Chapter Text
After what'd happened the first time Jaskier had dragged Geralt to some kind of royal ball as his bodyguard, Geralt really should’ve known better than to agree to do it a second time.
He quietly curses his own stupidity all the way through Jaskier forcing him into a bath (again) then dressing him up in some kind of ridiculous leather-and-silk getup (also again). He momentarily forgets to be cross for the twenty minutes it takes Jaskier to decide whether he prefers Geralt’s tunic unbuttoned to the first or the second button, his slender fingers brushing warm and gentle against Geralt’s throat as he crowds close and fusses with the collar of the tunic, frowning intently at it.
Geralt finally has to shove Jaskier away, leaving his tunic unbuttoned to the first button, because having Jaskier so close for a prolonged amount of time is…is…it’s distracting, damn it. The room Geralt had gotten at this inn is tiny, and Jaskier being right here, in his space, is making Geralt feel overly warm, heat prickling up the back of his neck, goosebumps raising all the hairs on his arms. He grimaces, tugging grouchily at the collar of the tunic with two fingers.
Jaskier, of course, notices Geralt fiddling with his collar. “Two buttons it is, then,” he declares cheerfully, then steps in close again and deftly unbuttons the second button on Geralt’s tunic.
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.
“Yes, yes. Patience, Geralt, I’m almost ready,” Jaskier says, then turns his back to Geralt and takes off his shirt.
“What,” Geralt says flatly, “are you doing.”
Jaskier tosses him an incredulous look over his shoulder. “Changing into my best clothes, of course. Why, the Marquis de Beren would have me thrown out if I showed up at court in these clothes.” He emphasizes his statement by taking off his trousers as well and letting them puddle on the floor, leaving him clad only in a pair of dark blue underpants.
Jaskier proceeds to root around vigorously in his pack, finally pulling out a spare set of clothes which, in Geralt’s opinion, look exactly the same as Jaskier’s regular clothes. To be fair, though, he isn’t actually paying that much attention to Jaskier’s clothes.
Geralt glares irritably at the smooth, pale skin of Jaskier’s back, and absolutely does not notice the downy hair on the bard’s slim thighs as Jaskier steps into a fresh pair of trousers and tugs them up over his narrow hips. This situation is entirely Jaskier’s fault and Geralt is still not sure why he agreed to any of it.
(It certainly has nothing to do with the way Jaskier smiled hopefully at him when he asked for Geralt’s help, or his wide eyes and wounded little pout when Geralt offered the helpful suggestion that being smacked around by a few nobles might teach Jaskier to be a little more discerning about who he decided to play hide-the-sausage with. No, indeed.)
***
Thanks to the popularity of Jaskier’s ballads, Geralt is, to his surprise and disgust, rather in demand at court. He spends the first part of the evening fending off requests from various nobles for stories of harpies or succubi or kikimora, finally breathing a sigh of relief when the servants begin to seat the guests for the banquet.
Geralt gets seated between two young, comely ladies who spend most of the banquet flirting with him. It’s not exactly a hardship to let them lean on his shoulder, batting their eyelashes up at him coquettishly and feeding him sliced fruit, pressing their slender fingers, sweet and sticky with fruit nectar, to his lips, but somehow his heart isn’t quite in it and he doesn’t care to examine too closely why.
He’s seated directly opposite from where Jaskier is playing his lute at the other end of the banquet hall. Jaskier keeps darting quick, furtive looks over at Geralt as he sings, an unreadable expression on his face, until Geralt finally catches the bard’s eye and raises an eyebrow questioningly at him. Jaskier smiles weakly back, then looks away quickly.
Jaskier doesn’t look at Geralt once during the rest of his performance. And if Geralt spends the rest of the meal glaring into his wine and ignoring the ladies sitting on either side of him despite their increasingly bold flirtations, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
***
After dinner, there is dancing. Geralt does not enjoy dancing.
He dodges numerous requests to dance and parks himself in a corner, half hidden by some monstrosity of a sculpture that the Marquis de Beren apparently considers art. Jaskier, performance completed to rapturous applause, has disappeared off to parts unknown.
It’s only when Geralt ventures out to the patio – right by the open doors that lead to the Marquis’s gardens – to refill his goblet, that he spots Jaskier again. The bard is a little ways outside, standing by one of the shrubs that form part of the garden’s tall hedges. He’s half-turned away from Geralt, speaking to someone standing in the shadow of the hedge. Moonlight glints off his dark hair, turning his gilded clothing silvery and illuminating the small, tentative half-smile on his face, and Geralt swallows hard, breath catching in his throat. Goblet in hand, he turns toward the gardens and takes a step forward.
Just then, Jaskier’s companion steps out from the shadow of the hedge. It’s one of the ladies who’d been at the banquet earlier, sitting near the end of the table Geralt had been at. She’s beautiful, with dark eyes and long blonde hair.
The lady sidles up to Jaskier, winding her arms about his neck and pressing up against him, smiling up at him seductively. Geralt blinks; what had he been thinking? Jaskier’s clearly doing fine – more than fine without him.
Scowling, Geralt turns away, completely missing the way Jaskier freezes, smiles faintly then gently disentangles himself from his would-be paramour, stepping back to arm’s length. Geralt, meanwhile, drains the goblet he’s holding in one long swallow, puts the empty goblet down on the nearest side table and stomps back to his corner behind the hideous sculpture.
He’s still tucked away there, silently brooding, when a nobleman he’d been introduced to earlier, Lord something-or-other, storms past him and out into the gardens. Geralt is so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize that the man is heading for Jaskier and his lady until the man’s actually standing in front of them, waving his hands and yelling and generally kicking up a fuss.
Geralt leans forward, peering around the side of the patio door for a better look. Jaskier is grimacing, hands up in the universal who, me? gesture, while the lady looks unrepentant.
Geralt sighs deeply and resignedly and pushes himself off the wall. He heads out to the group and arrives right in the middle of the lord’s tirade about Jaskier apparently trying to seduce his wife.
“Ah, Geralt!” Jaskier interrupts the nobleman, looking decidedly relieved. He beams happily at Geralt, who has to fight not to smile back. Damn it.
“Pardon me, my lord,” Geralt says politely, turning to address Lord something-or-other. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. Jaskier here was merely having an innocent conversation with your wife.”
“Oh?” snaps the nobleman huffily. “And how do you know, witcher? Can you provide me with proof?”
“I know because,” Geralt says calmly, and he blames his next words on temporary insanity, because what the hell. “He would never be false to me.”
Jaskier looks completely taken aback, cheeks pink and mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. A long, awkward silence falls as both the nobleman and his wife look dubiously between Geralt and Jaskier.
“Um,” Jaskier manages eventually, rallying. “Y-yes, of course, that’s true! My heart belongs only to Geralt.” He lays one hand over his heart, radiating sincerity.
“Hmph,” the nobleman snaps huffily. “Well, your heart’s all well and good, but make sure you keep all your other body parts away from my wife, too.” With that parting shot, he storms back to the banquet hall with his disappointed wife in tow, leaving Geralt alone in the garden with Jaskier.
Jaskier is still staring at Geralt. He seems, uncharacteristically, to be at a complete loss for words, mouth open and face still bright red.
When the silence finally approaches the wrong side of unbearable, Geralt clears his throat. “Try not to have too much fun,” he grunts, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I can’t be around all the time to save you.”
Jaskier scowls back at Geralt, finally seeming to regain his footing. “You,” he retorts sourly, “looked like you were having a lot of fun at the banquet.” He looks away, mouth pulled down in an unhappy frown.
Geralt looks at him, puzzled at his tone, until in one glorious, blazing moment, he realizes that Jaskier had been watching the ladies seated with Geralt flirt with him during the banquet, and that Jaskier is jealous.
There’s a pause where Geralt’s groping for the right words and Jaskier visibly panics and forces his mouth into a rictus of a smile, then blurts out “did you – ”
“Are you – ” Geralt says at the same time.
Jaskier falls silent and looks down, blushing hotly. Geralt reaches a hand out, tipping Jaskier’s chin up gently.
“Geralt?” Jaskier says uncertainly, voice hoarse.
Geralt slides his hand up to cup Jaskier’s face. “Jaskier,” he says, low.
“Please,” Jaskier whispers, lips parting. Geralt leans down, close enough that he can feel Jaskier’s breath warm across his lips, then –
– the sound of voices nearby, accompanied by footsteps moving in their direction, makes them jump apart hastily.
“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, rubbing a hand across his face.