#protective jaskier

Jaskier growled with frustration as he took one last look at Cirilla’s sleeping form.

They had been looking for Geralt together. After snatching her from the black armoured man, Jaskier had whisked Cirilla away and taken her to the paths that Geralt usually favoured, all whilst he took them closer and closer to Kher Morhen’s hidden path.

He bent down and gently stroked a hand over the sleeping girl’s hair. If he hadn’t known better, he could imagine she was really Geralt’s child. One from his loins, not just because Geralt appeared to be Destiny’s whipping boy.

Jaskier left Cirilla’s side for a moment, knowing they still had a little bit of time before Nilfguard caught up to them. Enough for him to rotate the letter he had just retrieved from his pack in his hands. He was unsure if he should even give it to her to hand over, but Jaskier decided Geralt deserved to know. Even if he was still angry at the idiotic oaf at the moment.

Taking a deep breath, he shook his body out, trying to get rid of at least a small amount of painful tension coursing through his body. It didn’t work, but he felt better for trying.

He pulled their one horse, Pegasus, behind him as he crouched over Cirilla again.

She woke up almost instantly to Jaskier shaking her. Hand on her sword almost instantaneously. Geralt would be proud, Jaskier thought, though his heart broke for the lost little princess before him.

“Jaskier?” she whispered when she saw the look on Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier said nothing. He just grabbed her hand and pulled her to Pegasus, making her get on him.

Cirilla had a dozen protests on her lips, but one look at the sadness on Jaskier’s face was enough to stop her from asking.

“You have to be brave, my darling. You have to ride towards Poloris. It’s getting to the time any of the witchers will return to Kher Morhen. Find one, any of them with a wolf medallion or a griffon. They will get you to Geralt and protect you until he finds you, love,” he said as he pulled his lute off the horse and strapped it on his back before adjusting the saddle for Ciri to ride solo.

“Jaskier, you're coming with me, right? Right?” she asked, panicked.

“I can’t. You have to go and I have to stop our followers from getting to you,” he replied.

Cirilla ignored the tears that were falling down her face. She had lost everyone, and she didn’t know Geralt. She knew and loved Jaskier and he was going to leave her, too. She wasn’t sure if she would survive another loss.

Jaskier understood exactly what her face said as he pulled her down and rested his forehead against hers. “I will stop them, Cirilla. I am more than just a bard, my dear. I am powerful enough in my own right. You will run. You will run far and you will run fast. And when you are done running. When you are safe in Geralt’s arms, you will do something else for me,” he told her with an authority she dared not defy.

“What?” she whispered in reply.

“First, you will give him this. You will tell him I forgive him. That I love him and I am glad I shared more of my life with him then I did without the idiot,” he said as he handed the girl a letter for Geralt, a letter that bared his soul and almost 20 years of longing and love for his fool of a witcher.

“And then?” Cirilla whispered into the quiet night air.

“Then you will live, Cirilla. You will live wild and free. You will live and love and remember how much I love you, little lion cub. And when Destiny comes to fuck you over again, you spit in her eye and tell her you are free. You are your own woman who will make her own way and if Destiny has a problem with it, she can take it up with me,” he said, smiling softly at Cirilla’s punched out laugh.

“But she won’t find you. You will be gone,” Cirilla sobbed out.

“Oh, my sweet. I will never be gone because I will always love you. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I am not with you. Always,” Jaskier said as he kissed her cheek and pushed her to sit back upright on the horse.

Both Cirilla and Jaskier’s heads turned when they heard the crashing of a large force of men running through the forest.

“Go Cirilla,” Jaskier yelled as he slapped the horse’s rear. Pegasus reared up and took off as fast as he was able.

Cirilla turned around and stared at Jaskier before she became too far away to see.

Her last sight of Jaskier, of the White Wolf’s Bard, was of him standing surrounded by Nilfguardian soldiers as he screamed “burn bastards burn” and strummed his lute faster than humanly possible.

Cirilla watched as the ground was set on fire, and smoke filled her vision. She watched as the flames spread and blocked the path between her and the enemy. She watched as Jaskier’s laughter rang out into the night, mixed with the screams of burning men.

She leant down over Pegasus’s head, and they rode. She would not let Jaskier’s sacrifice be in vain. He loved her, and that love was nestled deep within her.

She would find Geralt, she would learn to fight and use her powers and she would make the Continent a better place, the same way as Jaskier had always tried to do. She would be his living legacy and she would never let his love, or his light, be snuffed from this world.

“Verbose today,” the bard teases gently, fitting Geralt’s arm into a sling. “Alright, there you go. All fixed up for now.”

“We need to find an inn.”

“Geralt, dear heart, we both know the nearest town is a day’s walk from here and it’s nearly twilight.” Jaskier looks up from where he’s busy packing away their medical supplies and frowns, “Why are you so anxious to find a town? You hate people.”

The witcher’s expression only grows more brooding and thunderous, however, so Jaskier drops it. 

---

They make camp a few hours later, when the sun is nearly all the way below the horizon. Jaskier gathers wood and quickly gets a fire going, used to starting his own when Geralt isn’t around with a helpful Igni. The witcher hates that he’s essentially useless for the time being, and watches with a slight pout as Jaskier gets them dinner and sets up camp with startling efficiency. He kneels on his bedroll and pretends to meditate, wishing desperately that his busy mind would actually let him slip into peaceful thoughtlessness.

“I can hear you being mean to yourself from all the way over here,” Jaskier says. He’s brushing down Roach, one of Geralt’s usual evening tasks, and the witcher scowls. The brush is set down and soon, before Geralt can stop him, Jaskier is taking a seat at the witcher’s side, settling one of those lovely hands on his unbroken arm. “What’s wrong? Please talk to me. I know it’s not your favorite thing but... I’m worried about you.”

And Geralt can smell it. The air is thick with worry. The witcher could choke on the scent of Jaskier’s concern for him; but beneath it, almost hidden, is the gentle, warm chamomile and honey of care. Jaskier cares. Jaskier might even-

“I can’t protect you, like this,” Geralt explains, voice quiet even to his own ears. “I’m... I’m of no use to you.”

“Oh darling,” the bard laughs. It’s a sad laugh, and it makes Geralt meet his gaze at last. “You don’t need to be of use to me. You could never lift a finger again on our travels and while I may be slightly confused and put out, I still wouldn’t leave your side. Is... is that what has you so worried?”

Geralt can only nod. 

“Well, that’s settled, then. I’m sticking around to bother you indefinitely and you,” the bard pokes the witcher in the chest and Geralt blinks owlishly, still processing this little revelation. “Are going to stop being so self loathing. It’s a terrible look on you, really. Gorgeous hair, strangely fantastical golden eyes, glorious ass, and all that delicious muscle and you still-”

Jaskier’s little rant is interrupted by Geralt’s lips against his, the witcher’s good arm coming up to wrap around Jaskier’s shoulders and pull him close. The bard just laughs and kisses back, hands cradling Geralt’s jaw on either side. Jaskier’s eyes are sparkling and his laugher fills the evening air with the bright sound of joy. Geralt notes, through the haze of his own pleasant emotions, that the worry smell is gone.

Running in the direction he had come from, he managed to dodge falling rocks and jump over crumbling walls, hearing Geralt crying his name from outside the building. Jaskier managed to find some relief in that, that Geralt was out and safe. He was almost out himself when he tripped over a brick, falling onto his forearms, feeling the breath get knocked out of him and a burning pain tear at his ankle.

Fuck.

In the thousands of possible ways he could have died on his many travels, it would be a brick that would take him out. He tried to catch his breath, to push himself up but his ankle would not cooperate.

An arm was suddenly pulling him up, out, practically dragging him to safety, only letting go once they had gotten far enough away from the tower. The second the arm let go, he fell to the ground, his ankle refusing to hold him up any longer. He didn’t care, he had his lute.

“What the fuck was that?” Jaskier winced at the rage in Geralt’s voice. He looked up tentatively at the furious Witcher.

“What was what?” He tried asking innocently. Geralt growled, dropping to the ground in front of Jaskier and grabbing him forcefully by the shoulders.

“What the fuck was that? You could have died Jaskier and all for what? Some instrument? What if I hadn’t reached you in time, hm?” Jaskier blinked at the genuine worry he saw beneath the anger on Geralt’s face, his golden eyes practically molten.

“Sorry?” Was all he could muster in response, for once not having much to say. Geralt growled again and looked away, letting go of Jaskier and standing up.

“Fuck.” he heard him mutter before turning away from the bard completely to go check on the still thankfully unconscious witch. Jaskier watched him walk away, shoulders still tense. He could tell the Witcher’s adrenaline was still coursing through him.

Jaskier tried manoeuvring his leg silently, wanting to test how injured it was. The movement caused a biting pain to tear up his leg, making him yelp in pain and the Witcher turn back around to face him. With a sigh, he kneeled down and reached for his ankle. “Take a breath.” He warned, before scooping up the injured leg to examine it. Jaskier sucked in a breath, scrunching his face and cradling his lute to his chest. Geralt’s eyes found his face yet again, the anger now gone, replaced by faint amusement. Those eyes flicked down to Jaskier’s lute before he shook his head. “Dumbass”.

—

Jaskier had almost died plenty of times because of that damned lute actually.

Another time, he had been cornered in a dark alley on his way to a tavern, this time without Geralt. The men demanded his money and he had reluctantly given them all he had, which albeit wasn’t much. Panic built in his chest as he watched the moonlight glint off of their blades.

“This all you got, bard?” Their leader demanded, clearly not pleased with the measly coins Jaskier had left.

“I’m afraid so, kind sirs.” He replied, voice wavering as the man stepped closer, his hungry eyes roaming Jaskier up and down, resting on the intricate lute in the bard’s hand. Jaskier uselessly attempted to hide the lute behind him, trying to squeeze it between his body and the wall. The man smirked.

“The lute.”

“What?”

Jaskier suddenly found himself face-to-face with a rather savage looking knife.

“Give us the lute.”

Jaskier paused, desperately trying to think of a way out. It was a gift from Filavandrel, from the elves, an elven lute, one he got on his very first adventure with Geralt. It was the same lute he had used to write and play his very first songs about the Witcher. There was no way in hell he was going to give it to some common, unwashed bandits.

“No.” Came his reply. He thought he sounded rather brave. Of course, this was almost immediately undermined by the subsequent blade to his throat.

“You want to rethink that response? We’d hate to ruin that pretty little outfit of yours.” He snarled, the others behind him sniggering. Jaskier’s heart was pounding in his throat, the cold blade pushing painfully against his skin.

“Leave the bard be.” Came a familiar voice and Jaskier almost sighed in relief but refrained, in fear that the movement would dig the knife further into his throat.

“Move on, Witcher, this is none of your business.” One of the other thieves sneered. Geralt was out of his periphery, but Jaskier hoped, no he knew, that Geralt wouldn’t leave him there.

“Unfortunately I can’t. See, that’s my bard you’re threatening.” Growled the Witcher, the familiar hiss of his sword escaping its sheath penetrating the air. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh, you think this is funny, bard?” The man asked, stepping closer and pressing the blade in further, finally drawing blood.

Not long after, Geralt was wiping the man’s own blood off of his steel, he had let the other two thieves run away.

“You wouldn’t give them your lute.” Geralt said, more of a statement than a question.

“A father always protects his child, dear Geralt.” Jaskier responded, giving his instrument a dramatic kiss. The Witcher only grunted in response, coming closer to draw his thumb across the skin of Jaskier’s throat, a frown on his face. The bard swallowed thickly.  “So…inn?” He managed to suggest weakly.

—

The point is, Jaskier was very protective of his lute. He had once almost gotten into a fight with a man who dared insult it.

“Criticise my singing all you want, but this lute does not sound like a wailing cat, you deaf, talentless bastard.” Jaskier had yelled from Geralt’s grasp, who was holding him back from punching the much bigger man.

The point is, Jaskier loved that lute. Which brought them to a very specific day.

The two men were in a town that had not yet warmed to the idea of Witchers, even after Geralt had gotten rid of a Kikimora for them. He wasn’t bothered by it though, he’d had plenty of…unpleasant experiences with humans before, especially before he’d met Jaskier who had made it his mission to change the public’s opinion on Geralt. He was used to hurled insults and glares and other…hurled objects.

He couldn’t say the same for Jaskier. The bard had experienced some of the dislike before, it came with job of following a Witcher, yet he still hadn’t gotten used to it

“You’d think they’d at least let us stay the night after what you did for them.” Geralt heard him mumble under his breath, his mood downright rotten as he scowled at all the faces glowering at the Witcher.

“Some cannot be swayed, Jaskier.” Came Geralt’s patient response, his feet swift beneath him as they tried to make their way out of the town as quickly as possible. There was a crowd gathering behind them, as if forming a blockade should the two men decide to venture back into the town. His hearing granted the Witcher the ability to hear the comments coming from the townspeople. He was glad that Jaskier couldn’t hear them, he had developed a habit of defending Geralt’s non-existent honour and while it did light a warm flame within him, they just needed to get out of this godsdamned town without any trouble. That was, until he felt something hard hit the back of his head.

“What was that?” Asked Jaskier, stopping alongside Geralt.

“Nothing.”  He grunted in response, beginning to move off again.

“Geralt-“ Jaskier began, but stopped when he saw another stone fly and hit the Witcher’s back this time, Geralt did not stop walking, however, the bard whirled around, seething. “Who the fuck threw that?”

“Jas-“

“He’s a filthy monster. Doesn’t belong here.” A middle aged man spat.

“You fucker-“ Jaskier started as he tried to storm over to the man, no doubt to kick him where it would hurt, but Geralt stopped him, grabbing his wrist.

“Don’t.” He said simply, jaw tense. He could sense that their audience was aggravated, which was the last thing Geralt wanted. Jaskier noticed the way the Witcher pursed his lips, he spotted the pain behind those amber eyes. Jaskier knew that the hatred people bore for him pained the Witcher more than he’d care to admit.

“Fine.” Came the bard’s terse response, the fury never leaving his face. The Witcher dropped his hand, eager to continue on when he saw another rock flying towards his face. He caught it this time, but couldn’t catch Jaskier as he stormed towards the man, lute over his shoulder as he swung it, swung it until -

A sudden crack rang out as the man fell to the ground with a bark.

He thought back to the times the bard had vehemently protected his lute, had endangered himself for it. And so, Geralt stared wide-eyed at his bard as he gripped his beloved, shattered lute, all the while shouting at the man. The Witcher’s non-existent honour felt very defended at the moment.

People were getting agitated, fingers curling into fists, Jaskier himself looking ready to hit someone over the head again. The Witcher quickly strode over to his bard before any more fights broke out, pulling him away by his waist and keeping him tight to his chest. He began to walk away again, Jaskier still yelling over his shoulder.

“-more of a monster than he’ll ever be! You’d be lucky if he ever came back to this ungrateful shithole of a-” his tirade continued. Geralt allowed himself a soft smile.

Jaskier had never feared Geralt and had always had hope in his humanity, always followed him into danger. He couldn’t deny Jaskier’s poor preservation skills but Geralt couldn’t help but feel a certain sweetness at the thought. At any thought of the bard, really.

And he knew how much that lute meant to him and how much a new one would cost.

He only let go of him once they had left the town, reluctantly setting him down and searching his face for the inevitable grief at his lute’s demise, finding only outrage.

“- fucking stones - what in the actual - who - they’re bloody fuckwits, the lot of them, Geralt, so don’t think for a moment that you’re anything but -“

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

“You have an incredible ability to talk at extreme length.”

“I am aware, Geralt, thank you.”

Geralt smiled and tilted his head in that fond way he sometimes did, Jaskier’s face lit up at the sight.

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

Geralt examined the still oblivious bard, slightly dishevelled, eyes shining.

“Your lute.”

Finally the bard seemed to realise what he had done. He lifted the battered instrument to his face, gazing at it woefully.

“Ah, well,” He began, voice breaking slightly, “it was a noble death, my friend.” Jaskier gave it a comforting kiss. “We’ll bury it somewhere nice, it’s the least we could do for all of the joy it’s brought us.”

Geralt snorted, but quickly covered it up with a cough when Jaskier’s watery, blue eyes looked to him again.

“Ah, yes, so…” The Witcher started, not really knowing what to say.

“Off we go?” The bard finished. Geralt gave him a small nod, moving off again on the road.

“Jaskier?”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

“Always, Geralt.”

He's got parchments strewn all across his own table, bottom lip caught between his teeth and brow furrowed as he scribbles away. He takes absent pulls of his ale every now and again, too focused on his writing to notice anything around him, and Yennefer feels another rush of irritation towards him when the tavern's owner, who's been ignoring her and her empty goblet for the last half hour, goes and replaces Jaskier's mug without having to be asked.

The tavern does fill up as the hour grows later, people coming in for company and supper, the latter of which, Yennefer observes suspiciously, Jaskier is served on the house. It's when the majority of the patrons are full and beginning to feel tipsy that the requests for music start up.

The owner is the one to approach Jaskier, looking strangely nervous as he talks quietly, gesturing at the rowdy crowd. Her curiosity piqued despite herself, Yennefer waves a subtle hand and murmurs a quiet enhancement spell, leaning forward in her seat expectantly.

“—rooms will be provided to the both of you, of course. Completely free of charge,” the owner offers with a tight smile.

“Oh?” Jaskier asks with a quirked brow, his own smile wide and downright vicious. “For both me and my—what was it again? Sick, disgusting abomination of a companion, yes? Those were your words, last time, were they not?”

Yennefer can see the owner swallow uncomfortably. “Sir, please, I—”

“Well, it's your lucky day!” Jaskier interrupts cheerfully. He indicates the parchments before he goes on with, “I've been composing all afternoon, you see. There's one little tune I'm sure you'll love. I think I might call it Abel's Tale, after you. Would you like a taste?”

The owner's face grows pale, but before he can answer, Jaskier starts humming and then singing softly, “When the cockroaches dance on the tables, you damn well know you are dining at Abel's—”

“Please,” the owner cuts in with a grimace, dropping several coins on the table in front of Jaskier. “What you paid me for your stay the last time. I—everyone's just begun to forget about your, uh. Your previous piece concerning my establishment.”

Jaskier barely glances at the coins before looking back up at the owner expectantly. The owner breathes out with a shudder, then offers, “Rooms and nightly baths, two meals a day, for as long as it takes your—your friend to finish his contract.”

“How very kind of you!” Jaskier chirps, one corner of his mouth curled up mischievously. He sweeps up the coins, gathers his parchments and stands, picking up his lute. He pats the man's chest as he squeezes by him, hand lingering. “Always a pleasure to do business with you, Abel.”

The patrons are yelling and hooting as Jaskier climbs up onto an empty bench and some of them holler when he strums the first few notes of Toss a Coin. He laughs happily and smiles at them, but his eyes are suddenly on Yennefer, twinkling and knowing.

Then, his smile turns wicked and he winks.

And Yennefer can't help the laugh that bubbles out of her, raising her goblet for a toast.

Annoying, yes, but also highly entertaining, Geralt's little bard.

*

Yennefer gets the word that her supplier has arrived the next day. The small, impromptu market has been set up just outside of town, close to the forest, magically concealed so it’s not noticeable unless one already knows it’s there.

Filian has the powdered gryphon talons, as promised, and Yennefer’s in good spirits as she wanders between stalls, right up until she sees them; fairies. A good dozen of them, crammed into a tiny cage like animals, with nowhere to hide from people’s poking fingers.

Hands clenched into fists, magic crackling around them, Yennefer stalks towards the offending stall, only to freeze when none other than Jaskier gets there first. Furious, Yennefer moves a few steps closer, but deflates somewhat at the tight look on Jaskier’s face.

He’s smiling, but even Yennefer, who barely knows him at all, can tell it’s forced. The vendor either can’t or simply doesn’t care, more than happy to show off his basilisk fangs when Jaskier inquires after some. It’s while the man is ducking under the display case that Jaskier’s hand shoots out towards the fairy cage, quick as a flash, pushing the deadbolt out of the lock.

Yennefer holds her breath, watching as the vendor lays out the fangs for Jaskier to inspect, but most of her attention on the fairies. They’ve all gathered close to the cage door and are whispering excitedly among themselves, until one of them is brave enough to push the door open.

For one, long moment, none of them move. And then it’s chaos.

The fairies explode out of the cage with high-pitched screeches and the vendor yells, cursing loudly as they descend on him, scratching and biting at his face. Jaskier is grinning as he moves out of the way, already turned halfway around when he stops and reaches back to grab the fangs, sliding them into his bag. He makes it all the way to the far side of the market before the fairies let up and the vendor seems to realise he’s been robbed. He looks murderous, growling and wiping at the blood on his face, craning his neck to glance around searchingly.

Yennefer twitches her fingers and his stall collapses.

Jaskier is waiting for her by the town gate, easily falling into step with her on the way back to the tavern. They settle down at a table and order lunch, eating in companionable silence for a while until Jaskier, after swallowing a bite of venison, says bluntly, “Thank you.”

Yennefer takes a sip of wine before answering. “Fairy trade is fairly common in these parts.”

“Oh, please,” Jaskier huffs and rolls his eyes. “We both know not everything that’s common or normal is always right and just.”

Yennefer smiles into her goblet and nearly chokes on a mouthful of wine when Jaskier adds, “And he called Geralt an ugly brute, so, you know. Two birds, one stone and all that.”

“I’ve misjudged you, bard,” Yennefer admits, but doesn’t elaborate when Jaskier pulls a confused face.

Instead, she waves over one of the barmaids. “Your best bottle of brandy, two glasses.” Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up. Yennefer quirks one back. “You’re going to decline free drink?”

They’ve made their way through most of the bottle, Jaskier flushed and silly and Yennefer not faring much better, when a hush falls over the tavern. Yennefer doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s just walked inside.

Jaskier’s face lights up when Geralt stops at their table, hand clumsy as he tugs at Geralt’s sleeve. “Look who I ran into,” he slurs and leans his head against Geralt’s chest with a contented hum.

Geralt puts a hand on the back of his neck, eyes going soft, and squeezes gently. He glances at Yennefer, looking conflicted, but Yennefer just shakes her head and smiles, offering him her glass.

“Do I want to know why you reek of fairy magic?” Geralt murmurs as he slides onto the bench next to Jaskier, accepting the brandy from Yennefer.

Jaskier snorts and starts cackling.

Yennefer, to her own shock, finds herself giggling right along.

Jaskier has been called many a thing, most of them true, many of them rude, and some of them even uncalled for. They have called forth affront and anger and ice. Never before has his his confusion dissolved into such furry. 

“Yes.” His jaw goes taught, his voice losing the easy lyrical tones it has, even in speech, “I am, and you’d best be to, seeing how Geralt is saving your backwater arse from death was we speak.” 

The man picks up his pint snorting into it as he goes for a drink, speaking into the mug, but not speaking softly enough, not so Jaskier can’t hear, “if we’re lucky they’ll kill each other. Monsters.”

Jaskier has a moment of sanity, a small moment when he sets his lute down, dropping it from his white knuckled grip, and think, resignedly, that this is one of his better outfits. And then that moment ends and Jaskier is already on the man, less weight but more intent, more furry and the man falls backwards, drink sloshing in his face and Jaskier doesn’t wait—he punches him in the face, relishing those surprised eyes, the feeling of the mans face cracking to the side. 

And then others come, try to pull him off, but he has the man’s shirt collar and they can’t drag him off, not with the rage that drives him. Until someone does—someone grabs his vest at the neck and yanks with more strength than the others combined and Jaskier’s ready to take this one too, anyone who would defend this man, but it’s Geralt’s  face that looks back at him, unamused. 

The man is slowly being helped up off the floor by other townsfolk and Geralt sets Jaskier on his feet, but leaves a heavy hand on Jaskier’s neck, holding him still, even as he makes an aborted move forward, anger still to hot to be so easily swayed, even at the redness of the mans face, at the blood on his nose and the sting on Jaskier’s knuckles. 

“The beast won’t be hunting here anymore.” Geralt says. 

Jaskier makes sure to make eye contact with the man—to narrow his own as threateningly as he can muster. He must know that the only reason he isn’t still on the ground getting beat to the best of Jaskier’s abilities is due to the man he disparaged. 

“Where’s the proof?” A woman asks, tone designed to cut. 

Geralt opens his mouth—

“He’s your proof.” Jaskier cuts in, raising his chin to point at his victim, “Now pay us our due and we shall leave.”

They do. Geralt watches without a word, eyes not on the town folks but Jaskier. 

When they have Roach and are back on the road, when Jaskier is strumming a song, fiddling with the strings, Geralt gives in.

“Why were you beating that man?”

Jaskier consciously loosens his grip, before shrugging, going for the jovial, unconcerned air that he can maintain, most of the time, “Some people just seem to need it.”

“hm”

Jaskier looks at Geralt, who doesn’t remove his gaze from the bard, “Oh alright, he said some things he shouldn’t have.”

Geralt snorts, “did you sleep with his wife?”

“Heavens help the woman that shares his bed,” Jaskier crosses himself, “And i thank for your thinking so highly of my skills—you were only gone a half day.”

“You’ve done more with less.”

“Ha!” Jaskier lets his laugh dissipate and they fall into silence.

“He said some poor things.” Jaskier says, after a stretch of silence that was almost at the point of worrying Geralt, “about you.”

Geralt’s back stiffens, “Many have said poor things about me before and they will again.”

He’s right, of course he is, Witchers don’t have an easy life, but when it’s just them it’s easy to forget.

“Well,” Jaskier strums a cord for something to do, “there will be one less, at least.”