Work Text:
Geralt groaned at the myriad of pink, red and oxblood hearts of every dimension that filled the shop windows.
It’s not that Geralt was a commitment-phobe. In his life he had committed to many things: to his duty to serve and protect, to his gym routine and, last but not least, to his absurdly obsolete and ancient-sounding name. He couldn’t fathom why any self-respecting parent would force such a destiny on an innocent child but, then again, his parents probably weren’t all that, as they had abandoned him just mere hours after his birth.
With a sigh he parked his car, glancing at his dog in the backseat. The corners’ of Geralt’s mouth turned upwards unwillingly when he looked at the German shepherd.
Roach was sitting upright, obedient and well-mannered as ever, almost too poised to be a real dog. Yes, he was capable of commitment and his wonderful love story with Roach was proof, even though it was probably more Roach’s merit than his own.
The man sighed again. He loathed Valentine’s Day and his lack of romantic life was not the sole reason.
His job showed him far too often how “love” acted at the pretty facade for covering horrible abuse and unspeakable violence and Valentine’s Day was far too often the occasion to band-aid awful relationships with flowers and cheap jewelry. And, on February 15th, just as many women would be missing, quietly murdered by their partners. His was a grim job but he couldn’t have asked for anything better. He couldn’t live with the fact that such monsters were able to freely roam the streets and this led him to the force first and to the Special Unit for Gendered Violence second.
A familiar presence distracted Geralt from his thoughts. Roach was poking its nozzle between the front seats, gently nudging his elbow. He smiled once again, petting the dog absentmindedly and relishing in the prospect of a quiet, uneventful evening. He’d emerge from hibernation once the world had collectively taken off its rose-coloured glasses.
“People,” he uttered, scratching Roach’s chin, and somehow infusing in that single word all his contempt for the entire human race. “The world would be much better off only with animals.”
He straightened his spine, resting his hands on the steering wheel. There was a pastel paper heart in his windshield, trapped between the sweepers. Probably an advertisement for a florist or a restaurant offering a couples discount. He rolled his eyes as he exited the car to remove it. It was pathetic. Even if he believed in signs, if the universe had something to say, it’d better say it outright and not through stupid advertisements in the form of paper hearts.
He took the paper heart in his hands, examining it critically. It was a crime scene, after all. Someone was trying to make him feel.
Sad and weathered, the paper heart laid limp in Geralt’s hands. The paper, pale red and discoloured by the elements, felt thin and of bad quality between his fingertips. The ink had lost its original glossiness. Surprisingly, however, it was neither a florist ad nor a couples discount, but a rather unassuming invitation to an open mic at the Rosemary and Thyme, a nearby café.
Geralt grimaced when he read the title, “Stereo Love.” No brownie points for originality. He turned towards Roach that was now waiting outside the car, looking at him expectantly. “You should feel lucky you cannot read,” he stated, pocketing the paper heart. “I feel like I’ve just lost 10 IQ points reading this.”
He opened the back seat door, picking up Roach’s leash from the rear passenger area. Then he crouched on the floor, gently cupping the dog’s snout and securing the leash on his collar. He smiled at Roach’s disappointed expression and patted her on the back. “Sorry, buddy, you know the rules.”
A vibration in his back pocket convinced Geralt to check his phone. A missed call from Lambert, his partner, probably inquiring about the plans for the night. Great. While Lambert was also single, he didn’t share the same fatalist attitude as Geralt. He was sure that love was waiting for him behind every corner and behaved accordingly, much to Geralt’s dismay.
Repressing a groan, Geralt picked up the phone, feeling already unprepared for the conversation.
“So what are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing, working.”
“Forget that,” Lambert interrupted him. “I’m not gonna work the one day in the year in which women are the most love-starved.” The other continued ignoring Geralt’s groan, this time not held in. “For this reason, I’ve changed our shift. No working tonight. You don’t have to thank me.”
“Believe me, I wasn’t going to.”
“Anyway, since your night has just opened up, I have an offer you cannot refuse.”
Geralt sighed. “This doesn’t bode well.”
“Come on, Geralt, don’t be grumpy” the other replied. “Just think that, if I have a girlfriend, I won’t have to drag you around anymore.”
Geralt dug his left hand in his pocket, leaning against the car and contemplating at once the mess that his quiet night had become and the window shop overflowing with hearts.
“So it’s a yes,” Lambert declared.
Geralt couldn’t see him but he could distinctly picture him smiling on the other end of the phone.
“So, let me ask you again.” A little pause. “What are we doing tonight?”
The answer came to Geralt as he felt the thin paper heart between his fingertips. “There is an open mic at the Rosemary and Thyme, the coffee shops near Stepney? Not sure if that’s your cup of tea.” The cogwheels turning in Lambert’s brain were painfully loud.
“Why not? I’ve not tried the artistic crowd yet. Could this be the time I find a lady friend?”
Geralt sighed and rolled his eyes. Indulging in Lambert’s whims had gotten him into trouble more than once, but it was too late now. On the other side of the phone, Lambert was still rambling about lord knows what.
“I would not have pegged you for an open mic amateur.”
“I’m not. I’m just doing this for you.”
“And I can’t see you but I bet generosity is a great look on you. Maybe you’ll find somebody as well.”
“I should be so lucky,” Geralt answered, sarcasm dripping through his teeth, and hung up his phone.
He needed to mentally prepare himself for a night of pitiful wingmanning for Lambert.
***
Jaskier sighed deeply, chin resting gently on his elbow as he stared outside the window.
Unfair. It was absolutely unjust and unfair that he didn’t have a significant other to share the most romantic day of the year. He had done nothing but devote his life to love, but even writing modern ballads, strumming his guitar in parks to propitiate other dates, and performing Romeo’s monologue at auditions wasn’t enough. He was manifesting love in every possible way and the universe wasn’t delivering its end of the bargain.
He touched the handle of his guitar to make sure it was real. Despite the overall lack of love in his life, she was never going to abandon him. Signing up to this open mic had been a spur of the moment decision but, as he’d learned, those often made for the most interesting stories. Not that Jaskier expected a lot out of it, but at least a good fuck would have been nice. It had been way too long.
Turning away from his window seat, he focused on the cozy inside of the cafè, already decently full. The bartender, friendly and cute, had offered him an almond latte on the house and now Jaskier was perfectly set for his favourite hobby, people-watching.
He sipped on his latte, scanning around the room. Almost everybody was coupled up, just to remind him of his own loneliness. From the girls sitting in the comfy looking green sofa in the middle of the room, slyly looking at the aforementioned barista, to the couple kissing on the cheek near the entrance, to the two guys trying to navigate the awkwardness of a first date sitting down on the table next to the corkboard on the right.
Jaskier sighed. He had the gift, or the course, to fall in love hard and fast and, while this was a great source of his inspiration for his art, it also got in the way of anything stable and nice.
He glanced at the clock on the wall above the register. 17:30. Still half an hour to the start of the open mic and about one hour to his set. He wasn’t nervous, though. He was born to perform.
***
Geralt shrugged, exasperated. “For the twelfth time, it doesn’t matter what cologne you choose.” He grimaced as he drifted on the sidewalk to avoid stepping in somebody’s barf.
“Yes, but what if I chose the wrong one. I wouldn’t want to throw them pheromones off,” Lambert pondered, scratching his beard, deep in thought.
“You worry about the wrong things. Less time talking about yourself.”
“If I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you are showing interest in my love life.”
Geralt’s only answer was an uttered: “Fuck off.”
“Good vibes only,” Lambert ruled cheerfully, as he pushed the glass door of the cafè.
The atmosphere inside was warm and cozy and the sound of a guitar filled up the space, present but not overpowering. Geralt scanned the room for empty seats, pointing a couple of mismatched armchairs in the left corner of the room to Lambert. Without a word, Geralt walked towards the register. He didn’t have to ask Lambert’s order. A black americano for him and an earl grey for himself. While waiting for his order, he bent down, studying the selection of pastries in the window. Usually he wasn’t one for stereotypes, but those donuts looked good, even with that sickly sweet pink icing and heart-shaped sprinkles on top.
He paid for drinks and donuts, just as the melody changed. He tried unsuccessfully to meet Lambert’s gaze to help with the tray, but the other was fixed on the singer. After what felt like an obstacle race, Geralt reached the table and started placing the loot on the small coffee table between the two armchairs. And that’s when Lambert tapped his shoulder.
“Didn’t you use to go out with this guy?” he asked, pointing at the singer.
Geralt jerked, turning towards the singer and simultaneously spilling the tea he had painstakingly carried across the room. “Fuck.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Geralt continued, crouching and looking around for tissues.
Maybe if he crouched, Jaskier wouldn’t see him. His fingers were shaking and he was struggling to hold the tissues in his hand. The music had now faded out, replaced by the sound of his own blood ringing in his ears so loud it drowned the guitar. Is this what dying felt like? Most likely.
Lambert raised an eyebrow. “As funny as it is to see you freak out, you should seriously chill. It’s not like you killed his cat.”
Geralt groaned, still struggling to contain the coffee from spilling on the floor.
Lambert widened his eyes. “You did, didn’t you?”
“No, idiot. He doesn’t have a cat.” Geralt sat down next with a resigned expression on his face, dropping the wet tissues balled up in the middle of the table. “I may have… you know… ghosted him.”
“But that’s okay. Not very nice but, hey, things happen.”
“As in: left his house before he woke up.” He paused. “After five months of dating and a discussion about exclusivity.”
“Oh man. That’s not good.”
“Nothing escapes you, Lambert.” Geralt hissed, then softening his tone. “And I may have told him that I didn’t like his singing.”
The other turned around, pausing for a second to listen to the melody. “You’re such a liar.”
“I know.” Geralt groaned again, burying his face in his hands and leaning against the table. “In my defense, we were really drunk and I hadn’t slept in many days, so there is a high chance that I was delirious.”
“You’re the worst, dude.” Lambert commented, peacefully sipping his coffee.
“Could you please stop saying obvious things? Thanks.”
“You should go talk to him.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow. “And risk being murdered? I’ll pass.”
Lambert straightened his back against the armchair, sizing up the guy in the middle of the room. “May I remind you that you are professionally trained in fighting people?”
“He’s fuelled by rage. Don’t ask me to command that fury.”
Lamber shrugged. “Maybe it’ll go better than expected.” He grabbed the donut, carefully wrapping in one of the few tissues that survived the great spill of 2019. “And I will sit here and enjoy the show.”
Geralt cast a dirty look at his friend and sighed. It was going to be a long, long night.
***
Jaskier plucked the last string, echoed by applause in the small cafè.
His eyes were sparkling and he could feel himself smiling excessively but couldn’t stop himself from grinning. While there was no high like performing in front of adoring masses, revenge served cold was a close second.
Of course, he had noticed Geralt as soon as the man walked in the cafè. He was huge, built like a Greek god and accompanied by another equally huge dude. Jaskier also witnessed the pathetic coffee spill and had to invoke his professionalism to stop himself from pulling a face.
Jaskier bowed down gracefully, holding his guitar in his left hand before stepping down from the podium to let the next singer take the stop. He gently deposited the guitar back in its case and grabbed a glass of water from the bottom of the podium. Whatever was gonna go down, the guitar had to stay safe.
Almost pulled by a magnetic force, he made his way through the cafè, dribbling tables, sofas and chairs just to end up in front of two mismatched armchairs, mustard and faded teal. It didn't escape him how Geralt tensed up under his gaze.
Without a second thought, Jaskier emptied the whole glass in Geralt’s face.
Jaskier could almost physically hear the other guy’s jawline drop. Without allowing his mind to dwell further on the relationship between the two, Jaskier did what he knew best. He flashed his most dazzling smile while holding his gaze steady on Geralt. “Of all the cafès in all the world…”
Geralt wiped his face with his t-shirt. Somehow he still managed to look good drenched. “Jaskier.” Not a question, not an answer, just a statement.
“So you do remember my name. Haven’t the aliens erased your memory?” Ignoring Geralt’s confusion, he continued, putting his hands on his hips “I mean, that must be the only explanation why you’ve left so suddenly and never called back. Alien abduction, right?”
The other man turned to Geralt. “I see what you mean,” he commented, “He is fiery.”
“And you’d be?”
“Lambert.” He extended his hand. “Geralt’s partner.”
Jaskier tensed up, swallowing, throat arid. He didn’t expect Geralt to stay single forever but it still stung.
“As in Geralt’s work partner.”
Jaskier exploded in a smile, barely bothering to hide his relief. He grabbed Lambert’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “Julian Alfred Pankratz. You can call me Jaskier.” He glanced at Geralt’s exasperated expression and the down at the soiled table and its tissue casualties. “I didn’t remember you being so clumsy.”
“Wait, you saw that?” The man groaned.
“Kinda hard for a 6-foot tall man to hide behind a coffee table.”
“It was hilarious.” Lambert chuckled.
“Fuck off.” Geralt rolled his eyes.
Jaskier couldn’t help but smile. That was the blunt Geralt he remembered. “As charming as ever.”
Silence loomed over the coffee table: Jaskier staring at Geralt, Geralt staring at Jaskier and Lambert starting at them both.
Unsurprisingly, Geralt looked good as always. If possible, even more muscular. His jawline could still cut glass and his eyes, of that unusual light amber colour, were the same. They turned so quickly: one moment warm, like molten gold, the next cold, like a bronze armour plate. He made a 5 o'clock shadow look good in a rugged, handsome kind of way. He had cut his hair though. There was no trace left of those ashen locks that Jaskier loved tucking behind his ear so much when they were relaxing on the couch.
In what Jaskier could only consider a miracle, Lambert cleared his throat. “I need a top-up,” he said, getting up and grabbing his empty coffee mug. “I’ll let you two reminisce,”
When Jaskier sat down in Lambert’s seat, his legs almost brushed Geralt’s and Jaskier gripped tight the armchair’s arm like an anchor. He moved towards Geralt, who returned the look. His eyes were the same, but now they were adorned/framed by new darkness and fine lines around them. The words came out like a flood before Jaskier could stop them. “Have you been sleeping well?”
Geralt sighed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to those who know you.” Jaskier tensed up as he felt Geralt’s knee brush against his. Was it him? Was he doing it on purpose? It couldn’t have been.
Jaskier shrugged off the thought, grabbing a teaspoon from the table and then proceeding to stare at it intensely as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Anything, he needed anything to distract him from that oh so casual contact. “Did you know that a museum in New Jersey has the largest spoon collection? More than 5400 spoons! That is like… a lot of spoons,” he said, spinning around the teaspoon in his (somewhat shaky) hands.
Great. He was now rambling. But Geralt didn’t seem to care. In fact, he could swear that the corners of his mouth were turned upwards ever so slightly.
“Actually…” Jaskier stopped when he felt a familiar weight on his arm. He swallowed hard. Geralt had taken the teaspoon and placed it gently back on the saucer. He raised his hands, then rested on top of the Jaskier’s on the armchair.
“Jaskier,” he spoke, “look at me.”
Jaskier stubbornly his gaze down. He couldn’t bear to look; he knew those eyes too well. They were molten gold and he’d been burned before. In his ears, the rumble of his blood was deafening.
Geralt lifted Jaskier’s chin with his free hand. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
Jaskier raised an eyebrow, suspicious. This was not what he had expected. Any other reaction would be normal - Geralt grunting, sighing, telling him to fuck off, generally being emotionally constipated - that would have been normal, not this. He tried unsuccessfully to divert his gaze from those golden wells that were as beautiful as they were dangerous.
“You are what?” he managed to utter between the multiple strokes.
“Sorry.” Geralt smiled, tilting his head to the side. “Not that I expect you to be familiar with the word. You’ve probably never said it aloud in your life.”
”I could say the same thing about you.” Jaskier elbowed Geralt in the ribcage. “Also, way to ruin the moment.”
“Now I remember why I thought you were so annoying.” He sighed, looking around at the heart-filled cafè, at the couples embraced and at the crumbs of disgustingly overpriced Valentine-themed donuts he’d bought. “You know this isn’t my strong suit.”
And he was right, it was Jaskier’s vibe but he wasn’t just going to let his one slide, regardless of how divine Geralt’s ass looked in those jeans. “So you are sorry for what, specifically? The ghosting? Standing me up for my sister’s birthday? Do you have any idea of how ridiculous I looked? Everybody thought I made you up! My sister had to pry the Grey Goose out of my hands before I made an even bigger scene than the time my parents found out I dropped out of uni.”
“All of that and more.” Geralt bit his lip. “You have no reason to sit here and listen to my shitty apology. I was stupid and rash and actions have consequences.” He turned away from Jaskier. “You deserve better, not somebody who cannot even apologize right.”
Without thinking, Jaskier reached for Geralt’s knee. He needed some grounding too.
The other continued. “And it wasn’t you. You were wonderful,” he looked up and down with inconceivable tenderness, “you are wonderful. I am just too ill-equipped to be with anybody.” In a patented Jaskier move, he started staring at the teaspoon of fate, unblinkingly. “I guess I just thought that, since I was going to eventually disappoint you anyway, I might as well do it right then and get it over with.” Now he was looking for the secrets of the universe in the empty coffee cup. “The lesser of two evils, you know?”
Jaskier shook his head. “There is no such thing. Not everything has to end in tragedy.”
“Why does it feel like it always does for me?”
Sunken beneath those dark circles, his eyes looked like they’d ever seen every evil thing in the world and for a second Jaskier worried that he’d never seen Geralt genuinely happy again. Nonetheless, he shrugged, closing the space between them. “Occupational hazard, I’d bet. Nothing a healthy dose of work-life balance, a few therapy sessions and my delicious homemade food can’t fix.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Haven’t you given yourself food poisoning once?”
“More than once, but that’s beside the point,” Jaskier dismissed him, flushed. Emotional vulnerability and pillow talks always had a way of biting his ass.
He grabbed the collar of Geralt’s damp shirt and rearranged it to make it fit under his sweater, a gesture so natural it was almost a reflex. “You look like a mess.”
“Thanks,” Geralt scoffed. “It must be the drinks deranger strangers keep throwing in my face.”
“I’m sure he was a very handsome stranger with a very good reason.” Jaskier grinned back, tilting his head to the side. “Especially because the apology isn’t complete yet, since a certain person made some comments about my singing, comments that were pretty hurtful and, of course, completely untrue.”
Geralt’s tension seemed to dissipate as he straightened his shoulders. “Your singing is wonderful.”
“Like?” Like hell it was going to be that easy.
“Like what? What else is there more to say?”
“Give me a metaphor.” Jaskier grinned back. “Say it like you mean it.”
Geralt rolled his eyes. “For real?”, he moaned, but a look at Jaskier’s face was enough to confirm that he was, in fact, dead serious. “Fine,” he conceded, his eyes searching around the room for inspiration. “Your singing is like biting into a pie and finding out it has extra filling. And not any of those shitty fillings like pumpkin,” he smiled in a way that absolutely wrecked Jaskier’s insides, taking his hand. “You’re blueberry pie, the undisputed pie champion.”
Jaskier inhaled sharply. He loved blueberry pie. “I feel much better now.”
“Well, that makes one of us but I’m happy you relish in my public humiliation for the second time today.” A hint of a smile curled Geralt’s lips upwards and, for the first time, reached his eyes, sinking into that intricate labyrinth of fine lines. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I’m sure destiny will provide me many chances.” Catching a glimpse of Geralt’s unimpressed expression, he continued. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in destiny.”
Geralt groaned, rubbing his temples. Even skepticism and blatant disregard of destiny looked good on him.
“What do you think brought you here?”
“Lambert,” Geralt replied, terse. He looked towards the register where Lambert seemed deep in conversation with the girl who played after Jaskier.
He sighed with relief. Besides being a handsome deus ex machina, that Lambert had the decency to stay away and let Jaskier work his magic.
“That and his desire to get laid,” Geralt then added.
“How poetic.”
Geralt shrugged. “Poetry’s your field. I catch criminals for a living.”
“Now now, no need to go all Batman on me. Can you just let me have this one, please?” Jaskier batted his eyelashes. Geralt had once told him that the looked (and behaved like) and overeager golden retriever; being shamelessly adorable to get his way was not beneath him.
Ignoring Geralt’s disapproving mumble, Jaskier got up, reaching for a pen in his back pocket. His eyes flickered around the table, recognizing the open mic invitation. Then, possibly overextending himself just a smidge to give Geralt the best visual of his ass, he bent down and wrote his phone number on the paper heart with a flourish. He got up again, firmly pressing the invitation on Geralt’s chest.
“I trust you’ll use this wisely,” he whispered then, reaching down to place a kiss on Geralt’s cheek. And then, with one smooth move, he picked up his guitar and disappeared into the cafè’s back office.
Once safe in the dusty refuge of old paperwork and extra bags of coffee beans, Jaskier could breathe properly again. It was good to always leave them wanting more.
***
Despite all the evil in the world and even in the midst of the crowded street, with people bumping into him and Lambert gnawing his ears about the amazing girl he’d meet that evening, Geralt couldn’t help but smile.
Maybe Valentine’s day was not the worst after all.