Work Text:
There are many things that Geralt has learned about Jaskier during their travels, and one of those things is that Jaskier insists upon touching him.
Truly, Geralt should have expected it. The bard has made it no secret that he is fond of affection and touch. Geralt just has to wonder why it’s him that he has to touch so much.
Typical, regular townsfolk or really anyone that Geralt has met reek of the distinct smell of fear when they so much as look at him. Their anxiousness wafts off of them in odorous waves, and they are far too afraid to even think of putting a hand on him, unless what they are touching him with is a sword or any weapon they can get their hands on. For the most part this has suited Geralt just fine, for he has no desire for any of these men or women to even look at him let alone touch him.
And then there is Jaskier, who is not afraid, and is most certainly not typical .
Jaskier essentially drapes himself over Geralt most days, lays across him and rambles on about any ludicrous thing he can think of. He tangles his feet with Geralt when they are sitting around a fire at night, slumps against his shoulder when they are drinking in an inn and Jaskier has finished with his singing, grabs his arm or places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder at random times, as if it has become a habit at this point.
And Geralt doesn’t know what to think of it.
If anyone else had tried even half of what Jaskier has they would have already been met with a glare and a pointed blade at their throat with the threat of decapitation if they do not rethink how close they are to him. But Geralt says nothing to Jaskier, only grunts or hums in half-hearted protest anytime Jaskier leans against him, but does nothing further to stop the bard’s ministrations.
Geralt reasons with himself that this is just normal human behavior and it would be ridiculous to become caught up on it, that it would only waste time to properly complain to Jaskier about it. It’s a rather horrible lie, one that hardly even convinces Geralt himself even if the point of it is that it’s supposed to be reasonable .
Jaskier also compliments Geralt, a lot . “ Glorious hero...brave and wonderful...beautiful white wolf. ” And on a few, short occasions Jaskier has gone as far as to call him lovely . Geralt does not remember ever being called lovely before, and he has never associated such a delicate sounding word with himself, but his chest traitorously warms each time he dwells on it.
Geralt finds that he likes it almost, even though he’d be hard pressed to ever admit to such a thing. He tells himself that he is allowed such small mercies, to find slim comfort and happiness in what are likely empty words. Geralt does not want to think on the fact that they are likely empty praises, only meant to fuel Jaskier’s songs, the more valiant and heroic and wonderful Geralt seems the more enjoyable the song, and the more coin Jaskier will earn.
Geralt does not fancy yearning for something that will never belong to him.
Geralt also learns that he rather likes Jaskier’s voice despite telling the man himself that he finds it unpleasant. He likes sitting in an inn with some alcoholic beverage in his cup, or whatever could possibly pass as alcohol, and he listens to Jaskier sing all night, accompanied by the cheering and clapping of patrons. He closes his eyes and he listens, not bothering to follow Jaskier’s ever moving body with his eyes, for it would be nearly impossible to keep up with someone so energetic.
Small mercies , Geralt tells himself anytime he gets caught up in a tune, listening to Jaskier’s voice as it dips and sways and enchants everyone who hears it, and Geralt reluctantly admits that he is of the ones who find themselves transfixed.
Geralt also learns Jaskier’s scent by memory. It’s a sweet and warm thing, unmarred by the stench of fear and it’s easily discernible from a room full of people who smell of unease and beer and whatever mix that is far less pleasant than what Geralt smells when he is near Jaskier. Geralt is vaguely aware that humans would likely find smelling each other fairly strange, but Geralt takes the slightly selfish comfort that is knowing Jaskier is a man who isn’t particularly normal himself.
In short, Geralt has learned a lot of things about Jaskier, and much of it is that of how he feels about him. Geralt doesn’t know what to make of this, these feelings, ‘ As to be expected. ’ Jaskier would likely say. Though, thinking of Jaskier and what he would think isn’t exactly helping with his internal conflict.
Because, contrary to popular belief, Geralt has an annoying amount of feelings, and only the ones he doesn’t know what to do with. So he pretends they don’t exist, ignores them, places them in a compacted box in the back of his mind with a sign that says ‘ do not open ’, and throws himself into battle instead.
He convinces Jaskier to stay at an inn one night and tells him shortly that he won’t be long, no reason for him to watch and come up with whatever ridiculous song that will surely spring from the smallest thing Geralt does. It’s a small pack of ghouls he’s supposed to get rid of, one he disposes of easily and only receives minimal coin for, and when he gets back to the town he’s more irritated than he was when he had left. And Jaskier will be there when he gets back to the room, and considering Jaskier is the root of all the annoying little things that are distracting him and making him feel things he isn’t sure he’ll be nice company at the moment. Well, he’ll be even less nice than usual.
But when he reaches the room and the first thing he hears is Jaskier’s cheerful voice, “Geralt, you’re back!”, a miniscule amount of tension releases from his shoulders. It’s more tension released than when he had killed those ghouls, and killing the ghouls was supposed to help, it was the whole point of the endeavor.
Jaskier’s voice is a much more effective balm apparently.
Geralt grunts, as he usually does, and rids himself of his weapon. Before he can do much more he feels Jaskier’s hands on his shoulders from where he’s standing behind him.
“Oh, wow, you're tense.” Jaskier says, and there’s the touching again, his thumbs digging into Geralt’s shoulder blades and his fingers curled over his shoulder. His muscles seem to spasm, as if they’re unsure whether or not they should relax or tense up even more under Jaskier’s careful touch.
“To the bath with you then, yeah? Really should relax, you know, I’m sure it’s not healthy to hold this much tension.” Jaskier pushes into Geralt’s shoulder with his thumbs again experimentally, “Oh! I got an idea!” Jaskier exclaims, “Tub, now, I’ll be there in a moment.”
Geralt stares at him dubiously, has a protest on his tongue, or a demand for Jaskier to speak plainly for once, but Jaskier hushes him and steers him towards the bath with very little force, certainly not enough to move Geralt if he were to properly stand his ground, but he does as Jaskier instructs anyway because he has a determined look on his face, his lips pursed prettily.
Geralt will certainly never breathe a word to anyone about how he associated the word pretty with Jaskier.
Jaskier leaves with a quick order to strip and hurries off to do whatever the hell he’s planning. Geralt sighs, long suffering and suspiciously fond, and he’s glad Jaskier can’t hear him because God forbid Jaskier think that Geralt actually cares about him in any capacity.
He finds that the tub has been filled already, as if Jaskier had thought of it without Geralt even asking. He touches the water with his hand and finds that it’s hot, steam coming off of it in little wisps of smoke. Geralt feels his chest tighten, being given something without asking. Geralt even notices that it’s been scented with some sort of oil and salts, a soft smell that is not abrasive to his sensitive nose.
He eventually sinks into the water, and he can feel the warmth of the water ease the tautness of his muscles, but it’s still not enough for Geralt to fully relax. Geralt isn’t completely sure he even knows how to do that anymore. His mind wanders to Jaskier, as he is wont to do, and he finds himself missing the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on him and the sound of his voice.
Geralt feels particularly ridiculous at the longing that he can’t help but feel. He hates it and revels in it at the same time, and he can feel that knot in his stomach, uncomfortable and heavy and he’s almost worked himself into frustration before Jaskier is barging through the door.
He makes a grand gesture, bowing and presenting a small vial of oil, “Your hero is here to help and to serve.” Jaskier smiles, large and bright and it crinkles his eyes.
Geralt’s heart palpitates and his chest squeezes, so he growls so he won’t smile instead, “What are you doing, Jaskier?”
“Calm down.” Jaskier chides, flops his hand in a lazy manner, “You’ll see, so don’t worry your witchy little head over anything.”
Jaskier pulls up a stool so that he is situated behind Geralt, and Jaskier hums a little tune under his breath. Jaskier never seems to stop making noise, musical or not, and Geralt wants to say that it annoys him but at this point it really doesn't. He’s started liking it, rather. Jaskier doesn’t need to know that, though.
Geralt can hear the sound of what must be Jaskier lathering the oil between his hands, slickening them up for whatever the hell he’s decided is a brilliant idea.
Geralt can’t help but tense up at the first contact Jaskier makes with his skin, somehow not expecting Jaskier to touch him.
“Do try to relax, Geralt.” Jaskier says, and Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, “It is rather the point of all this.”
Geralt goes lax far quicker than he thought possible, Jaskier’s hands rubbing up and down his back, soothing and careful but with enough pressure that Geralt can actually feel it. His shoulders slump, and he leans forward, allows Jaskier as much room as he needs. Jaskier’s hands stop their rhythm every once in a while to trace over Geralt’s scars before he continues on his path again.
Geralt allows himself to sigh, unable to keep the pleasured noise back. He can hear Jaskier’s heart rate pick up from where he is behind him, a hummingbird beat against Jaskier’s ribs that Geralt can hear clearly despite their distance.
“Enjoying yourself then?” Jaskier states more than asks, his voice lilted in mirth but it loses some of it’s cheeky effect when Jaskier immediately has to clear his throat because his voice cracks.
Geralt grunts, lost in the sensation of Jaskier’s slightly calloused fingers. They’re from instruments, surely, because Geralt does not think Jaskier would take any interest in any other work.
“You know, I could write songs just about your back. You have a rather nice back, all things considered.” Jaskier rambles, but he does not pause in his movements, and Geralt likes his voice so he can’t find it in himself to even pretend to be annoyed.
Jaskier hums, murmurs lyrics under his breath as he rubs Geralt’s back until the water has become a measly lukewarm, no longer smoking, and Geralt has been reduced to a light doze.
“Feel better?” Jaskier’s voice rouses Geralt effectively, and Geralt hums in agreement, loose limbed and tired.
He turns to see Jaskier smiling, a triumphant thing that has Geralt twitchily smiling too.
Jaskier's face brightens even more, and he gasps theatrically, “Is that a smile? Are you smiling? By the Gods, if I could be struck down right now I would die a happy man, having known such wonders.”
Geralt shakes his head, turns away and bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling even more. He has an image, and a set of rules that he doesn’t actually have to follow, and he’s sure smiling at a bard with a talking problem is violating at least three of those rules.
“Should get out now, the water’s all gray.” Jaskier huffs, walking, no sauntering because of course he is, in front of Geralt, using a towel to wipe off his hands. He holds out a clean hand to Geralt, as if he truly needs help getting out of a tub, and at Geralt’s incredulous glare he huffs again, “Up, witcher. It is not that hard, I promise.”
“Fine.” He grunts, as if he’s truly put out, when he really doesn’t mind much. He grabs onto Jaskier's hand, allows himself to be pulled up even if Jaskier’s arms are twigs compared to his, and Geralt takes great care in making sure Jaskier doesn’t genuinely have to heft too much of his weight.
Geralt notices that Jaskier’s cheeks are pink and he carefully makes sure that he keeps his gaze above shoulder level. When Geralt is out of the tub Jaskier turns and rambles off, “Lovely, so, I bought you new clothes. They were fairly expensive, had to sing quite a bit to save up all the coin. I’m not sure if you’ll even like them, but I couldn’t just ask because, ah, you know, surprises! But I truly do hope you do not tear them apart and then promptly tear me in half as well.”
Geralt barely processes half of what Jaskier has just said before he is popping out and then quickly back into the room, dark, expensive looking clothing folded over his hands when he comes back.
He thrusts them into Geralt’s face, says, “Try them on before you complain, please.” Geralt takes them slowly, confused and unsure, and Jaskier pops right back out before Geralt is able to say anything in response.
“Okay.” Geralt murmurs, even if no one other than himself will hear. He looks down at the clothes, all black and clean and brand new. He runs a hand over them, the material soft but sturdy, seemingly less susceptible to tearage than Geralt would first expect.
He pulls them on, the shirt, underthings, and the trousers. He doesn’t actually need new clothes, not truly. He doesn’t care how he looks, only the durability and the usefulness of his clothing matters to him. This outfit is tight and form fitting, but not uncomfortable, and Geralt wonders how Jaskier could possibly know how this could fit so well.
These clothes are a luxury, a gift, unneeded, and certainly unfitting for a witcher to wear of all people. Geralt somehow feels wrong wearing them, something so nice and well made and expensive. But Jaskier had taken the time to fetch them for him, so he can’t bring himself to take them off. It would only be a waste.
Though, he does begin to wonder what Jaskier’s goal is. One does not simply help a witcher, does not pay him in any form without having something they want in mind. Geralt does not know what Jaskier wants, and he hopes he comes out with it before Geralt starts to feel like this is anything more than bribery.
He can’t help but scowl, annoyed that he feels a twinge of something in his gut, something incredibly unpleasant that he doesn’t know how to put a name to.
He swings the door open, and he falters a bit when he sees Jaskier sitting on his bed, fiddling with a comb in his hand. It’s clean and in good condition, none of it’s teeth missing.
Jaskier looks up at him, and his cheeks flush prettily, two soft spots of colors high on his cheekbones. “You look nice, really nice.” Jaskier clears his throat, his eyes fixated on Geralt, “I hope you like them, I mean you don’t have to keep them if you really hate them. But, yeah, you look nice.”
Geralt opens his mouth, and what is supposed to happen is that he demands answers, tells Jaskier that he should name his price, what he wants out of this, but what he says instead is, “They’re fine.”
He’s going soft.
It’s worth it though, because Jaskier smiles and his eyes are the most wonderful shade of blue, “Good, good.” He stands then, keeps the comb in his hands as he pats the bed, “Sit, if you will. I am not done with you yet.”
Geralt wants to protest, not for the first time this evening, but he does what Jaskier says, because apparently Jaskier can look at him with his big soft eyes and get Geralt to do anything he asks. He sits down and Jaskier crawls behind him, sits up on his knees on the bed.
He unties Geralt’s hair, runs his hands through the strands and Geralt rumbles deep in his chest at the pleasant sensation. He can hear Jaskier’s breath hitch at the sound but he deigns not to mention it.
“You have really nice hair, a shame you hardly take care of it.” Geralt can practically hear Jaskier’s pout as he says it.
“Killing monsters does not offer much time for me to care about my hair, Jaskier.”
“Still.” Jaskier mumbles, petulant, and Geralt doesn’t care to answer because his fingers are pulling slightly at his hair and gently scratching at his scalp and Geralt is sure that this is the closest he’ll ever get to a heaven.
He eventually feels a comb go through his hair, careful, and Geralt can hardly even feel any of the tugs as Jaskier passes through tangles.
“I’ll have to write songs about your hair too, I suppose.” Jaskier says absentmindedly, “I could probably write a song about every part of you, you know?” The words somehow sound flirtatious, and Geralt feels a pleasant warmth spread over his chest despite himself.
“All worse than the last, most likely.” Geralt teases, fighting a smile again when Jaskier dramatically squeaks indignantly.
“I’ll have you know I could wax the best ballads about any part of your body, Geralt. Truly, every part deserves one.” Jaskier says matter of factly.
There’s a strange twist in the pit of his stomach, and he’s between warm and fuzzy and cold, because Geralt still doesn’t know what Jaskier wants or what he means by all of this. Realistically, he hasn’t done too much, not exactly, but it feels like the most anyone has ever done for Geralt, at least in a very long time.
Geralt sometimes wishes the assumption that Witcher’s have no feelings was true.
Jaskier places a hand on his shoulder, “You okay there, Witcher?” He asks, still combing through his hair and he starts rubbing Geralt’s shoulder in what he must think is a comforting gesture.
It should be, but it’s not, it feels like a mockery instead, pet the beast and care for it then slaughter it for its valuables. Geralt jerks up and turns towards Jaskier, and the bard looks surprised, comb and empty hand floating in the air where Geralt had been.
“What do you want?” Geralt growls, forcing it out between his teeth. He does not need to be coddled, bribed, he does not need to be tricked into feeling cared for. If Jaskier wants something, he need only ask.
“What?” Jaskier murmurs, uncharacteristically speechless.
Geralt waves his hand around, “All of this, what do you want for it?” He snaps, growing impatient.
Jaskier opens his mouth, closes it, and then huffs out an incredulous puff of air, “I don’t want anything for myself , Geralt. I don’t want anything.” Jaskier says it slowly, like Geralt is a child, like he needs to understand each word slowly before he can properly process them.
Geralt opens his mouth to tell Jaskier that he is not a child and he is not an idiot , but Jaskier is not done talking.
“Not done.” He interrupts, holding up a finger as to silence Geralt before he can even start, and Geralt’s jaw clamps up with an audible click, “Because I know what you’re thinking in that witchy little brain of yours. You think I’m doing this only for a favor, yeah?”
“Essentially what I just said.” Geralt grits his teeth.
“Well, I’ll tell you that I’m doing this because it’s nice . Because I know no one else will, because you do all these amazing things for people, kill monsters and protect them and they give you nothing back. Sure, they will give you coin every once in a while, but most days they treat you like you’re worse than the monsters you kill.” Jaskier says, and there's a steely sort of determination in his eyes, like he dares Geralt to disagree.
“I’m more monster than human, Jaskier.”
Jaskier groans, “ Hardly . You really think monsters go around slaying other monsters to save people? And that’s exactly what you do!” Jaskier says, holding up a finger again when Geralt goes to disagree with him, “You save people, and I know you like to pretend that you only do it for the money but I know somewhere in your witchy little heart you like keeping people safe.”
Geralt grinds his teeth, because he knew that Jaskier has a rose tinted view of him, sees him as some hero when that’s barely true. But Geralt isn’t a hero, he’s a Witcher .
And Jaskier still doesn’t smell like fear, still only smells warm and soft and pleasant.
And Geralt knows that somehow Jaskier is right, to some extent, because Geralt doesn’t have to help people, save them as Jaskier puts it, but he does. He has kept Jaskier alive, and he didn’t have to, after all. He could have left him to die a long time ago, but he hasn’t.
Geralt sighs, tired, grumbles, “Sure, Jaskier.” Because he is unwilling to get into an argument, “I don’t do it only for coin.”
Jaskier’s face lights up as if he had truly said “ Of course, Jaskier, you’re always right. ”
“Of course, I am right after all.” Jaskier smiles, but then looks a bit more serious, “You deserve nice things, you know, Geralt?”
Something short circuits in Geralt’s brain, because surely he didn’t hear that right.
Jaskier stands up, lays the comb down on the bedside table and then he’s so close to Geralt that their chests are almost touching. They’re close in height, but Jaskier always seems so much smaller compared to him, especially when he’s as close as this.
“You deserve nice things, to be happy. You shouldn’t have to beg for something you’ve already earned.” Jaskier whispers, and he’s reaching up, his hands tentative and slow before he cups Geralt’s face between his palms.
“Is this okay?” Jaskier asks, leaning forward the slightest bit, and really all of this is more than okay.
So Geralt’s surges forward and closes the gap between them, captures Jaskier’s lips with his own and bites and tugs, using a hand to cup the entirety of the back of Jaskier’s head. Jaskier makes soft noises that Geralt swallows, and one of Jaskier’s hands finds Geralt’s hair and the other holds Geralt’s jaw, his thumb rubbing his cheek.
Jaskier’s lips are as soft as they look, and they are plump and pliant under Geralt’s teeth and tongue. Jaskier isn’t quiet now, either, and Geralt isn’t surprised.
Jaskier pulls away first and pants into the empty air that is left between them. “Need a moment to get angry at my past self for not doing this sooner.” Jaskier huffs out a weak laugh and Geralt allows himself to smile openly at Jaskier.
Jaskier smiles at him like he’s his sun, as if Geralt could possibly be so much to someone. Jaskier pecks him on the cheek and says, “I’m going to kiss you as often as possible, you know? Really shouldn’t have given me so much power, Witcher, I’m not particularly afraid of abusing it.”
Geralt chuckles, more so a deep rumble with a slight stutter, “I believe I will survive, bard.”
Jaskier kisses the corner of his mouth, then his cheekbone, and he stands on his tiptoes and tilts Geralt’s face until he can kiss him on the crown of his head.
“You’re beautiful, you know.” Jaskier murmurs, as if the words drifted from his lips absentmindedly, and despite the flush that has graced his cheeks he continues on, “Especially your eyes, very big and bright. The first thing I noticed, actually, very noticeable even from across the room. Like liquid golden pools.”
Geralt has to fight to not clear his throat, or do something as bashful as dip his head away from Jaskier so he doesn't have to make eye contact anymore.
“I also like your eyes.” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier laughs, a light and joyous sound.
“Why thank you Geralt, I think that is the nicest thing you have said to me thus yet.” Jaskier’s smile turns into a yawn, and Geralt notices the shadows under Jaskier’s eyes.
“You should rest.” Geralt says, and it comes out more of a command then he had intended, but it gets the message across just as effectively. Geralt is already nudging Jaskier toward the bed before the bard can even get a word in.
“Only if you join me.” Jaskier says, holds onto Geralt’s arm and looks up at him expectantly where he’s sat on the bed. Despite his confidant words he looks almost nervous, as if Geralt could possibly start denying him now.
Geralt grunts, “Okay.”
Jaskier smiles, immediately makes room for Geralt on the small bed. It’s a tight fit but it’s comfortable enough for two, and Geralt can not find it in himself to complain. He tugs off his shirt, figuring he probably shouldn’t wear it to bed and tosses it on the bedside table when Jaskier shoots him a look that says if you even think of throwing that on the floor I will kill you myself.
“Drama queen.” Geralt quips.
“ Brute. ” Jaskier grumbles, but the slight annoyance in his tone loses its effect when Jaskier buries his face into Geralt’s neck.
“You didn’t have to do any of this.” Geralt says after a moment, when they are both settled and Jaskier’s breath and heart rate have become steady and slow.
“I know, but I wanted to.” Jaskier says, and Geralt can feel the movement of Jaskier’s lips against his chest, “Besides, it wasn’t too much trouble.”
Geralt hums, hugs Jaskier tighter and says quietly, “Thank you, Jaskier.”
Jaskier’s breath hitches, and he looks up at Geralt from where he’s pillowed up against him, “Ah, of course, though no need to thank me Geralt. It’s the least I could do, you having to deal with me all this time.”
“I don’t have to– deal with you, Jaskier. I, I like having you around.” He admits the last part a bit quieter, and he refuses to look down at Jaskier. He can only take so much of his big watery eyes.
Jaskier is silent after that, but Geralt can feel his smile and Jaskier manages to move even closer against him.
Jaskier, Geralt has learned, is apparently the love of his life and he didn’t need to listen to any of this destiny crap to figure it out.
Though, he’s hardly ready to admit to any of that.
“Goodnight, Geralt.” Jaskier whispers, kisses Geralt’s collarbone.
“Goodnight, Jaskier.”