Chapter Text
Geralt should have known from the very beginning. The fact he didn’t knock the bard unconscious just for bothering him at that bar the first time – that instead he felt interested, curious about the unbelievably foolish man in front of him – should have been enough to clue him in.
Even later, when watching Jaskier perform, he still didn’t work it out. He’d always known music could move an audience (though he couldn’t understand why), but Jaskier’s performances were something else. Standing in a crowd, watching the bard perform, Geralt could feel how the mood moved with him through the song. When Jaskier spoke of heartbreak, they wept. When he spoke of mirth, they roared with laughter. When the songs ended, as all too many did, in death and grief, the crowd mourned right along with him. It seemed that whatever Jaskier wanted the crowd to feel, they felt. And Geralt, if he was being honest, felt it too. Not that he wanted Jaskier to know that.
It was a strange thing, though, to listen to Jaskier sing. Particularly when he was singing of him – of Geralt’s adventures. To experience those adventures, the drowner slayings or the harpie fights, was nothing compared to hearing Jaskier sing about them. Geralt always felt calm in a fight, centred, but when Jaskier, his honeyed voice rising above the crowd, spoke of Geralt raising his sword, he felt his heart hammer like it never had before. At times, at the crescendo of the song, it was all Geralt could do to keep himself from crying out along with the rest of the audience.
It was all incredibly annoying. But still, he didn’t see anything wrong. Not until the night of the ball.
It was the third of these miserable events Jaskier had forced Geralt to attend. After the first (where he walked away with a child surprise he had not asked for) Geralt swore he’d never return, but there was something about the way Jaskier looked at him when he asked him, begging for his protection – he couldn’t refuse. And, though he was loath to admit it even to himself, the thought of someone hurting Jaskier made his stomach twist.
He could resist having his clothes taken away, however. Which was what he was doing right now, glaring at Jaskier from the bathtub as the bard looked hopefully towards his pile of clothes. “Don’t touch them, Jaskier.”
The slighter man pouted. “Please, Geralt. I know you hated the silk trader clothes in Vizima, and the merchant’s bloomers from Redania last time, but this is different! I’ve brought you the most beautiful blue robes – fit for a prince! Think how the periwinkle will look against your hair—”
“I said no, Jaskier. If you want me at this ridiculous event, I’m wearing my own clothes. That’s final.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Geralt, you can’t walk into Princess Adda’s inauguration ball in your witcher’s gear. You’re a guest of honour, you saved her life! They’ll be expecting you to wear something grand.”
“Then they will be disappointed. They’re royalty. They’ll recover.” Geralt could see Jaskier was about to counter, so he held up one hand. “I am only coming tonight to keep you alive, Jaskier. If I have to fight any jealous idiots, I’ll do it dressed as a witcher. Maybe that will give them second thoughts about slitting your throat.”
Jaskier, rather than looking cowed or afraid in any way, just huffed crossly. Geralt saw him eye the pile of the clothes by the tub, and briefly consider lunging for them, but one look at Geralt’s face appeared to change his mind. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll just have to look splendid enough for the both of us.” Then he turned on his heel and flounced from the room.
He did, as it turned out, look splendid enough for the both of them. When Jaskier emerged from his room in the tavern, after what felt to Geralt like a lifetime later, he was squeaky clean and smelled fresh, like the lavender soap Geralt had seen him buy a few towns over. He was dressed in a doublet Geralt hadn’t seen before – it was a bright emerald green trimmed in gold, with matching hose. Geralt allowed his eyes to travel surreptitiously down the length of Jaskier’s figure, trying to quiet an unexplained jolt of lust.
Jaskier grinned widely, as if he knew what Geralt was thinking. “Not bad, right? And just think how much finer I’d look with a tall man in periwinkle blue striding beside me! There’s still time, Geralt—”
Geralt ground his teeth, and without speaking turned and left the tavern.
The palace looked very different to the last time he was here. Then, it had been a place of great sorrow, and secrecy, with a people living in fear of a foul monster. But now, with the princess returned, Geralt saw the change in the very building. The flagstones were scrubbed bright, and great garlands of flowers hung from the entranceway. He snuck a look at Jaskier, and saw he was wide-eyed, enchanted. Geralt smiled to himself.
He stopped smiling, however, when they entered the banquet hall.
Geralt had planned to stay in the shadows; blend into the background and watch Jaskier’s back. But before he was three steps through the entrance, Triss Merigold was there, all wild hair and wide grin. She beamed at the sight of Geralt, and pushed forward, wrapping him in a hug.
“Geralt!” she said, muffled against his shoulder. “It’s been too long.”
He smiled, too, and pulled back. “Triss. You look well.”
Her hazel eyes were bright as she looked up at him. Then they flickered over to Jaskier, who was standing expectantly behind Geralt. “Oh – and your friend?”
“Jaskier, my lady,” the bard said, bowing deeply. “Bard extraordinaire, cataloguer of the witcher’s tales, spinner of secrets.” He drew up, and smiled widely at her. “I tell all of Geralt’s stories, but he never told me of you – else there would already be a great ballad being sung in every tavern about the red-haired beauty of Temeria.”
Triss laughed, a musical sound, and placed her hand in Jaskier’s, giggling again as he brought it to his lips. “You are a flatterer, sir. I wonder that you can spend time with the most taciturn man in all the World, with a silver tongue like that.”
Jaskier sighed theatrically. “It is a burden to carry, I admit. I have tried many times to impart my manners to our friend here, but he has never caught on.”
“Enough,” Geralt growled. He was surprised at his own irritation. He cared for Triss, but he’d never been interested in her – he didn’t expect to feel this sharp spike of jealousy, to see her flirting with Jaskier. It made no sense.
Jaskier, as if sensing his change in mood, turned and gave him a complicated look.
But Triss was moving now. She leant forward and took Geralt’s arm. “Alright then, old man, we have wounded your pride enough for one night. Come – you have a seat at the high table!”
Geralt looked up, and saw a long banquet table, set on a platform above the rest of the ballroom. King Foltest sat there, beside Princess Adda. And beside her – an empty seat. Geralt blanched, and pulled back. “Triss, I’m not sitting up there.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Geralt. You’re the guest of honour. To refuse would be an insult.”
“But—” Geralt cast around, desperately. “But I’m here to protect my friend! Jaskier will be in danger without me near.”
“No fear, Geralt!” Jaskier said, a wicked grin across his face. “I’ll just set up here at the dais, I’ll be fine. You go, take your seat of honour!” And he danced away delightedly, before Geralt could grab him and growl again. The traitor.
After four hours, Geralt was more than ready to go home. Princess Alda had attempted at first to make polite conversation with him, but had given up after his fifth grunted reply, and the nobles seated to his other side quailed with fear each time he so much as looked at them. He was hot, and uncomfortable, and tired of being stared at by so many sets of eyes around the room.
And then he saw the man approaching Jaskier.
The man was dressed in noble attire, and moving with furious purpose. He had spotted Jaskier from across the room and was now stalking towards him, head down and face red. Jaskier, midway through a lute solo, clocked him at the same time Geralt did, and the colour drained from his face. Geralt was on his feet immediately.
The man approached Jaskier, arms waving, and Geralt couldn’t hear what he was saying yet, but he had a sense it had to do with this man’s wife, and Jaskier’s balls, and exactly what this man planned to do to Jaskier’s balls in retaliation, and Geralt was irritated but also needed to get there quickly, but the guests were milling around, dancing and drinking and blocking his view—
Geralt pushed through a group of revellers, and saw Jaskier standing face to face with the man, lute in hand, and his other hand resting gently on the man’s shoulder. The nobleman, whose face had been a picture of fury just moments ago, looked oddly peaceful. Geralt, still full of adrenaline, charged up to them.
“Jaskier,” he gasped, then turned to look closer at the nobleman, who was still staring serenely into the middle distance. “what—”
“No need to worry, dear Witcher!” Jaskier said with a smile. “The honourable Duke of Mountleberry here approached to tell me about an issue with the Duchess, but it seems we’ve come to an agreement that it was all a misunderstanding.”
The duke turned his placid face to Geralt, and to Geralt’s amazement, he smiled. “Yes! I was coming over here to confront your friend, but after our conversation I confess my anger has evaporated, and I think I must have misunderstood.” He gave Jaskier a contented look. “I haven’t felt this at peace in a long time, bard. You have quieted my fears. I owe you a mighty apology - and I think, were it not for this feeling of calm our conversation has wrought, I would be very ashamed of myself.”
Jaskier bowed his head magnanimously. “No apology required, your grace. I am honoured I could place your mind at ease.”
Geralt looked at Jaskier closely. While his expression was a picture of graciousness, his face was pale, and there were beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. And as Geralt looked closer, he saw how tightly Jaskier was gripping the duke’s shoulder, as if he were holding him in place with great effort, though the duke did not appear to move.
“Well, I should away,” the duke said, “to apologise to my dear wife and do some self-reflection. Thank you again, dear bard, and please let me interrupt your sweet music no longer.”
Jaskier inclined his head again, and released his grip on the duke’s shoulder. And while a lesser observer might have missed it, Geralt saw a flash of surprise, and a shadow of his previous anger, flicker across the duke’s face. But then he appeared to pull himself together, and nodding quickly at Geralt, he vanished into the crowd.
Jaskier turned to face Geralt. He was smiling, but his face still looked drawn. “Phew!” he said, and exhaled. “A close call eh, old friend? What do you say we head off a little early? I think these people have heard enough tales of the White Wolf for one banquet.”
Geralt was quiet. He was quiet as they bid their farewells to King Foltest and the princess, he was quiet as Triss waved them off, he was quiet on the ride home, and on the walk up the stairs to their room. Jaskier, apparently unaware, chattered the whole time, but even in his usual talkativeness there was less enthusiasm - he seemed tired, like he had undertaken a great trial.
Geralt waited until they were inside their room in the tavern, with the door shut, and then he sat down on the bed and looked up at Jaskier, who was tuning his lute. He had spent enough time being quiet, now. He knew the question he had to ask.
“What are you?”
Jaskier, startled, spun to look at him. “What?”
“Are you a wizard? A warlock? Where did you learn your spells?”
Jaskier shook his head. “Geralt, I don’t—”
“The nobleman,” Geralt interrupted, irritation rising. “You did something to him tonight. Tricked him, somehow. He was coming to confront you for something you’d obviously done, but by the time I reached you, you’d—enchanted him.”
Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “You’re surprised at my ability to be enchanting?”
"Jaskier, this is not a joke," Geralt growled.
"Well it sounds like one to me!" Jaskier’s face was flushed now. "Geralt, really - you think I need to be a sorcerer to stop men from killing me? Is your opinion of me really that low?”
Geralt leaned towards him, teeth gritted. "Jaskier, if you are a spellcaster, I have a right to know. If you are something else - if you are putting people at risk-“
Jaskier rolled his eyes, ”oh relax, Geralt-“
"Tell me the truth, Jaskier!" Geralt shouted, and hot anger flashed through him. He felt an urge to reach for his sword and contained it, barely, but he saw Jaskier's eyes widen in shock.
Jaskier held his hands up in front of him. “Alright, Geralt, alright! I’m not a wizard!”
“Then what—”
“I’m an emotional manipulator!”
There was a pause. Geralt stared at Jaskier, until Jaskier blushed. “Well, I mean— I mean I have a power…this ability. I am able, to, um, sense emotions.”
Another pause. “You can sense emotions,” Geralt repeated, nonplussed.
“Yes! I can sort of, feel them. In the air, you know,” Jaskier flapped his arms around. “And then, occasionally, with great effort, I can…influence them.”
Geralt kept staring. “Influence them.”
“Yes, Geralt, and you don’t actually have to repeat everything I say, you know.” Jaskier leapt to his feet and began pacing, filled with nervous energy. “It’s not easy, although certain things make it easier - music, for example,” he said, swinging round and gesturing to his lute. “That allows me to…channel it somehow, to change the moods of a group of people - although I can only do it in a general, abstract sort of way. If I want to make a more direct change to someone’s emotions, I need to… touch them.” His grey eyes caught Geralt’s, then flickered away. “That’s what you saw me doing, tonight. I was influencing the duke’s emotions, trying to change his anger towards me into a more…favourable emotion.” Jaskier sat again, and looked up at Geralt.“So, there you go. Emotional manipulator.”
Geralt could feel his mind whirring, trying to take this information in. He levelled his gaze at Jaskier. “How long?”
“Ah, good, some more monosyllabic questions, thrilling,” Jaskier quipped, but his words came out flat. “How long have I been able to do this, you mean?” He shrugged. “As long as I can remember. I don’t know where it came from, if that’s your next question, and I don’t use it for evil, just to keep myself alive, and earn some coin when I can. It’s a skill, just like your handiness with that ridiculously enormous sword, and it’s a skill I’ve honed over time, although it’s still not always successful, and it still…takes a toll.” He ran a hand through his carefully-tousled hair, and any pretence seemed to fall away from him. Geralt saw now how weariness sat in every line of his body, how he hid it skilfully by seeming light on his feet. Looking at Jaskier now, Geralt realised he was a man who lived his life exhausted.
He pushed the thought from his mind. He stood up. “Show me.”
Jaskier stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“Show me.” Geralt held his arm out, and gestured to it with his other hand. “Touch me, and— and make me feel something.”
An impenetrable look crossed Jaskier’s face. He stood, slowly, watching Geralt closely. With great care, he raised his hand and placed it lightly on Geralt’s forearm. He stood there for a moment, eyes locked with Geralt, and then said in a low voice, “how would you like to feel?”
Geralt felt his heart stutter. The air between them was charged with something— something he didn’t recognise and couldn’t parse. Jaskier still held his gaze steadily, his hand still resting feather-light on Geralt’s forearm. “I— I don’t—”
And then suddenly everything was hilarious. Jaskier’s deep, soulful eyes, his hand on Geralt’s arm - his hand! Manicured, and so little! On Geralt’s enormous forearm! A great hysteria rose up within him and he doubled over, roaring with laughter, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Each time he looked up at Jaskier, the humour of the situation struck him again. He tried to stop but he couldn’t breathe, everything he looked at was so funny, he could die like this—
And then Jaskier let go of his arm.
The world swam, briefly, and then Geralt felt his heart stop pounding, and his hysterical laughter died out. He coughed, straightened, and saw Jaskier watching him with that same complicated expression. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Did you—” Geralt coughed again, still catching his breath after the laughter, “was that you?”
Jaskier smiled. “It’s about time I made you laugh.”