Chapter Text
It had been two weeks since the last time they had set foot in a minimally civilized place. Because it was cheaper and because the villagers didn't like to see witchers near if there weren't any monsters eating their sheep. Geralt was used to that, to the wildlife, the paths through mountains, woodlands and almost endless meadows with no village in miles and miles around.
It meant more peace.
But less money, remember that, my dear friend.
That was Jaskier would say. Monsters far away from towns were no prey for witchers. Not if the monsters didn't attack them. Not if there was no payment after.
That was the first rule.
That was the first thing Jaskier had to learn. Yes, tales about witchers said they didn't kill monsters for the greatest good, but tales were tales and Jaskier knew better than anyone that all the stories, all the ballads, and all the poems were enriched with lies. One of those lies was that witchers killed all monsters even if nobody paid them. That witchers hunted down monsters without a contract, not for the greatest good but for the sake of the hunt. And because witchers were monsters too and the only living being able to kill a monster was, deep down, another monster.
But Jaskier also knew Geralt was no monster.
And what Geralt thought about that was… It was a lie.
The Lie.
Still.
Brown and golden leaves covered the forest ground forming an orange and yellowish mantle, sometimes dark and putrid where the fungi devoured the dead remains of other plants. There was a pleasant semi-silence, broken by the creaking of the leaves under boots and hooves, Roach's occasionally huffs, and the chirps of the afternoon last birds. Geralt was walking beside Roach, guiding her by the bridles, waiting for the night to set the camp. Jaskier was walking a few steps behind mare and witcher, distracted with the view of the woods under the sunset amber light. Sometimes he picked up a leaf, recited some more or less poetic phrase and then threw the leaf with drama.
And Geralt couldn't help finding himself smiling a little.
"New song?" he asked after one of those not quite poetic phrases.
He heard how Jaskier, in light of the question, rushed his pace for matching Geralt's speed. The witcher curved a new and tiny, very tiny, smile that faded away before the bard could see it.
"Well, no, not really," Jaskier replied with a grin of enjoyment. "I'm practicing, I want to describe better sights, nicer, you know? I know I lack that."
"You think so?" Geralt couldn't tell if that was true, all of Jaskier's songs were the same for him. Good songs, music he had learned to admire and respect, but all the same.
"I know so," Jaskier sounded serious and convinced, still the amusement in his voice. He let out a loud and theatrical sigh and waved his hand pointing out the woods. "Look, Geralt, isn't it beautiful? The trees with this light, all this orange, this full spectacle of color and shades, the shimmer in the horizon shattered by the leaves and the trunks?" Jaskier trotted a little ahead and faced Geralt while walking backward and framed the witcher with both hands. "Then you, the dark contrast in all this glow, the shadow, all black and leather, all brooding silence, all stiffness, a witcher walking alongside his loyal companion."
Geralt rolled his eyes and snorted.
"You are going to fall," he said.
"Excuse me," Jaskier disagreed, with the most dignified expression he was capable of performing. "But I'm not that clumsy, thank you, I'm–"
Then, as if Geralt has had seen the future, Jaskier tripped and fell on his butt. Geralt stopped and Roach neighed with happiness. This time Geralt didn't hide a smile.
"Ha-ha, very funny, " Jaskier growled from the ground, legs spread and hands plunged in the mantle of leaves. He whined. "Oh, Gods and Fate, the ground is wet. Geralt–" He looked up at the witcher, noticed his delightful face and puffed out his cheeks feeling them burning. "Geralt, stop laughing at me and help me."
Geralt shook his head and stepped towards him, offering Jaskier a hand. The bard grabbed it and got up fast as if he was a feather because Geralt could lift him with no effort. Jaskier huffed, faking being outraged, and rubbed his hands in his pants with all the pain of his heart. Geralt watched him in silence, only one step away from him, still smiling, and took a deep breath.
And then he lost himself.
It wasn't as if he never sensed Jaskier's scent before, of course. In fact, he was more than used to it. It was everywhere.
All the time.
He could recognize it among a crowd of villagers who hadn't bathed in years. He could keep track of it even if Jaskier was days ahead of him and the trail was already cold for everyone else. He could know through it if Jaskier was happy, anxious, worried, sad or satisfied among other things. He could know if Jaskier was horny and didn't want Geralt to know it. Wich was funny because Jaskier knew witchers could see, hear and smell everything.
Not really everything but everything.
For the rest of the people, Jaskier smelled different every day. The bard took good care of that. He would use whatever he could use to mask any scent he didn't want to smell in himself, either were perfumes, soap, incense, oils, ointments or flowers from the road itself. It didn't matter what.
And certainly, it didn't matter to Geralt either. The core was always the same and that was what he liked.
"Geralt?" Jaskier's voice, curious and inquisitive, almost caught him off-guard. Geralt closed his eyes for a second and breathed out a deep grunt. "Everything it's okay? It's a monster? Do you want to take another path?" The bard held his breath, looked around and gripped the strap of his lute case. "Now I can picture a new song," he said. "The Ballad of the Bright Amber Woods, where Geralt of Rivia, the Mighty Witcher, the White Wolf, fought a dangerous and terrible…" He turned around, facing Geralt. "What monster is?"
Gerald opened his eyes and gazed at Jaskier, at his pretty blue eyes, his slightly parted pale pink lips, his face still somewhere between childhood and adulthood with soft and sharp features mixed. Geralt tilted his head a little. He smelled worried in Jaskier, alongside… wonder. He wanted to sink his face in the bard's neck and inhale deeply, taste his scent with tongue and teeth.
"Geralt?"
"You smell really nice." It was a whisper, a low and hoarse rumor that made Jaskier feel a shiver running down his body.
"I… what?" Jaskier babbled. Beside Geralt, Roach caressed the witcher's hair and shoulder with her snout, huffing softly on him. Geralt curved a small smile and patted the mare's neck. Jaskier blinked, realizing there was no monster near. "Geralt, my sweet witcher, I don't know if you've noticed, but I haven't had a bath for a week and a half, I can feel the dirt crawling for all my body, it's impossible for me to smell nice right now."
Geralt tilted his head.
"Maybe," he mumbled. He took one step ahead and entered Jaskier's personal bubble. He heard the bard's heartbeat speed up in half a second and smelled his sudden nervousness that made his blue eyes glow a little more. Geralt's gaze shifted between his eyes and his lips. Twice.
"Maybe you haven't had a bath in a long time, maybe you smell like sweat, mud, and grime. Maybe you are covered in dust. I know that what you most want right now is submerging yourself in rose water. I could feel it, it makes you want to howl in despair." Geralt raised his free hand. Jaskier had his doublet unlaced, the chemise mid open, as always, even if those days the wind were almost cold. And Geralt knew why. He touched skin, Jaskier's chest between pecs, and tapped once there with two fingers. The heartbeat turned out impossibly fast and Jaskier began to irradiate heat as if he were the sun.
"But deep down, Jaskier, you smell like soft feathers, like freshly baked bread, like buttercup and daisies, like oil and wood." Geralt narrowed his eyes a little, slowly. "Like a safe bonfire in the middle of the night. Like sweet ale. It doesn't matter if you covered yourself in whatever cheap cologne you want to use or if you hadn't bathed in years. That's your core scent and that's the smell I'll sense on you always."
And then Geralt, as if he had realized how much he had talked without thinking, blinked, went stiff and walked away from Jaskier with Roach huffing happy behind him. Jaskier, who was trembling without realizing it, exhaled a deep broken breath and hurried to follow Geralt.
"Wait, wait a moment," he said out of breath, still shaking, feeling his head full of bees. "You can't say those things and not kiss me after, what the fuck is wrong with you?"
Geralt sighed, no, grunted.
"Nothing is wrong with me. I said too much, forget it," he said.
"Of course I won't. That was the most beautiful thing someone had said to me in my life," Jaskier complained and then his expression softened. "And it was you who said it…"
Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier biting his lower lip, and he smelled happiness, pure joy, and unconditional love. He could recognize it, it was a sweet scent. Jaskier walked beside him in a new and comfortable silence, with the last glint of bright sunlight shining in Jaskier's hair with little and glossy yellow diamonds.
"I love you too, you know," Jaskier said then, with a weak and confident whisper.
Geralt kept walking without looking at him, feeling surrounded by the bard's scent, strong, powerful and cozy. He flashed a grin. Then he said:
"Yes, I know."