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Geralt generally uses a pretty low bar when it comes to deciding whether a day has been ‘good’ or not.
This particular day has been just fine.
Fine, if not eventful, as they hadn’t done much besides travel the road in a westward direction, towards towns large enough to maybe have some steady work for bards and witchers both. They’d found a clean little inn at a crossroads in the late afternoon, and that would turn out to be a welcome break from camping, especially when the innkeeper - an older man with kind eyes and a kinder disposition, apparently - had offered them a significant discount on food and lodging if Jaskier would agree to play a few hours that evening.
The bard had hummed and hawed for a moment, took his time considering the proposition, although Geralt had known from the way his eyes lit up at the invitation he’d have never turned it down.
So now he’s sitting at a corner table, a tankard of pleasantly drinkable ale in front of him - good - and no one paying him any much mind - even better. Jaskier is playing for a small crowd who all seem to be genuinely enjoying the performance. The evening is still young and there are a few children running about the room, engaged in some combination of dancing and tag that only they can fully understand. Jaskier has modified his list of songs accordingly, Geralt notices, as any of his more...colourful pieces have yet to be heard.
The bar might usually be low, but it’s been a good day by any account.
He allows himself a small smile as he watches a young girl - no older than ten - shyly approach the bard during a short break between songs and offer him a sort of handmade crown, woven together with small yellow flowers. That smile grows, maybe he even lets out a gruff chuckle (not that he’d ever admit it, later), when Jaskier doesn’t even need to fake his delight at being offered such a gift. He’s entirely genuine in his gratitude, and offers her one of his most charming smiles as he gives voice to his thanks, kneeling down so they’re closer to eye level and she can gently place it on his head.
Geralt has schooled his face back to an expression of - mostly - indifference when Jaskier joins him at the table a short time later. He leans his lute carefully against another chair and motions for two ales to be brought to them.
“On the house,” says the pretty barkeep - the owner's daughter - when she delivers them a short time later. “You’re gathering quite a crowd this evening, master bard, more than enough to cover your tab.”
Jaskier supplements his thanks with a wink, and the woman smiles just a little more widely as she takes her leave and heads back towards the bar.
“Quite the place we’ve found,” Geralt comments as he pulls his drink closer to him, and Jaskier finally breaks his gaze from the barkeep’s retreating form to take a long pull from his own tankard and reply.
“Quite magnificent, I think you mean. I’ve half a mind to never leave.”
“They all seem quite taken with you,” the witcher continues, not entirely in favour of doing anything to boost his friend’s inflated ego, but at the same time not capable of ignoring the obvious.
Jaskier leans forward in a near conspiratorial fashion, and lowers his voice to a dramatic whisper. “Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because before today, I’ve never met a single one of them.”
Geralt gives another short laugh before he can stop himself. “Your self-awareness is admirable, if nothing else.”
The bard gives him a quick wink and a small, knowing smile and leans back in his seat again, tapping a tune against the side of his drink with his fingers. “I have a great many things that are admirable, Geralt. That’s only one of them.”
“No doubt.”
The evening continues, and as the sky grows darker outside the patrons inside the bar shift. There are far less children and far more men, finished with a long day’s work and ready for a drink and some entertainment. Alenna - as Geralt has come to learn is the barmaid’s name over the previous hours - and Jaskier, respectively, are happy to oblige.
Geralt is listening idly to conversation around him between songs - he has yet to hear a certain one involving witchers and coins, for which he is very grateful because then people will start asking him questions - and leisurely making his way through a generous slice of strawberry pie, when the tavern door opens.
Most of the crowd takes no notice, but to him the room might as well have fallen silent completely and any sense of calm serenity he’d been enjoying disappears in an instant.
It’s not replaced with panic, or any other number of negative feelings he might try to describe. But it’s something like surprise. Or anticipation.
And, strangely, a little bit like relief.
Yennefer of Vengerberg surveys the room for a moment, eyes passing over the crowd and their performer with displeased recognition, but when violet eyes meet his gaze a moment later her perpetual mask of indifference crumbles ever so slightly.
She replaces it with a frown quickly enough, and makes her way towards him after another moment’s contemplation, long skirts immaculate despite the fact they’re brushing the floor as she walks.
“Yennefer,” he greets her once she’s within earshot. “Funny, seeing you here.”
“I was just passing through,” is all she offers by way of explanation as she takes a seat at the table. “How are you, Geralt?”
The question is loaded, he can tell by the tone of her voice, but he’d rather not clear up any air between them in the middle of a crowded, noisy tavern.
Besides, the longer she’s sitting there, the longer he’s staring at her, the more he starts to wonder what they could possibly be on bad terms about.
And she smells wonderful.
“I’m fine,” he says finally, realising he hadn’t actually answered her question out loud. “It’s been a good day.”
...why did he say that?
Yennefer’s expression suggests that she’s wondering the same thing. “I’m glad to hear it,” she replies after a moment, before evidently taking pity on him and changing the topic. “Are you here for work?”
“We’re just passing through as well.”
“Yes, ‘we’, I noticed that,” the sorceress purses her lips unpleasantly but says nothing else as Jaskier takes another seat at the table, lute in hand and crown of flowers still perched on his head.
Geralt hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped playing.
Jaskier rests his chin on his free hand as he leans forward on the table in mock interest. “Yennefer. What brings a beautiful sorceress such as yourself to an establishment like this? Hunting down another djinn, maybe? A better luck next time sort of scenario?”
The witcher shoots him a warning glare, but Yennefer holds his gaze indifferently and doesn’t consider his baited questions to be worth answering. “How’s your throat, Jaskier? Any complaints?”
“Well, actually -”
“And how’s your cat?”
Geralt turns his gaze back to the bard, humour and confusion lacing his voice in equal measure. “Your cat?”
“He’s...fine,’ Jaskier fumbles for a moment, and suddenly finds great interest in twisting one of the pegs on his lute. “Fine. Never better, actually.”
“So glad to hear it,” Yennefer says again, now sounding far from it as she turns back to the witcher. “You’re only here for the night, then?”
She’s holding his gaze intently, and he’s finding it more and more difficult to think about anything other than those violet eyes. The dark waves of hair framing her face. The scent of lilac and gooseberries. “That’s right.”
“Do you have a room already? With a bath? I’m dying for a bath.”
Jaskier is about to retort when there’s a swell of noise from the other patrons in the bar, urging the bard to another performance. In an instant the frown on his face has been replaced with a gracious smile, and he’s back on his feet, strumming a few chords for a receptive crowd as he walks back towards the centre of the room.
Yennefer seems to barely notice his departure, and instead places a delicate hand on Geralt’s own, a silent suggestion to drop his fork - the one he hadn't realised he was still holding - and forget about the pie in front of him. “Would you help me with that bath, Geralt?”
She needn’t have bothered, he’d already forgotten about that pie some time ago.
~
He notices them leave out of the corner of his eye, and only the sharpest of ears would have noticed that he nearly fumbled a few notes - but he doubts there are any sharp ears left in the crowd, at this point. Everyone is having a wonderful time - drinking, laughing, dancing, some even singing along - and he’s the only one to notice a witcher and a sorceress take to the stairs.
But, he’s a professional.
So he ignores the confusing pressure in his chest and forces a smile back to his face, and it’s not actually too difficult to do when there’s a few dozen people clapping along to his music.
At this rate, if the patrons showed their appreciation in coin with the same exuberance, there wouldn’t be any need to camp again for quite awhile.
He finishes the song, and then another, and then one more at the insistence of the crowd, before finally pulling the strap of his lute over his head, declaring a drink or two necessary before he can continue.
And, miraculously, he finds more than a few in front of him within minutes, along with a generous serving of stew and a gentle shoulder squeeze from Alenna. She gives him a soft, but somewhat sad smile before heading back to the bar and Jaskier can’t help but notice the ache in his chest is back.
His thoughts drift upstairs, to the rented room he and Geralt are sharing, before frowning and reining all those thoughts back in determinedly.
They would be staying downstairs, along with the rest of him, where he and his music would be appreciated and he wouldn’t walk into any sort of situations that he was most definitely not thinking about.
Again.
He takes a long, long drink of ale.
It’s several hours and more than several drinks later, and he’s busy regaling Alenna with one of their adventures - “It’s all true, I swear, every bit of it, my dear...” - when a few men make their way to the bar. Men who had had many more than several drinks over the course of the evening, if their countenance and the smell of alcohol wafting off of them was anything to go by.
Their apparent leader - as all such rough-looking groups of gruff men seem to have one - leans heavily on the countertop. “Another round, ‘lenna.”
“Do you have the coin?” her reply is pleasant enough, but there’s an undercurrent of trepidation in her voice that Jaskier doubts the man noticed. It also sounded somewhat rehearsed, as if she had had this conversation with him before.
“Add it to the tab.”
“I’m sorry, Ren, but we aren’t allowing any more of that until you’ve paid up,” Alenna looks downright nervous now, and it doesn’t help when the man leans further over the bar, an unpleasant scowl spread across already unpleasant features. He grabs Jaskier’s half-filled mug on his left, considers it for half a moment, and then flings it across the room with impressive force. The ceramic shatters against the wall, and much of the room falls silent.
Alenna takes half a step back, all colour rapidly draining from previously rosy cheeks as the man growls. “Drinks. Now.”
Jaskier clears his throat, raises a hand in hesitant greeting despite the fact he and the man are only standing a couple feet apart. He could pay for a round, not for their benefit, but to help give poor Alenna some breathing space. She had been more than generous, anyway, he can return that favour. “Gentlemen, hello. If I might be so bold as to -”
It was, apparently, too bold, and the last straw for Ren. Never mind the fact he might have been very interested in what the bard was going to say, if he had let him finished. But he hadn’t, and in the next instant Jaskier is stumbling backwards, holding his face where the man’s fist had met it quite solidly in the previous moment, just below his eye.
There’s an instant cacophony of noise, yelling and a few screams, chairs tipping and dishes breaking, as it seemed - as it often does - that all it took was one small catalyst for all hell to break loose. A few people are rushing for the door, but many are joining in the fray - some announcing their intent to defend the good bard Jaskier or their friend the barkeep Alenna, but most just looking for a bit of fun.
Jaskier, for his part, isn’t so interested in helping to defend his own good name, and instead tries to make his way, a little unsteadily, towards the table where his lute is sitting, dodging flying mugs and fists alike. He’s nearly there when a sudden burst of energy shoots outwards from the stairway, pushing him - and everyone else - several feet away from the source.
He steadies himself on the back of a chair, and knows before turning around that it’s Geralt and his good friend the Aard sign. Always somewhat effective in helping to break up minor brawls.
But most of the other patrons don’t know that, and at the first sign of magic, no matter how minor, the atmosphere in the room shifts again just as quickly as people near trip over one another in their rush to get to the exit.
Most of them.
Ren and his boys look near delighted as they consider the witcher taking the last few stairs and crossing the room towards them. Geralt looks a little eager, mostly bored, and entirely ready to make short work of the men who had deemed it appropriate to ruin a good day.
Geralt gives Jaskier a quick glance before throwing his first punch, and must have found the bard to be okay to his satisfaction because the second hit is harder, more focused, and Ren actually slides several feet across the floor. He groans lowly and doesn’t get up.
The tavern is near deserted by now, other than Jaskier, Geralt and the ruffians, and poor Alenna hiding behind the bar. The witcher seems to be dealing with them quite handily now, and Jaskier has no problem simply standing there, hand held gingerly to his cheek as he waits for Geralt to finish with the men.
Or he would have no problem, if it weren’t for the first man Geralt had knocked down staggering back to his feet with a lurch, one hand holding his own face where an impressive swollen lip was forming, but the other grasping a wicked-looking blade he’d pulled from a hidden sheath in his boot.
Jaskier is standing between them, more or less, but Ren only has angry eyes for the witcher as he starts his short and lumbering walk to close the distance between them. For his part, Geralt seems to be near cheerfully finishing up his last fist fight and doesn’t take notice.
Ren is about to move past him, and Jaskier can only do two things.
One, call his friend’s name, and pray there’s enough warning (certainly not panic) in his tone to convince Geralt to take notice and turn around.
And two, slow the man down, somehow.
He grabs his lute by the neck, where it had been innocently leaning against the table, an uncharacteristically silent observer of the chaos.
His lute, the gift from Filavandrel that he'd received on the day he first met Geralt, the one he’d cared for so carefully ever since. The one he’d shared countless adventures with since, and then used to help recount the tales - amended versions they may be. His instrument that was for both work and leisure, his profession as well as his hobby.
Easily his most prized possession, the thing he loves more than anything else on this Gods-damned continent.
He shouts Geralt’s name and moves.
Because Jaskier only loves that lute more than almost anything - or anyone - else.
He raises it back, steps forward and then swings as hard as he possibly can. Ren is only a few steps away from the witcher, who Jaskier can see is starting to turn around before he squeezes his own eyes shut as the instrument makes contact with the back of the man’s head.
The sound is horrific, splintering wood and broken strings, a dull cracking sound that he very much doesn’t want to think about, and then a heavy thud.
Jaskier opens one eye to confirm the man is now a crumpled pile on the floor (he is, and he’s not moving at all), and that Geralt is fine (he is, and he’s staring at him with a strange mixture of pride and confusion), and then lets his shoulders drop as he sighs heavily. He holds up his former instrument with one hand to inspect the damage.
The body is still attached to the neck, but just barely, and it sways rather precariously as he raises it up. The part which had made contact with Ren’s head is entirely caved in, and all of the strings are broken.
“Ouch,” he says softly, vocalizing a kind of pain very different than physical.
“Are you alright?”
Geralt’s low voice causes him to look away from the broken lute, and the witcher is taking the few short steps to be at his side, kicking the serrated blade away from the unconscious man’s hand as he does.
“Oh yes, just fine,” Jaskier’s voice is perhaps a touch higher than normal as he smiles thinly and shakes the lute slightly for good measure. The body of the instrument finally detaches from the neck with a final crack of wood and hits the floor in front of them.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, laying a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder as they both stare down at the broken lute. “We’ll get you a new one.”
Jaskier only nods, but his friend’s use of “we” does make him feel a little better.
Geralt continues after a moment, perhaps a little surprised he didn’t receive an answer but moving forward nonetheless. “Thanks for your help.”
“That’s me, always willing to lend a hand. Or a lute.” Jaskier finally meets the witcher’s gaze, gives him a quick once-over to make sure his friend is fine as well. All of his injuries seem to be superficial, the average result of a bar brawl, and the thought of no serious wounds cheers him up ever-so-slightly more.
The main door opens again and several town guards file in, following one of the inn’s earlier patrons who had scurried off at the first sign of trouble. Alenna, who had already reappeared from behind the bar, assures them with remarkable adamance that there was no unauthorized use of magic, just your everyday bar brawl, and that the thugs responsible were all currently spread out across the floor. The unconscious men are rounded up in short order and hauled away with little fuss.
Jaskier is helping Alenna and several other good samaritans a short time later, uprighting knocked over chairs and picking up pieces of broken dinnerware when Yennefer finally makes her reappearance at the bottom of the stairs, surveying the scene with mild curiosity.
Geralt is across the room, helping another man set tables upright, and Jaskier does little to hide his sigh of annoyance. “Thank you so much for your help earlier.”
“I was busy,” she doesn’t offer more explanation than that, but Jaskier decides he doesn’t care anyway. “Besides, any worthwhile traveler should well be able to handle a bar fight without a mage’s help.”
“We did take care of it. I’m just saying, perhaps it wouldn’t have been quite so bloody.”
“We?” Yennefer echoes, ignoring the rest of his words entirely. “I wasn't really referring to you in that statement.”
“I can handle myself,” his response is indignant, hands on his hips.
She raises a perfect brow, tilts her head ever so slightly towards his visage, most likely referring to his bruised cheek and the beginnings of a black eye. “Clearly.”
“He was a great help, Yen. Truly,” Geralt appears at his side, always around to save him, and gives him a clap on the back. He makes a conscious effort not to take a step forwards and balance himself.
She doesn’t answer, just gives them a tight smile before requesting a tea from Alenna.
The three of them are sitting at the same table a few minutes later when the barmaid brings tea for all of them. Jaskier is resting his chin on one hand as he surveys the quiet tavern with tired eyes. He’s not actually sure what they’re waiting for, now, why they don’t all just head off to bed, but he’d already decided he wouldn’t be the first to leave.
He would love nothing more than to prop his feet on the table and strum a few chords to break up the near-silence, and he sighs heavily as he glances down at the pieces of the lute he’d placed on the fourth chair at their table.
Geralt must have followed his gaze, because the witcher raises his drink a moment later. “A toast. To our fallen comrade.”
“He seems fine to me, far from fallen,” Yennefer comments with detached interest and a straight face.
“Don’t sound too upset about it,” Jaskier forces down a yawn, and the glare he manages to send her way is half-hearted at best.
“You’re right. Humans do tend to age terribly quickly. We need only to be patient.”
His scowl becomes more genuine.
“Yen. Please.” Geralt’s words are pointed, and the sorceress only shrugs almost imperceptibly and turns back to her tea.
But Jaskier raises his own mug, touches it to Geralt’s still waiting in the air with a soft clink. “A finer traveling companion I never had,” he says, not needing to put in much effort towards sounding melancholy about it. “Well, almost never.”
“And a finer sounding one I’ve almost never had,” Geralt agrees, and though his own sorrow doesn't sound entirely legitimate, Jaskier appreciates the gesture all the same. “What do we do now? Tell tales of the lute’s glorious deeds?”
“Where do we even begin?” Jaskier notices Yennefer glance skywards with thinly veiled exasperation out of the corner of his eye, and takes his time leaning back in his chair, raising his arms in a grand gesture. “Years worth of adventures, years and years, I expect we’ll be here all night recounting them all -”
He cuts himself off when Yennefer is suddenly on her feet and standing between him and the broken lute. She holds one hand out over the instrument, and makes a quick motion with the other towards his head. He tries to duck out of her reach - although, considering what she did to him last time they were in such close proximity, perhaps it was more of a flinch - but her reflexes are much faster and she grabs the flower crown that was miraculously still settled atop his head.
“Hey! That’s mine, if you want your own you should ask - you should...what are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer him, and he watches with mild horror as the delicate, yellow flowers wither and die in her hand right before their eyes.
But then he peers around her, towards the other hand which is emitting the softest glow, and can’t bother to disguise his gasp of surprise when it’s a near flawless lute sitting on the chair - one piece, strings attached, the last pieces realigning themselves and smoothing out any splinters in the grain of the wood.
The glow fades a moment later, and Yennefer tosses the dead flowers on the table before picking up the lute and holding it out to Jaskier impatiently. “Here. Now I don’t want to hear another damned word about it tonight.”
“Only tonight?” he asks after a moment, taking the lute from her carefully and holding it up for a thorough inspection, but it’s more a show than anything because he knows it’s probably perfect.
Geralt is doing little to hide his smile as he watches them both.
“Preferably never, if I’m being honest.”
“You ask far too much, because I really liked those flowers,” Jaskier says with a vague gesture and a heavy, maybe-not-so-authentic sigh. He holds the lute close to him, welcoming back a dear friend with a gentle hug, and his next words are the most genuine he’s ever spoken to the sorceress. “Thank you.”
“It was for my own sanity, not your benefit,” she replies, returning to her seat. And maybe he just imagined it, but he thinks there might have been just a touch less of the venom in her voice that he’s already become accustomed to.
So he’ll leave it at that. For now, at least.
Jaskier leans back in his seat, feet resting on the now-empty fourth chair at the table, and strums a few soft chords. Surprisingly - or, maybe not - the instrument sounds perfectly tuned.
“Well, now we need to celebrate. A lost friend, now found. Shall we sing to the occasion? Maybe a few of the old favourites?” He plays another chord, evidently familiar to more than just Geralt and himself.
“Do not play that coin song, bard. I mean it.”
He smiles, and rests his feet on the floor again as he leans forward in mock interest. “Oh, so you’ve heard my songs before, Yennefer?”
“Of course I’ve bloody heard them. Don’t play it now.”
“Well, how about this? We’ll compose a new one, together, right now. Just a little story maybe, and I’ll put it to music later. I’ll start. A witcher, a sorceress, and a bard walk into a tavern...”
“I’m going back to my room.” Yennefer offers a curt goodnight, and a slightly longer look to Geralt before heading for the stairs.
“‘Her’ room,” he scoffs, but doesn’t press it further. “What does she have against the arts, Geralt? You’d think someone of her education and standing would appreciate them more.”
Geralt gives him a look somewhere between exasperation and fondness, before finishing his drink and standing as well.
“Thank you again, for what you did,” the witcher says, resting a hand on the bard’s shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze.
“Now, now,” Jaskier replies airily, waving off his friend’s words halfheartedly. “Not that I’m ever one to turn down accolades, but it was one man you surely could have handled on your own. You might be blowing this slightly out of proportion.”
Geralt shrugs, but the small smile doesn’t leave his face. “Isn’t that exactly what you do for a living? Blow things out of proportion?”
“Ah, well, there’s nothing wrong with a little artistic license.”
“Anyway, that’s not the point. I appreciate what you were willing to do,” he gestures to the lute on the bard’s lap. “I know how much it means to you.”
It would be so easy to keep up the tone of nonchalance, to wave his words away with another attempt at a joke. But he doesn’t. The words he wants to say are too much, and they die in his throat before he can give voice to them.
So he puts on a smile, and twists them somewhat. “You’re my friend, Geralt. Of course.” You’re my dearest friend, maybe you're more than that, I - “And...and you would be far more difficult to replace.”
Not exactly what he was going for, but...
The witcher laughs quietly, and Jaskier lets go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “There you go again, blowing things out of proportion.”
“No, I meant it,” his words are so soft, but he knows even better than most that witchers have keen ears.
The expression on Geralt’s face - grinning, playful - changes to something more gentle. And maybe something akin to understanding. He gives Jaskier’s shoulder one last squeeze and lets his arm fall back to his side. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”
“Goodnight, Geralt,” his voice is back to its normal pitch, and the intention of any words he did or did not speak aloud might only be given away by the slight flush he can feel burning on his cheeks. But he thinks of instances in the past, and of the woman waiting for the witcher upstairs, and needs to ask one more question. He doesn’t look at Geralt as he does, but instead at the ring of dead flowers on the table. “You aren’t going to disappear in the morning, are you?”
You aren’t going to leave me, are you?
“No, I wouldn’t. Not without you.”
The words are as much a comfort to him as the lute he’s still holding, if not more.
Because Geralt speaks them with such sincere conviction that Jaskier believes them, without doubt, to be true.