Chapter Text
Geralt hated this. If the silence left in Jaskier’s absence before was stifling, this was suffocating. The bard had barely said a word since they’d left the tavern the next morning, simply sitting on his horse tensely and riding beside Geralt and Roach. It was unsettling. It was setting the Witcher’s instincts on edge.
Geralt hadn’t said a word either, though that was not as unusual. He simply didn’t know what to say. How does one begin a conversation? Did he even want one? He wanted…he wanted…he didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew it wasn’t this, wasn’t this uncomfortable silence between them. It was as if someone had thrust a veil between them, keeping them apart. Geralt itched to tear it down, itched to find a relief from the quiet.
That’s what he wanted, he’d decided, he wanted to hear Jaskier’s voice. He wanted to hear the bard’s rich timbre in song, wanted to hear the lilt of his words as he rambled about nothing, he wanted…he wanted. It was an emotion he wasn’t entirely sure how to address.
He also didn’t know what the bard wanted. Geralt knew he was still angry with him so why did he come? Why did he agree to join him? What did he want?
And so, Geralt resigned himself to glancing at the bard every so often. Jaskier seemed to be making an effort not to look at the Witcher, allowing Geralt’s yellow eyes to trace over the curve of his jaw, his nose, to observe how the sunlight lit up the planes of his face. He didn’t know when he’d come to the realisation that he could sit and watch the bard for hours. He just knew that Jaskier was here and he was warm and he was safe, and that almost made the fact that his body had been drawn tight ever since he’d seen Geralt bearable.
The Witcher finally broke the silence once the sun had begun to descend in the sky, casting the world in a warm glow. He suggested they make camp for the night, earning a curt nod from the bard.
—
Geralt was setting up the fire, nursing the flames, while Jaskier sat opposite him, strumming absently on his lute.
He still hadn’t forgiven the Witcher, not entirely. He had built a wall around his heart to keep it safe but Geralt’s small, broken “please” had pulled out one of the bricks. He missed him, he’d said that, the same man who had refused to even acknowledge their friendship had said he’d missed him, had said he needed him. It filled him with a certain warm glow.
But he couldn’t go back to how they were before - wouldn’t. If he were to have any kind of relationship with the Witcher he would need some sort of affirmation of their companionship from the ever-stoic man.
He watched Geralt’s deft hands work the fire into something living. The flames lit up his stupidly handsome face. Gods, he hated that perfectly square jaw and he definitely hated his longing to run his lips along it and down his neck, onto the dip of his collarbone and the hard muscle of his chest.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”
The memory snapped him back into reality, his fingers landing hard on the strings with a jarring clang. Golden eyes snapped to his face. Jaskier didn’t know the extent to which Witchers could smell emotion but he knew Geralt sensed this.
“I’m fine.” He croaked, his voice not used to going so long without speaking. Geralt frowned, clearly not believing him. Thankfully he didn’t push. They sat in silence once more, Jaskier gazing at the fire, avoiding Geralt’s molten gaze.
“Play something.” The bard’s eyes found the Witcher’s once more, finding nothing but sincerity.
“What?”
“Play something.” He insisted, gesturing towards his lute. It was very Geralt of him, to ask Jaskier to do something without actually asking. The bard didn’t mind it.
“Play what?”
“Anything.”
Jaskier blinked. Right then.
How apt it would be to play a song of heartbreak and love, the gods knew how many he had written and learnt over the past year. But gazing into Geralt’s flame-lit amber eyes, he found he didn’t want to. Instead, he decided to play something else, something his caretaker used to sing to him.
“May you never lay your head down,
Without a hand to hold,
May you never make your bed out in the cold.
The slow but pleasant tune drifted out from under his fingertips, from out of his lips, filling the space between them. The melody was warm, comforting. It was a reprieve from the tension that had lain between them since they left.
“I know this one.” Geralt uttered after a while.
He remembered.
He remembered a song Jaskier had sung.
How many did he remember?
What else did he remember about the bard?
“You were sung this as a child.” He continued, almost to himself. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile, watching the Witcher’s own face brighten at the sight.
“Oh please won't you, please,
Won't you bear it in mind,
Love is a lesson to learn in our time,
And please won't you, please,
Won't you bear it in mind for me.”
Jaskier’s voice was shaky but his voice and his fingers continued on and he was smiling and even Geralt was smiling and he was looking at him and he was looking at him like he was the only goddamn thing in this world that he wanted to look at, the only person he wanted to listen to.
Jaskier felt something in his chest unravel as he watched the Witcher’s silver hair-framed face glow.
Glow at him.
Glow because of him.
He felt something in his chest - he felt the wall, the wall built around his heart crumble a little more.
“I like it.” Geralt said once Jaskier had finished. It was a simple sentence but the bard knew the Witcher, he knew he didn’t often speak his mind, or often speak at all.
“So you admit, I am a talented singer.”
“I didn’t say that, bard.”
Jaskier grinned. He felt it coming back, he remembered what it was like being in Geralt’s company, talking to him, bickering with him.
“Geralt, you hulking pillock, acknowledge my musical talent right now or I’ll kick you.” He had once said, the Witcher had simply snorted and asked,
“What talent?”
As promised, the bard had kicked him in the shins. Honestly, it had probably hurt Jaskier more than it did Geralt, but it had been worth it to see the small smile on Geralt’s face as Jaskier hopped around melodramatically, cradling his foot.
Geralt was smiling now. It was something soft and warm, something Jaskier could bask in.
But with a frown, it slipped, falling off the Witcher’s face.
Jaskier let his own drop too at the sight.
The silence returned.
“I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Came a quiet confession.
“I know, Geralt.” He did know, he did. As much as his reason warned him against it, he had trusted Geralt’s apology.
“But you do not forgive me.”
“I do not know. I do not know if I forgive you.”
He wanted to. He wanted to forgive him and simply enjoy his company without the tightness in his chest. Confusion reigned in him at the moment, not knowing whether he wanted to smile or cry in Geralt’s presence.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”
“What do I say, Jaskier?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
The fire rose between them.
“What do you want to say?” Jaskier asked.
“I…” began the Witcher, glancing down in frustration, “I want to…to confess to you without having the be the one to say it, I want you to simply know.” He looked at the bard imploringly.
“That’s not how it works, Geralt.”
The flames stuttered.
“I’ll go collect more firewood.”
Geralt turned.
Jaskier closed his eyes.
—
The next night they stayed at an inn, paying for two rooms despite not having much coin. Everything in Geralt screamed not to let the bard stray too far from him but he needed space, Geralt knew that.
Despite their conversation the night before, the air between them seemed lighter as they travelled, Jaskier occasionally humming a tune that Geralt found vaguely familiar. Now the bard sat waiting for him in a booth, grinning eagerly at the meal the Witcher was bringing over.
“Oh thank Metlitele.” He groaned as Geralt slid the plate over to him. He watched the bard shovel food unceremoniously into his mouth. He shook his head in amusement. Jaskier glanced up at him, spoon lifted halfway to his mouth. “What?” He asked. The corner of Geralt’s lips tipped upwards.
He gave a simple “hm” in response.
“Excuse you, all I’ve eaten for two days is stale bread and a particularly thin rabbit. I intend to savour this, thank you.” Jaskier stated dryly. Geralt grunted again, turning his attention to his own meal. His smile refused to go away so he sat there, grinning like an idiot simply because the bard no longer looked as tense, as uncomfortable around him. He was hopeless.
“Do you play?” Came a gruff question from one of the men at another table once they had finished their meal.
“Indeed I do, good sir.” Jaskier replied, flashing him a smile and catching the coin tossed to him as the man told him to play something fun. “Well, duty calls.” He said to the Witcher, grabbing his lute and beginning to play a jaunty tune.
His playing was nothing like the night before. Where yesterday his voice had been all gentle and honeyed, it was now rowdy and sonorous. Geralt enjoyed watching Jaskier sing his indecent songs to a crowd of laughing people, laughter in the bard’s own voice too. He enjoyed watching it, yet a warm feeling settled in his stomach at the thought of the soft song the night before, as if it were a performance meant solely for the Witcher.
Geralt stayed and watched Jaskier perform all of his songs, telling himself it was simply to ensure that he wouldn’t get himself into trouble. He didn’t dwell too much on the true reason, not until Jaskier fell back into his seat, grinning at Geralt unabashedly. His hair was plastered to his brow with sweat and he was panting slightly, but he was beaming like he always was after a good show. Geralt found himself wanting to brush the hair out of his face, to gaze unapologetically into those cornflower eyes.
“That was a show and a half, wasn’t it?” Jaskier breathed, it seemed as if he was waiting for Geralt to respond but all the Witcher could do was grunt in confirmation. Thankfully, Jaskier knew the meanings behind Geralt’s grunts and he grinned at the acknowledgement. Geralt had to pause for a moment, the realisation of just how well Jaskier knew him settling in. Geralt had known the bard for much longer than most, he knew all of his mannerisms, what clues to spot to know just how tired the bard was and how much longer he could continue on for. He knew what Jaskier looked like naked and while he appreciated the sparse glances, he had always looked away, too afraid of what he’d feel if he looked too long.
And Jaskier knew him just as well, which terrified the Witcher. He knew his body, his scars, he knew his fears, despite Geralt never having told him and despite his constant chatter, he knew when Geralt absolutely needed silence. His blue eyes had managed to pierce through the Witcher time and time again.
“Jaskier, I…“
Those eyes were looking at him now, expectantly.
“You what, Geralt?”
“I…” A beat. “I-“ A pause. And then,
“I’m going to bed.”
Fuck. Shit.
Jaskier’s joyful demeanour dimmed.
“Right, yeah, ok. I’ll go too, then.”
Fuck. Shit.
—
Despite his foul mood, Geralt had managed to fall into a light sleep. He had hated watching Jaskier walk away from him to his own room. It was only one door down but the Witcher couldn’t help but feel like the bard had taken a piece of him. Now he’ll have to lay there until morning, incomplete, until the bard brought back the piece of him that he had taken…or more accurately, the piece that Geralt had willingly given him.
So, yes, despite his foul mood, Geralt was asleep - barely - but asleep.
That is, until he flung himself bolt upright in bed, nostrils filled with a stench he absolutely loathed.
Fear.
Not just anyone’s fear.
Jaskier’s fear.
Before his sleep-hazy mind could catch up, he was bursting through Jaskier’s door, Witcher eyes scanning the room and all its dark corners for danger. His adrenaline had taken over, his body itching to move, to fight, to protect.
“Geralt.” Came a small voice. Geralt’s eyes snapped to the bard sitting in his bed, an involuntary growl escaping the Witcher. It was in these moments that Geralt came to fear himself, to fear the animal that had taken over the man, but in the current moment he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the room was absolutely soaked in Jaskier’s own fear. “Geralt.” He said again, almost pleading. Geralt couldn’t stop himself from moving at the sound.
“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked, his voice coming out more gravelly than he expected. Jaskier shook his head, silver-lined eyes wide as Geralt swiped his thumb across his cheek, wiping away the tear tracks. He felt the worry slip away slightly. “Nightmare?” Jaskier nodded, hand coming up to grasp the Witcher’s wrist tightly. The bard shut his eyes tightly and leaned further into Geralt’s hand, taking a shaky breath.
“Don’t leave.” He whispered. Even if he had wanted to, Geralt couldn’t say no. He slipped under the covers of Jaskier’s bed, pulling him close to his chest. He felt Jaskier grasp onto his shirt and bury his face into the Witcher’s neck. Geralt held him tightly, trying to warm the shaking bard. He swallowed down the lingering worry and adrenaline as Jaskier slowly relaxed, the tension leaving his tightly wound body as he exhaled into Geralt’s skin.
The Witcher’s chest ached. It ached in that entirely good and satisfying way. His nose was in Jaskier’s hair and he could smell the walnut and cedar of his soap that he saved especially for his hair, the smell of pine after spending a day trekking through the forest. He no longer smelt the fear that had clogged his nose and misted his mind. Jaskier was warm and he was safe and he was close.
The ache in his chest throbbed.
His arms tightened around the bard.
The bard that he…that he…
“I love you.”
“What?”