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- And I'm Here, to Remind You of the Mess You Left When You Went Away
Jaskier in the studio is a sight to see. He’s loud and the look that settles on his face when he watches Geralt from the other side of the glass (or, more than likely, when he checks to make sure Geralt is watching him) is smug and showy. It’s when he’s not keeping his eyes on Geralt, though, that Geralt finds himself entranced. Eyes shut, hips wiggling, hands held firmly on the headphones covering his ears, Jaskier looks less like the all too self aware version of himself that stumbles around Geralt’s bakery when he’s nervous and more like the confident, talented, artist that he is the vast majority of the time.
It’s exciting, to watch the man he loves lose himself in the songs and the words he’s written and Geralt finds himself coming up with reasons to spend his free time in the studio with Jaskier, just watching. He wasn’t strictly invited to show up today, but he also figures he wasn’t uninvited. Besides, the sunshine smile that always lights up Jaskier’s face when he sees Geralt walk in is invitation enough.
Today, when Geralt slides into the room Jaskier is yelling. He really doesn’t know how else to describe it, because surely it’s not singing. For a second, he tries to convince himself maybe he’d gotten the wrong room, that maybe someone else was screaming along to this song, but no. The man in front of him is definitely Jaskier, all fancy clothes and soft chestnut hair. But the tone of the song is all wrong, far different from the acoustic lullabies he usually sings for Geralt.
“And I’m here,” Jaskier shouts, eyes squeezed shut, nose scrunched as he leans into the mic, “To remind you of the mess you left when you went away.
“It’s not fair,” he continues, but then his eyes open and even though his song never faulters, he looks remarkably less angry. But the words still linger in the air, in Geralt’s mind. And when he finishes, he saunters out of the booth and straight into Geralt’s chest.
Geralt’s arms don’t hesitate to wrap around Jaskier’s shoulders, but he feels a strange sort of reserve. When had Jaskier been this angry? It can’t have been recently; he’s basically moved himself into Geralt’s flat. The last time had been the fight, but surely, he can’t still be mad about that. It’s been weeks. And Geralt had apologized for not making his intentions clear. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.
Jaskier pulls back, chin poking into Geralt’s chest, smiling wide, “Ah, my knight in shining armor, here to rescue me from the treacherous dangers of the recording booth.”
Geralt can see the sound engineer on the other side of the room rolling her eyes and he has to restrain himself from having the same reaction, “You don’t seem like a damsel in distress.”
“Oh, you wound me, good sir,” Jaskier exclaims, one hand held flat against his heart in faux hurt. He shrugs soon enough and pulls away, fingers tracing down the length of Geralt’s arm and landing on his hand, threading their fingers together with practiced ease, “Anyhow, we were just finishing for the day, right Ren?”
“Yeah, you were starting to get pitchy,” she nods, ignoring Jaskier’s undignified squawk, “I’ll close up here, you run along.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and help?” Jaskier asks, though he’s already beginning to tug Geralt towards the door. It doesn’t seem to matter, really, if the glare on Renfri’s face is anything to go by. He lingers just long enough for her to throw a pen hard in his direction.
“Alright, alright,” Jaskier laughs, batting at the air, “I’ll keep my accident prone fingers away from your soundboard.”
“It’s all I ask,” she replies as they walk out the door.
In the sunshine Jaskier looks happy and his hand is still pressed firmly against Geralt’s own. But the song was so angry...
“Are you alright?” Geralt barks out, eyes squinting over Jaskier’s figure, wishing he could read the man as easily as he reads everyone else.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Jaskier responds, head cocking to the side, one eyebrow lifted, “Why?”
“You’re not angry?” he presses on and that has Jaskier pulling his hand away, resting one on each of his hips.
“Again, I repeat, why?” Jaskier asks, eyes looking Geralt up and down critically, “Should I be?”
Geralt pauses to think, to rack his brain over the last few days for something, anything, that could have upset Jaskier but he comes up empty handed, “I don’t think so.”
“Don’t be strange, Geralt, I think you’ll find that’s my job,” he says, looking Geralt over questioningly one more time before reaching his hand back out to find Geralt’s, “Now, come. I have to go bother your daughter for a little while and then I’m thinking we should get Thai.”
“How about we go for a jog first?”
“You know what, Geralt, I’m starting to genuinely believe you hate me, I really am,” Jaskier whines, pulling him down the street, “And we both know jogging for you is not that of a normal person.”
“Hmm.”
- It’s Not Fair, to Deny Me of the Cross I Bear That You Gave to Me
There are many things Geralt has discovered he loves doing with Jaskier. Especially when they’re alone. Because with the presence of anyone else brings Jaskier’s showy side, his boisterous loudness and his need to be the undisputed center of attention.
But when it’s just the two of them, Jaskier is soft and quiet and content. He grabs a book and tucks himself into Geralt’s side and just lets himself be. He can be quiet with Geralt. He can relax.
The need for, the delight in quietness leaves a lot of time for Geralt to think. Usually that’s fine. The bakery and Ciri swim through his thoughts. He considers taking Jaskier to a fancy restaurant because the man is annoying and needling and Geralt loves him so.
Today, however, leaves Geralt thinking and overthinking and then thinking again. Because he can’t get the song out of his head.
They haven’t really discussed their blunder since the Big Fight (a name Ciri has creatively given it). Not that Geralt would necessarily be opposed to speaking of it, it’s just, well, they’d already gotten everything sorted and they seemed to be happy. He was happy, at least.
But is Jaskier?
Jaskier isn’t like Geralt. Jaskier needs to talk. And maybe Jaskier thinks that by not bringing it up, Geralt is somehow making the unsaid statement that they can’t discuss it. That Geralt wants him to just forget all about the hurt and confusion and heartbreak he’d felt earlier.
Communication is key, Ciri had said to him, after of course thoroughly telling him off for not just talking to Jaskier. Which makes sense. And he can do that.
He can try.
Jaskier is leaned against him on the sofa, flipping pages on his book every so often, snuggled underneath Geralt’s arm, feet tucked under the cushion. Geralt leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss against Jaskier’s temple, smiling when Jaskier just hums and presses further into it.
“Jaskier.”
“Yes, my dear?” Jaskier asks, not bothering to look up.
“We can talk about it, you know,” Geralt mumbles, jaw locking immediately after, like his body is physically rejecting the statement. Breathing, he massages his fingers against Jaskier’s shoulder and tells himself to relax.
“Talk about what?” Jaskier asks, now closing his book around his finger and turning to look at Geralt.
“It.”
“Yes, I gathered the it part,” he laughs, turning fully in Geralt’s arm and leaning his head against Geralt’s shoulder, “What is it exactly?”
“You know,” Geralt says, trying hard not to grind his teeth.
Jaskier stares at him, eyes locked on Geralt’s face, the tightness of his jaw, the hard squint of his eyes, and sighs, “Okay, Geralt, I promise if I should desire discussing it, I will come to you first. Settled?”
It doesn’t sit well with him, because surely Jaskier’s anger derives from his inability to get his feelings out. But. But he doesn’t want to talk about it now. That’s fine. They can talk later. There’s always later, right?
“Hmm.”
“Yes, hmm,” Jaskier smiles, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against Geralt’s jawline, “Now I shall return to my book, if you would be so inclined as to go back to being my very comfortable pillow.”
- 'Cause the Love that You Gave that We Made Wasn't Able to Make it Enough for You to Be Open Wide
Okay. So maybe the problem wasn’t that Jaskier feels like he can’t talk about it. Of course he knows he can. Besides, his mouth rarely stops moving as is, when has Geralt ever had to encourage him to speak?
Except, his brain reminds him, when he thought you were using him for sex.
Which was ridiculous, really. Any fool could see how much he enjoys being around Jaskier. Okay, maybe it’s just that Yennefer and Ciri could tell, but isn’t that enough? So maybe the problem isn’t that Jaskier needs to be heard. Maybe he needs Geralt to talk for once.
This, Geralt thinks, is going to be decidedly more difficult than just listening to Jaskier. Geralt has ears to listen and his eyes are usually following Jaskier’s movements anyways. And it's not that he doesn’t want Jaskier to know how he’s feeling, he just, it’s difficult to articulate. But he’s resolute. He’s going to try if that’s what it takes to ease some of Jaskier’s less desirable feelings.
When Jaskier finally wakes up for the day and stumbles his way down the stairs from Geralt’s flat and directly into the bakery, he’s already got a neat plate with a muffin ready to go. He slides it wordlessly over to Jaskier, who now feels comfortable waltzing his way behind the counter even though Geralt has told him numerous times it’s for employees only.
“Thank you, dearest,” Jaskier mumbles, rubbing at one of his eyes and yawning.
“You’re welcome,” Geralt replies, fingers gripping the countertop in front of him, “Because I love you.”
“Aww,” Jaskier coos, cheesy smile wide on his face, leaning in to kiss Geralt’s cheek, “I love you too.”
“I...” Geralt starts by opening his mouth but soon finds he doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice; he’s already turned away, fiddling with the coffee machine even though Geralt has definitely told him he’s not allowed to, “I want to tell you about my day.”
“Mhm, sure you do,” Jaskier laughs, watching impatiently as his mug fills. Coffee steaming, fingers curling around the white handle, and leaning back against the counter, he looks up to find Geralt staring at him. Intensely, “Wait, are you being serious?”
“Mm.”
“Oh, shit,” he whispers to himself, stumbling closer, one hand reaching up to brush the hair out of Geralt’s forehead, “Well, I’d love to hear about it.”
“It’s been, good,” Geralt says, eyes looking anywhere but Jaskier.
“That’s...good,” Jaskier says, but he’s watching Geralt like a wild cat, like he’s afraid he might get pounced any second now. And not in a fun way, “I’m happy for you?”
“Thank...you,” Geralt’s reply is stunted and then he finds himself in a sort of staring contest with Jaskier, who for his part just shuffles his feet and let’s his fingers twitch nervously around the rim of his coffee mug.
“Is everything alright?” Jaskier finally asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks Geralt up and down.
“Yes, of course,” Geralt tries very hard not to snap. He thinks it may come out as a sort of half-snap, “Is everything alright with you?”
“Well, I thought it was before I entered into this incredibly uncharacteristic conversation with you,” he replies, but instead of letting the awkward space between them grow, Jaskier takes a few steps forward, one hand reaching out to lay flat against Geralt’s forehead, “You don’t have a fever. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Geralt’s not sure how to respond to that and this conversation isn’t exactly going well anyways, so he tugs Jaskier forward, hugging his arms around his shoulders tight and letting his nose rest against his temple.
“Jaskier?” he asks, voice low, continuing on at the little contented hum that comes from Jaskier, “I’m glad we’re together.”
“Oh, Geralt, you sap,” Jaskier mumbles against his chest, “I’m happy to be with you as well.”
- 'Cause the Joke that You Laid in the Bed that Was Me and I'm Not Gonna Fade
Ciri is at a friend's house, so when Geralt lays Jaskier down that night (on the mattress that had been brought from Jaskier’s flat because really, Geralt, why must you make yourself and now me suffer in this bed it’s like sleeping on a pile of rocks. Lumpy rocks) he makes sure to take everything in. The way the streetlights from the window shine against Jaskier’s hair, his eyes, the way his skin looks creamy in the moonlight.
It’s this moment, that he thinks maybe, maybe, Jaskier still thinks Geralt is taking him for granted. So he goes slow, taking Jaskier apart again and again, lavishing him with his tongue and leaving tiny bruises against his hips. He allows Jaskier to pull his hair and rake his nails down the length of his back and drinks in every single noise that escapes from the singer’s mouth. Again and again, he kisses Jaskier’s neck, his shoulders, his hips, the insides of his thighs and thinks to himself maybe he can show Jaskier just how much he cares for the insufferable man.
Because he does. Abundantly so.
And when they lay against each other, sated and warm, Geralt trails his fingers up and down the length of Jaskier’s spine again and again, other hand reaching over to massage his hip, to pull his thigh up over Geralt’s waist and caresses the skin there. He places tiny kisses around the man’s hairline and lets him curl an arm around his middle.
Again, he tells Jaskier, “I love you,” but he gets no response, because the bard is already asleep.
- And Everytime I scratch My Nails Down Someone Else's Back I Hope You Feel It
He slips out of bed the next morning before Jaskier wakes and pads quietly to the bathroom. In the view of the mirror, he assesses the scratches that rake down his back, sharp and red and suddenly one of the lines from that dreaded song whispers through his mind. Jaskier had sung, everytime I scratch my nails down someone else’s back, I hope you feel it with all the ferocity of an angry lion.
And for the first time in this godforsaken mess Geralt considers, maybe the song isn’t about him. Maybe the song is written about some other lover, who has jilted Jaskier in the worst possible way and maybe, maybe Geralt is that stand in he was singing about.
It’s a dark thought. It’s a ridiculous thought. Jaskier loves him, of that he is sure.
But maybe, maybe when they started...
No. Jaskier, the loud mouth, would have told him. At the very least, he would have told Ciri in their many conversations before he ever met Geralt and she would have told him. Probably. He’s pretty sure. Nearly positive.
Geralt isn’t used to being this doubtful, and his angry, forlorn, confused sighs of discomfort must have been louder than he thought because suddenly Jaskier is right there, stumbling into the bathroom, eyes closed and leaning face first into Geralt’s back. Geralt’s hiss has him swaying back though, opening his eyes fully and looking at the mess he created.
“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier whispers, fingers reaching out to trace the lines on Geralt’s back, “Do you want me to put some cream on those?”
“I have to shower,” Geralt grunts, unable to reconcile the new found revelation with Jaskier’s soft touches.
“Well, yes, obviously after the shower,” Jaskier snaps right back but his touch never wavers from soft and comforting, “Why didn’t you tell me, you utter muttonhead?”
Geralt doesn’t respond, just steps into the shower, unsurprised when Jaskier steps follow him. He stands under the water’s spray, hissing again when the hot water hits his back and finds his hands batted away when he reaches for shampoo.
“Let me,” Jaskier whispers, just barely audible over the noise of the water and begins massaging the soap into Geralt’s scalps, soft and careful. He washes his body, taking special care of his back (which really isn’t even all that bad, Geralt thinks to himself, Jaskier is just a drama queen) and conditions his hair until it’s silky soft, all the while muttering to himself about the utter idiocy of the man before him.
And though Geralt is sure he’s going to be late, he stands the perfect patient as Jaskier rubs healing cream into his back and combs his hair into a neat half ponytail. When Jaskier is finally done, fingers caressing down Geralt’s jaw as he tells him okay, you’re ready to start your day, Geralt is almost sure he’s never felt more cared for in his entire life.
The song can’t be about someone else. He’s sure of it.
+1. Things Look Peaceful
Geralt decides that, given Jaskier’s unbothered demeanor, he’s going to forget all about the song and the way Jaskier’s nose had scrunched into angry lines as he’d belted out the lyrics. In their daily lives, Jaskier is obviously not upset. In every look, in every touch, in every abomination of Geralt’s name, he radiates delight and love. He never flinches away when Geralt’s hands seek him out; at night he pushes further and further into Geralt’s skin like he wants to meld the two of them together. His lips find Geralt’s at every opportunity and sometimes Geralt wakes to the feel calloused fingers tracing the length of his spine again and again.
So, Geralt will forget about the song because it obviously doesn’t matter.
Until, Jaskier and Ciri (because there are days where Jaskier has taken it upon himself to meet Ciri after her final class and escort her home. If Geralt were a softer person, he’d call it cute) waltz into the bakery singing the song. They each have a fist up to their mouth, singing loud and out of tune into fake microphones, eyes squeezing shut as they lean back.
It was one thing to think Jaskier, in all his hurt and anger, had written something like that about him, but now for his own daughter to be singing it? He won’t stand for it.
“Jaskier,” he barks out, lips firm in a tight line, ignoring the bright smile Jaskier sends his way.
“Yes, my dear baker?” Jaskier asks, making his way to the counter and leaning in towards Geralt.
“I need to talk to you,” he snaps.
“Well, here I am,” Jaskier says, confused, eyebrows drawn together, “Present and ready to listen.”
“That’s not okay,” Geralt grumbles, closing his eyes and bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“What?” Jaskier cocks his head to the side, one hand reaching out toward Geralt but immediately stopping when Geralt pulls back, “Geralt, what’s wrong?”
“Look,” Geralt begins, voice quiet but furious, “If you want to write songs like that about me, that’s one thing, I can’t stop you. But I’d rather you didn’t teach them to my daughter.”
“Write songs, Geralt, what are you-”
“And another thing,” he says, nostrils flared, “I’ve tried to apologize, I’ve tried to let you know we can talk about everything that’s happened between us so I really don’t understand how all of those things could be-”
“Wait, what song?” Jaskier breaks in, “The song we were just singing?”
Geralt doesn’t respond to that past a raised eyebrow, enough to say obviously. He is absolutely not expecting Jaskier to let out of peel of laughter answer, hands reaching out to caress the hair around Geralt’s face. He doesn’t pull back this time as Jaskier says, “Oh, Geralt, my darling fool. I don’t know where you were in 1995, but that song was written, recorded and released by Alanis Morisette. Very much not written by me.”
“But,” he begins, mind playing over the last week but all he comes up with is, “But you recorded it in the studio. I was there.”
“Yes,” Jaskier nods, smile looking to big for his face as he continues to pet Geralt’s cheeks, “Because I was considering putting a cover of it on my next album. And because that song is incredibly fun to sing. Which is why Ciri and I were enjoying it so thoroughly.”
“That’s...”
“Oh, darling,” Jaskier sighs, voice soft and careful, one thumb reaching forward to trace against Geralt’s bottom lip, “You really thought it was about you?”
“Mostly,” Geralt nods, cheeks flushing when Jaskier goes from sympathetically nodding along to squinting suspiciously.
“Did you think I wrote it about someone else?” Jaskier demands, looking and sounding utterly scandalized.
“Maybe.”
“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, pulling Geralt forward to press their lips firmly together, “I promise to never do something like that to you. Probably. At the very minimum, I promise to run any angry songs by you first. I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
“Jaskier.”
“You really thought I wrote it?” Jaskier ignores him, laughing again, “I mean the song won a Grammy, Geralt, honestly.”
“Jaskier.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll let it slide this time,” Jaskier concedes, “And I also promise I’m not still upset about everything. If I was, I’d tell you.”
“Hmm.”
“I do not, however, promise to make Ciri stop singing Alanis Morisette. I’m not a miracle worker, after all,” Jaskier says, laughing at the grumpy look on Geralt’s face.
“I’m kicking you out,” Geralt snaps, “Maybe I’ll finally get some sleep.”
“One, you’ve never slept better than when you’re with me, you don’t have to admit it because I already know,” Jaskier lists off, “Two, no you’re not because you love me and were desperately worried I was upset with you”
“Hmm.”
“It’s okay,” Jaskier says, smiling, smaller now, softer, and leaning in to pull Geralt’s face towards his own, whispering right before he presses in for a kiss, “I love you too.”