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The tavern was called the ‘Proud Lion’ but it had little in common with its name. The building was as old as the small village and had been constructed the same year that River Creek had been founded by the first settlers. It wore the traces of time like an old man the tragedies of his life. The walls made out of stone were cracked in places, some bricks were missing and had thus created ideal nesting spots for birds, poison ivy was climbing up the walls and onto the thatched roof, like a claw trying to pull the tavern into the ground.
Light was shining through the small windows of the inn and smoke of a burning fireplace filled the air. Jaskier had smelt it as soon as they had entered the village, meaning that Geralt had probably scented it a couple of miles earlier. He could hear loud voices and the drunken laughter of the guests while he waited for Geralt to dismount Roach and hand her over to the stable boy who looked positively terrified of the Witcher.
The building wasn’t inviting and before Jaskier had joined the white wolf on his journey, he wouldn’t even have considered spending a night in the shabby tavern, but after months on the road with most nights spent under the sky close to a small fireplace and too many rude awakenings in the form of either rain, a monster or a grumpy Witcher who couldn’t sleep and decided to continue travelling, ignoring that poor Jaskier needed some sleep, he was grateful for the opportunity to have a roof over his head and a hot bath to wash away the grime and sweat from too many weeks of sparsely cleaning himself with cold water from whatever spring, lake or river they found during their quest of slaying monsters or- in Jaskier’s case- compose new ballads about the white wolf’s newest heroic deeds.
“Oh, thank Melitele.” He praised when Geralt finally left Roach to the stable boy and marched towards the withered entrance door of the in. The paint was chipped, and the wood worn, just like almost every other front door in the village, showing that the people had no coin to spare for a new coat of paint or an entirely new door. “While I may be the most humble of all bards, even I need a bed to rest my aching bones on every now and then.” Jaskier chattered, ignoring his travel companion’s usual stony silence.
They had made good coin in the past few days. A Leshen had occupied a baron’s forest and killed the nobleman’s workers as they tried to cut down the trees. The baron, as rude and entitled as any other noble, had paid the Witcher very handsomely in return for bringing him the beasts head, before promptly chasing them out of town once he realized why Jaskier had seemed so familiar. It may or may not have had anything to do with a previous encounter that included a royal ball, a bit too much wine and the baron’s beautiful daughter who had already been promised to another when Jaskier had introduced her to a world of pleasure.
The town had had far more pleasing inns, but with Jaskier’s quiet amorous past, being chased out of towns wasn’t unusual. And considering that most people weren’t too fond of Witchers, despite Jaskier’s efforts of portraying Geralt of Rivia as the hero he was, being kicked out of towns and villages happened more often than not. Geralt never complained as long as he got the coin he was promised -not that he complained if he didn’t, he simply glowered at people until they made the smart decision to pay him his full reward-, so Jaskier complained twice as much, to include Geralt.
When they entered the tavern, the patrons spared them very little mind. They were too drunk to care about having a Witcher amidst them and only longed for more ale, a woman to warm their beds and for the bard to sing another song. Jaskier eyed his competitor sceptically. It was a tall, meagre man with worn down clothes and a lute that looked positively tragic. His voice was less than pleasing and the songs he sang had gone out of fashion almost three seasons ago. Nobody wanted to listen to war heroics anymore; fair maidens, monster slayers, white knights and of course the white wolf were what people desired these days.
He shook his head pitifully, before he focused on Geralt again. The Witcher was talking to the owner of the inn, while a busty barmaid eyed him hungrily. Jaskier couldn’t blame her. He too, liked to let his eyes wander over the man’s tall and imposing form. Geralt’s body was a work of art and only a fool wouldn’t be able to appreciate the strong lines of muscle that moved elegantly under his scarred skin.
“Apologies, but there’s only one room left” The owner said nasally, when Geralt requested two rooms and a hot bath for both. “Let me tell me lass to get it ready for you.”
Jaskier didn’t mind much and neither did Geralt. Having to share a room wasn’t unusual, mostly because their coin could only afford them a single room and a hot bath, or two rooms without a bath at all, but when they had the chance to sleep in separate rooms, they took it. Jaskier knew how his character could… grate on people’s nerves and while he was sure that Geralt took great delight in his company -not that the Witcher would ever acknowledge it, but Jaskier was very empathic and could feel that the other man had started to begrudgingly cherish their friendship-, he knew that Geralt needed a break from his constant chatter every now and then, to enjoy a few hours of peace and quiet.
“At least, we shall no longer stink of monster guts.” Jaskier said delightedly, while they waited at one of the wobbly tables for their bath to be ready. “Perhaps I should invest some of our coin in soap. It could prove handy during our travels. I imagine that we will be treated much friendlier if we don’t stink of onion, selkie guts and rotfiend blood.”
“I thought I smelt of heroics and heartbreak.” Geralt said drily and Jaskier tried to smother a grin. The Witcher had an excellent sense of humour, which he sadly rarely expressed. Still, the bard took great delight in evoking the little more approachable side of the mutant from time to time.
“Oh, I’ve seen the aftermath of your brothel visits. Those ladies may be suspicious of you when you first step into their establishment, but when you leave, they wallow your absence. Heartbreak and heroics, but also onion.” Perhaps he was being a little dramatic, but most of the time, Geralt left a brothel with as much coin as he had entered it, because more often than not, his company for the time he spent in there had been so thoroughly satisfied that they didn’t even charge him.
“Hmm.” The older man mumbled, finishing up his ale. Jaskier pushed his own jug aside and picked up his lute. “I think I shall bless the crowd with the debut of my newest composition. It will take some time until the bath will be ready, until then I might even collect enough coin to cover the expenses.” He got up from the table, grinning in delight as he made his way over to the stage, where the other bard was busy fleeing the scene after the crowd had taken to throwing bread at him. Jaskier felt a pang of sympathy for the fellow musician, because he had been there. Pants stuffed with bread on a good day and rotten fruit in is hair on a bad. Until the Witcher came along of course, who had turned out to be his one true muse and helped him rise from a less than popular bard to one of the most celebrated singers with his songs about the heroics of the white wolf.
He ignored the distrust of the crowd, after hearing one too many songs about some cheeky maiden losing her flower to a bandit, he wouldn’t trust the next man with a lute either and instead started strumming the familiar melody of one of his most popular songs. A couple of the patrons cheered, having recognized the tune already and Jaskier felt a surge of pride. A little over a year ago, he could only dream of people knowing his ballads and now here he was.
The mood of the crowd lifted quickly and soon, they were singing along with him and the inn regained its liveliness. Beer was flowing quickly, out of the barrels and even faster down the guests’ throats and Jaskier lived for the happy, unhinged atmosphere his singing created. He sang another two to three songs, none of his more emotional ones since he knew the patrons wanted something cheerful to sing along to, before he finally put down his lute and left the stage with an overexaggerated bow. His pockets were heavy with enough coin to cover another night or two in the inn and he grinned happily to himself as he made his way over to their table. It quickly slipped off his face when he noticed that Geralt wasn’t there.
He looked around for his tall travel companion but couldn’t find him anywhere. Eventually, he ended up at the bar to ask the bar maid if she had seen the white wolf. The woman, busty with a rich alt voice, wearing a light green, patched up dress that revealed her truly magnificent bosom, informed him that one of the villagers had asked the Witcher to solve their Drowner problem. Apparently, a small group had taken to living under one of the bridges that lead outside the village and pulled unsuspecting travellers into the dark and murky waters whenever they could. Jaskier grimaced and thanked her, before he went upstairs to their shared room.
A hot bath was already waiting for them and for a moment, he was torn between jumping into the steaming water or waiting for Geralt because the man would without a doubt, need the clean water much more urgently than Jaskier, after hunting a bunch of Drowners.
But he decided that even if he did wait for Geralt, the water would get cold and after months of being at the other one’s side, Jaskier knew that Geralt preferred his baths boiling hot and took great pleasure in enduring temperatures that would’ve scalded any human. He would just take a quick bath and then spend some of his coin to get the water replaced.
Jaskier took his time cleaning himself. Despite being a rather shabby inn, they had an extensive array of bathing salts and soaps. He scented each and every bottle before deciding on one with a subtle scent of roses. He was aware of Geralt’s heightened senses and had long learned that intense perfumes or soaps gave the Witcher a headache. So, he had stopped using assaulting scents and learned to appreciate the more subtle soaps and bath salts.
The grime and dirt from too long on the road came off quickly, leaving his usually pale skin a little pink from the heat of the water and the scrubbing with soap, and Jaskier sighed at the feeling of being truly clean. One he had removed all dirt and washed his hair thoroughly, he climbed out of the bath, dressed himself in clean clothes and left their small chamber, to ask the owner about new bath water. He used the time waiting to eat a little and while it was just some fresh sourdough bread and a couple of slices of cheese and meat, it was still better than the stale bread and unseasoned, grilled game they ate while on the road.
It took a while for Geralt to return and with every passing minute, Jaskier’s worry grew. He knew that he wasn’t much of a help when he joined Geralt on his contracts, but at least he knew that his Witcher was still alive when he watched the fight from a relatively safe distance. Or that he could do his very best to try and distract the monster long enough for Geralt to regain control, should the Witcher ever be in danger of losing a fight. Not that it had ever happened before, but Jaskier was prepared.
Just when he was about to jump out of his seat and start looking for Geralt, the door to the inn swung open and his Witcher returned. He was filthy, covered in Drowner guts and… from the look of it the poisoned mud of a Water Hag. Jaskier hadn’t even know the nasty creatures lived this close to human villages.
“You’re alive.” He exclaimed and quickly hurried after Geralt, who acknowledged his relief with a noncommittal grunt. Nothing new there. “Not that I was truly worried for your safe return, but I would truly appreciate if you were to inform me about going after some new beast next time, instead of just abandoning me.”
Geralt sighed and wasn’t it truly amazing that Jaskier knew him well enough to be able to tell what every sigh and grunt meant? This clearly said ‘Yes Jaskier, whatever you want, Jaskier.’, or at least that was what Jaskier liked to belief it meant. In their room, Jaskier noted that the bathtub had been refilled with fresh water and did quick work to add the same subtle smelling bath salt he had used, while Geralt slipped out of his truly filthy clothes. The bard made a mental note to have them cleaned tomorrow.
He couldn’t help himself but allow his eyes to roam over Geralt’s naked form appreciatively -he may have fallen in love with the Witcher and while he would never act on his most likely unrequired feelings, he could at least allow himself to enjoy the view of the unobtainable. He noticed a small, sluggishly bleeding gash on the other man’s side and frowned unhappily. Jaskier didn’t like it when a monster got close enough with its claws to pierce the vulnerable skin of Geralt’s abdomen.
“We will need to clean the wound and put some bandages on it.” He noted and quickly ushered the Witcher into the bathtub. Geralt went with another grunt and Jaskier smiled slightly when he heard the small sigh of relief fall from the man’s lips, as the hot water engulfed his form.
Geralt closed his eyes with a satisfied hum and stretched his long, athletic limbs in the wooden tub. Every inch of his body was perfection. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, instead he was pure muscle; trained to kill swiftly and precisely. Jaskier took the rose scented bar of soap that was still slightly damp from earlier use and kneeled behind the tub, where Geralt rested his head. His white hair was tangled and covered in grime and when Jaskier gently poured water over it, to clean out the worst of it, the Witcher stiffened for a second, before he relaxed again.
This wasn’t new for them either. Jaskier had cleaned Geralt before, removed the traces of an earlier fight, sometimes even cleaned away the red paint that came when one had a brush with death, and relaxed the tense muscles underneath smooth skin with knowing touches, but they never spoke about it. It felt strangely intimate in an almost sexual way, but nothing had ever happened. Jaskier cleaned Geralt’s hair and skin, then they would go and sleep in separate beds. It was enough, at least that was what the bard told himself, because the amount of trust Geralt displayed by allowing the human to touch his vulnerable throat and by truly melting under Jaskier’s hands, for once not anticipating an attack, was something Geralt didn’t grant many people.
Jaskier took his time cleaning the Witcher’s white hair. After most of the dirt had been removed, he leathered up the soap and gently massaged the other man’s scalp. Geralt sunk lower into the bath with a quiet hum that almost sounded like a growl and Jaskier couldn’t help the amused, almost tender smile that overtook his face. While he thoroughly rinsed the soft strands of all their grime, he chattered on and on about his performance at the inn, the applause of the guests, how he was about to finish his next song and that they could easily afford a few more days in the inn, should they decide to rest for a while.
Geralt, of course, never answered and another person might’ve thought that the Witcher was asleep, but Jaskier knew his companion well enough to know that while deeply relaxed, Geralt was nowhere near asleep. He had seen the other one either meditate or sleep and while he would never admit it, it was a sight to behold. All the hardness of the life of a Witcher would leave the handsome man’s face to be replaced by content and sometimes even a little smile, he would look peaceful, sometimes even happy in those few unguarded moments.
“Did you know there’ll be a horse salesman in town tomorrow?” Jaskier asked Geralt but got no answer. “I thought perhaps it has become time for me to invest into a trusty steed as well. Not that anybody could replace my darling Roach, but I have ruined far too many shoes during our time on the road and why not invest in a good mount instead of wearing another precious pair of leather boots thin?” He said, more to himself than to the other man.
“Horses have shoes as well.” Geralt’s voice was a deep grumble, almost like the rolling thunder of a powerful storm.
“I’m aware of that. If you could ever bother to ask about me and my life, you’d know that I was quite the splendid horseman before my career as a bard. I know a thing or two about horses, my witcher-y friend. But do not fret, I shan’t be hurt by your disinterest.” He rinsed the mutant’s hair one last time and brushed his fingers tenderly through the now tangle free strands. His eyes caught Geralt’s, who was looking at him intently.
“I like knowing things about you.” The Witcher suddenly said and Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. “I know you had a pony as a child, named Buttercup.”
The bard blinked in surprise. “I told you that shortly after we first met. How did you remember?” He asked, curious now. The other man shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes again.
“I listen when you talk.” Geralt simply mumbled, leaving Jaskier with flaming cheeks and a racing heart. The silence that stretched between them seemed to last an eternity until Jaskier remembered that with his excellent hearing, the Witcher was probably aware that the bard’s heart was currently trying to beat its way out of his chest. He quickly cleared his throat and picked up the soap again.
“You listen when I talk, but you never listen when I sing. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you once compared my beautiful voice to a pie void of any filling.” He sniffed with faux hurt, before changing the subject to less dangerous turf. “What do you think I should call my future steed? A heroic name would be fitting I suppose. Something worthy mentioning in my ballads, there are only so many words riming with Roach, having a less challenging name could include our four-legged beasts much easier. Any ideas, Geralt?”
The Witcher seemed to actually consider the question for a good minute, before he finally answered. “Roach. It’s a good horse name.” He eventually settled on and Jaskier gasped indignantly.
“We cannot call it Roach; we already have one and that would just be confusing. Can’t you come up with any other horse names?” The bard asked, while he brushed the soap over Geralt’s shoulders and down his strong biceps.
“Hmm.” The man mumbled, before speaking again. “Buttercup.”
“My pony was already called Buttercup.” Jaskier pointed out, but Geralt just shrugged.
“Why not? At least you will remember the name.” The mutant raised one arm out of the water so Jaskier could clean it and flinched ever so slightly when the bard ran his fingers over his forearm. For someone as intimidating as Geralt, he was surprisingly ticklish and could barely endure tender and feather light touches. He claimed it had something to do with the mutations and heightened skin sensitivity, but Jaskier didn’t belief him.
“You’re impossible. Rhyming anything with Buttercup will be more challenging that trying to include dear Roach in one of my famous songs.” Jaskier sighed, before he took care of Geralt’s other arm. I was hard to get rid of the dirt underneath the mutant’s fingernails, but after a lot of scrubbing they eventually became clean. He moved on to Geralt’s upper body, spreading the foamy soap over his broad chest and surprisingly vulnerable throat. The skin was soft as silk under his fingers, only disturbed by thick scar tissue every now and again. All traces of old fights, some too close to vital organs for Jaskier’s liking, but he knew the story behind each and every single one.
He tried to suppress his arousal while he worked to loosen the knots and tension in Geralt’s muscles, like he did every time he saw the other man naked, and just like always, the mutant didn’t say anything. Just like it was an unspoken agreement that Jaskier cleaned all the hard to reach spots on Geralt’s back, before leaving the Witcher to take care of cleaning his more… private parts. While Geralt finished up, Jaskier prepared the bandages to cover the ugly wound on his side. It would only need another day or so to fully heal, but he still wanted to keep it protected from getting an infection. He heard the Witcher climb out of the bath and only seconds later, Geralt sat down on the only bed their chamber offered. His eyes were watchful as Jaskier carefully took care of the torn, still sluggishly bleeding flesh and when the bard was done and about to move away, he stopped him.
“I also listen when you sing.” He said almost too quiet for Jaskier to hear and the human needed a second to understand what Geralt was saying. An almost shy grin spread across his face and in a moment of almost foolish bravery, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the Witcher’s cheek, low enough that his lips touched the corner of Geralt’s mouth.
“I know.” He said with a cheeky expression and quickly skidded away, to put their leftover bandages back into one of the saddle bags. He dared to glance over his shoulder because he could no longer stand not knowing if he had crossed any boundaries, but instead of anger or fury, he only found surprise and… a deep, primal hunger on the Witcher’s face.
His mouth went dry and he briefly considered fleeing the room, because what if he had read things wrong and Geralt was about to decapitate him, or worse, cut out his tongue, when the mutant rose from the edge of the bed, crossed the room in two quick strides and cupped Jaskier’s jaw with one broad, slightly calloused hand.
“Good.” He mumbled, before breaching the distance between them, to claim Jaskier’s mouth in a searing, long overdue kiss.
This was new.
The next day found both of them on the road once more. Geralt on Roach, feigning ignorance to the bard’s singing, while Jaskier was strumming his lute on the back of a young mare’s back. It was a calm beast, with a light palomino coat and a good temper who had been sold to him for half the price because she could be a bit stubborn from time to time. Jaskier had simply laughed, claiming that he was an expert in handling stubborn things and bought her without glancing at any other horse. She had whickered softly when he had snuck her a sugar cube and he had immediately known that she was the one.
Jaskier had called her Buttercup and whispered sweet nothings to her while they had left the city behind, much to Geralt’s annoyance. But while they rode, side by side, he did notice the occasional fond look the Witcher shot him from time to time and grinned with anticipation.
Things were indeed new, as last night had proven, and Jaskier looked forward to setting up camp at the end of the day.
He finally knew why most brothels didn’t even charge Geralt, not that there would be any brothel visits in either of their future. They were both far too possessive for that.
Not that he minded.