Imagine if kid Jaskier had a bad stutter. Told constantly to be seen and not heard, ridiculed for every wrong thing he said (nothing he did would ever be right, ever be good enough), and punished so often for just existing that simply opening his mouth made him break out into a cold sweat.
It isnāt until he was ten years old, after his father kicked him out of the manor for the night (his tutor said his Ofiri wasnāt smooth enough, like Julianās speaking was ever smooth) that he saw a bard for the first time. He saw the way the man (brightly dressed in red silks with little yellow flowers that made Julianās hands twitch, his breath stutter in want) spun and sang and strummed, as if his only care in the world was to pour his heart and soul into his every word and move.
It looked like fun.
(It looked like freedom.)
Which led to Jaskier at eighteen approaching a witcher with a swagger in his step, proud of the voice heād fully reclaimed five years ago. He spoke and spoke and spoke and didnāt let anyone shut him up, not even his new traveling companion.
He was no longer quiet no matter what people threatened or swore.
(He could never reclaim the smooth skin on his back, but it was a trade Julian had made knowingly. It was worth itāJaskier would make sure it was worth it.)
And then his voice was stolen from him, because Geralt wanted peace, and he was seven years old again desperately clutching his throat as he realized the words justā¦wouldnāt come. Butā¦but it was fine, the blasted witch healed him, he was fine, everything wasā
Geralt told Jaskier to shut up, and instead of the bantering response the bard had planned, the words on the tip of his tongue, he stuttered. It surprised Jaskier so much, filled him with such horror, that the bard tripped over thin air and almost fell. He could only nod shakily when Geralt asked if he was okay, trying desperately to keep the smile on his face.
(And that night, after the witcher fell asleep, the bard whispered to himself until his voice was hoarse. He spoke and spoke and spoke and tried not to cry when the stutter only got worse as the sky began to lighten.
But Geralt wasnāt asleep. Couldnāt, after the way Jaskier had gone silent today, the pit of worry and self-loathing only growing with every word Jaskier failed to speak clearly. The Djinn was gone, Jaskierās throat healed, but the witcher could no longer deny his reckless actions had opened old wounds Geralt didnāt even know were there.)
The only good thing was that Jaskier didnāt seem to stutter as he sang. The bard was grateful Geralt didnāt complain about Jaskier singing on the road more than usual, only speaking when he really had to do so.
It went like this for months until Geralt was buying himself a new cloak for the winter rapidly approaching, when he returned to where he had left the bard to an unusual sight. Where Jaskier had been performing for a small group of children, the young offspring of the merchants and locals selling their wares, he was now moving his hands in strange ways as a little girl in front of him beamed, also wiggling her smaller hands and arms.
Spotting the woman that seemed to be the childās mother, he slowly approached her, wondering silently if she knew what was happening. Luckily, the woman recognized him from Jaskierās songs, and was quick to mention how happy her girl, Emilia, was to have someone to speak with, apparently not having met many who knewā¦sign language?
Andā¦Geralt couldnāt physically fix the old wounds heād reopened, couldnāt patch what he could not see, but maybeā¦
So when Jaskier met up with Geralt next spring, and the man greeted him by asking how his winter was in sign language, the bard gaped before responding likewise with a speed that the witcher could barely follow. Still, the witcher couldnāt help the way his chest felt lighter at how the bard smiled, looking happier than Geralt had seen him in almost a year.
Eventually, Jaskier got his stutter under control again, and the need for sign language only arose occasionally. It did come in handy when he was sick, or lost his voice from singing too much, or Geraltās senses were giving the witcher a headache. But for years, Jaskier didnāt struggle with his voice getting trapped in his throat, didnāt feel his leaden tongue sit heavy in his mouth, didnāt have to wonder what he would do if something happened and he couldnāt even yell for help.
Untilā
Jaskier stood, frozen, staring at the witcher, his mouth opening and closing and yet no noise coming out. He felt the tears prickle at the corner of his eyes as he turned away from Geralt, refusing to see the witcherās response to his weakness as he stared out at the valley below the mountain.
He heard the witcher walk closer, but stayed stubbornly turned away until Geralt was next to him, his rough hand turning Jaskierās head so that the bard was facing him.
Jaskier slumped as the witcher signed his apology, struggling as he tried to explain with his hands that he wasnāt mad at Jaskier, Jaskier was his friend, he didnāt blame him. And Jaskier jerkily nodded, signing forgiveness, itās okay, I get it as he sniffled, trying not to outright cry until Geralt just pulled him into a tight hug and Jaskier could no longer hold back his silent sobs.
And it wasnāt perfect. Both of them would make mistakes again, would hurt each other without meaning to do so. But Geralt would always make sure that Jaskier could talk to him, even if he couldnāt speak, and Jaskier would talk enough for the two of them when the witcher had thoughts, but couldnāt find the words to speak.
And it was enough, for them. It was enough.
