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Surely it's irresponsible to love someone this much. If so—then I'm the happiest fool alive.
— Michael Faudet
“Another day, another hunt,” Jaskier says, sifting through his bag for one of his scented oils. He makes a triumphant sound when he finds the one he wants, then continues, “Another bath at the inn to rid the fearsome witcher of the stench of selkimore guts, hm?”
He turns around, brandishing the vial he’d chosen, beaming at Geralt sitting in said bath and glaring up at him. Said selkimore guts continue to drip down his shoulders from his hair, and Jaskier wonders just exactly when he’d gotten accustomed to their awful rotten meat smell during his travels with Geralt.
He thinks it says something about him, about his devotion and loyalty—or just his absolutely hopeless feelings for a witcher, but Jaskier likes to pretend he’d do it even if he weren’t deeply, madly, insanely in love with gold eyes and white hair.
He wouldn’t, probably, but he likes to pretend he would.
For show, because he is nothing if not melodramatic whenever possible, he screws up his nose and complains, “Gods, that’s rank. How do you stand it?”
As usual, Geralt merely grunts, settling back in the tub as Jaskier comes around behind him, kicking a footstool up to sit on. “You get used to it,” he says, voice gruff.
“That’s...actually quite sad,” Jaskier says, not unkindly. He pours the cherry blossom oil into his hand, chosen for its soft, unobtrusive smell that he’s found is most gentle on Geralt’s overly sensitive nose. “That you had to. And it’s not pity,” he adds, when Geralt turns and opens his mouth no doubt to snap at him. “No one decent should have to get used to the smell of selkimore guts. I mean, honestly, it’s so hard to wash out, and it lingers, you know? Of course you do, you’re always the one wearing them, what am I saying?”
“Nothing helpful,” Geralt snarks anyway, and Jaskier gives him a gentle swat on the arm. He picks up the bucket of water he’d set aside, and murmurs a gentle Eyes closed as he pours it over Geralt’s hair, watching in fascination as the selkimore guts are rinsed out and snow-white hair can be seen again. Geralt brings his hands up with water to rub it out of his eyes as Jaskier begins rubbing the oil into his hair.
It’s a ritual at this point: Geralt comes back from a hunt covered in blood and guts and gore, sometimes his own, mostly the monsters’, and Jaskier has a bath prepared for him, soaps and oils at the ready to help clean him up and unwind his muscles. It had been several tries of trial and error to settle on scents that didn’t make Geralt gag or give him a headache on top of all the other aches, but they’d found a few.
He prefers soft natural scents, Jaskier’s found, nothing artificially created by man, something he could find if he stepped outside and walked into the nearest forest—florals mostly, but nothing so heady as a perfume, just a few petals left to soak in the oil to infuse their scent just enough to be noticed but not overwhelming.
Jaskier has taken to wearing them himself over the expensive perfumes he usually prefers, if only because they really are much nicer and Geralt seems more at ease.
He finds he does a lot of things these days simply because they put Geralt at ease; nothing brings him greater contentment than to make Geralt’s life a little easier.
And this—being able to bathe him after a hard and arduous hunt—is one of Jaskier’s secret pleasures. He massages the oil into Geralt’s hair, humming softly, almost absently, using his fingers to comb through mats and tangles as he works it in. He pulls it through the strands gently, careful not to snag too suddenly because while Geralt will only grit his teeth, Jaskier knows his scalp is more tender than he lets on, and he tries not to cause any more pain than necessary.
Once he’s thoroughly worked the oil in, he picks up the bucket again and fills it with the bathwater, tilting Geralt’s head back as he dumps it over him again to wash out any residue, using his other hand to keep it from going in those beautiful gold eyes. He sets the bucket down and runs his hand through that white hair once again, ensuring it’s smooth and tangle-free, and if he indulges himself in the silky feel of it for a moment, well—Geralt won’t say a thing, if only to avoid having to acknowledge it in the first place.
Jaskier, contrary to popular belief of certain white-haired witchers, isn’t an idiot, and he isn’t ignorant—he knows that he’s painfully obvious with his feelings, that Geralt can most certainly smell the longing and pining that must be pouring from him.
His heart is on his sleeve always and no more so than when he’s around Geralt, but if Geralt wants to ignore it, then Jaskier will pretend the longing and pining are for someone else.
Hair clean again, Geralt sinks further into the hot water, letting out a grunt of satisfaction. Jaskier pours a few drops of the oil into the water to absorb into Geralt’s skin, and then busies himself with putting it away in his pack and tidying up the room while Geralt has his rightfully earned soak.
It’s a content silence that fills their room, and Jaskier is almost—almost, because he knows Geralt has learned to appreciate his lyrical voice even if he doesn’t want to admit it—surprised that Geralt breaks it a while later with a soft, “You’re unusually quiet tonight.”
Jaskier hums, smiling at the turning of the tables, and moves the stool around to the side of the bath so he can look at Geralt. He drops his hand into the water, lukewarm now, and leans his other arm on the edge. “Just appreciating the atmosphere, I suppose.”
“You’re pining,” Geralt says, and oh. Perhaps he will acknowledge it after all. “I can smell it from here.”
Jaskier takes a breath in through his nose on reflex, despite his own, lesser senses. “I'm pining,” he agrees softly, cautiously. His heart starts beating faster, and he knows Geralt can hear it.
“Who is it this time?” Geralt asks, eyebrow quirked. The corner of his mouth curls up, and Jaskier fights the urge to lean into him and kiss it. He looks smug and content splayed out in the bath as he regards Jaskier. “Another countess? A baroness? The barmaid downstairs?”
Jaskier snorts, allowing a small grin to cross his face as he shakes his head. He doesn’t feel quite up to playing their game tonight—something in the air, he thinks—but he says, “Happily married to her husband. Wouldn’t even give me the time of day when I approached her! Can you imagine!”
Geralt only huffs, still smiling that small, barely-there smile of his that makes Jaskier’s breath catch in his throat and his heart flutter, butterflies in his belly. His gold eyes drop down to where Jaskier’s fingers absently trail over his arm beneath the water, and Jaskier holds his breath, waiting, waiting to be pushed away, to be brushed off, but he doesn’t move away or tell him to stop, so Jaskier exhales and keeps doing it.
They sit in silence again, until Geralt asks, “So who is it?”
His fingers still. Jaskier makes himself look at those gold eyes. “Are you sure you want to have this conversation?”
Geralt’s comfort is his top priority, so Jaskier offers the out. Geralt looks at him, expression inscrutable for how well Jaskier has learned to read him in the years they’ve been traveling together. Jaskier knows what one eyebrow raised means, what certain grunts convey, the fondness Geralt feels when he rolls his eyes at something Jaskier does—but he can’t quite read this.
“I asked, didn’t I?” Geralt says instead, still low and soft. “Who is it, Jaskier.”
You, Jaskier’s mind says, but it gets caught in his throat. He clears it with a cough, looking away. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, something like anticipation and apprehension all at once. “I—do you really have to ask?”
He startles slightly when Geralt shifts, and even more when Geralt lifts a hand to tangle his fingers, rough from handling swords, with Jaskier’s own. Jaskier looks at him and sees nothing but fondness in his intense gold eyes.
“I'd like to hear it,” Geralt says simply, bringing Jaskier’s hand up to his lips. Jaskier shivers with pleasure when he leaves light, barely-there kisses on his knuckles, breath hot on his wet skin. He grips Geralt’s fingers tighter.
Jaskier gives in. “You,” he breathes, watching the way Geralt watches him, lips still on his skin. “It’s you. It’s always been you. Never in my life have I felt like I do for you. Love has always been fleeting for me—passionate, yes, but fleeting, there one day and gone the next. You, though—”
Geralt has leaned forward, and Jaskier can do nothing but watch with wide eyes as he brings their faces together, his other hand coming up to catch Jaskier by the chin. His breath is hot over Jaskier’s lips, and they stare at each other, nothing but a breath of space between them.
“I, what?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier takes a shuddering breath.
“You are an everlasting kind of love,” Jaskier says, feeling his heart hammer behind his ribs. He closes his eyes and leans into Geralt, foreheads touching, and the words pour from him, because he is nothing if not a poet.
“You're there in the morning when I wake, the first thing I see when I open my eyes. You’re there in the afternoon, while the sun is high; in the evening, when it sets. You’re there as I lie down to sleep, my last sight before dreams claim me and even then, you’re there with me.
“I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, and I will continue to love you even after I’m gone and you walk this earth without me once again.”
When he finishes, his words running dry, he takes a breath, shaky and uncertain, though he feels lighter, a weight lifted from his shoulders. He opens his eyes again, looks at the thoughtful expression on Geralt’s face in front of his own.
“Hm,” Geralt says, and it makes Jaskier laugh for no reason at all, light and slightly hysterical.
“You asked,” he croaks out, and it draws an answering smile out of Geralt.
“I did,” Geralt agrees, “and I’m no wordsmith like you, but I am not...unaffected. I do feel things for you. Annoyance and irritation mostly,” he jokes, and Jaskier gives an indignant huff for the principle, but lets him continue, “but I do care for you.”
Jaskier knocks their heads together gently, noses brushing, lips almost meeting. “I don’t need grand gestures and flowery words from you, witcher,” he murmurs. “They’d feel dishonest, I think, false flattery. And you are nothing if not genuine to a fault.”
“One of my many talents,” Geralt says dryly. He tilts his head, and their lips brush, soft and light. “But maybe you deserve flowery words and grand gestures.”
“Maybe I do,” Jaskier agrees, sighing when Geralt pulls the kiss once again. “But I don’t want them. Not from you.”
“No?”
“You are all I want,” Jaskier confesses. He leans into Geralt when he leans back, chasing him, wanting that closeness. They’re dancing around each other now, teasing it out, enjoying the anticipation. “Just you.”
He feels the way Geralt smirks against his mouth. “Just me? Nothing else?”
Jaskier pulls back, smothering his own smirk when Geralt chases him, his strong hand pulling Jaskier forward again. “Well,” he says, drawing it out, “maybe I want you to kiss me, you great ox.”
Geralt lets out a soft, genuine laugh, and Jaskier has only a breath to appreciate it before his mouth is occupied with Geralt’s, and finally, finally they’re kissing, and Jaskier melts into it with desperation, pushing against the side of the tub to be closer, closer, closer, to climb into Geralt and live beneath his skin, curled up in his heart like he lives in Jaskier’s.
It gentles from desperate to calm, and Jaskier pulls back to breathe, though he doesn’t go far—Geralt doesn’t let him, one of his large hands threaded into Jaskier’s hair during the kiss, and he doesn’t want to, regardless. They stay pressed together, just enjoying the closeness.
“I should probably get out of the bath,” Geralt says after a moment, and Jaskier pulls back reluctantly.
“Probably,” he agrees, and he stands, stretching his cramping muscles out as he goes to fetch a towel. He comes back, holding it out as Geralt stands, water dripping from him, and he doesn’t bother averting his gaze—he never has; Geralt is shameless, and so is Jaskier.
Geralt steps out of the tub, wrapping the towel around his waist, and Jaskier turns to grab his clothes but is stopped by a hand on his arm. He turns back, mouth open to say—something, he doesn’t know, because Geralt crowds into his space and immediately takes his mouth with his own again, tilting Jaskier’s chin up with gentle fingers, and Jaskier loses himself in him.
“Clothes can wait,” Geralt growls against his lips, and the heat beginning to rush through him agrees.
Clothes certainly can wait.