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It had been a long two weeks. Between colder nights, thin hunting, and the approach of winter, Jaskier was relieved when they came across a village with rooms to rent above a small tavern. The Path wasn’t all adventure and song. Sometimes he wondered if there were too many compromises and not enough benefits in following an old grump and dodging death, then turning it into a merry song for a few coins. Or maybe it was just too long since he’d lain with someone new and distracting.
Not that random fucks appealed quite so much anymore. He’d worried for days over losing his famed libido to advancing age before realising that arousal wasn’t the problem; his problem was getting increasingly aroused by one particular person who could one, smell lust on him and two, snap him in half with one hand for the audacity. And wasn’t that quite the image when he thrust a hand in his breeches and worked himself faster to completion at a decent distance from camp, while fantasy Geralt growled and gave orders and utterly wrecked him.
He felt his years when his back twinged and knees creaked on waking, when all he wanted was to sleep somewhere soft and warm. Somewhere he could simply be. Somewhere safe.
His thoughts turned to winter and where to hole up while the witcher went to his mysterious northern stronghold. But as they tramped up the narrow stairs his stomach rumbled, and the more immediate need for food made itself known.
“Thank the gods for an actual bed.” He set down his beloved lute and flopped on the narrow bed nearer the window. “I need a rest. And a bath.”
“Better go and play then. Coin is short.” Geralt didn’t look up from the hearth, where he coaxed the meagre firewood into flames.
Jaskier sighed. He took a few deep breaths. “I’ll talk to the innkeeper, shall I? Only my charm works considerably better than your brooding menace. Not that your brooding isn’t its own brand of attractive of course, but I find—”
“Jaskier.”
“All right, all right, going.” He pressed his lips shut, grabbed the lute, and left.
He bartered entertainment for half price food and ale, hoping Geralt had enough coin left for a bath. The approach of winter meant tighter purses all round and they both needed to reserve enough for their journeys home. Well, not actually home in Jaskier’s case, but somewhere close enough to a retreat. His home was the road, but lately he found himself longing for more than an itinerant life could give. He finished his food and ale, pasted on a smile, and announced his first song.
Partway through his set he noted the witcher had taken up his usual well-defended position in the corner. The sight of white hair loosened a growing knot in his chest, but by the time he gave his final bow the table was empty. Damn that witcher. Toss a Coin always went over better when he stayed. With a grin that felt entirely false, he gathered his coin and went back upstairs. His throat was dry and sleeping in a bed instead of on rocks and earth sounded wonderful.
“Back early, bard.” Geralt continued to sharpen his already lethal blades by the light of a single candle.
“Yes well, that bed is calling to me.”
“Not called to someone else’s bed tonight then?”
Usually that was his cue for dramatic outrage, hand on chest, but he couldn’t be bothered. Instead he grunted and stripped, before washing his face and hands and lighting the candle by his bed.
“Get money?”
Of course that was what he cared about. “Some. Enough if we’re careful.”
“I’m not the spendthrift.”
Jaskier did not rise to the bait because really, he might like the finer things in life but he wasn’t stupid with the money they both worked hard for. He grunted again – Geralt’s habits were rubbing off on him and he’d not be fit for polite company if he let that go too far – shook the single thin pillow, and was about to lie down when Geralt spoke again.
“That’s yours.”
“What is?” Shadows darkened the room, but then he spotted a mug on the small table. “For me? Truly you are spoiling me, Geralt.” He smiled and sat up.
“Don’t want you getting hoarse.”
“Oh right, how would I earn money then?” The little warm feeling towards Geralt was snuffed out as he snatched the mug and drained it in one long swallow. It was surprisingly good ale, but he turned his back on the witcher to sleep.
The nerve of the man, after all these years. And no bath, so he’d be cold for too long, and if he was cold he wouldn’t sleep. He punched the pillow once and pulled the sheet up to his ears, muttering curses.
He woke in a warm tangle of blankets. The thought of freezing air on his skin made him shudder, but the days were shortening and he loathed travelling after sundown. Maybe this was what getting older felt like; no excitement, forcing yourself to do things you didn’t want to for a result you didn’t care about, constantly seeking rest.
Geralt was already gone, of course. But his swords remained, so Jaskier hadn’t been abandoned yet. He huffed and sat up. The bed nearer the door was barely disturbed, and all the blankets were piled on top of him. That explained why he’d been so cosy. Before he could get stuck in his head musing on Geralt’s actions, the man himself returned bearing a steaming bowl.
“Eat.” Geralt dropped a spoon on the table and turned away. “We’ve ground to cover before the next contract.”
Jaskier blinked, swallowed. “Thank you.”
There was no more than a grunt in reply, but it was enough to get him moving with very little complaining. The porridge was thin but warmed his stomach. Perhaps he could make enough to buy some wool layers that could be hidden under his silks, or maybe even a thicker cloak. He thought about his options while he walked next to Roach all day, and left his lute unplayed in favour of keeping his hands deep in his pockets.
That night he shivered in their camp, despite sheltering between the lee of a large rock and a decent fire. From across the fire came the sound of the whetstone moving back and forth.
“You need better travel clothes.”
“Thank you for that stunning observation, Geralt. It’s unseasonably cold, not that you’d notice what with your witchery mutations and stoic indifference to normal human comforts.”
“I’m not—”
“Oh stop it, you are human and that’s all there is to say. Yes you have certain enhancements but peacocks and wrens are still both birds, no matter their appearance.”
“Hmm.” Geralt’s hands stilled, and he pinned Jaskier with an unblinking gold gaze that made his skin warm. His mouth kept going without any conscious input.
“Although maybe since I’m the peacock, yes I know, you’d be a – a hawk, or a golden eagle, or something. All right so it’s a little fanciful, but the metaphor holds.”
Geralt sheathed his sword, banked the fire carefully, and settled Roach before laying the bedrolls close together.
Jaskier’s traitorous heart sped up. The witcher could hear it he knew, but that knowledge was the opposite of helpful. “What are you doing?”
“Making a nest. Since we’re both birds.”
What - no. The prospect of lying so close to the man he privately adored was too much. He was weak, tired of dancing on the edge of his feelings, wanting more always. He had no self-control and this couldn’t end well. No, this was a terrible, terrible idea.
“You don’t want to?” Geralt stood perfectly still, his face blank, and Jaskier frowned. Had he spoken out loud?
“No, I mean yes let’s stay warm together, I am in fact freezing, yes, and these silks offer little resistance to the cruel onslaught of falling temperatures, although they are somewhat of a trademark much like your funereal black because nobody wants a drab bard do they? I might sing as sweetly as a lark but people prefer to look at bright plumage…”
Geralt by this time had settled on his side, back to the rock, leaving the space nearer the fire open. He might have been carved from marble, with firelight flickering over the firm lines of his jaw and cheekbones, and eyes closed allowing Jaskier to gaze at his lips and wonder.
Jaskier opened and closed his mouth. This was fine. He lay down on his back, every muscle held taut. He could not, must not, overstep his boundaries. That was an inviolable rule, never to ask for more than his bed partner was willing to give but oh, this was hard. No, that was the wrong word entirely - this was, this was perfectly, absolutely, definitely doable, he’d just keep a few inches of space between them, all night, even in his sleep, even when he wanted to—
“Relax, sleep.” The words were little more than a rumble.
He could not. This was torture.
He woke in heaven, his cheek nuzzling soft pillows and a firm body pressed to his. He was so, so warm, and he nestled into the embrace of a heavy arm resting on his waist, sighed and sank back into sleep.
Jaskier opened his eyes to empty space. Geralt was making enough noise around their camp to wake the dead, or in this case a bard who disliked early starts. Ah well. Dreams were all very well but the reality was a dull, cold morning and a full bladder. He sat up and stretched, feeling far better rested than a night on the cold ground had promised.
The days blurred. Jaskier stayed back at camp while Geralt fought drowners and monsters that turned out to be men, thankfully with little injury but sadly for little coin. Meanwhile Jaskier played for stingy audiences and grasping innkeeps who blamed him for failing to entice people to the tavern on dark, wet nights. They slept in stables and abandoned shelters and caves that smelled of death, and he’d had enough.
They’d stopped to rest Roach, who cropped grass and ignored them while Geralt fetched water from a nearby stream. Jaskier perched on a fallen tree stump and watched him approach, all white hair and broad shoulders and strong thighs and dear gods, stop that.
“I think it’s time for us to part, Geralt. Oxenfurt awaits.”
“The road is not meant for everyone.”
“Perhaps not.” Jaskier hugged himself. “Any chance of a night under cover before I go?”
“Next village is two hours ahead. Then we’ll head for the main road.”
“Lead on then.”
The village of Aethel turned out to be more of a town, with a wide selection of wares in the market that spoke to proximity to trade routes. They split up, Geralt to check the notices for work and Jaskier to scope out the best venue for his talents. There was even a brothel, and he was sorely tempted. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to be spending though, and there was a good chance of unpaid company if he played his cards right. So he marched into the nicest inn and turned on the charm, emerging from his negotiations triumphant.
He met up with Geralt by the market. “Geralt, I did it again. We have rooms in The Three Feathers, the finest establishment on offer, where I shall perform tonight and capture hearts and coins alike before I make my way to my winter roost.” He made a deep courtly bow and smiled wide.
Geralt regarded him impassively. “Rooms? Do we have enough coin for two?”
Jaskier deflated for a moment before puffing his chest. “Do you underestimate my skills, dear witcher?”
Geralt did not quite meet his eye. “No. We need baths. And. I thought. But fine. You’d prefer your own room.” He led Roach away without looking back.
“No wait, wait up.” He caught up and took Geralt’s wrist. The witcher stopped but did not look round.
“You’re right, we can share and get two baths and, and maybe a bottle of wine to celebrate our last night together, yes that would be a better use of limited resources.” He waited, heart pounding. If Geralt wanted to spend time with him, he’d be a fool to say no.
“Don’t have to.”
People walked past them. Jaskier moved out of their way and stepped closer, concealing their linked hands. He couldn’t seem to let go and Geralt did not shake him off.
“But I want to.”
Geralt turned fractionally and gold eyes pinned Jaskier, searching his face for lies. Jaskier held still, hoping that his face and scent and heartbeat revealed enough but not too much, knowing that whatever the witcher saw it would be true.
“Let’s go.”
Jaskier dropped Geralt’s wrist and exhaled, then marched forward. “This way to the rest and refreshment we both so richly deserve.”
Back at The Three Feathers Jaskier chatted up the owner again, then nodded to Geralt lingering in the shadows and led the way upstairs. He unlocked the door and gasped at the sight of the well-lit room.
Jaskier dropped his lute case on one of two beds made up with decent linens and blankets then spun around, arms outstretched to indicate a hearth stacked with wood, a table with chairs, and a bath behind a screen.
“Why, these are fine accommodations indeed Geralt, aren’t you impressed with my negotiating skills?”
“Hmm.”
“Now, don’t be like that, I’m being fiscally responsible as you requested.”
“You’re never responsible.”
“Just for that, I’m taking the first bath.”
A knock on the door heralded the girls bringing buckets of hot water. As soon as they left Jaskier stripped by the bed. He wasn’t sure if the witcher was watching, as he appeared to be counting his potions, but if he was then so much the better. He took his last bottle of scented oil with him, squinting at the low level, and made a mental note to visit the market tomorrow for more. Then he sank into the bath with a moan of pure pleasure that was unnecessarily loud maybe, but entirely genuine all the same.
He took his time scrubbing his hair and nails and luxuriating in the warmth. All his clothes could do with a wash but the green doublet was probably the least dirty, and if he did well in the evenings he could probably stay a few nights and head to Oxenfurt with a clean, well provisioned pack. There were multiple taverns to play in and no doubt the people would be overjoyed to hear a bard of his considerable fame and skill. It would at least soothe the sting of saying goodbye to Geralt for several months.
With a sigh he got out of the cooling water, dried his hair and slid into his braies before strolling back into the room. Geralt had removed his armour and lit the fire. His hair, tangled and grey, begged for attention that Jaskier longed to give. He glanced at the few remaining drops of oil and sighed, then dressed and ruffled a damp towel through his own hair.
“Well, that was amazing and very much needed. I feel mostly human again rather than some grimy forest dwelling creature. A nymph or dryad, perhaps—”
“They’re all female. Not grimy.”
“Don’t interrupt my flight of imagination with mere facts.” He huffed and fastened his doublet, allowing the lace edging of his chemise to peek through. It was time to prepare.
First he removed his lute from its case and checked it over minutely before tuning the strings, although he’d long ago ascribed the fact that the strings were rarely off to residual elven magic. The action soothed him, as much a ritual as Geralt’s endless passes of the whetstone over his blades. Then he ran through a quiet vocal warm-up before finishing with stretches. In the silence he couldn’t help but listen for the quiet slosh of water from behind the screen. The witcher would have emptied away some of the dirty water out the window before replacing it with fresh, heating the bath again with a sign. The tub was a decent size, enough for even a tall man to stretch his legs.
Geralt sighed.
That small sound reached into Jaskier’s chest and rendered him quite unable to move for a moment. Maybe he was projecting, but it sounded like his own performative moan earlier, a plausibly deniable invitation, a moment of unguarded pleasure.
Jaskier flexed his fingers and made his decision. He removed the doublet, picked up the near-empty oil vial and slipped it into his pocket, then went behind the screen, rolling back his sleeves.
“You call and I answer dearest witcher, for the last time this year.”
“Didn’t. Was enjoying blessed silence.” Geralt was still, eyes closed. Steam rose from the tub in wisps.
“I distinctly heard your most earnest supplication but fear not, I am here with a woefully depleted yet still barely sufficient supply of oil for your hair and a never-ending supply of care and attention.” He spread his arms and flourished the vial before seating himself on a stool. As usual he let his mouth run, filling the spaces with chatter about nothing that aimed to cover his racing heartbeat.
Geralt, for his part, remained silent with eyes closed. Jaskier took the opportunity to look and touch. He poured water over Geralt’s head and lathered the filthy strands with lightly scented soap, scraped calloused fingertips along his scalp, and allowed himself a deeply satisfied smile as the mighty warrior melted under his attentions. He hummed a melody he’d been working on and let peace surround them, until a distant rumble joined in. Jaskier stopped to listen but the sound stopped too, only to resume when he started singing under his breath. His hands stilled but not before he felt the vibration from Geralt’s neck.
“Are you purring?”
“I’m breathing.”
Jaskier was absolutely delighted by this new occurrence. “You’re rumbling,” he crowed. “Like a very big cat.”
“Hmm. Thought I was a wolf.”
Jaskier laughed. “You’re only the white wolf when I wash this gorgeous hair. It’s unfair how good you look all freshly bathed.” He warmed oil in his palms and pulled it through until the white strands shone, squashing down the urge to massage the tension away from strong neck and shoulders and other places he should not be thinking about.
“Nobody cares about that.”
“Well I do, and don’t think you can hide your love of baths from me. Why you’re…” He suddenly realised that his hands had strayed to muscular shoulders, where they were currently smoothing over scarred skin as if they were born to it. He snatched them back.
“I – um – ”
“Jaskier.”
This was it, he’d done it, overstepped the boundaries and maybe he could just sneak away later tonight and make himself scarce and the witcher could forget about it and everything would be all right in the spring, three or maybe even four months ought to do it and— it was too much and the realisation twisted his gut.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t mean it.” He hid his mouth behind both hands. Too late though.
“Didn’t you?” White hair hung in damp tendrils about Geralt’s neck. His shoulders resembled stone, bunched and tense.
Jaskier released his breath in a heavy sigh. “I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”
“If I were uncomfortable you’d know.”
Would he though? Despite his growing skill at reading the varied grunts and hums, Jaskier felt Geralt still eluded him. It really was time to go.
“You’re anxious.”
Jaskier barked a short laugh before he could stifle it, then rose to squat at the other end of the bath. He needed to see Geralt’s face. “Forgive me, I meant no harm. You’ll be rid of me tomorrow.”
The witcher’s face gave nothing away. “As you wish.” Then he stood and Jaskier scrambled away, eyes fixed on the floor, because the witcher naked and wet and close enough to touch was altogether too much to bear and he had to leave. He grabbed his doublet and lute.
“I’ll be back much later, don’t wait up!” he trilled, then made his escape. Outside he leaned on the wall and took deep breaths as he buttoned his doublet with shaky fingers. He had a job to do, perhaps not as dangerous as a witcher contract but requiring skill all the same.
By the time he reached the bottom stair his performing persona was fully in place, channelling adrenaline and energy into projecting his voice around the room.
“Friends, it is I, Jaskier the bard, here to entertain you all on this cold winter's night.”
He plucked the strings and launched into a popular jig, Four merry maids a’milking. He was sure to reference local towns and Aethel itself in his lyrics. The whole tavern sang along, banging mugs and clapping, and Jaskier lost himself in the music, spinning around tables and winking at everyone who caught his eye. He was well into his second set when he spotted Geralt in the corner as always and gave him a wide smile.
Later he would blame his poor choices on the ale he’d been given and his need to get as much money as possible. But people asked for Toss a Coin and he delivered, even adding a new verse composed on the fly as well as an encore. He bowed and gathered all his earnings. Fans surrounded him, eyes full of invitation. A warm hand on his arm, a warmer smile, he was in no doubt that he could spend a very pleasant time somewhere. Then he glanced at the empty corner table and sighed. The idea of a quick tryst in a cold alley or sneaking out a window in the dark held very little appeal when he could spend the whole night in a comfortable bed. He smiled at his admirers and withdrew gracefully, citing a need to rest his voice. He let the smile drop as he trudged upstairs. The bed called to him, and he needed to repair whatever damage he’d done to the friendship he valued most. Because that’s what it is, Geralt, despite your refusal to admit it.
He slipped inside the room quietly, fingers already unfastening his doublet, but stopped before he reached his bed. A bottle of wine and two mugs waited on the table, lit by the flickering glow of the fire and one candle. Geralt looked up from counting potions, eyes gold in the low light. The silence stretched.
“Geralt?”
“Hmm.” Geralt lowered his head, still checking bottles. “You’re back.”
Jaskier laid the lute down and clasped his hands together to stop his nervous handwringing. He’d been caned for it so many times in boyhood and it really chose the most difficult moments to reappear. “I am.” He swallowed. “I thought you’d be asleep, it was a long set and people here, they’re most generous because I bet they’ve heard so little decent music in months and the winter is long—”
“It is, indeed.” He gestured to the chair. “Sit and drink with me.”
Jaskier stumbled across the room. He’d heard him, he’d been listening and he remembered, and for a moment Jaskier let that acknowledgement warm him from the inside as he watched Geralt pour wine so deep red it was almost black. And while the witcher trained his gaze on his task, Jaskier allowed himself the forbidden joy of looking at the face that occupied his dreams, the shining white hair that he had washed, the strong lines of chin and jaw that made him wish he were an artist so he could draw them endlessly.
“To a warm bed at the end of a long path.” He clinked mugs with Geralt and dared to catch his eye. He was rewarded by the slightest lift of the corner of those defined, beautiful lips and couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. They were all right. He hadn’t spoiled everything.
The next morning he woke under a mound of blankets, stretched like a well-fed cat, and sat up. His heart sank at the empty bed across the room. No saddlebags. Right then. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, which were burning from fatigue, that was definitely the cause. Listlessly he splashed his face with water and pulled on his chemise. But his bag was suspiciously light. Where the fuck were his clothes? He knelt to look under the bed, but no luck. And someone was knocking at the door.
“Yes?” he snapped.
A girl poked her head inside the door, and he deflated at her anxious look.
“Begging your pardon, master bard, but I have a message for you.” She stepped inside, deposited a bowl of porridge on the table, and said, “The – the witcher has a contract and he’ll return before sundown.”
“But – he – when –”
“I’ve laundry to bring.” She fled.
Jaskier slumped. He really couldn’t deal with so many confused emotions before breakfast, and they’d only had half the bottle of wine. His eyes snapped open. Only half. He had another day, and another night. He polished off his porridge and put the green doublet on again. A little time in the market square was in order, after seeing which tavern would have the gift of his presence that night. He went out humming, lute slung over his back, happy despite the cold.
Jaskier was shivering under his threadbare cloak by the time he got back to his room. Singing for children at the market was always good advertising, and he’d arranged to play at the Grey Goose that night. He lit the fire and worked on a new song during the afternoon until the sky darkened. When evening came with no sign of the witcher, he reluctantly left to play his set after leaving a message with the innkeeper. No doubt Geralt could take care of himself. He’d be back.
Jaskier spun and sang and almost missed his note when he saw white hair at the back of the room. But since he was a complete professional, he recovered before people even realised and hopped up on a table to lead a rousing chorus of The knight and the maiden fair. It was a more raucous crowd than the night before and the songs got more and more bawdy. Unfortunately the crowd also got more handsy and he was forced to dance away from pinches and grabs, pretending ignorance of their intent. Suddenly all he wanted was to leave, go home and finish his wine. There was no sign of Geralt so he gathered his pay and slipped outside hoping to escape notice. His breath clouded in the cold night air and he shivered, hoping there was wood for the fire.
“You sing so pretty, bet I could coax some high notes from that talented throat.” Three men stepped from the shadowed alley into his path.
“Too kind, but I must be on my way.” He considered ducking back into the tavern, but they blocked his way.
“We want a private performance,” another man leered showing missing teeth.
Jaskier swallowed. He was going to lose his money either way but perhaps he could escape with his life and his hands intact. He just had to hope it wouldn’t cost him too much. The first punch to the gut caught him by surprise, but as he crumpled he whipped the blade from his boot and slashed at the nearest body with a yell. Another blow to the ribs stole his breath, somebody was shouting curses, and he waited for the inevitable hit. Instead he heard grunting, the crunch of broken bones, and the soft thud of bodies hitting the ground before a gloved hand grasped his arm.
“Let’s go.”
“Geralt, you’re here, thank the gods.” He allowed himself to be pulled away and swallowed a cry of relief. The trip back to their room passed in a blur. Jaskier sat on his bed and barely registered anything until big hands passed over his torso thoroughly. Then he was instantly alert.
“Wait – what?”
“Are you hurt?”
He looked up at brows scrunched in concern. “No, only got hit a couple of times and I – ouch.” He rubbed gingerly at his ribs. “Hit hard.”
Geralt nodded and went back to his bags, digging out a small pot with a cork lid. “I have this.”
“Now, we all know your witcher gear isn’t for humans.”
“This is – it’s arnica, comfrey, and yarrow. Good for bruising. Can I?”
All Jaskier could do was nod mutely and lift his chemise as Geralt knelt beside him. He closed his eyes and let strong fingers smooth the herbal smelling paste over his skin, trying not to shudder at the warmth in Geralt’s fingertips. His leg bounced with the effort of suppressing a moan.
“Sorry, I hurt you.” Geralt snatched his hand away and Jaskier wanted to cry. Quite the opposite my dear, this feels altogether too good and I wish you'd never stop.
“You saved me, once again. Thank you.”
“Hmm.” Geralt busied himself closing the pot before leaving it on the bed.
Jaskier took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt that much. “Wine wouldn’t hurt though.”
Geralt poured and Jaskier sat at the table, much safer than being anywhere near a bed with his clothes half off and his control frayed to a thread by a man with ridiculously perceptive senses.
“The crowd was lively tonight. Bit too lively in parts, but such is the life of a bard.”
“What would you have done?”
“When?”
“If I hadn’t been there.”
“Oh, well.” He swirled wine, red as blood. “Survived.” He’d talked his way into and out of trouble before. “In Oxenfurt I know my way around better.”
“You’ll be safer there.”
“No need to worry, my dear witcher. I can take care of myself.” He raised his mug and drank. When he looked up again Geralt pinned him with a gaze full of emotion, though he couldn’t decide whether it was good or bad.
“Will you play for me?” His tone was gravelled and low.
Jaskier was unsure if he was dreaming. The witty retorts died on his tongue in the face of an actual request. “A private performance, for you only.”
He fetched his lute and began with a jaunty tune to lighten the heavy mood.
The mighty witcher home he came
A nest of monsters bravely slain
Then did he wash his hair so bright
‘Til once again a comely white
He never spoke a single word
But in a warm bath how he purred
Geralt tried to hide his smile but Jaskier caught him. “You did, I heard you!” His fingers strummed away and he grinned at his friend. No need to hide, not when they’d part the next day. Aethel was less welcoming than it appeared and he longed for the familiarity and easy companionship of his alma mater. Perhaps he could join a caravan and travel in company, that would be safer and easier. He startled when Geralt spoke again.
“Play something else. Not a tavern song.”
The melody came to him without thinking, and he sang the Queen’s Lament softly. In his mind's eye he saw her looking out to sea from the highest tower, waiting for her king to return from his long voyage.
I see him not, I see him not
My love gone over the ocean wide
Yet still I wait, and still I wait
Until he comes, here I will abide
Jaskier played on, eyes closed, almost believing they were back in some unknown forest clearing around a crackling fire, safe from the horrors of the world with his witcher beside him.
“Not for taverns.”
Jaskier shook his head and stilled the strings. “Not for taverns. Bed time, I think.”
They got ready for bed, moving around each other with an ease borne of long familiarity, and sleep found him quickly.
The next morning dawned bright and cold under a clear blue sky. Jaskier’s bag was full of clean clothes and supplies for the journey, his stomach was full of warm porridge, and they were heading to meet the caravan at the main road. For once Geralt led Roach rather than ride. As they walked, Jaskier thought about breakfast sent up, laundry sent out, tavern visits, and a song request no-one else would make. His ribs barely hurt, thanks to salve made for humans.
“You’re quiet.”
Jaskier waved hands clad in new fur lined gloves. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I am.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And now you’re spoiling the quiet.”
Jaskier stopped, hands on hips, and let Geralt walk on. “You don’t deserve me.”
Geralt halted and turned around, his face impassive. “You’re right. You should be safe in a warm bed after singing the songs you really want to better audiences.”
“No, no, what are you talking about?”
“You’re meant for more than survival and risking death every day.”
“But I am where I want to be. I see things and meet people I never would have.” He came right into Geralt’s space. “I have you to protect me.”
“I can’t always be there.”
“I know, my dear. I know. But I don’t just survive, I thrive with you on the path. I want to experience it all, and when these old bones won’t stand the cold hard ground any more I’ll always have the most marvellous memories.”
“And if you die on the path?”
He placed a hand on Geralt’s arm and met his gaze. “Then I die having lived every moment before that. Having treasured our friendship. Having known one of the best men I ever met.”
Geralt shook his head. “I would regret it.”
“Knowing me?” He steeled himself for the inevitable answer, words echoing in his memory. You’re impossible, you’re too much, go away and give us all a break, Julian.
“Losing you.” He turned away and pulled a bulky parcel from a saddlebag. “Here.”
Jaskier blinked, mouth open, head reeling as the bundle was placed in hands that were too clumsy in the new gloves. Geralt produced a knife from somewhere and cut the string, letting a deep green hooded cloak spill into Jaskier’s hands.
He pulled a glove off with his teeth and touched the finely woven cloth, the dark fur lining, and finally traced a fingertip over the clasp. The silverwork was elegantly engraved with flowers, and a bird whose eye was a tiny blue gem. He gasped and blinked tears away, looking at his friend uncertainly. The glove dropped to the ground, forgotten. How long had Geralt been working and saving, hoarding his coin to afford such craftsmanship?
“You don’t like it.” He sounded resigned and sad, and Jaskier couldn’t bear it.
“I… I love it, Geralt. Thank you.” His heart overflowed with love for this stoic man of few words, and he bit his lip to keep more words from tumbling out. “I love it,” he whispered.
Geralt smiled, small but real. “There’s pockets to hide coin and a dagger.” He took the cloak and draped it over Jaskier’s shoulders. “You’ll be warm at least.”
Jaskier closed his eyes again and sniffled at the weight of Geralt’s hands lingering on his shoulders, holding him just where he wanted to be. He swiped at his eyes and fastened the clasp before twirling in place, arms outstretched. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Get your glove back on and let’s get going.” His gruffness was all a front, and Jaskier loved him for it.
“I shall swan around Oxenfurt all winter and make everyone jealous of my beautiful cloak.”
“Just stay safe.” Geralt tugged on Roach’s reins and they walked on. Jaskier chattered about this and that, made sure to mention that he’d be travelling along the Pontar after the spring equinox, wondered aloud about the witcher keep, and kept up a one-sided conversation all the way to the main road.
They arrived outside the Crossways inn amid the bustle of a busy morning and Jaskier felt a stab of excitement at going home to Oxenfurt, sadness at leaving his witcher, and always the steady beat of love.
“Take care, my dear.”
“See you in spring.” Geralt looked, and looked, and his caged words did not escape but Jaskier nodded, managing a watery smile before the witcher broke the moment, turning away to mount Roach.
“Bye darling!” Jaskier called out, and he was definitely talking to the horse, nobody could prove he wasn't. The cloak enveloped him like a warm hug as he watched man and rider vanish into the crowd. Geralt would find camomile soap and a honeycake hidden among his things – he could probably smell them anyway, but Jaskier knew the witcher would travel many miles before he allowed himself to unwrap his gifts.
In spring, they’d share a real embrace.
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