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"And then she just looked at me with these puppy eyes and said, 'Oh, Jaskier. I need you,' just to turn and shop me to her husband. Can you believe that? I tell you, I was heartbroken. I was 19, for the gods' sake. I can't tell you how much I hurt. Of course, I returned to her, again and again. She can be so sweet, you know. And I made her happy, Geralt. I am a man who can make their beloved happy. Very happy. I may not look like much, not be a catch in many people's eyes, and the wandering profession doesn't suit a relationship in most instances, but I haven't given up on love, you know? I'm sure the right person is still out there, probably just waiting for me. Wouldn’t you agree, Geralt?"
The witcher scowls and lets Roach overtake.
"I was misled that you had to breathe, now and then," he mumbles.
"Of course, I need to breathe. What a silly thing to say. Though, I can hold my breath longer than…"
Geralt fades Jaskier out. How someone can talk for hours without getting bored by their own voice, he'll never understand. His ears feel sore, cramped full with all the words buzzing like bees in his head. Jaskier's throat should be inflamed, but it isn't even raspy.
It's unfair, really. And annoying. All these stories! Half of them are likely not true. And that's probably a generous underestimation.
When Geralt tunes in again, Jaskier is talking about a puppy he hid from his parents in his room and that relieved itself on his bed. How he came all the way over to that story will remain a mystery for all eternity.
"I couldn't sit for a week. God, I hated my father's belt."
"Did you at least shut up when he put you over his knee?" Geralt mutters.
Jaskier – for the first time since he opened his eyes this morning – falls silent. But the quietness doesn't hold long. Not even long enough for the guilt in Geralt's chest to spread to his lips.
"He liked it when I was standing up," Jaskier says curtly. "Apropos. Did I tell you about the one time I sang for this newly wedded couple, stumbling into their nuptials fleeing the neighbour? It was hilarious, and I was brilliant, if I may say so myself. I doubt they'll ever forget…"
Geralt feels the urge to stuff his ears with grass. He could ask Jaskier to shut up, but he knows he'll only have a moping bard for the rest of the day, so he lets him babble. It's not as if he isn't used to it after all these years. It's just… Couldn’t he – just for once – save his stories for the evening when they hit a tavern?
***
Geralt shifts uncomfortably in the saddle. It’s not really the journey or anything physical. He hasn’t been injured for a good while despite several hunts, he slept in a bed last night, but something is thrumming right under his skin.
It’s not something he can place. He used all of his senses, but there was nothing dangerous looming in the woods. And the woman travelling with them isn’t a thread, not even if she hit her lute into his face.
Nisha is a student of Jaskier they ran into in the inn last night. She had already managed to be booked for a performance, so Geralt had felt a little uneasy to stay for the night, spending instead of earning coin. But Jaskier had insisted, and the bard was pretty beat, so Geralt had agreed. Geralt wonders if he’s coming down with something. He’s rather quiet today.
Nisha tells a story now and then, each of them shares a few of their ‘hits’, but otherwise, the day’s journey is happening mostly in silence.
Maybe that’s what makes Geralt feel off. He isn’t used to a quiet Jaskier.
Geralt huffs a laugh. He always hopes for it, but now that he gets it, it makes him nervous. But at least, with the knowledge of what made him feel like that, he can enjoy nature’s music for once.
***
Jaskier talks and talks, paints a landscape of adventures dotted with sprinkles of pain with his words. It's honestly astounding how much Geralt doesn't know about him. Still, the wonderful quietness is over since they parted ways with Nisha, and Jaskier is talking, and talking, and talking again.
But Geralt is in a good mood, so he doesn’t scowl too much. He’s just glad that Jaskier didn’t fall ill. He’s terrible when he has a cold, whining and acting as if he were dying. When he really was, he was way different, not that Geralt wants to go through anything like it ever again, but it was fascinating—in hindsight.
Now, Jaskier is his usual chatty self, and the closer nightfall comes, the more quiet Geralt becomes. He wishes it could be like the days before. He doesn’t mind travelling with Jaskier. Quite the opposite is true, but his talkative nature isn’t his favourite.
Jaskier is still talking as he collects firewood around the resting spot that Geralt is preparing for the night.
“Can you shut up?” Geralt calls, his nerves breaking on the finishing line and in the middle of a tale about some tryst with a lady-in-waiting.
Jaskier stares at him like a frozen animal. He doesn’t even have a quick retort. Geralt sighs.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just a bit…”
Jaskier nods. “It’s alright. I can be quiet.” And he is, for the rest of the evening.
***
"He's so overrated. The man doesn't have an ounce of talent. He's simply good-looking," Jaskier says and purses his lips.
Geralt's mouth twitches into a barely suppressed smile. His companion has told him about all his rivals at the courts, but this man is the only one he had no good words to tell about. Jaskier might be pretty competitive, but he has his heart in the right place. And in all honesty, Jaskier is Geralt's favourite bard, hands down. Not that he would tell him. He'd never let him live it down.
"No proper intonation, no feeling for word rhythms or metaphors. It's a wonder they let him graduate. But it's what happens when your father is one of the main cash cows of the university, I suppose."
Jaskier goes into a rant about bought titles, and Geralt zooms out as so often. He still battles a headache, which he often sports when his potions taper off in his bloodstream.
Geralt rolls his eyes when Jaskier addresses him, grunting in response. He isn't even sure what he agreed to. But Jaskier continues with an "I'm glad you agree. It will be delicious," and talks about a dinner recipe. Great. Now Geralt needs to find out what animal he has to hunt. If the man saved his words for the important conversations, maybe Geralt would listen better.
It wouldn't be the same, though. The thing is, Geralt doesn't mind Jaskier's talking. More often than not, his stories are either entertaining or about interesting things Geralt never heard of. Jaskier is the one with a degree, raised to act noble and knowledgeable about things Geralt couldn't even dream to know as they are far from his own experience. It's just so much, so many words. And it never stops.
***
It does stop the next day with Triss joining the Path for the day. She fills the bard's silence easily with her own chatter. She tries to involve Jaskier in the conversation, but whenever the bard talks, it's on the same level as he courteously answers royalty.
Geralt can't help but frown. It's as if Jaskier is only a speaking waterfall whenever they're on their own.
Huh.
Geralt shakes his head and the thought away with it. This doesn't make any sense. It must be a coincidence.
***
As soon as they climb up the stairs to their room, Jaskier starts talking about the time he earnt so much coin playing one night that he could live from it for six full weeks.
He could have told that story earlier when there had been an awkward silence at the dinner table, right before Triss left for her room.
In their chamber, Geralt loosens the strings of his slacks and sits down on the bed to push them off his legs while Jaskier's words flood over him. It's like a dam has broken and Jaskier makes good for the silence surrounding him all day.
Geralt lets him. He missed his voice, the glimmer in his eyes whenever he says something funny. Jaskier has such vivid expressions when he talks, a perfect contrast to Geralt's often stoic face. He missed seeing them just as much as he missed Jaskier's silly anecdotes and trivial monologues. He missed his companionship. He missed him. What a silly thought. He'd been next to him all day long.
***
"You always said he's a magpie. Honestly, you didn't paint a good picture of him. For a man working with words, he's sure sparse with them," Triss says the next morning, watching Jaskier feeding Roach a carrot.
"I don't know what's up with him. As soon as we were in our room, he didn't stop talking until he fell asleep," Geralt murmurs.
A smile grows on Triss' face. "Oh. I understand," she says.
"What?"
She crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head. "Must have been my presence."
"It's not only with you. It's always like this when other people travel with… oh."
Triss throws her head back laughing. "I suppose you're his safe person."
Geralt furrows his brow. "His what?"
"Someone he allows himself to let go around."
Geralt only hums in response.
***
"Why are you smiling all the time?" Jaskier asks. "The story wasn't that funny."
"No, I know," Geralt says and tries his best to school his features. But as soon as Jaskier turns his face back to the road and starts sharing his thoughts about the superiority of pheasant over any other poultry, the smile is right back on Geralt's lips.
Jaskier feels safe with him, shares who he truly is with him, and lets Geralt see him. The feeling this knowledge elicits wraps warmly around Geralt's heart. He'd never confess it under any circumstances, but Jaskier is his safe person, too.