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Jaskier will freely admit that this is not how he planned to spend his day. When he caught the eye of a lovely brunette at the tavern last night, all he looked forward to was a mutually enjoyable evening. And this morning, at the market, when a man approached with a smile that showed off a fetching gap between his two front teeth, he was pleased at his luck and followed him out of the late-summer heat all too happily.
How was he to know they were married, and to each other, no less? How was he to know that the brunette would walk in on him and her husband in their marriage bed, much less that they would both find the discovery so upsetting? Even his explanation didn’t seem to help. In his opinion, it’s deeply unfair for the merchant to take exception to the hours of pleasure he showed his wife, and vice versa. He didn’t wrong them—in fact, he significantly improved their night and morning, respectively—and clearly neither is interested in fidelity. So what’s the issue? He would put the question to them, but at the moment he’s rather preoccupied with the wooden frame being locked around his neck.
The pole the pillory is mounted on is short, forcing Jaskier into a shallow bow, his arms having been wrenched up and locked into place beside his head. Experimentally, he squirms and gains nothing but splinters and a cuff on the side of his head that makes his left ear ring. The sun beats down onto his hair.
“Listen,” he says, “I’m sure we can find an agreeable solution to all this if we just sit down together and—”
A rotten tomato hits him in the side of the head. It bursts on impact, splattering lukewarm juice across his face.
“You’re getting ahead of yourselves,” he tells the crowd of villagers, who are chatting and laughing as if at a fair, ready with handfuls of produce past its prime. Well, at least he’s providing them with entertainment, even if it isn’t exactly in the fashion he planned. “I’m barely in, all right? You could at least give me a moment to get settled.”
Craning his neck uncomfortably, Jaskier sees the merchant and his wife. For the first time since they burst out of the bedroom, they’re less than five feet apart. How nice that he’s bringing them together.
That last thought has a distinctly hysterical edge, and he tries to tamp down the panic long enough to make one last attempt. “Listen, friends, wouldn’t you rather—”
A mushy apple hits him in the mouth, and he clamps it closed with a grimace.
As objects start flying from all directions, Jaskier shifts his feet and braces himself, uncomfortable and, worse, undignified. (Geralt would snort at that.) His back is already starting to ache from the awkward position, sweat is running down his neck, and he wishes he could shut his nostrils against the smell. He really doesn’t want to think about what just hit his chest.
Bright side, though—he can use this as song material. A young lover persecuted for his devotion to a maid as lovely as the day, taking comfort in the sun that torments him, for its merciless beauty reminds him of his love…hmm. He’ll write down some notes as soon as he has a pen. And a notebook, and free hands, of course—he takes so much for granted in the daily tasks of life. It never occurs to him to feel grateful for his hands. But if he had them free now, he’d do so many things: Scratch his nose. Brush the sweat from his eyes. Unlock this contraption and get off this platform and maybe lock one of these bastards in his place. And wash and change his clothes. Gods help him, his clothes will never be the same.
A sharp rock draws a red-hot line of pain across his cheek. For a moment, his mind is wiped blank, and it’s almost a relief.
On balance, though, he’s lucky the rock isn’t followed by more.
The funny thing is that years ago, when he wasn’t much more than a boy, he had a fantasy or two about this very situation. Maybe it was the early days of performing that did it. The twins of terror and excitement still blazed through him whenever he stood in front of a crowd, every eye watching, waiting to judge him and deliver his sentence. Later, he’d go to bed, high on attention, whether applause or jeers, and tell himself stories as he shifted beneath the sheets. Like this: Trapped in the unforgiving embrace of a pillory, he’d squirm as some faceless scoundrel took advantage of his predicament. They’d caress his chest, his bottom, his groin, laughing at his stammered pleas. Cut his clothes off with a knife, baring him to the leers of a dozen villagers. Maybe they’d all get handsy then, crowding close to slap his reddening cheeks—both sets, if you catch his drift—and fondle his cock, which would stiffen despite his helplessness and humiliation. Or perhaps because of it.
Now, something slimy hits Jaskier in the throat, and he grimaces. Reality never lives up to his imagination. Not that he would have wanted that scenario in particular to have come true, whether it resembled the fantasy or not.
Even so…he closes his eyes and tries to conjure up a sense of adventure, pleasure, the thrill that comes from arousal rather than genuine fear—
It was never this damn hot in his mind. He wasn’t tormented by this putrid smell (worsening, by the way), and nausea never churned in his gut. Jaskier swallows convulsively and gives up the attempt to enjoy rather than endure his punishment.
He’s been working on a cheerful song about a young woman who keeps accidentally killing her paramours. Her frustration builds until she realizes they all would have made terrible husbands anyway, and she takes up with the friend who’s helped her hide the bodies. Now, rather than dwelling on his current state, he thinks about how best to structure the verses for comedic effect. The rhythm, too—it should be complex enough to hold interest, but not too complex. Rhyme scheme…would couplets or alternating lines serve better? He tries out phrases in his head, humming to himself.
Eventually the villagers get bored and trickle away. They chat to each other, call to children to come along. When they’re gone, he’s still sticky and overheated and rank, his back bowed unnaturally, shoulders cramping. But at least the yelling and rancid projectiles have stopped, and really, what more can a man ask for?
Jaskier wonders what time it is, whether the two hours he was sentenced to have passed. Licking dry lips and trying to work up enough spit to swallow, he looks down at the mess of refuse at his feet and thinks they could at least have thrown him a durable clock.
Sweat drips from his nose, and he’s dizzy, so perhaps it’s lucky he doesn’t need to hold himself up.
Eventually, he lets go of the present and drifts, his thoughts disjointed. His head is pounding now, and soon the throb overtakes the complaining of his shoulders. Time passes—minutes? years?—and suddenly his stomach rebels, and he twists uselessly against the wood as thin bile forces itself past his lips.
Oh, that’s right, he thinks dizzily, looking down. After the market, I never did have a chance to eat my breakfast.
“Jaskier?”
A hand on his shoulder makes him jump. He looks wildly around, and for a delirious moment he expects the scoundrel from his fantasy to have appeared, a combination of dread and mirth swelling in his chest at the thought of finding himself the butt of his own joke.
He sees long white hair, streaked with mud. A pair of sword hilts. Unhappy golden eyes.
“Geralt!” he says. His voice comes out thick and uneven. He clears his throat. “What’re you…”
“What happened?” Geralt asks. “Were you poisoned?”
“Huh?”
Geralt looks at him more closely, then lays a hand against his face. It’s blessedly cool, and Jaskier sighs. Geralt, less pleased, curses, and there’s a snap as Geralt pries the latch of the pillory open. When he lifts the top half, Jaskier tries to straighten up, only for his back to protest at top volume and his vision to go black as blood rushes from his head. Before he falls, Geralt catches him by the shoulder and holds on until Jaskier can stand.
“You’re overheated.”
“Mmm,” Jaskier agrees.
Is that worry in Geralt’s eyes? He reaches for a pouch at his waist. “Open your mouth.” Jaskier obeys automatically, and Geralt’s hand comes up to tip some wretched potion into his mouth. It tastes like mud and ash, but at least it’s liquid, so Jaskier swallows.
As it slips down his throat, it’s colder than it should be, and he swears he feels tendrils of the stuff shooting through his blood. The chilly feeling spreads into his brain, clearing his mind, and his thoughts begin to knit themselves together. Somehow, this makes the headache worse. “Ugh, Geralt, is…what…are all your potions this disgusting, or did you cook that up just for me?”
Rather than answer, Geralt steers him away from the platform. “What did you do?” Jaskier will never tell him how comforting he finds the gravel of his voice.
“First of all, rude.” He shakes his head in disappointment. The world only swims a little. “Why’d you assume I did something, straightaway, without even asking me?”
“I just asked,” Geralt says.
“You asked what, not if. No faith in me, your best and only friend in this wide, wide world.” He sniffs dramatically and pretends to wipe away a tear, only partially to hide the fact that his eyes actually are welling up. It’s the smell, damn it. It gets to a man, especially one with tastes as refined as Jaskier’s. Besides, it’s his duty to be a showman.
“You need a bath,” Geralt says. He ignores Jaskier’s mutter of “That’s a role reversal” and continues, “I have a room. Come on.”
He doesn’t let go of Jaskier as he leads him out of the square, and Jaskier is pathetically grateful—his knees are wobbly, and the world keeps swooping in and out of focus. Of course, he expresses this by griping the whole way. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve had thrown at me today.”
Geralt’s nostrils flare as he inhales. “Yes, I would.”
“Oh, good. Do me a favor and don’t tell me exactly what they are, all right? I don’t have much innocence anymore, but I’d like to hold on to what’s left. Why did so many of them have to splat, for Melitele’s sake? And my shoulders are killing me. And my head. What time is it? Because I was supposed to be in there two hours, and do you think they’re going to come try and put me back in if you took me out early? I mean, you were alone, so I assume you took me out early, because otherwise they were planning on leaving me there longer than my sentence, and that would just be wrong. What has the world come to if we can’t rely on punishments to end when they’re supposed to end? Anyway, if they do come to take me back, you’ll defend me, won’t you? No need to use your sword, since I know you get all moral about killing humans, but if you’d just—”
“We’re here.” Geralt opens a door and nudges Jaskier through. There are people inside, voices clashing, and Jaskier puts his head down and keeps walking, Geralt’s solid bulk shielding him from their eyes.
“Hey,” someone calls out. “Isn’t that the bard? Shouldn’t he still—”
“Fuck off,” Geralt says, not even looking over. The shouter swallows his words.
Jaskier focuses on not tripping over his feet. There are stairs, and he’s exhausted to his bones, he realizes, which isn’t fair because he’s been standing still for hours—
His train of thought derails again as Geralt leads him into the room he’s rented. A tub already sits in the middle of the room, half-filled with water and surprisingly large. “How is this already…”
“Sit. Drink.” Geralt shoves a flask into his hands. Only when Jaskier is slumped on a chair and gulping water, suddenly realizing the extent of his thirst, does Geralt say, “I was out on a job. I asked the innkeeper to have it ready.”
Coming up for air, Jaskier asks, “You’re not hiding a monster head somewhere, are you? A mortal wound?”
Geralt shakes his head. “There were supposed to be ghouls outside town. That’s why I came. But it was only some wolves with mange.” He walks over to the tub and dips his finger in, testing the temperature.
“Then you traveled here for nothing?”
From behind, Jaskier sees Geralt shrug. “Heard you were here.” The last words are almost too quiet to catch.
“You came to see me?” There’s perhaps a little too much delight in his voice. Geralt’s shoulders stiffen, so Jaskier retreats to safer ground. “Well, ghouls or no ghouls, you’re filthy. I suppose we’ve both earned a bath.” He hesitates. “Er, would you like to…”
“We’ll share. The cold will bring your temperature down.” Geralt swings his swords to the ground and begins to unbuckle his armor.
“You could heat it, couldn’t you? I know you like your baths warm.”
Geralt gives him a strange look. He repeats, “It’ll bring your temperature down.”
“Oh, all right.” Well, it isn’t as if he’s never fantasized about being naked and slippery in close quarters with Geralt before. Even if he imagined himself as slightly cleaner and more self-possessed.
Reaching up to take off his soiled doublet, he lets out a pained breath as his shoulders protest. Carefully, he manages to ease it off, ignoring Geralt’s questioning gaze. The shirt is no cleaner, as he didn’t have time to fasten the doublet before being dragged outside to pay for his—and his bedmates’—sins. Jaskier looks forlornly down at the brown stain he’d rather not try to identify on the front of the linen. It’ll be a bitch to get out, if he can manage it at all, and he’s certainly not using that tragedy as an excuse to put off the pain of disrobing.
“Here.” Geralt’s voice comes from only inches behind him. His hands (strong, warm, brushing Jaskier’s waist, Melitele help him) lift the hem of Jaskier’s shirt and ease it over his shoulders and head, then toss it to the ground with the doublet.
“That’s, er, chivalrous of you,” Jaskier says, certainly not blushing. He removes the rest of his clothes, the movements easier without the need to raise his arms, and dips a finger in the tub. The water is cool and clean. Jaskier feels all the more disgusting. Snatching a spare cloth, he uses it to wipe the worst of the grime off his face, hands, and hair, determinedly ignoring the pain in his muscles and the sound of soft splashing behind him.
“Are you waiting to faint from sunstroke?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier turns. Geralt lounges in the tub, and Jaskier wonders if there will even be room. “If I did, I’m sure you’d catch me and bathe my fevered brow.”
“Don’t push your luck, bard.” A trace of amusement in his voice. This encourages Jaskier enough to cross over, swing a leg into the tub, and carefully lower himself into the water. He was right: it’s a tight fit, their legs pressed against each other, knee to hip. No room for Geralt’s usual loose-legged sprawl, and Jaskier wonders why Geralt didn’t suggest they take turns. Fairness, perhaps.
As the cool water envelops his body, leaching away the heat and stickiness, tension begins to unlock inside him. He lets out a sigh, and it comes out more like a groan than he intends, his voice buzzing hoarsely in his throat. For a while, he just sits there, not moving, not washing. Just feeling the sweet, cold liquid on his overheated skin.
Eventually, he becomes aware of quiet sloshing as Geralt cleans dirt off himself with a rag. Their eyes meet. “My apologies I’m not up to my usual duties today,” Jaskier quips, motioning at the rag. He picks up another, wets and soaps it.
Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t need help.”
“No, I’m the one who’s carelessly damaged myself for a change.” He grins, hoping for a smile in response, even a small one. Instead, Geralt nods, leans over, and plucks the rag from his hand. His heart jolts. “What are you doing?”
“Did a stone hit your head?” Geralt asks. “I’m helping you wash.”
“You don’t—you don’t need to.” Somehow Jaskier’s face is hotter than it was out in the sun. “I was only joking. I can manage.”
Geralt shrugs. “You’ve done the same for me enough times, and you never cared that I could manage. Now hold still.”
Jaskier does, heart thumping loudly enough that there’s no chance Geralt can’t hear it. The soapy rag is oddly gentle in Geralt’s efficient hands, a crease between his brows as he cleans patches of filth from Jaskier’s skin. It feels good, the stiff tackiness lifted, the smell beginning to dissipate. It’s easier to breathe—except that it isn’t, because Geralt is very close. Naked, wet acres of him, and it turns out that Jaskier’s own nakedness makes that about twelve times more overwhelming.
He squirms. He can’t help it.
“Almost done,” Geralt says. “Turn around.”
Jaskier does his best, but there isn’t much room. Finally he’s facing away, and he can feel Geralt’s knees on either side of his hips as his hands drag the soaking cloth down his back. It’s unnecessary, probably—that part of him wasn’t in the line of fire. But he’s not going to say so.
“What did you do to piss people off this time?” Geralt asks. The low rumble of his voice is almost beautiful enough to make up for the query.
“I’d hoped you’d forgotten that question.”
“No.”
Jaskier waves an arm, flinging water across the room. Oops. “I didn’t do anything, exactly. Only slept with two lovely people who became less lovely when they learned about each other.”
A soft huff of a laugh. Jaskier can feel it on the back of his neck. “Of course.”
“If I were thinner skinned, I might think you were casting aspersions on my virtue.” The banter helps distract him from the touch of Geralt’s skin.
“Thinner skulled, you mean.”
He gasps in mock affront. “I’ll have you know my skull is exactly as thick as it should be. If it were thinner, the stones might have pierced it as well as your insinuations, and how would I spin ballads of your noble deeds then?”
“So you were hit in the head?” Geralt’s hands rise to probe at his skull beneath his hair.
Jaskier can’t keep himself from twitching at the touch. Combing gently through his damp hair, the fingers search for injuries, and Jaskier’s voice shakes a little when he says, “Only—only here.” He raises a hand to touch his cut cheek, even though Geralt can’t see it. “I’m fine.”
The fingers slow, nails scraping his scalp, sending tingles through Jaskier’s body. Instead of lifting away, they keep moving in small circles, scratching his head until it lolls back, Jaskier’s mouth open with pleasure. Then they move down to knead at Jaskier’s neck and shoulders, avoiding the strip of skin that burned between his collar and the wood. Unerringly, they find the knots in his muscles and dig in, and Jaskier jolts and groans. It hurts, but in a good way, not like the stiff, twinging ache that’s been dogging him for over an hour. This pain lights up and unlocks his muscles, releasing the tension until he’s only half-aware of himself mumbling about the number of babies he’s going to bear for Geralt in gratitude. Even his headache is fading.
Finally, the touch leaves him. Jaskier slumps dreamily across the rim of the tub and looks blankly into the room. Well, that was unexpected. After a moment he says, “I don’t…have my clean clothes. They’re in the room I rented…somewhere else…” Was it in this inn? He can’t remember. Dripping, wobbling, he stands.
“We’ll get them later. You can wear some of mine for now. Don’t fall and kill yourself,” Geralt orders. He rises behind Jaskier and hands him a towel.
It’s more thrilling than he’d like to admit to pull on Geralt’s spare clothes, the shirt loose enough on him to billow. When Geralt isn’t looking, he sniffs at the collar, but it’s clean, and he catches no trace of Geralt’s scent.
Geralt dresses and takes their dirty things into the hall, presumably to find someone who’ll wash them for coin, and by the time he’s back, Jaskier is sprawled in a chair, bare feet idly brushing the wooden floor. When Geralt comes in, he looks up and asks, “Perhaps I shouldn’t press my luck, but—why are you taking care of me like this?”
A frown reappears between Geralt’s brows. “What did you think I would do?”
Shrugging, Jaskier suggests, “Watch out for me while I put myself together? Don’t look like that, Geralt. I’m not insulting you, only…I know I got myself into this mess, as usual. I’m excellent company but not always, shall we say, low maintenance.”
Silently, Geralt sits down on the other chair across from Jaskier. “You’ve done the same for me enough times. Whether it was my mistake or not. And it’s my job to help people.”
“Well, yes, but beheading a drowner isn’t quite the same thing as performing a massage. Quite ably, too.”
“Used to do it at Kaer Morhen when we were training.”
“You and the other Wolves, you mean?” In Jaskier’s mind, the young witchers have tails and fluffy ears, and they pounce on each other, tumbling over and over as they wrestle, then stop to lick each other’s scrapes and bruises. He decides not to share this picture with Geralt, but he tucks it away for possible material nevertheless.
“Yes. We were always hurting ourselves, one way or another, so we figured out ways to make it better. Beat each other up, put each other back together. Brothers.”
“What does that make me?” Jaskier asks.
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to hear. A bard? A pain in the ass? An adopted Wolf? As if.
Geralt doesn’t respond for a while. Finally he says, again, “You’ve done the same for me.”
It isn’t an answer, but for once, Jaskier decides not to push. He lies down on the bed and watches as Geralt pulls his pack over and begins to clean his gear.