#geraskier week

All through life, Geralt had never quite understood sex. Well, he understood how it works and its function but he never quite experienced that pull of need everybody seemed to talk about. There was the odd time he thought it might feel nice but whenever he paid for company to indulge, he always came away feeling hollow. Sure, there was a pleasant aspect to it but it wasn’t one that Geralt could claim to be earth shattering or mind blowing.

When Jaskier came along with his voracious appetite for, well, everything and everyone, Geralt never said a word. If that was how Jaskier experienced life, that was fine by him. And not once did Jaskier seem intent on shoving his views onto Geralt. Whereas other before him had tried to push him into encounters, set Geralt up with women and men in the hopes of him finally having a roll in a bed that made him see the appeal, Jaskier never did that.

“I see a pair of lovely sisters by the bar, wish to join me to see if they’re amenable to two rugged men’s attention?”

“No.” And that was that. Jaskier approached the women by himself, smiled and when one of them glanced towards Geralt with a questioning look, Jaskier smoothly directed them away.

It happened on a few occasions, Jaskier suggesting some outing or party for Geralt to join him on but each refusal was taken at face value. That was something Geralt deeply appreciated about Jaskier. He never pushed, never nagged and the one time he encountered Geralt leaving a brothel, he didn’t even comment.

Over time, Geralt grew to appreciate Jaskier’s company. The silence was always filled. Whether it was song, chatter, snuffles and sneezes, it was safe to say Jaskier couldn’t exist in silence. As annoying as it had been to stat with, it was one of the many things Geralt had grown to like about him. His humour and wit were sharp, scathingly so at times while awfully awkward and painful at others. Sometimes Geralt liked to tease him with the “best of” compliments and put downs Jaskier had managed to utter. It usually earned him a friendly punch to the shoulder.

Just existing alongside Jaskier was fun. Gradually, Geralt grew to not just tolerate or enjoy but actively seek out the bard’s company. He began to look forward to travelling between hunts when it was just the two of them and Roach. Those were the times he had Jaskier’s unbridled attention, no barriers between them, nothing distracting either of them.

That was another thing that Geralt couldn’t get to grips with. Of late, he had felt uncomfortable when Jaskier flirted in taverns, smiled and disappeared for a night. He couldn’t put into words why but it bothered him.

“I don’t like it when you flirt,” he blurted out one night.

“Would you prefer it if I flirted with you, my dear Witcher?” Jaskier threw a wink his way.

“No.” The word was out of Geralt’s mouth before he even had time to consider it.

“Then, my one true White Wolf, all I can say is: deal with it.”

Only, Geralt didn’t know how to. Now that Jaskier had opened his eyes to the possibility of flirting with him, such thoughts occupied Geralt’s waking thoughts. He wondered how he would feel if Jaskier did direct his attention to him. If the smiles, winks and sometimes horrible compliments were for Geralt. Such thoughts had him blushing.

He had hoped that the thoughts would leave him after a few days. But they didn’t. If anything, they got worse. Geralt’s eyes were drawn to Jaskier’s lips. He could imagine kissing the bard. That had never happened before and Geralt was having a bit of a crisis. He knew Jaskier, they were friends. And yet he found himself wanting more.

Going to a whore house didn’t help. Even if he thought about Jaskier while with someone else, it still left him feeling unsatisfied and used. Like something was missing that only Jaskier had.

“I want you to flirt with me,” Geralt announced in the corner of an inn they were staying at. All through food, Jaskier’s eyes had been flitting over the other customers, trying to decide who he could charm and bed.

The look Geralt got at his request was one he couldn’t read. “Would you now?” Jaskier’s lips tugged up into a smile. “And why’s that?”

No words were enough to explain and Geralt’s eyes flitted between Jaskier’s gaze and lips as he shrugged. All he knew was that Jaskier was someone special. Someone Geralt had slowly developed feelings for, ones he had never experienced in the past.

“Nobody’s had a connection with me before,” he tried to explain. Something changed in Jaskier’s gaze then, some kind of soft understanding. He reached up and traced Geralt’s bottom lip with a thumb.

“We’ll take this at your pace then. Find what works for us.”

It had been half a year since they last saw each other. Jaskier had become more confident, but only because his new growing fame made him more secure and have more coins in his pouch. He had to thank Geralt, of course. People loved stories about witchers who, although they might seem like men of terrible behavior without morals and without principles, in the end had a heart, saved people and cared for the weak. Geralt had once told him that all that was stupid, but Jaskier had ignored him.

The truth didn’t lead to greatness.

“So, what if I invite you to ale in the next village tavern? You are going there, right? You could tell me about your latest adventures,”

“Hm,”

“Ah, yes, that one was very interesting and funny,”

Geralt was walking, guiding Roach by the bridle, with his heavy cloak waving softly behind him. Jaskier had one much more fancy and lighter that it didn’t hide his rapier and back-daggers at all, with his elven lute hanging from his shoulder. His pace was prideful, lordly.

“So, I heard of your affair with the striga in Temeria,” Jaskier said, much more serious, less cheerful, and looked at Geralt with curious. 

He had grown a few inches in the time that they hadn't seen each other, but Geralt was still much taller than him. Geralt said anything, not even a grunt, and the road remained silent, a silence only broken by the happy chirping of the spring birds. Jaskier saw the grim gesture Geralt made at the mention of the striga, and didn’t press. He walked beside him until they reached the town ahead.

Then, when the first villager noticed Geralt was a witcher, Jaskier went to the tavern alone.

It was the witcher’s life. He knew that.

“A selkiemore, uh?” Jaskier mumbled while writing in his journal.

The tavern was full of a crowd of townsfolk listening to the man who had contracted Geralt that morning. Jaskier had his belly full of warm food and a decent ale, so he felt with enough energy to try to write, or at least think, about his next great song. Toss a coin to your witcher it was good, very good, and people loved that song, but he didn’t want to become stagnant. He needed more successful songs. 

Songs. 

He slightly touched his left forearm, over the doublet sleeve. Then he remembered why he was there, in Cintra, and remembered the letter the chamberlain of Queen Calanthe had sent to him a month ago. It was a great honor to be the main bard in the court of such an important queen during her daughter's betrothal. But he knew that it was risky. Because in his obsessive spiral of finding his soulmate sooner rather than later, Jaskier had meddled in other people's marriages, even though they were not married to their true soulmates. And some of those people were nobles. And he knew that, at least, his beloved Countess of Stael was going to be in the ceremony. 

With her husband.

So he was fucked up.

A little.

Jaskier was thinking about that while he was writing the description of the monster according to the words of the fat farmer who had witnessed the fight between Geralt and the selkiemore. He smiled when the man said that Geralt was dead, because he didn't believe for a moment that the witcher was going to die in such an absurd way. So he laughed when Geralt entered the tavern, covered in blood, guts, and shit as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t the first time. He made the crowd sing Toss a coin to your witcher, knowing Geralt would groan, tired and disgusted. He collected a few coins. Geralt took a tankard of ale from a table and drank, spitting it half a second later. Jaskier snorted and leaned on the counter of the tavern.

Then he took a deep breath, and when Geralt approached him, he said:

“I need a favor,”

Geralt looked at him, silent, serious, and saw the apprehensive face Jaskier was making without realizing it. So the witcher tilted his head a little while viscous droplets of blood dripped to the floor.

“Tell me,” 

* * *

“Wow, what a night, right?”

Jaskier trotted behind Geralt, who was striding along the hallways as if the Destiny itself were to appear in the palace to grab him by the neck and force him to claim his Child of Surprise before he or she was even born.

“This is your fault,” Geralt snarled, ablaze with anger.

“What? My fault?” Jaskier protested, irritated and incredulous. “Excuse me, but I’m not the one who chose the Law of Surprise as payment here, you know,”

Geralt stopped dead suddenly, break-breathing, still furious, with a remarkable frown carved in his forehead. Jaskier sighed, facing him, his lute hanging from his shoulder like always, and didn’t flinch when Geralt glared at him with amber fire.

“If you hadn’t brought me here, I wouldn’t–” Geralt whispered, still wrathful.

Jaskier pressed his lips in a thin line, feeling a hot and unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t you dare to blame me for what had you done, Geralt, you heard me?” Jaskier mumbled back, not with the same anger but with determination. Geralt huffed, looking away from him. “You could have asked for money, for lands, for anything other than that, but you preferred the Law of Surprise,”

“I know,” Geralt growled again.

Jaskier let out a deep breath, an exhausted and long sigh. They were in the middle of an empty and lonely corridor, with the rumor of the music at the party fluttering even there. Geralt sat on a nearby stone bench. Jaskier sat beside him, thinking.

“You knew it?” he asked after a minute in silence, with Geralt staring intensely at the floor.

The witcher shrugged a little before straightening and leaning on the wall with a grunt.

“Of course not,” he mumbled, calmer. “How could I have known it?”

He sounded resigned. Jaskier threw him a sympathetic glance and felt guilty anyway. He had been a little selfish because, of course, he could have defended himself against aggrieved husbands and wives, but… He wanted to go with Geralt to the party. Maybe it was really his fault. 

Maybe.

“Well, think about it,” he said. “If I hadn’t brought you with me, Calanthe would have killed that man, you saved a life tonight,"

"You would have done the same, I saw you fighting before,"

Jaskier parted lips, feeling his cheeks burning.

"Oh, yes, but I'm good at duels or like… two against one, even three against one, but an entire squad of soldiers? Thank you, but no," he saw Geralt smiling from the corner of his eye. Jaskier swallowed. "So as I was saying, you saved a life tonight, and saved Pavetta from soulrotting."

Soulrotting. He could recall when his mother had told him about that concept. He was eight at that time, and one of his mother's maids had lost her husband, her soulmate, in battle. Jaskier remembered that day. The scream of agony had heard everywhere in the Lettenhove fortress. 

"How do you know they are soulmates and not two simple lovers?" Geralt asked, slowly, looking at Jaskier.

Jaskier shrugged.

"I don't know for sure, but…" he hesitated, feeling his soulmark heavier than before. He touched his left sleeve and dragged his fingers a little over it. "If my mother would be about to kill my soulmate I would scream like that too,"

"That was magic,"

"You know what I mean," Then Jaskier looked at Geralt and met those golden eyes. Something inside him tingled. Geralt looked away a second later, with a grimace. Jaskier swallowed slightly, still caressing his sleeve. "You wouldn't do it?"

"Do what?"

"Defend your soulmate against everyone and everything?" 

There was a silence, a big and dense silence that Jaskier didn't understand and couldn't explain. He felt it heavy and… bitter. Geralt sighed, grunted. Again he sounded tired and resigned.

"I suppose, I don't know," Geralt murmured.

Jaskier blinked, confused.

"What do you mean you don't know?" he asked.

Another silence, thicker than before. Jaskier frowned, knowing that he shouldn't push him, but…

"Geralt?"

… but surprisingly, Geralt answered without snarling at him, his voice full of exhaustion.

"Witchers don't have soulmates, Jaskier, "

The third silence wasn't heavier than the previous two. It was strangely soft, although uncomfortable and somehow… painful, agonizing. Jaskier didn't know and knew at the same time why he felt as if someone had punched him in the guts, ripping all the air from his lungs. 

"Oh," he mumbled, and wet his lips, suddenly sad. "How do you… How do you know? You don't…?"

He knew it was a dumb question. But Geralt, again, answered with much more patient than Jaskier would expect.

"I don't have a soulmark, no. Witchers don't have words on his arms," Then Geralt got up, without looking at him. "Come on, let's get out of here,"

He started to walk, not so fast than before, towards the end of the corridor. Jaskier watched him for a second, still feeling… sad, and got up too to follow him. He sighed, clenching his left hand in a fist. 

* * *

Jaskier turned the rapier in his hand, elegant, keeping his balance. He stabbed the air and backed away, then he cut an imaginary opponent, spinning on his heels, chaining block, feint and attack movements again and again. When he stopped he was out of breath, sweating. Then he lowered his rapier and sheathed it with a loud sigh. 

Geralt, sitting against a tree near the edge of the clearing, discovered he was holding his breath until then. He thought, he noticed, he always noticed, how gorgeous, how stunning, was Jaskier when he trained, when he used his sword, when he was such concentrated and full of harsh and intense energy. It didn't have anything to do with the strength Jaskier detached when he sang or when he tricked someone with his silver-tongue. Geralt couldn't say what oh those attitudes he liked more.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's soft voice made him blink. He saw the bard smiling, cheeky. "See something you like?"

Geralt blinked again, watching him. Jaskier had his hair slightly wet, his forehead pearly with sweat, his cheeks rosy. He was on his too much tight trousers and on his shirt, only on his laced, cute and luxurious shirt that was mid-open, and Geralt could catch a glimpse of part of his pecs and, of course, his chest hair. He felt how his throat went dry in seconds, and looked away with a loud grunt.

Jaskier laughed and sat beside him, at his right against the tree. He had rolled up his sleeves so his left forearm brushed with Geralt's right arm. Geralt stared at the clearing, knowing that in that blank skin was a soulmark, the words that Jaskier wanted the most to hear from someone. 

Someone.

A claw gripped and tightened his heart and, somehow, his right forearm burned with an old and long lost memory.

* * *

Jaskier mumbled a curse, crossing out the last word he had written. Tiny drops of ink fell to the sheet, mottling the parchment of his not-yet-finished new song with a myriad of little black stars. He thought in silence with the feather under his chin. He lasted three seconds. Then he sighed and left the journal on the table, tired, upset. 

The tavern was empty except for the owner, Geralt and himself. It was early anyway, and neither of them expected to see anybody until noon.

The silence was weird. 

"What's wrong?" 

Jaskier looked up. Across the table, Geralt was watching him, with that frown that Jaskier knew meant the witcher was a little worried.

"Nothing," he mumbled, grabbing Geralt's tankard and taking a sip. When he saw Geralt arching an eyebrow, he groaned. "Nothing, really, don't worry," 

He took another sip, and that allowed the witcher to snatch the journal Jaskier had left on the table. He opened it on the last page. He made a grimace, confused at first, curious at second. Jaskier let out a new tired sigh and take a third sip of ale.

"I know," he said, sarcastically. "It's horrible, a complete disaster,"

"It's not," Geralt replied, absent.

"Geralt, I don't doubt that with age comes knowledge but I know you don't have any idea of music or poetry, so don't try to cheer me up with empty flattering,"

Geralt turned a page, ignoring him. The journal was full of lyrics, old and new, and sheet music, both finished and incomplete. Or at least that was what it looked like, Geralt wasn't sure. Jaskier was right, he didn't have any idea about music. But what he liked wasn't the music notes or the attempts and tests for rhymes. 

No. 

It was his handwriting.

It was fluid, thin, delicate. Like the course of a quiet but sometimes playful river. Its stroke was slightly bowed to the right because Jaskier was right-handed. There were words crossed out everywhere. Geralt thought it was pretty.

And that it was... familiar.

Familiar.

Suddenly he felt his inner right forearm itching, a not quite unpleasant sensation. Geralt rubbed that specific zone of his arm, above the sleeve of his shirt, and frowned, uncomfortable. Jaskier, locked in the ale tankard, didn't notice that. Geralt left the journal on the table with no words, and took a deep breath.

He knew where he had seen that type of handwriting before.

He knew very well.

* * *

"You can't come,"

"Don't be ridiculous, Geralt,"

"Oh, I am the one who is being ridiculous?"

Geralt secured the straps of his swords and checked out that he was wearing them tightly to his back. Beside him, Roach huffed a little uneasily, sniffing the air of tension between the witcher and the bard. Geralt searched in one of the mare's saddlebags and extracted a couple of bottles filled with a green and silver liquid. He put them in his pouch and turned around.

Jaskier was facing him, arms crossed, with a clearly indignant and annoyed frown. He had his rapier, his silver rapier, hanging on the left side of his hip, his daggers, his also silver daggers, on the right side. His lute was safe in their room, upstairs, inside the inn. Geralt thought Jaskier should be inside the inn too, safe, without wanting to go with him to do his job. Geralt huffed as Roach had done before, patted the mare on the neck and walked away past Jaskier, towards the location where the monster that he had to kill was supposed to be.

Jaskier followed him.

"You can't face an entire pack of drowners alone,"

"Ah, you know how to do my job better than me, it's that so, bard?" Geralt hissed. "Should I tell you how to write music now?"

He didn't want to sound mean. He didn't want to be mean. He knew Jaskier was worried, he could smell his fear. But...

"No, but I can help you, you know I can help you. At least with that type of monster. I have silver, and I am fast, faster than most of the men, you always say that,"

He always said that. It was true. Jaskier was a great warrior, and Geralt would trust him with his life, with his eyes closed. But not with that, not with monsters. Not with something that could rip off his flesh in a blink and eat him while he was still alive. 

He didn't want that. 

He couldn't live with that.

They were in the middle of the street, rain splashing furiously as if the gods were angry. There was water running everywhere, pouring from everywhere. The perfect scenery for a bunch of creatures that lived in the sewers.

"Come on, Geralt," Jaskier grabbed him by the arm, trying to stop him. Geralt didn't flinch and pushed the bard off, grunting. Jaskier groaned too, frustrated, and trotted until he surpassed the witcher and got in his way.

"Please, let me help you with this," Jaskier said. No, implored, begged, pleaded. Geralt caught the heavy and thick scent of fear, but it wasn't just fear. No. It was panic, pure and electric terror. Jaskier feared for him, but it wasn't the first time Geralt had to hunt monsters, leaving the bard behind. Geralt avoided Jaskier and he kept walking, faster. 

The rain raged and one lightning ignited the sky like a fierce and bright snake. Then, just then, Geralt felt again a hand grabbing his arm, and this time the witcher stopped.

The thunder rumbled violently and it was as if a dragon was roaring.

The clutch on his arm was strong. Geralt didn't look back, didn't look at Jaskier. He breathed in, deep, and sensed the fear more intense than before. Another lightning. Another thunder. Geralt tried to let go, but Jaskier tightened his hold. Geralt felt a growl being born in his chest. He could get rid of the grip easily, he was stronger, but he was also tired of those arguments. Jaskier should understand why he couldn't go with him. 

"Jaskier," he said, low, slowly. A warning.

"Geralt," Jaskier replied, arrogant, stubborn.

Geralt inhaled deeply for a third time, and noticed that fear was no longer the only smell there, under all the rain. But he couldn't recognize the new scent, not yet. It was bitter but also sweet. Geralt growled.

"You can't come, it's not negotiable,"

"Why?" More obstinacy. "It would not be the first time,"

 "Drowners aren't like bandits, or like a single monster I can make be focused on me," Geralt tightened his teeth, closed his eyes for a second, and then opened it still without facing Jaskier. "You could die," 

There was a two seconds silence, only broken by the violent storm. 

"So are you," Jaskier replied, and his voice was softer than before, weaker.

"It's my job, not yours"

And I don't want you to die, he should say, I want you to be safe here, where I could return to you later, he should say. He thought about the drowners, he thought about their claws and fangs, their viscous, horrendous skin and faces. He knew it wasn't the monster's fault, really, but… 

"Well, If we are talking about jobs–"

"Jaskier," Geralt growled, again, getting angry, angrier. He still didn't look back, at him.

"No, come on! If we are talking about jobs I have one, you know?"

"Jaskier, " The growl grew up.

"Remember? That one in which I sing and people throw me money?" Geralt stepped forward, only two steps. "You remember it, right?"

"You're wasting my time,"

"Because I have been neglecting my job only for you! Because you insist on not telling me anything of value for my songs, and–"

"Jaskier, "

"And! I thought, well, I understand, he is not good explaining shit, he doesn't want to talk, so if I watch how he fights and hunts monsters I suppose I can manage with that, but no! Also no! How do you want me to do my job, witcher?"

And then, the third lightning sparked in the sky, enormous, violent. And something in Jaskier voice made Geralt to burst. He faced the bard, finally, his amber eyes flaming with hurt fury.  

"Jaskier, I don't care about your songs if you're dead! Do you understand that or not?!"

The third thunder erupted immediately after and devoured the other sounds. It lasted at least four long seconds. Four long seconds in which they looked at each other under the dark rain with no words. Then, slowly, Jaskier loosened his grip. And Geralt noticed his expression. Jaskier looked down, frowning a little, his hands trembling, his lips pressed in a thin line. Geralt saw him swallowing, hard. A strong and powerful scent cracked around him.

But the bard said nothing.

So Geralt took that as an advantage and turned around to walk away. He didn't say anything either. He felt strangely tired, tensed. He didn't look back, he had a job to do.

 * * *

It took him four days to clean the sewers from drowners. Geralt emerged to the surface covered in green-black blood, murky water, and shit, so he seemed like one of the monsters he had killed down there, in the guts of the city. It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't the first time he had to come back to the inn covered in dirt like that.

When Geralt arrived into the room he shared with Jaskier, he found him leaning on the windowsill, reading something. At the sound of someone appearing, the bard looked up and turned around. He arched his eyebrows in surprise.

"Geralt!"

And in relief.

Jaskier moved toward the witcher with two steps and hugged him tight, exhaling a heavy breath and resting his forehead on his chest. Geralt went stiff, not because Jaskier was hugging him but–

"Jaskier, you are going to get dirt," Geralt sighed.

Jaskier squeezed him a little before releasing him and looked at Geralt with his bright and pretty blue eyes.

"I was worried," he mumbled. 

He had mud in his forehead, in his right cheek, and in the front of his fancy doublet. But he didn't seem angry. Geralt breathed in and caught the pale scent of flowers, ink, and wood that followed Jaskier everywhere, alongside something soft and sweet under all his own dirt. He grunted, weakly.

"Sorry, it took me longer than I would think, "

"Right, uh…"Jaskier hesitated, looking away, and headed to the door. "I will ask the innkeeper to prepare a bath for you,"

Geralt watched him go, knowing that their fight was not resolved. He sighed again, feeling exhausted, hungry. Then he glanced at the piece of parchment that was on the windowsill, forgotten, and he felt curiosity. It had been folded and unfolded many times, and it had a red wax seal that, when he examined it closely, he recognized it. 

It was the blazon of the Lettenhove. It was a letter. 

Geralt backed off and decided not to pry more. It was Jaskier's. And whether or not he wanted to tell him, it was none of his business.

He rubbed his right forearm unconsciously. That thought made him feel… more tired.

Gerald needed two rounds of hot water to get rid of all the shit he was covered with. With the third bath, he let himself get enough relaxed to lingering in the water doing nothing more than leaning against the edge and wall tub with his eyes closed. It was already night, so Jaskier had lit a few candles around the room. The bard hadn't talked much in that time except for two or three nervous jokes about the dirt water Geralt had been spraying everywhere when he was leaving his two previous baths.

Geralt knew Jaskier was ruminating something.

He didn't want to push him. 

But he also wanted… 

He opened his eyes, slowly, and saw that Jaskier was with his back turned to him. He counted five seconds, determined to talk about the discussion they had had four days ago, determined to be the one making the effort to fix things this time. He parted his lips, just about to say his name, to call him.

Then Jaskier turned around and faced Geralt, serious, but at the same time nervous. Geralt smelled something uncomfortable, something anxious and painful.

Something sad.

He shut his mouth.

Jaskier took a deep breath. He hadn't changed his clothing yet or cleaned his face. 

"Geralt, I…," he said, hesitating, licking his lips, avoiding his gaze. He exhaled, long, as if he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. Then he bit his lower lip. Geralt stared at him, feeling on edge, vulnerable for the first time in a long time. "I want to ask you for something," Jaskier looked at Geralt, and Geralt nodded. 

Then Jaskier sighed one more long breath, biting his lips again, looking away, again, and crossed his arms, almost hugging himself as if he needed someone holding him, as If he needed a shield. 

"I…"

The bard frowned a little more, and Geralt saw that frown trembling. Jaskier clicked his tongue and, this time, locked eyes with the witcher. Geralt felt the intensity, determination, and… grief.

Grief.

He knew what Jaskier wanted to ask. He should have known in the first moment he had seen the letter with the Lettenhove emblem. He had no doubt.

"You want to hire me," Geralt said, low, soft, calm. "You want to make a contract,"

Jaskier parted his lips.

"Yes," he said.