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Jaskier has never had a problem with people thinking he’s the witcher’s whore. People are, for the most part, idiots. And, well, he is Geralt’s, if you’re small minded about things. He always has been. And he’s never charged for sex, but he’s certainly not above seeking a… let’s call it a particular kind of patronage for his art.
Geralt minds, though. He’s always minded. Hasn’t said anything about it, obviously, because he’s allergic to talking about his feelings. But people will insinuate that Jaskier must provide something that makes him worth keeping around and Geralt’s brows will draw together, his jaw will tense up tight, and even though Jaskier laughs it off with quips about how Geralt wouldn’t be able to afford him and such, Geralt carries it with him like it’s an insult.
They’ve finally fallen into bed together, after decades of coaxing on Jaskier’s part, and Jaskier assumes it will stop. Because he thought —
Well, he assumed the problem was that Geralt wanted .
Because he knew. He’s always known, has seen the way Geralt looks at him. Geralt, for all his silence, is about as subtle as a brick to the forehead. But Geralt won’t let himself have , so Jaskier has played the long game. He certainly hasn’t been waiting around for Geralt.
So now they’re… something. Not holding hands under the moonlight or destiny-tied or anything like that. Not even friends again (if they ever were). But fumbled hands under bedrolls and going to their knees in the woods and Geralt telling him to be quiet , damn it Jaskier in overpriced inns and laughing when they rut against each other and their bodies make fart noises (and Jaskier has fallen so in love with that laugh). And Jaskier figures they don’t need to talk about it.
Well. Not exactly. But he thinks if he says anything Geralt will run for the hills because he can’t admit to liking Jaskier most days, let alone having fallen into some kind of relationship with him. He’s coaxed Geralt for this long, he can wait a bit longer.
Anyway. He figures that now that Geralt has him, well? The comments about Jaskier earning the right to tag along with something other than his excellent reputation-rehabilitation campaign and the sheer delight he is to be around? He figures that it won’t bother Geralt anymore.
Except that tonight Jaskier has been singing Geralt’s praises (just singing, along with a local band. His hands are still… well. He doesn’t have a lute yet, does he?) , as he does, and when he goes back to their table for a bit of ale, a backwater rube with no taste whatsoever implies the usual (not even creatively—Jaskier’s heard ‘bet you sing better in his bed’ a million times), so Jaskier rounds on him, says, “I’ll have you know—”
And Geralt stops him . Wraps an arm around his wrist and says, “ Jaskier .”
Jaskier stops, because that’s Geralt’s Serious Voice. He looks at the hand on his wrist, which immediately drops away. He looks at Geralt. There’s the tightness again, in Geralt’s jaw.
So it wasn’t the wanting-and-not-having that had Geralt upset after all.
Jaskier lets it go, because contrary to popular belief, he’s got some sense of decorum. But he thinks about it.
He keeps thinking about it. And he develops a suspicion. So he tests it. He and Geralt haven’t exactly gotten touchy , but when they’re on the road Jaskier has discovered that if he wraps a hand loosely around Geralt’s ankle, he gets a soft smile in response. If he tangles their legs together in camp, Geralt shifts closer.
So he tries it in town, grabbing at Geralt’s hand, twisting their fingers together, and Geralt tenses. Shifts away.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
Right. All right. Geralt doesn’t want people to know they’re sleeping together (Jaskier doesn’t let himself think about it as anything other than that, doesn’t let his mind near the word relationship ). And is that really a surprise? It took him over a decade to even let Jaskier say the word ‘friend’ without getting tetchy.
It still fucking stings.
He doesn’t say anything, because he’s too used to gentling Geralt like a feral cat, coaxing him closer with slow movements and his gaze always focused on something else. Geralt’s not his friend so Jaskier talks in transactions and being owed. Geralt doesn’t like him so Jaskier points out how he’s useful instead of talking about feelings . Geralt doesn’t like conversation so Jaskier does the talking for him and leaves room for Geralt to grunt. Geralt doesn’t want to be soft with Jaskier so Jaskier doesn’t kiss him unless they’re fucking. And Geralt doesn’t want anyone to know that they’re fucking so Jaskier will keep his mouth shut about this one thing.
And it shouldn’t bother him. He’s used to clandestine trysts, used to being a rich woman’s brief escape from a marriage she didn’t want, used to being a man’s dirty secret.
But gods, half his life to Geralt.
He doesn’t get maudlin about it too often. He’s used to wanting things from Geralt he can’t have, and this is… well, it’s better. He can have some of the things he wants, at least.
Then they go back to Kaer Morhen to meet with Yennefer and Cirilla, the way they do every month or two, and Jaskier is quite suddenly not all right with anything anymore.
“Bard,” Yennefer says in greeting, while Geralt and Ciri are hugging.
“Witch.” Jaskier tries to sound delightfully catty, to match Yennefer’s tone. He mostly just sounds bitter.
Yennefer squints at him, and Jaskier can feel her rooting around in his mind. He slaps at the air between them, as if that’ll do anything.
“That’s rude, you know.”
Yennefer frowns. She looks at Geralt. Back at Jaskier.
Jaskier would like to curl up in the ground and die. “We’re not talking about it,” he mutters, going to greet Ciri. Just once, he would like it if Yennefer let him be miserable in silence.
Yennefer, of course, is incapable of leaving Jaskier’s hurts alone, so that night at dinner she says, “When were you going to tell us you two had finally gotten your act together?”
Ciri looks up, looks between the adults in confusion. Notices the way Geralt and Jaskier are gathered together at one corner of the square table, shoulders brushing. Notices the way Geralt’s hands clench on the table, too, probably.
Jaskier tries not to hunch in on himself. Geralt doesn’t even want his child to know.
“It’s nobody’s business,” Geralt says.
Yennefer scoffs. “As if the bard hasn’t been proclaiming his love for you from the mountaintops for decades.”
“There was only the one mountaintop,” Jaskier interjects, because a joke is all right, right? If he jokes, then nobody has to know how much it hurts that even Geralt doesn’t think he’s worth being open about. Geralt, who has said over and over that he doesn’t care what other people think of him. “Mostly it’s been taverns. Town squares.”
Geralt’s hand clenches tighter on his fork.
“Don’t make that face,” Yennefer says. “It’ll stick that way.”
Geralt hums and scowls at his plate.
After dinner, Ciri whispers “Congratulations,” and smiles at him, and Jaskier aches because all he wants to do is talk about it. But Cirilla is a teenager and will absolutely start rolling her eyes if he gets anywhere near gushing about how lucky he is to have Geralt.
Then Geralt and Ciri go outside to do… something, and Yennefer asks, “What’s got you so miserable?”
“Fuck off,” Jaskier mutters.
Yennefer stretches out on the couch and says “I’d have thought you’d be ever so smug about it.”
Jaskier doesn’t even answer this time. It’s not worth it, and it’s not like she didn’t read it in his head, after all.
“I didn’t read that deep,” Yennefer says. “Just a peek. You’re very hard to read for someone who talks so much.”
Jaskier flips her off. Yennefer grabs his finger and wrenches it backward. Not hard, just enough to get his attention.
“I am trying ,” she says, “to be nice .”
The irony of that sets him laughing, and then she’s laughing too, and by the time they’ve stopped, Jaskier has remembered that, under everything, he likes Yennefer, likes her quick wit and her drive for success and the scared little girl she’s buried in so many layers of armor and prickles and beauty.
“He’s ashamed of me,” he says at last.
Yennefer blinks at him several times, then asks, “Where the hell did you get that idea?”
Jaskier explains, briefly.
Yennefer frowns, once he’s done, and pushes back from the table. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Yennefer , no ,” Jaskier hisses, reaching for her wrist.
She bats him off like his grip is nothing, which he know it isn’t, all his strength is in his hands, even now. “Someone’s got to talk sense into him,” she says. “And you’re obviously not going to say anything.”
Yeah, because if Jaskier tries to get Geralt to talk about what they’re doing Geralt will decide that it’s easier to just stop fucking Jaskier at all than to use his damn words. And if Yennefer talks to Geralt, Geralt will probably do worse than that and run from Jaskier straight to Yennefer.
“You don’t need to get yourself involved in my relationship!” Jaskier hisses, scrambling up out of his chair to try to cut her off before she can get outside. “Why do you even care?”
“I don’t,” Yennefer says. “I care about Geralt, though. And I don’t want him to sabotage himself again.”
As if either of them could stop him from doing that. Geralt will let himself be happy when hell freezes over.
“I also,” she says mildly, stepping around Jaskier to walk outside, avoiding his flailing hands with grace, “don’t want him setting that kind of example for Ciri.”
“Please don’t,” Jaskier begs, trotting after her.
“Then you talk to him,” Yennefer says, and she gestures at Geralt, who she’s led Jaskier straight to.
That bitch. She probably never planned to talk to Geralt at all. Probably just wanted his cloud of malaise out of her dining room.
“Talk to him about what?” Ciri asks.
“How Geralt consistently makes Jaskier feel like he’s not good enough,” Yennefer says, and she’s glaring daggers at Geralt, completely ignoring the equally sharp daggers Jaskier is turning on her.
Great. Excellent. Just lay it all out there, won’t she? “I don’t need anyone else’s opinions to make me feel good enough,” he interjects, still glaring at Yennefer. “I’m famous, I’m an excellent musician, I saved your sorry arse—or I would have, if you hadn’t gone and left the fucking boat—”
“Sure,” Yennefer says. “And that’s why you stay with Geralt when he treats you like shit. Because it doesn’t matter.”
Geralt is staring at both of them. He looks the way he usually does when Yennefer is somehow on Jaskier’s side—baffled and a little annoyed. Which, fair. He also looks a little worried.
Jaskier doesn’t want to have this conversation. He and Geralt haven’t even properly talked about the mountain fight thing. Oh, Geralt apologized. But Jaskier didn’t want to get into it, so he’s just been sitting on all the hurt he still feels, pretending things are fine. He doesn’t like talking about the ways he hurts. The raw open wounds of him. He’d like to spin a lie around it. Lies are safe, cocooning him, bandaging his hurts.
“Treats him like shit?” Ciri asks. She looks with concern at Jaskier, and fucksake.
“Treats him more like a whore than a lover,” Yennefer says, still glaring at Geralt..
Oh, ow. That one hits a little too close to home.
“Thanks very much, Yennefer,” Jaskier cuts in, pulling at her arm, “but I think maybe unless you and Geralt have started sleeping together again, too, this is really not your business?”
Yennefer snorts. “If you keep moping all over the keep, it’s everyone’s business.”
Jaskier has not been moping . He’s been perfectly composed, his ordinary self, a joy to be around.
Geralt’s truly looking worried now, and also a bit angry. Excellent. If Jaskier gets yelled at again, he’s leaving. Truly. He means it this time.
“Leave,” Jaskier hisses at Yennefer.
“Fine,” Yennefer says, and points at him, then at Geralt. “But you two had better talk.” She leads Ciri away.
“Do I make you—is she right?” Geralt asks.
“She may not… exactly… be wrong?” Jaskier offers. He tries to smile at he says it, to soften things, but it doesn’t come across the way he means it to, he thinks.
Geralt grimaces. He turns away.
Fucking hell. Jaskier should have known better. This is why he didn’t want to talk about it.
“I just—” maybe if he explains? “You don’t want anyone to know. And I know I’m annoying and you hate to admit you even like me as a person most days, let alone a bedmate, and I’m useless and I might be famous but I’m a far cry from a sorceress but I just—you weren’t even going to tell Ciri, Geralt.”
“It’s none of her business,” Geralt bites out. He still isn’t looking at Jaskier.
Jaskier sighs, and slumps against a wall. Kaer Morhen is a little less miserable during the summer, but the stone of the training yard wall is still cold. It grounds him a little. “Just… what are we, Geralt?”
Geralt doesn’t answer.
Great. Excellent. Answers Jaskier’s question just fine. “Dirty little secret, then,” he says. He’d like to push off the wall and dust himself off dramatically, but he’s tired. “Right. I can do that.” Nobody ever wants him for more than that. Instead of getting up, he sinks down, sits on the ground. His trousers are already filthy from the road, what’s a little more dirt?
His hands hurt. He massages them, going through the exercises Triss gave him, ignores when Geralt turns, comes to stand in front of him.
“Whores at least get paid,” Jaskier mutters, when Geralt’s been standing there for a few minutes. It’s bitter and petty, but Jaskier has never claimed to be better than that.
“You’re not— Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt says. “You’re not my whore. You know you’re worth more than that.”
“Do I?” Jaskier asks, looking up to meet Geralt’s eyes. There it is, that pleading expression that had Jaskier dropping all his anger to follow Geralt like a puppy again. “Because you never touch me where people can see. You were perfectly happy to have me out of your life until you needed my help.”
“I said I was sorry,” Geralt says, still making that heartbroken face.
“I know,” Jaskier says. And he knows Geralt is sorry. But damn it, Jaskier still hurts. And he still doesn’t want to talk about it, but it’s going to bleed into things. “And I know you don’t like… letting people in. But I still feel—you never even hold my hand , Geralt.” He runs a finger over the burn scars. He wouldn’t want to hold his hand, either.
Geralt sighs, squats down in front of Jaskier. “People don’t—” He stops, runs a gloved hand over his face. “People don’t like witcher’s lovers, Jaskier.”
Jaskier should answer, but he’s stuck on the word lover .
“Yen—” Geralt continues, and now Jaskier is staying quiet because Geralt is talking . “Yen could hold her own. She’s powerful. You’re— breakable , Jaskier.”
Jaskier traces over his burn scars again. He knows that just as well as Geralt does. Better, probably. But he knows what Geralt means. Has been in towns where Geralt got stones thrown at him. Jaskier would be an easy target for that kind of rage.
It doesn’t make it hurt less. He understands, but still— “And Ciri? Yen?”
Geralt grimaces. “I don’t—” He stops.
Jaskier’s exhausted his quota of Geralt-words for the day, it would seem. He sighs. “I know,” he offers. As a peace treaty. Getting personal information out of Geralt is as easy as getting water out of a rock. He goes to stand.
Geralt stops him with a hand on his knee.
Jaskier allows himself to be stopped.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. “I didn’t realize it would hurt you. I thought you’d say something.”
Jaskier lets out a small laugh, one with more humor to it than he expects. “Geralt. I don’t know if you know this, but it is very hard to talk about feelings with you.”
“When have you ever had a hard time talking?” Geralt asks. He’s smiling, a small smile.
Jaskier doesn’t want to talk about that. He wants to patch this up, this one thing up, and nurse his other, deeper wounds, in private. “I—” he starts, stops, picks his words carefully. “A lot of the time, when I talk, it feels as if you’re not really listening. I didn’t want this to be one of those things. Better to keep it in than tell you and have you brush it off, yeah?”
Geralt’s smile falls. His heartbroken face is back.
Jaskier allows a hand to cup Geralt’s face as he so badly wants it to. “I don’t mind, usually,” he says. “I like that you’re comfortable enough around me to be as much of an ass as you want.
Geralt, gods preserve Jaskier’s fragile mortal life, leans into the touch, just the tiniest bit. He mutters, “Yen’s right. I’ve been taking you for granted.”
Oh, that’s a new one. Jaskier is going to call her on that, is going to gloat .
“Maybe a little bit,” Jaskier admits.
“I shouldn’t.” This is said directly into Jaskier’s palm.
“I shouldn’t let you,” Jaskier concedes.
“I can’t—” Geralt stops. Starts again, “in towns. It’s not safe. People will hurt you.”
“All right,” Jaskier agrees.
“But when we’re in safe places—”Geralt cuts himself off again, looks up into Jaskier’s eyes. “How can I do better?”
Jaskier shrugs. “Kiss me?” he suggests. “Just—touch me? Gently? Sometimes?” He offers Geralt the barest quirk of a smile. “I’m not expecting love poems and grand gestures. Just… don’t act like I’m something to be ashamed of?”
Geralt hums. It’s an affirmative hum.
Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s face, pulls him in. Geralt allows himself to be tugged, and they end up in an awkward embrace, Geralt kneeling between Jaskier’s legs. It’s one of a very few times Jaskier’s gotten to hold Geralt when they weren’t fucking.
It’s not everything. Jaskier is still hurt, still letting Geralt hurt him. But it’s something. And when Geralt pulls Jaskier to his feet and keeps hold of his hand when they go inside, Jaskier thinks it’s enough, for now.