Work Text:
Jaskier’s base scent was a thing of beauty. A complex mix of wildflowers, fresh grass and the smallest hint of salt and sand. The first time Geralt caught a whiff of it, outside the inn on Posada, it stood out even amongst the cacophony of scents from the too-packed room.
When Geralt noticed the bard’s eyes sliding to the corner where he had absconded himself, he waited, resigned, for the sweet scent to turn sour with the rotten meat and old blood notes of fear . But instead, he could smell parchment and ink, road dust and the first notes of sunlight-warmed soil.
Curiosity.
Then the bard swaggered towards him, pants bulging ridiculously full of old bread, and the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon and sugared vanilla was so strong that the witcher felt almost dizzy with it, lust so thick that he could taste it upon his tongue.
Oh, that one spelled trouble.
The first time that they were turned away from an inn with insults and spits, after Geralt had dealt with a nekker infestation, Geralt learnt the deep ozone and coppery twang of Jaskier fury . A fury entirely on behalf of the witcher, since the bard was offered the chance to stay and entertain, to partake in a meal and rest in a room.
It was confusing, and a tiny bit exhilarating, like standing amidst a thunderstorm under a safe shelter.
And the first time he felt that awful, sour smell of decay overpower the sweetness of wildflowers and saltiness of coastal air, it was when a werewolf briefly bested him, claws tearing a jagged path through his chest, wrenching a muffled scream before he could swallow it.
Fear for him, not of him.
( Why? Why fear for him, for his safety? Why anger on his behalf, when Geralt was so used to it all? )
That next night, when his potions had worked and rid him of the worst of injury and pain, when he was back to his gruff, usual self, sharpening his swords while the rabbits he caught roasted over the fire, he noted when Jaskier’s scent shifted slightly. The bard was sitting closer to the fire, using the light to scribble something on his little notebook, occasionally plucking a couple of notes on his lute. The sour note of his fear had abated a couple hours earlier, but now Geralt could smell sword oil, rosin, campfire and, strangely, the musky odor of horse.
Safety.
And that same smell overpowered the scent of tiredness the first time they made the trek up the Killer together, and Jaskier first entered Geralt’s true home.