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Listen, he’s not a total idiot. He knows that travelling on the road entails; he managed to get to Posada just fine on his own. And apart from the added danger of travelling with a Witcher, where monsters and spiteful townsfolk are commonplace, what could be different?
No matter how hard the Witcher tried to shake him off, Jaskier wouldn’t budge. Walking miles each day, sleeping where they could, eating what was available. Each met with rolled eyes and a droned I know, Geralt, and Jaskier still trailed after him.
Things were fine. Good, even. The summer was a surprisingly dry one, letting them camp underneath the stars during clear nights and not having to worry about waking up amid a rainstorm. The Witcher travelled where the wind took him. Whispers came with the breeze, dusting the shell of his ear and luring him to the next town. And Jaskier followed. He worked, while the Witcher was off witchering. He often came back to merrier taverns and inns where ale and mead sloshed out of tankards and song spilt out of the doors and windows. The first time it earned them a hot meal and a room, Jaskier beamed at the flicker of something that looks suspiciously like surprise, and maybe even admiration, across the Witcher’s face.
He’s gotten used to fire-roasted rabbit and stale bread, sleeping on hard ground softened slightly with bedrolls, and listening out for any hint of a snarl or growl from a nearby monster – not even calming when Geralt assures him that, armed with all of his senses, he would never set up a camp if something lingered or stalked nearby. The first time he sinks into a soft mattress, belly full and warmed with stew and bread and ale, he might have actually cried.
Sure, sometimes the days are long and his feet ache and blister – something entirely blamed on the Witcher for not letting him ride his damn horse. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s helped Geralt stitch his skin back together after a particularly bad hunt. But the gold keeps falling into their pockets and Geralt moves on; and if Jaskier plans on chronicling the Witcher’s stories, then he has to keep up.
Contracts take them north. With every day of travel they take, the days get shorter and colder. At a small town in the backarse of nowhere, Jaskier clothes himself with wool and fur, and shrouds his shoulders with a cloak for good measure. It staves off the worst of the chill, but his fingers turn numb and clumsy and it has been a while since his teeth have stopped chattering. The Witcher doesn’t seem too bothered by the change. Of course he doesn’t. He only dons a cloak when dark and heavy storm clouds tumble down from a nearby mountain.
They’re out on the roads, between villages, when the first drop of rain hits. And then the skies open.
Roach looks just as miserable as he does – ears flattened and she snorts with every trudged step through the mud. Jaskier peers up at the Witcher, wincing at the spray of heavy rainfall assaulting his face. The Witcher looks around, his gaze eventually falling on the mouth of a nearby cave. He clicks his heels against Roach’s sides, spurring the mare on. Jaskier follows.
Geralt slips off of the mare and hands her reins to Jaskier. He stalks into the mouth of the cave, eyes adjusting to the abrupt loss of light. The forest has done a valiant job of trying to reclaim the rocks surrounding the cave’s mouth; its roof is plush with sudden grass and leaves, looking like any other stretch of forest floor. Vines drape down along the side, overgrown with evergreen leaves and shielding the cave from outside eyes. Jaskier wouldn’t have found this; especially from the road.
Roach shakes, lifting her head from Jaskier’s hold. He settles a hand against her neck. “Yes, alright, I know it’s shit out,” he grumbles, “but we’ll be inside somewhere warm and dry soon enough.”
Geralt emerges, happy enough that nothing seems to be using the cave as a shelter from the storm. Once inside, Jaskier sheds his drenched cloak and mud-caked boots. He spots a couple of dried sticks to the side of the cave, just enough to get a fire going. He’s distantly aware of Geralt untacking Roach, mumbling softly to her about something or other. The only sound he can hear is his own teeth chattering, and it’s deafening.
He’s become deft at sparking up fires. Nights spent carefully watching Geralt told him everything he needs to. When the fire sparks to life, Jaskier is quick to feed it with more sticks and dried leaves. Dinner comes in the form of provisions save from yesterday; dried and cured beef and half a loaf of bread. Geralt wordlessly sits by the other side of the fire, handing Jaskier’s portions over to him. The only sounds come in the form of rain pelting against the forest’s canopy, a distant rumble of thunder in the nearby hills. Roach’s hooves click against the stones as she shuffles about, still trying to dry off and get comfortable.
The fire helps, but only a bit. Jaskier warms his hands by the small fire, trying to flex some feeling back into them. He can feel eyes watching him. He’s become used to the feeling. He must be some kind of curiosity to the Witcher – dressed and made up to be every bit the viscount he was supposed to be; but here he is, spending his days with a Witcher, planning to blanket the Continent in his songs.
Jaskier shivers at a wild breeze drifting into the cave. Even sheltered from the worst of the storm, they’re still in the wilds. They wouldn’t have made it to the next village, and the last one they passed wasn’t too keen on having Geralt’s kind there. He curls around himself, trying to chase off the worst of the chill. But it doesn’t stop his shoulders from trembling or his breath from staggering out of him—
Warmth suddenly envelops his shoulders and back. Jaskier looks over and blinks at the sight of the Witcher draping a cloak over Jaskier’s shoulders. It takes him a moment to realise that it’s Geralt’s cloak, one of them at least, the one that he keeps in a saddlebag. He glances up at the Witcher. “What—”
“Your shivering is making too much noise,” the Witcher grunts, shuffling over to his side of the cave. All that rings out between them is the storm outside and the crackling of the fire. The cloak is dry and clean and it faintly smells like the Witcher. He catches the edges of it and wraps the cloak around himself. Warmth worms through his skin, and muscles, even reaching his bones. Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. The words that tumble out of him are clumsy.
“Thank you, Geralt.”
If they shudder or tremble at all, he’ll blame it on the cold.
Golden eyes look up and regard him for a moment. Geralt grunts and turns back to the fire.
The days continue to get chillier, though they plan their travel more carefully. An after-summer melancholy tends to wash over people as soon as the sun starts slipping away and their harvests come in for the winter. Jaskier spends most of his nights playing in taverns, luring smiles and laughs and songs out of people in exchange for meals and rooms.
Rain pelts the cobbles outside and winds howl, and his gratitude for the people of the village admiring Geralt and his work for their local towns. Gratefulness means that they can eat their fill of stew or roasted beef or lamb, and sleep on soft mattresses with linens and furs.
It's a chillier night when Jaskier finishes his last song. There are calls for more, but he reasons with the crowd that he has to protect his voice. That, and his bones ache with how tired he is. The crowd packed into the tavern slink back to chattering among themselves. Jaskier heads for the stairs.
A few stray drafts slip in from a few cracks in the windowpanes, but it’s nothing a warm bath and bed won’t fix. The Witcher turned in early, exhausted from a nekker hunt; not that he would ever admit it. So Jaskier tries to be quiet, slipping into their shared room. Being light on coin meant shared beds during the summer and Jaskier eventually learned to get used to sleeping next to and waking with a warm body nearby.
And gods be good does Geralt run warm. Of all the information about Witchers he’s managed to lure out of Geralt during the season, he knows that Witchers’ hearts beat slow and their eyes dilate like a common cat’s and he can hold an incredible amount of body heat. Jaskier half expected him to be cold, like the reptiles down in Nilfgaard’s sand seas. But as he helped stitch one of Geralt’s many wounds, his fingers brushed the Witcher’s skin and he almost leapt back, scalded.
There’s almost no point in blankets on the bed with Geralt an arm’s reach away. Not that they’ve ever drifted that close during the night. Even in narrower beds, they keep to their own sides.
The room is lit only by a handful of candles dotted around. Geralt slumbers on his allotted side of the bed, with his side of the room dark and still. Damned Witcher hearing will probably wake him as soon as Jaskier steps on a creaking floorboard. But if he’s able to block out the crowing of songs from downstairs then he’ll be fine ignoring Jaskier pad over to the bath.
It’s been refilled, steam drifting up from the water’s edge. Jaskier makes a simple job of slipping out of his layers. Chillier, biting winds mean silk doublets were swapped for cotton and woollen tunics and cloaks. Armed with vials of sweet-smelling oils and lotions, he sinks into the warm bathwater with a contented sigh. His muscles wane and warmth blooms through him as he sinks further down and lets the water lap against his chin. Bathing in rivers seems like years ago; he shivers as he recalls how cold and fresh the water would be.
So he takes his time with this bath, letting his muscles finally relax and ease with warmth. Desert rose oil and spring flowers lotion swirl around in the air and by the time he’s dried and clothed in some simple sleep-clothes and padding over to the bed, he forgets about the howling winds and persistent rain.
Geralt barely twitches as Jaskier slips underneath the bedsheets, settling on his side and facing away from the Witcher. Sleep washes over him as soon as his head touches the pillow. And how long sleep holds him for, he has no idea. But he clambers towards wakefulness at a sharp howl of wind whistling through the window.
A shiver trembles through him as he blinks awake. The room is dark. It’s a struggle to see past his own hand. At another billowing gust of wind, Jaskier shivers. The days can be cold but the nights can be colder. He bundles the blankets around him, trying to stave off the worst of the chill. It’s fine, for a while, but breezes slip under and through the folds of the sheets.
He tries to clamp down on shivering, but the cold nip of the air keeps him awake and trembling.
There’s a small sigh from behind him. Before he can even think to apologise for rousing the Witcher, the bed dips and shifts until weight lands on top of Jaskier. Blankets, he thinks distantly, from Geralt’s side of the bed. They’re warm and smell like the Witcher, and his brain is trying to dust away the cobwebs clinging to his mind and making him slow, something coils around his waist.
He peers down and even through the faintest of moonlight reaching into the room, he makes out an arm.
Geralt’s arm.
He recognises the constellation of scars.
He just about recognises the arm before it tightens around his waist and a body shuffles closer. Warmth blooms along his back and neck as Geralt almost moulds himself against him. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. For the briefest of moments, he forgets about the cold and the storm and the world—
His mind floods with a maelstrom of thoughts, all of it cresting and falling over itself—
“Bard,” a gruff, sleep-heavy voice grunts, “go to sleep.”
He bites down on his tongue. How is he meant to sleep with Geralt pressed against him?
To his horror, or relief, and it’s hard to decipher which on it is, his eyes actually begin to hood and droop. Sleep laps back over him, taking him down before he can try and fight it.
When he wakes, the first watery beams of morning sun stream in through the window. The morning after a storm is always so bizarre how quiet and timid the air is and how people pick up where they left off. Jaskier buries his face into his pillow. Broken sleep is never kind.
All at once, he bolts awake.
He picks his head up from his pillow and glances over his shoulders. The arm once flung over his hip is gone, as is the body that pressed against him. A frown etches his brow when he looks to the other side of the bed.
Empty.
The sheets are rumpled and cold and feeling panic starting to clench his throat, his eyes dart to the side of the room where the Witcher laid his things—
And he loosens a relieved breath.
Geralt’s saddlebags and swords still sit perched by the wall. He hasn’t left.
He doesn’t’ know what’s worse, actually; the fact that Geralt would leave him one morning without rhyme or reason, or the fact that he’s still here and Jaskier might possibly have to bring up the fact that Geralt definitely spooned him last night.
Or he could just forget about it. Jaskier was cold and Geralt kept him warm. That’s it. Full stop. What a friendly thing for one friend to do for another friend00
He almost chokes on his own breath when the door creaks open. He backs up until he’s sitting against the headboard of the bed.
Geralt steps inside the room, a plate of food in his hand and a large piece of fabric draped over his arm. When his golden eyes land on Jaskier, his steps falter. His usual unreadable expression sits etched into his face. But a storm of thought whirls around those eyes.
His lips thin. “I,” he glances down at the plate clutched in his hand, “I got you some breakfast. I didn’t know if you’d sleep through it.”
Jaskier looks at the plate. Sausage, eggs, toasted bread. The smell of it alone has his stomach trembling – that or the fact that Geralt is in the room with him, and he still can’t put his thoughts in order. His tongue heavily fumbles out a thank you as Geralt pads over and hands him the plate. He regards the cloak draped over the Witcher’s arm. “Did you go shopping without me?” he jokes, because he can still hang on to humour to get him through most things.
Geralt stands awkwardly at the foot of the bed, fidgeting with the hem of the cloak. He muses over his words for a moment. “I did,” he eventually says, a small frown creasing his brow. “It’s...It’s, uh, for you.”
He hands over the cloak. Jaskier sits there, dumbfounded. He has just enough wherewithal to set the plate on his bedside table before taking the cloak. It’s heavy; wool, he thinks. And the inside is lined with fur. It's soft and warm and expensive—
“How much was this?” Jaskier mumbles, letting the fabric run through his fingers.
He hears Geralt shuffle his weight. “We could afford it,” he answers simply. There’s a small pause that follows. “The weather is only going to get worse. I figured that you needed something to keep you warm.”
Some part of him is floored that this might be the most amount of words that Geralt has even spoken to him.
Another, more treacherous, part of him whispers that it’s fine, he doesn’t care about the winds or rain or snow at all as long as Geralt is there to keep him warm.
Shut up.
“Thank you, Geralt,” comes out instead, thank the gods.
The Witcher hums. His jaw flexes. “When you’re finished breakfast, head down to the stables. We need to keep going.”
The wall is back up. Towering so high and encasing the Witcher so tightly that it’s hard to break through.
“Thank you,” he makes a stab at chipping away at the bricks and mortar, “for last night. And..the cave. You didn’t have to do that but you did, so...thanks.” For being a wordsmith and a lyricist, he’s struggling with finding the right words.
Geralt doesn’t quite look at him, but at the rumpled sheets around the bed. He chews his lip. “I didn’t want a dead bard on my hands,” he grunts, padding over to his stuff.
Classic Geralt. Jaskier watches him fidget with something or other, just for something to do with his hands and to avert his attention from the bard.
Fuck that.
“It’s okay, you know,” he tries again, keeping his voice low so he won’t spook the Witcher. And some part of him asks himself when he started skirting around Geralt like a spooking wild horse. The Witcher doesn’t stop picking up and examining his vials of potions. Jaskier sets his jaw. “I...Gods, alive. I appreciate you looking out for me. I know you like to put on this whole Gruff Loner mask, but I know you have a good heart.”
He imagines a blush settling over Geralt’s cheeks. He desperately wants to march over there and spin him around just to check.
Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t mind it,” the words slip out anyway. Before he can even manage to slam his jaw shut, they continue to tumble. “I...It was nice. Being warm. It felt...safe.”
Geralt stiffens.
Jaskier has never been safe with Geralt. It’s something that the Witcher has said, often. Every time he wanders off into a hunt, there’s a chance that the bard might follow and stray too close. Or while out on the road, they could encounter brigands or thieves or just townsfolk who despise Geralt for what he is.
And yet...here he is. Still here.
Geralt sets his things back down. He still faces the wall, his head bowed.
Jaskier fidgets with the bedsheets. “I know I’m not very shy with my feelings for people,” he says, because Geralt has experienced one too many walk-ins of Jaskier’s jaunts, “but I like being with you. And if that’s just as a travelling companion, that’s fine. That’s okay, actually. I like travelling with you. But...” Jaskier frowns. If he had his lute, this might be easier. Or Geralt might just leave. He thinks about it for a minute. Geralt would definitely leave.
Words rumble out of Geralt’s throat. “I’ve never slept better than I did last night,” he mumbles, tasting the words on his lips. When he turns to look at Jaskier, he keeps his eyes somewhere between the bard and the bed, not quite looking at either.
Warmth blooms in Jaskier’s chest. His heart hammers against his ribcage and it stops and stutters any time golden eyes stray over to him. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth as he tries to speak. “Good,” he hums. “I slept well too. Despite the cold.”
Geralt’s nights are strained ones. He doesn’t ask about the nightmares, but he knows what state they leave Geralt in when he clambers awake during the night, eyes wide and darting around to make sure that nothing followed him into the waking world.
But hearing that he slept well, it settles comfortably in Jaskier’s chest.
Geralt’s lips thin. “The nights are only going to get colder,” he says, glancing to the window. It seems like a nice day today, but they all know how unpredictable the winter weather can be.
Jaskier hums. “I’m not too worried,” he says with a slight air to his voice, darting his eyes back to Geralt, regarding him for a moment. Seeing how well his words sit with the Witcher. “I have something to keep me warm.”
For a terrifying moment, Geralt says nothing. He doesn’t say a great deal anyway, but Jaskier really doesn’t need his stoic silences right now—
“You do,” Geralt says simply. He lets the words settle for a moment. He nods to Jaskier’s plate. “Finish your breakfast. We’re leaving in an hour.”
The thought of food now churns his stomach. It’s already knotted from the tension smothering the room. But he sets the plate back into his lap and picks at it – knowing well that it might be the only food he eats today until they reach the next village.
His heart stutters eventually into an even rhythm. It warms and clenches and his fingers tremble as he pulls chunks of bread.
You do.
The words echo against the shell of his ear.
A broad smile curls along his lips.
I do.