Chapter Text
They find Jaskier in a tavern a few miles outside of Oxenfurt. It’s Yennefer who spots him first – who sees him across the room, whose eyes go wide with recognition.
It takes Geralt a little longer. He smells him before he sees him – all sweet honey and wildflowers and salt. But he can’t believe his eyes when he looks up.
Jaskier’s aged. He’s not old – not even close to being old – but his hair is more silver than it is brown, his crows’ feet now undeniable. Geralt was never really sure how old Jaskier was, and Jaskier never told him, but he looks now to be in his late fifties.
He’s still staring at him when the bard, seated at a long table with a gaggle of students, peers up.
There’s a long, drawn-out moment where they stare at each other across the tavern. Geralt feels like his heart has dropped into his stomach and his stomach has dropped into his feet. He feels guilty, suddenly – guilty that so much of Jaskier’s life has passed without him in it. Part of him wants to rush over there and -
And what?
He doesn’t know.
And then Yen is suddenly waving him over, and Geralt hasn’t time to say anything before Jaskier’s sat at their table, a full glass of wine in his hand, his eyes just as blue and bright as they ever were.
Somehow, it’s just like the old days. The little anxious knot in Geralt’s stomach quickly vanishes and he falls back into easy banter. Jaskier’s been travelling, he says, and teaching a little – hence why he’s so close to Oxenfurt. He asks after Ciri, and even asks how Yennefer’s doing – although his voice is still somewhat colder towards her. He’s as much of a chatterbox as he ever was, weaving them the stories of his years away from the witcher.
There’s a sparkle to him, now - something Geralt can’t place. He’s confident and, even after all this time, still a shameless flirt. But behind all that is something else - something almost like fear. Sometimes he laughs at one of his own jokes but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Geralt realises, halfway through a story about a brawl at a wedding, that he’s missed Jaskier. He’s missed his easy going nature, His ceaseless chatter. Jaskier is - he’s forced to admit - just as distracting as he ever was. Perhaps even more so: he’s always been attractive, but the years have been kind to him, and the salt-and-pepper of his hair suits him.
Very little else has changed - save for a pendant dangling on a silver chain from his neck. It’s a flower, intricately designed, resting gently against his fine satin shirt. He plays with it absent-mindedly as he talks.
Geralt suddenly regrets not spending more time with him. It’s easy to forget how short the lives of regular humans can be. Jaskier isn’t ancient, by any means, but he’s sped through more than half of his life in the blink of an eye. Soon, the songs and stories and wild, boisterous character will just be…gone.
It won’t do. Deep in his cups, Geralt is about to propose that Jaskier join him on his next contract, when the bard seems to have a sudden thought.
“Anyway, I must go,” he says, standing, “I’ve a room here this evening but I’m off again in the morning, bright and early!” He laughs, but it sounds forced. “I'll… well. See you, Geralt.”
As soon as Jaskier’s gone, Yen turns to him, eyes steely.
“Something’s going on.”
“What?”
“Jaskier. Something isn’t right. He’s up to something.”
“Yen, you’re being paranoid.”
“Don’t tell me you couldn’t sense it, Geralt. He was reeking with magic.”
Truthfully, Geralt hadn’t noticed. Yen spots his blank expression.
“Gods save me,” she rolls her eyes, “Some things never change. If you’d taken a moment to stop staring at him you’d have noticed your bloody medallion was twitching. He’s gone and gotten himself involved in… well, in something."
“Yen, really-”
“Don’t you 'really' me! Think about it, for once, please. You must have sensed something was off about him.”
Geralt concedes. “I… I suppose. Yes.”
“Well, then.” She says it like the matter is closed. He looks at her, raising eyebrows. “Gods, Geralt, go and find out what he’s up to!”
“Now?”
“I - yes, now! Or do I have to go up there and twist it out of him myself?”
Geralt sighs. “Fine. I’ll go. Wait here.”
He downs his drink then heads in the direction of the staircase. He doesn’t need to ask which room Jaskier is in - he just blindly follows his smell, almost as familiar as his own, even after all this time.
It’s strongest outside the last door on the landing, and he can hear movement from the room on the other side. He braces himself, trying to work out what he’s going to say, then grabs the handle and pushes open the door. It’s unlocked - years ago, he would have chastised the bard for such carelessness - and Jaskier gives a startled yelp as it swings open.
“Jaskier, we need to-”
He freezes. Jaskier is standing in the centre of the room, half undressed. His shirt and doublet are strewn haphazardly on the bed, the new silver pendant thrown on top of them.
He’s young again. His wrinkles are gone, his hair no longer streaked with white. He looks just like he did the day they met, like he did the day he was cursed by the Djinn, like he did the day Geralt abandoned him on that fucking mountain. He looks like he did the day they’d parted ways for the final time - more years ago now than Geralt can remember.
“Geralt!” he says, hands raised, surrendering, “Okay, look, you see: the thing is-"
"What the fuck, Jaskier?”
“There… may be something I need to tell you.”