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The last goatskin is now full to the brim with fresh, clear water. Jaskier, very much indeed satisfied with his work, sighs and inhales deeply the flowery scent that lingers on the clearing. The stream that bisects it in two is so small he could easily cover the distance from one bank to the other with a jump. He considers trying the trick, though, but luckily enough he abandons the idea as soon as he remembers how slippery the mossy rocks must be.
Still.
It’s a bright, sunny spring day. Birds sing, pirouetting in the sky looking for a suitable partner with which perpetuate their species, and in distance – if he strains his ears enough – he can hear the loud roaring of mating deer and clashing antlers.
A nice day. And nice days are something to cherish, while on the road with a witcher.
He’s grinning, on his way back to the small site they have camped on, and when he spots Geralt sitting by a fir-tree his grin deepens.
“We’ve got water for a few days”, he says, dragging the heavy goatskins near the horse. Roach glares at him with her languid, watery eyes, and the bard gently pats her on the muzzle.
“Thanks”, Geralt says, mindlessly. Then, however, a series of curses in both Elder Speech and Common escape his lips, none of which would be easily excused if they were walking some civilized place – good enough that they’re in the middle of nowhere, far away from sensitive ears.
“Oi, watch out! The last time I said something like that, I was threatened to have my tongue cut”, Jaskier states, trying his best not to burst out laughing. Geralt’s amber eyes dart towards him. Unamused, he’s saying. Well, Jaskier is amused, for his part, but he doesn’t push his luck any further. Sulking Geralt equals boring Geralt – which, in turn, equals to “no kisses, endearments, nor occasional touches until Geralt gets over it” – and this day seems to be way too nice to be wasted by the witcher’s attitude.
“Now, now, what’s the fuss about?”
He leans by the pine like an idle brat, forcing Geralt to look at him from the ground upwards. The witcher curses again, fumbling clumsily with a leather string in his hands.
“Fucking thing won’t work”, he says – no, better, he roars -, running a hand through his hair. The look on his face is one of pure defeat. Jaskier doesn’t know whether to sympathize or laugh until his belly hurts at the sight of a literal slayer of vicious monsters defeated by a hair tie.
When in doubt, be nice.
“Here. Let me”, he says, crouching behind Geralt. The witcher hands him the tattered leather tie without a word. “
“Jaskier…”
Thanks, he’d say. Why are you so good to a heartless mutant, he’d add. Jaskier knows, even if the other man doesn’t say anything more than his name.
“The usual or something tighter? Your hair has grown quite a lot, recently, must be a pain in the ass to keep it from falling on your eyes”, he points out tentatively. Geralt is well aware of where the whole thing is going but, as surprisingly as it can sound, he doesn’t protest – not too much, at least.
“Whatever you think will suit”, he finally sighs. Jaskier gloats – maybe, maybe it’s time for Geralt to panic, considering how much the bard loves fancy hairstyles and other similar monstrosities. He doesn’t, albeit knowing he’ll regret giving Jaskier free rein over his messy hair again. “Just…uh…keep it simple. Please”, he quickly adds, on a second thought.
The bard chuckles quietly.
“You really don’t want me to have fun, do you?”
***
“What’s this smell?”
Jaskier abruptly stops humming. Detangling Geralt’s hair has proven itself to be a real Herculean task, since the witcher behaves exactly as if he was allergic to combs and brushes even in case combs and brushes are provided. Not that Jaskier carries a comb, anyway: the good ones are far too expensive and, besides, he’s got naturally easy-to-style hair, unlike Geralt whose hair has been badly affected by years and years of neglect.
“Relax, it’s just oil. I need to soften this tangled mass before proceeding.”
His dramatic, exaggerated tone elicits an annoyed huff from the man sitting cross-legged before him.
“Jaskier. Nothing too fancy.”
He’s literally pleading. Jaskier scoffs, thinking that the mighty monster hunter is, in facts, just a big child who likes to act childish while pretending to be perfectly reasonable.
“I know, stop complaining.”
Now, instead of complaining, Geralt groans.
“By the way, who’s the butcher who literally chopped your hair, Geralt? I mean. Wow. Was it a griffin claw or…?”
“Me, Jaskier. It was me”, he replies dryly.
Unamused.
“Oh. This speaks volumes.”
As if to shush any further complaining in the bud, the bard starts humming again. Now that the witcher’s hair have softened up a bit, he can start tying it into a tight, complicated braid. He has seen an illustration of an elvish warrior wearing it, somewhere, and he’s sure Geralt would look marvelous with the same hairstyle.
“It’s a braid”, he says, after a while. Jaskier’s almost done, even though he has started over twice, thanks to the unruly locks sliding out whenever he has dared to look away.
“So perceptive, are we?”
Geralt sighs dramatically.
“That’s it. This is the last time I let you have fun with my hair, bard. You make me look like---”
“Like what? A majestic ancient warrior? A fancy elven nobleman?”
He snorts. Jaskier ties the braid with the old leather string and places a gentle, loving kiss on top of Geralt’s head.
“Like an idiot.”
The bard doesn’t get offended. It’s affectionate bantering, a well-oiled mechanism perfected in years of traveling together, or bumping into one another at the weirdest times.
People linked by destiny will always find each other.
“Yeah, well, at least you’re a handsome idiot, thanks to me. Now, come on, aren’t we late on our schedule? Monsters ain’t gonna slay themselves, right?”
Geralt chuckles under his breath. He doesn’t laugh often, but when he does Jaskier’s heart flutters with complete, utter joy.
“Right. Better find another kikimora before we starve.”
Jaskier smirks. They aren’t short on money yet, but Geralt’s right, they’d better be moving. It’s a long way down to the next village.
***
“Jaskier? Are you sleeping?”
The bard stirs. They’re sitting by the fire, his back firmly pressed against Geralt’s warm chest, his slow heartbeat lulling him to sleep.
However.
“Not yet. Why?”
Geralt shrugs.
“Nothing important, it’s just…the braid. It hasn’t come undone yet, even if I’ve worn it all day long.”
Jaskier lets out a small, sleepy laugh.
“So?”
“Nothing. You’re good at braiding.”
If a witcher could blush, Jaskier is sure Geralt would be blushing very hard right now.
Yes, this has been a nice day indeed, as expected.
“Thanks. Playing the lute has given me nimble fingers, I guess. Does it mean that I get to braid your hair more often, then?”
“Absolutely not.”
Another laugh. A small sigh coming from Geralt’s half-parted lips. The brush of said lips on the back of Jaskier’s head, barely a featherly touch. Jaskier’s mouth curls into a soft smile.
“Why not? You said it yourself, I’m good at it.”
“Jaskier.”
“Yes?”
“Sleep.”
The witcher’s voice is filled with affection. It’s husky, low, and it rumbles in his chest nicely. Yeah, Jaskier is very, very happy of how this day turned out to be, although walking for miles and miles in the woods isn’t exactly all fun and games.
Sleep.
He has never been more glad to comply, by the way.