Chapter Text
Jaskier's scent when they had first met was... admittedly not terrible, but entirely too much. The perfumes, soaps, sweat from performing, the scents mingling with drinks and others’ body odour in the busy inn... It had been a bit noxious, even.
Later, when he and Jaskier began to journey together, and his perfumes were being saved for more appropriate occasions, Geralt was more able to tell what the bard actually smelled like. It wasn't terrible. He smelled like drink, but not so much as a drunkard or innkeeper, always surrounded by it. He smelled of musk and sweat, as most men tended toward, but not that of a man gone too long without a bath, or one who toiled away the day. He smelled vaguely of earth, not the dirt, mud, rotting bark, but instead of green grass, of the small flowers found dotting the trail. He smelled of a summer breeze, Geralt thought.
More importantly though, without the loud scents of too many people and house pets and drinks and sweat, Geralt could smell more useful things.
Geralt couldn't smell lies, although it was a tall tale Jaskier enjoyed weaving. Still, people's scents often told more truths about who they were as people than their mouths, especially when they had something to hide. A man, trying to convince his woman that he was nothing but faithful- Geralt could smell the other woman lingering on him still. A merchant, promising potions for all different ailments- a whiff, and Geralt knew not one actually worked. A woman, confident and cocky as she rebuffed two men whistling and ogling her- He could smell her fear billowing out of her in plumes.
Geralt quickly learned that Jaskier didn't lie about who he was. It was... refreshing. Hard to find, those days. And while ‘who he was' was an obnoxious bard who spoke too much and of dangers knew little, at least he didn't have ulterior motives in following Geralt about. He truly just wanted adventure, new song material, and to, as Jaskier put it, 'be your travelling companion.'
"I already have a travelling companion," Geralt had replied, looking pointedly at Roach.
"Well one more then, one that can actually reply," Jaskier had countered, miffed at the idea of being put on the same level as a horse. "Three's company, as they say. "
-
Geralt killed the nekker that bore down on him with one sharp thrust, yanking his blade out of its brains before rounding and slashing through another. He smelled Jaskier before he heard him yelp.
"Geralt!"
He wasted no time dispatching the nekker that had slipped by and headed straight for Jaskier.
Geralt knew the smell of fear. He smelled it on most people he encountered when they knew who he was. He smelled it on women, children, men. Nobles, peasants, and all other stations of life. Some people's fear lingered around them, like a kicked dog nursing its wounds.
But this was the first time he had smelled it on Jaskier.
It dissipated quickly, Geralt having removed the present threat, and even quicker still was Jaskier's tongue, launching into a string of obscenities directed at the creature as though it would hear his words even in death. Geralt was pleased to find his fear dissipated into his normal baseline scent, not so theatrical as his outward actions. Geralt thought that feeling fear might hold Jaskier back from future monster hunts, but he didn't shy away. In fact, Geralt soon learned that unless whatever beast he was up against was quite literally a second from striking the bard, Jaskier wasn't actually deeply scared. Geralt thought him stupid.