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Geralt was in a bar on leave in Oxenfurt because the rest of the soldiers in his squad couldn't not invite the crown prince, little as they liked him, and it was better than sitting around in the barracks to be glared at by the Captain.
Unfortunately, the reasons Geralt usually didn't frequent bars were making themselves known. The place stank: of spilled alcohol and sweaty bodies and whatever people were getting up to in the bathrooms. The static of the shitty speakers grated on his nerves under the sound of tinny pop he didn't particularly like. The beer was more expensive than it was worth and not good enough to make him stop wishing he were anywhere but here.
Well, it's not like his squad would notice if he left. They'd probably only notice when Rennes chewed them out in the morning if Geralt took this opportunity to run.
He wouldn't, but only because he had nowhere worth running to.
Another gaggle of people shoved themselves in through the front door, laughing loudly and talking in overlapping voices. Geralt growled and headed out the back.
Only to immediately get himself dumped into another inane situation.
“Fellas, now I know it's hard to believe of a handsome rogue like myself,” said the lanky man in the gaudiest outfit Geralt had ever seen, smiling frantically. “-but I really was just talking to Annika about frescoes-”
Four men, he cataloged automatically, brain immediately analyzing the layout in the alley. Three aggressors, one attempting de-escalation. Despite himself, his lips twitched as he watched the other three men close in. Poorly.
“Annika doesn't need to hear about your fuckin’ frescoes, or whatever the shit,” said the man in the middle, cracking his knuckles. If Geralt has to venture a guess, he’d say this was the mysterious Annika’s boyfriend. He’d seen this situation play out a time or two on other on-leave adventures; there were only so many shapes a confrontation like this took. “You need a lesson in keeping your hands to yourself.”
Geralt shook his arms, loosening everything up as he rolled his head from side to side. “Seems like a pretty ironic lesson to be teaching in a back alley like this,” he called, tone falsely light. He was on the bare edge of overstimulation and he was bored and he hadn't really talked to anyone since his last video chat with Eskel a week and a half ago. Tonight was not a good night to be in his path providing potential stress relief.
Well. Not good for them, at least.
All four men turned to look at him. The three aggressors scowled while the gaudy man tried to edge sideways. “This isn't your business. Move on,” said Annika’s Boyfriend. His blond friend took a step in Geralt’s direction, probably trying to be intimidating, while the short one in the back cracked his knuckles in an imitation of the leader.
Geralt grinned. If they couldn’t see that it was a threat, that was on them. “And who’s going to make me?” he taunted. The frustration of two years under his father’s thumb after the freedom of Vesemir’s ranch house and two more years of resentful isolation in the army boiled under his skin.
Annika’s Boyfriend’s scowl deepened, as he turned to face Geralt fully. “Alright. If you wanna join him in getting a beating, be my guest.”
The first punch flying at his face sung through his blood. It tasted almost like freedom used to.
Geralt slid aside, twisting and letting Boyfriend stumble past him, overbalanced without the resistance he was expecting. As he staggered, Geralt brought an elbow down on his spine, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Blond was on him before he could press his advantage, swinging with a wild haymaker that left Geralt feeling almost insulted. Sure, Blond had an impressive inch or two on Geralt, but that attack was just pathetic.
Short’s advancing on Gaudy, he noted absently as he swayed backwards to avoid the punch. A look of disdain and a hard kick to the side of the knee let Blond know exactly what Geralt thought of his technique. Hope he can hold his own.
Boyfriend used his friend’s distraction to roll to his feet, angrily rolling his shoulder. “Oh, you asked for it. You're gonna regret that!”
Oh, so he was a mouthy one. Geralt rolled his eyes. “Shut up and fight.” With a howl, Boyfriend followed at least one of those instructions.
The fight was over almost too soon, the sounds of Geralt beating the shit out of Blond and Boyfriend drawing Short over for his own turn at the end of Geralt’s fists. And one very wonderful kick that shoved Short into a brick wall hard enough to knock the breath from him.
Geralt wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth as the three would-be bullies gathered their scraps of pride and whatever unbroken bones they still had to flee from the alley.
“Yeah! And there’s plenty more where that came from, my friends!” yelled Gaudy. He was looking a little roughed up, but nothing too terrible. And it didn't seem to be affecting his mood any as he grinned at Geralt.
Geralt raised a judgemental eyebrow in return. “So,” he said, not entirely sure what to say to this ridiculous man. “Frescoes?”
“Art history major,” the man explained cheerfully, dusting himself off. “It was the most interesting degree I could convince my father had an ounce of prestige to it so he’d condescend to pay for it. And I still take all the music theory classes they’ll let me into without declaring a second major.” He fished something out from behind a trash can, sticking his free hand out to Geralt. “Julian Alfred Pancratz, though my adoring public calls me Dandelion.”
Geralt’s eyebrow crept higher, though he took the hand. “Are you sure you have an adoring public? The few I’ve met so far don't seem to be fans.”
“Well a man can dream,” Julian said with a laugh. He sketched an overly dramatic bow, what Geralt could now see was an instrument case banging against his legs. “Do I get to know the name of my daring rescuer?”
Geralt hummed, a little amused despite himself. “Geralt. Is that a mandolin?”
Julian gasped in clear offense, hugging the case to his chest. “Clearly, it is a lute. What do they teach princes in the Morheni army these days?”
Ah. Not as stupid as he looked. Geralt’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Hate to break it to you, but I'm fairly certain that instruments a few centuries out of date aren't on anyone’s curriculum.”
“I’m bringing it back!” Julian insisted as they both headed for the mouth of the alley. “Folk is very in right now. We’re experiencing a cultural revival, you absolute heathen.”
Geralt had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back a smirk. It had been a long time since anyone around him had spoken to him with the same ease as one of his brothers. “Sorry. They're not concerned with keeping us up to date on music trends in between the drills and orders.”
Julian sniffed, shifting his lute to hang from his back. “Well maybe they should be.” He glanced toward the front of the bar he'd also presumably come from and groaned. “Well, I’m well and truly late for the set I was supposed to play.”
“Hm,” Geralt hummed. “Not sure anyone would be paying attention anyway.”
“Ugh.” Julian wrinkled his nose, then turned down the street. “There’s an Ofieri food truck that’s usually still open this late to cater to the various drunks and despairing undergrads. You coming?”
Geralt’s nostrils flared in surprise. “Didn't realize I was invited.” He honestly hadn’t thought their acquaintance would last past the end of the alley.
Turning to walk backwards, Julian shot him another cheerful grin. “I can buy my dashing hero a meal as thanks. Seems the least a swooning maid like myself can do. And then I can badger you for Morheni tales that I can turn into fabulous, award winning songs that will delight my audiences.”
“Ah, there’s the ulterior motive.” Geralt rolled his eyes, reaching out to tug Julian sideways before he walked into a lamp post. Still. A free meal was a free meal, and Julian had yet to make a production of apparently knowing exactly who Geralt was. Even after watching the crown prince of Morhen beat the shit out of three men behind a bar, the man was still just grinning at him and waiting expectantly for him to agree. “Fine. But this truck had better be good.”
“Best in the city, even for such a discerning royal palate,” Julian said with the kind of shit-eating grin Geralt was more used to seeing from Lambert.
Well, what the hell? It was better than the shitty bar full of squadmates who mostly hated his guts. “Dick,” Geralt said without any heat. “Lead on, you overgrown weed.”
Julian just laughed and led on.