Chapter Text
In the end, it was the throb of his fingers, curled in a bone-crushing grip around the neck of his lute, that shook Jaskier out of his temporary paralysis. He wrested his eyes from Geralt’s, which were piercing even in the gloom of the inn, and loosened the death hold on his poor instrument. With his gaze now studiously pinned to the floor, Jaskier turned his back on the audience (and, by extension, Geralt) and walked back to his table to pack up his things. The landlady would probably be pissed off, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He wouldn’t be able to play now even if he wanted to continue, not with the tremor running through his hands.
He took his time, carefully wiping down his lute, stowing his money pouch, and securing the buckles and straps of his bag, giving himself space to compose himself before approaching Geralt. He toyed with the idea of not approaching at all—Geralt didn’t deserve his time or attention after the things he’d said—but he’d never been very good at ignoring the man. He snuck a look over his shoulder, half-expecting—half-hoping—that he’d imagined the whole thing; that it had been an illusion brought on by a combination of dodgy ale and painful memories. Maybe it had been a different silver-haired, black-clad, blood-splattered man. But no, there he was, standing in the middle of the inn as if there wasn’t a roomful of people gawping at him. Jaskier turned back around and cut a glance to the window by his table, weighing up the likelihood of being able to outrun Geralt if he pitched himself out of the window and legged it.
When he could no longer justify rummaging through his possessions to delay confronting that which he didn’t want to confront, Jaskier hefted his bags over his shoulder and scanned the room. He instantly spotted Geralt sitting at the bar, nursing a beer, a bubble of emptiness around him despite how crowded the inn was. He wasn’t looking in his direction, but Jaskier could tell Geralt knew exactly where he was; knew that Geralt would no doubt be up like a shot, barring Jaskier’s exit if he tried to sneak past to his room or make a dash for the door. As much as he wanted to flee though, Jaskier was also desperately curious. He wanted to know why Geralt had shown up. Why here? Why now? It couldn’t be a coincidence.
It had been over a year since their parting, at least six months of which, Jaskier had spent in Novigrad waiting for Geralt to turn up and apologise for being a truly shit friend. Six months of lacklustre performances in the same few bars; six months of expecting Geralt to be the next face he saw; of looking up expectantly every time someone rode into town on a bay mare; of holding his breath every time he caught a glimpse of someone vaguely Geralt-shaped through the crowd. It wasn’t that he’d expected he and Geralt to be inseparable; they’d been apart before, and for longer periods, but their parting at other times had always been amicable—met with a ‘see you around’, a pat on the back, maybe a hug, as their paths diverged. It’d been different this time, though. Geralt’s words had been aimed to hurt, cutting Jaskier as deeply as if he had used his sword. It had felt like his heart had been cleaved in two and the bloody remains ripped from his chest, but Jaskier had still clung for all those months to the belief that Geralt didn’t really mean what he’d said, that he’d only lashed out because he was angry with himself. So he’d waited, and waited, and waited, filling the time between performances with gambling and warm bodies and too much ale, until one day he caught himself plotting to invent a monster problem to draw Geralt back to him. That was the moment he’d realised he needed to stop wallowing; the moment he’d forced himself to accept that Geralt had meant every word, that he wouldn’t coming back on bended knee to beg forgiveness. So, Jaskier had resolutely packed that part of his life away, buried it deep beneath all the other things he was determined to never think of, and moved on. Or tried to.
Jaskier stumbled through the busy inn, legs stubbornly resisting all attempts at grace. As he emerged into the void around Geralt, the rumble of drunken conversation and bawdy shouting fell away, his entire focus centred on the familiar form hunched over the bar. He slipped onto the stool beside Geralt, only teetering a little as the witcher’s scent triggered a slew of memories to surge into the foreground. Metal and worn leather. Rich and earthy. The sharp tang of blood. The heavy musk of a man who’d been on the road too long. It was heady and deeply masculine and it made Jaskier’s heart pound. Nervous energy thrummed through him, making his skin tingle, and his clothes suddenly felt two sizes too small.
His bags hit the floor with a thud, the muted clang of his lute as it met a similar fate, jolting him from his spiralling thoughts.
Geralt barely acknowledged his arrival, continuing his study of his half-empty tankard. Jaskier folded his hands in his lap to keep from fiddling, but then felt too formal, so he clasped them together on the bar, only to see the very noticeable tremor still running through them. He shoved them into his lap again.
No matter how suffocating it felt, how fidgety the weighty silence made him, Jaskier refused to be the one to speak first; refused to make this easy for Geralt. He could feel the other man’s intense scrutiny though. Could feel those golden eyes studying him even as he kept his own gaze trained on the row of half-empty bottles behind the bar. But then there was movement beside him, a creak of leather, and Geralt slid a mug of ale in front of him, the dark amber liquid sloshing up the sides but not spilling. Jaskier stared at it for a few minutes, watching the patchy foam swirl lazily on the surface. Geralt remained silent, so Jaskier mentally shrugged and took a sip of the drink, somehow managing to dribble half the mouthful down his chin. Hardly the impression he’d been aiming for, he thought, hurriedly swiping at his mouth with his sleeve. Fucking hell.
Still Geralt said nothing.
Jaskier stared at his ale a short while longer; took another gulp, managing to keep it in his mouth this time. It really wasn’t a bad drop, he thought distractedly. He could imagine whiling away a very pleasant evening with it if circumstances were different. Another large gulp, just to give himself something to do. It was unnatural for him to hold his tongue for so long, and he kept opening his mouth abortively, snapping it shut when he remembered he was pissed off. He refused to be the one to talk first. He had nothing to apologise for. Geralt had pushed him away, blamed him, had wanted him ‘taken off his hands’, and then abandoned him in the arse end of nowhere. He could maintain this uncomfortable silence forever if needs be.
He shot Geralt another glance out of the corner of his eye. Why wasn’t he talking? Did he come here just to brood at the bar? …actually, he probably had come to do just that. Nothing he liked better than a spot of brooding. Probably rated somewhere in the top three of Geralt’s favourite activities. Gods, he hated this silence. He wasn’t going to crack first. He could brood in silence just as well as Geralt. He could be as tight-lipped as a monk. He— Oh, fuck it.
“So… How’s Yenn?” He winced the second the name fell from his lips. What in the name of all that was holy was he doing? He didn’t give two shits about that insane witch. Why was he bringing her up now? To Geralt of all people?
Geralt was no longer hunched over his ale. He turned slightly on the stool and tilted his head. “What?”
“You know, her of the weird eyes, black hair. Mad as a box of frogs. Your lady love. Your paramour. Remember her?” It seemed now he’d opened his mouth, he couldn’t shut himself up.
Geralt frowned, shook his head. “She’s not my… my anything.”
“Sorry, sorry. My mistake. I meant, the woman you regularly fuck and for whom you drop everything the second she bats her oh so pretty eyes. How foolish of me to imagine there was some kind of relationship there.” Bollocks. He hid his face in his tankard, taking another long drag to hide the grimace. He sounded so petty and jealous. Geralt was going to think him a whining shrew; he didn’t want to sound petty. He was fine. He had moved on.
Geralt’s lips twitched, and damn everything if that flicker of amusement didn’t make something inside Jaskier flutter and hum with approval. “Hmm. I didn’t think you cared.”
Why’d he have to look so smug? “I don’t,” Jaskier snipped. “Could not care less, to be honest. Just… I don’t know. Making conversation.” He took another large swig of ale to busy his mouth and prevent any more shit spilling out. His cup was already almost empty.
Silence descended over them once again, just as thick. Jaskier listened to the sounds of the bar, the low rumble of voices punctuated by shouts from the group playing gwent in the corner. He caught Rose’s eye as she puttered about behind the bar and she smirked at him, her gaze amused and speculative as she flicked her eyes between him and Geralt. Jaskier scowled and shuffled a little further away. He didn’t want her getting the wrong idea.
“Was that a new song?”
“What?” Jaskier startled and whipped his head around to find Geralt staring at him, yellow eyes now a deep amber in the inn’s candlelit interior.
“The song you were playing when I walked in. I’ve not heard it before.”
Fuck. Geralt wanted to talk about Jaskier’s songs? And what did he care anyway? He’d never expressed anything other than irritation with Jaskier’s singing before. And now he’d turned up out of the blue, after making no effort to apologise or even contact Jaskier in all this time, and Jaskier was supposed to believe he suddenly cared about his performance? “It’s been over a year, Geralt. A fucking year. Did you really think I’d write nothing in all this time? Did you expect me to sit at home, crying into my petticoats? Is that what you were hoping?”
“No, that’s not what I meant, I—”
“Because I’ve been fucking great. You blaming me for all of your many failings and ditching me was the best bloody thing that ever happened because it meant I haven’t had to go traipsing across the Continent, getting dragged from monster nest to wraith possession to fuck knows what else. I’ve been able to do what I bloody want, when I bloody want to do it, and that includes writing songs. I’m a bard, you hag-faced twat.” He slammed his tankard onto the bar, punctuating ‘twat’ with a dull metallic clang. The remnants of his ale sloshed over his fingers and he was suddenly aware of the quiet that had sprung up around them as everyone nearby made no attempt to hide their interest in eavesdropping. The landlady glared at them, wiping a tankard with a rag.
“Ah, I think perhaps I need something a little stronger,” Jaskier said with an embarrassed laugh. “And maybe a cloth,” he added, shaking the beer from his fingers.
“Vodka. Bottle of. Something decent,” Geralt said, adding a reluctant, “Please,” at the landlady’s raised eyebrow.
The landlady glanced between the pair of them and Jaskier could tell she was working out whether the coin was worth the hassle of an inebriated witcher.
“I’m glad you’re doing well,” Geralt said softly, after the landlady thudded a dusty bottle of bimber and two smudged tumblers in front of him.
Jaskier grabbed the bottle before Geralt could get it and poured himself a generous measure. A little splashed over the sides in his haste and he shot an apologetic glance at the landlady. He wouldn’t be surprised if she gave him a bib at this rate.
“I didn’t think you cared,” he muttered, repeating Geralt’s earlier words back at him. Gods, it was hard being around him. He stared at the clear liquid in the cup, grimacing at the unidentifiable bits floating in it, and then lifted the drink to his nose. He sniffed and immediately regretted it as the aroma hit the back of his throat and made his eyes water. He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him again so he took a burning gulp and choked it down, taking in a few deep breaths until he was certain it wasn’t going to come straight back out. “Fucking bollocks, I’ll be feeling this for days,” he gasped. “Bloody hell. Have you tried it yet?” He turned to Geralt, an easy grin on his face that froze as he remembered his current situation.
The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched up but then something hard and unreadable flickered across his face before it softened fractionally. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, holding Jaskier’s gaze a touch longer than necessary.
Jaskier’s brain stuttered and all he could do was flap his mouth nonsensically while he tried to rationalise the words. As soon as Geralt looked away, Jaskier slumped, his breath leaving in a rush. Fuck. That was unexpected. He felt his face heat. The alcohol. It had to be the alcohol. And who knew how much Geralt had drunk before coming into the bar—he could be off his face for Jaskier knew. Why else would he be saying things like that? And what about an apology? If he’d really missed Jaskier, he’d had plenty of opportunities to seek him out.
At the risk of slipping into drunkenness, Jaskier took another sip of the bimber to give himself time to formulate a response. Nothing came to mind, though. What was he supposed to say? ‘I missed you too. Let’s forget this whole mess ever happened.’ Well he supposed he could say that, but he didn’t want to. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He’d been doing fine. Why did Geralt have to make everything so complicated?
“What are you doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, once his heart had settled into a steady rhythm.
“Fisherman needed some help with a Drowner problem. Next village over.”
“Drowners?” Jaskier snorted despite himself. “Bit below your pay grade, aren’t they?”
Geralt shrugged, the action little more than the minute lift and fall of one shoulder. “Job’s a job. Needed doing. And I was passing through anyway.”
“Passing through? To get to where? We’re in the arse end of Velen. There’s nothing for… fuck knows how far.”
“Everywhere is on the way to somewhere else.”
Jaskier stared at Geralt for a good long minute, his mouth ajar, and then he burst out laughing. “What a crock of shit, witcher. Gods, you’ve gone peculiar in your advanced age.”
“Fine,” Geralt growled. “I heard you were in the area.”
“And? You were very clear last we spoke that you wanted nothing more to do with me.”
“I was angry. I didn’t mean what I said. You should have known that.”
“Oh! So it’s my fault. Apologies, Geralt, for being unable to read your mind. Thanks so much for setting the record straight.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Of course you didn’t. You never say what you mean, as I’m just now discovering. Is there anything else I’m supposed to have absorbed from you with my mind-reading powers?”
“Jaskier—” Geralt warned, but Jaskier was on a roll.
“—Any other big reveals? Wait a minute. Is your name even Geralt? Are you cross with me for not divining your true name from the entrails of the last beast you slayed?”
“Bard!”
Jaskier rolled his eyes but he held his tongue; took a few deep breaths, gulped down another mouthful of bimber. Bloody fuck that shit burned. He was going end up with a hole right through his gut if he kept drinking this stuff. “How has it taken you a year to decide to find me? Why now? What happened?”
“I’ve been busy.” Geralt paused, staring at his hands as he tapped a finger on the bar once, twice, three times, before sighing and glancing back at Jaskier. “And I didn’t think you would want to see me.”
Jaskier let out a soft exhale. Shook his head. A breathy laugh. Fucking Geralt. “When have you ever cared what I wanted? You blunder through life, hunting monsters, fucking sorceresses, trying to outrun destiny or what have you. I was an idiot to think we were ever truly friends, I realise that now. I forced my presence on you, and maybe, maybe it filled an abstract need of yours for a time, but it was never meant to last. You made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion.”
“I appreciated having you around.” Jaskier snorted and Geralt glared at him, but evidently agreed with the sentiment. “Not all the time, fine. But…” He huffed and squared his jaw. “…You made the long journeys less tiresome. And—” Another sigh. It was as if the words were physically painful for him. “—I wouldn’t mind your companionship again.”
Jaskier’s hand paused midway to bringing his drink to his mouth. Geralt actually wanted him around? His heart was screaming at him to accept; to jump up and wrap his arms around those broad shoulders and say yes to everything. But then, staring deep into those knowing, golden eyes he remembered how it had ended— remembered the months of pain, the uncertainty, the endless hoping… And before that, before the ignominious end to their association, he remembered what it was like, watching the man he… well, love was a very strong word… but… what it was like watching the man he’d grown to care about quite a lot throw himself into danger, or sleep with other people, and not age a fucking day. And that was the crux of it, really. Even if things were to turn out in Jaskier’s favour, if it happened that Geralt returned his feelings, he’d still have to watch his own body deteriorate while Geralt remained the same.
His stomach gave a sickening lurch as it twisted into a knot that was likely only partly caused by the moonshine and he screwed his eyes shut. How could he voluntarily put himself through any of that again? He couldn’t do it. He’d be a fool to try. Which lead him to an awful conclusion. One he was almost too scared to entertain.
But he had to be honest with himself.
He met Geralt’s eye and offered him a small, wistful smile. His eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.” He exhaled and shook his head. Honesty. “Actually, no. That’s… that’s a lie. The truth is, I don’t want to.”
Geralt’s expression flicked from hopeful to surprised to confused in quick succession. “What?”
Jaskier exhaled sharply through his nose. A mirthless snort. He drained his glass to distract himself from the sudden irritation that had surged through him. Geralt had honestly expected him to just, what, roll over and slot neatly back into his life? To trot after him while he gallivanted from coast to coast, sleeping in hedgerows and bug-infested taverns? He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him, so he pushed aside his annoyance, but any sharp quip he’d had ready on his lips faltered as he took in the look on Geralt’s face. He looked…disappointed. Hurt, even.
The bimber churned uncomfortably in his stomach, threatening to dislodge the stodgy meal he’d half-eaten earlier. Jaskier opened his mouth, ready to spin a lie to soften what he’d said, because despite his annoyance, despite the wash of conflicting feelings tumbling around inside him, he didn’t want to be the reason for that look on Geralt’s face, but he caught the words before they could leave. Geralt deserved the truth. Maybe if he’d been truthful from the start, he wouldn’t be in this position now.
“I’m sorry, Geralt. Really, I am.” He reached out tentatively and placed a hand on Geralt’s arm, briefly marvelling at the strength he could feel beneath his fingers. He could still change his mind, he thought, smoothing a thumb along corded muscle when Geralt didn’t so much as flinch from his touch. He could blame his indecision on the gut-scraping booze, the shock of the situation. He could… He would do well to remember the pain, he scolded himself. This was for the best for both of them. He drew his hand back and tucked it against his chest. “You know, it’s funny. Whenever I’ve thought about this moment before—and believe me, I’ve thought about it a lot—it’s always ended with me forgiving you, you forgiving me, and the pair of us waltzing off into the sunset, on to our next big adventure.”
“Why can’t it be like that? Without the waltzing, obviously. We could travel together again. I—” Geralt cut himself off with an irritated growl, glaring at the bar like the ancient wood had personally offended him. “I want us to travel together,” he said, his voice low and strained.
“And then what? You keep me around until you tire of my company again, or decide to blame me for all your bad decisions?” Geralt opened his mouth but Jaskier silenced him with a glare. “Look, as much as I’d love to I… I can’t.” He tilted his head to the ceiling and took in a deep breath wondering how best to phrase what he needed to say. Honesty. “Geralt, I’m still not sure how it happened, but at some point, you became one of my closest friends. If not the closest. But more than that; even with your boorish ways, your ability to get innards literally everywhere, your bloody-minded and plain wrong insistence that my songs are sub-par— Even with all that, somewhere along the line I went and bloody well fell maddeningly in…in lo—” Fuck. He mentally slapped himself for letting his mouth run off without engaging his brain. Geralt already looked like he’d choked on something unpleasant, there was no need to finish the man off. “—lust with you and quite frankly, you’ve… you’ve ruined me for all future romantic endeavours because how can anyone ever compare?”
“Jaskier…”
Jaskier huffed and shook his head, choosing to ignore Geralt’s warning tone. The bastard had shown up here with no warning, expecting everything to be the same, so he could bloody well listen while Jaskier vomited emotions at him. “The funny—or rather, pitiful—thing is, I never quite realised how much you meant to me until after you had removed yourself from my life. Your words destroyed me, and my life has been empty without you but… it wouldn’t be fair for either of us if we travelled together again. Not for me, having to watch you chase after Yenn or any other pretty young thing who waggles her…assets at you, and not for you, having me seethe quietly with jealousy, hating you for something you can’t give me—”
“Jaskier—”
“No, let me finish; I need you to understand. I can’t travel with you not because I don’t care but because I can’t just be your friend, not anymore. And much as I hate to admit it, you were right, when you told me to go. I don't want to spend my life worrying about you getting killed, feeling jealous every time you sleep with... with anyone. And anyway, what hope do we have? I'm human. I'm going to wither and die and you'll look like this. I can’t live with that hanging over my head. It wouldn’t be fair on either of us.”
Geralt stared at him for what felt like an age, several conflicting emotions playing across his face, although Jaskier doubted his turmoil was obvious to anyone else but him. Jaskier held his breath. He didn’t know if he wanted Geralt to fight for his company or not. He’d probably fold completely if Geralt pressed the matter—he’d always had trouble saying no to him, and he was seconds away from throwing himself into Geralt’s arms and demanding he forget everything he just said…But then he saw the twitch in Geralt’s jaw, and his heart sunk, the tiny flicker of hope snuffed out in an instant because he knew that look; knew Geralt had come to a decision.
“Okay, fine. I’ll respect your wishes. But for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry for what I said. You were a good friend to me and you deserve someone capable of treating you well.”
Geralt downed his drink and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Goodbye, bard,” he said gruffly. He turned and walked out of the bar without another word.
The world crumbled as Jaskier watched him go, staring at his back as he disappeared into the night. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but he was dimly aware of the landlady pressing a drink into his hand. He accepted with a nod and an absent smile. His eyes burned, the bustle of the bar was too loud. He felt like he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, had to keep reassuring himself he’d done the right thing, but how could it be right when it felt like his chest had been hollowed out. He sat alone for the rest of the night, one hand curled around his drink, the other gripped tightly to the edge of his stool, tethering himself so he wouldn’t run into the night after Geralt. It hurt now, but it would get better. It had to get better.
———
When he left the inn the next day there was no sign of Geralt and Jaskier couldn’t help the wave of disappointment that washed over him. It was stupid— childishly hopeful, even—but he’d half-expected Geralt to be waiting for him. He’d not gotten a wink of sleep, what with being busy reliving the entire encounter over and over, but as he’d lain there torturing himself, he’d realised that he really had hoped that Geralt would have put up more of a fight. He wanted to feel needed, he craved the feeling of being completely desired by another person, and a tiny hopeful part of him had thought that person might possibly be Geralt. Clearly, that hope had been misguided, though. He wondered how long it would be before they bumped into each other again. Would Geralt seek him out at all? Would they cross paths again in five, ten, fifteen years? With any luck, he’d have died of old age before Geralt decided to show his face again. It was the least he could hope for. Now all he had to do was keep moving forward.