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Geralt has scars all over. They are angry and smooth and old and new and full of painful stories. They look marring in the wrong light. In Jaskier’s eyes they always look like adventure.
The newest one is an exasperated scratch flowing over Geralt’s shoulder, down his back. Jaskier still remembers his heart twisting into knots when he came back from that hunt. His fingers had been cold and his face pale, jaws clenched tightly in valiantly born pain. Only because Jaskier would not shut up about it did he accept Yennefer’s help in the end. He would be fine of course, not just for her excellent work (one of the few times Jaskier readily complimented her) but also because- well, it was Geralt after all. His range of motion quickly crept back into his joint but he still grits his teeth each evening when Jaskier bothers him with the oil she left them with although they both know it doesn’t (can’t) hurt when he rubs it in, gently and carefully (and maybe more pleasantly than Geralt cares to admit). Nimble fingers pressing tenderly into skin and muscle, oil glistening in the flickering light of the fireplace, soft voice humming vaguely (much too) familiar melodies into his ear. The oil smells of chamomile and larkspur and elderberry and half a dozen other substances Jasker couldn’t properly name if he tried. A thick smell that will stick to his fingertips long after he washes the remains off, mirrored only by the sheen on Geralt’s shoulder and back. (Some nights when Jaskier can’t sleep and Geralt drifts off too quickly his hair catches it as well when Jaskier absentmindedly runs his fingers through pale strands, falling asleep to the crackling of the embers.) It’s healing well and fading quickly and Jaskier already grieves the day it won’t need tending to anymore and the intimacy that lingers between them will fade like the glowing of the embers come morning (until the next time he comes back from a hunt with more blood than dirt on his clothes and Jaskier’s heart will twist back into knots again).
The most elaborate scar sits low on his hip, a pale ball of lightning branching out into the surrounding tissue. It’s soft and smooth and almost entirely numb. Geralt still closes his eyes when Jaskier brushes his hand over it. He enjoys the warmth but pressure makes him jerk. He barely remembers when he got it or what monstrous power flayed his skin. But that’s just as well because Jaskier at least is never shy of a new story each time he bares it. One time it is a comedy, a lightning that hit him when he challenged the skies themselves, frustrated after failing to hunt down a firebird due to unrelentingly foggy days. Another time it is a drama, an ugly squabble with an old colleague who tried to the keep the reward for a shared quest to themselves. Jaskier still never shies coming up with a new tale each time he sees Geralt change or bathe or settle into bed and Geralt still claims to not care for his epics when he does. And still each time he promises to tell should he ever remember where it does comes from. Some nights he dreams of it now: The first mage that tried to kill him. Acidic potion splashing, eating through armour and fabric and skin, biting back tears and biting his tongue as a healer keeps dabbing away at the wound. On rainy days he still feels its teeth on his skin, tastes the blood on his tongue. Do you remember yet? Jaskier wonders when they settle in for the night, carefully covering it with his hand. Only the thin tips crawl out from under his fingers. And Geralt shakes his head as he always does, ever so slightly. Remind me again, won’t you? he will mutter and with Jaskier’s voice holding his scar he won’t dream of biting blood tonight.
The quietest scar is found in a faded line on his thigh, overgrown with hair and skin. It never itches and it never pinches and if he doesn’t look close he can’t even see it. The flesh beneath healed well, it’s barely a bump and sometimes he wonders if it’s really even there at all. It’s old, older than Jaskier, older than Yennefer, and when he remembers its author he wishes she’d gotten to get old, too. Some nights he still whispers her name, gasps, murmurs, curses. Jaskier told him about it once, the frown on his face and the plea on his lips and the hand clutching his thigh and he asked but Geralt shut him right up. Of course he asks again. He asks when his skin twitches as a storm rises on the horizon as if it knows what’s coming and Jaskier goes to close the window to a cloudless sky. He asks when he’s trailing fingers over nothing but a mythical bump and Geralt clutches his wrist almost – almost – willing to break it if he doesn’t let up. He asks when they reach a market and another bard sings the tale of The Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt’s hand just for a moment twitching to cover the spot but not before unwrapping his lute and making sure everyone knows The Butcher’s song is old news. Instead he sings of the White Wolf of Rivia and his brave service, of the lilac Mage of Vengerberg and her sharp wit, and makes sure they have enough coin to last them for days. It was her then, he ponders later, over an ale and a chicken and a frowning witcher, the slaughter lamb of Blaviken. The bump on his thigh aches again and Geralt clenches his fist, fighting himself not to slap Jaskier for it. A shrike more like, he growls and Jaskier nods, already spinning threads in his head. She should have been a princess. I will make her a royal legend, he promises and the way Geralt wraps his fingers around his arm will leave bruises for days to come. Enough people have made her what she never should have been, he says. Let us at least make her a graceful dead. Not every scar needs a legend. Some just need peace.
He’s never been very fond of either of them but the way Jaskier looks at them, bright eyes and curious face, maybe, he thinks, they’re not so monstrous after all. And then Jaskier will laugh and press fingertips and lips to his marks, his skin, his hair, just close enough to smell the meat on his breath and his fragrance oil and while Geralt still wishes he’d stay just like that, smelling and smiling and so incredibly close Jaskier will straighten up like a displaying pheasant, presenting his body like colourful feathers. His fingers are quick to point and poke, from Geralt to himself. There’s nothing monstrous about scars – they are just legends etched into skin and they are beautiful, are they not? After all, Jaskier has them, too. They are long and thin and soft and jagged and full of gallant tales. They look tough in the wrong light but he’s right in the end: In Geralt’s eyes they always look like home. And so very, very human.
The oldest one is a rosy half-grin on Jaskier’s pelvis, cleanly cut but jaggedly healed. Bad aftercare, he comments ever so nonchalantly with a wave of his hand. Back then he was too young to care about it and now he’s too old to give a damn. Does Yennefer not have one? he pries as he buttons up a clean shirt. Geralt of course only hums an indeterminate reply, he will not parade the marks of her body to others. Jaskier stretches a little as he catches Geralt staring, the fabric riding up ever so slightly, inviting burning cheeks at the look of a scar and a trail of hair just before Jaskier tucks the seams away. His mind lingers on the image of Jaskier’s bare skin just a moment, one moment too much for Geralt’s comfort, one moment long enough for his heart to wander. Often when they lie in bed, Jaskier’s hand finds the welt, fingertips caressing it absentmindedly. It’s a non-issue really, he claims even though it’s one of the too few things he never cares to talk about. It’s his least favourite (most precious) scar if anyone asks. Geralt finds he’s not very fond of touches there, skin still too thin, too sensitive, chafing memories of could-have-beens. Some days he won’t let anyone touch him at all, nightmares hissing too loud for comfort. Some days the grin on his lips mirror that on his pelvis when they hear children shouting and laughing down the road. Some days he’ll press his fingertips deep into the scar, feeling for that tight-knit emptiness behind the grin where he finds his comfort and the tension slips from his shoulders like a worn-out coat. Instead of a bleeding Jaskier now has a hairy chest, a reliable stash of coins for potions, and a voice that makes hearts (his heart) sing. A small box of corresponding vials has long since found its way into Geralt’s bag, easily filled with half a dozen more than Jaskier cares to carry himself – most days he worries about his supply as little as he seems to worry about the scar below his navel.
The most simple scars sit just across his chest hidden by dark hairs, smooth lines across his pecs and pale rings around his nipples. It looks sensitive but Jaskier presses Geralt’s fingers into his skin, his cold hand, his warm chest. It’s not, I’m fine, won’t you touch me, touch me please- calloused skin on tender scars, strong hand fitting across his ribs, breath hitching in his throat. He beams with pride each time a shirt slides from his shoulders, a cocky grin on his lips, his eyes glittering with inviting excitement. Geralt hesitates – it is rude to look (too intimate), it’s rude to ask (too close) – but there’s the way Jaskier scrunches up his face when he turns away and it bites worse than the winter cold outside their door. So he asks after all (so intimate) and so Jaskier tells. An old story of teenage days and a half-elvish healer outside town, one his parents paid double, once to work and once more to shut up. He whispers his story at night (so close) in the dancing shadows of a tired fireplace, and it’s just a bit more magic than it was. Geralt’s never quite sure which parts of it are true and which parts of it are polished theatrics but he listens all the same. However faded, these scars his pride, won’t you look at me, look at me please- yellow eyes on pale skin, heartbeat pounding in his chest, lips pressed together tightly. Some nights, rare nights, when Jaskier falls asleep before him he will look again. The dim flickering of the glowing embers nearly making his scars invisible, clean lines fading into unmarred skin. Geralt softly touches them (just intimate enough) and gently runs his hand across his chest, finding sleep with his arm sprawled (just close enough) over him.
The loudest scar is found in shaky lines in his notebook, hidden between pages of tales and songs and letters unread. Just a story it seems but he has to bury it deep in his chest, remember not to flinch the moment a friend points his finger at him, not to let his voice shake when he sings of the White Wolf. He tends to it by himself. No oil this time, no warmth, no shared beds in rusty inns. Not a word of it to Geralt when they meet again. Of long nights and lonely silence and lines and tunes that just won’t fit his tongue- he doesn’t tell him back then when they meet at the inn at the foot of the mountains where they left Roach and a few bags, when he averts his gaze and drowns himself in laughing at a cheap quip of Yennefer’s just a little too loudly, just a little too brightly. There’s nothing to say anyway, Jaskier knows better than to claw at his wounds in front of an angry wolf. And he doesn’t tell him now when Geralt has apologized and settled back into his life, being just a little too kind, a little too patient, their tie growing back together again ever so slowly. There’s nothing to say anyway, Jaskier wants anything but to bog down in old quarrels and forgotten offenses. But his heart doesn’t care much for what he wants when Geralt clenches his fist at the end of a long day, when he lashes out at a rude passerby, when he insists on his peace and quiet just a little too loud. His heart still remembers the angry orange glint in the witcher’s eyes (he’s a witcher and he’s old and he’s dangerous and how could Jaskier ever forget that) and the tightness in his own chest and the trembling of his hands as he jots down fragments of Yennefer’s side of the story, the blatantly missing rest of the tale mocking him. It’s her heart that saves him from the lead in his stomach in the end. Her heart and its story, a story he hums to her and to Geralt and to himself when the night is late, their voices as tired as the day. A story of longing and heartache and lust, one that breaks each of their hearts just a little every time. And just in that moment his pain is no longer buried, no longer real. It’s just a story in the end – because some scars do deserve to be legends after all.