[ If they had not known each other for such a length, those words would've easily severed what bridge may have formed between them. There is nothing Geralt detests more than: one, someone demanding he be at their beck and call; and two, being told he is a responsibility as if he is not often thrice their age and more than capable. He hasn't got time for this. He's got other shit, other people, who need him, and had his ire been provoked he'd have agreed that yes. It would be ideal for Dean to leave him out of his bullshit because it is his choosing to be there for the man that's granted him half his fucking headaches.
But they've argued before. This doesn't feel like Dean. Reminds him of the same volatile temper Geralt had those past few days, the same Jaskier did when he loosed his tongue.
He steps forward. It isn't possible any of those effects linger. Is it? His brows knit together—not irritation, but concern. Caution. ]
What's the matter with you? [ It's—he isn't sure. He leans in. Sniffs. The scent isn't prominent, but it's there. Lingering beneath. Burnt ash, like a forest after a blazing inferno. ] You don't smell right.
no subject
But they've argued before. This doesn't feel like Dean. Reminds him of the same volatile temper Geralt had those past few days, the same Jaskier did when he loosed his tongue.
He steps forward. It isn't possible any of those effects linger. Is it? His brows knit together—not irritation, but concern. Caution. ]
What's the matter with you? [ It's—he isn't sure. He leans in. Sniffs. The scent isn't prominent, but it's there. Lingering beneath. Burnt ash, like a forest after a blazing inferno. ] You don't smell right.