Chapter Text
It’s their fifth year travelling together when the unthinkable happens.
In some random little inn, the innkeeper’s daughter leans across the countertop – cleavage on full display, and a gorgeous little grin on her lips – and blatantly flirts with Geralt instead of Jaskier.
Jaskier, distantly, realizes his mouth is hanging open.
Because – alright, it’s not like people don’t approach Geralt. It doesn’t happen a lot, but it does happen. But it’s normally someone who’s drunk enough they’ve forgotten to be afraid, or it’s someone who’s clearly too into Geralt being a Witcher, in a kind of dehumanizing way that makes Jaskier’s skin crawl.
It’s not normally the pretty barmaid who can’t be much older than Jaskier himself, but here she is, grinning up at Geralt with not an iota of fear or unease, and Jaskier would desperately want to be her friend if he also didn’t have to hate her for flirting with the man he’s irrevocably in love with.
“I’ll just be blunt, ’cause I feel like it’s better than dancing around this.” She’s still grinning, something fun and bright and unrepentant, and Jaskier is still gaping. “If you want to spend the night in my bed, mister Witcher, I’m the fourth door down on the second floor. You’re a sight for sore eyes, if you don’t mind me saying, and from the way your lovely bard here sings your praises, I imagine you’re a pretty decent man and it’d be nice to spend some time with ya.”
She shoots Jaskier a wink, too, before her eyes flick back to Geralt, something playful there, like she’s just making the offer, like she’s not trying to put any pressure, and Jaskier decides that they can be friends after all, even if he still has to hate her for hitting on Geralt. Anyone who can look Geralt dead in the eye and say that – anyone who can flirt with Geralt, right to his beautiful impassive face – is someone Jaskier just has to respect. She doesn’t even seemed fazed by Geralt’s response.
Because… there’s not much of one, really. He’s staring at her, unreadable, doing that slow blink thing he does, and Jaskier sighs and proves, yet again, that he is the best friend Geralt could ever have.
“Geralt.” It’s the face he gets when he’s thinking, but this lovely lady has no way of knowing what Geralt’s thinking too hard face looks like. “I know we’ve been in the forest for weeks, but we’re back with humans again. Words, my dear man.” That gets a giggle from the woman, and dammit, Jaskier does like her, she’s fun and has impeccable taste. “And I can assure you, madame, all my songs are true. Geralt’s a lovely man, and I must say you’ve got good taste.”
He can feel Geralt’s eyes boring into him, suddenly, and he finds it easier, somehow, to look at the young woman instead of Geralt. She’s beautiful and fun and smart enough to know a good thing when it walks into her inn, and… she’d be good for Geralt, probably. Even if it’s just for a night.
And when she smiles at him, something a bit softer, like maybe she’s too clever or maybe Jaskier’s actually not quite as subtle as he hopes, Jaskier swallows, smiles back, and doesn’t quite manage to look at Geralt.
“Well, I do believe it’s time for me to make some coin. Enjoy the show, my dears.”
And with that, he claps Geralt on the shoulder – it’s like a rock under his hand – and goes. His lute is upstairs, and it’s about time to go get it so he can earn their lodgings for the night.
And if he feels Geralt’s eyes follow him out, nobody ever has to know how badly it makes him ache.
- - -
The performance goes pretty well, all things considered. His songs are well received, he gets a few laughs from the crowd, and there’s a decent amount of coin to be made. He manages to not look at Geralt’s corner, for most of it – he can’t remember the last time Geralt had sex he didn’t pay for; he’s not exactly practiced at talking with someone he’s hoping to sleep with, and Jaskier doesn’t want to impose – but eventually he does look over, and they’re both gone. It drops a stone into Jaskier’s gut, and he segues into one of his more melancholic songs, because if he’s going to be this fucking miserable about it all he might as well earn them some coin with it.
Pathetic. Like a sad desperate puppy, chasing Geralt around.
It’s not a pleasant thought, and Jaskier finishes playing not too long after, sending the crowd off with a smile and last happy jig, before he gathers his coin and heads upstairs. The thought of the cold inn room makes his stomach squirm, but there’s nothing to be done for it. He’s not going to begrudge Geralt some pleasure just because Jaskier’s so in love with him he can barely function.
He’s had a few years to get used to it, now. Funny, it hasn’t gotten any easier.
The thought tastes bitter on his tongue, and he sighs as he pushes open the door, and –
Geralt’s sitting in the tub. Staring at him, barely blinking, and Jaskier almost trips on his feet. He only realizes he’s gaping like an idiot when something twitches on Geralt’s expression, and Jaskier quickly closes the door, suddenly feeling off-balance in a way he doesn’t much like. Geralt’s visibly unhappy about something and he’s here, he’s not with that lovely lady, and Jaskier hasn’t had time to get his walls up. He thought he’d be spending the night alone.
“Don’t tell me. She was married, right? And her husband caught you?” Geralt’s still blinking at him. Jaskier’s face feels hot. “Because I can see no other reason for why you’re sitting here. She was ready to climb you like a tree, my friend, and she wasn’t even put-off by that wonderful brooding thing you do, so –”
“Shut up.”
Jaskier does, but it’s more from shock than anything else.
Geralt… doesn’t sound right. There’s something off there, and he’s not looking at Jaskier. He seems very focused on his bathwater, suddenly, and Jaskier considers his options before he sets his lute down and steps closer. When he kneels by the tub, Geralt still doesn’t look up, and Jaskier almost puts a hand on Geralt’s arm.
He doesn’t. His heart couldn’t deal with Geralt smacking him away.
“Hey.” There’s an ache in his chest. “You didn’t have to sleep with her, you know.” The look Geralt shoots him is withering, as if that goes without saying, and Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Can I do anything? Because… truth be told, you look miserable, my dear, and I don’t mean to pry, but I just kind of… figured you’d have a much nicer night than the one you currently seem to be having.”
It’s too much, maybe, but he’s not going to dance around this. Not when Geralt looks so quietly miserable. And when Geralt just stares down at the bathwater, Jaskier puts a hand on the edge of the tub.
He doesn’t get smacked away. Geralt doesn’t even look at him.
The lack of reaction is almost worse, and Jaskier frowns, unease burning low in his gut.
“Could I wash your hair?” Maybe that’ll help. Change the subject, find something to distract Geralt with. “I’ll even pretend it’s a hardship for you so you don’t have to feel bad about liking it.”
It’s too pointed, perhaps, but Jaskier’s never shied away from calling Geralt out over his more self-destructive tendencies, once he started seeing the patterns and figuring out what those were. And if it can get a reaction from him, well – even irritation would be welcome, at this point. As is, Geralt still doesn’t blink, and Jaskier wants to brush his hair out of his eyes.
“Come on, darling. Gotta get you all pretty for the next lovely lady who comes along. With words of your deeds spreading, there are surely bound to be others with actual good taste –”
“Stop.”
His gaze is on the bathwater, like there’s something important there he needs to study.
Jaskier stares at him for a moment, and then he curls his hand against the side of the tub.
A few seconds slip past, and there’s no flicker of expression across Geralt’s face.
“Stop talking about it.” He’s not looking at Jaskier. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
There’s something rough there. Something hurt, barely audible.
Jaskier stares, and then lets out a long breath.
“Alright, love.” His hands are shaking. “Alright. No talking. Got it. Can I… do anything, though?”
It’s dizzying, to feel this wrong-footed. It’s terrifying, to hit on such a nerve.
But when Geralt says nothing, Jaskier stays exactly where he is.
He’ll leave if he’s told. But only if. He’ll sit here all night if Geralt needs him to.
And he can almost see Geralt thinking too hard. There’s a frown that Jaskier wants to soothe away with his fingers. He doesn’t, of course, and Geralt finally shakes his head. Short and clipped. Jaskier can barely breathe for the disappointment, but he keeps it off his face.
“Alright, darling. That’s okay.” Geralt’s not looking at him. “I’d like to stay, at least. I’ll give you your space, and we don’t have to talk, but… I’d like to at least stay.”
He’ll ask for this much, at least. It’s not what he wants, but he’ll take it.
Something about Geralt right now says leaving him alone would be a very bad idea.
And Geralt says nothing for a long moment, before his lips thin.
“You paid for the room.”
As if that has anything to do with it. Jaskier kind of wants to scream.
“Not what I meant, my dear.” He desperately wants to brush Geralt’s hair away from his eyes. Instead, he stands up, though it feels absolutely wrong. “I’ll leave you alone. You do your thing, just pretend I’m not here – I’ll even shut up, alright? And if you change your mind, I’m here.”
His voice is shockingly steady. And he doesn’t get a response, but he didn’t really expect one. So he turns, fights every instinct he has, and leaves Geralt staring at the bathwater like it holds all the answers to life.
The silence is cloying, almost immediately. Awful, all encompassing, crawling up through Jaskier’s nose and into his lungs. He blinks hard – he is not going to cry, whatever is happening here, that’s the last thing Geralt needs – and picks up his lute.
He can do this. He can just be here, and act like everything’s okay.
It’s harder than it should be. He puts his lute away, and tidies up the room. Eats a bit of cheese and bread, and makes sure the door is locked, tucking a chair up underneath the handle. Slips out of his clothes and into his nightclothes, and then picks up his journal and slides into bed. There’s not even the sound of water, Geralt hasn’t moved at all, and Jaskier ignores him, the whole time, though it feels wrong in every way. He ignores him, breathes through it, and pretends to start writing.
It’s nonsense. There’s no sense to his writing. He just needs to look busy.
There’s still no movement from the bath, and Jaskier eventually puts the journal away, rolls onto his side, puts his back to Geralt, and closes his eyes. He hasn’t even looked over once.
The silence is deafening. It’s wrong. Geralt is a living, breathing wall of tension behind him.
Jaskier kind of feels sick, but he squeezes his eyes shut. There’s nothing else to do.
And it’s a good few minutes before he hears the splash of bathwater as Geralt gets to his feet. Jaskier clenches his fists and doesn’t turn around. He barely even breathes as he hears Geralt drying off, and slipping into his nightclothes, and doing a slow circle of the room, checking the door, the windows – Jaskier can picture it, he’s seen it all a hundred times – before there’s the clink of his potions as he picks up his bag. Jaskier’s face still feels too hot, and the silence is awful as Geralt counts his potions, looks over his armour, does all his nightly routine – and normally Jaskier would be with him, just existing, part of it, but now he needs to just lie here and give Geralt space and it’s really fucking difficult to do. The tension hasn’t eased slightly, Geralt still feels a big breathing wall of hurt behind him, and Jaskier grits his teeth to keep his mouth shut.
He's not going to say anything. He’s going to give Geralt space, he’s not going to –
The bed dips behind him, and Jaskier goes very still.
After a long moment of uncertain silence, Geralt slowly sits down behind him, like he thinks the bed will bite him if he moves too quickly, and Jaskier desperately squeezes his eyes shut.
There’s a second bed. Why –
No. No, he’s not going to question it.
They’ve shared a bed dozens of times, this is normal.
… It’s not. They don’t share unless they have to.
Jaskier’s heart is beating far too fast, and Geralt must be hearing it, and the thought flushes wretched heat up Jaskier’s face, but there’s nowhere for him to hide. There’s nowhere for him to – he said he’d be helpful, but right now he’s probably just making it worse, because he must smell like some awful mix of hurt and turned on and confused and what about that could possibly be helpful?
Geralt’s not moving though. He’s still just sitting there.
And the silence is… not good. It never was, but now it feels worse.
Because even without turning around he can practically feel Geralt’s uncertainty, like he thinks Jaskier might not want him there, and Jaskier closes his eyes against the way it makes his stomach pang.
He just wants to help. Whatever Geralt is dealing with, right now, Jaskier doesn’t want to be the thing that makes him even more uncertain. He should know he’s welcome to lie here, he should know that he can get as close as he wants, but Jaskier had said he’d shut up so he’s damn well going to –
“It smells like her.” It’s so quiet Jaskier can barely hear him. “Her room was occupied, so…”
He trails off, like he’s expecting Jaskier to respond badly, like that was all he had it in him to say, like that fucking explains anything that’s going on here, and Jaskier takes a deep breath.
“You can sleep here, darling, that’s no problem.”
It’s woefully inadequate, but it’s safe to say, at least. Enough so that Geralt at least won’t feel unwelcome. What Jaskier wants is to turn around and hold him, because Geralt doesn’t talk, ever, and Jaskier knows the import of it when he does. It’s Geralt asking for what he needs – it’s him trying to explain to Jaskier what he needs – and Jaskier’s chest hurts, because Geralt could have just gone back to his own bed. Could have not slept at all. Could have stewed in angry hurt silence all night.
Instead, he’s sitting behind Jaskier, holding himself like a statue, like he’s expecting Jaskier to snap at him for invading his space, and Jaskier knows this is important.
Geralt never asks for things. Jaskier’s not going to make a big deal of it, because that’s the last thing Geralt would want, but he knows the value of Geralt asking.
He feels safe enough to ask, at least. It does something to Jaskier’s heart that he cannot deal with.
“I never mind sharing, my dear.” Jaskier carefully doesn’t turn around. “It’s nice to have you close.”
His mouth is very dry, suddenly, and he feels far, far too exposed.
And maybe it was the wrong thing to say, because the silence goes even tighter, and Jaskier licks dry lips.
It’s the truth, though. Geralt deserves to know. He thinks all he does is hurt people, he thinks he’s some monster who brings pain wherever he goes, and Jaskier is damn well going to tell him otherwise. Even if it means being a bit too honest, probably, but whatever, fuck it, Geralt is hurting, something is wrong here, and Jaskier’s at least going to tell him he likes having him close.
“I’m going to just continue lying here and shutting up, but if you need anything, just poke me, alright? And make yourself at home, of course. My bed’s your bed, plenty of space for both of –”
Geralt’s already lying down, though – he started moving the second Jaskier said it – and Jaskier’s jaw drops, his heartbeat spiking so hard it nearly hurts. If Geralt hears it, he at least doesn’t mention it. Instead, he just slowly lies down, still moving like the bed is going to bite him, and… and what the fuck was that? This… this is all… he never asks for anything, and he certainly doesn’t jump when Jaskier tells him to, what’s with this… easy compliance?
And – why wouldn’t he want to sleep in his own bed after fucking that lovely lady, anyway?
Too much… sensory input, maybe? Or…
Or maybe it just didn’t go well.
The thought tastes sour in Jaskier’s mouth.
Please not that. Geralt never gets anything nice. Sex should at least be a nice thing he does get to have.
Whatever it was, Jaskier’s not going to ask. He’s got Geralt lying behind him, still holding himself like a statue but at least he’s here, and Jaskier deliberately takes a slow, deep breath.
Geralt’s not going to get any sleep if he has to lie here listening to Jaskier’s heart beat out of his chest.
“Wake me up if you need anything, alright?” He keeps it as offhand as he can. Under normal circumstances, he’d probably get a glare for even suggesting Geralt might ever need anything, but… this isn’t normal, and he wants to at least say it. “And do kick me if I snore, we both know I’m bad for –”
“Thank you.” Jaskier stops breathing. “For –”
He doesn’t get any further, though. He stops there, new tension tight in his voice, and Jaskier aches.
“Geralt.” He can all but hear Geralt flinch. “Of course, darling. Anything you ever need, alright? I’m your friend, and I care about you. Even if you don’t want to talk, I’ll still be here to help.”
It’s the loudest silence Jaskier has maybe ever heard.
Like the entire world has stopped breathing around them.
Jaskier considers his options, and then shifts a little closer.
Geralt doesn’t move.
“Now how we get some rest? And truly, don’t let me snore in your ear, please. I don’t want to keep you awake.”
It’s light-hearted enough, hopefully, to move them past this. To get Geralt to relax enough to sleep. And when Geralt still doesn’t respond, Jaskier deliberately makes himself relax against the bed, letting his body grow heavy against the mattress as he presses his face into the pillow.
Maybe things will be a little less confusing in the morning.
It’s not likely, given that it’s Geralt, but, well – maybe.
And it’s only when Geralt finally lets out a breath that Jaskier closes his eyes.
He’s done everything he can. Maybe things will be better in the morning.
- - -
Things are no less confusing in the morning.
Geralt doesn’t talk about it, of course. He even looks normal – well, his version of normal, anyway. It’s like he’s rebuilt that wall and is acting like there was never a crack in it, and Jaskier is definitely not going to push. Instead, he wakes up to find Geralt already awake, armour on and swords strapped to his back, and Jaskier groans as he lifts his head off the pillow. It’s still so early.
“Seriously?” His voice is rough with sleep. Geralt just looks at him, unreadable. “It is so early, why are we leaving so –”
“We’re not.”
He’s already turning away. Reaching for his bag.
The entire world feels very, very cold.
“Oh.” Jaskier feels very small, suddenly. “Oh, I guess – I thought – right. Um –”
The words won’t come. His tongue feels clumsy, and his throat is tight.
Of course. Geralt cracks, lets him in, just a bit, and then runs away. Jaskier should have expected –
“I found a contract.” Geralt’s frowning at him. “I should be back by evening.” Jaskier suddenly feels very, very foolish. “I’m not leaving.”
He’s still frowning, something between confused and annoyed, probably – Jaskier can’t quite read it, since he seems to be having trouble looking at Geralt – and Jaskier’s lips thin, shame flushing hot up his neck as he twists the blanket under his fingers and decides to stare at it.
Pathetic puppy dog. That’s really what he is.
“I – right. Yeah, that, um – makes sense. Do – do tell me the details of your exploits on your triumphant return. What, uh, are we hunting this time, anyway? And… please don’t say drowners, getting the mud out of your armour is such a –”
“Winter is months away.” Jaskier snaps his mouth shut. “Why would I leave?”
Geralt is still frowning at him, like he doesn’t realize the enormity of what he’s just said.
Jaskier stares at him, kind of wants to cry, and instead pulls himself out of bed.
“Okay, so, if I hug you right now, will you punch me, or –”
“Jaskier.”
It’s a glare now, and Jaskier stops, putting his hands up, even as his stomach flutters horribly. Well, it was worth a try. Ether way, he’s pretty sure he’s giving away far too much, right now.
“Right, right, of course – no hugging the big bad Witcher. I’ll see if I can track down some more snacks for Roach, and I’ll have a victory bath waiting for you. Do be careful, alright?”
There, that’s good enough. Fond and annoying and not like he really did want to hug Geralt.
It’s just… a lot, to ricochet between thinking Geralt was leaving, and being told he intends to stay until winter.
And Geralt just gives him a look, the you’re an idiot look that Jaskier loves so much, before he turns and walks out. No discussion of last night, no hint that he ever quietly asked for something.
And they’ll probably never talk about it again. Which is fine. It happened, and that’s enough. And maybe Geralt will come to him in the future if he needs something.
As is, they apparently have several months together ahead of them, and Jaskier realizes he’s smiling, distantly. It feels like warmth and sunshine in his chest, and he takes a deep breath.
Alright. Off to the market, then.
And if there’s a new spring in his step, no one else ever needs to know.
- - -
A few days later, that happy feeling is nowhere to be found.
Because it’s happening again.
They’re in another bar, Jaskier is singing for their supper, and there’s a beautiful woman sitting over in the corner with Geralt, an easy grin on her face and no hint of nervousness to be found.
Apparently, Jaskier’s songs have been working, which is, of course, excellent.
He’d just never anticipated this as a side-effect.
It’s almost enough for him to miss a note, but he’s a professional, so he keeps it together, keeps on with the right footwork and notes and words, but his attention is barely on the song.
And then Geralt shakes his head.
As the woman leans in just a bit closer, he leans back and very clearly shakes his head.
Jaskier nearly trips over his feet.
She doesn’t seem upset, at least. She puts on a pretty pout for a second before murmuring something too soft to hear, her expression gentling into something a bit less teasing, and then she gets to her feet, crossing the tavern to rejoin her friends at another table. Across the room, Geralt is staring down at the table, very clearly not looking at anyone else, and Jaskier doesn’t want to be singing, anymore. He wants to be over there, because something is clearly not right again.
He doesn’t get the chance. Just as he’s winding down the song, Geralt stands and leaves the tavern without looking at him. The door closes just as Jaskier hits the last words, and he’s just barely finished before he’s giving a sweeping bow, keeping a smile on his face even as his stomach drops.
“Fine people! Thank you for your time and attention, I hope to have made your evening more enjoyable. I, alas, must be off, but do keep the drinks and cheer flowing, you’ve been a lovely crowd.”
There’s a bit of applause, a few compliments, and Jaskier throws everyone one last grin before he tucks his lute under his arm. He doesn’t quite run, but he makes it across the tavern in decent speed, and the night air is chilly as he steps out into it, darkness falling as the door slips shut.
There’s no sign of Geralt, though. Jaskier glances around, decides against shouting for him – good way to get them kicked out of town – and then heads for the stables. Roach is alone, muching away happily in her stall, and Jaskier takes a moment to gently rub her nose before he steps out into the night again. He can’t help the sigh, and he deflates slightly, leaning back against the stall wall.
Well. That’s shitty. But he’s not going to follow Geralt around like some creep. Wherever Geralt went, Jaskier will just have to wait for him to come back.
Their empty room doesn’t seem appealing, though. Maybe he can just wander for a bit.
It gets chilly, after a while. It’d still be a nice night, if his stomach wasn’t doing an unpleasant twisting thing every few seconds. He tries humming, but it doesn’t feel right, either, so eventually he just wanders in silence. The stars are bright overhead – it’s a perfectly clear night – and Jaskier should be enjoying this, but it’s hard to when all he can think of is the way Geralt had stared down at the table like it held all the answers to his life’s greatest mysteries.
It's possible, of course, that Jaskier is just thinking too much about this. Maybe Geralt hadn’t just been interested – maybe he hadn’t wanted sex, or hadn’t wanted that woman – which is a perfectly reasonable thing. Even Jaskier isn’t always interested in a fuck.
And maybe it would be believable, if Geralt hadn’t looked so… sad.
Jaskier stops walking, and blinks up at the sky.
That’s what it was. Geralt had turned her down and been unhappy about it. So why –
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier yelps and spins, nearly tripping over his own feet as Geralt just stands there and blinks at him, and Jaskier’s heart is racing as he tries to regain his balance.
“Can you not –”
“Jaskier –”
“Couldn’t you have kicked a rock, or something, at least given me a chance –”
“No.” Jaskier wants to hit him, but he’s also so damn fond it’s hard to breathe, which is a pretty difficult mix to deal with. “Why are you out here?”
Geralt’s frowning at him. As though Jaskier has done something grievously wrong. Jaskier stares at him for a moment, and then crosses his arms over his chest, scowling right back.
“Okay, so, first off, I can go where I want –”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t –”
“And secondly, you rude man, if you must know, I originally came out here looking for you, and then I couldn’t find you, but it’s a nice night so I just stayed and went for a walk.” Geralt’s still frowning, and Jaskier pokes him on the arm. “And where were you, then? If you’re going to nose into my business, then I get to –”
“Hmm.” Geralt’s frown hasn’t faded. “Brothel. We should go back. You’re getting cold.”
He says it like it’s nothing. As though there’s not something horribly wrong with that sentence. Jaskier gapes at him, and then something ugly pools in his stomach, because what the actual fuck.
“You – what?” Geralt’s looking at him like he’s questioning his intelligence. “Why... were you –”
“I hardly need to explain the function of a brothel to you, bard.”
It’s dryer than parchment, and Geralt looks almost amused, now. Just the slightest twitch to his lips. Jaskier stares at him some more, and then swats his arm. Geralt’s smirk grows a bit wider.
“Rude.” The smirk’s made it all the way to Geralt’s eyes, now. “Rude, Witcher –”
“Come on. You’re cold. Let’s –”
“Why, though?” That ugly feeling is still in his chest. He’s not sure why, just that something doesn’t feel right here. “You had a perfectly lovely lady in that tavern. Why go to a –”
He’s made an error. He realizes it immediately, as the smile drops from Geralt’s face and his expression shutters over. Jaskier stumbles to follow him, because Geralt’s already leaving.
“Wait, wait, I didn’t mean –”
“Shut up.” Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut. Geralt means it. “Leave me alone.”
That’s his angry voice. His genuinely pissed-off, not-just-kidding-around voice. Jaskier stops, right there in the middle of the street. He does feel really very cold, all of a sudden.
“We’re sharing a room.” It’s not the point. It’s so far past the point. “I can’t just –”
“Find your own,” he snarls, and oh, that hurts. “I don’t care.”
Geralt’s still walking away from him. Jaskier stands there, and clenches his hands into fists, everything inside him twisting up and hurting and why does he keep following this man around like a dog? When all he needs to do is say the wrong thing and Geralt turns around and bites him, and –
He realizes Geralt’s stopped moving. That he’s just standing there, tension written right through him. Jaskier glares at his back, and bites back tears. He’s not going to grovel, if that’s what Geralt’s waiting for.
“Fine.” His voice sounds like ice. “Go on, then. I’ll just sleep in the fucking stables, won’t I? I’m sure Roach would love the company –”
“Jaskier.” It sounds grit between his teeth, like he’s dragging the words from somewhere deep inside himself. “I… didn’t mean that. I – shouldn’t have – fuck. Come on, you’re shivering, let’s go –”
“No,” he mutters, and knows Geralt hears it, because he freezes. “No. Stupid fucking Witcher. Gods forbid anyone in this world try to care for you. Gods forbid I try to help.” Geralt barely seems to be breathing. “I asked because I care, you idiot. You don’t get to turn around and bite me for –”
“I never asked you to care.” They’re going to have a fucking shouting match, at this rate, right here in the street in the middle of the night. “I have told you many times to not care about –”
“Yeah, no shit.” It’s been a long time since Jaskier was this angry. “I’ve spent the last five years fighting you for every bit of yourself you’re willing to give. I am well aware of just how terrible you are –”
“Jaskier –”
“– at letting anyone in, believe me, I have noticed. But I’m still here, you asshole, and you’re probably my favourite person in this whole wretched world, I’m not going anywhere unless you genuinely want me to fuck off, and I would ask you to kindly stop taking my fucking head off when I hit a sore spot.”
He’s shaking, he realizes. Not from cold, or fear, but from the sheer anger of it. Geralt doesn’t say a word, doesn’t turn to look at him, and Jaskier grits his teeth and makes himself stay there.
This has… been a long time coming, probably, because this isn’t the first time Geralt’s snapped at him, when Jaskier got too close to something. It’s probably even a good thing, to say all this, but – Jaskier just hadn’t… planned, on doing it, is the thing. And Geralt’s silence is getting more and more ominous with every passing second, but instead of it making him nervous, Jaskier just kind of wants to growl. Apparently Geralt’s been rubbing off on him.
“If you don’t want to talk about something, fine, but don’t –”
“You’re right.” Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut. “I – shouldn’t have –” He stops, takes a breath. Jaskier’s not sure he’s ever heard him sound so… unsure. “I’ll… try. To stop doing that.”
He sounds like every word physically pains him. Jaskier stares at him for a moment, and then he sniffs, and wants very badly to wrap his arms around Geralt and stop anything from ever hurting him again.
“Fine.” His chest is very tight. “Good. You do that. Jerk.” Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier sniffs again, and wipes his arm over his eyes. “Can I hug you?” Geralt huffs a breath, and Jaskier steps close enough to swat him. “Do not laugh at me right now, Witcher, I swear to the gods –”
“I’m not laughing at you.” He’s not reaching for him, either, but Jaskier didn’t expect him to. “We should get back. You’re –”
“Cold, yes, I know.” He rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure, now he’s all concerned about me –”
“Shut up.” Geralt bumps an elbow against him. Jaskier nearly loses his footing, and it’s not because Geralt’s physically knocked him off balance. “Let’s go. I'll warm the bathwater for you.”
He says it like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t realize he's being rather sweet.
Jaskier stares at him, and then he presses his face against Geralt’s shoulder.
Geralt goes absolutely, perfectly still, but doesn’t pull away.
“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs. “For… trying. For – letting me stay, even when I touch on something you don’t like.” He’s pretty sure Geralt’s stopped breathing. “I do appreciate it, you know. I know it’s not easy.” Jaskier’s heart is aching in his chest, and he desperately wants to wrap his arms around Geralt. “Just tell me to leave it, if it’s too much, and I will. You don’t have to get angry with me. In fact, I'd really rather you didn't.”
It seems important, that Geralt knows this. That he can tell Jaskier to leave off, and he will. Jaskier wants to help, wants to make Geralt’s life less colossally horrible, but he doesn’t want to push. Not more than Geralt can let him. Not in a way that does more harm than good.
And Geralt is silent, for a long, long time, like he’s considering this, before he nods. Jaskier falls in love all fucking over again and lets his face press just a bit harder against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt doesn’t stop him, and Jaskier eventually goes to pull back, but Geralt’s words freeze him in place.
“Whores are easy. There’s a script to follow.” Jaskier stops breathing. “I pay, I use my mouth on her, I fuck her, if she wants, or she uses her mouth on me, and then I leave.” Jaskier’s shaking, right through, trembling from top to bottom. “Or I just ask her what she wants, and we do that.”
The night is very, very cold around them. Jaskier tightens his grip on Geralt’s arm.
“I don’t know how to fuck someone if I’m not paying for it. I’ve stopped trying. Every time I try, I get it wrong. People want something I can't give." Jaskier feels kind of sick, suddenly. His stomach is churning, rolling unpleasantly. “Whores don’t expect anything from me. They don’t ask to be someone I’m not. It’s the only way I know how to fuck.”
Jaskier’s knees are shaking. He only realizes how quiet he’s gone when Geralt tenses, and Jaskier wants to reassure him, wants to say something, but he feels fucking winded.
“Happy now?” It’s close to a snarl. “Put that in one of your songs, bard, and I swear I’ll –”
“Shut up,” Jaskier whispers, “and stop growling at me.” Geralt just growls again, and Jaskier presses his face harder against him. “Of course I’m not going to sing about that.” There’s a huff of air, like Geralt doubts that, and Jaskier grinds his teeth. “I sing of your exploits, Geralt. Your monster slaying. The things you tell me, like this – these stay with me, love. I’ll never tell anyone.”
As if he’d share this. As if he’d betray Geralt like that. And when Geralt doesn’t say anything, Jaskier remembers there’s a much bigger issue, here, than Geralt’s apparent lack of faith in him.
“Geralt, that’s – that’s awful, though.” He’s made another mistake, apparently because Geralt goes statue-still, and Jaskier holds on tighter, in case Geralt’s going to pull away. “No, no, I’m not – that’s not a judgement. I just mean – you should be able to enjoy sex. You shouldn’t feel like –”
“Do you think,” Geralt starts, and every word is clipped, “I’m not well aware of that –”
“I’m not judging you!” Geralt’s all but vibrating under his hands. Jaskier kind of wants to bang his head against him. “I’m not – I’m not saying there’s something wrong with you. I’m saying that – that – that I think you have been… very hurt, in the past, to end up like this, and –”
“Jaskier –”
“And I wish there was something I could do to help.” Jaskier blinks back tears, suddenly. He knows Geralt will be able to smell them. “You are… so good, love. Far better than you believe. And it kills me that you don’t see that. In everything you do, not just – not just this. It kills me that you can’t accept… kindness, in bed. Intimacy. Connection. Whatever you want to call –”
“I never said that.” Geralt’s voice is so flat it makes Jaskier’s heart hurt. “I never said –”
“Am I wrong, though? Isn’t that what this is about?” It’s a gamble. It’s such a gamble. Geralt might very well forget his earlier promise to stop blowing up at him. And when Geralt doesn’t say anything, Jaskier presses his face against his arm. “Thank you for telling me.” Geralt makes an odd little choked sound. “I just… I want you to be happy. I know it’s not that simple, but…”
“Jaskier –”
“You deserve everything good, love. You always have.” Geralt's stopped breathing. “And I hope someday you find someone who can show you that. Who sees you for you and doesn’t let you push them away.” Jaskier’s hands are shaking – either that, or Geralt’s the one shaking, but that’s impossible. “Now, come on, darling, lets head back. I’d say that’s more than enough gut-wrenching conversations for one evening, and I feel like we could both use a warm bath.”
The wind picks up around them, moaning slightly, as though in agreement with him, and Jaskier shivers, finally straightening up from Geralt. Letting go of him hurts, physically pains him to step away, but he can’t keep clinging to him all night. Especially since Geralt still isn’t moving, like maybe Jaskier’s managed to poleax him with what he said, and when Jaskier looks up, Geralt’s expression is a mask. Closed off, unreadable, as he stares into the darkness. Jaskier’s stomach clenches, and he carefully puts his hand back on Geralt’s arm. There’s no reaction at all.
“Need to be alone?” Geralt doesn’t blink. “I don’t mind, you know. I meant it, when I said, you can tell me to leave off. I know that was a lot and –”
“Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression hasn’t changed. His voice is soft. Then, he clears his throat and blinks. “I – no. Let’s go. If you get sick, I’ll have to listen to you whining for –”
“Oh, hah, hah,” Jaskier mutters, but something in him eases just slightly, the tightness in his gut softening. “Fine. Lead on, grumpy.” They’re okay. Geralt’s okay. Jaskier didn’t fuck this up.
And when Geralt just huffs a breath at that, Jaskier takes a steadying breath and follows.
Fuck. Fuck.
He’d known something was wrong, but this is…
He dares a glance up at Geralt, but Geralt’s not looking at him. He’s watching the streets, taking in their surroundings, keeping them safe, and Jaskier desperately wants to reach out and take his hand.
He doesn’t. He just walks beside him, silently, and hurts right through.
- - -
Jaskier thinks about it all night and all the following day.
He thinks about it as they leave town, and Geralt rides in silence, and Jaskier hums softly and works over his ideas in his head. There’s a glaring one there already, but it gives him some truly horrid butterflies, and he’s pretty sure Geralt would never go for it, anyway. Because – naturally – Jaskier wants to help, and – the more he considers it – there is no part of him surprised that Geralt would have trouble with sex. It requires… well. Talking to people. Saying what you want, asking what they want. Meeting someone’s eyes while you’re maybe naked in a way that’s more than just your clothes coming off.
Sex is intimate, it means letting someone see you without all your walls in place, or – at least that how Jaskier experiences it. He wants to be seen, wants to see people, want to learn everything that makes them feel good and make them shake with it. He loves kissing, loves fucking face-to-face, loves trying new things, loves making someone else feel like the center of the world, and – even when he goes to a brothel, he doesn’t act any differently. He learns how someone likes to be touched, how they don’t like to be touched, and he has no probably begging for exactly what he wants in return.
So, yeah. He can see how all that maybe wouldn’t be Geralt’s thing. He can see how brothels could be easier. Impersonal, if you wanted them to be. Jaskier doesn’t, of course. If he can make a whore laugh in bed, he’ll be happy about it for days. But just as easily, brothels could be… impersonal.
Scripted.
The thought tastes like ashes on his tongue, and Jaskier glances up at Geralt, who’s seated on Roach’s back and watching every inch of their surroundings as he rides along. Jaskier stares at him, and his throat closes up, something inside him aching worse than ever for this stubborn, annoying, disaster of a man he’s fallen in love with. He’s definitely in it for life, at this point. He can’t imagine ever getting over Geralt. It’s been five years, and it just gets worse with every day.
Well. Jaskier will just have to deal about it, even if it means spending his life following around someone who doesn’t want him back. Jaskier only has one life to live, and he knows where he wants to spend it. Which makes his harebrained idea even scarier, because if Geralt gets really mad, this time – if Jaskier rams headfirst into his intimacy problems, and Geralt hates him for it, and finally tells him to fuck off and actually means it – well. Jaskier’s not sure what he’ll do.
But he can’t leave it like this.
That night, in the inn, when he brought that lovely woman up to their room, and then was so fucking miserable about it after – that must have been the point. The moment at which Geralt decided to stop trying. Jaskier can imagine it – he can imagine her being sweet, and kind, and Geralt trying to respond in that stilted, aching manner of his, and – Jaskier flushes, and looks away, because now’s he imagining Geralt naked with that woman pressing kisses against his neck, and it’s both turning Jaskier on and making him so fucking sad at the same time.
Godsdamn. He needs to get it together or he’s not going to be able to say this.
He has to, though. Geralt is clearly unhappy about this. If Geralt wasn’t bothered by it, Jaskier would let it lie. But last week, in their room – and the way he’d snapped last night – he’s hurting over it, it’s clearly making him miserable, and Jaskier hates the thought of not doing something.
He waits until they make camp, though. Waits until night has fallen, and their bedrolls are laid out, and Geralt’s cleaning his sword across the fire, while Jaskier strums softly on his lute and tries to breathe through the flutter in his stomach. On his list of stupid ideas, this might actually be the worst.
“Jaskier.” Jaskier nearly drops his lute, and looks up to find Geralt frowning at him, more annoyed than anything else. The firelight is painting him in hues of orange and yellow, and he’s so fucking beautiful Jaskier can barely look at him. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
There’s nothing else, and Jaskier swallows and sets the lute aside, shifting on his tree stump.
“What do I –”
“Bitter.” Geralt grunts. “You smell – whatever’s making you so sad, stop it.” Jaskier opens his mouth, incredulous, and then closes it again. “I can’t concentrate when you’re so miserable.”
He’s glaring at the fire again. Jaskier stares for a moment, and then crosses his arms.
“Oh, yes, of course. Just stop being sad. Wonderful advice, how can I possibly repay –”
“Then tell me.” Jaskier nearly falls off the tree stump. “Don’t expect anything useful, but – when you get quiet, it makes me – I know there’s a problem. So – talk, if you want.” He says it like it’s nothing. Like he always asks Jaskier to tell him about his problems. And when Jaskier opens his mouth, Geralt shoots him a glare. “Do not make this worse. I’m just trying to –” His jaw clenches, like he’s in pain just saying this. “You’re not happy. Talk to me.”
The fire pops in front of them, sparks flying out onto the grass, and Geralt looks away, going back to sharpening his sword. Jaskier watches him for a bit, and then wraps his arms around himself, as though he can contain the feeling. As though he can cope with feeling himself fall, harder, just like that, as Geralt offers something he’s never offered in half a decade.
Maybe it was their blow-up yesterday. Maybe Geralt’s going to try to be less insufferable. Whatever it is, it makes Jaskier feel strangely vulnerable, but this isn’t about him, tonight. This is about him offering something that’s either going to maybe help Geralt, or maybe get Jaskier kicked out of camp. The thought makes his skin flush, and when the silence drags, Jaskier wets his lips.
“I was thinking about you.”
His voice is too soft. He didn’t give it permission to do that. And when Geralt’s face pinches, Jaskier wants to crawl around the fire and right into his lap, until he’s kissed the look away.
“I’m… making you sad?” Jaskier goes rigid. “Thinking about… me? That’s why you’re –”
“What? No!” His traitorous heart squeezes awfully, because Geralt’s… still frowning, but it’s a different frown. It’s the frown he makes when he’s unhappy. And Jaskier put it there because he is an idiot. “No, no, love, that’s not what I meant. That – came out very wrong. Let me try again.”
Geralt doesn’t say anything. He’s an angry wall of sad tension now, glaring at the fire. Jaskier almost has to sit on his hands to stay where he is, because all he wants to do is soothe the pain away.
“I just meant – I was… thinking about what you told me. Yesterday.” It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. Geralt goes rigid, like every muscle in his beautiful body has pulled tight all at once, and Jaskier’s mouth has gone dry. “I know you hate talking about it –”
“So don’t,” Geralt grits out, eyes flashing, “Do not –”
“But I just want to say one thing. One – just ask you – one thing. I have… an idea, maybe –”
“I don’t want to hear your fucking ideas –”
“You have trouble with closeness. You aren’t good at letting people touch you. Not just with sex, but in general.” Geralt expression goes immediately blank, and Jaskier swallows. “So… why not practice with me? I’m safe, and you don’t need to impress me. We could just – be together, and maybe you’d get… more comfortable with it. And it’s not like I’d mind, I mean, I’ve been trying to get a hug out of you for years, so – so I’m obviously fine with being close to you, so –”
“Jaskier.” It’s horrifically close to a whisper. “Shut up.”
Jaskier snaps his mouth shut.
And Geralt stares at the ground for a long, long time, before he pushes himself up and walks away. Jaskier stares at his retreating back, and then he groans and climbs to his feet.
“No, no no no, that’s not what I –”
“No.” Jaskier stumbles to a halt so quickly he almost falls. “Do not follow me.”
“I –”
“Leave it, Jaskier.” Something cracks in Geralt’s voice. “You said you’d leave it, so –”
“Alright!” Jaskier throws his hands up and steps back. “Alright, leaving it, shutting up, now, I promise, just –”
“Make dinner. Feed Roach.” Jaskier’s chest squeezes tight. “Leave me alone.”
And then he’s gone. Just like that, past the treeline, and Jaskier can’t see him anymore. Jaskier stays where he is for a long time, and then he sinks down on the log and buries his tears in his hands.