A/N: Back again with our favourite trio.
Summary: You and Geralt have an argument, and it takes a certain bard to get the two of you to stop glaring daggers at each other and make up.
Jaskier wasn’t accustomed to being caught in the middle of an argument. Being a part of an argument, yes, it was practically his day job, but being stuck in the midst of one that, quite frankly, had nothing to do with him… no. Never.
Though of course, nobody would have expected him to have to grow used to it while in the company he was in. You and Geralt could throw insults at each other all day if either of you were given the chance, but to find cause for an actual disagreement and end up completely ignoring each other? That was a rarity.
A rarity Jaskier had been all too confused to discover after returning from filling his waterskin up by the river. He’d walked back to the camp, expecting to hear at least some kind of discussion, but had been entirely bewildered to find an eerie air of tension and silence as soon as he returned. He’d stood there for at least a full minute, completely still, eyes flicking from the brooding Witcher tacking up his horse to the clearly disconcerted teenager sat on a rock at least ten feet away.
It was obvious something had happened. But did he go to the brooding Witcher or the disconcerted teenager?
Oh. Nope. Definitely disconcerted teenager who was now crying.
Tossing his waterskin on his bedroll, he crossed his arms over his chest and turned right, silently making his way over to you and your rock. You didn’t move as he sat down next to you, simply staying as you were, staring ahead at a… seemingly interesting tree. He could see the tears stubbornly clinging to your lashes above the ones already rolling down your red cheeks, and for a moment he simply sat there with you, heart twinging each time a small sob shook your body or you reached up to rub at your eyes.
“You know,” he said quietly after a while, leaning that bit closer toward you, “for what it’s worth, I think Geralt’s a dick, too.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t receive the reaction he’d intended at that, clearly telling him something was seriously bothering you. You’d always given him at least something for his humorous comments, whether that be a laugh or a roll of the eyes… not giving a single reaction was almost worrying. No, no, it was worrying.
His eyes lingered on you for a moment. “What happened?” he asked gently, watching as you glanced down at the fidgeting hands on your lap. “I only went down to the river for a couple minutes.”
You swallowed thickly, a cool breeze abruptly rushing past you and blowing your tears away. “Geralt happened,” you said to him, voice broken by a sob. Further tears welled in your eyes and you bit your bottom lip, moving your arms up to hug yourself. Pity circled Jaskier’s heart, and a moment later you found yourself leaning against his side, one of his arms wrapped around you and holding you comfortingly against him.
“Like I said,” he whispered, “he’s a dick. What did he do?” It wasn’t that he was assuming, he was just… well. He supposed he was assuming. But he was usually right to. Geralt often had a way with words that just wasn’t the best way. Things came out of his mouth that he’d regret and want to shove back in as though they’d never been released, but his damn pride prevented him from apologising. Still, though… you were much like that man in many aspects, most of which he still hadn’t discovered yet.
“Shouted,” you said simply. “He shouted at me.”
Jaskier glanced over to the man in discussion, sharp eyes catching sight of his balled fists and stony face as he worked on Roach. He looked back at you. “Why?”
“Because he’s too fucking over-protective, that’s why.” Fury tainted your voice, and Jaskier briefly gazed down at you to witness it.
Now, he had grown to know the Witcher over the past few months he’d been a part of his traveling company, and, from what he’d seen, he most definitely wasn’t over-protective. He’d seen over-protectiveness. Over-protectiveness was fathers not letting their daughters leave the house because of the possibility they may get raped. Over-protectiveness was husbands not telling their wives that their sons had died in battle because, apparently, women can’t deal with hurt and pain. Over-protectiveness was mothers banning their daughters from seeing the men they’d learnt to love through secret meetings because they were too young.
Geralt was protective, yes, but not at all overly. If there had been any hint of that, he would’ve left you with that woman all those years ago for fear of a child living in his world. He wouldn’t have raised you as his own, teaching you to fight and telling you of all the monsters that lurked out there – not because he was over-protective, but because the need for self-defense was high. He wouldn’t have kept you away from the stories he told you before you went to sleep… stories of the dragons he’d seen and the kikimores he’d killed. He wouldn’t let you walk to the river by yourself, or sleep away from him at nights under the stars if you so wished, or let you go out riding on Roach by whatever tavern you were staying at.
Everything he did for you was as any proper parent would do. Simply protectiveness. Not letting your child come to any danger, but not keeping her away from the trials and errors of life, either. That was how they learned, after all.
So, it was with all this in mind, that he wondered exactly what had transpired between you both. Perhaps Geralt’s obvious irritation had been well-deserved and called-for.
Narrowing his eyes a fraction of an inch, Jaskier stared at you. “What was he being… over-protective about?”
You sniffed. “He won’t let me come with him to kill the werewolf.”
Ah. And there it was. The spilled dreams of every adventurous child, wishing to be just like their father.
There was something Geralt definitely wasn’t over-protective about. If Jaskier ever saw him invite you on one of his hunts, he’d likely have a heart attack there and then. If a grown man – yes, a lousy one, he could admit that – couldn’t handle the thought of accompanying a famed Witcher on a hunt to kill a blood-thieving monster, how would a young girl be able to?
Alright, perhaps that wasn’t the best analogy. He knew – somewhere… deep, deep down – you’d beat him in a fight any day.
But the point was that, even at your level of experience, some things just weren’t meant for young eyes. You were fine with the killing part – only if the killing was directed at a monster, of course – and yet he was still privy to all the times the three of you had come across something Witchery on one of your many journeys and the way that Geralt would ensure his body was blocking you from view when he turned to kill it.
It was simple, really. Geralt of Rivia didn’t like it when you saw him killing something, all black-eyed and bloody. Hated it. Despised it. He didn’t want you to be the same.
So he took back all those assumptions.
Not the one about him being a dick. That still stood, tall and proud.
Sitting back, Jaskier waited for you to turn towards him before he spoke again. “Can you tell me,” he said, clasping your hands in his, “honestly. Do you think that’s over-protectiveness?”
Your face immediately turned cold and you pulled away from him. “You don’t? I can fight! He taught me! I’ve- I’ve killed monsters before!”
Jaskier shook his head, glancing over his shoulder to see Geralt looking at the two of you in discreet curiosity. He grasped your hands tightly in his once again and rose both eyebrows. “Stop it,” he said, and you had the good sense to shut your mouth, though your lips still trembled with unbridled anger. “Listen to yourself, Y/N. I get that you want to join this hunt, but Geralt knows-“
“Knows what’s best for me,” you finished for him with an eye roll, “yeah, yeah.”
Jaskier frowned. You were never usually like this. Either way, his eyes weren’t ignoring the fact that yours were filling with tears once again. Sighing, he shifted around properly on the rock. “If you died, what do you think Geralt would do?”
You looked at him, opening your mouth to speak but closing it a second later. “I-“
“He’d go mad,” the bard interrupted, raising both eyebrows for emphasis. “He would… utterly, truly, go insane. That man over there lives for you, Y/N. I’d hate to see the Witcher he’d be if he hadn’t kept you that day.” You stayed quiet, simply staring into his eyes. “If I had a daughter, I would rather step, armourless, in the path of a werewolf than let her fight one like you wish to do.” He dipped his head and you sighed internally. Somewhere inside you, you knew he was right. Of course he was. But that didn’t mean you needed to accept that.
You glanced up as you felt his thumb rub across the back of your hand. “A person will do whatever’s necessary to protect the ones they love, Y/N,” he told you gently. “Understand that.”
Jaskier watched with a knowing smile as the gears in your head turned. Finally, you cautiously flicked your eyes over to stare behind him at Geralt, who had evidently finished tacking up Roach and was now mumbling quietly to her, something he always reverted to when he was feeling stressed. You sighed internally. That was partly your fault, you supposed.
“I’ll speak to him,” you told the bard, and his smile grew as he nodded his head.
“Good,” he said. “Go sort it out. I’m not traveling with two moody people who won’t even look at each other for the next few days.”
He gently shoved you in Geralt’s direction, shaking his head fondly as you stumbled over a log and shot him a narrowed glare, before watching as you made your way over to the Witcher.
You wondered if you had been the topic of Geralt and Roach’s conversation, because you couldn’t help but feel as though the horse was silently judging you as you slowly walked up to them. Geralt, on the other hand, did anything but acknowledge your presence, sticking to rubbing his hands along Roach’s back and keeping his eyes away from your own.
“Can- can we talk?” you offered, absently fidgeting with the hem of your tunic. It was at this that he turned his head to face you, harsh eyes looking considerably carefully into your own. A moment later, he moved away from Roach and took a step toward you, crossing his arms and raising one eyebrow a fraction of an inch.
You’d forgotten how much so he could be.
Blinking, you bit your lip and attempted to figure out what to say. Surprisingly, no words could come to your mouth.
“Perhaps you could start with ‘I’m sorry’,” he suggested gruffly. Before you could open your mouth to speak, he continued, obviously knowing you well enough to be certain of what your next words would be. “You shouted at me long before I returned the favour,” he said. “What did you call me? It was-“
He nodded. “As am I. For shouting, that is, and letting my temper get the best of me. That is all I’m apologising for, however.”
A spark of frustration swirled inside you, and you subconsciously balled your fists together. “Can we not at least talk-“
“You don’t know what I was going to say!”
“You don’t think I’m good enough!”
“I do think you’re good enough, and that’s what scares me!” He burst forward, a fire in his eyes, his own fists clenched and teeth gritting together.
Coming from his mouth, the words felt foreign to you. Even in his darkest times, Geralt had never shown any hint towards being scared. You supposed that was a guardian’s job – to not let your child see that you were frightened – but even so…
“Yes, because you are too much like for me for your own fucking good!” At this, you took a step back, whether consciously or not, swallowing thickly as that fire in his eyes raged in an inferno. He noticed immediately, however, and took his own step back, straightening and reigning in his temper. He shut his eyes and shook his head, lowering it. “Listen,” he said, voice cooler. “Girls your age… they shouldn’t want to join hunts for werewolves or strigas or kikimores… they should be scared of the idea. Terrified. They should want to stay home and- and sew, or whatever else it is that they do.”
“I’m not like other girls,” you told him.
“I understand that,” he said, “and I accept my part in making it truth, but that doesn’t mean I am going to indulge in it.” His eyes opened and held you in a steady gaze – much less fiery and more like the soft amber you loved. “I can’t have you turn out like me more than you already have,” he said simply. “I want you safe. I want you not to turn into a killer. That isn’t the image I had in mind when I decided to keep you.” You frowned at his words, watching as he stepped forward. “You are good enough. Of course you are. You’ve been learning to fight since you could walk. But I’m a Witcher. And every hunt for me is far from easy. I have almost died more times than I would have liked, and I refuse to willingly lay the same risk on you.”
Geralt wasn’t often outspoken, but in the times that he was, you found it extremely difficult to disagree with his words. For such an impassive man, he had a talent for making whatever he said hold such emotion. You supposed that was why you couldn’t help the tears which welled in your eyes as he spoke.
“You can hate me all you like,” he said. “Lie awake at night, dreaming of ways to murder me while I sleep. But I would rather suffer through that a thousand times over than have you lying in a ditch somewhere, dead, because I let you join me in a hunt. You are far too precious to me for that… and I apologise that you clearly cannot see it.”
A fat tear rolled down from one of your eyes, leaving a silver trail, and you rushed your arm up to rub it away. “I can see it,” you assured him. “You’re all I’ve ever had, Geralt… you know I look up to you… I just- I guess I was upset at the fact that the both of us know I can fight… I’ve done it before… yet you still won’t let me.” You sighed, shaking your head as the realisation that perhaps your logic was a little shaky reached the sane part of your mind. “I wanted to be like you,” you all but breathed out.
Geralt let a small smile appear on his face, riddled with dim emotion. He shook his head. “No, you don’t,” he said. “You want to be you, because you are more important than I. Yes, you have fought before, but that is when we are caught in battle and I don’t have a choice. When I am given one, I use it. Wisely.” Silence ensued for a moment between you, but when another tear leaked from your eye, he silently stepped forward and enveloped you in a hug. “One day,” he said quietly, stroking the back of your head. “One day, I will have enough faith in the world to let you fight… but until then, I do it alone. I can’t fight to the best of my ability while knowing you’re risking your life beside me, because my sole thought would be on protecting you.” He kissed the top of your head. “It always is.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, gripping his tunic. “I wasn’t thinking.”
He shook his head. “I was often the same as a child… wanting to fight and prove myself. What I didn’t realise was that there are many other ways – both safer and better – to do that.” He drew back and held you at arm’s length, allowing a small smile to grace his lips. “Better to be late in this life than early in the next, hm?”
You mirrored his expression, reaching up yet again to rub at your eyes. “Yes.”
Geralt wrapped an arm around your shoulder and tugged you against his side, taking a hold of Roach’s reins with the other before slowly walking towards where Jaskier was still sat on the rock, strumming his lute. “Are you certain the real reason you wished to fight with me is because you didn’t want to be left with him?” your Witcher asked quietly, leaning down so you could hear.
You scoffed. “He’s not that bad,” you told him, the happiness already returning to your eyes. “He was the one who made me speak to you, after all.”
“Oh, it was an ugly, fat donkey ball, by the way.”
Geralt’s eyebrows shot up and he turned his head down to meet your amused gaze. “What?”
“That’s what I called you.”
“I see. Innovative. What does it even mean?”
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