Work Text:
It had been a particularly bad hunt. Not that classifying hunts as either good or bad was something Geralt was used to doing. In the past, a hunt had always been either a success or a failure : if the monster was dead, the hunt was a success and he got paid. And if Geralt was the one left dead, well.. he hadn’t had a failure yet.
And then he met Jaskier.
Now a hunt was classified based on the bard’s reaction to Geralt’s injuries. Before, he would simply catalog the injuries, provide whatever aid might be necessary to them, and wait for them to heal. But Jaskier had little-to-no experience with witcher mutations and the supernatural healing they provided. So any time Geralt came back to their camp or to the room at whatever inn they happened to be staying at, there was a reaction.
Minor injuries usually only came with an eye roll and a click of the tongue, a fondly annoyed honestly witcher, I’d think you liked getting hurt. But the more grievous the injuries, the more tense and serious his bard became.
And last night, even Geralt could admit that his wounds were maybe deeper than what could be considered normal for him. But the wyvern he had been contracted to dispose of was larger than had been reported, and stubborn. It had taken a great deal of strength and skill to bring the beast down. So when he staggered back to the small house given for their use by the minor lord who had posted the contract, struggling to keep himself held together, Jaskier had gone so still and so pale, the bard had very nearly resembled a marble statue.
But the obvious terror on the younger man’s face had disappeared within an instant, and he had rushed forward before Geralt could collapse on the wooden floor, showing off a surprising amount of strength as he took most of the witcher’s weight to drag him across the room. Then Jaskier had refused to allow Geralt to do a single thing as he set to tending to his wounds, utilizing the ever-increasing skill he had picked up while following the witcher along the Path. The bard had even insisted on lighting a fire by hand, where he would normally beg for an igni because do you know how difficult lighting a fire by hand is, Geralt, really?
And Jaskier had been abnormally, almost worryingly silent throughout the entire process. He hadn’t even asked which potions to pull from Geralt’s bag, easily plucking the right bottles with little hesitation. If he hadn’t been so exhausted from his body desperately trying to heal itself, Geralt might have realized just exactly what that meant.
But as it was, it wasn’t until he woke the next morning, the height of the sun in the sky an indicator of just how long he’d slept, to a confusing but alluring mixture of smells wafting from the small kitchen that things started to click into place.
It took several minutes to drag his still aching body from the small bed that Jaskier had tucked him into the night before, and even that small amount of movement nearly drained him of what little energy he had while his body still healed, so Geralt didn’t bother with a shirt or a tie for his hair as he slowly made his way across the room to where it looked like the bard was cooking . He leaned against the doorway that led from the small bedroom to the kitchen to watch for a moment before speaking, one arm wrapped gingerly around his injured middle.
“Jaskier.”
Geralt couldn’t help the small smirk that appeared on his face as the bard jumped and spun around, brandishing the spoon in his hand. And it grew as the shocked look on Jaskier’s face morphed into a glare. “Geralt! You should not be out of bed. Your body is still healing!” When the only response he received was the lifting of a single white eyebrow, Jaskier sighed and pointed the spoon towards the small table off to the side of the room. “At least sit down while I pull this out of the oven. Please?”
The witcher slowly moved towards the table, carefully lowering himself into the chair while trying not to let his obvious discomfort show on his face, lest Jaskier start to gloat. “Since when do you cook?”
Jaskier glared at him over his shoulder as he pulled something from the oven that smelled strongly of rich herbs and roasted venison, squash and potatoes. “I cook!” Geralt’s eyebrow went up again, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I can cook. I was constantly getting underfoot in the kitchens as a child, so our cook finally got tired of kicking me out and roped me into helping instead. I’m just used to a kitchen, rather than a campfire.”
It was impossible to keep the wide-eyed look of surprise from his face as Jaskier set a large slice of roasted venison pie in front of him, squash and potatoes and peas spilling from the crust. Luckily, the bard didn’t notice as he turned back to the oven to remove something else. Something that smelled of.. peaches and rosemary. Warmth bloomed in his chest that had nothing to do with the healing wounds. Geralt could only stare at the food set before him, mind working around what it meant that Jaskier had made foods that he was immensely fond of without the witcher ever having said anything, almost missing what his bard was saying as he set a still-steaming peach and rosemary frangipane tart beside the plate of roasted pie.
“-meat is compliments of our gracious host, dropped off this morning by one of his kitchen staff as an extra thanks for solving his wyvern problem. I told her you were still healing, and that one of us would come by later for the coin. And I picked up just the loveliest peaches at the market yesterday while you were out witchering, so I thought the tarts would be a welcome addition.”
Before Jaskier could sit in the chair opposite his own, Geralt reached out to wrap his hand around the bard’s wrist, stilling his movement. Blue eyes met gold, confusion written on the younger man’s face. “Geralt? Are you alright? If the food’s too much, I can make something diff-”
“You love me.”
Jaskier went still, face turning a lovely shade of pink as he struggled to speak. “I.. that is.. of course I love you, dear heart. We’ve been friends for nearly twenty years, haven’t we?”
All it took was a gentle tug on his wrist, and Jaskier came without hesitation, letting Geralt pull him until he was standing between the witcher’s spread knees. “Jaskier. I didn’t teach you which potions from my bag to use and when. I didn’t tell you that I have a fondness for peach and rosemary tarts. You just.. noticed.”
The brunette’s face turned even pinker, but now there was a soft smile on his face, all traces of embarrassment wiped away. “Of course I noticed, Geralt. You deserve to be cared for, my darling witcher.”
Geralt pulled again, encouraging Jaskier to lean toward him until he could capture the bard’s lips with his own in a gentle, chaste kiss.
“I love you too, Jas.”