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Geralt doesn't realize he has let down his guard until it's too late. Until someone's slipped past his defences – someone with about as much sneakiness and stealth as a drunk pig.
Jaskier is the first one out of the forest. Geralt trudges after him, still thinking about the sword he'd lost in the fight.
“Oh, that was nasty,” Jaskier says and Geralt hums. “Absolutely nasty. Have to admit, I did fear for my hair a little. I did just visit a barber. That vile monster nearly sliced off the tips.”
Geralt skims Jaskier's body. Eventually, his gaze lands on his head and the ruffled hair on top.
“Jaskier, I hate to tell you this,” Geralt says, “but your haircut didn't make it.”
Jaskier gasps indignantly and leans over a puddle on the ground that shines in the moonlight to look at his reflection. He picks at the hair standing up in every direction and turns up his nose.
“Oh, you call this a ruined haircut?” Jaskier says. “That's rather rude. I think it suits me. This might be my new style, actually. Gonna wear it like this every day.”
“Are spite and inconveniencing me the only reasons you do anything?”
“Of course not. I also do things for art. To bless the world with the most heart-felt-”
“Right. How could I forget. It's what made you run after me into the forest, senselessly risking your life yet again.”
Geralt snarls the last bit.
“Careful,” Jaskier says. His gaze is unfocused. “Someone might think you care about me.”
Geralt gives something of a grunt. His eyes catch on a dark patch on Jaskier's sleeve.
“Is that blood?” he asks and immediately steps closer. “Here, let me-”
Geralt reaches out to touch Jaskier's arm, but Jaskier flinches back nearly imperceptibly. Geralt's mind goes blank instantly.
“It's nothing,” Jaskier says quietly and stretches the fabric a little. “Just mud, see?”
Geralt sees, but he's frozen on spot. Jaskier keeps walking, but Geralt did see. Geralt always watches, and he always sees. His stomach churns with something unpleasant. It's probably nothing. The idea of it is impossible to consider. But, of course, it's not impossible that it's true.
Geralt keeps track of it, then. He tests his theory.
They're right next to each other. Geralt is close. Jaskier plays his lute and sings a little off-key.
“You sound like a dying goose,” Geralt says, but it's clear he's joking.
Jaskier makes a face, a noise of protest. He doesn't shove him.
They're in a tavern, on opposite sides of the table. There's a pitcher and two glasses on the table between them.
“Pass me the pitcher?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier grabs the pitcher and hands it over. Their fingers don't brush.
Garelt returns from another monster hunt bloodied, hair full of mud.
“You, sir, need a bath,” Jaskier says.
He lets water into the tub. He throws all sorts of oils and petals into the bath. He doesn't stay.
Jaskier walks next to him, but he never walks close. There's no arm slinging around his shoulder. No arm on his back when Jaskier is trying to convince him of something. Geralt can't remember the last time Jaskier touched him.
He can't remember the last time anyone touched him. Not that he needs to be coddled. People think Geralt will take off their hand when they touch him with it. People aren't too far off.
The problem is – Jaskier used to touch him. All the time. Everywhere. Casually, roughly, softly. Geralt didn't realize how much. Now there's always a space between them, and Geralt isn't the one who put it there. He doesn't try to reach out again.
Geralt does the math a thousand times, the conclusion stays the same. Inevitably.
So he let down his guard. A bard slipped under his defences. And out again, without him noticing. It's the last part that gives him trouble. There is no doubt that it's his fault. Something must have changed, and he can't pinpoint it exactly. Maybe after the djinn, after Yennefer. There's something Jaskier must have seen.
Understood something he didn't understand before.
How much Geralt is capable of -
Jaskier isn't afraid of monsters, not until they are right at his throat, a second away from the kill. Not that Geralt ever lets them get that far. Jaskier doesn't seem to be much afraid of anything. He's stupid that way. But now -
Five feet between them when they're walking on the road.
Sometimes, Geralt is more animal than human. He's an apex predator. He watches, he sees. He notices, he hears. His strikes are quick, his reflexes quicker. People know, when they see him. The hair on their necks turns up. They instinctively know to be afraid of him.
Jaskier is not instinctively afraid of him. He stayed. He trusted Geralt, which people don't do. People see Geralt's brute strength and they get scared. To them, Geralt is unpredictable. Jaskier isn't afraid because any of that. Jaskier knows him.
And Jaskier is still not as afraid as a sensible person would be -
Sometimes, Geralt is more monster than human. He takes and he takes.
Geralt only realizes he's hungry when he is starving.
There's only one room available in the tavern and in the room only one bed. Geralt lingers in the middle of the room awkwardly.
What did I do?
Jaskier is a thousand miles away. Geralt doesn't want to see that look in his eyes ever again, when Geralt reached out a week ago and nearly touched him.
And Geralt still hungers for him – for his voice, his laugh, his brightly human eyes.
Why do I miss you?
How long -
“I see I'll be sleeping like a king tonight,” Jaskier says and sighs. He grabs a pillow and a blanket from the bed. And Geralt knows he shouldn't, but...
“Bed's big enough for two,” he says. Jaskier's head snaps up instantly. His eyes are weary again. It's that look again. It's not bone-deep terror. It's not blood-curdling horror. But it is... something.
“Forget it,” Geralt says, trying to swallow it all down. “I'll take the floor. Wouldn't want you to ruin your sensitive back.”
He doesn't know how much longer they can ignore it. The invisible barrier between them.
“Don't be silly,” Jaskier says, but there's no humour in his voice. “Bed's big enough for two. We'll share.”
He says it sombrely, like he's announcing his own death sentence.
And Geralt takes – he's selfish that way. Despite the soft tremble of Jaskier's body. He doesn't know how long they can keep this up -
He doesn't know why Jaskier stays -
But he hungers for the spring in his step, for his softly caring touch, for the way his voice goes high when he's excited about something. So he doesn't protest.
They lie down next to each other, as far apart as it's possible on the narrow bed, which isn't far at all. Geralt only sighs when the realization sinks in. It feels inevitable – the bard ending up afraid of him. And him, ending up desperately in love. It feels like something the bard would have written a ballad about.
Run, bard, before I devour you whole .
Geralt can sense that Jaskier's whole body is tense.
I'll devour the softness of your voice – the joy in your yes – the lightness of your movement -
I'll warp every part of you that's good and beautiful -
Until all that's left of you is the hollow shell of your body.
Jaskier is completely still next to him, like he doesn't dare to breathe or move or alert the monster beside him to his presence any other way.
And Jaskier is already more hollow than he was one heartache ago.
And Jaskier is right to be afraid of him, because Geralt closes his eyes and promises himself he'll just take one moment more. One night.
Careful, bard, before I eat your skin, your lips, your heart.
The pain in Geralt's chest is nearly tangible, but he knows it'll be worse once he's gone. Geralt doesn't love sweetly or gently or lovely. He loves in the way a starving man loves food, the way a choking man loves air. He loves with the whole mass of his body. And Geralt's love isn't lovely – it's terrifying.
He falls asleep listening to a heartbeat going too quickly.
Geralt wakes up with a jerk and there's a thud and a yelp and Geralt lifts his head. Jaskier's on the ground, rubbing his head. Geralt wonders if he laid awake all night.
“I'm fine!” Jaskier announces quickly, brushing himself off. “Everything's fine, nothing broken, I'm sure.”
He acts flippant, but he keeps his eyes on Geralt carefully, like he's expecting a reaction. Jaskier is watching him more often now, like Geralt is going to lash out any moment. He seems nervous.
And Geralt is under no delusions – he knows he's not a hero. He doesn't fight because he's good or noble or any such nonsense. He fights because it's his job. But he can't keep doing this to Jaskier.
“We should talk about this,” Geralt says, even though it stirs something painful in his chest. Jaskier flinches. His gaze flickers over to Geralt and then to the ground.
“I -” Geralt starts. He can't think of anything to say. It's all the wrong thing. “I couldn't help but notice you – how you,” he tries to find a word that doesn't feel like a knife wound to his chest, “...feel about me.”
“Ah,” he says, all liveliness gone from his voice. “I... haven't exactly been subtle, have I?”
Geralt shakes his head a little and stands up from the bed, facing Jaskier.
“Let's... talk about it.”
“I thought you weren't a fan of talking,” Jaskier says with a tremble. “Why do we need to talk about this?”
Jaskier runs his hand across his face. Geralt wants to take the tenseness from his shoulders, the despair from his eyes. He will. He'll leave as soon as this talk is over.
“Sometimes it's necessary,” Geralt says.
“Not with this,” Jaskier answers. Geralt can tell he doesn't want to be afraid of him. But he can't help it. Somehow, it hurts more. Jaskier laughs shakily.
“I'm such an idiot to feel like this,” he says.
“You're not,” Geralt says, trying to take Jaskier's guilt away. It's smart, of course, to be afraid of someone like him. Even someone who's terrible at sensing danger picks some things up eventually.
“This is all your fault, you know,” Jaskier says. “If you weren't so – so bloody -”
Jaskier doesn't say it, but Geralt can fill in the blanks. He stares at Jaskier openly, because he knows he's about to lose this.
“We should probably travel alone from here on,” Geralt says. It's the sensible, the right thing to say. The selfish part of Geralt wants to beg him to stay. And he wants to ask.
Since when -
What are you so afraid of -
Does he know? Does he know how Geralt hungers for his trust, his friendship, his love?
“Probably,” Jaskier says, looking at the floor. “Yeah, that's fair.”
I'll miss you.
“I'm sorry,” Jaskier says quietly and picks up his lute and his bags. And Geralt wants to tell him it's okay, it's what makes sense. It only hurts so much because it was different before. It never should have been.
Geralt wants to reach out and pull him against his chest and keep him here. Maybe that's what Jaskier saw – the horrifying reality of how much Geralt wants him. Jaskier steps past him carefully, and Geralt's hand shoots out – he grabs his arm -
“What was it?” Geralt says quickly, “what did I do? Why are you afraid of me now?”
Jaskier's eyes widen.
Afraid he'll come too close? Afraid he'll hurt him?
“You're right,” he says quietly, startled. “I am afraid.”
The confirmation is piercing, and Geralt slowly lets go of Jaskier's arm.
“You don't touch me any more,” Geralt says.
“I doubted you'd want me to,” Jaskier murmurs. “Doesn't mean the same thing to me as it does to you. Well – once I knew, I figured, I'd better, uhm, respect your... privacy...”
“Knew what?”
What did he find out? What drove him away? What fact about Geralt, about his past, about the way he kills was so horrible that not even Jaskier could stomach it?
“You do make me feel afraid,” Jaskier says again and takes a small step back. “Afraid you'll notice. Which, I guess... You still did. Afraid you'd leave. Or notice and then leave because of that. You make me feel... everything. You make me feel angry and – and hopeless – and sick with worry. You make me feel vulnerable. And you make me feel happy and excited and like the world is beautiful when it's not. And you make me feel safe. You make me feel all these things a thousand times over, because I can't help but – I mean, really, Geralt, who wouldn't?”
“You-”
Jaskier tilts his head and shrugs.
“I am only human,” he says softly. It's too much to figure out. It had all added up, made so much sense. Geralt knows what fear looks like.
“Because – I saved your life?” Geralt asks, trying to make sense of it, of anything. He doesn't understand.
“That's part of it. Part of you. But most of all, because you saved me. Back then, I went from – from tavern to tavern, looking for something. I didn't know what it was. Not until I found – well. You.”
Geralt is dumbfounded. He stares with wide eyes.
“So don't you go around feeling like you're so scary or unloveable,” Jaskier says with a weak smile. “I can see right through you.”
Geralt is speechless – which he is most of the time. But this time it isn't a choice.
“Goodbye, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I am sorry.”
“No,” Geralt says. That also isn't a choice. Jaskier suddenly seems reachable again. Geralt lifts his arm, but stills when Jaskier flinches. Again.
“Let me,” Geralt says. “Just -”
Jaskier lets out a soft breath and stumbles a little closer. Geralt's hands come up again, trembling a little. He presses one hand against Jaskier's shoulder and one against his cheek. Then he pulls.
And Geralt loves so hungrily – but then – just then – when he's got him, finally got him, and close – all he needs is to gently press his lips to the line of Jaskier's jaw. He'll say a thousand things not speaking a single word. And Jaskier understands and he brushes Geralt's hair to the side. He breathes relief and buries his fingers in Geralt's hair.
Geralt's lips trace his throat gently – not biting – not scraping -
Just a gentle butterfly touch that stills all his hunger. And Jaskier lets him – trusts him –
Jaskier has always been stupid that way.
Geralt is stripped bare of his defences, and he lets Jaskier into the dark side of his mind – and to the side he hides even better – the one where he loves, softly, gently, kindly – kindly.
It's all a little bit lovely.