Chapter Text
Jaskier should have turned away as soon as he recognised the place; should have continued walking the second realisation hit, no matter the distance or the hour or the pouring rain. But he’d been curious enough—self-destructive enough, perhaps—to ignore the tightness in his shoulders and the lead weight in his stomach and gone in anyway.
Nothing could have prepared him for the deluge of memories as he entered. It was as if no time had passed at all. There was the table he and Geralt had sat at, the bench looking just as rickety as it had done back then. The sign above the fireplace, a little faded but still promising a painful death to anyone who tried to leave without paying. Even the people looked the same, although they surely must have aged.
A serving girl eyed him speculatively and he had the presence of mind to flash her a smile and indicate the lute on his back. She nodded toward the bar, where an older woman stood, watching him, her greying hair gathered in a complicated knot at the top of her head. She’d been here on his last visit too. Did she remember him? The landlord’s wife, if he recalled correctly, and not entirely immune to Jaskier’s charm although he’d never followed through with any of the whispered innuendo. He rarely did when Geralt was with him.
Geralt.
He glanced at the corner table where they’d spent that evening, high from recent successes. Geralt had been unusually loquacious that night. It had been the first time since they’d started travelling together that he’d lowered his walls enough for Jaskier to catch a glimpse of the man behind the fabled witcher. And it had been that night, in this very bar, so many years ago, that Jaskier’s tiny and only mildly inconvenient crush on his travelling companion had exploded into all-consuming desire. He could still clearly recall the moment it had happened: he’d said something completely innocuous, Geralt had shot him a wolfish grin, yellow eyes alight with amusement. and he’d felt something inside him crack. A burst of warmth in his chest accompanied by a lurch as his brain frantically tried to gather up the unwanted realisation and stuff the feelings deep, deep down where they couldn’t fuck things up. He’d known, in that moment, as a primal want flared brightly within him, that Geralt would never return the true depth of his feeling. It had felt like an insignificant detail at the time, though. Geralt had considered him a friend, had trusted him enough to let his guard down, and Jaskier was sure he would have been happy to sit and bask in the warm glow of their friendship for the rest of his days.
But...
Jaskier sighed, swallowing the lump in his throat. Memories that had once held such joy for him now scraped his insides raw. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn around and walk out.
Mentally shaking the image away, he approached the bar. It was still pissing it down and he still needed a place to stay the night so it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter. “A night’s entertainment in exchange for a bed?” He plastered on his best smile, although the effect was ruined somewhat by the rain dripping down his face.
The landlady looked him over. There was a flicker of recognition there, but she didn’t acknowledge it so Jaskier let himself relax a fraction. “Keep this lot happy and free with their coin and you’ve got a deal,” she said eventually. He sagged minutely, relieved he wouldn’t have to beg. He opened his mouth to thank her but she cut him off. “Any funny business, though, and you’re out.”
Ah. So she definitely recognised him. “You have my word,” he said with a conciliatory dip of his head. She nodded once, a sharp motion that told Jaskier he was dismissed. He made his way over to the corner to set down his bags and unpack his lute, deliberately picking the side he and Geralt hadn’t sat in last time.
———
Jaskier’s fingers danced absently over the strings, plucking a simple tune, slow and mournful, turning lyrics over in his head, as he took a short break from playing for the crowd. His eyes burned as the song led his thoughts back to what ifs, back to if onlys. It was a well-worn path, and one he was no longer sure how to escape from. It had been harder than he thought, returning here.
He hadn’t really noticed, all those months ago, when the ever-present thoughts of Geralt had slipped to the back of his mind—a dull ache in his chest whenever his thoughts drifted in that direction, but no longer the acute sorrow he’d experienced when the hurt was fresh. But being back here... It was like being thrust back into the past. Everywhere he looked, there were reminders of Geralt, of the night their relationship had turned from one of convenient companionship to one of true friendship.
He shoved the thoughts away, ramming them into an already overflowing trunk to be dealt with later. Or never. No time to dwell now. Not in public, anyway. He had a bed to earn.
“Hey. Bard.” Jaskier’s hand tightened at the intrusion into his brooding and a discordant sound rang out from the lute. He winced and glanced up as the serving girl dumped a plate of food in front of him. “Ma says you need to perk up before you play again. You’re depressing the regulars, sat here with your mopey face.”
“How do they think I feel, having to look at their faces,” he muttered under his breath.
The girl snorted.
Jaskier chose to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want the landlady to make good on her promise to kick him out—another night spent in the pissing rain, cowering under a bush held absolutely no appeal. “You can assure your mother that I’ll be playing nothing but bar room favourites just as soon as I’ve finished with this…” He glanced down at the meal congealing on the plate, “…this delightful fare with which she has so graciously provided me.”
“Is there maybe something else that might put a smile on your face?” the girl asked sweetly. A little too sweetly.
Jaskier’s stomach twisted. He looked up, already knowing, more or less, what he was going to find. As soon as she had his attention, the girl arched an eyebrow and smirked. He let his gaze drop to her lips, bitten red; her breasts spilling over the top of her bodice; the gentle curve of her hips, and he briefly entertained the thought of taking what was on offer… But the words lodged in his throat. He couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for the prospect and would rather not embarrass himself with a poor performance. He sighed, resigned to having talked himself out of an easy lay, but before he could figure out a way to diplomatically reject her, a shout from another table drew her attention away. The coy smile dropped from her face and she muttered something unfavourable about men and pigs that Jaskier couldn’t make out. “Ask for Rose at the bar if you fancy trying some… local flavour,” she said, throwing him one last playful smile over her shoulder before walking away.
At one time, he would have played along, let the seduction play out to its inevitable conclusion. He’d felt very little excitement in the chase for a while now, though; had felt no proper thrill in pleasuring another body, discovering what made a person scream with pleasure. Pursuits of the flesh just left him feeling hollow, unsatisfied. And having Geralt pushed to the forefront of his mind again had, it seemed, only exacerbated those feelings. He felt unable to scrounge up even a wisp of excitement at the prospect of a quick shag with an objectively pretty, and clearly eager, bar girl, which was bloody ridiculous because he and Geralt had never even— never got close to— No. He refused to give any more time to thoughts of that man. It had been more than long enough, and there was no way Geralt still thought about him in any capacity. His lack of contact in the last year had made it abundantly clear what his stance on their friendship was.
Jaskier made an annoyed sound in his throat, endlessly frustrated with himself. Maybe he should go after Rose. Or perhaps that lad propping up the bar who’d been very unsubtle in his interest. Maybe if he bedded enough people, he’d be able to forget the emptiness. It had certainly worked before.
Gods, he hated him.
Ugh. No, he didn’t.
He carefully set down his lute and poked at his food. A mystery pie with soggy pastry. Greyish carrots. Some… potatoes? All coated in something he was optimistically going to call gravy. He thought wistfully of the stale bread and hard cheese he’d had for lunch. Fuck, he needed to sort his life out. Change careers. Go home maybe. He was getting tired of moping around in dodgy taverns.
He loosened a couple of ties at the neck of his doublet. The air was thick and heavy, the crowd almost too much, but at least the window beside him provided a small relief from the stink of unwashed bodies, stale beer, and questionable food. He took a sip of his ale and hummed in appreciation. It actually wasn’t too bad. Better than the piss they’d served at the last inn he played. God that had been awful. The crowd in that place had turned on him pretty quick after his fifth or sixth refusal to play any of those bloody ‘witcher’ songs. He’d been lucky to escape with all his teeth after the bar stools had started flying—a brawl unrelated to, but probably not helped by, his stubbornness. Yet another reason to change his lifestyle. Maybe he could join an acting troupe. Or find a theatre willing to give him regular work. He could settle down—
“’Ere, you that bard? The Witcher one?”
Jaskier sighed inwardly and tried not to look too bored by the question while simultaneously cursing his success. If only he wasn’t so damn good at what he did. If only he hadn’t written so many songs about that brutish, golden-eyed cur that were now famous across The Continent. Fuck his brilliance and natural talent.
“I’m a bard, yes. Very observant of you. I’ll be playing again in a bit if you have any requests. Fishmonger’s daughter, perhaps? That’s always a favourite.” He smiled, although it felt like more of a grimace as he tried to keep from snapping at the man to fuck off and leave him to his slop.
“Nah. I wanna hear that one about the time White Wolf defeated the hags on the hill. Or that dragon one, you know? That one.”
“The white what? Sorry. Don’t know any songs like that. Perhaps you’d prefer something saucy? I know a delightfully titillating ditty about a lovely fair maiden and her decidedly filthy mouth. Does that not tickle your fancy?”
“What ploughin’ bard worth ‘is salt don’t know any songs about the White Wolf?”
Jaskier gritted his teeth and shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with the next one, then.” Why were people so hung up on hearing about Geralt and his fucking adventures? Why were those songs the only thing people wanted to hear from him? He just wanted to completely forget the bastard, move on with his life the way Geralt had moved on with his. Was that too much to ask for?
The man grumbled something scathing and spat at Jaskier’s feet before stalking back to his table. Lovely. He pushed his plate away, appetite vanished. He might as well play his next set, get the night over with. He’d lose out on a room for the night if he left now. Unless… there was always Rose, he supposed, prodding at the idea anew to see if he could muster any enthusiasm at all, but... No.
Jaskier sighed and pushed up from the table, traipsing back into position. He just needed to focus on getting through the night; the sooner it was over, the sooner he could move on to the next place. Maybe one day he’d be able to outrun his feelings. Maybe one day he wouldn’t keep one eye on the horizon, always seeking a flash of white hair.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Cleared his mind. He played songs he knew inside out, songs he could play without engaging his brain. Traditional songs, bar room songs, songs about places he’d travelled through, people he’d met. Crowd favourites. New pieces. He pretended not to notice the restlessness of the crowd; the faces growing angry, impatient; the landlady shooting worried glances at her bar, probably weighing up the likelihood of her patrons buggering off home and taking their coin with them.
He ignored the jeers, the calls for songs about him; songs Jaskier had sworn he’d never play again. He ignored the shouts for new tales. The White Wolf had rescued an entire village from an infestation of Devourers, wasn’t that brave? Why don’t you sing about that? What about the time the White Wolf had killed a giant and broken the curse on a young farmer’s family? Didn’t the bard have any songs about that? What sort of useless bard didn’t keep his repertoire up to date?
Of course he’d heard about those things, or similar. Who bloody hadn’t? It seemed no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help hearing snippets of conversations in market places, or taverns, or when he was just minding his own business on a stroll through a town. As far as he could tell, every bloody person on the Continent seemed to have their own tale about how the witcher had saved them, their auntie, their fucking third cousin twice removed, from certain death, and they all choose to chatter about it when he walked by. Without fail. And he’d be frozen in place, unable to do anything but overhear every sordid detail.
At least, from what Jaskier had been able to glean from all his unintentional eavesdropping, it seemed Geralt was happy. Which was great. Jaskier was glad. He really did wish Geralt well… but that didn't mean he couldn’t also wish the silver-haired bastard a very itchy rash on his dick. Something irritating but not too debilitating.
“We want the one about the golden dragon!” someone shouted from the back of the room, as Jaskier paused between songs. “Yeah, the witcher and the dragon!” another cut in, and Jaskier quietly seethed as the cry was quickly taken up by others, still all obviously hung up on hearing songs about sodding Geralt and his masterful handling of his weapon despite Jaskier’s best attempts to distract and ignore them. He fervently wished he’d never met the bastard. The man would not leave him alone. He was going to be plagued by that name for the rest of his fucking life and it wasn’t fair.
“Fine, fine. You know what? I’ll give you a song about your bloody witcher. Your butcher. Your… garroter.” The audience buzzed with approval (or was it reproach? It was honestly getting hard to tell the difference).
Jaskier started playing a new song, one he’d not played to anyone before, his fingers picking out the simple melody, a melancholic wandering through minor chords. It was a song about the pain of unrequited love, about being used, about how it felt to continue living after his heart was wrenched from his chest. It was a song about loss and loneliness. A song about abandonment; about missing part of himself. It was a song about Geralt.
He closed his eyes, let the painful lament flow through him, lyrics he’d agonised over, lyrics he couldn’t remember writing spilling out of his mouth. It was cathartic, letting his sadness out in this way. The noise of the tavern fell away. Nothing mattered except the words and the melody. He let the song wring out his sorrow, let it fill the gaps left by Geralt’s absence.
When the song drew to a close, he let the last notes ring out, crisp and clear. With his eyes shut, Jaskier could almost imagine the audience were sat in rapturous silence, awed by his talent, but he didn’t believe it for a second. He breathed deeply to centre himself, and someone coughed—that awkward, embarrassed cough that people only did when they wanted to be anywhere but where they currently were—had he been that awful? Had his song really reduced people to pitying silence and awkward coughing? He opened his eyes slowly, terribly afraid of what he was about to find. He wasn’t used to inspiring silence—amusement, jealousy, irritation, sure, but never hollow silence. He’d hoped for applause, adulation, coin. He’d realistically expected bored indifference. He never, in a hundred years, could have predicted the image that met his gaze.
Broad shoulders, silver hair, and eyes like an autumn sunset. The only pair of eyes in the place currently on him. Jaskier’s stomach plummeted.
Geralt.
Standing in the door of the bar splattered with gore, just like old times.
Geralt.