Chapter Text
Geralt moves to reheat the water for Jaskier’s bath.
“You ordered a bath for me?” The shock is clear on Jaskier’s face as he sips at the tea that Geralt had prepared for him. It’s not the best cup of tea that he’s ever had, but it’s something that Geralt had made for him—and it’s not often that Geralt makes him something—so he intends to finish all of it.
“I did.” Geralt nods, rolling his sleeves back as he slips his hands into the lukewarm water. “If you tell me what oils you like, I’ll finish preparing the bath for you. I… I think I know what you like, but I’m afraid I’ll end up making something offensive.”
Isn’t it funny, that Jaskier had spent so long worrying over using scented oils that would be offensive to Geralt’s overly-sensitive nose, and here Geralt was worrying about the same. Jaskier offers the Witcher a small smile as he motions to the bottle of orange hibiscus oil—he instructs Geralt to mix a few drops of it with a capful of jojoba oil and pour it into the water. Geralt ends up spilling a bit of the oil onto his hand (and comes close to burning himself in the process—who knew that an oil could hurt so badly when it came into contact with the skin?), before mixing the essential oil with the jojoba oil and pouring it into the water, just as Jaskier had instructed. One blast of Igni later, and the room is filled with the sweet scent of citrus.
It occurs to him that maybe he should… well, leave while Jaskier is taking his bath. It’s not like they haven’t seen one another naked before, but that was before words were said that weren’t meant and spells were cast forcing both of them to evaluate feelings that they’d kept buried deep down. Now, he doesn’t know if Jaskier returns his feelings, or even wants to stay with him. Staying in the room while he’s bathing feels more than a bit presumptuous, even if, for all intents and purposes, this is his room as well.
Jaskier takes another sip of his tea, before beginning to strip out of his nightclothes. While Geralt is worrying about preserving Jaskier’s modesty, Jaskier seems to have no such reservations. He tosses his clothes aside and steps into the water, hissing when the overpowering heat causes goosebumps to erupt all along his pale skin. A bit of displaced water splashes over the side of the tub, hitting the floor with a resounding thwap. He takes a deep breath, before sinking lower and lower in the tub, until he’s submerged in water up to the ears.
Geralt tries to think of something to say… He did tell Jaskier that all he was going to do was take care of him, thank him for everything he’d done for Geralt and the coin he’d spent on him this week—and in the twenty years that they’d traveled together. He wasn’t going to try and convince him to stay, even if…
Even if ever fiber of his being was screaming for him to do just that.
“So, now that the curse has been broken…” Jaskier turns to him, his cornflower blue eyes searching Geralt’s golden. “What’re your plans? Do you still intend to head to Rivia?”
“I… was actually thinking about heading to the Coast.” Geralt regrets the words almost as soon as they come out of his mouth. So much for not making Jaskier think that he was attempting to convince him to stay—
Jaskier had suggested they go to the Coast… right before everything had gone to hell on the mountain. Geralt hadn’t taken his suggestion seriously then, too overcome by the grief of losing not one—but three—people in the span of seconds. Maybe, if he’d offered Jaskier’s suggestion just a little bit more thought, they would have abandoned the ill-fated dragon hunt before everything had gone to hell and would be enjoying the spray of the sea-salt on their faces right now. But then… if they hadn’t gone through everything that they had, then Geralt would’ve never worked up the nerve to confess and… They’d be in the exact same position that they had been in for the last twenty-odd years. Bringing the Coast up now… he was just asking for trouble.
“Of course, if you… if you were to decide to leave, then I would make sure that you would return to Lettenhove in one piece.” He hurries to add, trying to correct his blunder. “Or wherever it is that you decide to go.”
The corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirks upward, “I thought that you weren’t a bodyguard.”
“I’m many things.” Geralt concedes. Being classified as a ‘bodyguard’ is far better than being classified as a ‘monster’, after all. “It’s the least I can do, after everything we’ve been through together. I know that you’ll probably run into more trouble with me than without, but—”
Jaskier arches a brow, “But?”
“I don’t want to have to find out that you were killed by some bandits… or a monster…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “You’ve proven to me that you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, of course—”
He’s reminded of the time Jaskier had filled him in about his combat training—he’d never suspected that such a sweet, innocent face could be hiding such a bloody secret, but that was more his fault for underestimating Jaskier than it was anything else. In all the years that they’d traveled together, Geralt had just assumed that Jaskier needed his protection because, well… Jaskier had always needed his protection. From that first battle, when the elves had bound them together and pressed their blades against their throats, he’d been protecting him.
But perhaps, in a roundabout way, that was what Jaskier had intended all along—for Geralt to come to see himself as his protector. Because, while he was toiling away, reshaping the world’s image of the surly Witcher… he was also attempting to reshape the Witcher’s image of himself. Geralt doesn’t think highly of himself; he never has, not after his mother abandoned him on the side of the road all those years ago. He was often the first to remind those around him that he wasn’t human; the humans would then take it upon themselves to prove just how inhuman he was. He wanted to say that it didn’t bother him—and maybe it hadn’t, before Jaskier came along. Before Jaskier showed him that he was worth so much more than the weight of the stones being pelted at his back.
He hadn’t believed the bard’s words, not at first. Hells, if he’s being perfectly honest (and he is—he’s already decided that he’s through with hiding; whatever the consequence, Jaskier at the very least deserves to know the truth), he’s still not sure whether or not he believes him. Belief is an… interesting concept.
Geralt has never been a particularly religious man, but he respects the idea that some believe in a higher power—or powers. Belief in the intangible makes sense to him, because there’s no way of knowing whether or not you’re wrong until it’s too late to make any sort of difference. It’s belief in the tangible that terrifies him. When you place your faith in men, and those men fail… what’s left? Peasants put their faith in Kings, only to cry out for his blood when he raises taxes too high, or he demands men for another pointless war, or he forms a controversial alliance. Kings put their faith in Generals, only to find the enemy approaching with those Generals’ heads mounted on silver pikes. The idea of believing in something, only to find out that your faith has been completely misplaced, is terrifying.
And the consequences… the consequences are nothing short of devastating.
And Jaskier… Jaskier has believed in him ever since he saw the medallion around his neck, has believed him to be a genuinely good person ever since he spared the elves and gave them all of his coin from the hunt. Even now, after all the hell that Geralt has put him through, Jaskier still believes in him.
What if he’s wrong?
What if he really is like the King or the General… and Jaskier has only survived thus far by dumb luck?
“You’re thinking too hard.” Jaskier says, “I can practically see the smoke pouring out of your ears.” He smiles, reaching out with a sudsy hand to tuck a couple loose strands of hair behind Geralt’s ear.
Geralt, a bit desperate to change the subject, asks, “Do you need help washing your hair?” He’s reminded of the way Jaskier’s hands had felt on his scalp the last time that he’d washed Kikimora innards from his hair. Jaskier raises an eyebrow, likely surprised by the suggestion. This is the first time Geralt has expressed interest in helping him—
He was going to say this is the first time he’d been interesting in helping him bathe, but…
“I wouldn’t mind some help.” Jaskier says. After explaining where his shampoo is, he dunks his head down into the sweetly-scented water—he pops his head up a second later, his soft, chestnut-colored hair curling slightly as the excess water drips down the sides of his face.
Geralt lathers up his hands, before carefully sinking his fingers into Jaskier’s hair. “Is this… okay?” It’s difficult to gauge his own strength sometimes, and the last thing he wants to do is accidentally hurt the bard—
“I’m not some wilting flower, Geralt.” Jaskier rolls his eyes—only to wince when a bit of soapy water drips into the left one. “Owww… okay, still not a wilting flower—but that bloody well hurt.”
Geralt flinches, “I hurt you? What do I do? How do I fix it?”
Jaskier smiles—before wincing again, when it causes him to squinch his burning eye. “You didn’t do anything wrong, love.” He didn’t seem to realize what he said, but Geralt did—it hit him like a freight train, causing a dark blush to climb up his neck and settle in his cheeks. “This sort of thing happens all the time. It just stings a little, is all.”
That does calm Geralt down a little bit—although his heart is still racing from Jaskier’s little slip-up. “I—I’m sorry. You were always so careful when you washed my hair, I should’ve taken the same care with—”
“Geralt.” Jaskier forces the Witcher to look him in the eyes. His eye is red and teary, but doesn’t appear to be seriously damaged, besides. “It can happen to anyone, even when they’re being exceptionally careful. The pain will pass in a second—”
He doesn’t acknowledge his little slip-up, so Geralt lets it slide. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to come back from a blatant rejection from Jaskier (he likes to think that, if when Jaskier finally tells him that there’s no chance of anything ever developing between them, he’ll do so gently—even if that’s the last thing that Geralt deserves. He’d certainly never given Jaskier that same courtesy), so if Jaskier doesn’t realize he’d said anything out of the ordinary, he’s certainly not about to rock the boat.
They finish washing Jaskier’s hair without further incident, and Geralt heats Jaskier’s fluffy white towel with Igni before helping him to towel off as he steps out of the water. His beautifully pale skin is flushed a light pink from the high temperature of the water, and there are more than a few beads of sweat gathering along his browline. He’s mostly dry by the time he walks back over to the bed and plops down, reaching for his tea cup after his lithe body has bounced up and landed back down on the mattress with a soft thud.
He finishes the last dregs of tea, a content little smile on his face despite the fact that the tiny amount that’d been left had been mostly backwash. He compliments Geralt on the excellent cup of tea he’d made and Geralt wonders whether or not it’s possible that his fancy soap had gone straight to his brain…
And then they sit in silence, each silently observing the other—each waiting for the other to make the first move.
Jaskier, unsurprisingly, is the one to break down first.
He closes the distance between them slowly, as if he’s approaching a particularly skittish animal (Geralt hates how apt of a description that is, seeing as his heart is beating a mile a minute by the time Jaskier is a hair’s breadth away from his lips—if he leans in just a little bit, they’ll be kissing, something that Geralt may or may not have been fantasizing about ever since that gods’ awful trip to Cintra). Their noses bump ever so slightly, Geralt letting out a stuttering exhale as Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes flit up to meet his own seconds before their lips meet in the softest of kisses… Jaskier is so gentle with him, Geralt would almost go so far as to call his touch tentative. Meanwhile, Geralt’s body goes ramrod straight, his entire body stiffening with realization—
It's over before he ever really has the chance to do anything.
So instead, he licks his lips, savoring the slight tang of citrus that’s left behind where Jaskier’s lips had touched his own. “Does this mean…?” The words weigh heavily on his tongue, the fear of making an incorrect assumption keeping him from continuing on to tell the bard exactly what he hoped that it meant.
Besides, Jaskier was smart—Geralt had no doubt he already knew everything that he wanted to say.
“It means… that this is goodbye, Geralt.” Jaskier smiles at him sadly. Geralt’s heart, which had been beating so hard just a moment ago, seems to stop entirely—and then shatter completely. “I’m very thankful to you for realizing that what you did hurt me and for apologizing for your actions. I just… need time to learn to be the bigger person.”
Geralt’s throat constricts painfully—the desire to tell Jaskier that he never needs his forgiveness so long as he stays by his side damn near overpowering. But if he’d learned anything from this experience—and he had to have learned something, if the curse had broken (Borch couldn’t have just cursed him to realize that he was in love with Jaskier and force him to confess those feelings, could he? Geralt liked to think that the old dragon was a little bit more creative than that)—it was that what he wanted… what he needed… wasn’t always the most important thing in the world. Other peoples’ wants and needs and feelings mattered, too… and if he wasn’t quite ready to embrace that notion with open arms, then, well…
Maybe this separation would be a good thing, after all.
So after a moment, he swallows hard and nods, doing his best to not follow his natural instinct to hide behind a curtain of hair and pretend like Jaskier wasn’t there—“Okay.”
“O-Okay?” Jaskier sounds surprised. Clearly, he hadn’t thought that it was going to be that easy. But if nothing else, Geralt intended to be a man of his word—if Jaskier wanted to leave, Geralt wasn’t going to put up a fight. “Um, well… then I suppose we should probably arrange for separate accommodations for the night…”
They’d both had absolutely chaotic nights—it went without saying that neither would be fit to travel until the next day, at the earliest. Without a word, Geralt gets up and walks over to his saddlebag, retrieving a small pouch of coins that he’d been secreting away in case of emergencies (like the bard breaking one of his lute strings, which happened so often it could hardly be considered a ‘proper emergency’—he always told the bard that he should pack spare strings in his saddlebag, and yet, he won’t have any spare strings on him when the next string inevitably breaks). There’s not much in there, but there should be more than enough to buy him a couple of nights’ peace in the tavern. It’s the least he can do, considering everything the bard has done for him over the last week.
Jaskier must realize that this is just another way for him to say ‘thank you for everything,’ because he only puts up a token protest before taking the bag and tossing it onto the bed. He’s just beginning to dress himself when he says, “This room is paid through the middle of next week, so you don’t need to worry about rushing off anywhere—”
But Geralt isn’t listening. He’s already on his way out the door, intending to get some air.
Geralt has no intention of sticking around until the middle of next week. If Jaskier truly wants nothing more to do with him, then he has no reason to stick around, save to have even more time to wallow in his own self-loathing. So, at the crack of dawn the following morning, he’s all packed up and ready to head back on the Path.
“That’s him, ma’am!” A little boy, with a little lopsided smile and a head of dark, chestnut curls, points at him as he comes down the stairs.
The same tavernkeep that’d fed him warm crusts of bread with honey now looks at him oddly. He doesn’t know who this kid is or how he knows him, but he does know that it never ends well when a human looks at him that intently… And then—“Ahh, Mr. Pankratz. What a relief… your son was very worried when he couldn’t find you this morning.”
Mr. Pankratz? His son? Geralt furrows his brows, wondering if the spell that Borch had cast had some kind of horrible second leg, to punish him for being rejected by Jaskier—and then he looks at the little boy again. “Jasker?!”
“Hi Daddy.” Jaskier kicks his little legs, smiling up at him merrily.
Geralt just stares at him for a moment, at an absolute loss for what to do. He’s never heard of a curse transferring from one person to another like this, especially after they’d been so sure that they’d broken it. No, they had broken it, or else he’d be the one stuck in a child’s body right now. Which meant that… assuming that this was Borch’s work, the old dragon would have had to have cursed him at or around the same time as he’d cursed Geralt. But why? Jaskier had always been incredibly upfront with Geralt about his emotions, to the point of being brutally honest when it came to explaining how much pain Geralt’s actions had caused him over the years. If anything, Jaskier was known for oversharing. So why…?
“Hey… Jas…” Geralt forces an uncertain little smile, attempting to make it seem as though nothing is wrong—despite the fact that literally everything is wrong.
Jaskier offers very little in the way of explanation—which isn’t all that surprising, seeing as he’s had a curse on him all this time and hadn’t noticed a damn thing. He just stares up at him with this wide-eyed innocence, like he expects Geralt to magically be able to fix whatever the hell was broken…
Well… at least, on the bright side, those clothes and shoes that Jaskier had commissioned wouldn’t be going to waste.