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It had been nearly a year since Geralt had developed a shadow in the shape of a flighty bard and he was perpetually baffled by it. He tried giving the bard the silent treatment. That just opened up the chance for him to talk Geralt’s ear off. He tried slipping out early in the morning and discovered that the bard was the lightest sleeper he ever met. But this has to be it. He knows this final act would scare the troubadour away.
When Geralt tromps into the tavern where the bard was playing, the entire room falls silent. This is a common occurrence when someone strolls through the door covered in monster guts and reeking like last week’s cabbage stew. Geralt knows how disgusting he looks. With all the bard’s talk of the “romance” of adventure and monster hunting, Geralt knows that the sight he currently makes would finally snap him out of such useless delusions.
As their eyes meet across the room, the revulsion Geralt expects (and secretly dreads) to witness never crosses the singer’s face. Instead, Jaskier simply rolls his eyes and in between stanzas calls out, “Your bath is waiting in our room my white wolf. Have fun!” Before turning back to the crowd with a blinding smile as he continues to sing.
For a long moment Geralt stands at the doorway flabbergasted, his blank expression hiding his racing thoughts as he blinks dumbly. Why doesn’t the sight he makes chase the bard off? Will nothing get rid of this leech that’s attached himself to Geralt?
But as Geralt finds himself sinking into the scorching bath with a satisfied sigh moments later, he has to admit to himself that “leech” isn’t the right term. Sure, the bard could be head-splittingly annoying, but then he turns around and does something thoughtful like ready a bath in anticipation for when Geralt ends his hunts.
And despite what Geralt says, the incessant chatter does help Geralt keep out of the darker reaches of his mind. But he can't become complacent. Everyone leaves and it’s only a matter of time before Jaskier sees sense and flees as well. The last thing Geralt needs is to actually get used to the bard’s company. He will simply have to try harder to scare him off, that’s all.
Geralt is dozing when the creak of the room door sends a spike of alarm through him. Before he is even halfway out of the tub, whirling around to handle the threat a lilting voice laughs, “It’s just me you big brute, settle down.”
Catching sight of Jaskier, Geralt surprises himself with how immediately he relaxes and sinks back into the tub. All the more reason why he needs to be rid of the bard. He shouldn’t be so ready to let down his guard.
Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye as Jaskier leans against the door with an unreadable grin, a tankard of ale in both hands. “I have brought you a drink out of the kindness of my heart,” he announces, sauntering over to the bath and rounding to face Geralt fully. Right before Geralt wordlessly grabs it from him Jaskier jerks the mug out of his reach, rolling his eyes at the growl sent his way in response. “Now, now, calm down my wolf. I will hand you this drink with the guarantee that you will share the tale of how you came to be covered in monster guts from head to toe and use more than 3 words when doing so.”
Glaring at the bard Geralt remarks dourly, “What happened to you giving me my bloody drink out of the kindness of your heart?”
Eyes twinkling, Jaskier dramatically collapses so his arms and head rest at the tub and he is face to face with Geralt’s unamused expression. “What can I say? My heart is a fickle mistress,” he sighs, sputtering when Geralt splashes water in his face in response. Huffing, Jaskier strips off his doublet to wipe down his face. “And here I was going to offer to wash your hair too!” he huffs.
Grabbing the forgotten ale from the ground Geralt empties it with one gulp, studiously avoiding the tempting sight of Jaskier in only a thin chemise. “Fought a Selkiemore. Let it swallow me and then killed it from the inside,” he reports.
Eyes lighting up Jaskier exclaims, “That was much more than three words! What a good job dear heart!” The curdle of warmth that Geralt feels at those words terrify him. He shouldn’t react so strongly to a simple word of praise for just speaking. And yet a small part of himself he thought was burned out from the Trials can’t help but wonder what other praises would fall from those lips if Geralt pleased him more.
No. Exploring that road leads to danger and hurt. He can’t get used to this. So lost in his stormy thoughts, Geralt barely registers the bard’s movements, whirling around and catching the wrists that touch his head in a tight grip. Adrenaline spiking, it takes Geralt a moment to realize that there is no danger.
“What are you doing?” Geralt snarls, baffled at the bard’s lack of response. He knows he is gripping Jaskier’s wrists too tightly and must have startled the bard but his companion is simply kneeling still, gazing at him with a calm and open expression.
“I was hoping to reward you by washing your hair as I promised,” Jaskier explains with a soft smile. “Perhaps I should have asked permission first,” he adds wryly.
Geralt scowls as he reels from the bard’s response. Why is he so calm? Why is he being so nice? This man is an enigma and Geralt has no idea what to do with him. At a loss, he releases Jaskier’s hands and slowly turns so his back is to the bard again, willing his heart to slow to its usual rhythm.
Having someone out of his line of sight is making Geralt’s instincts scream at him but something in those eyes that are as clear and blue as the springs at Kaer Morhen tells Geralt to trust him. Ha! Trust. What a laughable habit to fall into as a Witcher. Trust leads to vulnerability which leads to death.
Geralt’s tumultuous inner dialogue is interrupted as fingers that dance along lute strings begin carding through Geralt’s matted hair. As the bard begins humming a melody he had been working on the previous day, Geralt finds himself sinking lower into the tub, his eyes fluttering closed.
“That’s a good Witcher,” Jaskier murmurs. “Let me take care of you.” Jaskier’s words and touch send Geralt spiraling once again. Geralt has never known such a gentle touch, nor heard such tender words before. Even when he sleeps with whores there is a coarseness in their handling of him.
Yet now this bard who hates to get something as innocuous as mud on his clothes, kneels and patiently detangles Geralt’s gut-infested hair like it's nothing. After a moment Geralt realizes that he isn't lathering in the stale shit the inn provides. No-this soap smells like the forest in spring and transports Geralt to peaceful campfires staring at the stars. Releasing a sigh that seems to emanate from his very bones, Geralt melts into the bard’s touch and allows time to slip away.
Eventually, a voice breaks through the haze Geralt finds himself in. “I hate to interrupt you since I’ve never seen you look so peaceful since I've known you but I don’t want the great white wolf to drown in a bath. That would be quite embarrassing and doesn’t have the makings of a good ballad.”
That amused voice pulls Geralt fully from the trance-like state he had found himself in. Humming Geralt remarks, “So it would be about the same caliber as your usual ballads then?”
He allows himself a small smile at the bard’s affronted gasp. Gods, but it was fun trading jabs with this man. With a groan, Geralt drags himself out of the bath, feeling lighter than he has in decades. Rolling his eyes at the bard’s impressed whistle once his body is fully on display, Geralt dries himself off on the coarse rag before slipping into some small-clothes.
Touching the back of his head, Geralt balks. “Bard, did you braid my bloody hair?!” He roars. Growling at the tittering laugh he gets in response, he moves to remove it only to find a pair of hands grasping his own.
“No don’t ruin it Geralt! You look so lovely!”
Ignoring the tightness in his chest at those words, Geralt growls, “I’m a Witcher. We’re not lovely.”
He has to avert his eyes as the bard’s face crumples at his response, jolting when two hands cradle his face. Despite himself, Geralt looks back and finds his breath caught in his throat at the fire in his companion’s eyes. “You are lovely with braids and without Geralt of Rivia. You are lovely covered in monster guts and you are lovely lying peacefully in a bath while you allow me to tend to you. And I will continue calling you lovely whether you like it or not,” Jaskier declares fiercely.
Damn this bard. With every word out of his mouth Geralt finds his willpower to push him away faltering, the walls he has painstakingly built around his heart crumbling. He selfishly, weakly, desperately wants to stay near the shining star that is Jaskier. Even if given the opportunity, he doesn’t know if he would have the strength to chase him away.
***
Well if monster guts didn’t do it, maybe bleeding all over him will, Geralt thinks faintly as he proceeds to bleed out on his bard. And when did he start calling Jaskier his bard? Eh, whatever. That’s something for the living Geralt to worry about. And with each passing second, the likelihood of there being a living Geralt was fading.
He thinks that the bard is saying something. It sounds pretty panicked. But Geralt couldn’t really muster the strength to listen. Finally, through the fog of pain he hears a voice laced with terror, “Geralt you need to tell me which potion to give you! This is why you should have given me that tutorial like I asked!”
Grunting, Geralt lolls his head towards the voice, Jaskier’s panic-stricken face swimming into view. In his hands were two potions vials. Somehow he had narrowed them down to two. Curious. Geralt nods his head towards Jaskier’s right hand, then finds his head continuing to fall until he lands face first into the dirt and the world fades to black.
Geralt awakes to the song of a lark. A trail of fire shoots down Geralt’s chest and despite the tempting pull back into unconsciousness, he finds himself blinking his eyes open. The first thing he registers is that the sun is far too bright. Very rude of it. There should be a way to dim the sun.
The next thing he notices is that he wasn’t hearing a lark; he was hearing his bard. Jaskier is leaning against a log, strumming his lute with his eyes closed. The sun casts a halo over him and vaguely Geralt notes that it is the most beautiful sight he has ever seen.
He must have made a sound because Jaskier’s eyes shoot open a moment later and in his scramble to get to Geralt he stumbles and falls on his face. The burn in his chest informs Geralt that laughing isn’t a smart idea but he can't regret it. To think he may have lost this.
Distantly Geralt realizes that Jaskier is talking and he scrunches his face in concentration as he attempts to tune into his words. “Geralt you’re scaring me! You have the dopiest grin on your face and that’s not the Witcher I know. Where is your scowl? Where is your glare? C’mon Geralt, give me something! Hum at me! Give me a one word answer!”
Despite the dryness in his throat, Geralt musters up enough energy to give Jaskier what he requests. “Hmm.”
A relieved smile breaks across Jaskier’s face, sending a spark of ridiculous pride through Geralt. He’s smiling because of me Geralt thinks giddily. Shit, why is he feeling giddy? Oh fuck. “How much potion did you give me?” Geralt rasps. “Um-” Jaskier blinks. “All of it? And then all of a second bottle?”
At Geralt’s widened eyes Jaskier starts fidgeting with his hands and throwing them up in the air. “You were bleeding out on me and were being very unhelpful I may add so I thought better too much than too little?” Jaskier exclaims, hints of hysteria tinging his tone. “Oh shit Geralt did I poison you?!”
At this point Geralt outright starts to giggle, only giggling harder at the mixture of horror and intrigue crossing Jaskier’s face. “Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, gently touching his face. “Are you high?”
Grinning Geralt blinks up at Jaskier. “You look like an angel,” he says dreamily. Snuffling into Jaskier’s touch he adds with a sigh, “Always smell so good. Like summer rain and buttercups. I should call you Buttercup ‘cause you’re so sweet.”
“Oh gods I think I broke you,” Jaskier says faintly. As the bard cards a hand gently through Geralt’s hair the Witcher leans into the touch and starts purring, watching through half-lidded eyes as Jaskier’s jaw drops in amazement.
“You’re truly a remarkable creature aren’t you?” Jaskier murmurs, his words only serving to make Geralt rumble with pleasure. “Gods what you do to me Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, closing his eyes. “You make it harder and harder not to love you.”
Leaning down, Jaskier gently kisses Geralt’s forehead before dragging him into his lap. “Rest my brave wolf. I’ll be right here.” And with the bard’s steady beating heart and gentle humming in his ears as fingers slide through his hair, Geralt drifts back to sleep.
When he awakens again the fog from before is gone and Geralt is far more alert, jolting as he realizes he is currently resting upon Jaskier’s lap. Memories of his interactions with the bard the first time he awoke are jagged and ill-fitting, leaving gaps where there were words. Something screams at Geralt that it was important to remember what was said but the memories were as slippery as an eel through water.
“Glad to see you among the land of the living again,” Jaskier remarks fondly. With a concerning amount of effort, Geralt pushes himself upright so he can face the bard.
“Thank you,” he rumbles with a bow of his head. Huffing Jaskier dusts off his pristine doublet.
“Just don’t try dying again,” he responds airily, his bluster poorly hiding the concern still burning in his eyes.
Looking down, Geralt realizes that his torso is bare and he traces the new scar running jagged down his chest. “How do you know how to stitch up wounds?” he inquires with a curious tilt of his head. The stitches were neat and tight, almost professionally done.
Fiddling with the rabbit currently roasting over the fire, Jaskier shrugs uncomfortably, averting his gaze. “One learns to survive when the times call for it,” he answers cryptically.
Deciding he is too drained to attempt to decipher what the bard isn’t telling him, Geralt simply nods. “Well I am grateful for your skillset,” he states.
Raising a brow Jaskier says with amusement, “That was two thank yous in one sitting. Be careful my Witcher, I may get used to it.”
Snorting, Geralt simply hums in response, stiffly turning to the fire to help cooking. At every turn Jaskier surprises him. Every time he thinks he knows him and can safely set him aside as a simple, shallow bard who doesn’t know how to control his own cock, he’ll turn around and do something utterly selfless and astounding.
And no matter what Geralt does, Jaskier remains unfazed and unafraid of him. Geralt doesn’t understand this strange man and decides that he won’t gain any more clarity tonight. As he sinks into the bard’s comforting inane chatter however, Geralt can’t shake that niggling sense that he is forgetting something important.
***
After the injury that nearly killed him, the dynamic between Geralt and Jaskier slowly begins to change. Jaskier has always been oddly tactile with the Witcher but now he is even more so, carding fingers through his hair, patting him on the shoulder, drawing him into a hug after a hunt.
The hugs have been the most disturbing act. Geralt can’t remember the last time he was hugged. He must have been hugged at some point, right? Maybe by his mother? As the hugs become more and more frequent, Geralt can’t stop himself from sinking into the embrace, discreetly scenting Jaskier. That summer-sweet scent that spells happiness is always emanating from the bard and Geralt soaks it up like a drug. He can’t get enough of it.
At this point Geralt has accepted the fact that nothing will rid him of the sunny bard. And he has finally admitted to himself that he doesn’t want his lark to fly away anyway. Though that has been a concerning new habit of Geralt’s, giving Jaskier nicknames in his head, calling him “his.” Geralt is falling in too deep with the bard but he has no wish to save himself.
They are currently huddled by a campfire, Geralt munching on his dinner contently while Jaskier chatters away. Eventually, Geralt rolls his eyes. “Eat your dinner before it’s cold, little lark,” he remarks before freezing. Damn to all the hells. He’s called Jaskier that too many times in his head so he supposes a slip up was inevitable.
The beaming smile that spreads across the bard’s face is brighter than the sun and Geralt doesn’t know what to do with it. “Was that a pet name I just heard come out of your lips?” he croons with a bat of his eyelashes.
Scrambling to avoid the truth Geralt says gruffly, “Yes because just like you larks won’t shut up.”
He internally winces at the flash of hurt that crosses the bard’s face before it is followed by a roll of his eyes. “You know that whole bastard, arsehole persona isn’t fooling me Geralt,” Jaskier informs him firmly, crossing his arms. “Growl and bark all you want but I see through you White Wolf.”
And with those words Jaskier picks up his lute and begins playing softly. Ruthlessly smothering the mixture of panic and warmth currently swirling with confusion in his chest, Geralt leans over and plucks the lute from the bard’s hands, replacing it with some rabbit. “Eat,” he commands, smirking at the affronted look being shot his way.
“How dare you take my lute!” Jaskier exclaims through a mouthful of rabbit. “How would you like it if I took one of your swords?”
Relaxing as they ease back into their usual battle of words Geralt comments dryly, “You would need to be strong enough to lift them to do that.”
Chuckling at the rude gesture shot his way in response, Geralt leans against his pack and stares up at the stars. Suddenly he’s transported to the bath Jaskier gave him months ago, the forest and scene surrounding them reminding him of that scent and feeling. How he craves for such an experience again. Geralt doesn’t realize that he’s closed his eyes until he senses movement beside him.
Cracking open one eye, he watches warily as Jaskier slowly makes his way toward him. “May I tend to your hair?” he asks softly. It was as though he read Geralt’s mind. He doesn’t sense any magic from the bard but every so often Geralt can’t help but wonder if there is some sort of sorcery within Jaskier.
Giving a small nod of assent, Geralt closes his eyes again and barely reacts as calloused hands lift his head onto a silken lap. With a sigh, Geralt sinks into the hypnotic touch of his bard, allowing himself this rare moment of peace. He knows he shouldn’t get used to moments like these but each time he finds himself at the mercy of Jaskier’s hands he only craves them more.
As Jaskier hums a gentle tune, Geralt revels in the sensation and can’t help leaning into his touch. “Yes, you’re not scary at all,” Jaskier says fondly after several long moments.
“Hmm,” Geralt responds with an irritated huff.
“Yes, yes, I tremble in fear in the face of your fierce scowl oh great White Wolf,” Jaskier snarks, his soft touches not ceasing. That’s just the thing though. None of his glares, none of his growls, none of his attempts to chase Jaskier away have worked. Finally the question that has been burning in his chest claws out. “Why are you here?”
The fingers in his hair pause for a moment and he can’t stop the forlorn whine that slips out. As Jaskier resumes stroking his hair he says slowly, “At first I was here for the adventure. But now I’m here for you.”
Stiffening, Geralt opens his eyes and peers up at the bard. Jaskier is biting his lip, brows furrowed as he pours all of his concentration into fiddling with Geralt’s hair. Instead of solving the mystery, his response only serves to baffle Geralt further.
Why would anyone want to stay with him? He’s ornery, violent, aloof, and bitingly sarcastic. He’s covered in grime and guts 90% of the time and looks more like a monster than usual when taking certain potions. But even moments like that don't scare off Jaskier.
Geralt remembers vividly when Jaskier first witnessed Geralt in his truly monstrous form, fangs bared, eyes black as night, face ghastly. They had been ambushed by a pack of wargs and Geralt downed Blizzard just in time to fight them off.
When the battle was over and Geralt was covered in blood, still looking like a figure from a nightmare, he stared straight at Jaskier, challenging him to stay rather than flee as any sane person would. Instead of running for the hills however, Jaskier slowly approached him like he has no life preservation instincts whatsoever.
To make matters worse, the bard caressed Geralt’s face which at the time felt as though it was tearing at the seams. Frowning, Jaskier murmured, “This looks painful. What do you need?”
Geralt will forever curse himself for the broken whimper that slipped out of his lips in the moment. He was practically vibrating out of his skin, toxins pulsing through his body as adrenaline screamed at him to fight. Craving more of the bard’s gentle touch, so different from what Geralt is used to, he nuzzled Jaskier’s hand, releasing a low rumble. Words were too painful. Everything was too painful. But Jaskier’s light touch felt like cool water on a scorching day.
When he didn’t respond after a prolonged moment Jaskier let out a sorrowful whine before slowly guiding Geralt to the ground. With gentle hands, Jaskier stripped Geralt of every piece of his armor before wiping down the blood from his skin. From the first touch Geralt began shuddering and soon found he couldn’t stop.
Once he was done cleaning the Witcher Jaskier enveloped him in an embrace, drawing him down until Geralt found his head resting in Jaskier’s lap. Feather light fingers passed through his hair, down his face, across his chest, tracing his scars. Each touch felt like a spark of lightning piercing Geralt, sending ripples of pleasure and warmth through his tortured body.
A litany of praises began flowing from Jaskier. “Thank you for protecting me. I know I can always count on you to take care of me my dear wolf. Thank you for allowing me to care for you in return.”
Slowly, slowly, the potion’s effects were overtaken by the soft touches and even softer words. “There you go my good Witcher. You did such a good job fighting those creatures off; you can rest now. Just rest.”
With the toxins and adrenaline finally fading away, bone-weary exhaustion crashed over Geralt and he found his eyes fluttering closed. The last thing he felt before sleep took over was the feeling of lips pressed against his forehead.
After that day Geralt determined that chasing Jaskier away would prove fruitless. But Geralt still doesn’t understand why. So he asks. “Why stay for me?”
The chuckle that rumbles through Jaskier sends a shiver down Geralt’s spine. “Fishing for compliments my wolf?” he teases. When Geralt scowls in response those magical hands trace down his face to smooth out the frown.
“Oh dear heart,” he sighs. “Where should I begin? I could swoon at your gods-like physique but that’s simply my shallow self talking. No, I would much rather sing about your nobility, your kindness, your morality, your gentleness.”
Each adjective feels like a punch in the gut. Sitting up swiftly Geralt glares at the ground. “Don’t mock me bard,” he growls.
A soft whine sounds behind him before a rustle of clothing tells Geralt Jaskier has moved again. Delicate fingers lift Geralt’s chin, forcing him to face those crystal blue eyes. He can’t decipher the emotions running across Jaskier’s face but he knows it’s not pity, not scorn.
“I would never be so cruel,” Jaskier breathes. “You are all of that and more my lovely wolf, and I will scream it to the heavens and sing it in my ballads and whisper it in your ear until you believe me.”
All at once, Geralt’s resistance crumbles like parchment in the rain. Surging forward, he grasps Jaskier’s face and brings him down for a searing kiss. Closing his eyes tightly he tries to pour all he feels, all he wishes to say, in the kiss. Jaskier freezes for only a second before he meets Geralt with equal ferocity, equal desperation.
They kiss like their lips hold water after a drought, and isn’t that fitting? Geralt hadn’t realized how wanting he had been for affection, for touches of kindness. Witchers don’t need such things, he was told. They attempted to beat Geralt’s emotions out of him, so he learned quickly to lock away such desires. But Jaskier strolled through his life and cracked open the safe around his heart without Geralt even noticing, without Geralt able or willing to stop him.
The kiss ends and Geralt drowns in Jaskier’s heated gaze as he catches his breath. Geralt closes his eyes and leans his forehead to Jaskier as the bard trails his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “You have been deprived of this, haven’t you?” the bard asks softly.
Releasing a hollow laugh Geralt responds, “There is no room for affection in a Witcher’s life.”
The fingers in his hair grip tightly before slowly relaxing and trailing through long silver strands again. “Well, I’ll just make the room then,” he replies firmly.
Opening his eyes, Geralt pulls away to take Jaskier in fully. “I’m not pleasant to be around,” he warns.
Rolling his eyes Jaskier says, “As if I haven’t noticed how grouchy you can get. I told you my wolf, your grumpiness doesn’t faze me. And I know words are hard for you; I don't expect you to start gushing about your love for me.” Arching an eyebrow he adds, “Any other reasons you would like to name about why this is a bad idea? I’m sure you have an entire list of self-sabotaging ideas you can use to try to get rid of me.”
When Geralt only grunts in response Jaskier smirks. “Lovely. So let’s just skip that part and you can accept that you’re stuck with me and we can go from there.”
Allowing a soft smile to cross his face, Geralt captures Jaskier’s lips in a gentle kiss. “I suppose I could bear it,” he rumbles, laughing fully when Jaskier shoves at Geralt ineffectually in response.
“Oh screw you you big oaf!” Growling, Jaskier leans more of his weight into trying to push Geralt away. “You’re built like a bloody brick house!” he whines.
Chuckling, Geralt initiates a hug for the first time, wrapping his arms around the fragile human who has wormed his way into his heart. Placing a kiss atop Jaskier’s head Geralt sighs contentedly.
Flopping like a puppet who’s lost his strings, Jaskier grumbles before leaning into Geralt’s embrace. “I suppose I can forgive you,” Jaskier declares with a sigh.
Squeezing the bard tightly, Geralt nuzzles his neck, reveling in the scent that always relaxes him. “Thank you,” Geralt murmurs.
Humming Jaskier replies, “There you go, thanking me again. What have I done to earn your gratitude this time?”
Pulling away so he could look into those eyes as bright as a summer sky Geralt whispers, “For staying.”
His face melting into a soft smile, Jaskier steps closer to Geralt and leans up until he is at the Witcher’s ear. “Always,” he vows, before claiming Geralt’s lips into a kiss until everything else fades away.