theDemonCat

"It's you," Geralt said, surprise flashing across his face before the pieces clicked together. He pointed directly at the bard. "You're the ghost."

Jaskier let out an affronted gasp so dramatic it sounded rehearsed.

"I am not."

"The crying. The mysterious singing. The sad songs drifting through the halls at three in the morning," Geralt said. "All of it has been you."

Jaskier pressed a hand to his chest as if physically wounded.

"I think I would remember being dead, Geralt."

"You're being awfully literal, bard."

"Oh, forgive me for assuming that when someone calls me a ghost, they mean an actual ghost."

"Weren't you the one who told me everything was a metaphor?"

"That is completely different."

"How?"

"Because this metaphor is about me."

Geralt stared at him.

Jaskier threw his hands into the air.

"Honestly, this is unbelievable. I spend years enriching your life with culture, music, and companionship, and the moment I express a single emotion, suddenly I'm a supernatural entity."

"A single emotion?"

"Fine. Several emotions."

"Several?"

"Many emotions," Jaskier corrected. "I contain multitudes."

"You stand outside my room every night singing tragic ballads."

"I am processing my feelings."

"You sound like you're mourning a dead lover."

Jaskier gasped again, somehow even more offended than before.

"First of all, rude. Second of all, how dare you reduce my artistic expression to mourning?"

"You were crying."

"Artists cry, Geralt."

"You were sobbing."

"Artists sob."

"You were lying face-down on the floor."

Jaskier pointed accusingly at him.

"And what exactly is wrong with a little floor time?"

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You are haunting this house."

"I am not haunting the house."

"The servants are leaving offerings outside your door."

Jaskier blinked.

"...What kind of offerings?"

"Tea. Pastries. Someone left flowers."

His expression softened immediately.

"Well."

"You see my point?"