#witcher train

Summary: For a contract, Geralt and Jaskier end up...a little too close to Blaviken. The villagers don’t take kindly to witchers or the bards who sing about them.

Warnings: canon-typical violence on the horizon here, folks.

This is another train fic I’ve been very lucky to be apart of! Keep an eye out for our next part, coming tomorrow!

next | collab masterpost 

Before they even get to town, Geralt pulls Jaskier to a stop. They're both walking while Geralt gives Roach a break, and Jaskier's been playing as they go, testing out a few bars for a new song.

"Jaskier."

"Hm?"

"When we get to town, I want you to keep your head down. Don't play any witcher songs." They're coming up on Ghelibol which is closer to Blaviken than Geralt usually allows them to travel, but there's an important contract he's heard about here and there's no getting around it. Just like there's no getting around bringing the bard with him.

"Why?" He tilts his head, expression open and curious, and Geralt has to breathe through the ache of longing in his chest.

"Because I'm not...I'm not well liked here." Jaskier just shrugs in response and starts walking again, strumming absently.

"All the more reason for me to play then, hm? Can't rehabilitate your image if you I don't—"

"Jaskier," he says harshly, catching his elbow and pulling him back to face him, perhaps a little too roughly, "no. It's not...we're too close to Blaviken," he says, and understanding dawns on Jaskier's face.

"All. The. More. Reason," Jaskier says severely, and Geralt feels anxiety wind its way around his chest, hot and tight as Jaskier pulls away, marching pointedly past Roach and ahead of them. He can only hope that they're far enough away, both in time and physical distance, from Renfri's death that the people have forgotten. He can't have another death on his conscience, but especially Jaskier's.

Walking into town is nerve wracking, for a number of reasons. Geralt's always alert about what the general reaction to his presence is, but it's heightened, this close to Blaviken and he has Jaskier to worry about, who is more than capable of getting himself into too much trouble if left unattended.

They rent a room without much fuss, or Jaskier does, anyway, and then Geralt's off to talk to his contact about the potential contract.

"Are you coming with?" Geralt asks when Jaskier doesn't appear to be in any rush to follow him out the door of their rented room, just continues tuning his lute.

"Oh no, you can go on without me," he says, smile sharp in a way that makes Geralt nervous about leaving him, "I think my skills are needed here, don't you?"

Normally, Geralt would be more than happy to leave Jaskier—it usually makes his hunts run much smoother—but he's anxious. "Just...no witcher songs, alright?" Jaskier huffs irritably.

"No witcher songs, alright?"

"Fine, fine, just go. And, uh. Be safe, Geralt."

Jaskier is always the one helping Geralt get cleaned up. When a fight goes slightly askew, it's Geralt's opportunity to return the favor.

part one: @witcher-and-his-bard

part two: @asweetprologue

part three: @fairytrashmother

part four: @julek

Beginning>> Next

Summary:  Desideratum - to long for. Five times Jaskier needed Geralt, plus one time Geralt needed him.

Hey yall, this is another train fic! Keep an eye out for the next part on Friday from our next mystery contributor!

He told himself it was for a number of reasons that he went out looking for Geralt. He told himself it was because he was bored at court, because Virginia was in a cooling phase, that Arthur was due back home any week now and Jaskier wasn’t looking forward to another shouting match between the count and countess. 

Jaskier told himself so many things as he followed the rumors to the river as to why he went looking for Geralt but the true reason. 

When he came down the path, he took a beat, watching his- his what? Geralt would never let him call him anything that made Geralt his anything. But there Geralt was, his shoulders drawn in a hard line of tension, sleeves rolled up over his elbows. 

Everything had gone tits up so fast that Jaskier didn’t know what else to do, so he did what he always would do. He clung to Geralt and hoped that the look of worry and concern were real and not just a creation of his own panic as he struggled for breath. The lump in his throat when he looked at Geralt was no longer just metaphorical and it crushed against his windpipe in a way that felt too much like a hand strangling the air from him. 

He tried for words but nothing came and Jaskier simply let himself be dragged along, first to a healer who was simply ineffectual and then to the witch. He was out before too long, sliding into a hazy sleep where he couldn’t call out for Geralt any more than he could with that thing blocking his voice. 

Coming to was no more illuminating than before, but he had a taste in his mouth of dust and blood and something sharp like magic meant to harm, In his fog he thought maybe he had been put in a bed in an inn somewhere and turned, reaching for the solid line of Geralt’s side that wasn’t there. For a moment, panic swelled in his chest and he thought the magic had come back, choking him again, but it was just the same pain he realized he was growing accustom to. 

The woman on the edge of the bed, her back turned to him was gorgeous and haunting, her black hair cascading down her naked back-

Her naked back. What had happened? Where was Geralt? Why did Jaskier remember an orgy? 

“Not to be untoward or anything, but did we-” he gestured vaguely between himself and the woman but when she turned, her face was a mask of determination and power. He scrambled from the bed, his boots by the door. 

When she asked for him to try some scales, the only song he could think to sing was Geralt’s. If he was close, maybe he would hear, maybe he would come and save him. Jaskier needed him to appear, to pull him out by the scruff of his neck as he always had and make those faces at him again, the ones Jaskier could tell himself made it feel like Geralt actually cared, even a little bit. 

“Make your last wish!” she demanded as she stood above her circle of candles. 

He knew what he desired, what would sooth the thing roiling in his gut but in the moment, he didn’t want to risk putting Geralt into the path of this crazy woman. “I- I wish very badly to leave this place forever!” 

When she started chanting, he ran. 

“Oh Geralt, thank the gods,” he huffed. It would have been so easy to just lean into him, into the space where Jaskier knew he’d be safe. He could pretend that Geralt would be happy he was alive even as he rushed in to save the witch that had just nearly tried to kill him. 

“She saved your life, Jaskier, I can’t let her die.” What was he supposed to do with that. 

Jaskier stood in the middle of the road, watching as the house seemed to partially collapse, and his heart collapsed with it. His chest constricted in a way he hadn’t been expecting. Sure he had cared for Geralt but something else, something like poison slipped between his ribs and festered into his heart. 

Jaskier didn’t just care for Geralt, he might have been just a little bit in love with him and it hadn’t been fair that he had resigned himself to a life chasing after the impossible. 

“... It wasn’t supposed to go this way.” There was a war within him. His- not his. Geralt was gone and Jaskier was left behind, as always, picking up the pieces of something he hadn’t realized would shatter so easily. 

“They’re alive!” Chireadan slumped down in front of him, pulling him to the window

Jaskier pushed in beside him, expecting relief to sooth the vibration under his skin. They were alive alright, and fucking their way to proving it. It had never bothered him before the idea of Geralt sleeping with someone. It shouldn’t have mattered then and so he told himself it didn’t. 

Just this once, and then we’ll never see her again. Jaskier reasoned, turning away quickly. 

But of course it wasn’t. 

And it wasn’t… and it wasn’t… and it wasn’t. And each time they ran into Yennefer by chance, by fate, or by Geralt’s own undefined need, a part of Jaskier chipped and cracked and threatened to shatter. 

“I thought we had a contract in Vizima?” Jaskier bounced along side Roach, his fingers working over a particularly tricky chord procession. 

“I have a contract in Vizima,” Geralt deadpanned, not looking at Jaskier.

“That’s all well and good, but this is the road to Murivel,” 

“I know how to read a map, Jaskier,” he growled back, but there didn’t seem to be any heat behind it. Instead, Geralt seemed almost pleased with himself. 

“I don’t doubt your ability with a map, Witcher, but I’m starting to doubt your sanity. What are you playing at?” he jogged up a bit until he was nearly in step with Roach, pushing his lute back over his shoulder. 

“There’s a bardic competition in Murivel for one of their festivals.” And there it was, that smile Geralt gave him on the rare occasions when the coin was alright, the people weren’t awful, and all the gods agreed that Jaskier should have something at least slightly nice in his life. He tried not to admit how much he had come to live off those smiles or to read into them. 

“What about the contract?” 

“Hm,” Geralt smirked, urging Roach on, leaving Jaskier to follow. 

They had found a room at a tavern on the edge of town and Geralt had even agreed to attend for Jaskier’s performance. 

“I mean it, Geralt! I’m counting on you,” Jaskier teased, throwing a towel at him as he climbed out of the bath. 

It felt like nearly every eye in Murivel was on him when he took the stage, but even through the haze of pipe smoke and the setting sun, Jaskier could still make out Geralt towards the edge of the square, his eyes not leaving Jaskier as he began to play. He hadn’t realized how much he had needed just that one set of amber eyes on him to settle his nerves. 

Jaskier had glanced away for a moment but when his eyes found Geralt again, those same eyes were now caught in violet ones framed by dark raven hair and a smile like a knife. It cut Jaskier to ribbons and his fingers tripped over the chords he otherwise knew in his sleep. 

Geralt had said it was because of a bardic competition, but as Jaskier left the stage, knowing that he lost points for his sudden loss of breath mid performance, he felt… played. 

Geralt would come back, of course he would. He always did. Jaskier sat at the end of the bar in the tavern and watched the door as he slowly tipped himself into the well made mead, spending nearly every coin of his third place winnings. He watched and waited as the tavern slowly emptied out, the barkeep getting more and more aggressive with insisting Jaskier call it a night. And so he did. 

Jaskier climbed the stairs alone and pushed into their… his room. The only thing there that had even suggested he wasn’t travelling alone was a second cloak hanging beside his on the back of the door. He reached out, adjusting it without purpose until he couldn’t bare to touch the thing any more. 

The note he left for Geralt was short and to the point and Jaskier didn’t think he would even think anything of it. Jaskier was prone to taking off randomly and this would have been no different, not from where Geralt stood anyways. 

He hadn’t slept and he watched through the tiny window as the sky beyond the city went from a deep bruising blue to a soft gray. He had set out then, not looking back as he found the road west. 

Jaskier swallowed around the lumb that had caught in his throat, the memory of the djinn tinging it with that same sharp taste that still left him breathless and helpless. 

“She saved your life, Jaskier. I can’t let her die,” he said, his eyes softer than they normally would be. 

Summary:  Desideratum - to long for.  Five times Jaskier needed Geralt, plus one time Geralt needed him.

Hey yall, this is another train fic! Keep an eye out for the next part on Wednesday from our next mystery contributor!

next | ao3

"Geralt," Jaskier hissed, "please--"

"No," he said, not so much as twitching, "I'm not getting involved." Jaskier deflated. It was...a little heartbreaking. They had traveled together for years and yet there were still days when he thought Geralt would have rather he'd never met him.

"It would only be for a night," he said, without any real conviction. he could tell from the scowl on his face, the stiffness of his shoulders, the eerie, still way he sat back on his heels, pretending at meditation before the hearth while Jaskier pestered him.

"You said the same thing about the banquet in Cintra. No." It was a low blow—they both knew it hadn’t been Jaskier's fault, not really, but—

"And when I'm harassed by cuckolds and angry spouses? What then, Geralt?"

"Hope you run quickly, then," Geralt said, expression smoothing to indifference as he settled into meditation, his breathing evening out. Realistically, Jaskier knew it was...probably fine. No one wanted to make a spectacle at a royal banquet, not really, but he was also aware of the fact that he had angered more than his fair share of spouses in his, ah, escapades. And then there was the fact he'd thought...fuck. He'd thought maybe Geralt had enjoyed his time at the banquets he'd played. But. Apparently not.

It didn’t matter. It was fine anyway.

Geraskier | T | five times Geralt tries to tell Jaskier he loves him and one time he succeeds.

For some time after that, things return to normal and Jaskier is surprisingly quiet about his scar. It haunts Geralt's thoughts. He thinks about it during the days, especially when they're camped out and at the mercy of anything that might show up to hurt them. Geralt keeps his eyes and ears open, always alert. And even when he sleeps, he dreams about it sometimes, a nocturnal reminder that this is his fault, that if Jaskier had stayed put in Posada all those years ago, he would never have gotten hurt, he wouldn't have that terrible scar now.

And Jaskier has assured him it's nothing, reminded him that Geralt also has scars and they're a mark of survival, but Geralt finds it hard to believe. Not when Jaskier still winces when he bends at the wrong angle or when he has to apply ointment in the evenings before bed. Geralt doesn't think of it as a mark of survival because even though Jaskier did survive, he never should have been in danger in the first place. Without Geralt in his life, he could have been somewhere warm and cozy, home somewhere or in someone's bed, but instead he was in the wrong place at the wrong time because he insists on following Geralt around. Or, rather, because Geralt isn't strong enough to tell him to leave.

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The card's a poor likeness and Geralt treasures it more than he cares for Jaskier most days but it's...it's important to him. Geralt likes gwent, he likes his gwent cards, it only makes sense Geralt would be upset about losing it.

"It's gwent," Jaskier says carefully, as if that explains it. Lambert heaves a very put-upon sigh.

"Do you really think it's just about gwent, bard?" He quirks an eyebrow, hands settling pointedly on his hips to squeeze gently. Abruptly, Jaskier realizes what he's insinuating.

"Oh, oh, Lambert, it's not—" he gulps hard, shifting a little uncomfortably, "it's not like that," he finishes softly.

"Isn't it though?" he asks, his expression teasing but also more serious than it's been all night. "Would he have cared this much about any other card?"

"He...might...have..." he says slowly, knowing even as the words leave his lips they aren't true. He's seen Geralt lose matches before, seen him lose cards. It's usually no more than the shrug of a shoulder or a grouchy glower. On one memorable occasion, Jaskier remembers him full on pouting, but not...not anything like how he'd been when he burst into their shared room near tears.

"Really?" Lambert asks, disbelieving, "how can you both be this thick?"

"Excuse me, I—"

"No," Lambert says, hands tightening on Jaskier's waist, "no He would not have been this upset over another card and you know that. Why, Jaskier? Why does it matter?"

"It's not like that," he bites out. Momentarily he hates Lambert, both for winning the card and for pushing this fool's fucking agenda. Nothing's going to come from this, it doesn't mean anything, even if Jaskier wishes it did.

"Alright," Lambert sighs, hard, "alright. I'm only gonna do this once, so listen," he sits up a little straighter, fishing his deck out of the inner pocket of his jerkin and tugging that fucking card free to wave in Jaskier's face. "Geralt cares because it's you."

"But that doesn't mean—"

"And he came down the stairs maybe ten minutes ago, saw you here," he tugs gently at Jaskier's hip where his other hand still rests, "and looked like I'd kicked his puppy before he rushed outside."

"What?" That doesn't...that doesn't make any sense. "He wouldn't have—"

"He wouldn't have what, bard? Wouldn't have cared?" Lambert just looks frustrated now. "If you'd had to listen to him every winter you wouldn't even question it. He's fucking hopelessly gone on you, you idiot."

"What?" Lambert blows out a heavy breath and tips his head back to stare at the timbers of the ceiling.

"Gods, you're both killing me." He levels Jaskier with a look, tapping the card along his own thigh, "he never shuts up about you."

"He—he what? Lambert, are we talking about the same Geralt?" That at least pulls a smirk out of him, something distinctly amused.

"Right? You'd think he'd brood all silent about it. It's fucking insufferable. It's always Jaskier this, Jaskier that," he lowers his voice in a mocking imitation of his brother, "You'll never guess what Jaskier did this year." Jaskier has to bite back the laugh that bubbles in his throat at the poor imitation.

"That sounds nothing like Geralt." Lambert just shakes his head.

"He's like this every winter, Jaskier. Put us all out of our misery, eh?" He hands the card to him, held gently between index and middle finger. Jaskier takes it gingerly, studying the shoddy artwork.

"What if you're wrong?" he asks, barely louder than a breath. He knows Lambert can hear him anyway.

"I'm not," he says firmly, "but if he's a dick about it, you can always sleep with me tonight." He wiggles his eyebrows in a manner Jaskier's sure is supposed to be enticing, but only makes him laugh.

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The graveir contract was supposed to be easy. Geralt had picked it up on their way out of town and was completely confident that he could kill the graveir and get paid before sundown and they'd be back on their way. Jaskier has a performance in Cidaris in a week and he can't possibly miss it. Geralt promised he wouldn't.

But now dusk has fallen and there's still no sign of his Witcher and thoughts of Jaskier's performance have been set aside in favour of worrying about Geralt. The last time he came back later than he said he would, he was barely able to walk and Jaskier had had to all but carry him to the healer in the next town. So now he's imagining Geralt, battered and bloody and lying alone in the cemetery, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's pulling on his boots and stumbling down the stairs. 

The night air is cold, but Jaskier is only thinking about Geralt as he hurries toward the local cemetery. He can hear the growls of the graveir from here and it twists his stomach into knots thinking about it. When he spots Geralt, cornered and swordless, he knows he has to intervene.

---

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"Listen, bard," he smirks, "I know what you're doing here and it's not going to work, so don't even try. Geralt lost that card in a fair match and I'm not going to just give it back to him because he's sulking."

Jaskier pouts but the expression has no effect and Lambert just downs the rest of his drink.

"I'm sure we could work something out," he hums, leaning over the table and smiling up at him. His cheeks get sore before Lambert even deigns to acknowledge him and then, it's only to mutter a sharp, no, before returning to his beer.

Lambert's found someone new to play against, and Jaskier considers the opponent for a moment. He's young, impressionable, could probably be persuaded away if Jaskier tried hard enough. And Jaskier's going to need Lambert's full attention for this. He slips into the seat next to the young man, leaning in a little too close and peering at his cards.

"Show me how to play?" he asks and the man grunts, but when he looks up at Jaskier, his frown shifts into a smile.

"Fennec," he smiles, and lifts an arm to make room for Jaskier to scooch closer and Jaskier smirks across the table at Lambert.

"Jaskier. A pleasure."

Jaskier pays little attention to the tutorial, then, when it's finished leans in to whisper in the man's ear. He feels a little bad for leading him on like this, but it's for a good cause.

"Meet me upstairs in five minutes. Third room on the right." The man tucks his cards back into their case, then slips from his seat, dragging a hand across Jaskier's shoulders as he goes. Jaskier waits until he's gone, then stares dead across the table at Lambert.

"So," he says, "about the card."

--