The Proposal

Chapter 4

Geralt wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. He'd never flown economy before and he had absolutely no intention of ever doing so again. He was a tall bloke and even though Jaskier assured him that he had upgraded them to the seating with extra legroom, his knees pressed uncomfortably against the backrest of the passenger in front of him. The food was inedible (Geralt didn't know what the hell it was supposed to be, but he wasn't going to risk his life by finding out), and he suspected that his scotch—served in a plastic cup, of all things—had been watered down as well. Gods, even the windows seemed smaller back here. They hadn't even landed in Oxenfurt yet and Geralt was ready to call it quits and just head home to Rivia.

Pull yourself together. You've been through much worse than this, he told himself. He thought of everything that he had worked for and sacrificed over the years. Wasn't that worth fighting for? Surely he could handle two weeks of abject misery in the company of Jaskier and his parents in the arse end of nowhere.

Since there was so little room between their seats, Jaskier couldn't help but elbow Geralt every time he moved. Their elbows bumped together several times as Jaskier retrieved folders, a notepad and a large bundle of papers from his satchel.

"Okay, so these are the questions that the immigration and naturalisation services are going to ask us," said Jaskier, dumping the thick bundle of papers on the small plastic dinner tray in front of Geralt, almost knocking over his scotch in the process. "The good news is that I already know everything about you. The bad news is that you only have a few days to learn everything about me. So, you know...you should probably get studying."

Geralt grunted and began to read the first page of the extensive list of questions. His frown deepened as he scanned the list. "You know all the answers to these questions about me?"

"Yup. Scary, isn't it?" said Jaskier lightly, scribbling in one of his notebooks.

"It is a little unsettling," Geralt admitted. Maybe a little flattering, as well, although he kept that thought to himself. "Okay, let's see just how well you know me. What am I allergic to?"

"Grass pollen," Jaskier replied immediately before muttering under his breath, "And the full spectrum of human emotion."

"Hilarious," Geralt sneered. "Although, I wouldn't give up your day job, if I were you."

"Well, hopefully by the end of this, I'll either have my own office away from you or I'll be in jail. Both of which are more appealing than continuing to work as your assistant," Jaskier shot back.

Geralt rolled his eyes and looked at the list of questions again, picking one at random. "Here's an interesting one: do you have any scars?"

"I'm pretty sure you've got a tattoo," said Jaskier thoughtfully.

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him. "Pretty sure?"

"I'm sure I'm sure," Jaskier insisted. "I just haven't had a proper look at it."

"And when would you have had the opportunity to see this tattoo that I may or may not have?"

Jaskier's ears turned pink. "Well, you don't take off your shirt very often—obviously, since it's not a particularly professional thing to do in the workplace—but there was that one time when Troydon spilled coffee on your shirt and you had to change into a fresh one before a big meeting with a prospective client. You were in a hurry and took your shirt off while I was in the office and..." Jaskier cleared his throat. "Well, I'm a gentleman and turned away, so I didn't get a proper look at it."

Geralt felt something akin to fondness blossom in the centre of his chest then. He gave Jaskier a small smile and mused, "I never took you for the bashful type."