#samstree

Roach snorts at the sight of a pale, drenched-rat-looking Jaskier, ruining his precious boots as he runs across the mud in the pouring rain, his robes flying behind him. 

“Geralt!” He calls again, finally reaching the shelter of the stables and catching his breath by a pillar. “I thought I’d be too late.”

That’s me, Geralt thinks. I’m always too late. 

But he says, “Jaskier,” in a soft whisper, and walks closer, because he can’t help himself. 

The bard is a sight: his hair is somehow both up in the air and sticking down to his forehead, cheeks flushed red and blue eyes so, so blue. He’s wearing green robes and he looks so beautiful, so ridiculous with his lecturing clothes clinging to his skin, Geralt wants to take him in his arms and carry him inside, get him close to a fire.

He does no such thing, of course. 

But he does wait.

“I thought I’d seen you,” Jaskier says once he’s regained his breath. “Through my bedroom window. I said to myself it couldn’t be you— why would you even be here is beyond me— but here you are. In the flesh.”

“In the flesh,” Geralt echoes, and, suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He fists them around Roach’s reins. “You are… well.”

“I am freezing, is what I am,” Jaskier replies with a dashing grin, wringing water from his fringe, even though there’s still a cloud of confusion over his eyes. “Why are you here, Geralt? I don’t mind the surprise visit, of course I don’t, but I…” 

He pauses, expectant. 

Right. Words. 

Geralt knows those. 

“Roach,” he starts, and that’s not what he was meant to say, but he’s said it, so he has to go along with it— “she missed you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are blue. Blue and wide. “...Oh.” He seems to regain his composure. “Oh, well, of course I’ve missed her as well. Terribly.”

Geralt pats her on the neck. “Of course.”

Jaskier looks like he wants to say something, and his mouth is a small circle before he seems to change his mind, and he looks at Geralt’s clothes. “You’re soaked,” he says, reaching for him and taking his hand back at the last minute, hesitant. “Come inside, I’ll get you some clean clothes for the journey.”

He turns around, sure that Geralt will follow him, but Geralt can’t take it— can’t see the hurt lingering in Jaskier’s eyes and not do something, can’t keep throwing salt in the wound and expecting it to not sting. 

“Jaskier,” he breathes, and the bard turns around, and it’s too much. “It’s… I’m…”

If he reached out his hand, he could find out if Jaskier’s cheeks are as soft as they look. 

He does. 

“Geralt…”

Geralt closes his eyes, drawing him closer, and Jaskier goes — of course he does — and his cheek is soft and warm under his touch, and he needs him to be near, needs him to want to be near. 

“You’re not an old acquaintance,” Geralt murmurs in the space between them, tipping his forehead to rest against Jaskier’s. “You couldn’t be.”

“Geralt.”

“You’re…” he breathes in. Breathes Jaskier in. “I’ve been a liar. All this time.” 

He pulls back, opens his eyes. He circles Jaskier’s waist in his hands, and the bard looks small, vulnerable. Breakable. 

He won’t break him anymore. 

“There have been important people in my life,” he continues, under Jaskier’s careful gaze. “I’ve made you think you weren’t one of them. Jask, I— I pushed you away.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. “I’m—”

“I’ve made you believe you weren’t one of the most important people in my life,” he repeats, “when all this time… Jaskier…”

He can hear Jaskier’s heart beating close to his. 

“It’s always been you.”

Geralt kisses the grin off Jaskier’s face — or tries to, but they’re both smiling and their teeth clack together and they have to start all over again, and it’s messy and far from perfect, but they have time to make mistakes. 

~~~

“Hello, sweetling,” Jaskier said as he slid onto a log next to Geralt at their camp.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier blushed a little. They fell into awkward silence. 

~~~

“Pass me my notebook, darling,” Jaskier said in their shared room at the inn.

Geralt passed the notebook. He did not react to the name. 

~~~

“There you are, my lovely!” Jaskier shouted from across a marketplace.

Geralt didn’t even notice he was being addressed. 

“How on earth did you not realize I was talking to you?” Jaskier groused later. 

“You call everyone things like that. It could have been a barmaid you had just met, for all I knew. Of course I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

Jaskier sighed, but he saw Geralt’s point.

This was going nowhere. His attempts so far were an obvious failure. He was starting to feel rather desperate.

He would just have to be more creative. 

~~~

"Hey, Ger-bear!"

Geralt stared at him, unimpressed.

~~~

“How are you, sweet cheeks?”

Geralt’s stare was more bewildered this time. Jaskier wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

~~~

"What do you think, honey bunny?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

~~~

“Hello, my sweet witcher-muffin!”

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“I take it I shouldn’t try ‘my little cabbage,’ then?”

“Absolutely not.”

“How about snooky ookums?” 

“I will leave you on this roadside and never return.”

“Yeah, yeah. I love you too.”

Geralt flicked his nose hard, and Jaskier lost the train of their conversation while sputtering loudly and subsequently having to catch up to Roach. 

~~~

"I've been trying to think of things he likes," Jaskier explained miserably to the vaguely sympathetic barmaid while Geralt was off on a hunt. "Unfortunately, half of it has to do with monster hunting or other useless things and the other half I've already tried."

"What's his favorite monster?" asked the barmaid absently. "You could use that."

"I might try."

~~~

"Well, if it isn't my very favorite-easily lopped head of a drowner for which the alderman is paying extra!"

Geralt stared at him. "What?"

"Um. Never mind."

~~~

Things shifted when they visited Kaer Morhen. Jaskier, obviously, was not as comfortable experimenting in front of Geralt’s family (especially Lambert) as he was in towns they were passing through. Despite the difficulties, though, he refused to pause his project. He listened intently to how Geralt’s family referred to him, just in case it revealed anything useful. For the most part, it was only his name, “Wolf,” and the occasional affectionate insult. Then, one evening, something extremely interesting occurred. 

Geralt had been complaining about a noble and his knights that he had encountered that year. Lambert got that mischievous glint in his eyes that almost always meant trouble. 

“That’s rich coming from you, Geralt Roger Eric—”

Geralt turned on Lambert with a deadly glare. The dinner knife in his hand suddenly seemed much more threatening. “If you finish that sentence, you will regret it.”

Lambert raised his hands in mock surrender, though he did not look at all repentant. The conversation moved on. Jaskier did not forget. 

That night, after he and Geralt had returned to their shared room, he finally had the chance to corner Geralt and ask.

“What was that about?”

Geralt winced, looking rather trapped. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Geralt Roger Eric?”

Geralt grimaced. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

“I should hope you know me well enough to realize that I am not going to let this go until you tell me.”

Geralt was silent for a long moment, then sighed, defeated. “It was the name I first wanted to use on the Path.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Geralt Roger Eric?”

Geralt closed his eyes. His next words were strained. “It was Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment in silence. Geralt refused to meet his eyes. 

“What?” Jaskier managed.

“I thought it sounded knightly,” mumbled Geralt. 

“Oh! Well, I suppose it does. Why didn’t you use it?”

“Vesemir told me it was too ridiculous.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said again, thoughtful. “Did you agree?”

“I didn’t see it at the time, but I agree now.”

Jaskier frowned. “So at the time, you still wanted to use the name.”

“I was young. I didn’t know better.”

“That’s not the point! The point is that they didn’t let you!”

Geralt frowned at him. “Why are you upset about this?”

“You chose a name and were refused. They took that from you. You deserve the chance to choose something so important as a name, after all the choices you didn’t get to make.”

“It was a stupid name, Jaskier.”

“Maybe, but you deserved to be stupid.”

“Stupidity gets witchers killed.”

Jaskier threw his hands up in the air. “I changed my name to fucking ‘Buttercup’ of all things and I’ve never regretted it. I like it. Why can’t you change your name to sound more knightly? You certainly act knightly enough to merit it!” 

“So? Are you going to start calling me by a ridiculous name now to make up for what happened sixty years ago?”

“I very well might!” 

~~~

Jaskier stuck to his resolution. He never used the name in public, because he had a feeling Geralt might combust and because he didn’t want to give Lambert more ammunition than he already had, but he took to calling Geralt by some part or variant of Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde on a fairly regular basis. Geralt tended to look flustered when he did so. Jaskier had yet to determine if this was because he liked it or because he was horribly embarrassed. 

He stuck to it for three weeks before Geralt finally asked him to stop.

"Why, dear heart?"

“I’m not that person anymore.”

“You deserved the chance to be that person.”

“I don’t need to be him anymore.”

“Do you want to be him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” Jaskier could understand that, however reluctantly. “That’s fine. I’ll stop.”

“You don’t have to stop entirely. Just… not all the time.”

“All right.” 

Jaskier would respect Geralt’s wishes. The point of a special pet name would be to make him happy, after all. Unfortunately, Geralt’s chosen name had been Jaskier’s last idea. He’d already tried every nickname, endearment, or interesting epithet that he could think of. 

“What should I call you, then?” asked Jaskier. His voice sounded significantly more vulnerable than he would have liked. 

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to think of good things to call you for the last month and I haven’t found anything. I’m a bard. I love you with everything I am. I should be able to do better.”

Geralt deserved good things. Jaskier’s project was failing. He should be able to do better for Geralt. 

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Geralt softened immediately. He did not speak, but Jaskier could tell it was the kind of silence that meant he was gathering his thoughts.

“I used to hate my name,” Geralt said eventually. “It didn’t feel like it was really mine for a very long time. Most don’t use it anyway. I have many epithets. Wolf, Butcher, Witcher… none of them are really a name. I was almost glad not to be called ‘Geralt,’ for a while, but then you came along.” He looked Jaskier in the eye, expression startlingly vulnerable. “I like how you say my name. You say it musically, like it’s something important. Significant. Worth remembering. I… like that.” Gently, tenderly, he took Jaskier’s hand. “I’ll always love anything you call me, but my name is enough to make me happy.”

Jaskier’s eyes felt rather wet. He blinked to clear them. Geralt’s expression was startlingly earnest. His hand was very warm where it still held Jaskier’s. 

“Oh,” Jaskier managed. 

Geralt’s brows furrowed a little. “Is that all right?”

Jaskier blinked. Geralt looked at him attentively, awaiting his judgment. Jaskier used Geralt’s hand to pull him closer and into a tight hug.

“Of course it’s all right, you ridiculous man.”

Geralt barely hesitated before hugging Jaskier back, and Jaskier spared a moment to feel proud of his witcher for how much he’d grown. 

“Are you sure?” said Geralt. “I don’t want to spoil your notions of romance.”

“All I want is for you to be happy,” said Jaskier. “If nicknames aren’t the way to do that, I can live with it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to do whatever makes you feel good.” Jaskier pulled back a little to look Geralt in the eyes. He smiled a little. “Though I can’t promise I won’t use silly endearments occasionally.”

Geralt chuckled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

~~~

For the most part, Jaskier let Project Pet Names lie. It had served its purpose. Every now and then, of course, he couldn’t help but use one of the various ridiculous endearments he came up with. Most of the time, though, the way Geralt smiled when Jaskier said his name with all the love he could muster was more than enough for both of them. Geralt knew he was loved. Jaskier was happy. 

Still, when Jaskier first sang his song about a brave knight named Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde (it was a nightmare to fit into any sort of meter, but great things were possible in the name of true love), he could have sworn he saw Geralt blush. 

They both spent the evening smiling. 

~~~

Seven months later, Geralt and Jaskier attended another ball. The patrons were slightly less rich and so the event was rather less fancy, which suited both of them perfectly. Just like the previous time, the couple who owned the mansion were celebrating an anniversary, and nearly the same romantic songs were being played. 

This time, though, Jaskier approached Geralt with no trace of nervousness or uncertainty. Jaskier simply gave Geralt a grin and took his hand, smiling impossibly brighter as Geralt pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

Though the couples around them were exchanging romantic words of their own, Jaskier paid them no mind. His own romance was more than enough to keep him occupied. 

He looked up at his witcher with a soft smile. 

“C’mon, Geralt.” He holds out a hand. “Give me a twirl.”

Geralt took his hand easily. “Of course.”

It was the best dance Jaskier could remember.

~~~

(“I do think your knightly name could come in handy sometime, Geralt.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, Geralt Roger Eric Pankratz has a certain ring to it.”

“Oh.”