingly.
Nothing.
"Is it at the Melkweg? Oi!"
Geralt's already loudly and rather pointedly closing the bathroom door. Which, uh, rude. Sort of.
"Always so stingy with the details."
He's talking to himself by this point, Geralt long gone, one very solid door and an entire floor between them, but his point still stands.
"I'll find you out anyway, you know." he mutters.
It'd be less hassle if Geralt told him upfront, though Jaskier will have little trouble confirming it.
That's the trouble, in a sense, how little Geralt actually tries hiding. It all comes naturally.
*
He needs to change for work if he wants to make it anywhere near on time, but he hears the distinct sound of the shower turning off and the bathroom door opening and closing. He silently puts on deodorant and tries to make his hair look as if he weren't trying to look fashionable, deciding that a mostly successful attempt, in this instance, is what counts. Time is not on his side.
That, apparently, leaves Geralt plenty of time to return to Jaskier's kitchen to make himself at home with Jaskier's coffee machine, by which he means he's made himself another cup and has started it on the thorough cleaning cycle Jaskier hardly ever employs.
He's sitting in the same spot Jaskier last saw him occupying. Geralt doesn't have a favourite seat, as far as he knows, so it could be just him picking the closest seat to the nearest exit, which. Is something, if that's the case.
It gnaws a little at Jaskier, he won't deny it, and this morning's Instagram update isn't helping.
He hasn't realised until just now how much he's been making a concerted effort not to think about it. Honestly, Jaskier doesn't care to speculate why thousands of strangers are falling all over themselves over a caption. Which is completely innocent. And accurate, besides. Old friends.
He moves around until he's almost at the door, staring into the room. It's a safe spot to be in, at Geralt's back.
Mouth by leaps and bounds ahead of his brain, Jaskier comments, "Geralt, you can just at, boy. Don't be shy." He wiggles his eyebrows, in case Geralt doesn't get the hint and turns to throw him a look.
Hard to say if he does get Jaskier's meaning as he merely grunts. His back moves, as if he's about to turn after all and actually face Jaskier, but it's only his shoulder shifting when he brings the mug (ridiculously oversized for what his machine can do on a good day) to his mouth to drink silently.
"We have the good stuff—err. The better stuff," he corrects himself, "at work. Stop by. You should stop by," he ends rather lamely on a bright shrill.
It occurs to him that he doesn't know why it should even come out that way, his voice, as he certainly doesn't feel it. Geralt's back is, predictably, unresponsive. And Jaskier has to leave for work, can't bother with figuring out why it's abruptly awkward for him to keep standing where he is.
"The second key is where you left it last," he calls out, tone pointedly placid. Unconcerned. No complicated memories here, nope.
Then he really does have to put on his shoes and leave the house. He only feels a little queasy about it.
*
Two and a half very crowded hours later, Jaskier can finally breathe in and breathe out without interruption, palms to the counter and allowing his body to go a little weightless on them. If another tourist were to walk in that very moment, well, Jaskier would certainly serve them, but he'd forgo the smile, he'll tell you that much for free. Fortunately, although the door does beep with another patron, it's not a stranger.
"Geralt!" he greets him genially, leaning farther in, even though they're standing across the room from each other.
As he approaches the counter, he does get some obvious looks from the few patrons finishing up their orders, whether in recognition or not, Jaskier couldn't say. The GeoTagged Instagram post certainly couldn't have helped maintaining anything close to a low profile. (A low saturation filter over a lonesome train platform at arse o'clock in the morning. How trite and clichéd for a picture Jaskier stared at continuously for the better part of an hour in the early morning.)
He eventually ambles over to stand decently close as he inspects the menu board above Jaskier's head, who cocks a hip and crosses his arms over his chest.
"Three scoops of black sesame, turmeric and, hmm, let's say pistachio to top it all off? Freshly out of the freezer," he assures him, eyebrows wiggling.
"A cup of black coffee."
"It's my treat!" He breaks out the puppy eyes and the adorably scrunched-up nose one after the other. But Geralt says:
"A cup of black coffee now."
No wonder the man doesn't have a sense of humour inteligible to average folk.
He sets to work, scooping up a fair amount of beans, reaching for the mortar and pestle, grounds materialising beneath his fingertips. It's always been oddly satisfying to grind beans this way. Misses it at home, where his fancy machine grinds everything mechanically by default.
He turns to start on a nice cup, never mind it's probably encouraging this sort of rude behaviour, but it's been a while. He must be truly obvious with how much he's missed whatever this is. Or simply Geralt's odd company. Won't have it for long, anyway, so might as well milk it. As it were.
"Is that thing even up to work standards, Jaskier?"
He doesn't jump at the gruff words. Almost.
"I don't know what you're implying," Jaskier says, more than a little justifiably haughty, turning around to face Geralt as coffee starts bubbling in the percolator.
It's more of a basic espresso machine, lidless as Jaskier dropped the pot a couple of months back, breaking the lid and never replacing it, or the machine. It serves a function, and it serves it well, uncomplicatedly reliable. No surprises there. Not that they're known for their coffee here, though they do carry the good stuff, as advertised.
"Hmmm," Geralt grunts. Jaskier gives him A Look, but the incessant beeping from behind him startling the last couple of people in the place makes him turn back to attend to it.
He proffers Geralt his cup alongside more non-dairy milk, because Geralt doesn't need to know they do carry one carton of the regular stuff just in case. He accepts toasted almond far more pleasantly than Jaskier's own unsweetened soy from that morning.
By the time he's got his coffee in hand and heading for a table, the parlour has emptied, therefore Jaskier takes it upon himself to lock the doors and flip the sign. It was nearing his first break of the day anyway.
He straddles a chair at Geralt's table and says without preamble, "Thursday night. Happy hour. You know."
No pause. "No." His stare is something else, especially over fresh coffee fumes. The tinge is startling.
Jaskier leans back into the chair and ignores the ominous squeak of lacquered wood on shiny linoleum. "I refuse to accept you're going to lock me up on Student Night."
"That was yesterday."
He squints. "Was it? What's Thursday then?"
"Karaoke," Geralt grunts, which. Huh.
But Jaskier doesn't have it in him, for completely different reasons. "We are not going to Coco's. Unless we are." He narrows his eyes and gives Geralt a side-glance.
"We are not," he replies plainly.
"Grouch. Fine. But we are going out?"
*
They go out.
*
Still having no actual clue whether Geralt is playing Melkweg, or any other venue, the internet stubbornly quiet on the matter, Jaskier figures this is the one and only time he's going to get to hear him sing during this particular stay, which doesn't make much sense seeing as he's got his guitar and Jaskier spied new strings on the hallway table. But Jaskier wants to hear it, because the booze is great, and the company is overall welcomed because it's Geralt, but the singing makes it worth it all on its own. Always has, always will.
If that makes Jaskier just another thralled fan, then so be it. Geralt's got a following, so what's one more?
Karaoke isn't exactly the right place for that sort of singing, though, but these sorts of places are dying down as far as Thursday night entertainment goes, but a siren always pulls people in. Always amasses a crowd. And Geralt, as previously mentioned, has a following. Someone is bound to be streaming it live; in fact, bootleg recordings are likely to start making the rounds within hours.
Jaskier is already itching for a drink.
The thing is, no one is genuinely and truly immune, but Jaskier comes pretty close. That, or he's channelled everything that might qualify as symptoms of a thrall into his everyday interactions with Geralt, watered down for easier assimilation into normal, casual interactions, leaving very little for when Geralt sings with intent. Even without it, the casual listener can feel it. For Jaskier, intent is the only way he feels its buzzing at the edges of his skin, unlike everyone else around him, who, by that point, can hardly tell up from down.
Which makes tonight an outlier, completely out of the blue different. Intent resonates immediately within Jaskier, from the moment Geralt takes the microphone and opens his mouth. Streams of sound, wave after wave, envelop him completely in a way that he could never hope to define or explain. Pure sensation without actual physical feeling. Merely Jaskier's mind working at an intensity he's never encountered before. Almost too much. Almost.
Afterwards, the night is a strange blur. He hardly has a drink in him all throughout. However, Geralt keeps pressing water into his hand, over and over again, and keeps finding him when Jaskier's off outside sneaking cigarettes and conversation.
At one point, the blur is harsh enough that, after, he finds himself in the middle of an argument, every detail of the night crashing into him all at once, before it blurs back out alongside the feel of Geralt dragging him away.
Then they're scaling Jaskier's front stairs and then the inside stairs, at what must be a truly appalling hour of the night, and Jaskier once again finds himself saying things he can't quite recall having thought of by himself. The circumstances of their return home are, also, quite blurry in that moment.
"I fuck so many—a lot of women. Lay-dees," he sing-songs, at an in-between state of stating weird shit that should make sense, were he aware of the context, but not quite knowing in the moment if it does.
He's not so far gone he doesn't notice Geralt staring at him blankly. No, not blankly. More like pityingly. Jaskier doesn't need Geralt's pity, no sir, no thanks, fuck off.
"Let's get you into bed." It's a bit of a grumble, to Jaskier's ears, but, then again, those particular organs might not be functioning fully at this time.
"Your bed?" his mouth decides to spit out. Another part of his body doing whatever the fuck it wants. Fantastic.
No answers to that, mercifully, just Geralt, bless him, not dropping him down the stairs, even accidentally, on his way to depositing Jaskier onto his mattress.
*
His alarm rings unfairly soon to bring to his attention how magically hungover and miserable he is. And in deep shit besides once the night rushes in.
He finds Geralt in his kitchen, intent on his phone for once, so Jaskier detours to brush his teeth, deciding it might make him feel marginally more human.
When he returns, a nice cup of coffee awaits him, placed in front of Geralt's own.
They sit across from each other.
The coffee does help, though. He probably does need to hydrate at some point, shower, try to shrug off the siren song from last night, but the caffeine is a good start.
Cup empty, barely any dregs marring the bottom of it, he says, "You called me a coward once." Another not-fun night, years ago, but one which has indelibly written itself on Jaskier's memory.
"Mmhm." Geralt's own cup is also empty.
"That's it? That's all you've got to say?"
Somehow, it shouldn't surprise. His insides constrict around nothing and his forehead and temples throb with an incipient headache.
Despite the palpable tension in the room, Geralt looks frustratingly patient. "I had to save you. From a beating. Last night." Jaskier's eyes get big all on their own, jaw working around spitting out the most scathing of variations on excuse you very much.
"I remember it as more of a friendly conversation on delicate matters of the heart," he counters.
"You were making very sexual advances to a complete stranger followed by the most amount of backtracking I've ever seen in a human being."
Well.
"Yeah, well..." he tsks, staring off across the room to the windows. It's another pleasant spring day, the mildest of clouds in the sky.
"Well?" Geralt asks pointedly.
And that's maybe what gets Jaskier going. The tone. The quiet of the room. Could be anything, really.
He doesn't quite recognise his own voice. "You never need anyone."
"Should I?"
He looks very perplexed, though not glib.
It sounds like a genuine question, though.
Jaskier, oddly enough, has a genuine answer.
"Sometimes. I do. People do. I'd like to—be needed. By you. By someone. Even rowdy strangers. You don't do that, though." And it occurs to him, just then, "Huh. It never occurred to you that you should."
"If you believe that, then you're a fool." This tone is harsher still.
Before Jaskier can so much as utter a word in his defence, Geralt adds, "People shouldn't need me. Doesn't matter if I do."
"Do you?"
Geralt mutters, "Definitely a fool," but he's already in Jaskier's space, stealing his air. Must be. Because Jaskier can't breathe well, not hardly.
*
The thing is, neither of them are the sort for earnest confessions. Much less those that seem to verge on the fact that they've always been different. Different lives. Geralt's by force, Jaskier's by choice.
The kiss is nice, though.
*
"Well, huh." He sucks his teeth, partly to buy himself another second to think and partly as distraction. "I need the words I'm saying to make sense, but I worry by doing so I fix your bullshit for you."
His lips ache. His teeth ache. Geralt is very thorough.
"Hmmm. Go on."
He inhales deeply enough he almost chokes on air. The exhale is oddly cathartic. "You can't keep leaving. Coming and going. Notes and vodka bottles. I. I don't know, you just can't."
He's proud his tone is firm. He's beyond himself that the desperation is buried deep, and that he simply sounds frustrated and tired. The magical hangover has worn off, but his head threatens to throb at any point. Par for the course, in a way.
Geralt flicks his tongue inside his own mouth, sucks on his teeth, clicks his throat. It's not pleasant to watch. Jaskier waits him out, though he seems intent on not finding the words by himself.
"A vague OK-ing gesture will do," Jaskier finally speaks up to put him out of his misery. There's only so much of this either of them can take.
"This isn't easy for me, Jaskier," Geralt starts, and yeah, all right, this is probably the fairest he can put it. But:
"This isn't easy for anyone." He doesn't mean to snark, but he has to be clear here.
Geralt seems to acknowledge his words, then pauses as if to recalibrate his own thoughts.
Then, "I know you don't feel the song in the same way as everyone else. It's plain to see." He barely waits for Jaskier to nod. "I can't ever help feeling that that might be for a reason."
"True love?" he can't help piping up, this time definitely snarky.
Geralt takes it in his stride, lips almost twitching on a small smile.
"Hardly. But maybe so." He sighs. "I don't know. But it's difficult for me when it's all an unknown quantity with you."
"I'm an unknown quantity? I'm an unknown quantity?" He doesn't jump out of his seat, but it's close.
"You're not as easy to read as you think you are. Sometimes, yes. Often. But not all the time, and I need to be able to read people."
That's fair. Jaskier gets it. More than.
"Is that why you never stick around?" He's going for a sort of glib, but he doubts he's nailing it.
"I don't know if I sing and I'm thralling you. I don't know if intent matters. Last night I was trying hard for the first time to see how much I could push it with you after the last time I left."
"Don't! Uh."
He didn't mean to say anything, and now Geralt is staring.
"Just don't. Uh. Go on." He sounds deranged, but Geralt continues.
"It was my fault you got like that. But you knew that. You just didn't know I was trying harder than ever before to see if you didn't notice whatever I did, or if there is a threshold. And there is, Jaskier, there is one, and falling over it made it the worst I've ever seen someone fall."
"Were you disappointed I didn't remain stalwart and unaffected?" He can't help scoffing, just a little, but Geralt doesn't let him get away with it. It's a running theme. They don't let each other get away with anything, unless they do, and then it's sort of catastrophic.
His jaw moves before words even come out. "I'm happy you're all right." The gashes around his eyes deepen for a moment.
"Hmmm. Well." That's all Jaskier can say right now. It's more than he thought he could a moment ago.
"I am. I also knew, I think, that you had to be affected, so no, I wasn't. You're human."
"I am," he says cheerily, arms flying up by his sides. They crumble under Geralt's stare. "Go on," he says.
"But it kind of proved a point I was trying to make to myself."
"Oh, did it?" The snark is unintentional this time.
"And then you kind of demolished it."
Now Jaskier's feeling more than a little confused. "How did I do that?" he eventually asks when Geralt seems to be waiting on his reaction before continuing. An odd choice following numerous odd choices in this conversation.
"You called me out, didn't you?"
"Hardly!"
"I thought I was being obvious."
"An obvious prat, but not much else."
"Mmhm."
"Yeah," Jaskier mutters, arms crossing over his chest, "that's the thing you're always pulling. Excuse me very much indeed for not deciphering a series of consonants barely strewn together in the form of barely half of a sentence."
Licking his lips, Geralt stares around the kitchen. The sun has started to rise steadily. Jaskier still has work.
Finally: "Improvements are in order, huh?"
"Very many, to my mind."
But it's not said unkindly, on either side. Jaskier cannot, in fact, think on any instance where meanness was at play. Not intentionally. Not between them. Not through this prism of uncertainty Geralt is now showing as his default in interacting with Jaskier, regardless of anything else.
Afterwards, after their talk is over and done with, because Jaskier can't be put off work for eternity, he leaves Geralt in his kitchen yet again and tries not to convince himself not to leave the house. He's done only marginally stupid things while being in Geralt's company, barring last night, and, even though that's kind of the way it usually is, work is work.
He closes up early on Friday. Small mercies. He gets home and barely throws his shoes off before he goes into the kitchen to find Geralt already seated, again drinking his coffee. As far as Jaskier can tell, he's been eating out a lot, so there's no reason to worry just yet that he's subsisting solely on caffeine.
"You're staying?"
No point mincing words.
They give each other a look then that causes Geralt to sigh rather dramatically and look down into his cup. Oh. Tea this time. Jaskier almost flounders for words.
"The gig is Saturday night." Jaskier stares. "You were asking." He shrugs. "I might have something lined up for the weekend after next, too."
"Yes?" Jaskier goes right ahead and takes a seat while he's still able to stand and move around. His knees might give out.
Geralt looks up. "Unofficially, but probably. Officially, there should be a Facebook event up for tomorrow night. I can stick around regardless." The words are almost too bland.
"I need tea," Jaskier says.
There's a fresh, steaming pot behind him, because apparently Geralt has made himself at home well and truly, but he forgets it even exists for a long moment before Geralt gives him a look and stands up to pour him a cup with almost dainty gestures. It's weird to witness, but it does calm Jaskier down a tad, and, when he actually drinks from it, it's made perfectly. Of course.
"You make a good cuppa." He sounds dubious to his own ears, but this is, in fact, a shock. He can't remember Geralt ever making him tea. Ever making anyone tea. Wasn't sure Geralt knew tea existed.
Geralt's staring reaches astronomic levels, but he lets it be after a while, only to say, "Thank you," as if it's nothing much at all. Jaskier doesn't know quite what to say so they drink their teas in silence. It gets late by the time they finish the pot, so Jaskier makes them food that didn't arrive in a Styrofoam container. Actual fresh produce and everything. Geralt should be thankful, is all Jaskier's saying here, though not out loud, given their previous conversation on... consent.
It occurred to him at the time, too, that this is what it was all about. The disappearances. The minimal time spent together before Geralt would be off again. Their strange friendship Jaskier couldn't quite explain.
It's even later that he finally drags Geralt away to have the conversation they should have been having all along, a longer version of their earlier one. It's a process, but Jaskier can sort of breathe easy now.