Archive of Our Own

1.

It starts in Toussaint. After weeks of Jaskier begging to go to a comedy festival—just to see Valdo Marx fail at being funny, of course—Geralt had relented and begrudgingly taken him there. We’re only going so you stop bothering me, he said. Don’t tell me about it because I don’t care, he said. And yet— 

“You really didn’t have to come with me,” Jaskier says. “I know you hate crowds.”

Geralt huffs. “How else would you have been able to see?”  

As much as Jaskier wants to say something snarky about that… he can’t, because Geralt does have a point. He could barely see past the people crowded in front of them when they arrived—and yes, he knows the reason they’re so far back is because he slept in, Geralt really didn’t have to remind him—and he complained for, like, maybe five minutes about it before Geralt decided he had enough and—well. Jaskier wasn’t about to refuse the offer when Geralt hoisted him up on his shoulders. So now he’s carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair, absent-mindedly braiding it, relishing in the heat of Geralt’s hands on his thighs. This is nice, though neither of them would ever admit it. 

“Have you noticed that no one’s told me to get down?” Jaskier asks. He glances around at the people nearby who, for some mysterious reason, haven’t uttered a single word about him being so high up. “I must be blocking at least one person’s view.”

Geralt hums thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s because of my sword.”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier says, “I forgot about that.”

He twists to get a peek at the steel sword slung across Geralt’s back, its gleaming metal just barely visible outside of its sheath. Even though it’s mostly hidden, it’s still intimidating—especially to people who haven’t seen Geralt casually use it to clean meat off rabbit bones. 

“Speaking of,” Jaskier continues, leaning forward so he can see Geralt’s face, “your armour isn’t very comfortable. You couldn’t have just worn a silk shirt and left it at that?” 

Geralt tips his head up to meet his gaze, and for a brief moment, his eyes seem to soften. But then his lips quirk up in a smug grin and he drawls, “Oh, I’m so sorry, next time I’ll put on a fucking mattress.”

Jaskier laughs, his hand coming down instinctively to pat Geralt’s head. “Don’t forget a blanket, dear.”

Geralt just snorts, and Jaskier doesn’t even have to see it to know he’s rolling his eyes. But he hasn’t grumbled about having to hold Jaskier up in the past few minutes, and he hasn’t said anything about the braids or the various wildflowers tucked in his hair or flinched at his touch—and, well, now that Jaskier thinks about it, that is a little weird. It’s nice that Geralt feels comfortable around him, anyway. He’s not going to question it.

Before Geralt can reply, though, the crowd bursts with enthusiastic cheers and a man in a bright blue doublet—almost as nice as Jaskier’s, but not quite—walks on stage and waves, a very fake and very charming smile plastered on his face. 

“Shh,” Jaskier whispers. He reaches his hand down blindly to shush Geralt, and ends up whacking his face several times before he finds his mouth. “Oops, sorry. Shh—it’s starting.”

“ You shut up,” Geralt mumbles, not even bothering to move his finger. 

Jaskier giggles. “Shh.”

Geralt’s hand tightens on his thigh, burning through his breeches, but he doesn’t say anything else. And for once in his life, Jaskier doesn’t have to hide his blush. 

Later, once the crowd dissipates and Jaskier’s ass starts to go numb, he realizes that he didn’t hear Geralt laugh at all during the festival. Not one time. Not like he was actively paying attention to Geralt, or his hands on his thighs, or the steady rumble of his breath—not that he’d ever admit, anyway—but he’s sure he didn’t hear a single chuckle. Not even a huff. The closest thing he got to a reaction, the only indication that Geralt was even listening, was an exasperated sigh.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, smoothing down the wrinkles on his breeches, “can I ask you something?”

Geralt glares at him out of the corner of his eye. It’s probably meant to be scary, but his ghost of a smile softens the blow. “Would it stop you if I said no?”

Jaskier laughs and shakes his head. He stretches his limbs out and lets out a satisfying hum when he shakes feeling back into his leg again. And actually, now that he thinks about it, he’s ridiculously hungry—they should find somewhere to eat, like one of those pastry stalls at the local market, before they run out of all the good stuff. 

“Why didn’t you laugh?” Jaskier asks. “Like, not even once?”

Geralt snorts, lips quirked up like he finds this amusing. “Because no one said anything funny?” 

Jaskier fumbles for words, but he’s at a complete loss—he doesn’t even know what to say to this. No one said anything funny? What world is Geralt living in? What festival was he at? Because Jaskier spent the whole time—Valdo Marx’s totally-not-funny bit aside—wheezing from laughter, barely able to catch his breath. He literally lost count of how often Geralt had to hold him up so he wouldn’t fall over. He had tears in his eyes. 

“You didn’t think anything was funny?” Jaskier asks eventually.

Geralt huffs. “That’s what I just said.”

They’re two of the last people lingering by the stage, and as much as Jaskier likes the fact that they’re sort of, basically alone, his hunger is really starting to get to him. He’s probably going to gnaw his own stomach if they don’t find food right now. Preferably something warm and sweet. Maybe some nice freshly-squeezed juice too, or a mug of herbal tea. He’s not picky. 

“Oh, okay, Mr. I-Don’t-Have-A-Sense-Of-Humour,” Jaskier teases. “I just want it to be known that sometimes, people do say funny things.”   

Geralt makes a face as they head off towards the nearby market. He could be grimacing at the idea of people being funny, but Jaskier likes to think it’s because of the overwhelming and overlapping smells wafting over from all the food stalls. “Like who?”

Jaskier smiles, grabs onto Geralt’s arm, and chirps, “Like me! Oh, I have this one joke that kills every time I say it. You’ve never heard it, of course, but I suppose, for the sake of proving a point… Do you want to hear it?”

“No,” Geralt grumbles, still looking ridiculously displeased. At least he hasn’t pushed Jaskier off, like every other time he’s latched onto him. That’s good progress. 

Jaskier ignores him, as usual. “Okay, so it goes like this: a Witcher and a bard walk into a tavern—”

“Oh, I know how this one ends,” Geralt interrupts. Jaskier frowns—how can he know?—but before he can actually say anything, Geralt adds, “I tell you to shut up.”    

“I—that’s not—it’s—” Jaskier stammers, apparently unable to come up with something witty, or, like, any thing. “That’s—I—that—”

Geralt, that stupid bastard, grins at him, sly and smug. “You done yet?”

And even though Jaskier hates him above all else at this moment, he decides he needs to get Geralt to laugh. At least once. That’s his new mission, his new purpose, his fucking destiny. And he is going to achieve his goal no matter what.

2.

After losing sleep over the fact that Geralt doesn’t seem to find things funny for a month, Jaskier comes to the very reasonable conclusion that the comedy festival in Toussaint must’ve just not been to his taste. Maybe, he thinks, Geralt’s one of those people who like clever puns, and don’t get their kicks out of something more… vulgar. That’s the only explanation that could possibly make sense. And luckily, since he’s well-rounded and knowledgeable and overall a hilarious person, Jaskier has a bunch of those jokes up his sleeve.

“Hey, Geralt,” he whispers excitedly, as they trek quietly through a creepy old graveyard.

Geralt whips around to face him with his all-black eyes, frowning. “Shut up, Jask, or you’re going to get us killed.”

“Pfft,” Jaskier huffs, waving his hand dismissively. “Wanna hear a joke? To lighten the mood?”

This time, Geralt doesn’t glare at him, but he does let out a very long, exasperated sigh instead. He doesn’t reply; he just continues taking cautious, measured steps through the overgrown grass. If he were anyone else, Jaskier would assume he’s not listening—but he knows from experience that Geralt’s always listening, even when he doesn’t really want to. 

“I’ll tell you anyway,” Jaskier says. “Why don’t ghosts like rain?”

He can hear the annoyance in Geralt’s voice when he snaps, “What?”

“Why don’t ghosts like rain?” Jaskier repeats. He waits a moment for a reply, but he doesn’t get one. “It’s part of the joke. You have to say I don’t know or something to hear the punchline.”

Geralt stops abruptly, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out another sigh. “I don’t fucking care. ”

Jaskier ignores that, because he knows that somewhere deep inside Geralt does care, and says, perhaps a little too cheery, “Because it dampens their spirits!” 

Geralt blinks at him once, twice, tenses his jaw. He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to control his anger, and then— 

“Why would you think that now’s a good fucking time for a joke? ” he hisses through gritted teeth. “Firstly, it wasn’t even funny, and secondly—” 

The wraith they came out here to kill topples him over before he can get to his second point, and he lets out a surprised oof! as he hits the ground. Jaskier yelps, instinctively reaching for a weapon—which, he realizes belatedly, he doesn’t even have—but the wraith disappears again before he can do anything. 

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks, crouching down and holding a hand out to help Geralt up. 

Geralt only grunts, but he doesn’t refuse the offer. Not that he really needed it, though; he’s not injured, just a little muddied. The thought—the fleeting hope—that he had another reason to take Jaskier’s hand, to touch him, makes Jaskier’s insides turn to mush. Not that he’d ever dare to think about that, of course. He can’t let himself down in the future if he denies the way his heart is fluttering now. It’s basic science.

“I suppose it was premature to joke about ghosts,” Jaskier says, risking a smile.

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles, eyes narrowed in a half-hearted glare. “You think?”    

Jaskier pats his shoulder. “I’ll find something else, don’t—” And then it hits him. “Wait, what do you mean, that joke isn’t funny?”

Geralt only sighs. 

It takes a few weeks for Jaskier to work up the courage to try one of his jokes again. He’s had the perfect one on the tip of his tongue all day, but he waits until Geralt is at his softest: while bathing. He’s always content when he’s in a bath and the water is so hot it’d boil a normal person alive—and sometimes, if he’s feeling particularly nice, he lets Jaskier wash his hair. 

Besides the fact that Geralt basically becomes a cat when he’s bathing, all deep, rumbling breaths that sound like purrs, tonight’s especially opportune because he’s also injured. It’s only a few mild cuts, and a bruise on his ribs where he’d collided with a stone wall, but it’s enough to stop him from fighting the way Jaskier frets over him. Which is… rare. Very rare. And so very sweet. 

And right now, as he’s kneeling behind the tub and detangling the knots in Geralt’s hair, Jaskier wants nothing more than to make him feel a little better. And laughter, in his humble opinion, is the best medicine.  

“Want to hear a joke?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt hums. He shifts in the tub and leans back. “Sure,” he says. “I might as well get it over with.”

Jaskier grins. “What do you call a horse that moves around a lot?”

He feels Geralt’s sigh more than he hears it. “Enlighten me.”

“Unstable!” Jaskier laughs. 

“That,” Geralt says, completely deadpan, “is the best you could come up with?”

And oh—oh, no, he did not just challenge Jaskier. Amateur mistake. Everyone who ever tried that at Oxenfurt always failed, because Jaskier was always the funniest person there. Never, not once in all his time there and the years since, did someone listen to his jokes and not laugh—well, until Geralt, that is. But he’s resolutely determined to fix that.  

“Ooh, okay, is that a bet?” Jaskier teases.

Geralt groans and buries his face in his hands. “No, fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Jaskier moves to sit in front of the tub, hair-washing duties now long forgotten, and tosses the towel he’d set aside for later over his shoulder. “All right, Master Witcher, here’s one for you. Have you ever wondered why bread is like the sun?”

Geralt stares at him and scowls. “Literally never.”

“It rises in the yeast, ” Jaskier says, smiling so wide it hurts his cheeks, “and sets in the waist. ”

For a long, drawn-out moment, Geralt doesn’t say anything. And then he just points at Jaskier, spraying chamomile-scented bathwater everywhere, and snarls, “You’re on thin fucking ice.”

Jaskier laughs.

3.

They run into Yennefer, completely by accident, at a banquet in Temeria. Jaskier knows what they’re doing—providing entertainment and being a bodyguard, respectively—but he doesn’t know why she’s here. And, sure, there are nobles here, and other sorts of court-type people that might have a mage on hand, but it’s only a wedding celebration. And at all the banquets Jaskier’s been to, he’s never seen a mage from another kingdom.

“You think they needed a seat-filler or something?” he asks quietly, nodding in Yennefer’s general direction.

Geralt—who hasn’t stopped frowning about this whole thing ever since Jaskier asked him to tag along—follows his gaze and shrugs. But he is smiling, almost imperceptibly, like he’s happy she’s here. 

“No,” he says, and then turns to huff at Jaskier. “She’s probably here for the same reason as everyone else.”

“The world-renowned bard who’ll be gracing this hall with his presence?” Jaskier teases, only a little smug. 

Geralt snorts. “Actually, I think I saw a few people leave when they heard you’re the—”

“Shut up!” Jaskier says, swatting Geralt’s ridiculously muscular arm with his sleeve. 

And just as Geralt opens his mouth to reply—they both catch Yennefer in their peripheral vision. Walking towards them. She’s graceful, elegant, noble, stealing all the attention in the room with a careless air, like all these people mean nothing to her. And, okay, even Jaskier has to admit she’s beautiful—nothing short of breath-taking in her glimmering red dress, hair curled over her shoulder, a delicate gemstone pendant resting on her chest. 

As she approaches, Jaskier slyly turns to glance at Geralt and get a sense of his reaction—but doesn’t look dumbstruck, or head-over-heels in love, or… well, anything out of the ordinary, really. He’s smiling at her, but it’s the same soft smile he has when Jaskier meets up with him after every winter. Whatever that means.

“Yennefer,” Geralt says, sounding a lot less grumpy than he had been, like, five minutes ago. “It’s nice to see you.”

Yennefer returns his smile and kisses his cheek. She did that last time Jaskier met her—well, okay, the first time he met her—and he didn’t think much of it then, shrugged it off as a casual, totally-normal way to greet people. Now, though, he can’t help but wonder if they have… history. Or if they’re still together. He’ll have to remember to ask about that later.

“I could say the same thing,” Yennefer says. “Though I am quite surprised that you’re… here.” 

She’s much more polite and distant, in a professional sort of way, than she was last time—though Jaskier reasons that probably has something to do with the man hovering nearby, watching her impatiently. He must be the noble she came with, then. 

Yennefer turns her attention to Jaskier and nods at him in acknowledgement. “Jaskier. You’re much less surprising.”

Jaskier’s so delighted that she remembered his name—and his trade, it seems—that he almost forgets to reply. He clears his throat and utters, “A pleasure as always, Yen.”

“We’ve met once,” Yennefer says. Her lips are curled down in a slight frown, even though she clearly doesn’t mean it. 

Jaskier grins. “Exactly my point!”

Yennefer huffs out a laugh. “Charming.” She winks at Geralt and teases, in a tone that betrays the fact that she knows something Jaskier doesn’t, “I like him.” 

And—and if Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say Geralt’s blushing. But that can’t be right. It can’t be, because he’s spent the past few years ogling him, memorizing the soft tilt of his lips when he smiles, the faint orange in the gold of his eyes—not a sharp, unpleasant yellow, like everyone always says—when it reflects sunsets, the differences between a content hum and an annoyed hum and—he’s getting off track, but the point is, he’s never seen Geralt blush. Never. Not once. Not even when that little girl in Cidaris, the alderman’s daughter, called him pretty. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to ask what the absolute fuck Yennefer’s going on about, but she changes the subject before he can get a single word out.

“So, if it’s my place to ask,” Yennefer says, a little too loudly to be casual, “what exactly are you doing here, Geralt?”        

Geralt visibly relaxes; the tension in his jaw and in his shoulders goes away. “Not my job,” he grumbles. “I’m his bodyguard for the night.” With that, he tosses Jaskier a glare. “Because someone can’t keep his di—”

“Enough about me,” Jaskier interrupts, eyes wide in alarm, just as Yennefer says, “You’re not serious, are you?”

Neither Jaskier nor Geralt bother to reply to that. Geralt just lets out a long, exasperated sigh, like he’d much rather be anywhere else than here, helping out his dearest friend, like it’s such a hassle to dress up all nice and presentable and actually talk to people instead of just grunting. Which—to be fair, getting him into the very expensive doublet Jaskier picked out was a bit of a challenge. So his annoyance isn’t entirely exaggerated. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, isn’t replying because he’s too embarrassed to admit that they are, unfortunately, quite serious about this. Asking Geralt to be his bodyguard for a night wasn’t a big deal because, well, Geralt is Geralt, and he would’ve only grunted in response no matter the reason—but confessing this to someone as powerful and respectable as Yennefer is a completely different thing. Besides, there’s no need to make her think less of him than she already does. 

“I see,” Yennefer says, humming thoughtfully. 

Jaskier decides he should probably stop this particular conversation from going any further. “And what about you? What are you doing here?”

Yennefer looks at him blankly. Her smile is practiced, not quite wide enough to be real but not obviously fake either. “I’m here for the celebration, of course,” she says. “I’m never one to turn down free drinks.”

Jaskier laughs, but before he can reply, Geralt nudges his ribs with his elbow and grits out, so quiet that Jaskier can barely hear him, “Do you recognize him?”

It takes Jaskier a second to realize who he’s talking about. He glances up and… instantly, he forgets what it is he found so funny a moment ago. The man heading his way with a deep, grave frown has his fists balled up at his sides, and he’s stomping so loud that several people stop talking to look—and Jaskier recognizes him, of course he does, because he’s Virginia’s husband. 

Oh, Virginia, that sweet, lovely woman. They had a brief fling last summer, while Geralt was hunting a particularly nasty cockatrice, which didn’t even last a whole week—and anyway, most of their time together consisted of Jaskier teaching her how to play the lute. But as all good things are wont to end, her husband—who, not that it matters, is a bit of a brute—found out and threatened to kill Jaskier if he ever saw him again. He threatened to do other things too, but Jaskier tries not to think about those. 

“Shit,” he whispers, swallowing his fear. “Uh—Geralt, I think it’s time to leave, like. Right now.”

Geralt grins at him, smug. “But the banquet hasn’t even started yet.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier half-yelps, instinctively reaching out to grab Geralt’s arm, warm and solid and grounding, as Virginia’s husband gets closer. “Geralt, please, do something! ”

Yennefer lets out an irritated huff. “Oh, fine, I’ll go talk to him.”

She walks over to the man before either Jaskier or Geralt can object—not that they would anyway. Jaskier shifts to hide most of his body behind Geralt and peeks out over his shoulder to watch her, heart pounding. He can’t hear anything she’s saying, but whatever it is seems to be working; a few minutes later, the man walks away, as if he’s forgotten what he originally came here for. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, once Yennefer gets back. “Maybe I should’ve paid you to be my bodyguard.”

Geralt snorts and grumbles, “You didn’t pay me.”

“Well, unlike you,” Yennefer says, “I have to make a good impression tonight. I can’t afford to be seen with someone who’s causing trouble. Not that I even know why, but—I don’t really care. ”

Ah. So she’s here for a political reason. 

Geralt lets out an annoyed sigh and says, “He’s just an idiot, and for some reason he hasn’t learned to not sleep with married women, even though half the Continent hates him now.”

Jaskier grimaces. He expects Yennefer to berate him, or at least agree, but instead, she just chuckles and says, not at all sympathetic, “Oh, poor Jaskier. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be despised by so many people.”

And without really intending to—instinctively, absentmindedly, like a reflex—Jaskier replies, “Come on, don’t be so modest.”

Yennefer’s laugh catches him off-guard. He—he didn’t even realize he made a joke, and an apparently funny one at that, until she pats his shoulder, like they’re friends now or something. 

“Good one,” Yennefer says, a little breathless.

Jaskier blinks. “Uh—thank you?” 

And then, as he’s processing the fact that Yennefer actually finds him funny, he remembers his mission: make Geralt laugh. He turns to see if maybe, perhaps, he got lucky this time—but Geralt isn’t laughing. At least he’s smiling, exasperated but still amused, which is a much better reaction than Jaskier’s gotten before. 

Well, any progress is good progress. And now he has an idea of how to achieve his goal. And he’s more determined than ever to get there. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait very long for another opportunity to try out this new method of getting Geralt to laugh: insulting Yennefer, but in a witty way. She’s the one who calls Geralt—and Jaskier, by extension—to Aedirn to deal with a wyvern that, quote unquote, is “getting on her nerves”. 

And since she’s actually fairly nice when she’s not putting on a front around the nobles, Jaskier doesn’t even mind having to stay with her in the castle while Geralt hunts the monster. Normally he hates being left behind, but Yennefer’s good company. And, unlike a certain someone, she doesn’t complain when he plucks out idle melodies on his lute. 

It’s dark by the time Geralt returns, wyvern head in hand, covered in gore and reeking of death. The first thing he does, even before he hands the kill evidence to the king, is ask about Jaskier. Okay, well—Jaskier can’t hear what he’s saying to the guard word-for-word, but he assumes that’s it, if the way Geralt glances around the room until his eyes land on him is anything to go by. Not to mention the soft, small smile he sends Jaskier’s way. 

And then he notices the bejewelled lute case at Jaskier’s feet. Yennefer had given it to him after she saw the tattered state of his own case; she has no use for it, she said, and besides, she doesn’t even know who it used to belong to. Some bard had left it behind decades ago. It’s a pretty little thing, nicer than anything he’s used to, and he’s very grateful for it—Geralt, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to like it as much. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, scowling, “get rid of that hideous thing.”

Says the man who’s dripping with various wyvern bodily fluids, holding a literal decapitated head in his hands. 

Jaskier snickers, turns to Yennefer, and says, “Yen, Geralt wants you to leave.”

Yennefer laughs, leaning over her seat to playfully whack Jaskier’s arm—but then she seems to remember who else is in the room, and her place in it, and she quickly shuts up. Jaskier turns to Geralt, hopeful, grinning despite himself because he’s just so damn funny.

Geralt only shakes his head and lets out a long, tired sigh. 

4.

Geralt’s refusal to laugh at things that literally everyone else finds funny is starting to drive Jaskier insane. He’s tried everything he could think of, begged fellow comics to share their jokes, even accosted one behind a tavern because he was so desperate. And no matter what he said or did, he never got a single laugh. Not even a huff. No half-hearted chuckle. At this point, he’s lucky if he gets more than an eyeroll. 

He’s so desperate that he’s resorting to asking for help. From Yennefer. She’s nice and all, and she doesn’t act like she hates him, but she seems like the kind of person who’d laugh at him instead of helping. But, well. It’s worth a shot. 

“Yennefer!” Jaskier calls, waving at her to join him. He ignores the glare Geralt sends his way, from where he’s paying for their room.

He had convinced Geralt to take the smaller, less-satisfying ghoul contract in Novigrad over the better-paying bruxa case in Redania because he heard Yennefer would be there, and she’s vital to his plan. Without her, he probably wouldn’t get away with what he has in mind. Geralt always notices when Jaskier’s up to something—unless he’s distracted by something worthwhile. Like, say, catching up with an old friend. 

“What do you want?” Yennefer asks. She still sits down across from him, though. 

Jaskier glances over his shoulder to make sure Geralt’s not coming over and then leans in and whispers, “I need your help.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?”

“Good question,” Jaskier says. He pauses, trying to find something to win her— “Uh, well, I’m willingly going to be making a fool of myself.”

“Don’t you do that regularly?” Yennefer asks.

It takes Jaskier an embarrassingly long time to realize she’s entirely serious. He stares at her, not quite comprehending, unsure what to do with himself; she just stares back. They sit in awkward silence—though that’s mostly because Jaskier doesn’t really know what to say to that. He fumbles, trying to think of the right words, but he can’t come up with anything. 

Eventually, after what feels like eons, he stammers out, “N-no?” 

Yennefer blinks. “Oh,” she says, and then she breaks into a grin. “I’d love to see what you consider “making a fool of yourself”, then.”  

Jaskier purposely ignores that. His plan is simple enough: slip on a banana peel—an age-old trick—and hopefully, finally get Geralt to laugh. Because if he isn’t a comedy-festival kind of man, and he doesn’t seem to have a preference for either witty jokes or funny insults, then the only thing left is physical comedy. It’s not Jaskier’s favourite, and he’d never stoop this low for anyone else, but for Geralt… well, he’ll fall on his ass on the tavern’s hard floor, and he won’t even complain. 

Yennefer only lets out a disinterested hum when he’s done talking. “And what do you need me for, exactly?”

“You, darling, need to distract Geralt while I set it up,” Jaskier says. “Can’t have him seeing that, can I? That would spoil everything.”

“Right,” Yennefer drawls. She’s smirking, like she has something else to say, but she holds back whatever it is. “Fine. I’ll play along. But this, just so you know, is the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard.”

Jaskier laughs. Yeah, it kind of is, but he can’t think of anything better. And anyway, Geralt’s seen him doing more embarrassing things than slipping on a banana peel—like last week, for example, when he tripped and fell off the stage while performing in Temeria, or a month ago when he caught his sleeve on fire— 

Okay, so he’s a little clumsy, and he probably doesn’t help Geralt’s reputation as an intimidating, fearsome monster-slayer at all. It is intriguing, though, that Geralt’s never pointed that particular flaw out before. He never hesitates to complain about the fact that Jaskier talks a lot, or that he’s horrible at budgeting his coin and often spends it on “frivolous things”, or that he keeps tagging along on hunts even when Geralt tells him no, but this—this, he’s never brought up. Huh. It’s like he finds it endearing or something. 

Well. That’s certainly a thought.

Jaskier tries to focus on other things, like getting this plan to go smoothly, as he tosses the banana peel beside his table and waits for the go-ahead from Yennefer. Her job was only to distract Geralt momentarily, but she seems to be getting way too involved in their conversation. 

“Yen!” Jaskier hisses.

She turns to face him, unimpressed, and then rolls her eyes before muttering something to Geralt and making her way back to the table. “Yes, yes, you can get on with your ridiculous plan.”

Jaskier takes a deep, excited breath. Okay. Okay, he’s got this, all he has to do is slip, maybe flail his arms around dramatically, there’s no way he can screw this up. He glances over at Geralt—who isn’t even looking in his direction, still talking to the innkeeper about whatever-the-fuck—and nods to reassure himself. He’s got this.

But just as Jaskier stands up, before he can even make a move—a poor barmaid, too focused on keeping the ale tankards on her tray from falling over, doesn’t notice the banana peel and slips, letting out a loud yelp. 

“Shit,” Jaskier says. He ignores the side-eye Yennefer’s giving him.

He’s still processing the fact that his plan got ruined, and wallowing in his guilt about the barmaid, when Geralt comes over. He helps the barmaid up, sets the tankards back on her tray, even offers to carry it for her. She’s a little injured from her fall, but she’s mostly just in shock—which is probably why she doesn’t refuse help from a Witcher. Or maybe she doesn’t even register Geralt’s not-normal eyes, which usually deter everyone else. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says, amused, as she watches Geralt and the barmaid leave. “Weren’t you supposed to slip on it?”

Jaskier turns to look at her and grimaces. “I-I mean, theoretically yes, but it didn’t… have to be me.”

Yennefer just sighs and, without asking, rude , leans across the table to steal Jaskier’s half-full, forgotten ale tankard. Huh. It must be gross now, considering he ordered it a while ago, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She watches him over the rim, eyes narrowed, not betraying a single thought. Sometimes, he thinks, she’s worse than Geralt.

“Yennefer!” Jaskier cries, pouting. “Why haven’t I ever heard him laugh?”

Yennefer raises her— his, dammit—tankard, like a salute, and downs the remaining ale in one gulp. “Neither have I. Well.” She pauses. “There was one time.”

And that—that sounds interesting, and promising, and also a little suspicious, if Jaskier’s being entirely honest. He wonders briefly why Yennefer never told him before; couldn’t she have mentioned this when he first told her his ridiculous plan? 

“Yennefer,” he says, slowly, cautiously, “Yen, I’m begging you, please. Tell me. What made Geralt laugh? When was this? Was I there? Please, Yen, please, I have to know.” 

Yennefer sighs. “Oh, I don’t know,” she drawls, grinning slyly. “I shouldn’t tell you.” 

Jaskier slams his hands down on the table. “Please! Please, help an old friend out!”

For a long moment—probably not more than a few seconds, really—Yennefer doesn’t say anything. And then she finally says, “It was last week.”

“Uh huh,” Jaskier says, eyes wide, nodding for her to continue.

“You were there.” Yennefer pauses. The wait is killing Jaskier. “You were performing. And then… you weren’t.” 

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean, I was—?”

Oh. Oh. That’s what she means. 

That fucking bastard.

“You!” Jaskier shrieks, stomping over to Geralt and jabbing his chest. “You! Some barmaid you don’t even know slips on a banana peel and you rush to check if she’s okay, but I fall off a stage and you laugh at me?”   

Geralt rolls his eyes and snorts. “Yeah, because that was funny.” He ignores Jaskier’s huff of protest and grumbles, “And stop leaving your fruit everywhere.”

He walks off without another word, probably heading to take a bath or nap or something, leaving Jaskier to fume silently, arms crossed. He’s—as much as he wants to be mad, he can’t find it in himself. He’s frustrated, mostly, because he was so desperate for this to work, for this to finally be the thing that would get Geralt to laugh. 

“You know,” a familiar voice says, startling him out of his train of thought, “he probably heard everything you said.”

Jaskier turns to frown at Yennefer. “What?”

“Geralt,” she says, like it’s obvious. “You do know he has enhanced hearing, right? He must’ve heard our entire conversation.”

“Wha—?” Jaskier groans. “Shit.”

5.

This whole thing is really just an accidental last hurrah. Jaskier’s not even a comic, he’s a bard, he doesn’t do comedy—well, except for tonight. His one-and-only show. Which he’s starting to regret now, as he waits, jittery and nervous, by the stage. He has to keep reminding himself that the audience is relatively small, that it’s not like he’s performing at a festival; this is only a dingy little tavern in Wyzima. 

A tavern which, for some reason, prefers comedy over music. No matter. Jaskier has to make money somehow. 

And the worst bit is that Geralt actually showed up. Jaskier wasn’t expecting him to—he was kind of, maybe hoping he wouldn’t, actually, because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself more. When Jaskier first brought this up—a very casual, hey, I might be doing some comedy tonight —Geralt had said he might not make it. Tough contract, and all that. And Jaskier assumed that even if he managed to kill the monster before nightfall, he wouldn’t stay up to watch the show. He’d take a bath, or go to sleep early, or start packing so they’d have less to do in the morning. 

And yet—and yet, here Geralt is. He’s standing at the back, away from the rest of the crowd, leaning against the wall. Even though he’s half-hidden, just obscured enough that no one else pays him any mind, Jaskier sees him. He can always tell when Geralt’s nearby, always feels his impassive golden gaze, his presence—and usually it’s comforting, but not right now. Because, sure, this stupid little comedy bit wasn’t originally supposed to be part of Mission: Make Geralt Laugh, but Geralt’s here, and… it might as well be. One last hurrah before Jaskier literally runs out of ideas and just gives up.

Totally not something he should be worried about. Definitely not. He’s fine.  

Jaskier startles when he feels someone nudging him onto the stage, and he almost trips as he steps up. For a split second, he forgets what the hell he’s doing here—but then it hits him, and oh, he really didn’t think this through. What’s he even going to say? He doesn’t have anything prepared. This was a very last-minute plan. 

Shit. 

“Uh, hello,” Jaskier says, hoping his smile doesn’t betray how terribly nervous he is. He waves at the crowd, which elicits a few encouraging cheers, and he figures that’s a good start. “My name is Jaskier, and I’ll be performing for you this evening. I’m a bard by trade, so forgive me if I’m not, uh, as funny as the other lovely people who’ve had a go at this. Maybe you could all do me a favour and laugh anyway, just to keep my confidence up? This ego doesn’t boost itself, you know.”

The audience lets out a hearty laugh and Jaskier relaxes. Okay, so maybe this won’t be as disastrous as he thought. It might even go well.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, and when he looks back up again, his eyes immediately go to Geralt again. Geralt, who’s watching him with a fond-esque expression, lips curled up in the slightest of smiles. And Jaskier just beams, smiles back at him, feeling a whole lot better than he did a minute ago. Okay. He can do this. He used to tell jokes all the time at Oxenfurt, this is no different. 

Jaskier turns his attention back to the crowd and says, “I noticed that none of you seemed to recognize me when I said I was a bard. Which—no offense taken, of course, I understand. Being a bard involves travelling around, always being in new places, meeting new people. And that’s why I do this, actually. It’s a lot harder to pretend you’re talented around people you’ve known for twenty years, because they don’t come to your shows for a reason: they know what to expect.” 

Another burst of raucous laughter. Jaskier chuckles, mostly from the crowd’s infectious energy, but also because—he has to admit—that wasn’t so bad. And now that he’s gotten warmed up, he suddenly thinks of a million more jokes, a thousand funny anecdotes he’s bursting to tell. 

“You know,” he continues, “that reminds me of this friend of mine…”

By the time Jaskier gets ushered off stage—he ran a bit over-time, and there are still a few other people who are supposed to perform—he has the whole tavern roaring with laughter, so loud that they got several complaints from the woman running the brothel across the street. He’s in a good mood, buzzing with delirious happiness, when he picks his way through the crowd to find Geralt. He’s just dying to know what he thought.

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls, grinning. “What did you think? Three words or less.”

Geralt lets out a huff. He hasn’t moved from his spot by the wall. “Funny.”

Jaskier lights up. “Really? You think so?”

He hopes it didn’t come out ridiculously eager—the last thing he’d want is to embarrass Geralt for finding something funny, for once. 

“Yeah,” Geralt says. And then, before Jaskier can reply, he smirks and adds, “It’s funny that people laughed.” 

Jaskier blinks, unsure he’s heard right. Because didn’t Geralt just say he thought—oh. Oh, that slimy bastard. That evil, evil man. 

“Rude!” Jaskier huffs, pouting, trying his best to sound hurt. He slaps Geralt’s arm, but it’s way too light to be serious, and he knows Geralt probably just finds it amusing anyway. 

Geralt only sighs, like it’s hard for him to hold a conversation, and drawls, “You really aren’t that funny.”

If anyone else said this, Jaskier would be offended—but he knows Geralt doesn’t really mean it, because he’s grinning, just the slightest bit, and he would’ve left if he actually hated his jokes. And yet… he stayed. He stood here the whole time and listened. Geralt likes to pretend he doesn’t listen, but Jaskier knows he does. Because if he didn’t listen, he wouldn’t remember small things, unimportant things, miniscule details that don’t mean much on their own but add up to something greater that neither of them are ready to admit. Geralt remembered that Jaskier hates oysters a full four months after he brought it up, and he always sets aside a few coins for Jaskier to make a wish every time they pass a well, and he even remembered the one chord Jaskier tried to teach him on the lute when he was bored, and— 

The point is, Geralt listens. He’s probably the best damn listener in the whole world. And he never stays to listen to something he doesn’t at least mildly enjoy; ergo, he’s just being a bastard, and he doesn’t really hate Jaskier’s jokes. Even though he’d never admit to liking them.

“Well,” Jaskier says, in a lilting, sing-song tone, “you might think that now, but I’ve got a lot of material you haven’t heard yet, Master Witcher. You will crack eventually. You’re not immune to how funny I am.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up, Jask.”

And before he can think about it, before he can really process what it means, Jaskier bites out, in a voice that’s far too flirty to pass off as a jest, “Make me.”

For a very long, very tense moment, the world fucking stops. Jaskier swears—it’s like time freezes, and everything slows down, and nothing exists beyond him and Geralt and the thing he just said, which he definitely cannot take back. His heart pounds so loud, threatening to burst right out of his chest, and he’s sure Geralt can hear it. He’s sure Geralt can smell how nervous he is too, and see his blush, and maybe even read his fucking mind, who knows—it doesn’t matter. He’s so screwed. He never meant to confess this, to admit that, yes, he often thinks about his friend in a decidedly not-friendly way and, yes, perhaps it’s grown into something more than lust, more than a crush—and while this technically isn’t a confession, it’s as close as either of them have gotten to one. Jaskier knows what he meant to say—the real confession, the subtextual one—and Geralt knows it too. 

Geralt stares at him, frustratingly stoic, and then—after what feels like a decade—lets out a breath. He hasn’t said anything, but he also hasn’t made a move to leave, so Jaskier considers that a win. Small victories.

“You’re lucky,” Geralt says—no, no, it sounds more like a growl, his voice rougher and lower than usual, “I can think of a better use for that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat. And he realizes, then, that Geralt’s pupils aren’t dilated because of the dark, but from lust. Pure, unadulterated lust. And the weirdest thing is, the way he’s looking at Jaskier isn’t new. Jaskier’s noticed it before; he just never thought it’d be this. His brain short-circuits.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, barely more than a breath.

Geralt blinks at him, and suddenly he looks a lot more worried than Jaskier’s ever seen him. “I mean, unless you don’t—” 

Jaskier shakes his head, smiles, and reaches his hands up to cup Geralt’s face. Oh, his sweet, thoughtful Witcher. “No, darling, of course I want to,” he says. “I’ve wanted to for a very long time. I just didn’t think that you … Well, no matter. I’d get down on my knees right now if you asked.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt groans, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed—or, more likely, just ridiculously turned on, “we have a room, why would you—” 

Jaskier takes a step forward—they’re so close now, their lips almost brushing—and whispers, “What are you waiting for, then? Lead the way.”

Geralt does. 

+1.

The first thing Jaskier really processes when he gets to Kaer Morhen is that, apparently, not all Witchers are like Geralt. He’s never met another Witcher before, and he’s given up on coaxing stories about them from Geralt long ago, so for years he’s imagined them all to be the same. And as excited as he was when Geralt asked him to winter at Kaer Morhen—softly, quietly, whispered against his skin after a good three rounds of sex, so vulnerable that Jaskier almost cried—he was also not looking forward to spending several months stuck with multiple Geralts. 

It’s a pleasant surprise, then, that the other Witchers have personalities. They’re warm, and kind, and welcoming, and not at all what he expected.

“You must be Jaskier,” one of them—Eskel, he thinks— says, offering a smile.

Jaskier beams. He glances at Geralt, who looks embarrassed, and squeezes his hand reassuringly. They haven’t separated since they reached the gate; Jaskier figures it’s because Geralt’s nervous to introduce him to his family. He’d never admit it, of course, but he doesn’t have to.   

“I am!” Jaskier says. And then he realizes— “Geralt mentioned me?”

Lambert—the one who tackled Geralt the second they saw each other—snorts, reaching out to affectionately ruffle Geralt’s hair. “ Mention you? Gods, he wouldn’t shut up about you. It was all, Jaskier this, Jaskier that, I miss Jaskier, I can’t wait to see Jaskier again—”

“Shut up,” Geralt interrupts, scowling. There’s no real venom in his voice, though. “Before I rip your fucking vocal chords out.” 

Jaskier ignores the threat—which, if he’s being honest, is more adorable than intimidating—and drapes himself over Geralt instead, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “Aww,” he coos, “you talked about me?”

Geralt grunts. But he doesn’t push Jaskier off, so that must count for something.    

Although Eskel and Lambert insist on joining, Geralt and Jaskier end up going on a private tour of Kaer Morhen. It takes them much, much longer than intended—though that’s probably because they just had to break in Geralt’s bed after a year of disuse, there simply was no other option—and by the time they get back to the main hall, dishevelled in a very obvious way, the Witchers have already set out dinner. Thankfully, no one says anything about their rumpled clothes and mussed hair. 

Jaskier’s only a little disappointed to find out that, apparently, they all have the same diet. And that Yennefer’s here for some reason.

She catches his eye before he can say anything about it, lips quirked up in a grin. “I come here every winter,” she says, like a fucking mind reader, “because I can’t stand how much people complain about the cold. Thanks for ruining that.”

Jaskier frowns. “What? How am I—what am I even ruining?” 

“My peace,” Yennefer says, rolling her eyes. “And now I have to suffer until spring, all because Geralt can’t keep it in his trousers.”

Geralt lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “That’s not why I brought him here,” he grumbles. 

“Sure,” Yennefer drawls. 

Just as Geralt opens his mouth to say something else, Lambert loudly slams a glass pitcher on the table and clears his throat to get their attention. “Oi, shitheads,” he says, “why don’t we eat before the food gets cold, huh?”

Geralt huffs and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like you’re an idiot. Jaskier ignores him in favour of filling his plate, before there’s none left. He settles in against Geralt’s side, head on his shoulder, as he eats dinner and listens to the Witchers regale him with stories. They mostly tell him embarrassing stories about Geralt—Yennefer, too, has her fair share of those—but they also indulge him, when his curiousity gets the best of him, with tales of their adventures. Lambert reenacts a griffin hunt and sends food flying everywhere; Eskel tries to avoid theatrics, but eventually he gives in too, and he almost hits Yennefer in the face with a turkey leg. Vesemir watches them with a fond expression, occasionally interrupting to correct Lambert when he gets too cocky, and Geralt just wraps his arm tight around Jaskier’s waist, keeping him close. And Jaskier—Jaskier feels like he’s come home. 

By the time they all finish eating, the conversation has wound down a little, and now it’s mostly Jaskier talking. He’s happy to, of course; he’s so glad the Witchers are interested enough to ask about him, about his life, about Oxenfurt and his ballads and how he likes the road. 

Geralt’s on his way back from refilling the pitcher when Lambert, suddenly a lot more energetic than he was a moment ago, grins and says, “So tell me, Jaskier. How did you manage to wait so long for this oaf to confess his feelings?”

Jaskier hums. “Oh, it was a very tiresome wait,” he agrees. “But thankfully, I’m a very patient person.”

And Geralt does the last thing Jaskier expected: he fucking laughs. The second Jaskier stops talking, he bursts into raucous laughter, doubled over and wheezing, trying to find the edge of the table to keep himself upright. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with this. He blinks once, twice, turns to check if anyone else is seeing this too—and they all look as confused as he feels. He gave up on his mission long ago; what made Geralt laugh? What did he say? What did he miss?

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, slowly, “what the fuck are you laughing about?”

Geralt only shakes his head and laughs. His laugh is nice—warm, and loud, and unapologetic—and he snorts too, and it’s the most goddamn adorable thing in the whole world. Jaskier loves it. He just wishes he knew what caused it. But Geralt clearly isn’t able to talk; all he can do is laugh and laugh and laugh, until he’s breathless, until he’s literally fallen over. He’s just lying on the floor, wheezing more than laughing, eyes scrunched up, hands on his stomach. 

“What the fuck? ” Jaskier whispers. 

Even Yennefer looks surprised. “What did you say?”

Jaskier shrugs; he can’t look away from Geralt, can’t even process what’s happening. “I don’t know,” he says. “Just that I was patient—”

Geralt bursts into laughter again. Jaskier still doesn’t know what, exactly, he said that’s so funny, but he finds that he doesn’t really care—because now he gets to hear Geralt’s laugh, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the whole world.