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Two words had been occupying Jaskier’s mind for the past few days, or even weeks now: fillingless pie .
Ever since Geralt made this comment about his singing, Jaskier had been quieter than usual; his ramblings lessened to the point where they were just meaningless short comments, and his babbling subsided until the Witcher almost began to worry. Of course, Geralt hadn’t realized that what he’d said about the bard was the issue- he’d never even imagine it, being the ‘heartless creature’ people sought him out to be.
So one evening after a whole day of travel and not one word from Jaskier, the Witcher couldn’t help but ask,
“What’s wrong, Bard?”
Jaskier hesitated. “What do you mean?” He asked, fiddling with a twig in his hand.
Geralt rolled his eyes. “You haven’t said a word yet this whole day, Jaskier. And that’s the last thing I’d expect from you.”
He waited for some sort of response but got nothing. He sighed and said, “Are you ill?”
Jaskier huffed and remained silent.
“Well, what is it then?” Geralt demanded.
If Jaskier wasn’t sick, then why the hell wouldn’t he talk? He’d usually never stop talking, and as much as the Witcher hated to admit it, he’d always been entertained by Jaskier’s ramblings. He’d grown used to the mainly one-sided conversations, and almost missed them when Jaskier was away. He’d miss his awkward attempts at deep conversations, his bard jokes, his nonsensical babblings, and even his singing. Oh gods , had he missed Jaskier’s singing. Geralt would never be caught dead doing this, but sometimes while Jaskier was away, he’d hum or even quietly sing Jaskier’s songs. But never the one that got him famous. The ones he’d make up along trips from the top of his mind. They usually didn’t make complete sense to Geralt, but that made them endearing in a way, and they were always much too catchy.
Jaskier still hadn’t answered the damn question at hand, and Geralt was getting impatient. He missed Jaskier’s voice, and longed to hear something that was more than a sigh, or a short huffed out sentence come from the bard’s lips.
“ Jaskier -”
“My singing isn’t like getting a filling-less pie, Geralt,” Jaskiered hissed suddenly.
Geralt looked taken aback, his golden eyes open wide.
“What?” He asked, blinking.
“My singing isn’t like getting a filling-less pie,” the bard repeated sternly. “It’s not.”
“What brought that up?” Geralt asked, still clearly not understanding.
Jaskier just rolled his eyes.
“Listen, Bard-” Geralt began pointedly.
“Yes,” Jaskier interrupted. “ ‘bard’ is right.” Geralt squinted in confusion. Jaskier inhaled sharply, getting ready to speak. “Bards preform, play instruments, charm, sing . Let’s say I’m not all that charming,” he began, dropping the twig from his hands. Geralt bit his tongue to keep himself from correcting the bard. He was, in fact, charming, and Geralt had to restrain himself from saying so. “If I’m not charming, than at least I can sing. But if a bard is not charming, and cannot sing, then they can hardly call themself a bard, can they? Sure I can strum of a tune on a lute, but if I cannot sing, than that’s it, and I’m no more special or talented than anyone else.”
Geralt sighed and stared at the twig Jaskier dropped before looking to face him. He figured knew where Jaskier was going with this, but he wanted to hear him say it.
“What are you saying, Jaskier?”
“I’m saying , if I can’t call myself a bard, then I am nothing,” he explained, between biting his bottom lip. His eyes stung a bit, but he continued, “ ‘Bard’ is the only title I have; my only reputation. It’s all I have going for me. If my singing is bad, than maybe one of the only things I can call myself proud for,” he inhaled. “is in my imagination.” He looked at Geralt and tried to ignore the soft, saddened, almost pleading eyes he wore, because for fuck’s sake , he had the right to be mad at him. He sighed, but the Witcher’s eyes were still locked to his. Geralt wanted to keep listening. Maybe it was because he wanted the bard to let off steam, or because he wanted to hear more about what he had to say, or because it felt just a little bit like heaven to hear his voice again. Or maybe it was for all of those reasons. Maybe that was the look in the Witcher’s eyes- all the things he wanted to say, but didn’t know how, or all the things he felt but couldn’t say.
“I’m nothing without my voice,” Jaskier continued finally. “Me without my voice, is like you without your sword, or your- your-” he stuttered for a moment. “your Witchering .” Geralt smiled for a short moment at the familiar word.
Jaskier sighed once more and went silent. But so did Geralt. They sat on their logs in front of the fire, silently. Geralt had hoped- or assumed- that Jaskier knew that he understood what he was saying by his listening, and that it would be enough.
But he missed the glances from Jaskier that just begged for something . An apology, a thank you, a hug, just something from the Witcher. Geralt missed them completely.
“You’re not even going to say anything?” Jaskier snapped after another moment. “Nothing?”
“Jaskier-”
“No, if you wanted to say something you would have. And I’d hate to make you do anything- especially if it includes my wretched, godawful voice .” Then he stomped off without his sleeping bag, his water, or even his lute , which he took absolutely everywhere.
It was almost dark, so of course Geralt didn’t want him running off in the forest alone, but something told him it would be a bad idea to follow him. If Geralt was as upset as Jaskier, he’d want to be alone, so he left Jaskier to blow off some steam. Even if that meant being too worried to fall asleep until the small hours of the morning, staring at Jaskier’s empty bedroll.
----------------
The next morning after waking up early and tending to Roach, Geralt decided to go away from camp for a bit- get more firewood, hunt, anything to take his mind off Jaskier.
He was in the middle of collecting firewood, when he heard nearing footsteps. Normally when this sound occurred, he’d draw his sword, but he knew these footsteps without having to turn and look- although they seemed to have lost a bit of their liveliness and bounce.
Geralt took a deep breath, and started to hum, then softly sing,
“Oh maybe she will never understand
the importance of holding hands.
but maybe she’ll let me hear her sing,
if I let her know that she’s really my king”
Geralt thought when he first heard the bard’s unfinished song, that it was one of his spur of the moment, confusing songs, but now he understood. He said king- not queen- for a reason. Geralt smiled as he quietly sang, ignoring the footsteps drawing closer until they stopped, mere feet away from him.
He kept singing in his soft, low tone, when Jaskier spoke up in a nearly choked voice, “You remembered my song… I only sang it once.”
Geralt smiled and turned to face him, dropping the wood in his arms with a thud. “How could I ever let anything slip my mind that came from a voice like yours?” He asked quietly, looking into the bard’s eyes.
Jaskier grinned, and it felt so good to see such a happy expression on him again. He quickly raised his arms and wrapped them around Geralt’s neck. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck, whispering, “Not such an empty pie, now is it?”
Geralt hummed.
Jaskier blushed as the Witcher tilted his chin up, and bent down slightly to kiss him. Jaskier froze in shock for fragment of a second, before returning the kiss strongly, with the cheesiest smile that could ever be plastered on anyone’s lips.
When they parted, Jaskier had a feeling the day would be just fine.
Geralt walked back to camp, Jaskier holding his hand and proudly singing,
“Toss a coin to my Witcher”
As Geralt happily listened.