Work Text:
With startling abruptness, the witcher realizes that he’s become distracted. He looks up from the rock-strewn dirt path he’d previously been walking on without thought and blinks. Given that Roach’s reins are holding his hand more than he’s holding them, this has been going on for some time. But at least he’s been making progress on his return trip to the village. As Geralt carefully inspects his surroundings, he is relieved to both find that his medallion reveals no trace of danger and that he recognizes where he is. The witcher exhales softly and shakes his head, determined not to lose focus again.
Soft, dappled morning sunlight filters through the thick tree branches overhead, and when Geralt inhales, he smells rich, damp earth, the musk of various forest creatures, pine, and a crisp nothingness which tells him that there was a rainstorm sometime during the night. Evidently, he was too busy with the mansion full of wraiths to notice. As a bird begins to welcome the day with its high-pitched song, the witcher shakes himself from his thoughts once more. He gives the reins a gentle tug and trudges on. So long as he doesn’t allow himself to be distracted again, Geralt won’t be endangered by moving slowly.
Besides, it’s unlikely that either Jaskier or the alderman are awake yet, which means that he’ll be without pay or company for some time when he returns.
While claiming his reward would usually be of more concern— especially for a spirit-based contract— that isn’t the case now. Geralt is good at gauging a community’s attitudes, after all, and this one seems surprisingly witcher-friendly. When he and Jaskier arrived here a few days ago they’d had no problem finding a decently-priced room for the duration of their stay. The alderman didn’t even hassle Geralt in an attempt to get him to lower his price either. Additionally, there is actual, physical proof that he’s fulfilled his end of the contract— he’d buried the murdered noble family’s bodies in the yard. That, paired with the fact that loud, unearthly noises no longer emanate from the building will give the alderman no excuse to stiff him on payment.
Geralt isn’t even injured— at least not by a witcher’s standards. He’s a bit bruised from diving out of the wraiths’ way and has a few larger cuts and numerous smaller scratches; in short, it’s nothing much to him. But damn if he isn’t downright exhausted anyway. Must be getting too old for this, the witcher thinks, smiling wearily as he imagines what Vesemir would say if he voiced that thought. Roach whickers softly as if in agreement.
Geralt chuckles, the tired sound rumbling in his chest. “We’d best get a move on if we’re gonna get back before Jaskier wakes up and worries. Wouldn’t want to encourage any of his dramatics,” he murmurs. With that, the witcher mounts slowly and encourages the mare into a quick walk.
As the trees thin out, he has to squint momentarily and allow his eyes to adjust. It’d still been dark out when he left the mansion, and even when the sun had risen, the patch of forest he’d been traveling through was thick enough to block out most of the light. By the time he reaches the inn, the witcher feels every grain of dust, bead of drying sweat, bruise, and drop of blood that covers him. He’s exhausted. Not that Geralt allows himself to show it. Although his limbs feel leaden and rubbery, the witcher keeps his shoulders set and his steps firm as he dismounts and passes Roach’s reins off to the stable hand with a few terse words.
That done, Geralt wipes his brow, scowls, and heads for the inn.
Fortunately, it’s nearly empty— save for several merchants, workers, and a few of the inn’s other guests. One of whom is talking animatedly to a dwarf, familiar voice loud in the relative quiet. Geralt blinks. As the door shuts behind him, the bard looks up. Warmth blooms in the witcher’s chest when Jaskier’s eyes light up immediately after he spots him. “Geralt!” The bard waves him over eagerly. No doubt he wants to press me for details while they’re still fresh. Geralt, repressing an amused smile, obeys the summons. The dwarven stranger looks up upon his arrival and nods in greeting.
Jaskier starts speaking as soon as he’s seated: “Glad to see you in one piece, Witcher! This is—”
“Bartosz Bartleby, merchant. I reckon you’d be Geralt, the witcher who Jaskier has been telling me about. Good hunting?” the dwarf interrupts.
Geralt nods, momentarily distracted as Jaskier calls the sleepy barmaid over to order him some food. He turns back to the dwarf. “That’s me. And yes— cleared out some wraiths that were haunting an abandoned mansion not far from here.” He pauses as the barmaid returns with a plate of food and shoots the bard a grateful look. When he turns back to the dwarf, Bartosz gestures at the plate before him. With a grunt of thanks, Geralt digs in eagerly.
The conversation dies down for several minutes.
Later, as he wipes his mouth appreciatively and finishes off the last of his ale, Jaskier leans forward impatiently. One of his legs jiggles up and down irritatingly. Geralt can tell that his friend is itching to hear the story. As well as for a notebook, ink, and quill to record it with. ‘For posterity’s sake,’ he’d probably say. The witcher sets down his empty mug to signify that he’s ready to talk. And not a moment too soon.
“So, Geralt, I believe you were discussing your fight against the wraiths?” the bard asks pointedly. He and Bartosz exchange amused glances.
“I was,” the witcher agrees slowly. “Though I’m not sure how familiar Master Bartleby is with the area.”
The dwarf scratches his beard and takes another drink. “I’m familiar enough. Please continue, I think I’d like to hear this story.”
Without further preamble, Geralt resumes his tale: “The mansion is several miles from here, deep in the woods. You might’ve been warned away from it before. The noble family who lived there was murdered and the place subsequently haunted by wraiths. I went in, found the bodies, took care of the wraiths, then buried them. So long as nothing else moves in, the villagers might be able to restore the mansion and turn it into something useful.”
Bartosz’s face darkens. “So that’s what happened to them. Never met the family myself, but I’d heard that they were surprisingly welcoming to non-human folk. What a shame.” The witcher and the dwarf fall silent for a moment, considering the loss. Then Bartosz shrugs and finishes off the rest of his drink. “Well, I’m glad to hear that they got a proper burial at least. You’ve done good work, Geralt...” he sighs. “But I’ve dawdled too long.” The dwarf turns to the bard. “Pleasure to meet you, Jaskier. Happy singing.”
He gets up, and with a bow, heads to the front door.
They stare after him for a while. Then Jaskier turns back to him, inspecting Geralt’s person for any signs of injury. He meets the witcher’s gaze and his attention stays there for a while. Geralt, tired, fed, and content that he’ll be paid for this contract, is happy to let him look. He allows his attention to wander across the room, inspecting its other occupants out of habit. The barmaid is nodding off in a corner, two silk-clad merchants laugh heartily and then shake hands, a coarse-looking figure by the door slams his mug down on the table, apparently upset by something—
“Geralt.”
He blinks as Jaskier lays a hand over one of his own. “What?”
“You’re not hurt?” the bard inquires, sounding somewhat dubious.
Geralt shakes his head. “Just tired. It’s a lot of work, burying four bodies. And the ground was hard.”
Jaskier exhales sharply, brow furrowing. He looks… almost hurt? “No need to justify yourself, my friend. I was merely curious about your condition. Now that you’ve eaten, how does a bath sound?”
Delightful, he thinks wearily, getting to his feet. “Sounds good. I’ll be in the room.”
“Alright. I’ll be up shortly.”
Geralt allows himself to take the stairs slowly, for once giving his aching body the respite it desires. There’s no one around to put on appearances for, and the witcher knows that it’ll be a while before the bath is ready. Once he’s behind the closed door of their room, Geralt starts undressing. He strips off his sword harness, placing it gently on the table beside him, then sits slowly and removes his boots. His head jerks up as the door swings open. But it’s only Jaskier. Geralt settles and continues ridding himself of his armor.
A pair of booted feet appear in his peripheral vision and the witcher looks up again.
“Let me help you with that,” the bard offers kindly.
He hesitates for a moment, but can’t think of a reason to refuse Jaskier’s assistance. He’ll go ahead and help me in the end anyway. “Fine,” Geralt agrees, standing. He steps away from the table and the bard’s quick fingers easily remove his shoulder pauldrons and armored top, as well as the shirt beneath it. Then there’s a knock at the door.
“That’ll be the bath,” Jaskier informs him unnecessarily. Geralt sits again, not wanting to draw attention to himself— more than what’s inevitable, at least. After a brief exchange of words, the large wooden tub is set down at the foot of the bed and the servants depart, one glancing briefly at him over their shoulder. The witcher doesn’t much care, attention already focused on the steaming water before him. “Hey, Geralt, don’t forget your—”
He stops, blinking slowly as Jaskier tugs on his arm.
Right. My pants. Without consideration for his dignity, he quickly rids himself of his remaining clothing. Then Geralt sinks into the steaming water with a low, contented sigh. He doesn’t even startle when someone crouches behind him, too relaxed by the feel of his tired muscles slowly loosening and the dirt and sweat and blood being soaked away. The bard says nothing, so neither does he.
Instead, the witcher sinks further into the warm water, until it nearly reaches his chin. He inhales the scentless, clean steam which rolls off of it and closes his eyes. Moments later, a warm and familiar lute-calloused hand delicately touches his shoulder. He cracks open one molten eye and meets Jaskier’s inquiring gaze, saying nothing.
“Want me to wash your hair?” the bard asks.
Geralt sits up slightly and shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. “If you want.”
Behind him, Jaskier laughs quietly. “I’ll take it that’s a yes then. One moment.” The witcher listens absently to the floorboards creak and cloth rustle as the bard gathers supplies from his bag. Geralt uses the time to duck his head under the water and do a preliminary scrub of his face. He resurfaces just as Jaskier crouches behind him again, setting the jar of liquid soap down with a soft thump. “Ready?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Jaskier uncaps the liquid soap, and a whisper of something floral— lavender— hits his nostrils. It isn’t the bard’s usual scent, which means that he bought it specifically with him in mind. Geralt fights a losing battle with the soft feeling that that knowledge produces in his chest. Jaskier gently pushes at his shoulders and Geralt obeys, submerging himself further. He closes his eyes again. Soon warm, firm fingers begin rubbing at his scalp, spreading that delicately-scented soap through his hair. It’s a very pleasant feeling. The witcher exhales slowly— not quite a sigh— and relaxes further. He could very well fall asleep like this if he’s not careful.
Indeed, as the bard’s ministrations continue, Geralt does find it difficult to stay awake.
A gentle tap on his back rouses the witcher slightly. He glances up at Jaskier. The bard meets his inquiring gaze and smiles warmly. “Ready for a rinse?” Geralt nods, shutting his eyes again. As the warm water is poured over his head, Jaskier offers quiet commentary: “You’re quite tired, aren’t you? I don’t believe you’ve taken me on a wraith-hunt before, so I’ve no idea how dangerous they are. It’s especially hard to tell when you manage to come back relatively uninjured from a contract... Were the wraiths much trouble?”
When the rinsing is done, the witcher sits up languidly. He allows Jaskier to take hold of his hair and squeeze the water out. Then the bard hands him a bar of soap and stands up, wiping his hands off on his pants. Geralt tries not to feel upset by the increased distance. When Jaskier lies on the bed, facing him, the witcher feels a little better. Then he notices the expectant undertone of the bard’s silence.
He speaks as he washes up, voice low and rumbly from relaxation: “You haven’t seen a wraith yet, and won’t if I can help it. How dangerous they are depends on the type you’re fighting, but all can be difficult to defeat because of their intangibility. Especially in large numbers. It’s more tedious too if you have to find and bury multiple bodies afterward.”
Jaskier grimaces at that. “How unpleasant.”
“Mm, very.”
When he’s done washing up, the bard rolls onto his back and stands smoothly, padding over to the table where he’d put the towel earlier. He hands it to the witcher. Geralt slowly rises from the water, careful not to drip too much on the floor. Jaskier courteously averts his gaze as he towels off. Once he’s put on his smallclothes and has dried his hair off, Geralt hesitates, gaze wavering between the bed and his bag, which has his spare set of clothes.
The witcher is fairly confident that he won’t have an issue collecting the reward a bit later, at least not here, but he also doesn’t want to push his luck. Yet he is quite tired and if there are unexpected issues it may be best to face them with a fresh head. Hence his indecision. He frowns, brow furrowing with tiredness-induced frustration.
Apparently, he must be doing more than mentally wavering, for Jaskier places a steadying hand on his shoulder and peers worriedly into his eyes. Geralt blinks sluggishly as he comes back to himself. The bard smiles, unable to hide his relief. “I was worried for a moment that I’d have to catch you,” he says, eyes roving over the witcher’s form, “and I admit that I was rather dubious about my ability to do so. You’re not a small man, Witcher.”
Geralt snorts, and doesn’t protest as the hand moves to the small of his back and pushes gently. But he doesn’t move. “Need to collect the reward,” he grumbles.
Jaskier sighs, eyes narrowing in frustration. “That can wait. They seem to be unusually tolerant of witchers here, so I’m sure that the alderman will still have your coin waiting for you once you’ve gotten some rest.” He pushes Geralt again, a little more insistently this time. Mouth twitching, the witcher passively allows the attempts at moving him to continue. After a few more, Jaskier sighs and finally gives up.
It must be his tiredness that makes Geralt slip up enough to actually chuckle.
Jaskier’s lips purse as he seems to catch on to the witcher’s little game. Although he doesn’t seem too angry about it. “Laughing at me are we, Geralt?”
He chuckles again softly. “A little.”
“Well then, you can brush your own hair.” Jaskier removes his hand and the witcher tries not to scowl at its loss.
He sighs. “Fine, I’ll visit the alderman later.”
Jaskier turns around, smirking victoriously. “Excellent! If you’ll just sit down I’ll grab my brush. We wouldn’t want all our work getting your hair halfway presentable to go wasted, would we?” The witcher frowns, momentarily worried. Did he not want to wash my hair after all? Geralt shakes himself out of the funk. Jaskier has never done something that he doesn’t want to without loudly complaining about it first. If he’d had a problem washing Geralt’s hair, he would have said something. Both this time and all the others he’s done it.
That settled, the witcher goes to sit on the bed, nearly groaning at its softness. Knowing he’s tired is one thing, but it’s another entirely to feel it. The bard returns, humming something softly under his breath. Geralt snorts. “What is it?” Jaskier asks, jostling him slightly as he climbs onto the bed behind him.
“Always making noise,” he murmurs.
The humming stops. He feels Jaskier frown more than he sees it. “Sorry. Am I bothering you?”
“Not at this moment.”
“Good.” The humming resumes as his hair is gently pulled up off his shoulders. Jaskier places a hand on the witcher’s bare shoulder to steady himself, then begins his self-imposed task. Geralt exhales softly as he feels the soothing tug of the comb through his hair. It makes his scalp tingle. He allows his eyes to close and focuses on nothing more than that feeling and the little noises Jaskier makes as he works: humming, soft breathing, an occasional muttered word or two.
Some time later, his hair is dropped back against his skin, and Geralt nearly jumps at the unexpected sensation. He blinks sleepily, feeling warm and loose and pliant. Jaskier says something, and he misses it. “What?” Geralt rumbles. The bard steadies himself using the witcher’s shoulder and climbs off the bed. He stops in front of Geralt, hands on his hips.
“I said that you look about ready to fall over. Lie down, would you?” Jaskier repeats.
Geralt huffs. “ ‘m not going to fall over.” But he allows the bard to pull back the blankets and shove him down against the pillows with one hand.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Mm,” he agrees sleepily. From a great distance, Geralt feels Jaskier tug the blankets up over him and then the light brush of a hand against his cheek.
“Sleep well, Geralt.”
The witcher’s only response is a soft, deep breath.