Work Text:
Geralt might've believed he had a soulmate, once.
Maybe when he was still a child, before he became a Witcher, he might have daydreamed about meeting his other half. It’s been much too long to remember if that had been the case.
Soulmates are human matters, and he’s not human, not really, not anymore. So he doesn’t concern himself with it, because Witchers don’t have soulmates. That’s just how it works — it’s as true as the grass being green, or flowers blooming in the spring, or the sun rising and setting every day. And that doesn’t bother Geralt one bit.
He doesn’t wonder if he was meant to have someone, had he not become a Witcher. He’s far older than most humans; if there was one out there for him, it’s likely they’d have lived out their life years and years ago. It doesn’t really matter to Geralt. He doesn’t need a soulmate, doesn’t need anyone, and no one needs him further than killing whatever monsters plague them.
The tavern is much too loud for Geralt’s liking. That’s not entirely unusual, as used to his own silence as he is. Being around people always has him on edge — not because they’re dangerous, but because he knows he’s never entirely welcome, regardless of whether he’s there to help or just passing through.
He’s tucked away at a small table in the corner so that he has a view of the entire tavern. There’s a bard singing loudly to the less-than-pleased crowd and Geralt manages to tune them all out easily.
Except when confident footsteps approach his table and someone says, “I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”
Geralt already feels the annoyance bubbling up, but no matter what he says, the bard remains undeterred and instead takes the seat across from Geralt uninvited. Geralt finally raises his eyes, ready to tell the bard to fuck off. Yellow meets cornflower blue and—
A jolt runs through Geralt from head to toe, like lightning has struck him where he sits. The tavern and it’s unruly patrons around them fade away. It’s just Geralt and the bard. Something in Geralt’s chest lurches, not quite painfully, and he just simply knows: he’s looking at his soulmate.
"Oh," the bard exclaims, blinking in shock like he’s also coming out of whatever weird trance the two of them had entered together. Then, more giddy, "Oh!" His palms slap the table a few times as if he can't contain his excitement, grinning widely, eyes sparkling. "It's you!
By all accounts, this shouldn’t be happening. Geralt remains silent, in his own head, and the bard rambles incessantly across from him. Geralt catches, I’m Jaskier, by the way, and, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment? and, you’re the Witcher! Geralt of Rivia!
Geralt cuts him off with a growl and stands, overwhelmed by the way confusion and denial and annoyance war in his head, and the way Jaskier won’t shut up, and the way other patrons are glancing over as if they’d gotten wind that something is happening. Jaskier rises with him, but Geralt simply pushes past the bard and towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Jaskier asks, and, to Geralt’s annoyance, follows. Geralt ignores him in hopes that he’ll get the hint and leave.
But Jaskier shadows him all the way to the stables, pestering and pestering. “You can’t leave, we just met!” Jaskier protests as Geralt finds Roach’s gear. He doesn’t reply, just focuses on readying Roach and leaving this entire mess behind. Jaskier scoffs, throwing his hands into the air as he complains, more to himself than Geralt, “I finally meet my soulmate, and the first thing he does is leave!”
“We are not soulmates,” Geralt snaps, rounding on him. Jaskier looks surprised, but not afraid. “Witchers don’t have soulmates.”
Jaskier gives him an unimpressed look, cocking his hip and resting a hand on it. "Either you're not a Witcher - and, well, look at yourself - or, Witchers do have soulmates, because," he gestures dramatically to himself, "I happen to be standing right here."
“We’re not soulmates,” Geralt says again, and turns his back to the bard.
“I know you felt it, too,” Jaskier tells him. He’s not arguing anymore, not really.
Geralt remains silent, confused feelings fluttering around inside of him. He shouldn’t have a soulmate, but Jaskier was right — Geralt had felt it. He can’t exactly deny it. Geralt has spent so long thinking he doesn’t need anyone else, and yet...
“I don’t mind taking it slow,” Jaskier is saying, and Geralt hates the way Jaskier sounds like he knows exactly what Geralt needs him to say.
When Geralt climbs up into Roach’s saddle, Jaskier looks up at him, hands on his hips. “You’re really leaving?” Jaskier asks. He looks annoyed. Disappointed, maybe. “Are you sure?”
Geralt stares down at him for a moment. He sighs, heavy and weary, and extends a hand down for Jaskier to climb up next to him.
Jaskier beams.
It takes some time to get used to.
Jaskier uproots everything Geralt’s ever known. He’s always been alone, followed by slander and his own silence and little else.
Jaskier sticks to him like a thorn in his side, caring for Geralt in ways that no one else ever has. He’s not afraid of Geralt, not disgusted by him, like so many others Geralt has met. He wants to be with Geralt, to get to know him, to care for him.
It takes Geralt some time to get used to the neverending chatter, the tender touches, the feeling of being wanted, but he does get used to them, little by little. It slowly becomes the norm for Jaskier to drape himself all over Geralt, talking his ear off. He patches up Geralt’s wounds when the Witcher bites off more than he can chew. He washes grime and guts and mud from Geralt’s hair, gently combing the tangles out. He listens on the rare occasion that Geralt talks about his feelings, and provides a welcome distraction or comfort or advice. The two of them grow closer and closer.
It’s all so strange, at first, but after a while, Geralt finds he doesn’t really mind.
“You’re a Witcher, but you were fully human once, weren’t you?” Jaskier says one night, between the mindless strums of his lute. They’re camped out in the woods, stars and moon shining brightly between the canopy of leaves above them. Jaskier is reclined to rest his head in Geralt’s lap, and when he tilts his head back just slightly to meet the Witcher’s gaze, his eyes sparkle in the light of their campfire.
“So I think it makes sense that you’d have a soulmate,” Jaskier continues, giving his lute another thoughtful strum and leaning back into Geralt to watch the fire once more. “Besides, Witcher or not, you’re still a good person. You have a soul.” Jaskier gives a pleased hum, like he’s just discovered some grand secret of the universe. “Perhaps that’s all it takes.”
Perhaps most Witchers truly don’t have soulmates. Perhaps Geralt is an exception.
Geralt hums and threads his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair, closing his eyes and tilting his face up to the sky. As he listens to the crickets chirping around them, accompanying Jaskier’s soft melody, and basks in the warmth of the fire and where his bard is pressed up against him, Geralt thinks about how he’d never thought he’d have something like this, and how he wouldn’t trade it for the world.