Geralt has a contract but won't tell Jaskier anything about it. Nothing.
"Geralt, come on! Is it big? Is it small? Does it have fangs? Is it venomous?"
"Jaskier, just stop asking."
"But how am I meant to be safe enough to gather inspiration if you won't even tell me what to look out for?"
"Because you'll be staying here. Away from the hunt."
"Wh- What?"
It's been years since Geralt refused Jaskier's involvement in a hunt.
"It's too dangerous."
Jaskier stares at him a moment before just sighing and nodding.
"You'd think he'd tell you of the dangers if he didn't want you to go for your own safety."
Jaskier thinks, though it doesn't sound like his own voice.
"Can't you tell me something about the creature if I can't come with?"
"No, Jaskier."
"He doesn't want to talk to you."
Jaskier shakes the thought out of his head.
"Just play for the bargoers again if you need something to do. I'll be back before sunup." And without further ado, Geralt grabs his supplies and stomps out.
"They hated your last set, though, didn't they? You've put so much effort into pursuing this dream of yours, just to get vegetables and stale bread thrown at you. Only to get cursed off stages. Is that what you wanted? When you became a bard? When you left home? Did you risk your life to leave just to be stuck with an audience that doesn't want to listen?"
Jaskier shakes his head. Stop. Stop thinking about this.
"Not even Geralt listens to you. Your only friend. The only person who manages to deal with you doesn't even want to hear you."
Jaskier starts tidying their inn room in a panic. He needs to get his mind off the sudden turn for the worst his thoughts are partaking in. Usually only things got this bad after a bad fight with Geralt. Then Geralt would apologize and-
"But did he ever really mean it? Or does he just do it to placate you? The little overemotional bard weighing him down, dragging him back, ruining his li-"
"BOOK. I- I need to read a book."
Jaskier fumbles for something to read to try and get something new in his attention, but he can't even make out a sentence. The thoughts are getting louder.
"Is there even a contract or did he just finally leave you behind?
Jaskier's vision blurs and suddenly he realizes it's tears. He rubs his face vigorously to get rid of them. He'd hate for Geralt to come back and find him bawling.
"That's when he'd leave you for sure. Pitiful excuse for a companion, crying because of his own thoughts. Geralt would be so annoyed. You're nothing but a burden to him. He hates you."
Jaskier grabs his lute and hurriedly begins strumming the worst tune he's ever made in his life, because he just needs something louder than the thoughts. He just needs to hear something but the thoughts.
"He'll never love you back. You stay, and you keep hoping, but he'll never love you."
Jaskier drops his lute and covers his ears, starting to sob in earnest.
"He's been gone too long. He ditched you. He took Roach and he left you. The pebble in his shoe. The constant irritation. You're nothing to him. You're a speck of mud dirtying his life. He begs the gods every night to be rid of you. Everyone begs the gods to be rid of you. Everyone wishes you'd just shrivel up and die. The useless bard."
"Stop- Stopstopstop-"
"All anyone wants is to fuck you, but is it because you're desirable or is it because you're just that easy? Like a damned cat in heat. They always leave you come morning, anyways. Even the ones you begged to stay. Even the ones you wanted something more with. Nobody wants you to stay. Nobody likes your voice, your supposed 'talents', nobody likes your looks, nobody likes your personality, nobody likes your soul, nobody wants your love, you're a crumbling stone about to bring down a whole tower. And every other stone will hate you for it. They'll hate you. They'll fucking HATE you. They all HATE you. Geralt HATES you. He hates you. He hates you. He hates you."
"JASKIER!"
Jaskier blinks his eyes open
and sees Geralt kneeling in front of him, holding Jaskier's face in his big, calloused hands. "Jaskier, stop listening to it!"
Geralt had gone after a creature that infects people's minds, speaks horrible things into their thoughts until the person is driven crazy. He couldn't risk bringing Jaskier to be infected by it. And he couldn't risk telling Jaskier, because Jaskier would be paranoid of it infecting Geralt and he'd come along anyways, and the monster would sense Jaskier's fear, it'd burrow into him in a milisecond.
Geralt's never been angrier for being right, before. He just thought Jaskier was safe here. But he came back and saw the undeniable symptoms of the monster. Pure black tears coming down Jaskier's cheeks as he sobs and begs an unseen force to 'shut up'.
Geralt will kill this damned creature, and make it sorry for distressing his bard. And then he'll spend the night holding his bard close, and whispring every reassurance and praise he can think of.
Emotional whomping the bard and his witcher time, a modern au. A long fic I wanna write but probably won’t…
Geralt and Jaskier are best friends. Jaskier is in love with Geralt, and they both know it. But Geralt is emotionally unavailable, telling himself he is still in love with his ex Yen (but really he is just afraid to be hurt again and clinging to an old love he knows is safer than attempting a new one).
In a fit of self pity, Geralt and Jaskier falls in bed together. And keeps falling into bed.
Everybody is telling Jaskier not to do it, and everybody is telling Geralt he is playing with Jaskier’s feelings, that this is how he will lose him.
But Geralt doesn’t listen, because he thinks this is a good solution.
Eventually, Geralt starts to kiss Jaskier outside of bed,but shoves him away when it becomes to intimate, tog couple-y.
Jaskier tries to tell him. ”It’s not fair” and “It hurts me”. His heart is breaking in his chest and Geralt doesn’t want to se it.
So that is when Jaskier leaves. Properly putting distance between. And Geralt is alone and suddenly realizes the consequences of his actions.
He tells himself it doesnt matter. That wasn’t love. It was sex. They can stop having sex, still be friends.
But Jaskier doesn’t pick up the phone. Doesn’t open the door.
Maybe they say Jaskier is going on a business trip. And Geralt is forced to deal with what his life is like without his best friend by his side.
Several weeks pass like this, and finally Geralt breaks down to Yennefer. She tells him, he never loved her, just the thought of being with her. Still is. That he is a coward, that he never saw her when Jaskier was in the room.
Maybe Geralt gets brave and starts to talk to someone.
When Jaskier comes back, Geralt meets him by chance.
He asks to talk to him sometime. Just talk. Doesn’t say how much he misses him, doesn’t say how miserable he is without his friend.
When they meet, when Jaskier finally agrees to meet him over a coffee, their old coffee place, round tables and soft music and a cut barista, Geralt asks if he can try to be his friend. Not like he was. But like a proper friend.
Jaskier looks sad, tearing at the napkin, making small squares of it.
Geralt then… tells him that he is talking to someone. That he is working on himself, that he will try not to hurt them both again.
Jaskier tentatively agrees, and they meet up for more coffee. Goes to the zoo. Museums.
It takes them months to heal. A year until they feel like themselves again.
And another year of careful touches, leaning against shoulders, until Geralt dares to ask.
“Would I ruin everything if I asked you out? Properly?”
By now, Geralt has Ciri. They are not the same as they were.
The first date, it is much like any time they are out. The only difference is that Geralt asks to hold his hand.
They fall asleep together tangled on the couch, Jaskier thumbs away some whipped cream from the corner of Geralt’s mouth.
Falling back into bed together is both devastating and like coming home. Like healing.
Geralt stays until morning now, sometimes he even holds Jaskier as they sleep. But they both run hot, so it doesn’t last long.
In eight years time, Ciri makes Geralt propose. Two years later they marry, Jaskier’s best man Valdo holding a terrible speech. He never did well with talking in front of people.
Their relationship had some growing pains along the way, but in the end, they made it.
for the cliche tropes, 27. Help me I’m being hit on at a bar please be my fake boyfriend for a second with geraskier, if you please <3
Thank you for the prompt! 🌼 Sorry it’s quite late but please enjoy this tiny piece of pining on this fine Friday.
(1.3k, geraskier, slow dancing, drunk jaskier, protective geralt, no warnings.)
“Oh, Geralt! Fancy seeing you here!” Jaskier exclaims, as if they didn’t come to the banquet together.
The bard reaches Geralt’s table and sweeps away his ale in one swift motion before chugging it all down. When he finally puts down the tankard, Geralt finds himself the recipient of the bard’s most charming and yet most performative smile.
Jaskier is nervous.
“Phew!” His hands flail dramatically. “Fine evening, isn’t it?”
Geralt hums, waiting for the catch.
“Let’s dance!”
Without getting a reply, Jaskier is already dragging Geralt up from his seat. With all the wine and ale in his system, Jaskier’s hold is not strong enough to manhandle a bulky witcher, but they end up at the edge of the dance floor anyway.
Jaskier’s warm palms rest flush against Geralt’s waist, and their faces are only a hand’s breadth away. Geralt can feel the heat on the bard’s flushed cheeks and hear the pounding of his heart in the din of the room. They sway to the gentle music.
It’s…close, too close. Geralt needs a distraction.
“What’s the catch, Jask?”
The bard scoffs, almost offended. “Do I require a reason to dance with you? Or am I not allowed to just enjoy quality time with my favorite witcher?”
Geralt simply lifts an eyebrow.
“All right. You are too smart for your own good.” Jaskier chews on his lips, again, nervously. “There is this one gentleman, who may have been too eager for my…company, despite my explaining of the situation.”
“Which is?”
“That I’m in love and thus unavailable?” Jaskier says as if it’s obvious. Geralt frowns with worry.
“Still?” the witcher asks quizzically. “Valdo left nearly a year ago, Jaskier. It isn’t healthy.”
That is the wrong thing to say because Jaskier flinches at the name. Hurt flashes across those cornflower blue eyes, and Jaskier looks too dejected, too similar to how Geralt found him at his worst, in pain and alone and roaring drunk. He never wants to see Jaskier like that again.
“Well, no matter,” Jaskier chuckles tightly. “It’s not like the guy took the hint and left me alone, so I had to improvise. Now, before you give me another lecture or something, you need to know that I had no choice but to—”
“What did you do?” Geralt lets the music and the crowd lead the two of them around the dance floor, careful not to bump into another couple.
The bard regains his balance, looking contrite.
“I may have implied that, um, the person I’m in love with is here tonight.” He pauses before continuing reluctantly. “Or I may have said plainly that he is…a certain witcher.”
“Jaskier…”
“I know. I know! But he was relentless and I couldn’t get away!” he pleads.
“Hmm.”
Geralt’s hands tighten on Jaskier’s shoulders protectively. The bard is too drunk to even keep up with the dance, let alone fight off some unwanted pursuer. In truth, he’s only relieved that he is here with Jaskier, even though the lie is hitting a bit too close to home.
Holding Jaskier like this, swaying with him gently, is once again reminding Geralt of what he isn’t allowed to dream. He no longer dares these days. Not when he’s the one pushing Jaskier away time and time again, not when he’s the one who let Jaskier slip through his fingers and end up with Valdo, not when he’s the one who inadvertently caused Jaskier’s broken heart.
“Oh fuck.” Jaskier hisses, his body tensing. “He’s coming towards us. Okay, act natural! Wait, what is natural if we were together? Oh…um… Just roll with me, will you?”
Before Geralt can reply, Jaskier’s mouth is on his. The kiss is as chaste as it can be—Jaskier is only pecking at his lips gently, never pushing in. Geralt only remembers to close his eyes after a moment, and forces himself to respond as such. To keep up the front, he tells himself, lest the guy is watching.
And he is. Deliberate footsteps are circling the dance floor, not far from them. Geralt concentrate on identifying the man’s heartbeat and his movement—
Jaskier sucks on his lower lip once, twice, before letting go. He buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, his body still taut like a statue.
“Is he gone?”
Warm breaths ghost over the skin of Geralt’s neck and he struggles to open his eyes. The man is not gone. In fact, he’s observing them intently, just shy of stepping into the dance floor himself. Through the moving crowd, Geralt can make out his golden hair and slim shoulders, almost a spitting image of one Valdo Marx, only a little taller.
Geralt hates this man immediately.
Perhaps it’s those too piercing eyes, or the way his presence is making Jaskier nervous like this, or just the look of him. Geralt narrows his eyes dangerously.
“He is not,” Geralt says into Jaskier’s ear, mimicking a lover’s murmur, all the while not breaking eye contact. He’s heard so many times how his yellow eyes are monstrous, and Geralt is thankful for once. It takes some balls to not cower under a witcher’s glare, one that projects predator from afar. This one crumbles within seconds.
With a triumphant smirk, Geralt moves one hand up to cup the nape of Jaskier’s neck, the other one still pressed between his shoulder blades. He’s laying claim. Hopefully, the light can catch a glint of his fangs, but either way, the man is soon running off, tail between his legs.
“Now he’s gone,” Geralt’s voice comes out deeper and rougher. He clears his throat. “Should be out of the gate by this point.”
They are standing impossibly close. The anxious rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest slow to normal and they separate. Geralt misses the contact. He now has a harder time keeping Jaskier steady on his feet. Yes, that’s the sole reason to miss holding Jaskier.
“I—” Jaskier’s gaze is still fixed somewhere far away behind Geralt’s shoulder, oblivious of how reluctantly the witcher is retracting his hands. “Sorry I did that.”
“Hmm. It worked.”
The bard lets out a dry laugh. “Thank the fuck you are here. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
“You can take care of yourself.”
Geralt only has one hand at Jaskier’s elbow, holding onto him with a featherlight touch. The music has come to an end and the quiet intimacy dissipates.
“Can I?” Jaskier says half-mockingly. “One look at that guy and I could barely breathe, Geralt, and he doesn’t even look that much like Val—him.”
Jaskier bites his lips in contrite, his eyes dimmed. Geralt dips his head to meet Jaskier’s gaze, the ocean blue so lost.
“Hey. I’ll be here if you need me,” he adds way too quickly, almost spluttering. “—to get rid of unwanted attention, that is.”
Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice the awkwardness. Instead, a soft smile stretches across his face. Wordlessly, the bard leans forward to place a small kiss on Geralt’s cheek.
Geralt has to hide the gasp, his eyes wide. He doesn’t know why he’s more affected this time. Is it because it’s real? A voice at the back of his head asks. The last time—even with Jaskier’s lips all over him—was only a show, but this one is full of Jaskier’s heart.
“You are sweet.” Jaskier wipes at the spot with a thumb. “What would I do without you, my friend?”
“Hmm.”
Friend. It’s one little word that Geralt has rejected time and time again, and just when he begins to want for more, he finds himself trapped in the very same word. The irony would be laughable if Geralt is not missing the warmth of Jaskier against him so much.
How the turntables.
Geralt lets Jaskier retreat into the crowd, and if he turns to smell the lingering scent of Jaskier on his shoulder, nobody needs to know.
read on ao3
CW: Talk of dead parents, grieving and mourning, sadness
Jaskier is grieving his dead mother and Geralt tries to be there for him (1k)
---
When Geralt neared the clearing he saw Jaskier rummaging through their bags with his back to him. “Getting ready for the feast?” he asked as he dumped the pile of firewood on the ground.
“No,” Jaskier said.
Geralt frowned and turned around. Something was off. He had expected to find Jaskier to be busy choosing his outfit for the local spring feast that was dedicated to love and well…something right up Jaskier’s alley, but the bard was uncharacteristically quiet and the colors of his outfit were too dull for the occasion.
And then it hit him - the salty smell of tears.
“Jaskier?” he said a bit unsure, “what happened?”
With a sharp intake of breath Jaskier shook his head and said, “Geralt... I’m... everything is fine.”
The witcher went over and eyed him closely. Jaskier was still facing his bags but Geralt could see even from the side that his blue eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks tearstained and he was clutching something in his hands.
“No, it’s not,” Geralt said quietly.
Jaskier turned his head and looked up at him and even though Geralt could see him trying hard not to, his eyes filled up again. When the first tear spilled over and ran down his cheek, a sob broke free from his chest.
Geralt had seen Jaskier sad before, he had even seen him cry a few times, but he had never seen him so utterly and desperately desolate and Geralt’s chest felt painfully tight at this sight.
He reached over and squeezed his shoulder and could feel the bobbing from Jaskier’s frantic sobbing. Geralt was at a loss of what to do.
“Jaskier,” he began, “what happened?”
“I…” the bard pressed out between sobs, “I’m so dumb, such an idiot.”
Geralt furrowed his brows and shook his head. Quietly he said, “no, you are not.”
“I am,” Jaskier said, tears still running down his face, “please don’t laugh at me.”
“I won’t laugh, just tell me what’s wrong.”
Geralt could see that the knuckles of Jaskier’s fingers were white from how hard he was gripping a...
“I’m crying over a damn sock.”
Geralt looked closer at what Jaskier was clutching in his hand and it looked indeed like a sock, an old black woolen sock.
“Why are you crying over a sock?” he asked calmly.
He wasn’t sure what to do. No one in Kaer Morhen had taught him how to console a crying friend, but he had the feeling that getting him to talk was at least the right direction.
“It’s…” another wave of sobs interrupted Jaskier before he could continue, “it finally wore through.”
Geralt was sure that this was not actually about the hole in the sock.
“Why…,” Geralt didn’t know how to word the question because he didn’t want it to sound like he was teasing, “why is this sock so important?”
He felt Jaskier taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly, trying to calm down.
A minute later he turned his head to Geralt and he could see teardrops caught in his lashes.
With a hoarse voice the bard said, “I know how stupid that sounds….”
And when he didn’t continue Geralt asked softly, “what?”
“This belonged to my mother,” Jaskier whispered hoarsely.
Geralt drew his eyebrows together in concentration. And a moment later he remembered.
“Your mother died when you were younger…” he said.
Jaskier nodded and with the back of his hand wiped tears from his eyes.
“When I decided to travel as a bard, I wanted to take something from her with me, something small and maybe useful? I remembered that she loved to wear these ridiculous socks in the winter and I took a pair.” Gently he rubbed his thumb over the soft woolen fabric.
“I wore it from time to time,” he continues, sniffing a bit, “but over the years the socks wore thin. And now,” he said, voice thick with emotions again, “this one has a hole and I can’t…” He stopped and his shoulders began to bobb as a new wave of sobs rose up in him. Geralt turned Jaskier to face him and wrapped his arms tightly around his friend.
“It’s okay,” he whispered in the soft brown curls.
“No,” Jaskier sobbed, “it’s not. It’s just a stupid sock and I’m so stupid.”
Geralt had begun to rub circles on his back.
“You are not stupid and this is not stupid,” he said.
“My mother died 16 years ago,” Jaskier sobbed, “why am I still like this?”
Geralt wasn’t sure what to say. So he tucked Jaskier a bit closer.
“These fucking socks are one of the last things I have of her, a thing she has touched with her own hands.”
He was still sobbing again and was clutching at Geralt’s shirt, “there will never be any more things that she will touch. Everything rots away and I am left behind with nothing.”
Geralt was pressing his bard to his chest as if he was trying to keep him together as the grief and sadness waved through him. They stood like this for a long while.
“I even forgot how she smelled,” Jaskier whispered hoarsely.
When the sobbing subsided and Geralt could feel tension leaving Jaskier’s body he gripped his shoulders and took a careful step back. Jaskier let his head hang low and wasn’t looking at the witcher but the sobbing had stopped.
“Let’s lay down,” Geralt said and steered them to their bedrolls. They lay down facing each other and Geralt pressed a water bottle in Jaskier’s hands. “Drink something.”
Jaskier did as he was asked and after that Geralt wrapped his arms once more around his friend and pulled him in an embrace.
“Tell me about your mother,” Geralt said after a while.
“What do you want to know?” Jaskier asked hoarsely.
“A good memory you have of her.”
Jaskier was silent for a moment before he began.
---
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Geralt gets poisoned. That's it. That's the prompt.
Oh Comfy, you always come to my aid with the best ideas and prompts. Thank you, boo.
I’m goofin’ with the lore a little so if Amaryllis wouldn’t actually poison Geralt canonically... deal with it for the sake of my whumpy fluff.
Poem is Sonnet 98 by my boy Willy Shakes (the OG Bard).
tw: poison, whump with a fluffy ending
---
“Shit,” Jaskier mutters, flinging his empty bag to the side in his haste. His hands dig through one of Roach’s saddlebags, then the other. “Where the fuck is it!? Where is it!?”
“J-Ja-”
“Hush, Geralt,” the bard orders with what little breath he has. He’s trying with all his might not to let the tears clouding his vision fall but it’s too late for that; he’s already a mess. Geralt is lying there, barely conscious, his skin as cold as death, and all Jaskier can do is panic and stumble around the campsite in search of some Swallow. “Fuck me, where is that blasted potion?!”
“Jaskier,” the Witcher whispers. “All gone.”
“What do you mean all gone?!”
“None left. Stock up.”
“Fuck! Fuck!” he cries. “I’m not going to lose you like this! Not like this, to something so stupid.”
Geralt doesn’t reply to that particular outburst and Jaskier turns on his heel to look the White Wolf over again. The Witcher’s arm is outstretched towards him, palm up and fingers relaxed. His eyes are closed and his breaths come in shallow little pants. The bard collapses to his knees beside his fallen companion like a rag doll dropped by a child. His best friend, the only man whose claim over Jaskier’s heart has lasted over a decade, is dying on the leaf-strewn ground and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Jaskier grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes as if that will clear the dreadful sight of Geralt dying from his vision.
Alas, it does no such thing.
“Geralt, please, stay with me,” he begs, grasping the pale, chilled hand off the ground and sheltering it between both of his own. He holds the limp appendage against his chest and tries to rub some warmth back into the Witcher’s fingers. Warmth that doesn’t stick. “I can’t lose you.”
“Hmm.”
“If your final words to me are a noncommittal hum it will be horribly fitting but I won’t be able to stop crying for days. Do you hear me, Witcher? Days. Don’t die on me and leave me with a ‘Hmm’ as your parting gift.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt manages to groan from between his blue-purple lips. “Poetry.”
“You want me...to recite poetry?”
“Hmm.” This is his hum of affirmation. Jaskier shakes his head and presses a tender kiss to the Witcher’s forehead.
“From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.”
It’s us, Geralt. Can’t you hear us in the words? I am proud April and you are heavy Saturn; you who will laugh with me against the dark skies of a late night. You, whose side I always return to without fail every time the ground is warm enough for travel.
“Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.”
I don’t want to speak the last lines; I don’t want you to leave me.
The Witcher’s breathing grew soft and even as if he were sleeping and not fading into the next world. Fading into Death.
“Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.”
Jaskier lays at his Witcher’s side and sobs openly as Geralt goes cold and pale and still.
---
“Jaskier?” a low, gravelly voice inquires. A hand shakes his shoulder, pulling him from a nightmare. “Jaskier, why are you crying?”
“You - Geralt!” the bard springs up and flings his arms around the Witcher’s neck. “Thank fuck! You’re alive!”
“Amaryllis makes me sick near to death, yes,” the Witcher nods, “But no snooty nobleman can kill a Wolf so easily.”
“Fuck. Oh gods,” Jaskier cries. He sobs. He weeps into the familiar material of Geralt’s black linen shirt. He counts the buttons once, twice, three times while he waits for his heartbeat to return to normal. He clings to the Witcher with fierce determination. “Never leave me again.”
“Next time,” Geralt nods sagely, “I’ll sniff the wine before I drink it.”
“Next time,” Jaskier amends. “I’ll stab the insolent fool who thinks he can drag you from my life.”
“I love you,” the Witcher half-smiles. Jaskier’s heart pauses beating in his chest for a moment, only for the tattoo of its beating to redouble. “Foolish bard.”
“I love you more,” he grins, arms still wrapped around Geralt’s neck. “Obstinate Witcher.”
okay but what if Geralt didn’t regret what he said atop the Mountain and believed he was in the right?? and then he meets up with Jaskier again, no apology, thinks all is well and good and that Jaskier just got over it because it “was nothing, Jaskier always forgives me, i didn’t say anything that wasn’t true??” and insists on bringing him to Kaer Morhen because he is a person of interest for Nilfgaard and could give up sensitive information about witchers and Geralt’s child surprise
that’s all. he doesn’t give Jaskier reason to believe he wants Jaskier there for any other reason, only so that he doesn’t turn into a snitch
and Jaskier is just crushed. he didn’t expect a heartfelt apology from his witcher, he knew his witcher wasn’t one for words, but he had thought Geralt would feel guilty about it. but Geralt just brushing it off as if nothing happened? Jaskier feels equal parts miserable and enraged
“it was just a stupid fight -”
“what fight?! there was no fight! it was you, on that that mountain, yelling at me! i had no part in it. i had no say. you’ve treated me like shit this entire time and i never took anything out on you. there was no fight because it was only you hurting me”
Post-mountain incident, Jaskier is a heart broken mess. The last thing he needs is an unexpected visit from Geralt.
I have accepted that it’s never going to be the same amount of words as I Find you all Unwoven, cause I re-wrote this three times and it just doesn’t happen.
Again, I was sad, that’s my excuse. English is not my first language, hope it doesn’t terribly suck!
***
It hurt a great deal when Jaskier sold his lute. He was attached to it for more than just sentimental reasons. Sometimes he felt like his life truly started the day he got that lute.
He was used to pain by now though, pain was just another thing creeping under the surface, it came and went in waves like the ocean, sometimes threatening to overwhelm him with memories and sometimes resting among the broken pieces of his heart, hissing like a snake waiting to strike.
It was always there, he just perceived it in different ways: some days it was like being on the edge of an empty abyss of nothingness, about to fall but never really tipping over, just going through the motion. Other times, there were the long nights when sleep refused to visit him and he'd get this urge under his skin, to move, to do something, anything to not feel trapped in his own flesh, caged by his own mind.
He tried to fight insomnia with the ink, but he proved a terrible fighter. He couldn't write anything anymore. When he tried to play, his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, and he'd get even the simplest of melody wrong, resulting in endless frustration that kept him up until dawn.
As much as he tried to outrun his ghost, he always ended up running right into it, and if he managed to keep his waking hours relatively Geralt-free, the dreams were always there. His journals paid the price of waking up for the hundredth time, after a nightmare that leaves him choking and incapable to stop the tears from falling down his cheeks.
He thought he'd feel relieved after watching it crackle and burn to ashes, as if destroying the evidence of his time with the Witcher could also destroy the heartache that came with it, but it doesn't work like that. Nothing he ever does stops him from being hollow.
Jaskier walks around the Academy like a shadow, trying to keep himself busy between lessons or at least trying to keep Geralt out of his thoughts. This simple task proved to be more complicated than he anticipated. He doesn't want to be here, he's not made for teaching and his students get on his nerves all the time. To be fair, most things get on his nerves since the mountain incident, but he doesn't have many options.
Sure, he could go home to his family, beg their forgiveness and implore his father to allow him back into court. That sounded as promising as jumping off a bridge.
Compared to that, even the room Madame M. offered him at the brothel looked like a golden palace. At least he had some talent for sex, he managed to convince even a Witcher to sleep with him, that hadn't been easy.
Jaskier stirs his mind in a safer direction, cause thinking about those nights will not do him any good. He still blames and curses himself for coming up with that stupid arrangement, cause why not Geralt, I'm here all the time, and I'm obviously very willing, besides you don't have to pay me, looks like a win-win situation to me. Looks like you're a special kind of idiot, Jaskier, that's what you are. Why did Geralt even accept anyway?
Jaskier blinks the memories away and focuses on trying to have lunch, cause that's what sane, normal people do. He's still struggling with normal though.
His plan flew out of the window when someone started to sing. Jaskier froze in his spot when he recognized the song. He wrote that. He should be pleased to hear it, but it's not pride he feels when he glances in the direction of the curly-haired boy in green velvet.
He will never play or sing another song again, and people will forget him sooner than Geralt did. The folks in this tavern don't know him, they don't know he wrote those lyrics to distract himself the first night Geralt didn't come back from a hunt and he feared for him every second of that dreadful night.
He spent hours cursing the Gods for making him so useless and prayed to them in the same breath, begging for their mercy. He felt stupid later, when Geralt showed up at dawn saying it took him longer than expected to break a curse. Jaskier told the Witcher how scared he had been and Geralt dismissed him as the fool he was.
He's scared of being forgotten, of being meaningless and unimportant. No one is going to remember Jaskier, the bard that traveled the continent with the White Wolf and shared his adventures.
He left Jaskier on top of that mountain, he's just Julian now, just a teacher, just another idiot that got his heart broken. Geralt left him like everyone else. That's what people do, they just leave and move on with their lives. So why couldn't he move on too?
There's a small shift in the air, and while he tries to regain control of his thoughts, for some unknown reason, destiny, the universe, life or the Gods, make him turn his head toward the entrance.
There is no mistaking the white hair he sees, or the dark armour. Jaskier knows he has to leave before Geralt sees him. The sole idea of Geralt being here is enough to leave him shaking.
What are the chances of meeting the Witcher outside Oxenfurt? There were no contracts in town, why was fate trying his best to mess with his life today, was the song not enough? He feels like his head is swimming and he knows he doesn't have time to panic cause his heart beats so loudly he fears Geralt will spot it in a second.
He puts some coins in the maid's hand and stumbles out of the place.
He can't face him. Not today. Probably not ever, cause he can't imagine he'll ever be ready to face the one that broke his heart without holding any anger or resentment towards him. Why must he feel like this, Geralt never cared for him, so why is he still drowning in his feelings for the idiot?
Jaskier is a poet, he should know a thing or two about heartache. He should also know that he's out of luck today.
"Why did you follow me, Witcher?" Jaskier feels his presence a few paces behind him, still so painfully familiar to him even after all these months.
"How did you know..." There's a puzzled expression on Geralt's face. Jaskier knows he's not prepared for this.
It takes him a second to realize that no matter how angry he is at the Witcher, how deep his sorrow runs and how broken his heart is, a small part of him is almost glad to see him. It's the same small part that decided to talk to a stranger and follow him on a dangerous journey, the one that figured out first that what he was feeling was more than a crush, and that accepted every scrap of affection Geralt showed him like he was being handed the world on a silver plate.
Geralt is exactly how he remembers him, and his betrayer heart jumps in his chest when their eyes meet.
"I saw you at the tavern. I spent so long searching for your face in every crowd I started to think I was seeing things, but apparently I was right this time." I love you, I'd recognize your steps everywhere, the cracking of the leather in your gloves and the click of the metal of that buckle in your armor you always forget to fix after a hunt, I know them as if they were my own. I love you, and you broke my heart. That's what he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat, they're no use now.
"I... You were not singing." Jaskier knows it's not surprise he sees on Geralt's face when he answers "I don't do that anymore." but he can't figure out what it is.
It hurt when he realized he couldn't bring himself to sing or play anymore, it left him feeling even emptier than before, cause he always thought he'd have his music to console him, to defend him from the things life was throwing at him, to build a wall around himself and protect whatever was left of him. How wrong he was.
"Why not?" Jaskier wishes he could explain that when they parted on top of the mountain, when he forced himself to say "See you around Geralt" knowing he'll never see him again, when he tried to process those heavy words that rolled off the Witcher's tongue, his love for music, for poetry, for life, rolled off too and hid somewhere he couldn't reach anymore. But Geralt never cared for his music.
"Don't act like you care. I'm not the same person I was ten months ago. Besides, you hate my singing, you can barely stand my voice, what difference does it make to you?" Keeping his tone even and preventing his voice from breaking is hard, harder than any performance he ever had to do. Ten months ago feel like a lifetime away now, it doesn't even seem real. The ache in his chest is always there to remind him that it is.
"That's not true." Jaskier sees how he clenches his hands as if those words meant a great effort for him. The Gods know how many times he looked into Geralt's eyes after singing, desperately seeking his approval and finding only a mild annoyance, like this was just another thing he had to endure.
"It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling. There's a word for that, in case you didn't know, and it's called disappointment. Now, why did you follow me out here? I don't think it was to tell me you suddenly like my voice cause we both know you don't and honestly, bit late for that, don't you think?" Jaskier wants to be annoyed, he should be furious for what Geralt did to him, for leaving him like he meant nothing, but these days being mad is a lot of effort. He doesn't have it in him anymore, it's easier to let go of the anger. It doesn't make him feel less empty or less broken anyway.
"I just thought...we could maybe....talk?" Jaskier laughs bitterly.
"Really Geralt? That's rich coming from you. Now you want to talk? You know what, no. No, you don't get to come here and tell me you want to talk after I spent ten gods forsaken months trying to forget you. Don't you fucking dare. Not like this. Now if there's something I can help you with, do say so. If not, spare us both this conversation, I'm not sure I'm in the mood to have my heart broken again." Jaskier is not even sure there is something left to break.
He'll never admit it but deep down he knows there's no forgetting Geralt. And he curses that small part of him that wants to listen to him, to let him talk and explain, cause he knows that he'd go back to traveling with the Witcher right this second if he so much as says he'd take him back. Stupid, stupid Jaskier. A Witcher apologizing, as if.
"I'll leave you to your things then. Goodbye, Jaskier." Saying goodbye, even knowing that it's for the best, doesn't make it any less painful.
"You were right." Geralt looks at him in a way he has never seen before, for a second he thinks it's hurt that he sees flickering in those golden eyes, but it lasts a second. He should know Geralt doesn't care about him enough to be hurt by something he says or does.
"You spent so much time trying to convince me to leave you alone and stop following you around and I never fucking listened. I realized you were right. Cause you, you got what you wanted, life, destiny, whatever, you had your sorceress and I'm finally off your hands. But what about me? That is why I wish...I wish I would have listened to you. Left. Before it was too late. Before having my heart broken."
His voice breaks at the end, he feels the tears stinging his eyes and he turns to walk away before Geralt notices it. Pain comes in waves, and today he's drowning.
Sometimes thoughts of soft Geralt/yennefer/jaskier haunt my mind at night.
Tonight it's jaskier lying his head in Yennefer's lap while she runs soft hands through his hair and Geralt massaging his back getting all the knots out from carrying the lute case everywhere. Jaskier's silent warbly tears cut through the whispers of we love you and he clutches handfuls of Yennefer's clothes. His body shakes as anxiety and stress roll off of it.
This happens after an unusually rough/obnoxiously drunk crowd gave Jaskierr a hard time duing his performance making him uber stressed. When he got back to their room he began to pace muttering about being perfect and writing the perfect thing. Thus commences the softness scene.
