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Chapter Text

“Witcher.” 

Jaskier looked up from the sad excuse for stew he was sipping on - it was practically broth and a weak one at that. It wouldn’t fill him at all, but he supposed something was better than nothing. At least it was warm. 

Teal eyes - reminiscent of an ocean mid-storm - landed on the man in front of him, expression carefully blank, cat eye pupils neutral slits. 

Admittedly, the man’s one of the more pleasant scenes he’s laid eyes upon in the past few weeks of travel - deep royal blue doublet with golden thread, the top unbuttoned to reveal a lovely throat. 

Ash blonde hair, nearly white, was braided back from the man’s face and Jaskier hummed in the back of his throat - nearly a grunt - when the other didn’t immediately offer more. 

“You know, admittedly, I figured you’d have more to say if you were going to approach me .” Jaskier muttered, voice flat. 

“You are going to investigate. Let me come with you.” The man said, settling himself down across from the witcher at the table he’d claimed. Despite the crowd, Jaskier’s table remained empty save for himself - until now, at least. Now that Jaskier was taking a second look at him-- 

“Bard.” Jaskier acknowledged, tipping his head just a bit towards the lute the other had at his back. He must have been the voice with the gravel in it when he’d entered. Not the worst singer that Jaskier has ever listened to, but rather subdued for a bard. “It’s not a good idea. Trust me. Go back to your--” Jaskier moved a hand from the bowl to gesture loosely. “Singing. Playing. Problems with man. You do not want to get yourself involved with monsters.” His hand went back to cupping the bowl as he sipped at it again, thinking that the conversation was over . 

“Are some men not monsters?” The bard asked him in that slightly gruff voice and Jaskier’s eyes snapped up to meet the honey-brown ones - near golden in the sunlight shining through the tavern’s grimy windows. 

Ah. 

Interesting . 

Jaskier frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes at the bard. “Not for me to decide.” He settled on, despite how many times he had . 

The man before him lifted a brow. “Would the Countess de Stael agree with that?” 

Jaskier tensed immediately, jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek jumping. Cat-eye pupils narrowed into thin slits as the words fully registered. His hands threatened to crack the wooden bowl and he put it down a tad more forcefully than he intended to. 

“Did you believe I wouldn’t recognize you? The Killer of Kerack? Jaskier? Surely--” 

“Shut your mouth, bard. You know not what you speak of.” Jaskier snapped, pushing himself back from the table roughly, the whole bench screeching against the floor in protest. He could feel the rage and hurt bubbling up, making it hard to breathe - he hated being in towns for this exact reason. The swords at his hips practically called his name. He ignored them.

“Then tell me.” The man said, simply, and Jaskier bared his teeth in a snarl. The bard didn’t flinch at all which only made Jaskier’s frustration worse. He rolled his shoulders in an almost violent shrug before he turned to stomp out of the tavern. 

Pegasus, bless the beast, had been patiently waiting as usual where he’d been tied up. White ears perked towards Jaskier as he approached, though they laid flat against his neck a moment later. It made Jaskier look over his shoulder, rolling his eyes towards the sky at the sight of the broad-shouldered bard. 

“Why did you kill him?” The man asked and Jaskier whirled on him, hand clenched into a fist - it was a near thing that he almost threw the punch that had coiled his muscles. He gritted his teeth. 

“No reason that you’d accept.” Jaskier snapped - “Should have never gotten myself involved.” He muttered, pulling Pegasus’s reins loose from where he’d tied him up. It was easy to swing himself up into the saddle, turning the horse with the intention to get the hell away from the man who was currently making his blood boil and run cold all at once. 

If Jaskier was younger he would have punched him. 

A sharp whistle made Pegasus toss his head and Jaskier didn’t turn his head to look at the bard as the man rode a pretty chestnut mare up next to Jaskier’s own gelding. 

“Hm.” The bard made a low noise in the back of his throat, tipping his head as if in consideration. 

“Man of few words to be a bard.” Jaskier looked back to the road, debating on urging Pegasus into a canter - he had the unfortunate feeling at the bard would only follow him. 

“It’s the singing that matters.” The man answered, rolling his shoulders in a shrug as he did. 

“Is it? I thought it was also the poetry and the general chatter. Don’t you have to be a people person to do that sort of thing? Play at courts and all?” Jaskier prodded, lifting a brow as he watched the man - he carried himself unlike many of the bards Jaskier had met before. Back straight, those honey-gold eyes scanning the forest around them as if taking stock of their surroundings. 

The bard turned his gaze on the witcher finally and there was quiet. 

“No.” The bard responded, turning his gaze back to the road. Jaskier took a deep breath and realized that he’d been holding it the entire time their gazes had been locked. 

“No?” Jaskier pursed his lips. “You’re an odd one, I must admit. Didn’t think there were bards that weren’t talkative--” 

“And I thought witchers were quiet.” The man interjected, lifting a brow as he looked over at Jaskier. The witcher blinked once or twice, before he registered the slight curl to the man’s lips - and that was a near smile. 

Jaskier snorted, but tipped his head in acknowledgement. 

They rode in silence for a while, Jaskier listening closely for any sounds out of place. 

“Geralt.” The man beside him finally introduced and Jaskier makes a low noise in the back of his throat. 

“I’d suspected, but wasn’t quite sure if I could bring myself to believe that Calanthe would allow her first born to leave home to play a lute .” Jaskier admitted, intrigued despite himself. 

“I fought in the last war.” Geralt responded, “There was a small period of peace. I was--” The man stopped, as if he’d intended to say something he shouldn’t and he caught himself. He furrowed his brows, pursing his lips as he glanced over at the witcher. 

A moment. 

“Bored.” The bard went on almost flatly - any normal man would have thought he was annoyed, but Jaskier wasn’t a normal man. He could hear another note in that deep voice, although he wasn’t sure what it was just yet. 

“Bored? In Queen Calanthe’s court? As her son? I’m not sure whether I should call you a fool, mad, or odd - perhaps all three considering you’re still following me.” Jaskier muttered, lightly tapping Pegasus’s sides with his heels and urging the horse into a trot. 

The bard did the same with his mare, humming in response and following after as if Jaskier hadn’t just clearly dismissed him. 

(Art by Daryshkart)

+++

The rope pressed his gloves tight to his forearms - it must be scraping the human’s wrists raw. 

Geralt wasn’t complaining, though, and Jaskier only knew he was awake from the slight intake of breath and the spike in his heart rate. 

“Is this not the part when you escape?” Geralt rasped, voice rougher than it had been earlier, wrecked from being knocked unconscious. The human shifted behind him, and Jaskier licked his lips, eyes scanning the room, taking stock of his sword belt where it was tossed carelessly up against the stone wall. 

“No.” Jaskier drawled voice, low - “No, this is the part where they kill us.” 

Geralt grunted softly, twisting his hands again. 

“You’re only going to make yourself bleed.” Jaskier had barely finished his sentence before an elf burst into the cave that functioned as their cell. He immediately tensed and straightened up, sitting at attention, stamping down the curses that bubbled up to his throat. 

She approached far too quickly, though, another elf entering behind her and scooping up the bard’s lute - Jaskier twisted roughly in his bindings to try to keep an eye on the female elf, but she passed him and Geralt’s sound of pain knocked from his lungs forcefully told him all that he needed to know. Some amount of panic rose in him and he struggled to get a handle on it, shoving it back down towards his stomach, keeping it from closing up his throat. 

“Leave him alone.” Jaskier snapped, baring his teeth. A flash of slightly too sharp canines, cat eyes with thin pupils, nearly lines in his fury, seeking out the elf that was hitting more than strumming the bard’s lute. “

The elf snarled at him - “ Beast! Shut your trap! ” It was nothing that Jaskier hadn’t heard before and he snorted, though he felt honest shock ring through him as the bard behind him muttered. 

“Bit rough. Got it, though .” Queen Calanthe’s son speaking elvish and traveling as a bard-- Jaskier filed the curiosities away for later. 

There was so much that those singular facts told him about the man and he had many questions, but he refocused on the elf as she kicked a leg out and hit him across the cheek. His head snapped back and Jaskier snarled at her, hissing when he heard the lute crack and the strings break with an ugly twang that echoed in their makeshift cell. He grimaced at the jump in Geralt’s heart beat, though the bard didn’t make an outward sound of protest. 

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe.” The elf growled and Jaskier shook his head after a punch made his teeth ache. Geralt made a low sound then, something close to a thick scoff that made Jaskier worried about his ribs. 

She circled around and kicked at the bard once more - “You destroy everything you touch--” 

“ Leave off !” Jaskier didn’t have an intimidating voice, he was aware, but anyone commanded respect when they shouted with a growl in their tone. He panted, turning his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood. “He’s just a bard .” 

Of course he wasn’t, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Geralt was recognized-- 

A shout of pain from the elf made him turn his head, pupils blowing wide before narrowing to those thin lines once more. The bard had headbutted the elf and Jaskier only found his interest in the strange musician growing as he watched the elf stumble back, falling on her ass and coughing as blood ran from her nose. 

“At least have the courage to look him in the eye.” Geralt snarled, and Jaskier could smell the sour scent of pain, but the bard didn’t shy back from where he leaned forward against the ropes defiantly.

And then-- 

Of course -- 

Filavandrel entered, sending the whole thing further to hell. 

“Toruviel-- No one was supposed to get hurt.” The so-called devil murmured. 

“They’re humans--”

“One human.” Jaskier interrupted, roughly, watching the King of the Elves kneel down beside the female elf. “One human.” He repeated, quieter, voice more careful. “And you can let him go.” 

There was a beat of silence as Filavandrel took in the sight of them and then spoke up quietly - “Geralt.” And that worried Jaskier more than anything else. It was a flat tone, one that even he struggled to work through. 

The bard snorted, straightening up a little as he shook himself out. 

“Filavandrel.” Reluctant acknowledgement - the tiniest bit of fear hidden deep in the bard’s voice. 

“What are you doing here?” Dangerous, but not outright hostile. It put Jaskier on edge, tensed. 

Geralt tipped his head back against Jaskier, bumping his messy braid against his shoulder. “Not looking for your people.” He rasped, and Jaskier hated the sharp note of copper, the metallic scent of blood in the air that was definitely human. 

“No?” The elf King prompted. 

“No.” Geralt coughed and it was a strangled thing, one that made it clear he was trying to suppress it. 

“You’re lucky that I remember what you did for us, Wolf.” Jaskier’s brows jumped at this, humming a noise in the back of his throat. 

“But you knew our agreement. I should slit your throat this very moment.” Filavandrel’s voice carried an interesting mix of begrudging respect, anger, and sadness. Jaskier narrowed his eyes. 

“Then why don’t you?” Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from asking, head tipping slightly to the side, an ache still brewing behind his temples. It was so hard to keep his voice tamed sometimes and far too often it had gotten Jaskier wrapped into brawls despite his wishes. 

There was a pause, the elf King standing to slowly make his way towards the two of them. He draws a deadly looking dagger and the sour smell of poison wafts towards Jaskier, making him tense. 

“If you must kill me, you know that I am ready.” Geralt’s voice drifted from behind him, and the weight of the bard’s head lands more firmly against his shoulder as the human bares his throat willingly for death. 

Jaskier had never seen a thing like it. 

The witcher gritted his teeth - “Oh, absolutely not.” He snapped, and rolled his shoulders aggressively, trying to dislodge the bard from his shoulder. “Now, I’m not aware of whatever agreement you had, but I know better than either of you that there’s blood on both sides. This whole damn continent is soaked through with it. What is the point of spilling more unnecessary blood?” Jaskier’s voice twisted into something between a hiss and a snarl, wrenched from his throat, trembling with the tones that he normally fought against with all his might. 

“Jaskier--” Geralt started and the witcher made a low noise in the back of his throat. 

“ What is the point ?” Jaskier snapped - “He didn’t intentionally seek you out. If he has assisted you in the past in some way, should you not give him the chance to walk away and avoid you? You need to move anyway - you cannot stay here. Even if I lie to Posada they will notice that the stealing has not stopped. They will come for you.” 

“And what do you expect us to do?” Filavandrel roared, brandishing the weapon. “We have already been run to the edge of the world? What do we do ? We’re starving - this isn’t living .” 

Jaskier straightened, clenching his jaw. It took a moment of deep breathing to gather himself, to put his thoughts in order, to get himself organized. 

“Go somewhere else. I cannot tell you where. Keep moving if you must, but go . Rebuild your people along the way, become more than what humans expect from you and if you must fight, then fight .” Jaskier said, licking his lips. 

“And you would endorse war after what you have just said?” The elf King growled, batting away Torque as he reached for his arm. 

“War is hell and blood and death.” Jaskier managed, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. “But if it is what you must do, then you must. There is a difference necessary and unnecessary bloodshed and I know you know that. Sometimes change is violent and hard and terrible. You have to be ready to lose and to struggle and to hurt, you have to know. You have to be ready to claw your way through it, to cling to whatever sparks of hope you can find. Nothing easy ever made history.” 

Jaskier panted for a moment, unaware how loud his voice had gotten at the end, chin held up defiantly. 

And then the elf King stepped forward with the dagger held aloft. 

+++

Geralt plucked out a tune on his new lute - his mare seemed to know the exact pace the bard needed to balance without his hands available. 

“You’re an odd one.” Jaskier said, again, an echo of his earlier observation. “And I cannot decide if it’s in a way that’s good or bad. You’re just as much a magnet for trouble as I am.” 

Geralt hummed, looking over at the witcher and lifting a brow. Roach tossed her head with a little whinny and Pegasus’s sides expanded with a heaving sigh. 

 “Do I dare ask again why you wanted to follow?” Jaskier prodded, glancing over his shoulder at the disheveled bard, at least half of his hair falling from his braid. They were both bloody and bruised and yet Geralt himself looked largely unaffected. He didn’t complain either - Jaskier had to admit, it was oddly unnerving. He wasn’t sure he’d been around another human so quiet . 

“Inspiration.” The bard informed, and then his hands started to fly over the strings. Jaskier’s brows jumped once more, pupils widening a bit. He was-- surprisingly good. It wasn’t the jauntiest tune that the witcher had ever heard, but it had heart and he inclined his head just a bit. 

Posada greeted him as it always did. 

Hostile. 

Jaskier gritted his teeth, flashed his teeth in a warning smile. 

“Your problem has been taken care of.” Jaskier announced, filling the tavern with his voice.

“Where’s the proof, witcher?” One of the men called, followed by a chorus that demanded it as well. 

Jaskier opened his mouth, but Geralt stepped forward from where he had been looming at his shoulder. 

“Here.” Geralt said, voice low but firm as his fingers started to dance over the strings. 

His voice was a deep bass and it felt like it burrowed into Jaskier’s bones, even more so as he really listened to what the bard was saying. 

Never, in all of Jaskier’s years, had he heard a witcher - much less one from the Cat School as he was - be praised . He watched the bard with a keen gaze, pupils slightly blown. 

Interesting . 

By the time he had finished, someone pressed an ale into Jaskier’s hand. And it didn’t smell like poison. 

Geralt met his gaze and Jaskier dipped his head - thanks, respect, and acknowledgement. Geralt seemed to understand with the way the corners of his lips tugged into a slight smile. 

Perhaps there were some perks to a bard like Geralt being interested in journeying with him. And it seems there was far more to him than whatever he had gleaned from the surface so far. 

Geralt’s stature and his voice commanded a room, despite how calmly he wandered the room. He wasn’t like other bards that Jaskier had met - ones desperate for attention. Geralt seemed to simply request it with his presence, filling the tavern with his tale - embellished, but not necessarily lying. 

It was a feat that drew begrudging respect from him. 

+++

The bard was annoyingly hard to shake and Jaskier wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

See, Jaskier filled the silence with questions, questions that Geralt wasn’t in the habit of answering past quiet hm s and soft noises that left much to be desired. Now and then Jaskier would get a lovely snippet of a song or maybe a few words of acknowledgement, but mostly Geralt followed and watched . 

It was making Jaskier… feel things . 

He wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable being seen the way Geralt seemed to see him . 

Like this - 

“You don’t need to do that.” Jaskier grumbled, watching the bard carefully sew the gash on his side closed. He’d not said much, merely herded Jaskier to sit on the dry log they’d dragged to their campsite to work as a low bench, pushing the witcher down and unbuckling the chestplate part of his armor. “It’ll heal.” 

Geralt shot him a flat look and Jaskier clenched his jaw because this close Geralt smelled-- 

Geralt smelled like the apples that he carried for the horses, the sweet-tang of the hard candies he carried, and muted evergreen - the scent of a forest through morning dew. Fresh and sweet. Jaskier’s fairly certain that is not a scent that should make his head spin, warmth curl in his chest, and yet here he was, struggling to keep it together while large hands touched surprisingly gentle. 

“Geralt--” 

“I know.” The bard muttered, simply, and then added, “Just because it will does not mean that it does not deserve care now.” And that was that - he could see it in the way Geralt shifted his shoulders, tearing his gaze away from the witcher’s own. He winced as the needle slipped through his skin, pupils fluctuating between being thinned out to lines and blowing wider, warring with himself. 

By the time the bard had finished, Jaskier was exhausted, tense, fingers clenched in the log beneath him. It could be mistaken for pain, but the truth was that he wanted to reach out and draw the bard in close and that--

That was dangerous. 

“You know.” Jaskier rambled as Geralt checked on the rabbit roasting over their meager fire. “I can’t figure you out - why do you never fear that I will snap? You know who I am, you know the School I come from--” 

“You’re a good man.” Geralt said, like it didn’t entirely knock the air out of Jaskier’s lungs, staring at the bard in shock, clenching his jaw so that he didn’t gape at him like an idiot. 

“I’m not.” Jaskier said, finally. Quietly. 

Geralt hummed a deep, soft note, lifting his brow at Jaskier as he pulled the rabbits from the fire, holding the makeshift spit so that they could cool. He settled himself down on the log beside Jaskier, unafraid of sitting close, for the most part relaxed. 

Geralt always held just the slightest tension about him - Jaskier was beginning to suspect it was his upbringing more than it was anything else. His posture was always impeccable. 

“I do not regret to inform you that you are wrong.” Geralt said, finally, and offered a piece of rabbit up for Jaskier to take. 

After a moment of stillness the witcher did. 

+++

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Geralt asked, voice overriding Jaskier’s. 

The witcher blinked, turning his gaze on the bard in surprise. 

“What?” It sounded dumb, confused, but Jaskier truly hadn’t been expecting the question. 

“You’ve been talking to your horse for the past two hours.” Geralt rumbled, shooting him a fierce glare. His fingers plucked an unpleasant note on the lute, purposeful. 

“I-” Jaskier paused, pursing his lips. “Hadn’t realized.” He admitted after a moment. “I’m not used to having a travelling companion save for Pegasus. There’s no reason for me to be quiet.” 

Geralt’s furrowed brows raise a little. 

“None at all?” The bard asked, slowly. “You do not ever simply enjoy the quiet? Or listen for threats? It is a miracle you’ve made it this far, witcher.” 

Jaskier gaped at him for a moment and then-- 

Then-- 

Jaskier laughed . 

It had crept up on him, he hadn’t expected it at all. It bubbled right up out of his chest, the shock and delight at Geralt’s blatantly callous words towards him . He can’t remember the last time someone dared to speak to him that way. It was refreshing. 

Jaskier threw his head back with his grin, flashing sharp canines as he struggled to get himself under control. When he managed to, pupils blown wide with only a small ring of teal around them, he looked over at the bard. 

Geralt was looking at him in equal parts exasperation and fondness.  

And there . 

There was the dangerous little spark, though it felt more like a wildfire, spreading up from the tips of his fingers to his cheeks. A heat that he could not control, could not stamp out, and already it was too late. 

Jaskier knew, of course, what had happened. How incredibly, terribly fucked he was. 

But a witcher would not be a witcher if they did not deny a danger and charge recklessly into battle - or this case, something bigger and altogether deadly in a different way. 

+++

Jaskier hated taking potions. 

Not only did they taste like complete and utter shit , they made everything overwhelming . 

Jaskier’s skin felt too tight for his body, like it was choking him, like breathing was a chore . He could choke on every inhale in, not only smelling everything but tasting it as well. Every noise felt like a thunderclap beside his ear, ringing in his skull. The sound of his own breathing made him want to scream . 

That’s not to mention his emotions . 

When the fight was over, when he had no more rage to supply, everything else took over. More often than not it was despair that would dredge him down - more than once he had stayed deep in the woods to weep over the body of a monster that had felt no kindness for the world, shaken to his core by past and present. 

He would wander back into tow early those next mornings, looking wrecked and taking his coin with very little words, retreating - it took days for him to recover from the worst fights. 

This one was shaping up to be that way, too. 

The widow had been killed before he could reach her and after he’d slain the pack of wargs, he’d barely kept himself upright, the copper smell and taste of her blood making his stomach turn. He couldn’t bring her back to the village in this state, either - wargs were vicious things and she was-- 

Jaskier couldn’t look at her for more than a few moments. 

His hands trembled as he beheaded the pack alpha, carrying proof of the hunt back to town. 

Geralt stood from his corner of the tavern when he saw him enter - though now free of his trophy. He’d left it at the alderman’s door after gathering his coin. 

Jaskier wanted a bath and perhaps to not speak to anyone for a week. 

He made a beeline for the room that Geralt’s coin had already bought them, stripping out of his armor as he did so, tossing it by the inside of the door of the room. His sword belt followed, thrown as if the swords were molten, like they burned his hands. 

Geralt, who had followed him to the room, narrowly dodged them. 

Jaskier could smell his worry. 

He could also smell--- fresh and sweet and-- old wood and a hint of magic-- 

Old magic -- 

It filled his lungs and made him dizzy, already weak knees knocking together. He stumbled to the bed, dropping himself down heavily on the edge and pressing his gloved hands over his ears. 

It took a minute for Geralt to come into his line of sight. The mountain of the bard lowered himself down, kneeling in front of Jaskier, not yet reaching out, meeting Jaskier’s pitch black eyes calmly. 

He smelled of worry, of relief, of--- of magic and something else . Warm and oak and cedar and the air before a thunderstorm, nearly overpowering his sweet smell. 

Jaskier trembled, vision going a bit fuzzy. 

“Geralt.” His tongue felt too thick and heavy in his mouth and he struggled to get the name out, voice a growl - wagon wheels over gravel. It scraped out of his throat and he shut his eyes against it, breathing through his nose and jerking away from the first touch from the bard’s warm hands. He stilled after a moment, though, when the heat didn’t make him want to tear and hurt . 

“Jaskier.” Geralt whispered, and his low voice was nearly lost to the space between them. It sounded so loud , though, and Jaskier shuddered. 

Jaskier whined before he could tramp it down. 

Warm hands slowly made their way up his forearms to his wrists, even through his gloves they felt burning. Geralt squeezed his wrists gently. 

“She died.” Jaskier choked, and Geralt hummed a soft, small note. 

“You saved others.” The bard murmured, and Jaskier shook his head, dislodging his own hands. The downstairs sound of the tavern filtered in and he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. “Jaskier.” The bard repeated, and moved his hands carefully, covering the witcher’s ears himself. The larger hands held firmly - it felt like fire, but sounds were muffled and Jaskier couldn’t help himself from opening his eyes and focusing on the human. 

“My fault.” Jaskier rasped, “My fault.” 

Geralt shook his head. “No.” He said, simply. 

When Jaskier started to cry, the bard pushed up on his knees a little, pressing their foreheads together, thumbs brushing back and forth absently, hands still carefully muffling the sound. 

Jaskier didn’t know how long they stayed like that - surely long enough that Geralt’s knees ached. 

+++

Morning was kinder. 

Jaskier felt disoriented and off balance, but sorrow did not cling to him quite like it usually did. 

A warm body lay beside him under the furs on the bed, a pocket of warmth that made him roll over and blearily take in the sight of Geralt’s profile. 

The light of dawn had always been more forgiving, made the world softer, made Jaskier release some of his walls - just for a moment. 

Here - 

Here in the warmth and the quiet of their shared room, he reached out slowly. His fingers - still gloved - brushed over Geralt’s jaw. The bard’s eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then honey brown eyes opened, golden in the sunlight, pupils adjusting to the light in the room. 

Jaskier knew his own were blown wide and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Geralt breathed in, yawned, and then turned his head to look over at Jaskier. 

“Okay?” The bard asked, blearily. He reached an utterly clumsy, utterly human hand from under the furs to wrap around Jaskier’s gloved one. 

He had never been more grateful for them - he didn’t think he could have handled direct contact. 

“Okay.” Jaskier rasped, quietly, pupils contracting a little, showing off more the teal color around them. The witcher pushed himself to sit up, shivering slightly as he started to really shake sleep off. “Sorry. For you-- having to see that.” He muttered, pulling his hand away from the human’s. 

“No.” Geralt sat up as well, his hair - which had been half pulled back the night before - was in wild disarray. Jaskier tried not to think about what it might feel like to smooth his fingers through it. He failed, really. “You were hurting.” 

“That’s life.” Jaskier snorted. 

“Not always. You do not have to suffer always.” Geralt ripped Jaskier’s chest open casually, dipping his hands right in and tightening around his heart. He tipped his head as he watched Jaskier. 

“It’s--” Jaskier didn’t know what to say for a moment, scowling down at his lap. “Mm.” He started to work his gloves off of his hands to give them some air. “It’s normal.” He settled on. “Cat School mutations are-- different.” 

“I know what they say.” Geralt murmured. “I do not know the truth.” 

Silence reigned for a moment. 

“Our Trials. They make-- everything is-- more .” Jaskier licked his lips, trying to buy himself some time to put his thoughts into order. “It’s-- overwhelming. I’ve had… a lot of time to learn. To control it.” It’s stilted, delayed. “The emotions. It made-- many of my kin lose their minds. For a time, I didn’t have mine.” Jaskier admitted, brows drawing together. “Long, long ago.” 

For a moment, the witcher looked the many years he carried on his shoulders. 

“I’m one of the last.” Jaskier glanced over at Geralt. “And I-- every day. Every day , it is so much .” 

A pause. 

“So heavy .” Jaskier closed his eyes, breathing out shakily. 

A warm hand wraps around his sleeved forearm, keeping his touch from bare skin, the blessed man. 

“We feel more intensely. More than you could ever understand.” Jaskier whispered, and Geralt rumbled in the back of his throat. It was a sound that should not soothe the witcher and yet he found himself relaxing. 

“Did you love her?” Geralt asked, suddenly, and the way his heart beat, the tone of his voice-- 

“Yes.” Jaskier smiled weakly down at his lap. “Yes. She wasn’t the first. Certainly not the last. My heart--” He gestured loosely with a hand. “My ribs cannot hold it, Geralt. It gets away from me.” He turned his cat eyes on the bard, searching his expression. 

He dared not say it was hope hiding there in the developing crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. 

Jaskier didn’t dare to speak. His lips parted, before pressing together into a thin line, holding back the words bubbling up in his throat. 

“Tell me why?” Geralt whispered, finally, and Jaskier’s chest ached . 

And so-- 

So Jaskier spent the next two hours speaking non-stop until his throat hurt, telling Geralt everything. 

Of Kerack, of the Countess de Stael that lived in her beautiful manor, of her garden full of daffodils and forget-me-nots, of summers spent walking together, of her soft hands and her smiles, of her eyes, of love , of love, of love--

He told Geralt of her father, of his plans, of his terrible deeds, of his terrible deeds , of his threats, of his capacity to plan to kill , of his capacity to plan to kill his own daughter for lying with a witcher -- 

He told Geralt of how he lost control, how he saw red, how he saw red -- and the red, Metlitele , the red -- 

He told Geralt how she found him, standing over her father’s corpse, how she broke, too, how they cursed him, called him mad , called him sadistic -- 

He told Geralt how they threw stones, how they chased him from Kerack, how he tried to put himself back together in the forest-- 

How losing love felt like the world falling apart around him . 

Geralt listened. 

The whole time, he listened. 

He watched Jaskier with a soft gaze, and when he was done, the man moved his hand to Jaskier’s wrist cautiously. When the witcher didn’t shy away, Geralt wrapped his hand around his own and squeezed gently. 

“ Thank you .” Was all the bard said, but it held such weight that it said so many more things that Jaskier wasn’t even sure he was ready to hear just yet. 

+++

Something changed between them. 

Space became practically irrelevant. 

Geralt loomed over his shoulder more times than not and in taverns their legs often pressed up against each other as they sat side by side to eat rather than across the table from each other. 

Geralt was his shadow and-- 

There was an underlying buzz to Jaskier’s life that hadn’t been there before, an airy sort of thing that floated around in his chest like a bee bouncing carelessly from flower to flower. 

It was pure and fragile-- 

And Jaskier felt happy on good days. 

Geralt was pressed against his side in Redania when they heard the rumor - or news, really, rather. 

Pavetta was to find a husband. Calanthe was throwing a rather large deal about it and Geralt had gone rigid, jaw clenched. 

“Shall we go?” Jaskier asked, when the men who had been speaking of it in excited tones passed their table in the tavern. 

“Go?” Geralt grunted, seeming unfocused - not quite there with him. 

Jaskier reached out and gripped the bard’s elbow gently. “To Cintra? To see your sister?” 

Geralt turned suddenly clear eyes on him, searching for something - Jaskier didn’t know what, but Geralt must have found it because he gave a sharp nod. 

“Yes.” 

And so they packed their things and rode for Cintra immediately. 

Geralt’s welcome home wasn’t very-- welcoming. Guards moved aside for him, but Jaskier could smell the sourness of anger, fear, and hatred. It was nearly overwhelming coming from so many at once, but he powered through it if only because Geralt’s shoulders sagged in a way he hadn’t seen them do around anyone else. 

Geralt, who should be in his element, looked sorely out of place here in all the royalty, in the opulence-- 

Still, Geralt led their horses to the stables and then showed Jaskier-- 

He showed Jaskier to his rooms and Jaskier wasn’t sure what he was supposed to read in that - if he was supposed to get anything at all-- 

But Geralt had them run Jaskier a bath because between the two of them, Jaskier was still more dirty. He had taken a contract on the way and no matter how much he scrubbed, the drowner smell never really came off unless it was extinguished with good soap. 

Geralt herded him towards the bath and Jaskier nearly shakes his head at all the smells coming off of Geralt. Acrid upset is the most clear, though, and Jaskier should push those hands away and undo his armor buckles himself, he really should-- 

He didn’t. 

The witcher let Geralt strip him down, stepping into the bath afterwards as quickly as possible, sinking down into the water with a groan. It’d been a while since he’d had a hot bath. It stung his skin, but also made his eyes fall shut, shuddering in delight. 

Jaskier had not expected the hands on his shoulders and he definitely didn’t expect Geralt to carefully rub soap into his hair, fingernails scraping at his scalp lightly. He worked the dirt and muck from Jaskier’s hair and Jaskier damn near melted into the bottom of the bath, head tipped back into those madly clever hands. 

“Talk to me.” Jaskier eventually mumbled, when Geralt’s scent soured further despite how careful his hands were. 

“What?” 

“Talk to me.” The witcher repeated. “You’re--” A pause. “Worried. Upset. And I saw how the guards looked at you.” 

Geralt’s hands stopped for a moment, merely cradling his head. His thumbs rubbed circles into his scalp when he finally answered - “You are not the only one carrying something heavy.” He said, at last, voice slightly strained. 

Jaskier let him take his time, tipping his head when Geralt guided him, the bard rising his hair clean. Warm hands rested on his shoulders afterwards, keeping him in the warm water. 

“Will you tell me?” Jaskier asked, all but implored, without turning to look at the bard. Perhaps if he gave him a sense of privacy he could open himself just a crack, just enough so that Jaskier might see him , too. 

Geralt breathed deep-- 

He told Jaskier of the war, of the aftermath, of death, of death , of death -- 

He told Jaskier of his mother’s ruthlessness, of how he could not understand, of how he learned to fight but could not bring himself to kill, of how he could not take the light from their eyes-- 

He told Jaskier of the children, of the children , of the blood on their hands and in their hair, of abject terror-- 

He told Jaskier of the King of the Elves, of the distraction he provided, of how he betrayed his people to help another, of how he knew his mother knew but could not bring herself to put him to death, of how she sent him away instead, of how Geralt went to University and found music, of how words could pen a story-- 

He told Jaskier how it felt like he could breathe again. 

Jaskier listened, of course he listened, and when Geralt finished Jaskier reached up to curl a hand around the bard’s. 

“You did the right thing.” He said, softly, finally - “I may not know much, but I know that. Between us, Geralt, you are the good man. You saw something no one else bothered to see - in multiple people.” 

Geralt made a low noise, and Jaskier closed his eyes when a nose buried in his damp hair, Geralt curling his upper body over his own in the bath. They stayed that way until the water cooled and Jaskier had to climb out-- 

Only to be coaxed into ridiculous silks. 

+++

The celebration went to hell in a handbasket. 

Pavetta had powers and suddenly the old magic scent made sense . It had been so buried beneath everything else on Geralt that made his mind wild that he hadn’t been able to catch it properly, but on Pavetta it was overwhelming. 

He didn’t know what Geralt’s were, but they weren’t as powerful as Pavetta’s-- he was inclined to think he had met very few with power like that . 

It had died out long ago, perhaps even before his time, and what hadn’t had mixed so thoroughly with the humans it was lost-- 

Until now. 

Elder blood-- Pavetta, Geralt, Calanthe -- this family held Elder Blood in its veins-- 

Geralt and Jaskier had fought back to back - Jaskier had disarmed a man and tossed the sword to Geralt, who pressed himself up against the witcher’s back and they had kept the circle from closing in on the two the best they could - until Pavetta lost it . 

And Geralt -- A joke , and yet he did not know -- 

Destiny clung to him - clung to anything that powerful. It was irresistible to her. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier had snapped at the same moment that Pavetta had vomited. 

“Get them out!” Calanthe did not shriek , but in that moment it was a near thing. Guards had seized them, carried them out and threw them towards the stable, Jaskier’s things following momentarily. 

They were to never come back. 

Ever. 

Banished on threat of death. 

Geralt smelled miserable . 

“We’ll find a way.” Jaskier assured him and Geralt turned his head to look at him blandly, lips pulled into a slight grimace. 

“I--” 

“You made a mistake. We all do. It was a small one - Destiny took her chance and tied you to a child. You’ll meet her sometime, but trust in her.” Jaskier murmured, quietly. 

“Destiny is bullshit.” Geralt murmured, meeting Jaskier’s gaze evenly. 

The witcher blinked slowly. 

A bard that didn’t believe in Destiny ? 

After that?

+++

Geralt couldn’t sleep. 

He dreamed fitfully and woke often - his feet dragged when they journeyed and Jaskier honestly should have kept a better eye on him, he really should have, it’s just that Jaskier was tired, too . They shared a bedroll more often than not these days and Geralt’s constant shuffling kept Jaskier awake. 

So when he stumbled upon the bard looking for a djinn in the river, he had to admit he must have missed something. Perhaps the town they had passed through talked about it. 

Or perhaps he had asked Jaskier something off-handedly - Jaskier talked to much when they were on the road that he didn’t always keep track-- 

What mattered was that they were arguing over something stupid and the seal-- 

The seal broke and then-- 

Jaskier tasted blood. 

It was touch and go for a while after that - there was an elf, there was a horse, and then there was a witch and Jaskier passed out. 

When he woke, it was to the witch screaming, to the smell of magic - lilac and sour all at once, making him recoil and stumble to his feet. Everything hurt and he wheezed, leaning up against the wall-- 

Geralt broke into the room and-- 

“I wish for Destiny to fuck off .” The bard roared it and the djinn shrieked, making the walls shake. The witch screamed, thrashing and writhing, and then-- 

Then she snapped upright, eyes a dark purple, swirling with something untold as the witch looked him dead in the eyes. A drop of blood rolled down her cheek like a tear and she grinned slowly, head tipping to the side. Manic. 

“You have no idea what I can do, witcher.” The witch said, and a deeper voice curled under hers, growling, “ Julian .” 

Jaskier shuddered, hand reaching for a sword not at his side, breath caught in his throat. 

“Don’t say that name.” Jaskier breathed, shakily. 

“Julian.” She repeated, and there were two voices there. She pushed herself to her feet fluidly, standing naked before them. “Oh, Julian, I am older than the trees, than the mountains, the rivers-- I have been here for so long .” 

Jaskier reached a hand for Geralt, who stood transfixed in the doorway. 

The witch’s gaze followed the movement, landing on Geralt. 

She looked thoughtful. 

“A gift?” She asked, as the growl spoke over her. “A favor?” 

She covered the space between herself and the bard quickly - 

“You have made us so powerful and you do not even know . And to think, you thought you were trapping us, dooming us-- oh, Geralt .” Jaskier didn’t know what to call this creature - it was something more . 

“No, don’t-- Don’t---” 

“We won’t hurt him, witcher.” They purred and the witch’s hand landed on Geralt’s forehead. 

The bard’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed like his strings had been cut, a heap on the floor as Jaskier shouts and darts forward. 

“We have given you a great gift, Julian. You should thank us. Someday. For now--” The witch waved her hand in a half circle and a portal opened. “We have things to do, places to be.” She stepped through and it was so still--

Jaskier scarcely dared to breathe--

And there -- 

A heartbeat . 

Jaskier’s knees nearly gave out in relief. 

+++

There was nothing very notable changed about Geralt, not really. 

He still seemed the same, human as ever, and he insisted his mind felt sound. He did not behave oddly - at least, not any more than usual - and no strange occurrences tried to drag them back to Cintra. 

In all, things seemed to have gone back to--- what could amount to normal for them. 

Though-- 

Though when Jaskier was injured, Geralt patched him up with hands that shook. He spoke in words tinged with sorrow on bloody nights, would look at Jaskier’s bloodied mouth with a haunted look in his eyes. 

It was a night like that when Jaskier finally snapped - 

His ribs were killing him and he hated dealing with kikimoras. They were pains in the ass and sure, they brought plenty of coin, but every time he would regret it. He wheezed, blood on his tongue as Geralt smoothed shaking hands over the bandages that he had secured-- 

“Wasn’t your fault.” Jaskier managed to force out, though it was strained. 

“Shut up.” Geralt retorted without even a pause. 

“The-- djinns are-- they twist words. Not your fault.” Jaskier said, again, and reached a clumsy hand out, trying to catch Geralt’s chin to make their gazes meet. He missed and ended up cupping the bard’s cheek - truthfully, it wasn’t the worst position they could be in. 

“Jaskier, stop talking.” It sounded like a plea and Jaskier shook his head. 

“Important. Good.” Jaskier gently patted his cheek, a hand tucking a loose strand of Geralt’s long hair behind his ear. 

Geralt looked pained, but after a moment he raised his hand to cup the back of the witcher’s, thumb brushing back and forth as they held each other’s gaze. 

Jaskier grimaced at a particularly unpleasant wheeze, feeling his ribs creak as his body tried to heal him. 

Geralt pushed himself to his feet, then, herding Jaskier to lay down on the bedroll, sitting at the head and pillowing the witcher’s head in his lap. 

“Rest.” Geralt all but commanded and Jaskier figured sleeping would be better than this so he did. 

He woke to Geralt’s hand in his hair, still petting gently. His bleary gaze followed the bard’s, realizing that he was staring at the fire, and on a second listen he realized he was humming a soft and low tune. Something sweet. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier rasped, and felt like he could breathe significantly better. The bard looked down at him, blinking as if coming out of a daze. 

How long they stayed there, Jaskier wasn’t sure. Eventually he pushed himself up gingerly, as the first light of dawn began breaking over the horizon. 

“May I ask you something?” Jaskier’s voice was a whisper, eyes searching the honey gold, trying to force his heart to steady. 

Geralt gave a slight nod. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” Jasker managed, and watched Geralt’s expression morph into surprise before shuttering to be carefully blank. 

Silence. 

And then - “And if I say yes?” 

“Will you?” 

Jaskier got his answer in the form of Geralt cupping his cheek, leaning in-- 

In some ways, it was too much because Jaskier had loved before, he had , but not like this -- 

Not like this -- 

Because Jaskier would do it all -- all of it-- blood and insanity and struggle and death for this simple touch of lips , this simple I know you, all of you--

He would do all of it again, in a heartbeat, for Geralt. 

+++

In some ways, Jaskier should have known that a thing so good could never last. 

It struck them on what should have been a fairly simple hunt, what should have been a normal day. 

Things should have been fine . 

But what locals had called wargs, what Jaskier had suspected of being a pair of mated alpha wargs-- 

It was far, far worse. Jaskier had caught the scent a moment too late - the wind had carried it the wrong way - and already the sound of claws against hard dirt rang out. 

Nine. 

Nine barghests.

Something was terribly wrong in that village - something that Jaskier had missed and now-- 

Now they-- 

Jaskier pulled his sword and Geralt did the same - he carried a silver one, too, now. Just in case, Jaskier had insisted. He never took him on hunts like these where the opponent was fierce, where the opponent was one he might not come back from-- but he’d made a mistake -- 

“Break them apart. They work as a pack. Dodge the fire the best you can. And Geralt?” 

The bard looked at the witcher, just a breath. 

“Geralt, I’m sorry .” It carried all the sorrow Jaskier had ever shouldered, and then the creatures were upon them - 

Twisted versions of wolves, their lips and noses and eyes rotted away, skin furless and wretched-- 

They fell upon the two of them, snapping and charging and blinding them. 

Teeth tore at his armor and Jaskier bit his tongue until it was bloody to keep from crying out - he tried to keep track of Geralt, but the bard knew how to fight and there were so many of the damn beasts-- 

It wasn’t the longest fight that Jaskier had ever been in, but that was only because he turned to see a dazed and blinded Geralt be knocked to the ground by one of the creatures, teeth snapping too close to his throat-- 

“Don’t--” Jaskier’s voice was lost to the sounds of barghests celebrating an early victory and Jaskier-- Jaskier saw red . 

Red, red-- 

And when it had cleared, he stood over Geralt, sides heaving, bleeding from more places than he wasn’t, corpses scattered about him in pieces. 

Geralt’s breath wheezed from his body and a gurgle sent Jaskier to his knees, tossing his sword aside and reaching for Geralt, dragging him closer. 

“No, no, no--” 

It was too much, he couldn’t-- 

“Don’t you fucking dare leave without me, you bastard, I love you--” 

And he was crying, he was crying because he’d known-- 

Somehow, he had known as soon as he’d heard the claws, picked the numbers, he’d known his beautiful bard wouldn’t make it through, had known-- 

Geralt’s wheezing was shallowerer now, a bloody hand curling around his wrist-- 

“ A gift -” Reminded a voice just over his shoulder, a whisper, a breath - the ghost of lilac under his nose. He shuddered, watching in horror as Geralt’s breathing hitched-- 

His eyes stopped searching Jaskier’s face, distant. 

“I do.” Geralt muttered and stopped moving altogether, limp. 

Jaskier sat, numbed, until, quite suddenly, he became aware of a slow, quiet thumping. Not a heartbeat - not a human’s heartbeat anyhow. Too slow. 

But it was there. 

Jaskier didn’t want to dare hope, but he moved his hand to press it over the bard’s chest and-- 

And yes, there . 

It was so still . 

But there. 

A heartbeat . 

Jaskier shifted the bard, dragging him further into his lap, uncaring of his size, bundling him against his chest, arms wrapped securely around him despite how lightheaded the witcher felt. 

Because Geralt’s heart was beating. 

He looked him over again and found ragged tears and bitemarks healing slowly. 

At the same time, his hair, once that lovely ashy blonde - it now shone white-grey like evening snow in winter, spreading from the roots to the tip of his wrecked braid. 

Geralt was thrashing against him suddenly and Jaskier hushed him, an arm staying secured around his waist, the other rising to cup his cheek. 

“Shhh-- Geralt, shh, I’ve got you-- Geralt--” 

The man was whining in his throat, pitiful noises that he had never heard him make before. 

“Hurts.” The bard gasped, turning his face to press it firmly against Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“I’ve got you.” Jaskier assured, holding him tight, hand sliding to cup the back of his head and cradle him close. 

His legs had gone dead by the time Geralt’s whimpering had quieted, limp against Jaskier, breathing deeply in a way that told the witcher he had fallen unconscious.

It took everything in Jaskier to carefully lay him in the grass, wobbling to his feet and whistling for Pegasus, retrieving his medical supplies from the saddlebags to clean and patch himself up. 

He was finishing a particularly nasty rip on his thigh when Geralt sat up - 

It was a quick movement, utterly silent, and Jaskier would have missed it if Geralt hadn’t rasped his name, looking bewildered and overwhelmed, lifting his hands to cover his ears, eyes panicked-- 

His eyes -- 

No longer honey brown, but gold-- 

Golden, orange around the edges of the iris, slit pupils staring at him, blown halfway in terror. 

“ Geralt-- ”

+++

A witcher and a bard walked into the tavern - 

Though, that’s not quite it. 

A witcher and a witcher walked into the tavern. One carried short swords - one on each of his hips - smiling, pupils blown wide as he looked up into the other witcher’s face. He bore a Cat School medallion at his chest and the whole tavern sat up in alarm.

And the other witcher-- there were twisted scars marring his skin almost anywhere it was exposed - there’s even one where it seemed to have struggled to heal at his throat. He carried two long swords on one hip, a lute swung over his back - a lute . He bore no medallion at all - puzzling and frightening if one must admit, to have no teachings for morals or fighting. Feral .

They sat pressed against each other in the corner of the tavern, and the larger one leaned over to murmur into the shorter witcher’s ear. 

He looked pleased, reaching over to squeeze the brute’s forearm. 

Later they might be glimpsed outside, the brute swinging the lute around so that he might pluck out some sweet melodies on the strings-- 

Flowers. 

The deep, gruff baritone sang of flowers. 

“ Freesia for the little girl, dancing on the corner - Begonia for the poet, who was simply passing through. Statice for the widow, a lonesome quiet mourner: But, oh my love, dandelions for you… ”

It was a love song . 

Behind them, the tavern goers might’ve leaned out the door to hear the pleasant music as it faded, the creator making his way towards the inn with his-- companion. 

Witchers. 

In love? 

Perhaps the world held wonders yet, sparks of strange, odd light within the suffocating darkness - a sweet tune that floated out from the void. 

For if two witchers could love, then couldn’t anyone?

Chapter Text

Jaskier's Sword Belt

I imagined Jaskier's eyes to be sort of a blue-green-teal-ish color like these

Cat School gear, but imagine it very simplified because Jaskier does Not Have Time for all those buckles

His short swords are based on old Viking swords

Barghests are nasty

Geralt's cat eyes

How Geralt carries his swords (imagine the dagger as a second sword) on one hip instead of on either like Jaskier