Chapter Text
Jaskier knew they were connected - in some way or another. Their history of separating and stumbling back together over the past decade was proof enough. They always found a way back to each other.
So yes, Jaskier knew they were connected - by destiny or perhaps her cruel counterpart bad luck, who liked to watch him squirm and dance. However they were connected, Jaskier cursed whoever was responsible for it because guess who had just walked through the door?
Geralt
Witcher
The White fucking Wolf.
And so, Jaskier chose the mature route of swearing under his breath and then promptly ignoring the Witcher, turning back to his companion who was telling some story he had forgone listening to in favour of tracing the delicate features of his face and imagining all the other things that mouth could do. Of course now all those thoughts had been violently kicked out of his mind by one Geralt of Rivia. All he could do was tense under the gaze of the Witcher.
Jaskier had somehow managed to avoid the Witcher for the whole time they were apart. If he’d heard a story of the White Wolf in Sodden, Jaskier would run to Temeria. He imagined the Witcher was doing the same at the sound of a well dressed bard singing about the very same Witcher.
He was aware of how Geralt felt about him but if he was truly desperate to remain out of his company he would find another tavern. After all, Jaskier had gotten here first and he’d already paid for a room so there, Geralt. Jaskier’s eyes flicked back to where he last saw the man enter, finding an empty space. His found his heart sinking despite himself.
His gaze swivelled around the room, finally finding the Witcher again, sitting in a corner table nursing a pint of something and staring at him intensely. He had forgotten how quickly and silently that man moved. Jaskier shot him a scowl of his own.
“Do you know him?” Asked the blonde man he was meant to be listening to.
“Hm?” Jaskier questioned, feigning obliviousness.
“The Witcher? Do you know him?”
“Well, you see, he’s - uh,” he stumbled over an answer, “no, no I don’t.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. He thought he had known Geralt, known him better than most, known the meanings behind his grunts, the real emotion behind the hard exterior, known that he truly did consider him a friend underneath the protests. He thought he knew him well.
Turns out he didn’t.
He didn’t know how much Geralt truly disliked him, how his grunts of reluctant amusement were likely simply grunts of annoyance, how maybe he hadn’t cared for Jaskier at all. He knew his imagination was good, but Jaskier still found himself wondering how he could have deluded himself into thinking so strongly to the contrary, how he could have missed it all.
And what had Jaskier done during that decade of following the Witcher around like a lost puppy? He’d gone and fallen in love.
Idiot.
Absolute dumbass.
Reigning champion in the dumbassery of unrequited love, really.
“Because -,” the man continued, looking past him until his gaze rested solely on something above them. Jaskier felt that presence behind him, felt the heat that somehow always permeated from the Witcher. Jaskier sighed.
“He’s behind me, isn’t he?” He asked, feeling the slight edge of panic and dread begin to gnaw at him. He would stand his ground against the Witcher, he had nothing to worry about…hopefully.
“I - I have some business to attend to.” Stammered the golden haired boy before scurrying away without even so much as another look at Jaskier. Damn, he was losing his touch.
Clenching his jaw, Jaskier turned to Geralt who was still scowling at the retreating figure of the man, quite menacingly as well. For one who occasionally visited the odd brothel, Geralt sure did have a thing against Jaskier’s…prowess.
“Look Geralt,” he began, making those intense golden eyes snap to his face. He’d come up with many a song about those eyes, none that he ever put to paper or lute. He found he couldn’t look into them, not directly. “I’ve already paid for a room, I’m not going anywhere so if you truly cannot bear my presence, I suggest finding another inn.” He was standing now, feeling small in front of the other man who was only a few inches taller. Damn those wide shoulders.
After a few moments of silence of Jaskier still refusing to look him in the eye, instead pretending to be occupied by the mighty task of picking up and packing his lute, he began to leave.
“Jaskier-“ Hearing his voice again was like a punch to the gut. That gravelly voice he’d often dreamt of. The last time he’d heard it…
Jaskier didn’t turn around, kept walking, kept walking until -
“Jaskier.” Geralt growled again, his hand wrapped around his bicep gently, urging him to turn. Urging not commanding.
Jaskier turned around, clutching his lute to his chest to keep some distance between them. He turned around, not knowing what to expect. He had definitely not expected to see a pained expression on Geralt’s face. At least what he thought was pain, he used to think he’d known every micro-expression of the Witcher’s but now… Geralt’s hand was still holding onto his bicep. Jaskier looked down at it, then at all the wide-eyed faces of the townspeople in the inn staring at them.
A terrifying Witcher and a lowly bard. What a sight they made.
With a thundering heart, he turned back to the golden eyes in front of him which had not strayed from his face, staring intently at him.
“What, Geralt?” He questioned, voice thankfully not breaking.
“I’m sorry.” Came the fast reply, so fast he almost missed it.
“You’re what?” Jaskier asked incredulously. He wondered if the Witcher had ever uttered that word willingly before.
“I’m sorry.” Slower this time, clearer. The bard glanced at their audience again, somehow even wider-eyed than before. He probably didn’t look much different.
He contemplated ripping his arm out of Geralt’s grasp and running up to his room. He contemplated slapping that beautiful face. He contemplated kissing him.
He contemplated kissing Geralt.
Fuck.
What was wrong with him?
“Let’s go somewhere else.” He muttered, finally deciding that he wanted to hear what the Witcher had to say whilst also wanting some privacy for a conversation he was slightly panicked to have. He stepped out of Geralt’s grip and started walking towards the stairs to his bedroom, hoping despite himself yet again that Geralt would follow.
He was sorry? For what? For blaming him for everything that’s ever gone wrong in his life? For wishing to never see him again? Or perhaps for letting him stew in his guilt and anger for a year?
He didn’t know what Geralt wanted from him but he certainly wasn’t going to give it to him easily. Whether the Witcher knew of his feelings or not, he had still carved out his heart and thrown it off of the very cliff they were standing on. It had taken too long to find his heart again, it wasn’t even entirely healed yet. He refused to give it up to him again as easily as before.
—
“Sorry for what?” Jaskier demanded once they had reached his room, arms crossed, expression guarded. He was closing himself off from Geralt, keeping distance between them, picking his words carefully. He never picked his words carefully unless they were to feature in his next ballad, it was a habit that had gotten them in trouble before. The Witcher would have preferred a kick to the face.
Geralt took a moment to study the bard. He was thinner than when he’d last seen him, his hair had grown longer. One could say he hadn’t changed much but Geralt couldn’t. He couldn’t, couldn’t say that as he witnessed the once bright flower darkened. Darkened by his presence.
Over the last year, Geralt had found Jaskier creeping his way into his thoughts constantly. Without knowing, he had let the bard make a home under his ribs. He would find himself thinking of the way the sun illuminated his chestnut hair, the way he would gently sing to himself in the firelight before sleep. He found himself dreaming of those eyes.
Those eyes which used to be a sun-touched sky in Geralt’s rather dreary life.
Those eyes which were now dark, cold.
It was unnatural, it didn’t belong on Jaskier’s face. Geralt felt guilt claw at his chest. This was his doing. Perhaps everything he touched was bound to turn cold, perhaps it was a Witcher’s curse.
“Well?” Jaskier urged, arms still crossed in front of him, still closed off.
Geralt struggled to wrap his tongue around the words he wanted - needed - to say. All those times he’d dreamt of reconciling with the bard, he had simply skipped to the part where they were travelling together again, to the part where Jaskier teased and sang, filling up that engulfing silence he had left. Fuck.
“Jaskier…I’m sorry.”
“I believe you’ve said that already.”
Geralt winced.
“You…you didn’t deserve what I said to you on that mountain. I was - I was frustrated and tired and you were there, you were always there - and - and it was just easy, easy to unload it all on you. But that - it wasn’t fair, Jaskier.”
His arms were still crossed, he was still standing too far away.
“You’re right. It wasn’t fair.” Jaskier said, eyes dropping to the floor.
Silence reigned between them.
“You know what else wasn’t fair?” He continued, “Letting me sit in my guilt and regret and bitterness for a year.” He wouldn’t look at him.
Geralt found himself wanting to take a step back. The bard had many emotions that the Witcher had grown accustomed to. This wasn’t one of them. Geralt clenched his jaw, wracked his brain for the right way to say what he needed to say.
“I know.” Was all he could manage. Jaskier laughed bitterly.
“You don’t.” He took a shaky breath. Geralt willed himself to stay still at the sound, fought not to pull Jaskier in close. He knew the bard needed some space but, gods help him, his instincts refused to agree. “You really don’t, Geralt.”
“I know.” His voice came out thicker than before. He knew he should say something else, something more. Say more, goddammit.
“What do you want, Geralt?” Came Jaskier’s question, quiet, pained, defeated. The clawing at Geralt’s chest deepened. He still wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look up.
“I want…I want you to come with me…to Cintra.” Geralt replied.
Finally, finally, those eyes rose to look into Geralt’s own, mutated ones.
“The child of surprise?”
“Yes, I need you with me, Jaskier…please.”
Geralt saw him struggle with himself, struggle to answer the Witcher.
“I know I hurt you and I know it wasn’t fair and I know…I know I have no right to ask you to join me.” Geralt watched the conflict, the pain swim in Jaskier’s eyes. “But, gods, I’ve missed you, Jaskier.”
The bard’s arms dropped.
The Witcher stepped closer.
“Fuck you, Geralt.”