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THE CRYSTAL WATERS
By Senashenta
They were a week out from Novigrad, heading for the next town, and Jaskier was doing his best to pretend everything was normal and okay when nothing was normal and okay.
He had cried. He had sobbed. While Geralt was touching him—and afterward, while Geralt held him, until he eventually cried himself to sleep. And they hadn’t talked about it later, when he woke up alone on his side of the bed in the morning. They hadn’t talked about it at all. In fact they hadn’t talked about much since then…
It made travelling at Geralt’s side awkward, once they left Novigrad, though Jaskier did his best to fill the silence by picking away at his lute and singing here-and-there. He couldn’t bring himself to keep up the constant one-sided chatter that he was usually so good at, though he did manage to have the occasional conversation with Roach. Geralt was even more staunchly silent than normal, which didn’t help matters.
Jaskier greatly feared that he had royally fucked things up between them, between one thing and another, and that this last incident was just the final straw. So he tried to appear cheerful but keep his distance at the same time, to give Geralt space. To give them both space.
What he didn’t realize was that the awkward silences and thoughtful distances were bothering Geralt as much as they were Jaskier—though of course he didn’t let it show, where Jaskier was obviously down, even though he tried to fake his normally jovial attitude.
Geralt could smell the sadness, the anxiety on him, anyway.
This had all started after the first time they’d had sex—when the bard had gotten into the toxic berries. That was when Jaskier’s scent had changed, but, at least at that time, not to anything bad. Just different. The second time they’d been forced to fuck—with the mushrooms—Jaskier had taken it fine, but when Geralt had told him that he liked it, he had become obviously embarrassed. That embarrassment had lasted a long time.
The third time, when they’d eaten the aphrodisiac not-carrots… that was when things had started to go downhill. Geralt had kissed him, while they were fucking, and something about that had made Jaskier cry—albeit just barely, briefly. And Geralt didn’t understand, didn’t get it, but Jaskier brushed it off as if it were nothing, even though his scent was tinged with sadness at the time.
The apples… fuck, the apples. Jaskier had told Geralt he loved him, and as much as he’d been under the influence of an enchantment, it hadn’t felt like a lie. And after that was when Jaskier had started actively avoiding him, getting up early and coming back late so they rarely ran into each other, spending more and more time playing parties and taverns to avoid coming back to the room they shared at the inn. If there was no truth behind what Jaskier had said, that he loved Geralt, then why was he so adamantly avoiding the Witcher? Why did he stink of embarrassment whenever they did cross paths?
It was at one of the parties Jaskier was playing to avoid him that the bard had gotten his hands on the cupcake that was spiked with aphrodisiacs—and Geralt, in trying to help, had made an awkward situation even worse.
He had sensed the embarrassment, humiliation coming off of Jaskier—scented it. And still he had moved closer, pressed up against the other man, touched him. And Jaskier… Jaskier had cried. He had broken down and sobbed, even as Geralt brought him off with his hand and afterward, when he selfishly wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s waist and ducked his face into the bard’s hair.
Now Jaskier was barely speaking to him, walking a little behind Geralt and Roach, picking at his lute and humming to himself though his scent was that of sadness.
Geralt knew he had screwed up. He knew he should apologize. He wanted to apologize. But how do you say “I’m sorry I touched you without asking first”? “I’m sorry I made you cry”? “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up in the morning”? The last one was possibly the one that made him feel the most guilt. He really should have stayed.
It was frustrating, especially since the thing he most wanted to say to Jaskier was simply “I love you.”
He had been in love with Jaskier for years now. Despite the rumors and what he liked to tell people, Witchers had all the same feelings as regular people, though oftentimes somewhat suppressed, and it hadn’t taken long after meeting Jaskier and starting to travel with him for Geralt to start to become fond of him.
The love had taken longer, but it had set in nonetheless. A warmth that he felt in his chest and stomach when he looked at Jaskier, listened to him talk or sing, watched him wave his hands about to make a point or write in his songbook, or every time Geralt had to drag him out of a fight he got into while defending Witchers.
Fucking Jaskier, even if it had been out of necessity, had been amazing for him. The same with kissing him, and holding him…
He pretended he didn’t love Jaskier because how could Jaskier possibly love him back? He was a Witcher. People didn’t love Witchers.
Now, though, with everything that had happened the last few months, Geralt wasn’t entirely sure. And he didn’t know how to broach the subject. So he just stayed silent, which was pretty much how he addressed any personal problem.
Now he tugged on Roach’s reins to stop her walking and looked around; to the left of the road they were on was a clearing large enough for them to set up camp in, and at the edge of it was a large spring of fresh water (not large enough for bathing but enough for cooking, drinking and watering Roach.) “We’ll stop here for the night.”
They had been up and on the road since early morning, and normally by now Jaskier would be complaining that his feet hurt but he was still just picking absently at his lute, his eyes down and his shoulders slumped just a little. He glanced up when Geralt spoke. “Oh? Is it that time already?”
“Hmm.” Geralt agreed, turning to lead Roach into the clearing.
Jaskier followed, setting his lute to the side and then disappearing into the surrounding woods, only to return a few minutes later with an armful of branches for starting a fire. Setting them up, he sat back and let Geralt Igni the kindling before feeding in some larger branches—until the fire was good and established, burning brightly. Geralt, meanwhile, had unloaded their belongings from Roach’s back and taken off her saddlebags to make her more comfortable. That done, he lead her over to the spring to drink—but she only sniffed at it and refused the water. Shrugging, Geralt let go of her rein and let her wander to graze. He knew she wouldn’t go far.
Even if Roach wasn’t thirsty, he was, so he knelt down next to the crystal clear spring, cupped his hands and brought some water up to his mouth, drinking deeply. It was sweet and cool and refreshing, and he couldn’t resist helping himself to some mo—
That was when he noticed the daffodils that were growing in bunches around the spring. Not just two or three, not just a few, but a large number of them. Daffodils meant truth and honesty, and growing in groups around the spring like this meant—“Fuck.”
A Truth Spring.
No wonder Roach had turned down the water.
Geralt had run into Truth Springs before. Normally they were only mildly irritating, but then again, normally he wasn’t travelling with a man he was keeping the mother of all secrets from. For a long moment Geralt just stayed where he was, knelt by the spring, trying to figure out what he was going to do and coming up blank.
Then Jaskier interrupted his private internal panic by approaching with a waterskin in hand. Geralt slapped one hand over his own mouth automatically and shook his head, waving his other hand to tell Jaskier to go away. The bard frowned and held up the waterskin, shaking it lightly. “I just saw you drink from it, why can’t I have any?”
Dammit. Geralt palmed over his face and muttered, “it’s a Truth Spring. I shouldn’t have drank from it, I fucked up. Noticed the flowers too late. You can’t have any or we’ll both be under it’s spell.”
Jaskier’s brow furrowed. “And a Truth Spring causes you to, what?”
“Always tell the truth, until it wears off.”
The bard hmmed over that information before asking abruptly, “do you, Geralt of Rivia, like honeycakes?”
And Gods, Geralt had known this was going to happen. He’d just known it. “Yes.” He stood up and headed over to the fire, taking a seat and digging through Roach’s saddlebags for the trail rations.
Jaskier followed him over and sat beside him. He looked perky for the first time in days, which Geralt should have been glad for, except—“Whyyyy do you like honeycakes, Geralt?”
There were two possible answers to that one, both of which were true, but Geralt decided to go with the one he knew Jaskier was angling for. “Because I have a sweet tooth.” He muttered, much to Jaskier’s delight.
“And how big is your sweet tooth?”
“Massive.”
“I knew it!”
Things went on like that for a while, Jaskier pestering Geralt with questions and Geralt answering them truthfully because he had to, but also because it was nice to see Jaskier happy again. They ate their trail rations while they talked and split the last of the water from the waterskins—they would have to find somewhere safe to refill them quickly the next day. Everything was going rather well, actually, until Jaskier asked—
“Why don’t you let me ride Roach?”
Geralt balked and hedged for time with, “I do,” which was technically true, just—
“I mean without you being on her with me. Why do you always insist on riding double? Do you think I’m going to crash her into a tree?”
Shit. Shit shit shit. Geralt looked away and swallowed hard. “I like you holding onto me.” The words were barely more than a whisper.
Jaskier heard them anyway. He blinked, looking surprised, then flushed red and sputtered out, “but why??”
Still not meeting Jaskier’s eyes, Geralt responded, “because I have feelings for you.” And then, when something inside him seemed to decide that wasn’t good enough—wasn’t truthful enough—and gave a push, he glanced up and added, “because I’m in love with you.”
He watched Jaskier suck in a sharp breath, his hands clenching into fists in his lap and his eyes widening, and then the bard just licked his lips and asked softly, “you’re in love with me?”
Geralt gave a jerky nod. “Yes.”
“You’re in love with me…?”
Again. “Yes.”
And abruptly he found himself with an armful of bard, Jaskier flinging himself forward, throwing his arms around Geralt and burying his face in Geralt’s neck. Caught off-guard, Geralt could only fumble to catch him and wrap his own arms around the other man, pulling him closer and breathing deeply against his shoulder.
“I love you, too,” Jaskier gasped out when he pulled back a moment later to smile at Geralt radiantly, though tears were beginning to well in his eyes even as he spoke, “I am maddeningly, helplessly, hopelessly in love with you… but I thought you could never feel the same, that’s why I’ve been…”
Ah, so that explained it. Geralt adjusted his hold on Jaskier to lift a hand up and thumb at the tears that were starting to fall now, slow and steady down his cheeks. But he didn’t smell sad. His scent was happiness and hope, now. Still. “I’m sorry I made you cry… before.”
“Oh, that. I was just feeling very… despondent that day. It wasn’t anything you did. You were lovely.” Jaskier unwound one arm from around Geralt to scrub at his face with the back of his hand. “In fact, I really should repay you properly some time soon.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Geralt of Rivia, if you tell me you love me but won’t have sex with me, we are going to have a problem.”
“That’s not what I meant. I would love to have sex with you.”
“Great. Excellent. Then it’s settled.”
“What’s settled?”
“What we’ll be doing for the rest of the night.” Jaskier informed him brightly. Then a pause and he asked softly, almost shy, “are you really in love with me?”
Geralt offered a gentle smile as he leaned in to kiss him briefly, “yes, I’m really in love with you. Only truths tonight, remember?”
Jaskier’s smile positively shone.