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He wouldn’t like to throw anything at Geralt - he didn’t want to invite the comparison between himself and those villagers who would throw rotten fruit, or worse, stones, at Geralt. Geralt hadn’t even flinched at the fruit, just bore it as if it was his due, and rode on. The memory made Jaskier seethe.
No, it would be a friendly test, one that would catch the witcher off guard, make him parry or dodge, and thus give the demonstration of alertness and swiftness Jaskier was eager to see.
They had been on the road for a couple days, no other travelers in sight. They sat, tailor-style, atop a scruffy brown picnic blanket, under the cool shade of an oak. Jaskier watched how the sunlight and shade shifted together and thought up similes. Roach was grazing in the nearby meadow. Geralt was eating bread. Jaskier had his own bread - a finer bread, if you asked him, soft on the inside - and cheese, and some prunes. A quick, fireless meal.
He realized this was his chance. Their picnic blanket was small enough that he could just lean over…
Jaskier’s hands dove in quick and stole the bread from the witcher’s.
Then froze. Because he hadn’t expected to actually get the bread. The witcher hadn’t lightly batted him away or dodged. All he did was look at Jaskier and tilt his head in curiousity.
After a pause, Jaskier ripped off a piece of bread for himself and gave the rest of the loaf back, as if that was what he had meant to do all along.
Geralt made a throat clearing sound, then gave in to his laughter. It was a good laugh, a raspy chuckle. The corners of his eyes wrinkled with mirth.
“What’s so funny?” he said, putting his hands on his hips, but Geralt wouldn’t explain.
Jaskier hadn’t heard him laugh like that before.
There was a grey blur and a flash of silver. The drowner’s body slumped to the ground and its head rolled away.
Jaskier scrambled to his feet. That had been an entirely too close call.
“When I tell you to stay back, I mean it,” Geralt growled.
He nodded. At least he had seen, up close, how swift a witcher could be. He didn’t need to repeat the experience ever again.
That was the last drowner they saw that day, but Jaskier was still on edge, and it kept him quiet. They had found the main road again and were stopped by the side of it. Geralt was rummaging around in his saddlebags.
“I thought they were all defeated,” Jaskier said, “I know that’s no excuse. I’ll wait for your signal next time.”
Geralt met his eyes and nodded. From the bag, he pulled out a loaf of bread, then leaned against a birch tree and started eating.
“Why are we stopped here?” it occurred to Jaskier to ask.
“To recover.”
That caught Jaskier’s attention. “Are you hurt?”
He shook his head.
“…Tired?” Jaskier said.
“And bruised. Food helps.” He held up the loaf.
“You said you weren’t- Anyway, surely you’d like some sort of balm for the bruises, once we’ve lodged somewhere?”
“If I were severely injured, I’d drink a healing potion,” Geralt said. “We don’t have coin for lodging, anyway.”
Jaskier grumbled, but it was true.
Apparently, Geralt considered that the end of the conversation, because he scarfed down the loaf of bread, got a large block of cheese from the bags and ate that, as well.
Jaskier tapped out rhythms on his arm and hummed aloud every so often.
It was a bigger portion of food than Geralt usually had, he realized. During one of their interviews on the nature of witchers (interrogations, really, considering how much he had prodded him), Geralt had explained how witchers didn’t need to eat as often, because of the mutations. What was different this time?
To recover, Geralt had said. It must have been because of that long fight. That took energy.
Would Geralt demand money in the next town for the drowners, which he had sensed the presence of and fought, despite the lack of a contract? Likely not - he wasn’t the type.
Jaskier didn’t see any reason why Geralt would lie about that mutation, and he had survived many years before Jaskier was even in the picture. There was a simplicity to hunting and foraging for one’s food. And it sounded efficient.
His fingers paused their drumming. He thought of times when people had asked for a song. A drinking song. Or background noise while they ate. Or a tune to match their mood while their stomachs settled, the meal finished.
He found himself thinking about how Geralt had laughed when Jaskier had given back some of his bread.
“There’s plenty of time,” Geralt said.
“There’s not enough time! We have to arrive earlier than the guests, so I can see how the stage is set up.”
“We did that yesterday.”
“Yes, and something could have changed between yesterday and now. The weather affects the lute, as you know. Besides, you’ll need to get changed.”
Geralt grimaced. For a man who looked so dashing, it was a shame he hated finery so much. Or perhaps it was the crowd that he dreaded. “After lunch,” Geralt said, pushing the chicken around with his knife. Jaskier’s plate had been cleared ages ago.
Jaskier glared at the knife and fork in Geralt’s hands. Geralt was civilized in all the worst ways. Chicken was meant to be finger food.
Jaskier reached over and ate the rest in several quick bites, then set the bone back on the plate and licked his fingers. Geralt blinked. He slowly set down the utensils.
“Let’s go!” Jaskier said brightly. Then, he wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. (He was civilized about the important things.)
Geralt didn’t smile, but the expression on his face was one that would linger in Jaskier’s memory, all the same.
Jaskier bowed and put away his lute to make room for the next performance. He nodded graciously as he stepped down from the stage, but did not converse with anyone.
It was a hot summer day, even in the afternoon. The grass was dry, and tents had been set up here and there. Geralt was sitting at a far off table, a mug of beer from the nearby stall resting in front of him. He was alone.
“I am more parched than parchment,” Jaskier declared and took heavy gulps of Geralt’s beer.
“Are you going to drink beer after every performance?” Geralt said with a twitch at the corner of his lips.
Jaskier hadn’t broken his streak. It was up to seven times in a row, now, that he had taken Geralt’s beer. But perhaps there was no need for an eighth. It wouldn’t do to be predictable.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, airily. “Perhaps we’ll go to Toussaint and have wine.”
Jaskier could admit to himself that he was a thief.
But an honorable one! Because there were limits to what he would steal, and when. He stole food from Geralt just often enough to keep him on his toes. The open thievery remained a constant as they traveled together and got to know each other. After awhile, Jaskier realized that he was following a set of rules.
He never did it after Geralt had slain something without a contract for it, for that took physical exertion, and he was always ravenous afterwards. It was a different situation from when there was payment and food quickly following (if not at that town, then bought at the next). But nothing was stopping Jaskier from deriding Geralt’s creative rations.
“It’s not even compound butter, which at least would provide additional nutrients.”
“I bow to your expertise, Buttercup,” Geralt said dryly.
Jaskier groaned. “Oh, that was a horrible... Was I meant to laugh?”
And never the first serving of something, so that Geralt always had something for himself. Jaskier was not willing to repeat that first mistake, with the stolen bread.
“How delightful!” Jaskier plucked the last sweetmeat off of Geralt’s plate and stuck it in his mouth. “Mmm!” He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sweetness of honey mixed with the complex, warm spices. It melted on the mouth.
He opened his eyes to Geralt giving him an inscrutable look, unblinking. He was unusually still.
“Something on my mouth?” Jaskier said. He got out his handkerchief, but when he looked at it afterwards, there was nothing on it.
Geralt breathed in, visibly, and seemed to snap out of it. “I could have been saving that,” he remarked.
“For me?” Jaskier fluttered his eyelashes. “Why, thank you, dear witcher.”
Geralt scoffed.
It was a mystery, considering the nature of the rules, why it had taken him so long to switch things up.
Geralt had chosen a corner of the room that was out of the way, where he could see everyone. Geralt wouldn’t so much as wince if he felt pain, but Jaskier knew better. That last contract had injured him, and Jaskier had done all he could to help: sew stitches and fetch Geralt his potions. It was frustrating that he was planning to respond to a bulletin posted by the local alderman, but at least he could rest on a proper bed.
Jaskier ordered their food and paid, as he usually did. It wasn’t very busy, save for a scraggly-looking man sleeping at one of the tables, the innkeeper, and themselves. He made small talk with the innkeeper, asked in a general fashion about the alderman, then brought the food over himself. The innkeeper set their cups down and let them be.
“Potatoes?” he offered. Without waiting for an answer, he spooned some onto Geralt’s plate.
Geralt looked at him, down at his own bowl, then back. They had the same food in their bowls, but now Geralt had a bit more of it than Jaskier.
“Go on. It won’t bite back,” he joked. “It’s far too bland for me. But I know how much you like butter, and potatoes are an excellent delivery method.”
“…I’ve seen you eat potatoes before,” Geralt said.
“Sure,” Jaskier said, and didn’t bother to explain anything when Geralt looked expectantly at him. He had a spoonful of peas pottage and looked at the hearth.
Geralt didn’t waste his time waiting. He took his own bite of food, and Jaskier had to turn his head away so he wouldn’t be caught smiling.
Jaskier sighed deeply once his cloak was off and the heat of the room had settled into him. He gazed out of the narrow window of their room, at the muddy alleyway, and the steadily swelling, cloudy puddle there. There would be no outdoor festival. It would be another night indoors, for the townspeople. And for a bard and a witcher, it would be music for a boxed in, fidgety crowd. And brooding.
“The acoustics are better indoors, anyway,” Jaskier remarked, apropos nothing. Geralt ignored his words, as usual. He was moving furniture around, and Jaskier wasn’t in the mood to help.
There was a knock on the door. Jaskier looked up, surprised. Geralt got to it before him.
It was food, and it smelled divine. Geralt handed a few coins over to the barmaid who had brought it up, and they were left alone again, the two of them.
Jaskier pulled his chair from beside the window and over to the tiny table Geralt had pushed to the center of the room. He looked at the tray. There were several, round, bite-sized rolls. And some cabbage and sausages.
“I didn’t realize you paid for this,” Jaskier said.
“Hmm.” Geralt also sat down, and they started eating. The rolls turned out to be meat-filled buns.
He had only had a few buns when Geralt reached out and took some from Jaskier’s plate. Well, turnabout was fair play, so he let him. However, Geralt also gave back an equal amount that he had taken. Jaskier stared, absolutely confused.
“You like the pork ones,” Geralt said.
It was true, although he didn’t know how Geralt had found out. Jaskier hadn’t said anything. Perhaps something about his expression? Also, the buns had the same dough and looked exactly the same. He tentatively tasted one that Geralt had given him. Yes, it was filled with pork. “How keen witcher senses are!” he praised.
“You were joking about going to Toussaint,” Geralt said, dryly.
“Well, yes,” Jaskier admitted, “But then, I received an invitation. So, I thought, might as well go, right?”
“Hmm.”
It wouldn’t be the first time they had parted ways so that Jaskier could go one place and Geralt to another.
“Send the reply,” Geralt said, when they had settled down for camp.
“But you hate fine clothing,” Jaskier blurted out, then felt a bit absurd.
Geralt only nodded. “I’ll go. Wine will be a nice change.”
So, Geralt followed him all the way to Toussaint, even to the tailor, since Geralt’s one good shirt had been sold during their travels.
“You’re not going to sell this one in exchange for butter, are you?” Jaskier joked.
And in all the fuss, Jaskier genuinely neglected to pay proper attention to what day it was.
At all the feasts he had been to, he would play until the next act was up or until the audience were sufficiently inebriated to entertain themselves. Then, he would be able to sample the food and drink. Really, he could have slipped away in the chaos or lethargy, as some bards did, but he liked to bask in adoration afterwards. And, well, sometimes he listened in to the conversations at the high table.
The energy in the room was boistrous, the type of boistrous that signaled that the room was ready to either request another round or forget the presence of a musician entirely. He was midway through a wordless tune when he noticed the seating arrangements. Really noticed them, beyond the customary glance to check ideal acoustics and where the hosts were. His reply to the letter had indicated that he would arrive plus one, so it was heartening to see that Geralt was seated. But…
Jaskier cursed silently.
This was Toussaint, where everyone was enthralled by poetry and tragedy. Where everyone asked to hear a love song at all hours, on all days of the year. But especially today, at a Bellentyne feast. How had he forgotten?
Couples were eating from the same plate - either as a spendthrift measure or so that a wife could spoon pudding into her husband’s mouth in a sickening display of faux-affection, he could not tell. Perhaps both. Geralt wasn’t the only one eating alone, not at all. But that, combined with the usual reasons people stared… Some brave lass was leaning towards him while her beau shot eye-daggers at the witcher, and to Geralt’s side, a man was trying to commiserate with him about their shared bachelorhood in a rather baldly inviting manner.
Jaskier felt a hot and vicious impulse run through him. How lonely he looked, and how selfishly they treated him!
He closed the song with an elegant scattering of notes, then put his lute away efficiently, strapping the case to his back.
And then, he marched right beside where Geralt was seated and snitched a pastry directly from his plate.
The nobleman fell silent, mouth gaping, and the woman across from them tittered nervously. A few conversations nearby paused expectantly. Jaskier chewed, relishing the flavor of the silence. Swallowed.
“My set’s over,” he told Geralt. If others around them wanted to lean in to try to overhear him, he didn’t care. “Shall we retire?” And then, some measure of worry brushed against him. He didn’t want to press, if Geralt only looked uncomfortable rather than truly was uncomfortable. “You’re free to stay…” he said, more quietly, gently.
“I’m finished,” Geralt declared, looking up at Jaskier’s face, then pushed his chair back and stood.
They strode out of the dining room, together.
The thoughts plagued him the instant they were out of eyeline. Perhaps Geralt had misinterpreted. Perhaps Jaskier had. Or Geralt had been looking for any escape from that meal. He kept glancing at him, unable to help himself. Geralt caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.
He was both glad he had declined to be lodged by the nobleman and regretful that he had only rented one room at the inn for the night.
“To the gardens?” Geralt offered, tilting his head towards one hallway. It looked no different than any of the others, and Jaskier realized they were going in the opposite direction of the exit.
“I’m afraid this place might as well be a maze…”
“I smell flowers,” Geralt said, “It’s close by.”
Jaskier couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary. “I thought you wished to leave.”
“We can,” Geralt said, “And we will. You look as if you wouldn’t wish to walk through the streets just yet.”
He had a point. It was late, and the streets would be awash with drunk fools going home. And while a garden in a manor’s courtyard could still have people, it sounded more refreshing. It wasn’t like Jaskier was afraid to cause more scandal in Toussaint.
“Lead on,” he said.
“It’s Bellentyne’s day,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I got the letter. It hadn’t occurred to me.”
Geralt nodded.
“I’ve been awfully bold,” Jaskier said, kicking idly at a stone at the edge of the path. He didn’t know what to do with his hands or where to look. He chanced another look at Geralt’s face. “Not too bold, I hope?”
Geralt hummed.
“What?” Sometimes he couldn’t guess what Geralt’s tone meant.
He fidgeted while Geralt gathered his thoughts. “…I remember when you stole my bread, the first time,” Geralt said, “I thought, this bard is fearless. Even when you gave a piece back, it wasn’t out of fear.” He chuckled. “The look on your face, when you realized what you had done…”
“I expected you to stop me!” Jaskier said, “And there was nothing to be afraid of, anyway.” He crossed his arms and stood his ground, daring him to argue, yet again, about how untrustworthy witchers supposedly should be. But maybe this witcher was learning, for once, for he didn’t argue.
“I didn’t need to stop you. You were doing nothing wrong.” Geralt looked uncertain, then. Jaskier tilted his head at him, until the witcher continued. “It became a game, didn’t it? Your… ah, thievery. You wanted my attention.”
Well. Never say that a witcher couldn’t strike to the heart. It threw Jaskier off, and he could feel his face warm with a blush. Nothing to do but counterstrike.
Jaskier feigned a casual tone, knowing all the while how foolish it was to try to lie to a witcher. His heart was beating fast. “I’d do it again, you know. I’ll take anything… hardtack or fine pastries.” Not that he was talking about bread anymore. He stepped in close and laid a hand on Geralt’s chest. Far closer than the surface conversation warranted.
“Take all you wish,” Geralt said, speaking quietly. His hand alighted on Jaskier’s hip.
He inhaled sharply at the feeling, then noticed how that golden gaze went to Jaskier’s lips when he had gasped. What he wished, hm? “Haven’t I stolen enough from your lips?” he murmured.
“It was all freely offered. So how could it be stolen?”
Jaskier smiled. Geralt was a lot more honey-tongued than he let on. He made a note to himself to speak plainly again, afterwards, but for now, the general gist was clear, and he was enjoying their sparring.
Geralt leaned forward and Jaskier tilted his head, obligingly. It was a chaste kiss, at first. Geralt was gentle, until Jaskier pulled him even closer, kissed him passionately, demanded more.
Honey-tongued, indeed, Jaskier thought to himself.