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The weight of Geralt’s medallion rests heavily against the bard’s chest.
He was nervous about wearing it at first, Geralt takes care of it with almost a religious level of sincerity, and Jaskier can’t think of a time he’d taken it off before this. It’s useful too, able to detect magic, and Jaskier had argued that it was important for Geralt to keep on him for that sake.
In return, he had gotten an exasperated eye roll, as the Witcher pointed out that they rarely stray far enough from each other for it to be a hindrance, even on hunts. With much more poking and prodding, and the promise that Geralt would take it from him whenever he needed it, especially with him on hunts, Jaskier allowed the silver medallion to be placed around his neck.
He fidgets with it sometimes, the rough texture of the carving giving his hands something to distract himself with, but mostly he keeps it tucked under his shirt, not wanted to draw attention to it when he’s performing. Either way, it's a comforting weight and a constant reminder that Geralt intends on staying around, as there is no way he would stray farther than usual from it.
Jaskier had been wearing it for a little over half a year at this point, just a small amount of time shorter than when they had gotten together. When Jaskier and Geralt had found each other in the spring, the bard was confronted with a shy Witcher, who stumbled over his preplanned words and mumbled something about missing Jaskier over the winter. It might have taken the bard a second or two, but he prides himself on being about to read Geralt after all these years of traveling together, and the puzzle pieces fell into place.
(“You?” Jaskier begins. There was a moment of silence, golden eyes redirected to the dust Roach kicks up around her hooves. “Geralt…” The bard continues haltingly, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. “Are you saying what I think you are?” Jaskier steps closer, mere inches away from the Witcher, golden eyes draw up to meet cornflower as Geralt feels the bard’s puff of breath against his sensitive skin. “Because I think that you’d like to kiss me.” He suggests, tilting his head to the side to evaluate the Witcher’s reaction. “And I would like it very much if you would.”
Geralt, ever the man of action, closes that space between them, guiding their mouths together. And if they get a later start to the path this year, well, Geralt thinks it’s worth it.)
It might be because of this - because Jaskier had been wearing it for so long that it just felt natural, because Geralt reassured him so many times that it was fine, because he normally kept it tucked under layers of clothing - that when he’s confronted about it, he isn’t sure what to do. Mostly, he’s just frozen, trapped between the wall outside a tavern and an angry Witcher, the bard clutching his lute indelicately in a white-knuckled grasp.
“Where did you get this?” The Witcher growls, one hand keeping him pinned, the other tugging at the medallion around his neck. The Witcher goes to snap it off, undoubtedly to cart it off somewhere else, and Jaskier’s non-existent self-preservation instincts fail to kick in.
“Don’t you fucking touch that.” Jaskier snarls right back. He might not be able to move much, but he won’t let someone randomly steal the medallion, even if it is another Witcher.
“It’s not yours.” The Witcher roars in return. “Where did you find this? Who did you take it from?” The Witcher’s grip tightens around the bard, pulling delicate silk fabric taut around him, making it hard for him to move.
And yet, Jaskier does anyway.
He adjusts his grip on his lute and sends a small prayer up in thanks for her service before smashing it against the other Witcher with all his might. “Fuck off!” He screams, as loud as he can, right into the Witcher’s ear.
While brief, the shattering of the instrument and the abrasive noise against the Witcher’s sensitive hearing stuns him for just a moment, but that’s all he needs. Jaskier manages to wriggle himself free and runs in the vague direction he last remembers Geralt heading in - the stables.
Even with his head start, he is no match for Witcher speed and finds himself pinned once more. He starts to yell for Geralt, no doubt well within hearing range by now, but the other Witcher clasps his hand over the bard’s mouth and the plea for help is cut off. But it doesn’t take much for Geralt to realize his lover is in danger, even if it’s just a yelp of half his name. He comes barreling around the corner, sword drawn, only to pause in confusion at the scene in front of him.
“Eskel?” He asks, sword lowered and confusion lining his voice. The other Witcher’s attention is drawn to where Geralt stands, haloed like a ghost in the late afternoon light.
“Geralt?” The reply comes, and suddenly Geralt finds himself engulfed in a tight hug by his brother.
“This is Eskel?” Jaskier asks incredulously after a moment, looking between Geralt and the other Witcher unimpressed. “You said he was the nice one!”
“He is.”
“He attacked me!” Jaskier exclaims, his wide gesture causing the medallion to shift across his chest.
“He has your medallion,” Eskel defends himself. “Why does a human have your medallion?!”
Before Geralt has a chance to explain, Jaskier cuts in once more. “I told you this was a bad idea.”
“It’s fine, Jaskier,” Geralt reassures with a sigh, “This has all just been an understanding.”
“Jas- Jaskier?” Amber eyes widen as they dart back and forth between the two of them in something like surprised embarrassment. "You're Geralt's bard?"
“What part of the lute I was carrying around didn’t give it away?” Jaskier shoots back sarcastically.
“Geralt,” Eskel holds his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to hurt your lover, I swear.”
“You didn’t-“ Jaskier begins, taking a step forward to defuse the situation, only to put pressure on his right ankle and hissing in pain, catching himself against the wall. “Okay,” he amends, holding his throbbing ankle slightly up to take the pressure off of it. “Maybe he did.” Geralt is at the bard’s side in an instant, checking over the bard for any more injuries. Jaskier just rolls his eyes, patting Geralt’s hands away, even though he switches to leaning against his Witcher instead. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I probably just twisted it when I was running away.”
Golden eyes narrow, pinning his brother to the spot.
“Look,” Eskel hastily explains, “He was wearing your medallion, and I didn’t know who he was. Do you know how that looks? How was I supposed to know that it was a token of devotion and not some petty theft off your dead body?”
Jaskier huffs under his about being referred to as a petty thief but doesn’t say anything.
“Then I suppose you won’t mind paying the healer since it was an honest mistake.”
“He’d be better off paying for a room,” Jaskier cuts in. “And a nice meal, maybe.”
"I thought you were going to play tonight?”
“I was,” Jaskier confirms, “Kinda hard to play without a lute.”
Golden eyes, practically glowing at this point, swerve back around to Eskel, a protective growl seeping into his voice. “You broke his lute?” Geralt demands.
“More of… He broke it… over my head to get away.” The other Witcher looks almost sheepish at this point, and Jaskier takes pity on him.
“Darling, please.” He tugs at Geralt’s shirt. “You’re going to take a contract soon, and we’re not too far from a town where I can get a new one pretty easily, and I’m sure dear Eskel wouldn’t mind footing our bill for a bit. Besides, even if I don’t have a lute, I still can gather song material and I’m sure Eskel has many stories to tell. We’ll be fine.”
Geralt seems calmer now, less like he wants to run his brother through with a sword, but not entirely satisfied. “We’re wrapping your ankle as soon as we get to the room.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yes, Geralt. We can do that. And you can dote on me endlessly for the next couple days, and carry me everywhere we go, and not let me do anything by myself because I am but a mere injured mortal who couldn’t possibly make it on their own- Hey!” Jaskier’s overdramatized rant gets cut short by a short yelp as he’s lifted into the air, cradled firmly against Geralt’s chest. “ I was joking about that part, you brute.” He complains poking at Geralt stubbornly with his finger but he inevitably resigns himself to his fate without any fuss. It’s not like he minded being doted on, even if Geralt can get a little cagey and overprotective at times.
The bard lifts his head to find Eskel, waving at the other Witcher with a startling amount of cheer, for someone who had just been attacked by him. But Geralt’s little bard is an enigmatic creature, or so he’s heard, and this encounter has certainly proved that. Geralt talks about his bard a lot over the winters and had just finally buckled under all the teasing and prodding for him to make a move. Vesemir even seemed on board with it and had explained the old Witcher tradition of letting your mate wear your medallion.
Still, with all the stigma going around, and hardships that Witcher’s face on a daily basis, Eskel thinks he can be forgiven for assuming the worse. Jaskier certainly doesn’t seem too upset about it, with all the confusion cleared up, and now Eskel can appreciate how valiantly the bard had fought to protect it, even at the expense of his lute. He thinks back to how much he had made on his last contract, and wonders if he has enough to pay for the bard’s new one.
Jaskier's songs have certainly helped their journey on the path over the years, and Eskel would hate to ruin that for everyone. He briefly wonders if Geralt will bring Jaskier back to the keep this winter, now that they’re official and everything.
Suddenly, the thought of that shoots something like ice through his veins.
When Vesemir finds out about this interaction, it's not going to go well. The older wolf was curious about Geralt’s bard and even possibly excited to meet the creator of such songs that encourage people to view Witchers as heroes. Eskel gulps, suddenly nervous.
If Geralt doesn’t kill him for this, Vesemir sure will.