Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

An unholy shriek pierced the air not ten feet from where he and Jaskier stood. Geralt couldn’t believe he didn’t smell the beast. One thing he could smell, however, was the lemon-sour spike of fear radiating off his bard.

Jaskier wasn’t usually fearful. He had been traveling with Geralt long enough that most horrors became commonplace. But this was no run-of-the-mill beast.
The rotfiend reared its ugly, misshapen head, its four red eyes locking on Geralt like a snake to a mouse. It snarled, revealing tiny, needlelike teeth. Geralt wasn’t afraid of those teeth; they weren’t very long, nor very sharp. The thing that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, was the row of three-inch spikes along its neck and whiplike tail.

The creature let loose another primal cry, sending his hands automatically grasping for his weapons. Next to him, Jaskier—

His bard was no longer next to him.

Jaskier and Roach were at least twenty paces behind him, partially hidden behind some trees. Good. Jaskier had finally gotten the common sense to leave. Sharp traces of fear still hung in the air, though it was overpowered by the tang of rage emanating off the rotfiend.

The beast snarled, hind legs digging into the ground. Geralt planted his feet, preparing an attack. Witchers have a naturally slow heartbeat, but he was sure his had reached a normal human speed. The rotfiend crouched, and sprung.
He blocked the clubbish head with his blade. The creature skittered off to the side, momentarily off balance. It used the momentum to swing its spiked tail around. It crashed into Geralt’s back, denting his armor.

Purple droplets of poison dripped from the damaged spike at the tip of the tail. Geralt knew that poison well. It was worth a fortune in medical circles. A few drops brought unconsciousness during surgery. Any more than that, and there was hell to pay. If you were lucky, you dealt with delirium and a rapidly dropping temperature. If you were unlucky, you fell into a coma and died.
The rotfiend snarled. It pounced onto him, sending him flying against a tree. Bark slammed into his spine. He felt a bolt of pain shoot up to his shoulder muscles, and groaned.

Reaching down by his ankle, his fingers wrapped around cold iron. The rotfiend launched itself again—these were getting predictable—so he flung it directly at the creature. The dagger buried itself up to the hilt in the rotfiend’s gut. Geralt swore. His thumb had been positioned incorrectly.

He leapt to his feet, palming his sword. He and the rotfiend faced off, trading blows that would kill a regular human. He managed to cut a few shallow slits into the beast’s thick hide.
Geralt, though really fucking sick of fighting all the time, couldn’t help but begrudgingly respect creatures like this. Most animals would give up after a knife to the stomach, but sometimes, they kept fighting. Though they were disgusting and feared, they still fought like they could win.

Maybe some small, sad part of him identified with what he was sent to kill. But witchers couldn’t feel. Right?

The rotfiend hurled itself at him—it really had no attack variety—sending him tumbling to the ground. He rolled with it, warding off blow after blow.

He was dimly aware of what direction they were moving in. Before he could gauge how close they had gotten to Jaskier and Roach, he kicked the creature off of him.
In one fluid motion, he pinned it down and drove his hand to the base of its neck, where a thick vein pulsed. His fingers sank into the rotfiend’s mottled skin, gripping and twisting. It gave a brutal cry. Then, as quickly as it ended, the beast died. Thin blood spurted up, splashing his armor and tunic.

Jaskier emerged from behind the trees, skittering out to join him. “Oi, Geralt! That was absolutely fucking fantastic!” He scrambled for his songwriting notebook. “This is prime ballad material!”

Geralt still felt tense. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it. The rotfiend was dead, and yet something still tugged at his senses. There was something he was forgetting about rotfiends.
The corpse sagged, like it was being deflated. Then, like the thought had brought it on, there was a loud thwack.

Time slowed. The poison spikes lining its back shot out in all directions. Geralt spun, using his armor to block the incoming assault. They thudded into the dented metal, some sticking out, others falling harmlessly to the ground. Poison dripped down the back of his leg.

When time righted again, Jaskier made a strangled sound next to him. The thick tang of human blood hit Geralt like a tsunami wave to the senses. Fuck, he thought. Jaskier.

A long spike stuck out of his bard’s thigh.

“Um, Geralt? I think there might be—“ Jaskier’s voice slurred. His cornflower blue eyes rolled back in his head, body slumping to the ground.

Shit.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck, Geralt.” Jaskier’s head lolled to the side. His words ran together, barely coherent.

Geralt exhaled sharply with thinly veiled relief. If Jaskier had fallen asleep, he was likely to never have woken up again. Geralt had carried him fifty yards over, to a small grove of trees near a stream. Jaskier’s breathing had been alarmingly shallow, his heartbeat only just detectable, even with Witcher senses.

“You’ve been poisoned.” Geralts throat tightened with the admission. “And it’s my fault.”

Jaskier tried to sit up, barely managing to get an inch off the ground. He slumped back down. “D’d you poison me, G’rlt?” Even when fatally sluggish, his eyes still managed to twinkle in that unbearably Jaskier-like fashion. Geralt didn’t know what he would do if his bard died.

“No.”

Jaskier’s lips twisted into his best attempt at a smirk. “Th’n its not y’r fault.” His words slurred with the emphasis.
Arguing with him was futile. Besides, nightfall was quickly approaching, synchronized with Jaskier’s rapidly plummeting temperature. Within a half-hour, the bard felt noticeably colder to the touch. Jaskier shivered violently.

Geralt reached for the hem of his shirt, which he had washed in the river. He pulled it over his head. He was a Witcher—he could stand a chill. Crouching down, he laid it atop his bard.

“Wait. G’rlt.” Jaskier’s cloudy eyes met his worried gaze. “M fine. Don’t need it.” His blue lips struggled to shape the words. “You need it.”

Geralt shook his head. “I have more. You need it.” Before Jaskier could expend more energy arguing, he left to retrieve the rest of his shirts from his pack to use as blankets.

He brought them back, and wrapped them around Jaskier’s wiry form. Then, he reached for Roach’s horse blanket, to wrap around his own shoulders. Horses had hair for a reason. She would be fine.

“Wait.” Geralt stilled in his movements, the blanket not yet over his broad shoulders. Jaskier’s lazy line of sight swept Geralt’s torso.

“Don’t put it on.”

Ah, another thing he had forgotten about rotfiend poison. He really needed to brush up on those.
The deadly purple poison acted quite a bit like alcohol, lowering Jaskier’s already dangerously questionable inhibitions. Whatever filter between his mind and mouth that existed had been destroyed.

Jaskier’s words weren’t much of a surprise to him. His bard wasn’t subtle about his attraction to anyone. He felt as freely and fleetingly as one could, taking on multiple lovers in one night. Geralt wasn’t an idiot. He could smell lust on the man. Unfortunately, lust and love were two different things, and while Jaskier was fantastically experienced in one, they were both woefully lacking of the other.

Jaskier clamped his mouth shut, at least possessing the sound of mind to look embarrassed. Geralt raised a pigmentless eyebrow.

“Relax, bard. It’s just the poison taking effect.” He offered his friend an attempted half-smile, dropping the blanket onto Jaskier. “Nothing you say will be held against you.”

He was mentally kicking himself. If he had just remembered a little more, Jaskier would’ve been just fine. They might’ve made it to the next township. Even gotten some ale.

His bard was in for a hell of a night. And it was all his fault.

Geralt wasn’t sure exactly when he started worrying about Jaskier so much. Three years of traveling together, then suddenly, he was just scared all the time. Nothing had actually happened to Jaskier. Geralt assumed that one day he woke up nervous. A large part of him knew the danger he was putting his bard in. Unfortunately, the selfish part—the part that needed Jaskier to stay with him—was louder and more insistent.

It was probably around the time he started thinking of Jaskier as his bard. He knew it was foolish; Jaskier was a seperate person from him. Still, something hungry and primal gnawed at him every time his bard chatted up a lady in a tavern. Or every time Jaskier brought a man up to his room.

It was silly, and far-fetched, and so unbelievably unWitcherlike it made him want to scream.

But Witchers didn’t have feelings. Right?

Chapter Text

“Geraaaaaalt.”

of Rivia had experienced many difficulties throughout his long Witcher life. From going weeks without food, days without medical attention, and standing stone-still for hours to lure creatures out, he had an iron willpower.

Or so he thought.

So why was it, when Jaskier called out his name in a slurred singsong, couldn’t he just ignore him?
It wasn’t like he didn’t know what his bard was going to say. Over the past hour, after the Blanket Incident, Jaskier lost all rational thought. His mind and his mouth had united into a single, filthy-mouthed force.

“Geraaaaaaalt! C’mere!” Geralt gritted his teeth.

If he caved and went over, Jaskier would undoubtedly try to flirt with him again. And he wasn’t sure if he could handle that. So he kept his hands busy building a fire.
Jaskier had always been brazen in the way he spoke. The bard was painfully aware of the effects of his charm, and used them to his advantage. It worked out in Geralt’s favor most of the time; Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes got them discounts at inns and taverns across the continent.

It wasn’t so great for Geralt now.

The Witcher risked a glance over his shoulder at the sprawled form of his friend. He was pouting like a petulant child.

Geralt’s resolve shattered. He groaned, and lumbered over to Jaskier’s side.

“What.”

Jaskier’s face scrunched up adorably in an attempt at a grin. Adorable? Geralt exhaled loudly through his nose. The long day must have been getting to him.

“They call you the White Wolf, right?” Jaskier’s voice, though lazy and chopped, had dropped an octave. Geralt recognized it immediately as the tone he used when charming shopkeepers into giving them free wares. It usually worked.

“Yeah.” Geralt clenched his jaw, irritation flaring.

“I bet it’s because you fuck like a dog.”

What?

Geralt froze. That did not just come out of Jaskier’s mouth.

The whole time, Jaskier’s delirious one-liners and flirts had been PG. Then, out of the blue, he pulled this? Even worse, Geralt could smell the bard’s mild arousal. This was bad.

Jaskier made increasingly lewd comments as the night wore on. It likely had something to do with the bard’s temperature. He had survived the initial effects of the poison. Now, his body had to burn its way through the rest.

Unfortunately, that entailed a fever.

Sweat beaded at Jaskier’s brow, droplets trickling down his temples. He looked slightly better than he had before, which was always a good sign. A lazy half-grin graced his lips. He looked delighted to be in whatever half-baked fantasy his mind had cooked up.

“Geraaaaalt.”

Fuck. Geralt groaned. He didn’t even want to know what Jaskier was going to say next. His words were already having, erm, effects on him.
He glanced down at his tightening trousers, mentally cursing Jaskier’s irritatingly vivid wording of exactly what he wanted to do to Geralt.

No, he thought.

This was Geralt’s fault. If there was anyone to curse out, he was a fantastic candidate.

“Geraaaaaaalt.”

“What?” Geralt snarled. He started at the sound of his own voice. It came out much harsher than he meant it to.

Jaskier hadn’t noticed. “Why’re you pacing?” His eyelids drooped, momentarily obscuring his eyes. “Did I get you all riled up?”

Geralt ignored him. He had. Stupid rotfiend. When they were to finally get to an inn the next morning, he planned on spending the whole day studying poisons.

He stopped abruptly, glancing at his feet. He had paced a rather impressive groove into the soil. He hadn’t been this worried in a while; mediation helped tamper it down a little.
Jaskier shifted under his mound of shirts, immediately drawing Geralt’s attention. The bard had Geralt under his thumb, and he didn’t even realize it.

Geralt wasn’t sure if what he felt for Jaskier was love. It was definitely attraction, in every form that Geralt knew it to exist in. He enjoyed the sight of his bard, his voice, and his persistence. Others he knew had tried—and failed—to get close to him.

The only human who had ever succeeded, was Jaskier.

Maybe it wasn’t love, but it was something strong. Something inexorable in its intensity. And he was willing to bet it was pretty damn close.

Jaskier mumbled, shifting again under the makeshift blankets. He was asleep. Geralt padded over and knelt by him, feeling his forehead with a gentle hand, dutifully ignoring the butterflies in his chest from the skin-on-skin contact. His fever was nearly gone.

He sat back on his haunches. Maybe Witchers weren’t supposed to have feelings. But whatever the truth was, he definitely did.

Suddenly, a clammy hand reached out from under the shirt mound and seized his. Jaskier’s eyes shot open all the way. The veins around his irises popped out alarmingly; he looked unhinged.

When Jaskier spoke, his voice was crystal clear. “If I die, just know—“ He inhaled deeply, like he was starved of oxygen. He could have been, for all Geralt knew about rotfiend poison.

“I love you, G’rlt.” His voice slurred off at the end, his iron grip on Geralt’s hand slackening.

What?

Chapter Text

Jaskier awoke the next morning, much to Geralt’s relief. The last of the poison had worked its course. Jaskier was a bit groggy, but very much alive.

Geralt’s mind swirled with the events of the previous night. Right after Jaskier had said... what he said, he’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t dared to hope his bard had meant it. He didn’t know how he would recover if he didn’t really mean it.

I love you, Jask.

The thought came out of nowhere, walloping him as the bard sat up. He tried not to get his hopes up. Geralt inhaled sharply. He angled his head away from Jaskier, who was propped up on his elbows.

“Geralt? What happened? Where are we?” Jaskier sputtered.

Geralt turned to face him, walking over and crouching in front of him. The bard’s face had returned to its normal tone, and his eyes were no longer glassy and distant. He looked healthy.

No thanks to me.

His jaw tightened, teeth pressing together with enough force to crack enamel. He was so unbelievably fucking stupid. If Jaskier found out, he would probably never speak to him again. Any feelings the bard might or might not have had would evaporate in an instant.

“You were poisoned.” Geralt began, his voice thick with unreleased emotion. He cleared his throat. “You were poisoned because I was careless.”

Jaskier drew in a breath. Geralt tried to read his posture, his face, and found no signs of the anger he was anticipating. It made no sense. His bard had nearly died, and he wasn’t even the least bit irritated.

“Oh.” Jaskier tilted his head back to meet Geralt’s eyes. “How could you of all people be careless? If anything, you were too careful.”

Geralt sighed. There were too many things to count. He had neglected reviewing things in favor of spending time with Jaskier, forgotten to do proper research before a Hunt, and then promptly gotten caught off guard during said Hunt. He was an absolute disgrace to witchers everywhere.

“Quit your brooding.” Jaskier’s voice cut through his self-deprecating thoughts. “It wasn’t your fault. No one can be expected to remember everything all the time.”

Jaskier climbed to his feet, unsteady for a moment, then steady again. Geralt dropped his arms, realizing he had unconsciously reached to help the bard keep his balance. He was getting soft. Jaskier sauntered over to him, still managing to look relaxed despite his stiff legs.

“Besides. It’s not like I actually died or anything.” Jaskier grinned. “Could you imagine? That would be so embarrassing.”

Geralt felt his whole body tense up. He knew Jaskier was just joking around, but how could he take this so lightly? He had almost died, and it would have been on Geralt. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted iron.
Visions of Jaskier collapsing, of him never waking up, and of his stiff eyelids frozen open flashed through his mind. His heart seemed to empty at the thought, leaving a gaping pit at the mere idea of his bard dying.

“You could have died!“ It burst out of him, so fast he didn’t see the words coming until they were gone. Jaskier flinched at his outburst.

Geralt imagined himself wandering the continent alone, hands stained with the blood of the man he loved. The thought was so eviscerating, he shoved it out of his head with a barely audible growl.

Jaskier reached out tentatively, placing a hand on the witcher’s bicep. “It isn’t your fault. I can practically hear your thoughts.” He squeezed his arm. “No one is perfect. Don’t think you’re any different, alright? You killed the damned beast anyhow. Revenge has been exacted, dear Witcher.”

Geralt relaxed a bit. The knowledge that Jaskier wasn’t furious helped a bit. He was still angry at himself, but that was pretty constant. His arm tingled where Jaskier had touched.

When Geralt didn’t respond, Jaskier continued talking. “So, I was fairly out of it all last night. I don’t remember too much, but what I do remember was... interesting.” He paced, and glanced down at his shoes, still muddied from the previous day.

“I didn’t say anything, er, strange, did I?” Jaskier stumbled over his words, acting more flustered than Geralt had seen in a while. “You know, confessiony?”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t remember—did he? And the way he’d worded it too. Confession. Jaskier might actually have remembered some of the previous night. Geralt decided to take a risk.

“You said you loved me. Then you drooled on Roach’s blanket.”

Jaskier stopped dead in his pacing. He flushed an impressively deep crimson, spreading down his neck and to the tips of his ears. “Oh.” His mouth flapped like a fish. Geralt watched him struggle, half amused and half anxious. He could smell the tang of Jaskier’s mortification.

Jaskier’s expression suddenly cleared. He looked, almost, resigned? His cornflower blue eyes met Geralt’s, overflowing with expression. “Might as well admit it again. It’s true.” His face slackened, like he wasn’t sure he had just said what he said. “I know it isn’t reciprocated, but it’s probably better if you’re aware.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Transparency and all that.”

What?

Geralt gaped openly. How was it possible? He killed creatures for a living, and had ballads written about his slaughtering. There were people that thought he ATE humans! How could anyone love someone with an image like that? Especially a man of the people like Jaskier. His bard was... too good for someone like him. He had real talent, an actual bonafide job, and wit for days. Geralt could barely stumble through a quick transaction when picking up supplies.
Still, the fact that someone in the world as amazing as Jaskier was had chosen, of his own free will, to stay with him, was a miracle. And there was no one in the world he loved like he loved Jaskier.

“Gods, Geralt. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that much at once. It was about time you had a right and proper monologue.”

He... had not realized he was speaking out loud. The release of thoughts had been quite cathartic. He could see why Jaskier talked as much as he did.

Jaskier stepped forward, planting his feet so they were practically toe-to-toe. The proximity was unexpected. Geralt felt warm all over, despite the morning chill. Jaskier placed a tentative hand on the back of Geralt’s neck. He tensed in anticipation.

“I’m going to try something, alright? I didn’t want to catch you off guard or anything like that.”

Geralt reached out and felt Jaskier’s hip under his fingers. He could feel the curve of his hip bone through the fabric of his trousers. Gods, he couldn’t believe what was about to happen.
Ever so slowly, Jaskier leaned his weight forward, going up on his toes to capture Geralt’s lips in a soft kiss.

It was the lightest of presses, yet it sent shivers through his whole body.

He returned the pressure, feeling Jaskier tilt his head and deepen it in response. Geralt brought his other hand around and flattened his hand on his bard’s back, pulling him closer. Jaskier gasped against his lips.

He was in heaven.

Jaskier broke away from the kiss, much too fast for Geralt’s liking. But before he could complain, Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, pulling him down for a hug. Geralt gladly returned it, relishing in the feeling of his bard against him.

His bard.

Jaskier was someone for him to love. Someone to love him. He forgot sometimes, that love was more than just sex and more sex. It was about vulnerability, which he was terrible at. And communication, which he was also terrible at. But if anyone could help him get better, it was Jaskier.

But for now, he relished in the peace and simplicity of a hug.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s breath ghosted by his ear.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Gods, he would never tire of hearing Jaskier say that. The words alone sent waves of warmth burning through his defenses. There was nothing he was more sure about.
Whoever first said a Witcher couldn’t feel, had clearly never met him.

“I love you too, Jaskier.”