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To find him here. Of all places.
Geralt couldn't help but think it made a certain kind of poetic sense, though this time patrons carried no bread to throw.
Stepping off the subway today had been no different than stepping off the subway any other day; not since he'd arrived in this city, but there was something new in the air, a melody. Hauntingly familiar. And for the first time in a long time, Geralt let himself dare to hope.
He didn't run. That would be undignified. But he wouldn't deny increasing his pace nor the sharp intake of breath when he finally, finally turned the corner of a wide cement pillar.
They could be twins.
The song is peppy, something upbeat and fun, and Geralt recognizes the flourishes, the wink, the quirks that were only and ever uniquely his. Something in his heart breaks and he thinks it might be stone because he'd almost given up hope of finding him again and he was so young; fresh faced, that flush in his cheeks from the sheer joy of performance, hair gently tousled by the wind generated by the passing trains. In pure dramatic fashion, he stood in a beam of filtered light from above, reflecting strawflower blue like an arrow and how he didn't notice Geralt staring was a mystery. In his cultured, talented hands he held a beat up guitar, the ragged case open in front of him and while many ignored the busking bard, some saw fit to reward his efforts.
But his voice. A thousand memories flood forth of that voice. Whispers in the velvet dark of a shared bedroom, exhausted requests after long hunts, warm assurances, witty jabs, composition experimented with when he thought Geralt wasn't listening. And the farewell of a last breath against the shell of his ear somewhere on a seemingly endless coast.
In his surprise, Geralt left himself wide open and vulnerable, blinking when the man's bright blue eyes connected with his. The performance was finished and behind the scattered applause the Witcher could hear him asking if they enjoyed his rendition, gesturing proudly to the worn velvet. In a flurry of rushed activity, the doppelganger is stuffing his pockets with the meagre spoils and packing up the instrument, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to cross the suddenly vacant station.
"What did you think? Three words or less." The grin is wry, Geralt's chest aches. Was destiny truly this cruel? There's an ease with which this man approached him. Just like there was centuries before and Geralt feels his look soften, travel up and down his form remarkable in its sameness.
"What's your name?"
"Okay. Well, technically three I suppose." He hitches the strap higher on his shoulder, grin so bright it was blinding. The same lack of self preservation was generational it seemed. "Jaskier." At Geralt's extended pause he chuckled, "I know. Old fashioned this day and age." How was it the same? Forgetting himself, the Witcher reached across the yawning chasm between them, cupping his cheek with a broad palm and the man didn't even flinch.
If there were worse methods of torture, Geralt didn't know them.
Geralt can see the moment where Jaskier misinterprets his attentions; an all too familiar cheeky glint lighting up his eyes. Indeed he'd been on the receiving end of that coy and amorous tongue more often than not. It was almost enough to make him smile, but no. He had a job to do. This was mere coincidence, the best coincidence, but he didn't know this man. Not really. And admitting it tore him apart.
Already he was attached. Already, he'd put Jaskier's life in danger. Already.
He turned on his heel, snatching his hand back as though burned, doing his utmost to ignore the scrambling behind him and the offended squawk of indignation. It took several swallows to remove the clot of emotion from his throat.
"Hey! Hey--wait!" Insistent fingers tugged at the shoulder of his leather jacket. He shrugged him off and with a sigh of both deep affection and irritation, realized Jaskier intended to follow. Geralt couldn't deny the longing nostalgia. "Hey! You didn't tell me your name." He could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "Rude!" If he closed his eyes he could imagine the last eternity had never happened. Here he was. Alive. Real. Twittering just behind him like the lark he was, a constant stream of endless chatter and he almost couldn't take it. Throwing a hand behind him he felt the smaller body collide with it and groan. "Hey! Give a man a warning next time!"
"You can't follow me."
"Who said I was?" Insufferable. He smiled. No one would know in this dark. He could take this comfort.
"Jaskier."
"Oh, now that is a tone I like." Saucy little--
"Stay here." Geralt stalked away, hopping down to the tracks and already spotting a sign of the beast he was after.
“Uh, hey… are you supposed to be going down there? Wait, this part’s off limits.” Jaskier’s tone turns from that brief moment of situational awareness to playfully scolding, “Are you a terrorist?”
"Stay. Here."
Of course he didn't listen. He never did. Even after blatantly thinking him a very real and present danger he could hear the steps of a novice attempting silence behind him. Geralt stopped in the middle of the tunnel and heard the feet behind him stop too. He just sighed.
"And why did you follow me?" As if he didn't know already.
"Well, what kind of errand takes place in an old abandoned subway tunnel?" Long suffering, Geralt sighed again, ears picking out scrabbling on the rocks.
"It's dangerous. Go back the way we came." Jaskier stopped some meters back and he turned to him.
"Why? Third rail? Roaches? Ghost trains?" When Geralt lunged, his eyes, built for low light, took in the look of fear splashed across the youthful face, blue fixed upon the flashing silver in his hands. The babbling barely registered, the pleading as he tried to dissuade Geralt from killing him faded into white noise as the grate behind him exploded upwards, inspiring a high pitched screech. But Geralt was there, stabbing the small blade up into the soft parts of the monster's throat before it got the chance to sink monstrous claws into the musician.
Jaskier had always been good bait.
"No. Because of that." Bodily, he picked Jaskier up by the shoulders and shoved him into a recess in the wall. "Stay." More were coming and he wouldn't be able to concentrate with him in the way. The beasts surged forth like water from a blown fire hydrant, numerous and angry, all gnashing teeth dripping saliva and claws wanting nothing but to tear the flesh from his bones. Hot blood sprayed across his face as he dove into the fray, slashing skin and scale, doing what he knew best and funneling all the frustration from this day into the contract.
...What was that noise?
A voice pitched above the din, some sort of screaming cover of an old song counterpoint to the music of metal on talon and fang.
"Jaskier!" With his bare hands Geralt stopped the maw to the left of him from closing over his head. The guitar rose in a crescendo and Geralt couldn't, almost couldn't, believe what was happening. "Jaskier!!" Said musician's voice, breathless and elated, sounded somewhere to the right of him.
"What do you think? ACDC or--?"
"JASKIER!" There was a sickening crunch and a gush of blood when with a burst of strength borne from his sheer disbelief, Geralt tore off the creature's jaw at the joint.
"That was AMAZING!!!" He found the fool sprawled on his back, face split wide with an ecstatic and dopey grin from the adrenaline rush, guitar laying beside him seemingly no worse for wear.
"That was stupid. You could have been killed."
"You sound as if you care." Geralt hauled him up with a hand slick with ichor and he stumbled, colliding with his broad chest, panting. Gently, so gently, the Witcher held him there, heard his already pounding heartbeat accelerate, saw his cheeks flush delicately in the low light.
"Geralt."
"What?" He sounded winded, awed, eyes grey in the dark and impossibly wide.
"My name." And I do care. More than anyone could ever know.
"You've got a funny way of making introductions." As if Geralt had dragged him along against his will.
"Hmm." Jaskier's sharp intake of breath made him smile. He didn't know you could miss something this powerfully. Two hands shoved him, succeeding only in moving himself away and Geralt watched him imperiously dust off his stained clothes.
"Well, you reek. And I reek." With disdain, he plucked at the sticky collar of his shirt. "You owe me a shower." Geralt suspected as much. It seemed this Jaskier was a wandering minstrel as well. "And a new shirt while we’re at it."
Would these wonders never cease?
Geralt let himself hope against it.