#wolftcher

     𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖞'𝖛𝖊 𝖘𝖆𝖎𝖉 𝖌𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖇𝖞𝖊 𝖘𝖔 𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖞 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖘 but the times where they weren’t sure when they’d see one another again were the hardest. Jaskier wants to start begging again, get on his knees and plead until his Wolf relented— but he knew it would be of no use. He’s done it before and it got him nowhere but awash in the sea of silent sorrow that filled Geralt’s eyes. It was too dangerous. Geralt didn’t want to lose Jaskier But had he ever considered that Jaskier didn’t want to lose him?

Geralt didn’t have an answer to that one. Or if he did, he certainly didn’t share it.

So in the lieu of begging it was all Jaskier could do but cling to his Witcher, hold him tight around the ribs and try to memorize the way it felt. The rise and fall of each breath, his chest through the thick leathers, his hair blowing in the gentle breeze and tickling at the side Jaskier’s head (buried in Geralt’s shoulder where he could breathe him).

      " 𝕯𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 or the story I tell people at parties? " Jaskier laughs, a harrowing attempt to ease Geralt's silent worry. He'd seen that flicker of fire in his eyes as he thumbed over the scar on Jaskier's soft cheek. That unsaid promise of 'if somebody hurt you'—

" Let's go with the red herring first, shall we? " The bard set to tell a proper tale. His hands freed from Geralt's hair to allow for gesture, Jaskier straightened up and cleared his throat theatrically (though only slightly, lest he disturb his sluggish wolf too much and be robbed of these affections). " 'Twas a tense and windy night when I found myself at the end of Sir Reighland's blade. I'd just finished a set of your tales at the local tavern in Briar and was off to bed, but it seemed sleep would have to wait. That was— if I would ever make it back to bed at all. "

" 'Been tailing you since Crow's Rest', he told me, 'but tonight is the night it ends. You're a scoundrel in every sense'— " ....he trailed off. This feels wrong, doesn't it? These inflated tales of ego and heroism... As entertaining as they were, they were never meant for Geralt. They were props to build a character. Yarns to be woven before crowds who would never glimpse the real Julian Alfred Pancratz, only the amalgam their mind had sewn together from scraps of performance and assumption.

Geralt didn't need to see the performance. He didn't care about the performance. All he cared about what the nick of flesh taken out of his Bard's cheek and how it got there.

Jaskier sighed, relenting.

" It was nothing spectacular. Really. In fact I would wager it's a little embarrassing." There's a pause like he's waiting to be pardoned from telling it but Geralt says nothing, continues to peer intently— " Alright, alright. Fine. " Jaskier grumbles. " About half a year ago I arrived in Briar late in the day. The carriage I'd borrowed so graciously from my friend Count Ferdinand only took me about three fourths of the way there before so unceremoniously ditching me in the wood. If I didn't know better I'd say he was trying to get me killed! But you know me. I bitched, I persevered. "

         𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖓𝖔 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 on the face of the Witcher. Jaskier has seen him bathed in it almost as many times as he's seen him bathe period. Blood in reds, blacks, blues, greens, and practically every color between— but Geralt has never looked so rattled by it.

His wolf swayed in the doorway, staring into space, and Jaskier launched himself out of his seat to rush to his side. A gathering of curious & intrusive drunkards began to swell around Geralt like vultures hungry to pick the meat off of the bones of his latest story but there would be none of that tonight. No legends spun nor songs sang — Jaskier was quick to dispel them. All waving hands and stern looks; "Back up. Shoo! Can't you see this isn't the time?"