Geraskier prompt: Cooking and sharing food
hey, sorry for the wait on this one! i’m trying to answer an ask or do a prompt every day in october but I also have school so we’ll see how it goes lmao
anyways I really thought this prompt was cute as shit so here we go!! more below the cut so this post doesn’t take up too much of ur dash
On the feeding of wolves
One of the first things Geralt had learned when Jaskier came to stay at Kaer Morhen was that the bard could cook.
Jaskier had never come to stay at the keep before. Geralt had never asked. It always felt like overstepping, when he’d thought to bring it up. Jaskier had his own life, friends and coworkers and family that he needed to catch up with, prestigious court positions to fill, beautiful men and women to fall into bed with. He already followed Geralt around for the better part of the year, most of the time. To ask him to come and stay longer, to live in close quarters with Geralt and meet his family… It was too close to asking for what Geralt really wanted.
That had changed recently, something exciting and tentative springing up between them. Geralt wasn't sure if Jaskier had only just developed a more-than-platonic interest in him, or if he’d realized Geralt felt the same, or if he’d just suddenly decided to throw caution to the wind. Whatever the case, Geralt was glad for it. Things had been better over the last few months than ever before, even if they’d yet to formally put a name to what they were doing. So Geralt had finally built up the courage to ask Jaskier if, maybe, he wanted to come north with him, and Jaskier had gleefully agreed.
Geralt had been worried about Jaskier getting along with the other wolves, fretting over it the entire way up the mountain pass to Kaer Morhen. It turned out he needn't have worried, however. Jaskier had a secret, full proof plan to seduce the witchers of the Wolf School, and it involved warm loaves of bread and a judicious amount of spices.
On the road Jaskier never cooked. Geralt had spent - he didn't even know. Hundreds of evenings, probably, roasting meat over an open fire or tossing it into a pot for stew, throwing in whatever vegetables and herbs he’d been able to scrounge up. Jaskier had complained plenty when it wasn't to his liking, but it didn't bother Geralt. He was a man of simple needs; a warm bowl of soup in the forest or a hunk of chicken in a tavern was enough to suit him. As long as it kept him going towards the next task.
Jaskier, on the other hand, was a noble deep down and it showed in his tastes. He didn't mind the food they picked up in taverns along the road, but it was obvious that he preferred the fare they received at banquets and the occasional festival. He had a sweet tooth a mile wide and a sensitive palette for spices and ingredients. Geralt, with his heightened sense of smell, should have been better than Jaskier at picking them out by far, but the bard had a knack for it.
It turned out that “knack” was built on real skill. On the day of their arrival, Jaskier had strode into the main kitchen of the keep and said, “Oh finally, a real oven!” Geralt had written it off, only to wake the next morning to Jaskier making dozens of dainty hot cross buns. The fire was crackling away in the stove, and a pot of tea was already boiling away. Jaskier had turned to him with a brilliant smile on his face, flour in his hair, and said, “Those ones just came out! Help yourself. Where are those brothers of yours?” Geralt had stood for a moment, blinking in surprise, before he picked up one of the buns. It was delicious, hot and flaky with a subtle sweetness to it.
It had become a bit of a ritual since then, in the week that they’d been at the castle. Jaskier didn't always make breakfast, but he cooked at least one meal almost daily. He was good, too, his food packed with flavor and warmth that made Geralt feel lazy and content afterwards. Jaskier insisted that they all sit down to eat together, even old Vesemir, and the other wolves began to open up around the bard. Eskel was pleased to have someone else around who had his appreciation for more academic pursuits, and Lambert quickly found that Jaskier was an easy sell on any shenanigans that he wanted to pull. Even Vesemir seemed to enjoy his company, asking Jaskier after Geralt’s exploits on the Path - “He is woefully silent when it comes to his own victories, aren't you darling? Let me tell you about last spring, when he took down an entire nest of archspores near Toussaint -”
It was good. Great, even. Geralt had no idea where it was fucking coming from.
After the first week he finally cornered Jaskier in the kitchen, where the bard was working on dinner. Lambert and Eskel had felled a deer earlier that day, and Jaskier was planning to make some kind of stew with the tough meat. He was currently kneading a dark lump of bread dough, probably to go along with the meal and serve as breakfast the next morning. He looked up when Geralt walked in, his expression pleased. His chin lifted and he nodded to a hissing pot on the stovetop. “Oh, Geralt, glad you’re here. Will you be a dear and stir that for me? I’m afraid the onions might start to stick.”
Geralt did as he was bid, picking up the wooden spoon hanging nearby to shove at the onions in the pot. There must already have been some spices thrown in - garlic, some rosemary, thyme - because it smelled heavenly. “I didn't know that you knew how to cook,” he said after a moment.
Jaskier hummed, focused on his task. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and Geralt watched distractedly as his forearms tensed and released as he kneaded the dough. “Hmm, I suppose you wouldn't. I don't know much about roadside cooking, so I always left it in your decently capable hands. We’ve never settled anywhere long enough to make use of a kitchen.”
Geralt watched the bard, onions forgotten. “You never said. Where did you learn?”
Jaskier glanced over at him and the away, blushing. “Oh, here and there. When I was a boy my parents felt I was too loud to be in the presence of guests, so they usually sent me to the kitchens for the staff to watch over. No idle hands in there, let me tell you. They put me to work quickly enough, little tasks to keep me busy. I helped out more as I got older, until my parents deemed it inappropriate behavior for a viscount.” He smiled down at the dough beneath his fingers, shaping it into a round loaf. “I think that's where I found my love of music and making, if I'm being honest. There were always sounds in that room, people singing and laughing while they made food to feed the house. I like being a part of that.” He met Geralt’s eyes. “I like making people happy by making things.”
Geralt stepped closer, reaching up to lay a gentle hand on Jaskier’s neck. “You don't have to,” he said. “They’ll still like you even if you don't do things for them.” He took a breath, and then continued. “I’ll still care for you. Always. You don't have to be useful, Jaskier.”
Geralt heard the bard’s breath hitch, and then Jaskier leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. When he pulled back he was smiling warmly. “I like doing it,” he said, “but thank you. It means… more than I can say.” Taking Geralt’s free hand in one of his flour coated palms, he said, “I care about you a great deal as well.”
Geralt opened his mouth, unsure of what he was about to say. Something embarrassing, like I want to wake up to your cooking every day or I used to dream about this sort of thing or maybe just I love you. Instead, he said, “I think the onions are burning.”
They were. The kitchen was filled with the rich smell of over caramelized onions, and Jaskier gasped as he pushed past Geralt to attempt to save them. He cursed up a storm as he pulled them from the heat, looking down into the pot with a pout. Geralt huffed a laugh, knowing that Jaskier would find a way to pull it all together regardless. There was flour on his palm in the shape of Jaskier’s hand, and something in his chest that he thought was there to stay. The kitchen was warm, and Jaskier’s hair had flour in it once again, and Geralt felt like he was finally, finally home.
