Potion
“- I’m telling you, Coën has been crushing on you all winter,” Yennefer says teasing the poet.
“Nahhh, impossible. He was just being friendly,” Jaskier snorts a laugh, “It’s one thing to fall for the mysterious masked bard and another for this… half-cooked visage,” he gestures at his scars.
“Yennefer used to flirt with you, and you never noticed,” Geralt blurts out, which earns him one of the sorceress’s infamous death glares, “I mean–”
Jaskier’s eyes go wide, head snapping to the sorceress who’s walking beside him, “You did?” he almost shrieks in disbelief.
“I did,” she confirms, “before I figured out you’re not interested in romance. Is this so hard to believe, bard? You’re a handsome man, no matter what you think of yourself.”
“Uncle Jas-Jas is very pretty,” Ciri chirps in, nodding seriously, “The shapes on his face look like flowers. And flowers are pretty!”
Geralt smiles fondly at his smart daughter and is delighted to see that his friends are too.
“Look!” Ciri points at the sky, “look, a big birdy! It’s shiny!"
Geralt’s gaze drifts upward to where his daughter is pointing. He narrows his eyes, trying to focus on the figure above them.
Wait.
That’s not a bird.
That’s a –
"Wyvern,” Jaskier breathes out and the creature’s metallic screech sounds above them as it marks them as its targets, flapping its massive wings, preparing to dive. “Geralt, give me one of your swords, and toss me my potion holder; I’ll need a Golden Oriole for this.”
Geralt obliges and hands him one of his two shortswords, the words ‘potion holder’ and 'Golden Oriole’ swirling in his mind, trying to find purchase with the image he has of the poet.
“Oh for fucks sake,” Yennefer hisses and reaches for Roach’s saddlebags that hold both Geralt’s and Jaskier’s things, as Pegasus now carries all of the witch’s baggage. She quickly finds a small bag, Geralt is positive he’s never seen before and takes out what’s unmistakably a witcher’s potion. “That it?"
Jaskier nods and reaches a hand, "Quickly, it’ll dive any second now.” He takes the potion and he downs it, eyes becoming pitch black, dark veins surrounding them.
“Fuck,” is the only thing Geralt manages to utter, leaping to the side, holding Ciri tight against his chest as the beast screeches and dives. His eyes barely catch Yennefer lifting a magic shield around them, brows furrowed, concentrating on the impact to come.
Ciri, weeps, scared, her little fists clenched tight.
Jaskier yells at the wyvern, catching its attention and it swipes furiously its clawed talons to his direction. He rolls out of the way and slashes expertly at its throat. Geralt’s heart is doing somersaults in his chest as the beast opens its massive maw, neck crooning and then dipping for the poet’s head.
But Jaskier is quicker and pierces its head with a swift reposition of his sword.
It falls to the ground motionless with a thundering thud.
“You’re a- you’re a witcher,” Geralt breaths out in disbelief as his eyes meet his friend’s potioned gaze once more.
Jaskier blinks a couple of times, brows furrowing. His lips open with a 'pop’ mouthing the phrase 'the fuck’.
“Told you he didn’t know,” Yennefer singsongs, “You owe me a good home cooked meal, bard.”
“How didn’t you know, Geralt. I never hid this from you. Bloody– You’ve known me for almost fifteen years, Geralt!"
"I knew you weren’t human, but I didn’t want to assume anything,” Geralt says defensively.
Jaskier sighs, rubbing his temples, “I’m at a loss of words. Seriously, Geralt, you must have noticed my slow heartbeat when you were still a witcher. Or if not that, maybe the thought must have crossed your mind when you saw my scars and my eyes. And if I’m not mistaken you’ve seen my medallion plenty of times? I never take it off. Or that time with–”
“Alright, alright, I get it,” Geralt huffs and sighs. Jaskier is right, the clues were right there and he refused to acknowledge them for far too long. “What school?”
“Make a guess.”
“Could be a Cat or a Viper, given the number of hidden daggers on you,” Geralt says and that earns him an incredulous look from both Yen and Jaskier. Not that then. “A Griffin maybe? You’ve eyes similar to Coën,” Jaskier shakes his head. “Manticore?” Another shake of the head. “Crane?!"
"Do I bloody look like a Crane, my friend? Do I have webbed fingers that I somehow failed to notice?”
“Bear.”
“Bears like honey,” Ciri chirps in, eyes no longer filled with tears.
Jaskier nods.
“Congratulations,” Yennefer smirks, “He’s 1.90 metres tall, Geralt. And built like a brick house. How on earth was Bear your last choice?”
Geralt shrugs because quite honestly he does not know the answer to that question.
