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Being helplessly in love with Geralt of Rivia wasn't easy. But things had gotten better after their ugly confrontation at the peak of King Niedamir's mountain. The Witcher was less moody these days, he had started to say “Please” and “Thank you” and even tried to form complete sentences.
And he had apologized, deeply heartfelt, about him being a veritable asshole. So Jaskier had decided they should try to make a fresh start. But there was one thing that still swirled in his mind. Geralt had never told him he was a worthy travel companion.
So when Geralt invited him to Kaer Morhen to save him from the Nilfgaardian agents searching the Continent, Jaskier sat down in the banquet hall one evening and made a plan. The perfect travel companion, the bard presumed, was someone who was able to break necks with one hand.
A man who could defend himself and who was brave enough to face his fears. Maybe if he changed something about himself, Geralt would consider him to be worthy. Maybe even reciprocate his feelings. Jaskier wasn't unhappy with his body, no, not at all.
He liked his well-muscled legs, his slender torso, and his elegant hands. In fact, none of his numerous lovers of all sexes had ever complained about his physique. Or his – other prominent attributes.
All Wolf Witchers resembled built-in wardrobes and it was really hard to live up to their masculine standards. But he would try. Maybe exercising would even help him to get over Yennefer's constant presence at the fortress.
Although she and Geralt had found a way to get rid of the djinn's magic and decided to stay friends, Jaskier still felt jealous every time he witnessed how content Geralt looked when she was around.
So the bard started to split his time between teaching young Ciri, who was a remarkable student and a really lovely girl and helping the other Witchers to rebuild Kaer Morhen. He carried stone blocks around, mixed mortar, hauled wooden logs, and tried everything to build up his muscles.
It did work very well, although he couldn't move on most of the evenings and needed to retire early instead of making music. But it was worth all the efforts as he felt that his doublets didn't fit properly anymore on the upper arms and the shoulders.
One day, Ciri poked his biceps when they were preparing soup for dinner.
“You are broader than before”, she said and furrowed her brow. “It looks good. But I am worried about you. You look so tired.”
Jaskier sighed deeply. Well, at least someone noticed.
Geralt hadn't even mentioned the changes. Jaskier used his knife to point at some vegetables. A pumpkin, red cabbage, cauliflower, and a giant onion.
“Ciri, every man on this castle is built like this. And I am -.”
He waved an innocent leek around. Ciri rolled her eyes.
“I like leek. Geralt likes leek. You're dumb.”
Jaskier dropped the topic after accidentally nearly poking his eye out with the green. The next week, he asked Eskel to show him how to fight. It had to be Eskel because Geralt would obviously be the wrong choice.
And Lambert – well, Lambert was Lambert. But Eskel just looked at Jaskier, nodded, and ordered him to equip himself with proper padding, especially gloves to protect his fingers. And they started to practice.
It kind of worked, though. Jaskier soon was able to block a sword strike. He learned how to throw a dagger quite efficiently without hurting anyone except himself. Eskel was a patient instructor and even had to acknowledge that the bard had an aptitude for stabbing weapons and crossbows. He really liked training with Eskel, but what was supposed to happen happened.
Jaskier broke his left pinky while sparring and was close to tears as he realized he wouldn't be playing the lute for quite a while. But he would do anything to please Geralt, so he decided he would use the extra time – building walls and wielding weapons was impossible now – to work on the third task he had laid upon himself.
Jaskier was afraid of many things. He had always been - since his childhood. His father had tried everything to make a 'real man' out of him but had obviously failed at doing so. The bard had never been able to overcome the terrors of his younger years.
He hated spiders. And heights. And leek, to be honest. But he would never tell Ciri because she would totally try to analyze him and he hated to be seen through by a thirteen years old girl.
His first confrontation with a nest of giant spiders in the old alchemy lab sent him running and screaming, as one of the beasts had decided to drop into the collar of his doublet.
So he decided he should try to work on his fear of heights. One of the scaffolds that Vesemir had erected for the works on the walls was the perfect place to start with his plan. So he sneaked out of the keep after dinner and climbed the ladder that led to the swaying platform.
As soon as he stood up there, ten feet above the ground, he deeply regretted what he had done.
The planks under his feet creaked and bent under his weight and although he knew the wood could support a much heavier man, he panicked. His whole body shook. But he pulled himself together. As he finally stood on the ladder again, a furious voice rang over the courtyard.
“What the fuck are you doing, Jaskier?”
The bard flinched, the ladder tilted and he closed his eyes. This was the end.
There wouldn't be songs to be sung about the ferocious bard who took up everything upon himself for the man he loved with every fiber of his being. And no songs about a screaming mess of a bard who found himself in a nearby haystack, towered by said man.
“Hullo”, Jaskier mumbled and spit out some grains. “Fancy seeing you here, Geralt.”
“Why were you climbing up there?” The Witcher yelled, hands clenched into fists. “You are afraid of heights! You could have died!”
“Yeah”, Jaskier groaned and his head dropped back into the hay. The bard stared up into the autumn sky. It was a lovely evening. “At least you noticed me. I should have tried to go for the dramatics earlier.”
“Dramatics? It was dumb, Jaskier!”
“Ah, I see where young Ciri learned her vocabulary.”
Geralt blinked and understood nothing.
“What have you been doing up there, Jaskier?”, the Witcher repeated, calmer than before. “You've been acting strange lately. Are you ill? Homesick? Cabin fever?”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. He had escaped an embarrassing death, so telling the truth was maybe the way to thank destiny.
“I tried everything to prove myself a worthy travel companion. I trained to gain some muscles. I learned to fight – a bit. I came to face my fears. And still -.”
The bard sighed again, deeply. Geralt's face was suddenly troubled.
“You did that – for me?”, the Witcher asked, visibly confused. “But I never asked you to do that! If you want to change something in your life, you should do it for yourself, not for another person.”
Jaskier pouted but realized that maybe for the first time, the Witcher was smarter than him. He blushed and turned his head to avoid Geralt's gaze.
“I am sorry”, he mumbled. “I had – my motives.”
“Jaskier, I – we missed your music in the evenings. Your company. All of us were worried about you. Why would you -?”
And then, the Oren dropped. Geralt's eyed widened. Jaskier groaned.
“Yeah, you got me, White Wolf. I wanted you to see me. As a man. Not as a friend.”
Geralt stomped away. Turned around. Kicked a bucket. Stomped back.
“Jaskier, you are a worthy companion. I like you the way you are.”
“Even though I am a leek?”
“Leek is quite tasty, Jaskier.”
“You think I'm tasty?”
The tips of Geralt's ears blushed.
“I – don't know. But I think you are really -.” The Witcher mumbled something.
“Excuse me?”
“Handsome!”
Jaskier's jaw dropped, but then he felt that a grin spread on his face. He extended his uninjured hand.
“Well, in that case, help me up, please. I think we should discuss my handsomeness over a lovely bottle of Fiorano.”