#but is pleased when Jaskier struts out wearing it on his hand and very obviously showing it to everyone

[lambden]

no warnings, originally posted anonymously here

“Am I boring you?”

The shock bordering on offence in the lady’s tone pulls Geralt’s focus back to his surroundings. He isn’t quite sure why his mind had wandered so; had this young noblewoman thought to attack him, she could have slit his throat with ease. But the balcony doors to the main hall are propped open by large flower pots, and through the opening drifts not just warmth and laughter but music. Although he won’t admit it to the lady, Geralt had been distracted trying to work out which composition the bard was performing. Either a reworked classic or a new work entirely— but surely he’d know if it were the latter.

“No,” he supplies, a beat too late. Lady Varig squints suspiciously, resting her hands on her hips. She must have been sewn into her gown; nothing else could explain how perfectly the fabric clings to her curves. Were his attentions not currently elsewhere, Geralt could perhaps find himself swayed by her shiny, soft plaits of black hair, and the pair of fancy spectacles that he’s beginning to suspect she’s wearing for function and not fashion. As it is, he only gives her an appreciative look for a moment before the song from inside intrudes on his consciousness again. Geralt confesses with a sigh, “I’m not bored. My mind is just elsewhere.”

His answer obviously displeases the noblewoman, who folds her arms under her chest. Geralt respectfully looks away. “Hmm. I suppose this garden must not look very splendid to someone like you, who has travelled the whole Continent. But this is my favourite place in the world. My mother cultivated most of these plants herself!”

“I never said I didn’t like the garden.” Geralt glances around; it is pretty enough, common plants mingling with exotic flowers that stretch up to Geralt’s eye level. The aisles have been perfectly trimmed to allow for plenty of walking space but Geralt thinks he could still easily lose a handful of afternoons in here. “It’s lovely. I just meant—”

Before he can assuage the concerns of the offended lady, a loud squawk interrupts him so severely that Geralt nearly draws his sword, fearing a very pregnant cockatrice. It’s a good thing he doesn’t draw as he whirls around to see a peacock strutting towards them. Geralt declares, far too amused to be annoyed, “Who is this?”

🦚🦚🦚

“Ah, Geralt, there you are,” huffs Jaskier, dashing up to him with a half-emptied drink in hand. Despite the sour stench of wine and unfamiliar perfume oozing from the man’s pores, Geralt feels absurdly relieved at the sight of his friend. His lute has been stashed so hopefully Jaskier has no more performing to do this afternoon. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you all day! Have you really been chatting it up with the Lady Varig like everyone says?”

The witcher’s relief ebbs away as quickly as steam on a hot day. He had somehow forgotten that after spending hours schmoozing with nobility, Jaskier always tends to carry a certain air about him. The gossiping is nothing new, but Geralt still doesn’t want to hear a word more of it than he has to. To cut Jaskier’s fantastical ideas short, he quickly tells him, “No. I made a friend.”

“Oh?” The bard cocks one hip out, squinting at Geralt nearly dubiously— no, that’s not right, that isn’t doubt. It’s jealousy. Geralt fights the ridiculous urge to feel pleased. “I must confess that I’m envious of this stranger who you so quickly call your friend, when it took me years to work my charms on that cold, stony heart of yours— FUCK! Shitting arsehole—” cries Jaskier, tripping over his own feet and falling over onto his ass at the sight of something behind Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t even have to turn to see the offender as a second later the peacock calls, loud enough to make Jaskier quickly back away. He laughs loudly, shaking his head. “Jaskier, meet my new friend: Mister Feathers.”

“You’re fucking joking,” spits Jaskier. Geralt kneels to scratch the bird’s feathers along his neck against the grain, and the peacock keens into his touch, cooing gently. The bard stares, still prone on the ground. “Melitele’s nipples, you aren’t fucking joking, are you? How did you manage to charm such a beast?”

“Lady Varig told me he doesn’t usually take to strangers.” As if aware that the conversation is about him, Mister Feathers twists his beak in an attempt to nip at Geralt’s glove. Geralt allows it, still smiling gently. Jaskier gapes. “I think it’s my armour— she told me he was raised in a Nilfgaardian zoo, so he’s used to black clothes.”

Jaskier finally gets back up, dusting himself off and wiping grass from his trousers. The peacock stares with beady, angry eyes, his tail shifting slightly, and the bard scoffs. “No, I think he thinks you’re his new mate! Just wait until I tell Roach about this, you philanderer!”

“You’re being silly.” Geralt pulls his hand away from the peacock’s beak, scratching just behind his ear. “There’s more than enough room in my cold, stony heart for Roach and for Mister Feathers.”

“Oh, I’m being silly, am I!” Jaskier retrieves his spilled glass from the ground, glaring daggers at both Geralt and the bird. “Very well. I was going to ask if you’d like something to eat but I don’t expect you’ll come inside to fill a plate.”

“Mister Feathers is, sadly, confined to the garden.” Geralt pats the bird once more and then stands, rolling his shoulders. “But I could use a drink.”

The joy that blossoms over Jaskier’s face is well worth the teasing; Geralt soaks in it, smiling back oddly. Then the bard bends slightly to offer Geralt his arm; the material of his doublet hardly even creases. He must have spent a small fortune on the ostentatious blue and pink get-up, with all the small embroidery work on both shoulders and the floral design creeping up his back. It does bring out a gorgeous colour in his complexion and it makes his eyes pop, although Geralt wouldn’t admit that even if his neck were on an executioner’s block.

He really has missed the bard all day. That must be why he throws caution to the wind and does something neither of them expected, stepping forward to take Jaskier’s proffered hand. Geralt’s unruly heart pounds as Jaskier’s eyes widen almost comically in surprise, but the moment their palms collide, the bard’s face changes into one of abject pain.

“Ow, fucking hell,” shouts Jaskier as the peacock pecks his calf, obviously intent on murder. Geralt quickly retracts his hand and moves away but the damage has been done; Mister Feathers doesn’t relent until there’s several paces of distance between Geralt and Jaskier, besieging the bard’s expensive boots and completely ignoring his cries. Only after separating them does the bird return to Geralt, and then before Geralt can offer any sort of apology, his beautiful and majestic tail fans out between them.

The feathers are very nearly too tall for Geralt to see over; he rocks up onto his tiptoes to get a better look at a wounded, sulking Jaskier. Geralt can’t help it. He laughs again, harder than he has in weeks. As he wipes his eyes, Jaskier’s anger only grows, but Geralt can’t stop chuckling.

“Not sure what’s so damn funny,” Jaskier grouses. “I’m not the one who got mistaken for a peahen! You’re about to become Missus Feathers, and there you are, laughing your stupid head off!”

“He— he thinks,” Geralt starts, then doubles over in laughter. “It’s because of your fucking outfit, he thinks you’re his competition. That you’re trying to court me, with your coat and your— fuck! The stockings!”

“I hope that bird pecks your prick clean off,” howls the man. Finally he backs off, heading back towards the hall; Mister Feathers takes his departure as a sign of victory and shakes his tail feathers once more before lowering them.

Still wheezing, Geralt calls, “Jaskier, just so you know, this is my favourite thing that’s ever happened to you. You’ve got to put this in a song!”

Jaskier isn’t capable of squawking the way the peacock does, but the rude gesture he makes says it all.

🦚🦚🦚

The sun begins to slope down towards the horizon as the afternoon descends into twilight, but still Jaskier makes no reappearance. Neither does the Lady Varig; she must be occupied inside with her other guests. Geralt makes good use of the time, refilling his potions and harvesting what ingredients he can from the garden. But eventually he tires of flipping through his bestiary and old letters, and he wonders if he should brave the wrath of Mister Feathers and go seek out Jaskier inside the party.

“Shouldn’t disturb him,” Geralt muses aloud, even as he cranes to hear any music or snippets of conversation from inside. “Witchers aren’t invited to events like this because people want to drink and dine with us. People will either turn and run when they see me, or they’ll parade me around all night like exotic entertainment.”

As though he understands, the peacock coos. Geralt starts; he’d forgotten the bird was still following him around. Even curled up in the grass at his feet the animal looks exalted enough that Geralt can see why the nobility would desire to keep it here. But there are a limited number of peacocks left in the world, and even though Geralt doesn’t begrudge the Lady Varig her attachment to the pet, he thinks he would be better off not here or in a Nilfgaardian zoo but in Toussaint, where he could freely roam as he liked and perhaps even breed with other birds.

“You’re not likely to get anywhere with me,” Geralt informs the peacock, smiling gently. “Even if I wasn’t sterile, I’m not sure you’re my type. Quick temper, loud as hell, dressed so flamboyantly…” He hums. “Hmm. Well. Maybe there’s a reason why I like you.”

The bird shuffles around on the grass before settling down again. He cranes his neck to look up at Geralt, and Geralt sighs, surprisingly affected by the solitude. 

“You’re very beautiful,” he tells Mister Feathers. “But I’m afraid you’re a poor excuse for who I really wish I was spending this party with.” The revelation is surprisingly candid, and not something Geralt has voiced aloud before; he stares at the peacock, dumbfounded. “All this one-sided conversation is getting dangerous. See, that’s why I need him here, because he fills the silence. I don’t have to think so hard, I can just… ah. I see.”

Unaware of the churning whirlpool of thoughts threatening to consume Geralt, the bird tilts his head and chirps quietly. Geralt reaches down absent-mindedly to scratch his feathers, and since he’s so distracted, he misses the figure approaching them. But Mister Feathers doesn’t, quickly nipping Geralt before rising up onto his talons again.

Geralt lifts his head to see Jaskier, lit from behind as he exits the event and wanders towards them in the garden. He’s changed into different clothes; gods know where he managed to secure an entirely new outfit, but he looks stunning in this one too. The doublet and trousers are dark red like unspilled blood or freshly poured wine, and the bright white collar of his shirt peeks out from under. This outfit is nearly more striking, as Jaskier prefers brighter hues for parties like this. Geralt realizes his jaw has fallen open, and quickly moves to right it, pursing his lips but not quite able to wrench his gaze away from Jaskier.

“There!” The bard does a dramatic turn, showing off his clothing with a wave of his hand. “Surely this is less breathtaking, yes? Am I safe from your jealous bird?”

Unfortunately the outfit still sets the peacock off— or maybe it isn’t the clothing at all, but Jaskier’s body language or perhaps the man himself. Jaskier winces as Mister Feathers begins to get obviously riled up again, but Geralt, tired of this charade, lowers his hands to pet the bird once more. He signs Axii, scratching the magic into the peacock’s feathers and imbuing each touch with the desire for calmness and an end to the feud.

Obediently, Mister Feathers calms down and curls up at the witcher’s feet once more. Geralt sets aside the bestiary in his lap, and then pats the bench beside him for Jaskier to come and sit. Very slowly and nervously, he does, only finally relaxing once he’s made it into the seat without any interference from the snuggly peacock.

There’s a strange light in Jaskier’s eyes; Geralt expected to find him drunk and occupied, so it’s disquieting to see him sober and thoughtful. Geralt, suddenly ravenous to hear him speak after hours spent in the company of a less talkative friend, begins, “So. Tell me about your evening.”

“Oh,” Jaskier stammers— perhaps he’d had something else in mind. Geralt tilts his head, considering, but before he can piece two and two together the bard blurts out, “Well, the entire noble court is in a tizzy right now because apparently, the Lady Varig’s uncle’s date is a well-known courtesan in the area and not, in fact, the Lady Varig’s aunt.”

“Hmm,” rumbles Geralt, perfectly content as he listens to Jaskier. He wants to share his revelation with the bard, but there will be time enough for that later. For now, this is all he needs.