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Geralt is bathing in the river when Jaskier comes to find him, which is just the last bit of unfairness to top off an utterly rotten few days. Not the bath per se, since as he’ll be the one sleeping downwind of the witcher he’d generally prefer less of an aroma of stale sweat and wet horse than Geralt has been sporting since he hauled Jaskier out of a bar fight three towns back, but.
The thing is, Geralt has evidently also taken this opportunity to wash his sparse collection of clothing, which is laid out on the river bank to dry in the sunlight. He’s stripped to his smallclothes, his hair shedding rivulets of water down the broad, scarred lines of his back, leading Jaskier’s eyes inevitably downward.
The wet linen clings to his ass and his thighs and, when he turns slightly to glance back toward Jaskier, to the outline of his cock. It’s somehow more obscene than if he were naked. Although, to be fair, most of the times Jaskier has actually seen him naked, there’ve been various gruesome injuries involved and that does tend to put a damper on the libido.
No such luck now, alas. His only saving grace is that Geralt is generally oblivious to the gentler forms of interpersonal discourse, as it were. Or at least willing to ignore them.
As he’s doing now. By the time Jaskier has managed to drag his gaze back to safer locales, Geralt is already wading back out of the river, twisting the water out of his hair and flinging it over his shoulder with a wet slap. “What do you want?”
“I, um, you.” Geralt gives him a flat stare, and he manages to shake a few words loose. “There’s food?”
“Since when?”
“Since I traded for supplies back in Windhaven. Which I will now share with you, as a token of my gratitude.”
“For rescuing you from that redheaded mountain troll who wanted your balls for a necklace.”
“For intervening in a very unfortunate misunderstanding which was in no way my fault.”
“Right.” Geralt almost looks as though he’s smiling, which is to be expected. Jaskier’s unearned misfortune is the only thing that reliably seems to amuse him. The fact that this almost makes his unearned misfortune worth the trouble is definitely a sign that his priorities have been severely warped by sustained contact with Geralt’s particular brand of insanity.
There’s probably a lesson to be found in there, but instead of searching for it Jaskier resolutely turns and marches back toward the campsite without even looking around once to see if Geralt is following him.
They’ve settled down for the night, falling into a campsite routine that’s become entirely too comfortable by now, a cozy fire keeping the dark at bay, when the talk turns back to Jaskier and his various misfortunes. Or, at least, Jaskier’s does. Geralt—mostly dressed again, more’s the pity—has his whetstone out and a sword across his knees and appears to be giving only the most cursory attention to him. It’s fine. Jaskier is a sparkling conversationalist regardless.
“—the worst part, of course,” he says as he plucks idly at his lute, “is that there’s absolutely no way to make a good song out of it without casting myself as the buffoon.” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier glares at him. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
“Comedy isn’t really my forte anyway. You know, none of this would happen if you would—” he stops talking so quickly that he nearly bites his tongue off, and of course this is the moment where Geralt decides to start paying attention. His head lifts; his gaze is penetrating.
“If I would what?”
“Nothing.” He strums a chord and turns his gaze elsewhere before he can be caught gazing longingly at the angles and shadows of Geralt’s face in the firelight. “I don’t understand how these things keep happening to me, that’s all.”
“Maybe you should stop tumbling into bed with every married woman who makes eyes at you.”
“It’s not my fault I’m irresistible. Besides, she kissed me first.”
“Hm,” Geralt grunts, very dubiously.
“Oh, what would you even know about it? If someone tried to kiss you out of the blue, you’d probably stab them. Wouldn’t you?”
“Why don’t you try it and find out?”
It’s either a threat or a goad, and Jaskier has never been especially skilled at ignoring either of those things. Particular when his libido and his pride are both involved. It’s why he gets punched so frequently. And he’s been on edge since—well, since the moment when Geralt’s hand came down on his nape to drag him out of the way of a blade back in that smelly little bar in Windhaven.
“Fine,” he says, and twangs the lute strings in deliberate disharmony before setting the instrument down. Geralt is still watching him. His brows are raised slightly, and Jaskier has the distinct impression that he’s being laughed at. It’s utterly infuriating. “Fine, then. Suit yourself.”
“I wouldn’t recommend storming off into the night,” Geralt says, his attention already back on his blade. The soft shk-shk-shk of the whetstone is like sandpaper in Jaskier’s ears.
His knees crack as he stands and makes his way around the small fire. Geralt’s hands still; his posture shifts. Jaskier kneels in front of him. The fire feels hot on the side of his face; his kneecaps are pressed against the outside of Geralt’s shin, the blade a line of silver between them.
“I want to make it clear that you brought this on yourself,” he says. There’s a rasp in his voice. Geralt lifts his head finally but doesn’t say a word. His expression is unexpectedly intent; his light-colored eyes reflect the firelight. This close, it’s like being pinned in place by a predator that’s already set its claws. Even with all the sword-fights and monster slaying and idle threats against Jaskier’s person, he often forgets how fucking terrifying Geralt can be when it suits him.
He’s remembering it now. But that doesn’t stop him from crossing the space between them and pressing a firm kiss to the hard line of the witcher’s mouth.
He expects—well, honestly, he expects to get shoved into the campfire. Or worse. He definitely doesn’t expect for Geralt to soften immediately like he was waiting for exactly this. His lips part and one hand comes up to tilt Jaskier’s jaw, turning the kiss into something sweet and heated with an edge of promise. It’s like being drunk on good wine, Jaskier thinks dazedly, like cheering and applause and coin in his hat, and it’s like none of those things at all; it’s just Geralt, who smells of wood smoke and leather, whose fingers are rough with callus, who is—improbably, impossibly—kissing him back.
It seems like an age later when they finally part. Jaskier drags a long-overdue breath into his lungs and says the first thing that comes to mind, which turns out to be, “Are you going to stab me now?”
Geralt glances down at the blade still resting across his lap, then looks back at Jaskier. There’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Would you like me to?”
“Well. Not with a sword.”
Geralt casts his eyes heavenward for a moment, lets out a long-suffering sigh, then picks up the sword and sets it aside. He grips Jaskier’s wrist gently to tug him closer. “Stop talking, bard.”
For once, Jaskier obeys.
“You know,” he muses, some time later, “I think there may be a song in this after all.”
“No,” Geralt says flatly into his shoulder.
A log pops in the fire, sending a shower of sparks skyward. Jaskier wriggles to get as comfortable as he can with approximately three tons of warm naked witcher sprawled half on top of him, then stops when Geralt makes a wordless but remarkably threatening noise of protest. “It has a good hook, you must admit. A handsome young bard meets a world-weary witcher on the road. He serenades him and charms him and finally becomes one of his many conquests…”
“You’re the one with all the conquests. And the army of murderous cuckolds on your tail to prove it.”
“Very funny.” His lute is close enough to touch; he rolls to pluck a string without dislodging the warm weight of Geralt’s arm across his chest. “Perhaps I will write a song. It’d serve you right.”
It’s dark under the trees, but the firelight is bright enough to show the sudden gleam of Geralt’s teeth as he smiles. “As you like, bard. For now, shut up and go to sleep.”