Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I love the way you just sit in a corner and brood.”

Over a dozen patrons fill the tavern, but Jaskier's attention befalls the man quietly staring at his mug. He's alone, deliciously muscular, and seemingly ignoring the jeers all the other patrons are yelling at the bard. He doesn’t seem enthralled about Jaskier's performance, but he's not loathing it either. 

The man is intriguing and Jaskier has never been able to resist a curious encounter.

This is why he finds himself leaning against a support beam and contemplating the stranger. This is why he flings out a pick up line, why he pesters the man, and why he needles at him for a response. This is why he slides into the chair and eagerly leans forward to guess the other's identity.

When he verbally pieces together the clues, when this causes the man to flee, Jaskier pauses. He asks himself, are you really going to do this, and smiles because it was never really a question.

He leaps up, wraps a hand around another support beam, and allows the post to take his weight as he leans. He calls out the stranger's name with a smug and proud smile.

“You're the witcher: Geralt of Rivia.”

The witcher doesn’t pause but that's not an issue for the young poet. He has already decided to follow him. He will catch up.

Which he quickly does. While he saunters beside the burly man, he rambles on about what's so intriguing about Geralt.

“You smell of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak.”

As he utters these words, he is extrapolating as his profession is wont to do, for Geralt is a witcher. Surely the man is full of stories and adventures. He slays vicious monsters, has wicked combat skills, and consistently saves folk.

It's not until much much later that Jaskier realizes that death, destiny, heroics, and heartbreak truly do cling to the witcher.

For now, Jaskier prattles as the witcher snarks back and actually engages with the poet, even if reluctantly. With every traded word and pointed look, it's enlightening how wrong those rumors of the witcher must be. Geralt is a man deemed incapable of feelings and a bloodthirsty monster, yet he sure is obliging. He's gruff, blunt, and sarcastic, but he's not cruel. He's not mean. He humors the fluttering of the troubadour when there certainly is no necessity for it. He could leave. He could snap or yell or beat the shit out of Jaskier. He could outpace the bard with either his horse or those damn, hulking legs.

The witcher isn't soft, in any regards, but he's good-hearted. He treats Jaskier, who must surely be an annoyance, with a level of respect and attentiveness that even most humans won't afford the bard. He's earnest in their interactions, even if he proclaims to be an unwilling participant.

He's also quick to enforce boundaries. It's another bonus, even if it's at the cost of Jaskier doubling over in pain. 

The bard is assertive, talkative, and outgoing. He can read the smallest of emotional changes in any person around him and react appropriately. However, he's not a mind reader. He will not be able to understand why someone's emotions have morphed one way or the other if he isn't explicitly told the reason. He can guess, but he won't know for certain their cause nor their depth. This lack of honest communication has led to numerous issues in his past relations.

At least with Geralt, the witcher will express anger and annoyance. He won't try to hide it to be polite or courteous. He will be frank, blunt, and firm with his boundaries. Geralt is not the best at chatting, but in this he's fluent.

It's refreshing and reassuring to Jaskier. He'll be aware of whether he upsets Geralt.

Bound, slightly beaten, and mourning his lute, Jaskier listens to Geralt bargain for the bard's life. Not the witcher’s own, not for their freedom, but for Jaskier's.

If the poet had any doubt before on the validity of Geralt's notoriety, he's now certain that all of it is a pile of kikimore shit. This man, this empathetic and self-sacrificial witcher, is nothing more than a cruel, bloodthirsty beast? The rumors say that he only cares for coin and the thrill of a hunt? That he'd slaughter a town for the hell of it?

Jaskier doesn't know Geralt's side, he doesn't know his reasons, but surely this white-haired witcher was merely victim to the bigotry of the populace and the lack of a sympathetic voice on his behalf. If the bard wasn't currently preoccupied with their oncoming peril at the hands of their captors, he'd say as much to Geralt. Jaskier would bet his boots (and they are nice, expensive boots) that the witcher is not used to kind, sincere words. He would benefit from his noble deeds being regaled and complimented. As the situation currently is, however, Jaskier can only listen as Geralt questions why the sylvan steals for the elves.

“I felt for them.” Torque proclaims. “They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.”

And that? That's not… That's not right.

Jaskier scoffs at the discrepancy of what he knows from what they believe. “Forced out? No they chose -”

“Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home?” The elven king interrupts. “To starve?”

And… Well, no. Jaskier doesn't know anyone who's left their home and starved without being forced into those circumstances, one way or another. He can't argue with that. Filavandrel's counterpoint makes sense, but only in a way that questions everything that Jaskier was taught.

He knows the way the public can twist the account of an event to make the victors righteous. He knows that humans were the victors in the war against the elves and that non-humans face discrimination.

There's a difference, however, in being aware of a phenomenon and truly witnessing it. In reading a textbook or hearing a story versus seeing the emancipated, sickly forms of an outcast group.

This entire interaction with the elves, his own ignorance and their need to rely on a sylvan to steal for them, is created by the human propaganda Jaskier was spoon fed from birth. Oxenfurt aided him in his own quest to broaden his noble-born mindset, but they still taught human history as if it were the entire continent’s. How many of his teachers were elves? How much of the administration is made up of dwarves? What education material was created by dryads?

He became a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, a skilled crafter of words, and yet he's still so ignorant and naive.

While Jaskier is reflecting on all that he does not know, Geralt is trying to argue for their lives.

“No matter what you choose, you'll come out bloody and hating yourself.”

The king's expression is determined with the weight of a ruler deciding the fate of others. “This is necessary.”

Right here lies a choice for the elven king. His people, the ones he leads in their trying and desperate times, are relying on his decisions. If he leads them astray, they might fall into extinction. The perishment of their entire race is far too close for hasty, ill-thought measures. Filavandrel needs to decide prudently and his main desire must be to protect his people above all else.

Yet, their history is a bloody ethnically cleansing by a race profiting from their deaths. That pain, that grief, that rage thrums in the populace, as evident by the elf begging their king to allow them to fight. The massacre is not even the story of their elders. It is their own memories. Their lives. They can not escape the remembrance of what was, what happened, and what now is.

They are also familiar with human trickery and violence. That king knows the cost that knowledge of their existence would have on this elven populace. Filavandrel knows that his people's safety is jeopardized by his two captives.

If word of them is spread via an unknown human with careless application of the truth, this will fan the flames of war. Both sides will face immense loss over this. Over grain.

Over the right to eat.

“I understand.” And Geralt does. He's aware of why Filavandrel feels that their deaths may be the better option for his people. It's a rational and difficult decision, even if it's short-sighted. “As long as you understand that it won't be long before you follow me in death.”

Filavandrel’s jaw clenches as he glares down at Geralt. “Yes, because they pushed us from viable soil.” 

“You are choosing to starve. You are cutting off your ear to spite your face.”

“You think this is about pride?” He exclaims. “My elders worked with humans and got robbed of all they had. And when they fought back, they were slaughtered . ‘The Great Cleansing’ humans called it.”

His voice drops in fury and grief. “I called it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved. And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow… our babies fertilizer for their grain .” 

He maintains eye contact as he declares his main aspiration in a softer tone. “I don't wish to bury anyone else.” 

How many funerals has Filavandrel attended? How many deaths has he witnessed that weren't even granted the right of entombment? How many of his people lie in unmarked graves or whose bodies were never truly found?

The genocide takes and takes and takes. It doesn't stop at the deaths of elves but prevails into every aspect of their lives. Filavandrel's people starve, but what can he truly do to fix that?

“If I bring my people down from these mountains, it would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They'll make slaves of us.”

Starvation, slavery, or murder. Murder of either the humans or the elves. These are the options the elves have.

The witcher tries to impart wisdom, strength, and purpose on the dispairing elven king. “Then go somewhere else. Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.”

If Jaskier had any part of this conversation, he'd dare to ask Geralt where he thinks the elves can go. Where on this continent would they find land for themselves?

After the humans conquered the rest of the continent, they pushed the elves into Dol Blathanna. It was ‘granted’ to them, as if living anywhere else wouldn't be a death sentence for those with pointy ears. That small section of land was left for the elves until that too was taken from them. Does Geralt truly believe the elves can find some unclaimed land to rebuild their forces? Does he truly think that the humans would let them?

Filavandrel scowls at Geralt. “Like you, witcher?”

The man is stoic as he replies. “I have learned to live with them. So that I may live.”

There is little known about witchers, at least little publicly stated that Jaskier would trust. What he does know is that there used to be more. There used to be a plethora of witchers sprawling the continent to defend its populace from monsters. And now the witchers are few.

The elven king grabs the hilt of his sword and steps towards the bound men.

“Wait!” Torque cries. He grabs Filavandrel's forearm.

“Torque, stand aside!” The king tries to shrug off the sylvan.

Still, Torque pleads his case. “The witcher could've killed me, but he didn't. He's different. Like us.”

There's a moment where the two lock eyes, one in determination and the other of desperation. It hasn't escaped Jaskier's notice that the sylvan didn't beg for the bard's life, only Geralt's.

From a selfish standpoint, Jaskier hopes Filavandrel chooses to spare them. He rather likes being alive.

From an empathetic one, the poet does not envy the sidh rhon¹. The choice is a critical one with impacts the size of a torrent storm. There are reasons Jaskier ran from his noble title and responsibilities, one of which includes the hardships of governance. He can't imagine making decisions of this magnitude with as many lives relying on his guidance.

It's terrifying. Because what are Filavandrel's options?

He can kill Jaskier and Geralt to prevent word from reaching the humans, but those humans will inevitably investigate the disappearance of the witcher. This will offer him some time and leeway, though. 

If he kills just Jaskier, Geralt has made it clear he will not stand for the ‘innocent’ death. The elves will not be able to only kill the bard.

Then there's the option of trusting two strangers with the fate of every single elven life that Filavandrel protects. Their fates would depend on an unknown human and a significantly more trustworthy witcher. 

But, again, they would need to have faith in a human (the group that has led to their perilous predicament). 

What should the king choose? Guaranteed time or an uncertain gamble?

From the sound of his footsteps approaching the bound men, Jaskier fears he chose time over faith.

The witcher stares his death in the eyes as he spits his final words. “If you must kill me, I am ready. But the Sylvan's right. Don't call me human.”

Geralt insists he's not a human despite originally being one. Jaskier wonders if it's himself or humans that he's rejecting in his insistence.

Since it seems Jaskier is fated to die in this shabby cave, he can only hope that his death allots the elves enough time to relocate somewhere safer (and if some small part of him is embittered at the idea of Geralt perishing as well, then there's not enough time for anyone to notice).

It's with this thought running through his mind that he feels the ropes slacken.

The elven king is a dramatic fucking bastard.

“This is where we part ways, bard. For good.”

After everything, is Geralt truly trying to ditch him right now? He hasn't even written anything about him yet!

With a glance up at the man on the horse, he shakes his head. “Look. I promised to change the public's tune about you. At least allow me to try.”

And he will. The entire continent will know how wrong they were about Geralt. They will honor and sing his name for centuries to come once Jaskier is through.

It's nothing less than what the witcher deserves.

Jaskier's name being tied to those songs, to that fame, is also nothing less than Jaskier deserves.

As he crafts the tune aloud, Geralt stops Roach to interrupt the bard's musing.

“That's not how it happened.”

Jaskier, from where he had strolled ahead a few paces, turns back to face Geralt. The witcher asks, “Where's your newfound respect?”

Shaking his head with a sardonic twist of his lips, the bard declares, “Respect doesn't make history.”

Humans will lie to save their own image and hide the atrocities they commit. They'll paint themselves in glory as moral paragons despite the cruelty their hands enacted.

And Jaskier is only human. 

He's not a witcher nor a mage. He can't fight. Certainly not physically against the stereotypes, bigotry, and ill-treatment of those othered by the common populace. No. Jaskier is a bard, a human, a storyteller. That is where his talent lies. His profession perfects the art of portraying a story, regardless of its truth. He's well aware that Geralt, a witcher, would not have been looked upon kindly by any storyteller.

If no one else will tell Geralt's tale with any sort of positive regard, then why not him?

If he has to lie, cheat, and steal to rewrite Geralt's reputation, then so be it. He believes that Geralt is good and that the world has been far too cruel to him. What's a little human trickery to aid a scorned man?

Besides, the witcher has already begrudgingly allowed him to tag along. Jaskier will force Geralt's history into the light that the bard desires.

—

¹ Elven king

~~~

“You want to share a room.”

The inn owner’s gaze darts between the bard and the witcher as Geralt stares down Jaskier. Jaskier rolls his eyes in that dramatic way where his body follows the movement.

“Very observant, dear witcher. In case you haven't noticed, we are both too low on coin for there to be much of another option. Would you rather sleep outside?”

Geralt shifts slightly, warily eyeing the inn owner before returning that gaze to the bard. 

With hands on his hip, Jaskier exaggerates a gasp. “You don’t mean for me to sleep outside, do you?” 

The witcher slowly blinks in exasperation.

“That's what I thought! Unless you have an issue sharing, then I don't want to hear another word about it.” 

The bard’s right hand flails as his other one digs into his purse. After a moment, the coins clink on the wooden desk and Jaskier's grin faces towards the inn owner.

“I'd very much appreciate a bath as well, good sir.”

The man nods and slides the money towards himself. He passes a key to Jaskier and turns to his son to get a tub set up. The bard glances over to the witcher with an eye roll at Geralt's expression.

“Come on, you brute. I’m not letting you climb into our bed without a good wash first.”

Geralt grunts, but he follows the bard upstairs. 

As they unload their bags, the inn owner's son knocks on their door to inform them the bath is ready. Jaskier enthusiastically thanks the man, shuts the door, and grabs his supplies.

“Come on. The sooner we bathe the sooner we can enjoy an actual bed. Regardless of how used you are to sleeping on the ground, I'm positive that you're looking forward to some bedding luxury.” Jaskier glances around the room with a grimace. “Not that I'd refer to this establishment as much of a luxury, mind you.”

His hand is on the door knob when he notes that the witcher has frozen in the spot. Geralt is glowering at him in the same way a disgruntled dog does.

“Geralt? Is something the matter?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier refrains from sighing. “Unfortunately, dear one, I am not quite fluent in your various monosyllabic utterances. We’ll work on that, certainly, but for now I’ll need a translation.”

“We're both going to the bath right now.”

“Ah. Would you prefer to wait until I'm done?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I should be done within twenty minutes. Come knock on the door then and I'll let you in.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and leaves.

Exactly twenty minutes later Geralt knocks on the designated bathroom's door. The bard beckons the witcher in and shuts it behind him.

A raised eyebrow is sent at this action.

“Hurry up and get in the tub.”

“I can bathe myself, bard.”

“While I am certain that's the truth, it will be faster and easier if I assist you. I would appreciate being allowed the opportunity to do so, but I will not push if you tell me ‘no.’ Helping you is for my benefit, afterall.” 

Golden eyes assess him for a long, long moment. Jaskier holds the eye contact and allows the witcher to make his judgments. It seems as if eternity and mere seconds pass while the bard patiently waits.

If anything, Jaskier understands the hesitancy. He is far more observant than he lets on, for a vapid and heedless bard is an underestimated and disregarded man. When it comes to social interactions and reading a room, few are as adept as him. He doesn't know Geralt's story, he hardly knows the man at this point, but he knows the rumors surrounding him. He's seen, for the few weeks they have traveled together, the way others scorn and spit at the white-haired witcher. They have yet to meet a single other human who was kind to Geralt. His wariness of cruelty and distrust of goodwill is more strategic than unwarranted.

This is why he knows that Geralt needs the space and time to understand that someone is not only willing but desiring to take care of him. That Jaskier's wishes to touch him with care instead of harm. It's a devastating bet, but Jaskier would wager his entire coin purse that no one has offered before to wash Geralt's hair or back simply because they wanted to. If anyone has assisted the witcher, it was most likely in times of great need. The bard suspects that even then Geralt usually relies on himself.

If his offer is rejected, Jaskier wouldn't be surprised. Not only is Geralt a distrusting man by creation, but there's a plethora of other reasons someone may deny this. Hell, he might just not want to. Again, they've only known each other a few weeks. There's not even a foundation built for trust to exist between them.

Yet, the white-haired man, after a copious amount of staring, slowly nods. “Alright.”

“Brilliant!” Jaskier beams. He practically bounces over to the various soaps, oils, and salts for perusal. 

While the troubadour's back is turned, Geralt removes his clothes and enters the tub. He releases a relieved sigh at the warm water enveloping his body.

Satisfied that the other man is ready, Jaskier peers over his shoulder at Geralt. “How does this one smell? Too overpowering, horrible, or decent?”

Geralt grunts with creased eyes.

“Overpowering, eh? Alright. What about this one?”

The witcher's nose scrunches.

“Horrible. Mm. I agree about that one. Not sure why I even bought it in the first place. Such a waste of the coin.” Jaskier ensures that the vial is set as far from the others as possible so he doesn't repack it. After a moment of shuffling, he uncorks another vial.

Geralt scrunches his nose and turns his face away. Jaskier gags.

“Oh fuck. Mother of gods! That is worse than a donkey's unwashed scrotum. What in Melitele's name is it doing in my pack? I don't remember buying this? ” After sealing that bottle again, he tries to guide the smell away with his hands. The bard goes as far as marching to the door, setting it on the floor outside, and shutting the door again. He's quick to return to the variety of soaps he has left.

“Okay, love! Let's see if this one is as dastardly as the others!” As the cork is removed, Jaskier studies the witcher's expression. Geralt tilts his head to the side and his face loses some of the tension.

“Oh? This one?” Jaskier glances down at the label and hums. Mentally, he takes note of the fragrances used. “Glad we finally found one.”

In full sight of Geralt, the poet approaches the tub with the soap and a washcloth.

“Now, these dexterous hands of mine can surely ease away any dirt or knots. However, if at any point you want me to stop, you tell me. Alright?”

Geralt grunts in agreement.

“Good man.”

To allow them both time to adjust, Jaskier starts with Geralt's left arm. He remains in view as he works a thin lather into the muscles with his hand. From shoulder to fingertips, he massages the arm.

The witcher, despite the pain-relieving ministrations, is tense. Cautious eyes follow every movement of Jaskier's, carefully assessing the bard for any ill-intent or sign of hostility. His jaw clenches, his teeth grinding at every press of Jaskier's fingers into his flesh. The poet's hands sear at every point of contact, and Geralt half expects there to be little brands of Jaskier's fingertips embedded into his skin. Perhaps the touch is supposed to be soothing, but the witcher can hardly refrain from ripping his arm away.

He breathes through the sensations, willing his mind to register the situation as non-threatening, willing his body to stay . Jaskier isn't hurting him. Or, at least he's not trying to hurt Geralt. It's… somehow the bard is targeting areas Geralt no longer even registered as tight and sore. Decades of carrying the tension caused him to forget what his arm felt like before the trials and the path.

And it fucking hurts. Not because of the pressure digging into aching muscles and not because of the built-up scar tissue being broken down. The ministrations injure him due to the overwhelming care in Jaskier's hands. His work is methodical, but far from clinical. 

When Geralt's breathing stops, Jaskier's thumb will rub circles as a form of reassurance. When tension begins to creep back in his shoulders, the lutinist slows down or lightens the pressure.

And the entire time, Jaskier babbles.

He remarks on Roach's hair and ponders what flowers would look elegant braided into it as he finishes the left arm.

He discusses flower language and the nasty messages he's seen nobles give one another as he switches to the right one. He flits from topic to topic as he tenderly, persistently lathers soap along Geralt's arm.

It's hard to see Jaskier as a threat when he babbles about various baked treats and that lovely couple that gifted him his favorites a few weeks back. Bit by bit, the witcher is soothed by Jaskier's chatter.

With precision and care, the poet settles behind Geralt and massages the man's shoulders and upper back. There's still a bit of wariness in Geralt's posture, but Jaskier doesn't remark on the tension that starts to leave nor the way Geralt very subtly leans into the touches. His ministrations remain kind and caring as he finishes washing all of the non-private areas of skin. He then sets the rag on the side of the tub within Geralt’s reach.

“I'm going to wash your gorgeous and dashing locks now. The rest I'll leave to you.”

He waits for any protest or refusal, but there's only a confirming hum. Jaskier pours more soap into his hands and works it into a lather before applying it to Geralt’s head. He babbles about different soap types, scents, and which countries are better known for which washing products. He's pleasantly surprised when Geralt actually starts responding and acknowledging his mutterings, replying with the kinds of soaps he's seen in his travels.

It's nice. Companionable. It's far more affection than Geralt's received in a long time. He doesn't know how to react to Jaskier's thoughtful actions, selfless devotion, and ease of conversation. He doesn't know what to do with this one-sided exchange.

He doesn't know what Jaskier wants from him.

Soon enough, all that the bard can comfortably do is done. With a final pat to Geralt’s shoulder, he stands.

“You finish and I'll see you back at the room, yeah?”

Geralt nods and Jaskier feels the uncertain and cautious gaze follow him out of the room.

With how much hesitancy there was regarding both the bathing and the initial procurement of a room, Jaskier does not immediately crawl into bed. He's tired, exhausted from their travels, but he needs to tread carefully to coax the cagey lout into actually sharing the mattress. Despite joking earlier about sleeping outside, he knows Geralt would much rather sleep next to Roach than Jaskier.

It's not long until Geralt enters the room, his silver hair cascading down his shoulders as he stands in the doorframe. 

“Do you want the side closer to the door or further from it?”

The other man's jaw clenches as he glances at the bed. “Closer.”

The poet nods and climbs into bed. He purposefully keeps his back to Geralt as he pulls the covers to his chin. “Make sure to close the door.”

For a long few seconds, there is no sound in the room. Just Jaskier and Geralt's breathing as they both wait on the other person. Then Geralt closes the door behind him. He's slow and cautious as he approaches the bed, his footsteps unusually audible to announce his presence.

He hovers next to the bed just waiting for Jaskier to react. The bard does not.

After ascertaining there won't be any issues from Jaskier, Geralt gradually settles his weight under the covers. He's stiff as a board.

The bard isn't certain whether Geralt will actually sleep tonight, but him lying next to Jaskier is progress. It's a bit of trust, just as the bath had been. It's enough for Jaskier to drift into sleep.

Geralt lies upon his back as he stares at the ceiling. He can hear the soft breathing of the other man. Occasionally, he'll shift or mumble or even sing in his sleep, but he's restful. There's no tension, no defensiveness, no mistrustful barrier.

Jaskier, once again, proves that he does not care that he shares with a witcher.

~~~

Geralt is still trying to get rid of the bard.

And Jaskier won't let him.

He weathers the glares, the hours of silence, the fast pace, and the cold shoulders. 

Does he complain about it? Yes. Often and very vocally he will complain about the road or the mud or the rain or the soreness in his calves.

He never complains about Geralt, though. No matter how grumpy or silent or withdrawn the man becomes. Jaskier never becomes resentful or upset with the man. This is partly because he understands . He may have never faced the scorn and hatred that Geralt experiences on a daily basis, but he wouldn't be much of a poet if he couldn't place himself into the witcher's worn boots. The wear that treatment must do to the man's soul is a thought Jaskier refuses to entertain, even if he can vaguely understand its effects.

The other reason he doesn't grumble about Geralt is because the witcher is still so fucking kind. He'll set a punishing, arduous pace, but he will slow down as soon as Jaskier starts to flag. He shares all of his food and he carefully keeps an eye on the bard in uncertain or dangerous places. 

He never states his care and he's often an ass about it. Still, Geralt is kind even when he's intentionally trying to push Jaskier away.

Like, for instance, how the witcher waits until they are in a human settlement before ditching Jaskier.

When Jaskier blinks awake, he groans at the beam of light assaulting his eyes. It takes several groggy moments before this registers as odd and then worrisome.

Geralt, for the last few weeks, has been waking the bard up at daybreak. The witcher seems to almost enjoy the way Jaskier stumbles around half awake trying to follow the man. Even when Jaskier has had a late night of entertaining taverns for coin, Geralt has not let him sleep in.

Somehow, Jaskier has a feeling that being able to sleep in today has less to do with a change of heart and more to do with something being wrong.

Upon forcing his bleary eyes to open and scan the room around him, dread drops heavily into his gut.

Geralt's belongings are gone.

Logically, it seems highly unlikely that someone had kidnapped Geralt and removed all of his belongings while Jaskier slept in that very room. While he's not a light sleeper, he certainly wouldn't sleep through Geralt fighting off his attackers. 

It seems way more likely that Geralt just left. It's not a pleasant or happy thought, but it’s the most probable.

Then again, what if they had drugged Jaskier and Geralt? What if the attackers had threatened Jaskier? What if Geralt went with them as long as they promised not to harm the sleeping bard? That witcher is enough of a self-sacrificial idiot for it to be a possibility.

With a sigh, Jaskier rolls out of bed to gather his belongings. The only way to ensure that Geralt is alright is to track him down and yell at him. Even hearing from the inn owner that Geralt left of his own accord will not be enough to calm the anxiety and fear thrumming in Jaskier's veins.

It takes the better part of a week of following rumors and sightings for him to finally stumble upon the witcher's camp. Geralt just stares at him from across the fire as Jaskier huffs and throws his hands in the air.

“There you are, you whoreson!”

The bard's hands clench angrily in Geralt's direction as he shouts. He plods around the fire and comes to a stop a few feet from the tense witcher. 

“Geralt, you can't just leave me behind . Honestly, do you know how long it took for me to find you?” The man glares down at the witcher with frustration. “A week! It took me all of a week to finally catch up to you again!”

Geralt sniffs the air and blinks in his version of shock. Jaskier mentally makes note of this reaction but continues his tirade as if he didn't notice. He is truly and reasonably incensed, so he points his finger at the seated man with a growl.

“You will not leave me again, you hear? I woke up terrified out of my fucking mind that something happened to you! That you'd been kidnapped or something!” His hands flare out in agitated gestures. “You seem to get into trouble at a moment's notice. So, when I woke up to find you absent?”

Jaskier's left hand clutches his doublet over his chest. His right one shakes slightly as it returns to point at Geralt.

“It left me in such a fright! Why, I thought my heart would beat out of my chest from how frightened I was!”

His right hand, still trembling, brushes down his face. With a forced calming breath, he allows that hand to drop to his side. His left hand is still clutching his clothes, but the energy seems to leave him at once. With a quieter and more fragile voice, he asks, “Would it have fucking killed you to leave a note?”

There's another slow blink in response, Geralt's eyes widening as well. He remains silent, though.

“I- Bloody hell, Geralt.” Jaskier drops to the ground next to him with a sigh. He stares into the fire with the weight of the witcher's confused gaze on him.

It's silent for several moments as Jaskier allows Geralt to work through his thoughts on the matter and allow himself to calm down. After he feels enough time has passed, he breaks the silence.

“I know that someone caring about you is a novice concept, but do try not to cause me undue worry. Despite your best efforts, I do give a horse’s ass about your well-being.”

Several more moments pass before Geralt's stare shifts to the fire instead. Jaskier is patient with the taciturn man. He's learned, from some of his previous lovers, that some folks need time to gather their thoughts. The ones that speak less may struggle to express themselves, but they will get there when given time. They deserve patience as much as any person does.

While the bard is a flurry of movement and speech, he doesn't mind waiting for others. It's a silent but equally important demonstration of care to simply wait. In fact, the act of waiting for Geralt makes Jaskier unbearably fond of the man.

Oh fuck . Even after being left behind and having to chase after the man for a week, waiting for him to speak is making Jaskier fond of him. Fuuuck .

Jaskier falls in love with every person he's met, but he's just as quick to fall out of it. His love is hard, all-consuming, and fast. It's always been this way for the bard. There's hardship in this, of course. A pain of never staying, of never being understood. Still, he enjoys the simple pleasure of knowing others for the brief time allowed.

But this? This is different. It's not the initial infatuation of laying eyes upon the witcher's sinfully gorgeous form. It's not the intrigue, curiosity, and passion of discovering a new person.

He's been traveling with Geralt for weeks and the feelings are only growing. They're becoming more. 

The poet closes his eyes as he realizes this is different.

Geralt clears his throat, interrupting Jaskier's resignation. “I- Hmm. It won't happen again.”

There's a nearly unbearable ache in Jaskier's heart at these words, at the promise made for his sake. After all, it's this undeniable kindness and care that cause Jaskier to fall further into his admiration of Geralt. The pain is both worsened and soothed by the rush of affection he feels for the awkward and genuine brute. He peels open his eyes, tilts his head towards Geralt, and feels the utterly soft smile overtaking his features.

“That’s all I ask, love.”

~~~

They don't have enough coin to pay for the contract.

This is the first thing Jaskier notices when a pale, frail woman desperately calls out to the witcher. Behind her skirt, two bony children peek out.

If Jaskier had believed the rumors, the ones proclaiming witchers as nothing more than beasts that only care about money, he would have been shocked that Geralt pauses to listen. If Jaskier didn't know how good his friend is, he would be astounded that Geralt actually accepts the contract.

Yet, Geralt does. He sees this woman, this person who could not possibly pay him, and he promises to hunt their monster. He decides to wrestle some ugly terror in the bog because they asked for help, like the noble and selfless idiot he is.

Jaskier, on the other hand, stays with the family. He would trail after Geralt to get all of the details that the witcher usually leaves out, but he did just get this outfit. He doesn’t want to ruin it with rot and stillwater.

While he waits for the other's return, he discreetly eyes the plethora of food barrels, the stacks of wheat, and the various grazing farm animals. The cows and chicken are plump, their troughs well-stocked, and there are enough livestock to feed the town for a month. Yet, the townspeople are hunched over, pale, exhausted, and shivering despite the warmer weather.

Evidently, they have enough supplies to feed themselves but they won't. There's a sour curl to Jaskier's gut at the realization.

He smiles at the woman who approached Geralt and he theatrically bows. “I am Jaskier the bard, humble barker of the White Wolf. It would be an honor to play for a wondrous lady such as yourself.”

She grumbles, a defensiveness to the cross of her arms. “We don't got coin to pay ya, bard.”

He straightens with a shake to his head. “I don't seek coin, dear. As we wait for my companion to return, I'd be glad to play a tune in exchange for someone to chat with. It gets dreadfully boring by my lonesome and soothes my nerves to keep pleasant company. My poor heart worries about him otherwise.”

She stares at him for a long moment before nodding. “Any songs for the young ones?”

“Of course. I've got a whimsical tale of a grumpy red eyed lynx and an impulsive blue eyed starling.” He turns his gaze to the children still peeking from behind the woman. “Would you like to hear it?”

The kids glance at each other and then sluggishly nod at Jaskier. With a smile, the bard sings of a young starling befriending an old lynx by saving the cat from being discovered by his enemies. It's a silly tune but well-liked by the children.

The woman looks upon the kids fondly, a weary smile on her face at their joy.

After three more children's songs, the woman shoos the kids away. They scuttle out to the field in considerably higher spirits than they were before. Jaskier destests interrupting the woman's lightened mood, but his curiosity implores him to ask, “Why aren't you eating the food you have stored?”

She stares at the bard for a long moment, frustration and resignation evident in her features. There's wariness as well, a calculation in her tired gaze. Eventually, she responds. “The lord, she takes more than we can afford. We hardly have enough to feed the little ones.”

They both glance over to the children playing in the dirt. Even through such a childish activity, their movements are lethargic and drained. They droop with exhaustion as they form dirt hills and draw shapes with sticks. 

The woman sighs, her voice cracking with emotion. “She- Our Mariola didn't last through the winter. Not enough meat on her bones to fend off the cold.” Even in the midst of a warm autumn day, the woman shivers. “I fear none of the children will last this coming freeze.”

Jaskier's chest painfully squeezes at the thought. He glances around the small village, at the handful of people laboring, but there's no solution to this plight in sight. If it were that simple, the folk would've solved this issue themselves.

Instead, Jaskier can only keep the woman company as they watch the sun set on the small town.

Dripping and covered in muck, the witcher returns hours later. Most of the folk have returned to their respective abodes, the woman's children being sent to bed as she idly listens to the anxiously waiting bard's prattling.

Upon sight of his friend, Jaskier quickly approaches him to ensure that there are no noticeable wounds on the man. He exhales relieved when he finds no harm. Cataloging the other’s facial expression, he teases, “Did you enjoy your swim, Geralt?”

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier laughs, an impish glint to his eyes. “In the present company? Why, I didn't know you-”

Geralt sends him a glare, clearly unimpressed with his innuendo. 

“Alright, alright.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I am glad to see you safe and sound, love. I never doubted you for a second, of course, but a poor poet's mind tends to conceive all sorts of scenarios behind your delay. You can't fault a man for falling victim to the trappings of his profession, I suppose.”

“Jaskier.”

“Right, right.” Jaskier turns a smile to the villager. “Minna, dear, you mentioned having a stable we could use for lodging tonight?”

Her eyes flicker between the two as she slowly nods. “Behind the barn over there.” Tilting her head in its direction, she crosses her arms.

Jaskier takes in its warped and frail appearance, seemingly a strong gust away from collapsing in on itself. He does not remark on its state knowing it's most likely the best they have. “Wonderful,” he claps his hands together. “We appreciate your hospitality.”

She nods again, warily eyeing the men before her. Seemingly appeased by her scrutiny, she turns on her heel to leave for her own abode. On her way, she waves to the few stragglers still completing their chores or relaxing under the last light of day. They wave back.

Finally, in somewhat private company, Jaskier’s attention returns to his companion. He carefully eyes the witcher, ensuring once more that the man has not been injured. “I presume all went well?”

“Just about.”

Jaskier huffs, rolling his eyes. “It wouldn't kill you to be more informative, you grump.”

“It might.”

Jaskier swats Geralt's shoulder in retaliation and instantly regrets it. His nose scrunches in disgust at the gunk now on his palm. “Damn it.”

Geralt snorts.

“Yeah yeah. Laugh it up.”

The crinkles next to his eyes might as well be full blown laughter for the amused witcher. Jaskier, proud of this accomplishment, beams.

As reluctant as the poet is to disrupt the mood, another glance at their surroundings has him grimacing. “Fuck, Geralt. The people here are suffering.” His eyebrows drop, his mouth presses into a grieved frown, and light azure eyes seem to droop as he stares at Geralt. “They have food, enough of it, but their lord has been stealing it!”

Geralt's jaw tenses as he nods.

Jaskier crosses his arms. “We have to do something!”

“I don't get involved with the affairs of humans,” Geralt grimaces.

There's a confused furrow to Jaskier's brow and the start of a glare as he argues, “But they're dying.”

Geralt reluctantly glances around at the sunken cheeks of the roaming villagers, the dilapidated buildings, and the abundance of crops in the field. The witcher sighs as his gaze falls back onto his travel companion. “I can't fix this, Jaskier.”

“You mean that you won't.”

“No. I can't. If I were to try, it would only make matters worse. There are few people who desire a witcher's aid in the matters of humans. Neither lord nor the folk truly want my interference in their business.”

“You're saying they wouldn't want you to keep them from starving?”

“No,” he grumbles. His eyes dart away. “They wouldn't.”

Geralt spins on his heel towards the direction of their shelter tonight and where there is hopefully a place to wash off.

Huffing, Jaskier follows. “What do you mean by that? Why wouldn't they?”

A world weary sigh escapes the witcher as his years on the path becomes more visible in the lines of his face. He grouses, “They hardly want us around to deal with regular, non-sentient creatures, bard. Even when their young are dying, there's still a hesitancy to post a contract.”

Golden eyes focus on cornflower blue as the older man frowns. “They fear and hate us. Some witchers take contracts against humans, but getting involved in their world is always messy. Even when witchers take those contracts, those deaths are still at the behest of other humans.”

The witcher completely stops as his full focus falls upon Jaskier. “What do you think they'll do when witchers start interfering with human affairs at our own prerogative?”

There's a haunted look to Geralt's eyes as if he can see the walls collapsing, smell blood burning, and hear the screams of trainees. The reasons for the humans attacking witcher keeps might have been different, but the seasoned witcher doubts their reaction would differ.

With ease borne of practice, he drags himself out of his remembrance. “Humans are complicated and fickle. Wading through their shit only leads to headaches and death.”

Those golden eyes slip off the bard and instead study Roach's harness. As he occupies his hands, Geralt mumbles, “I won't put you at risk like that.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen as his lips part in shock. He rapidly blinks as he tries to process whether he actually heard that taciturn witcher declare that he cares about Jaskier's well-being.

In the end, despite whatever intentions the witcher had regarding the situation, his hand became forced. Upon hearing of a witcher in her lands, the lord tried to arrange for Geralt's death. The fool had even come in person to challenge Geralt when her soldiers failed. It's a quick and gruesome battle, one where no one is the victor.

And, as the witcher predicted, the villagers were not happy with the bloodshed. They were not grateful that the tyrant lord they knew was replaced with one they didn't know. They were not okay with a witcher aiding them in this way, making decisions of his own.

Afterall, humans were not the monsters they hired Geralt to hunt. They wanted a beast's head by his hands, not their oppressor's. 

Once more, Geralt swears he won't get involved. He swears this will be the last time. But he eventually does get sucked back into aiding others even at a detriment to himself. Time and time again he steps into the muck. There's some part of him, some intrinsic carve into his being, that can't stop himself from intervening when an innocent, vulnerable, or wronged party is in danger.

It's admirable. It's heartwrenching. Jaskier is powerless to his own whims of taking note of the witcher's deeds. He's enthralled by the contradictory words and actions.

“It's not my place,” Geralt insists.

And yet, he relentlessly throws himself between the humans that scorn him and the perils that threaten them. He denies the very actions he’s unable to resist.

In all that he is, Geralt is good.

And Jaskier is but an avid and dedicated observer.

~~~

The smell of bread and smashed vegetables wafts off the bard as he steps into their rented room. The witcher raises an eyebrow at Jaskier's disheveled state.

“I have gone and procured us a fine feast, dear witcher!”

“Is that what you call getting pelted by food?”

The bard exaggeratedly gasps as his hand flutters to his chest. “I have gone through the trouble of obtaining nourishment and this is the thanks I get?”

Geralt huffs with an eye roll as he resumes mending his armor. “Hmm.”

“If you're going to forsake my painstaking efforts, then you won't get to profit off of it.” While uncovering various food items, Jaskier dramatically throws them onto the desk in the room.

It's an empty threat of the bard's because both of them know he'd never deny the witcher food or any basic necessity. Still, the two of them bicker at each other the same as if Jaskier ever would.

“A night without tavern floor food. How terrible.” A dry tone of voice emerges from Geralt as he half-heartedly contributes to the conversation.

While the content and delivery could be improved, Jaskier is ecstatic that Geralt is responding at all. It wasn't long ago that the man refused interactions unless he was repeatedly prompted into it. The bard points a finger at Geralt as his other hand grasps the food trying to hoard it. “See if I share with you, you big lug!”

Again, Geralt merely rolls his eyes at Jaskier's antics, but there is the slightest smile on his face. A sense of accomplishment fills the bard at the sight of it.

In the end, Jaskier does end up sharing his loot with Geralt. He ends up sharing his collections of food every time it happens. Every single time. Which happens pretty frequently for a bard with an admittedly decent voice and well-rounded repertoire.

It takes a few months before Geralt notices a pattern to the sudden influx of free food.

While they travel together, the two of them pool their supplies and coin together for most of their basic necessities. They have both a shared coin purse and an individual one (when able) because surviving has become a group effort.

There are certain expenditures they share: bedrolls, food, inns/shelters, ale, oils, baths, soaps, waterskins, blankets, and Roach's care (as Jaskier put: “This beautiful girl is already lugging around our joint supplies. Of course I'll want to take care of her!”)

Then there are the ones they are individually responsible for: lute or armor or sword maintenance, clothing, and potion ingredients.

And that first year together is the toughest year for them economically. This is before Jaskier earns himself a name and before Geralt's reputation starts improving.

There are days, sometimes weeks, where Geralt gets run out of town or cheated out of a fair price. There are stretches of time where Jaskier's audiences hardly spare their coin for an entire evening of work.

It's frugal, hard living that’s devolved into multiple fights.

Geralt's hands tighten on Roach's reins as he refuses to look at the bard. Jaskier's jaw is clenched as he stares steadfast ahead. It takes hours before the witcher is the one to break the silence.

“Why don't you leave?”

There's an upset scoff from Jaskier as he crosses his arms. “You can't get rid of me that easily.”

“That's not-” An aggravated sigh sounds from Geralt as he tries to put his words in an order that won't offend the bard. It seems like a truly perilous task. “Jaskier. Why do you stay?”

The bard warily regards him from the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?”

Once again, Geralt sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders why he even bothers to put up with Jaskier. All it's getting him is obligatory explanations and conversations.

“Your singing is not bad.”

“Is that all you have to say about my singing? ‘Not bad?’”

The witcher sends him a look. “Bard. Shut up.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes but complies. Sometimes his travel companion needs time to put together his thoughts and convey them.

“You could be in a court where they supply you with the silks, soaps, and wine you prefer. Instead, you're stumbling from town to town barely eating. You should leave.”

At once, all of the bard's irritation dissipates. His posture loosens with the exasperated fondness that suddenly floods him. He stops walking, causing the witcher to halt Roach.

Jaskier reaches up to pat Geralt's calf. 

“You idiot. If I wanted to lounge on the lap of luxury, I wouldn't be here. You already know that I gave that all up-”

Jaskier pauses for a moment with a startled blink. His stare is analytical as it takes in Geralt's posture as if it's his first time seeing it. His eyes widen as his mouth opens and closes.

Geralt sends him a look.

“Oh. Right. You don't know.”

If there's any series of words that would make the witcher cautious, it's those ones. With a steely tone, he glares down at the bard. “What don't I know, bard?”

“Shit.” With a nervous laugh, Jaskier slides a hand through his hair. “Uh… Okay. I know this sounds bad, Geralt, but what’s my name?”

The witcher doesn't bother to respond.

“Yeah. Alright. That's fair. Okay. Uh…” Jaskier takes a few steps back. His hands flutter in front of him. “Look, Jaskier is my name, but it's the one I chose.”

“You're meaning to tell me that your parents didn't name you buttercup?”

Some of the nervousness abates from the bard at the joke. “Well, no. It would hardly have been appropriate for them to do that. I-”

The bard takes a steadying inhale to calm his nerves. With a courtly bow, he finally introduces himself. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

As Jaskier peers up through his eyelashes, he can see the surprised widening of Geralt's eyes. “A viscount.”

The bard hums as he straightens. “Only in name, I assure you.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier laughs at the reticent man with a fond head shake. “Anyways, darling, my point is that I've already chosen this life when presented with other opportunities. I don't want a different path.”

“Hmm.”

“Exactly. Besides, why would I want to be a court bard? The politics are dreadful, I’d be bound to the same sights for years on end, and you wouldn't be there. No amount of finery is worth all that.”

With a wave of his hand, Jaskier continues walking again. He doesn't catch the witcher's wide-eyed expression at those words.

That's the last time Geralt tries to convince Jaskier to leave for financial reasons (of course the witcher still pushes him away and tries to tell him to leave for his safety or any other excuse).

Regardless, those first few months are especially economically difficult for the pair. Geralt is well-aware of how their coin is perpetually low… and yet he's the most fed on the path that he's been for a long while.

That is thanks, mostly, to a tenacious bard with bread in his pants whenever their coin and food stores run low.

In fact, it's downright suspicious how many “bad performances” Jaskier seems to have. The witcher wouldn’t consider himself to be a musicologist or expert in any bardic regard, but Jaskier's good . His songs are unbearably catchy, his voice pleasant to listen to, and his people skills certainly exist. 

For him to continuously anger or upset the crowd is seeming to do less and less with inexperience and more to do with intention. That's the theory Geralt is working with. 

Now, if only he can corner the flighty songbird.

He's tried a few times to bring the subject up. Grunting at the food, raising an eyebrow, or asking “again” have only been met with feigned ignorance or skillful topic changes. Jaskier has consistently managed to dodge Geralt's obvious intention.

Before this, Geralt had considered Jaskier the type of man to be incapable of keeping a secret. With the way the bard flits from topic to topic while informing Geralt of any gossip he's picked up, it's a natural conclusion to come to. Jaskier tells him about song composition styles, the baker's son, the stars, lute maintenance, changes in law across the continent, flower languages, and any other thought that seemingly runs through his mind. He'll laugh about past experiences sneaking out windows, getting plastered, or winning bardic competitions. He talks so fucking much but Geralt only realizes late how little he actually talks about personal fears, his past, his childhood, or anything deeper than the surface level. It's only after the attempts that he realizes that, not only is Jaskier extremely well-versed in maneuvering conversations where he desires in a way that leaves his conversation partners unaware of his directing, but Jaskier is skilled at vocalized quantity with very little personal content. As the bard would boast, he's a man of many talents.

It's peculiar, and, in this case, it forestalls the witcher's query. Geralt isn't sure how to wrestle an answer out of Jaskier when he's so reluctant. For what the poet may lack in brawn he surely makes up for with his cunning wit.

With a weary sigh, Geralt glances down at their combined money. Jaskier, intrigued by the sound, peers over the witcher's shoulder.

“Is that truly all we have?”

“It seems so.”

Jaskier grimaces at the very short stack of coins. “Right. Well, I'll ask the owner about performing tonight then. I'm sure these refined folks would spare their coin for such a gifted and competent bard as myself.”

Geralt peers over his shoulder at the poet. “That is unless you get pelted by food once more.”

With a mockingly outraged gasp, Jaskier's hands fly to his hips. “How dare you insinuate that my performance will end as such! I will thoroughly charm the town until they fall onto their knees, press their foreheads into the dirt, and offer me their mothers’ hands in marriage if only I were to play one more song. There will be no food throwing today!”

“Hmm.” The witcher turns in his chair until he's able to fully regard the bard. He tilts his head. “Is that not the plan?”

“I-” His mouth opens and closes flabbergasted. “What? No?”

“You don't seem too sure about that, Jaskier.”

With a huff, the poet turns away to passionately storm out of the room. Geralt grabs his wrist before he can. 

Jaskier instantly stills at the touch.

For a moment, Geralt is thrown by the amount of trust Jaskier places in him. The poet doesn't try to tug his wrist, there's no scent of fear, and he easily allows the hold. He merely looks back at the witcher with a raised eyebrow and pout. His heartbeat has increased, but Geralt has a feeling it's more to do with their conversation than being held back.

Those light azure eyes flicker between Geralt's golden ones and the firm line of his mouth. Jaskier sighs defeatedly as he fully turns towards the witcher.

“Fine. I may or may not have been purposefully riling up certain audiences to obtain food when they wouldn't have parted with their coin.”

Geralt's grip tightens slightly. Jaskier glances down at the pressure before resuming eye contact.

“I've been doing this since long before I met you. It's a valid strategy.”

There's this downwards twist to Geralt's lips and a faint scrunch to his brow to indicate his displeasure at these words. The poet patiently waits for Geralt to gather his words.

“Won't singing of me and throwing your performances affect your reputation?”

Gods. It's a simple, blunt question, but Jaskier is flooded by a rush of warm fondness. He unwittingly smiles at the care of this inquiry. Here they are starving and Geralt worries about how Jaskier’s willing actions will affect the life the bard dreams of.

It's a shame few bother to know this empathetic man.

It's moments like these that have the bard hoping his musical talents can paint even a fraction of how noble this man is.

His other hand rests upon Geralt's hand with a grateful smile.

“If my claim to fame arrives a bit later so that we may eat, that's alright. We have the time. One day they'll recognize my talent for its worth and one day they'll be praising your name. No matter how long it takes, I'll ensure it.”

And there's nothing Geralt can do to stop him. The bard is a dedicated and loyal fool who's proven to stubbornly accomplish his goals. Resistance is futile. The witcher does not believe his claims, can not believe that his reputation can change, but he can support Jaskier through his endeavor.

It's not… It’s not out of any affection for Jaskier, leaving him the better parts of cooked meat or replenishing the fragrant soap he prefers. It's only practical to provide more for the poet that is jeopardizing his own name for their hunger.

It's repayment. That's all.

~~~

Jaskier has a vast assortment of belongings that he carries with him. He's a frivolous fucker and a proud hedonist.

There are only two items, however, that the poet is meticulously careful with: His lute and one of his notebooks.

His lute is the obvious item that Jaskier zealously protects. He's quick to whine and cry out about every little ail to befall the instrument. His hands are gentle and sure as they meticulously perform maintenance, check every scratch, and tune its strings. He coos at his instrument, complimenting its form and praising its ability. It's practically his child with the pride and concern he feels for it. Anyone would instantly be able to discern Jaskier's attentive notice towards the instrument.

That singular notebook, however, is completely separate.

The poet is careless, often forgetting his quill or inkpot or soaps. He's even forgotten a notebook from time to time, requiring Geralt to double check before they leave to ensure they won't have to return for whatever item has been left behind. He's careless, but he tries not to mistreat his items. Every time, he takes extra steps to ensure they won't spill or break.

Therefore, Geralt is aware of how Jaskier treats his various items. He had just presumed that all of Jaskier's notebooks are treated the same. There's nothing to discern them, nothing obviously unique in their appearance. There was no reason that Geralt should have known that Jaskier's songbook is not the same as his other notebooks.

The songbook is hidden. For several months, Jaskier refuses to even withdraw the booklet in Geralt's company. The other man didn't notice, primarily because Jaskier would scribble notes in a different book. While all of his bound papers were kept safe from other prying eyes (because any gathered information on a witcher could be dangerous if shared), Jaskier's songbook was a private, hidden one from even Geralt.

Slowly, steadily, Jaskier tested the waters. At first, he would merely place the object next to him without opening it. Then, he tried writing within it to check the other's reactions (not that Geralt knew the difference). After months of traveling and trusting Geralt, it got to the point where Jaskier felt comfortable enough to leave it outside of his reach.

This is how the following situation happened.

They've been doing well. Months they have been traveling, intertwining their habits, and learning to slightly lean upon the other. They've been thrown out of towns, chased by guards, injured by hunts, and are perpetually low on coin.

But lately? It's been good.

The leaves, beautiful in their ranges of bright colors, fall periodically and cover campsites. The sun isn't quite as bright, is setting earlier in the day, and is taking longer to rise. There's a chill clinging to the air and dropping the temperatures at night.

Lately, Jaskier and Geralt have been combining their bedrolls whenever they sleep outside. They huddle under shared blankets and press close to share body heat.

And fuck if it isn't the most content Jaskier has felt in a long time.

It's been good. Peaceful, nice, and with enough food that they never go hungry. Geralt has even been obliging Jaskier's propensity to sleep in.

And this morning is an especially slow one. For once, Jaskier wakes before Geralt does. He groggily blinks awake to the warm, firm pressure of an arm draped across his waist and Geralt's body heat along Jaskier's back.

He peers over his shoulder to see the other's unguarded, sleeping face. A soft smile appears at the sign of trust this indicates. Jaskier has toiled to wiggle past Geralt's high defenses. He's whined and bargained and charmed his way past gruff silences, pointed glares, and constant rebukes. Getting to this point has not been an easy journey, and Jaskier will not risk it for the world. This allowance means everything to him.

This is why he doesn't mention it to Geralt when the other man blinks his amber eyes awake. There's no tension at the corner of his eyes, in the lines of his forehead, or in the edges of his mouth. It's soft, open, and content as he gazes into Jaskier's warm eyes. They share fond, teasing looks as they prepare breakfast, eat, and break down the camp.

It's a nice morning. A kind one. One where Geralt chimes in to Jaskier's enthusiastic chattering, where he's purposefully riling the bard up, where Jaskier is exaggerating his reactions. They are moving around each other without need for direction, their movement routine.

This is why Geralt is caught so off-guard when he picks up one of the bard's many notebooks.

“Don't touch that!” Jaskier snaps as he yanks the notebook out of Geralt's hands. He curls his arms around the book, cradling it to his chest with fast-paced breathing. Panicked, he defends his songs with a frenzied energy.

The witcher’s relaxed expression immediately closes off, his body becoming more guarded. Any and all emotions become impossible to parse as Geralt watches the bard. 

It takes several moments before Jaskier realizes what he's done with wide, startled eyes. “I- Oh, no. I-”

Geralt grunts.

“No. Shit . Wait -” Jaskier quickly lowers his arms, but one hand continues to desperately clutch the notebook. His other hand flutters anxiously in the air. “I didn't mean-”

“It’s fine.”

It's decidedly not fine. They've only known each other for a few months now (gods, has it really only been a few months?), but Jaskier has cataloged what that specific eyebrow twitch and pursed lips combo means. He's seen it enough times when parents shield their kids from the witcher, when people scream at his appearance, or when others flinch from Geralt's touch.

“No no. I-” The poet nervously bites his thumb, his eyes flickering between the songbook and the witcher. “It's… I trust you, Geralt. I do.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow, his brow furrows further, and he shifts back slightly.

“But I…”

“I told you. It’s fine.”

“No.” He firmly shakes his head. “It's not.”

Glowering, Geralt stares in defiance. “Then what?”

“I'm sorry. I don't mean to…” Jaskier waves his hand in the air, “flounder. It's just...” He sighs, his shoulder drooping with the force of it. “It's hard to talk about, darling.”

“...The notebook?”

“My songbook.”

Golden eyes scrutinize the bound papers trying to find a discrepancy between this one and Jaskier's other notebooks. Besides subtle differences in wear and tear, there are no notable distinctions between them.

“Your songbook.”

“Yeah. There's… have you heard of a honeypot scheme?”

He slowly shakes his head.

Jaskier's next exhale is slow and pained. He nods in acknowledgement. “Okay. Right. Well, songbooks carry a troubadour's livelihood, their life and passion. They're…” He trails off, staring at nothing as he contemplates. “They're everything to a bard and they contain our most inner thoughts. They are private, personal objects. Many would be embarrassed or angered if others read through it.

And… I trust you, Geralt. I know you wouldn't abuse that. I just… This contains the only written form of the inner workings of my mind. I am brilliant, the finest talent this continent has ever seen, but this?”

He shakes the offending notebook with a frown.

“This is a culmination of everything. My life's work, so to speak. I… You wouldn't… You wouldn't do that , and I'm not afraid of criticism, not that there would be any in the first place. I'm brilliant and the best there is.

Just… Not this, okay? Not this raw form.”

His gaze settles back onto his friend with a small, sad smile. 

Golden eyes scrutinize the bard and Geralt inhales deeply. The moment is tense as it stretches between them, seemingly on the brink of defining their relationship. 

Eventually, Geralt nods. “Alright.”

Jaskier's shoulders slump and his responding grin is relieved. He knows that it isn't quite fixed yet, but Geralt accepted the reasoning. They'll be okay.

~~~

“This is it, bard.”

Vibrant light azure eyes snap up to Geralt from where they were pouring over the words in Jaskier’s songbook. Confusion and panic morph into distress. 

“You promised, Geralt.”

The witcher slowly shakes his head. “I did no such thing. I told you I wouldn’t leave without notice. Here's your notice.”

Jaskier swallows as his gaze darts between those golden eyes that already remind him of the warmth of a hearth. “Did I do something wrong?”

Geralt sighs. “No. This is just where I leave you.”

His brows furrow as Jaskier takes in the grimy walls of some Kaedwen inn. He scrutinizes the warped floor boards, the stained bed sheets, and the worn down door trying to figure out why this inn in particular deems it time for them to part.

“I don't understand. Did I- Did I do something? Is this about the comments I made of us working up a sweat in this cold weather? Because I wouldn't attempt anything unless you stated you wa-”

“No, Jaskier. It's not about that.”

“Then what is it?” His voice is shaky as he twists fingers into his shirt.

Geralt grimaces and looks away.

“I'll still follow you unless you tell me why ,” Jaskier swears.

With gritted teeth, the witcher explains. “There's… somewhere I winter every year. You can't go there.”

While Jaskier could try to pester Geralt for more details about that, he recognizes the words as a boundary, a hesitation of information sharing, and a concession. He chooses to nod along to this assertion and take it at face value.

“Alright. Then where are we meeting up come spring?”

Geralt blinks.

“Did you want to meet back here?” Jaskier's nose scrunches at the thought of waiting several days in this small village if their timing doesn't match up. “I can travel back this way come spring or we can meet up somewhere in between. What do you think?”

Geralt tilts his head to the side as his eyes narrow. “You want to meet up in the spring.”

Jaskier sighs. “I'd rather not part at all, but I could accept a lower teaching position at Oxenfurt during the winter months.”

With the furrow in Geralt's brow, Jaskier incorrectly interprets this as a question about the professional choice.

“I'm not quite at the level of acclaim to be a full-fledged professor.” The bard scowls. “Those tone deaf pillocks don't realize what they are missing out on. To have Jaskier, the barker of the White Wolf, shaping the minstrels of the future? It's truly a privilege for them!”

With a huff, Jaskier shakes his head. “Unfortunately, they are unlikely to yank their heads out of their asses unless the continent is singing my praises. That, or a copious amount of time spent in dreadful  classrooms to build up my experience. Which, obviously I would not do. My wanderlust couldn't handle more than a season of teaching.”

“Ard Carraigh,” Geralt interrupts.

Jaskier blinks before widely beaming. “The capital? You want to meet at the capital?” He lays his hand over his chest as he purrs, “You sure know how to spoil me, Geralt.”

For a witcher who despises increased interactions with humans and thus avoids them when possible, it can only be endearing when he suggests a meeting point of a busy city. Geralt wouldn't be suggesting the location for his own needs, but rather for Jaskier's proclivity for luxury.

“Fuck off, bard,” the witcher mutters. He turns away, but not before Jaskier catches the fond twitch of his lips.

“You're always welcome to help me, dear,” Jaskier leers at the man’s back.

Geralt exasperatedly peers over his shoulder. “If I did, you'd find a way to track me down again. There's no point.”

The poet laughs, his eyes twinkling in delight. “I'd say mutual pleasure would be the point, but you're right that it wouldn't keep me away. After all, it's cruel to separate an artist from their muse.”

“Your muse, hmm?” He turns to face Jaskier once more.

“My life's muse, I'm afraid. Others will come and go, but you, darling?” Jaskier lounges back onto the bed until he's propped up on his elbows. “I have a feeling you’ll be the inspiration that I return to.”

And oh how true those words feel now that Jaskier has spoken them aloud. They've known each other for two and a half seasons. Yet, Jaskier is greedy for more. He doubts even a century of time will be enough. He doubts any time outside of forever will. 

Fuck, he's too far gone.

Geralt hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants as his eyes slowly drag down Jaskier's sprawled form. They trail from his light azure eyes, over his parted plump lips, down his stretched chest, and down to his crossed legs. That gaze drags itself back to Jaskier's eyes with a low hum. “So you say, bard.”

Jaskier releases a shaky breath.

Geralt smirks. “We part ways in ten.”

The bard cusses him out.

~~~

That first winter apart is Jaskier's worst since the first time he arrived at Oxenfurt.

There's no grumpy witcher to listen to his rambles, nobody to scare off those who threaten him, and no consistent warm body heat to cuddle up against in the cold. It's a dreadful, slightly lonely experience, particularly due to traveling alone.

It is, however, also Jaskier's first opportunity to visit Oxenfurt after his encounter with the elves. It's his first time officially teaching and the first chance he's had to study the influence of human thought. Between lesson plans and classes, he thoroughly immerses himself into the university and city at large. He notes which buildings were originally elven and which ones are completely made by humans. He asks professors about the content they teach, pokes around the commercial and residential districts, and checks Oxenfurt's employee records on all past and current teachers. 

He's not surprised to find that Oxenfurt was built on an elven settlement - that the renovated aqueduct, the one used as a form of sewage treatment, is elven. The lack of nonhuman voices in a school proclaimed for its freethinkers does not surprise him either. It is disheartening but expected from what he remembered of his school years. 

It's also heartwrenching that he doesn't know how to fix this, how to narrow the gap and correct misconceptions. He gathers information about where Oxenfurt is spreading misinformation or hurting others through their lessons, but this doesn't tell him how to change it.

What does he, a human, know of the struggles of dwarves or vrens or elves or other nonhumans? What does he know of their history? Their culture? The unique way each suffers due to the race? He simply doesn't know and he doesn't know how he can learn.

Perhaps that's the issue. Where can humans go to learn the history and sufferings of nonhumans? Where do they learn if not the largest university of the northern kingdoms? Where can the information be found?

It's during this inquiry that he stumbles upon Aleksy.

Jaskier is surrounded by towers of philosophy strolls, history books, written fictional stories, historical music, and any other information he could find that might pertain to nonhumans. He has one notebook dedicated to helpful titles (including a short description), one notebook to information being taught in classes, and one towards actions Jaskier can employ. Regretfully, the third one is the least filled.

While the poet mutters to himself in the library late one night, he's interrupted by the chair in front of him scraping on the marble floor. When he glances up, a handsome man seats himself at Jaskier's table.

The bard closes his book and sets down his pen to regard the other man. He's awarded a smile for this.

“You're the new teaching assistant for The Faculty of Trouvereship and Poetry, correct?”

Jaskier studies the man's dotted freckles, crooked nose, wavy blonde hair, rounded ears, the scars through his left eyebrow and on his hands, and the roguish glint to those rich tawny eyes. The leaner and muscular frame, the shape of his palm's calluses, and the confident sprawl indicate a fighter. The ink stains on his shirt and the way he reads the books Jaskier has gathered indicate a learned man.

“That I am. I'm Jaskier, though it appears you may already be aware of this. Might I have the honor of knowing what to call such a vigorous man as you?”

There's a surge of amusement and achievement in those tawny eyes. The bard doesn't know why and he's intrigued.

“I'm Aleksy, Professor Jaskier,” the man drawls.

Jaskier is, however, aware of why the man leans forward and trails his finger along the spine of the nearest book while maintaining eye contact.

“I don't believe you're a student of any of my classes.”

“I am not.”

The poet doesn't allow his face to change at the blunt affirmative. “I see. Was there a reason you sought my company, Aleksy?”

The man hums as he brushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “I don't mean to be presumptuous, professor, but I’ve heard rumors of your voice. If you were amenable, could I ask for a performance?”

Jaskier is very very flattered. The man is extremely attractive and bold. He's nearly perfect at inflating Jaskier's ego while acting demure. This type of appeal has most definitely charmed many men in smaller levels of power who aren't used to such robust praise despite believing themselves entitled to it.

It's as suspicious as it is compelling. Just what is Aleksy's aim?

“I am always willing to sing for a fan.” His eyebrow raises. “Yet, is that how you would identify yourself?”

With an eager nod, Aleksy leans even closer. “I would, professor.”

Picking his pen back up, Jaskier shifts his attention back to his writing. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“And how might I change your mind?”

The poet's gaze flickers up towards the other man. “By telling me what it is you actually want.”

Shock blinks into Aleksy's expression before being overtaken by approval. His cadence drops from a coy flattering tone into a deeper and steady one. “Was I that obvious?”

“Perhaps not to the usual men of my standing. I, on the other hand, have a healthy and vast sex life.”

Aleksy snorts and attempts to cover this reaction with his hand. Jaskier’s responding grin is genuine.

“So, you're saying that your colleagues are horny prudes.”

Mockingly scandalized, Jaskier gasps as a hand hits his own chest. “Why! I would never say that. You twist my words. Your claims will have me banned from Oxenfurt's prestigious walls before my first semester in their employ is over.”

Aleksy settles back into his chair with an eye roll. “Are you always this… expressive?”

With a smirk, Jaskier shuffles his papers and places them to the side. He folds his hands over each other. “Of course, darling, but that's not why you're here.”

“No it's not.”

One of the bard's hands gestures at Alesky to continue. The man presses his lips as his eyes dart over the titles of the various materials gathered. He requests, “First, it's important to ascertain why you're spending all of your free time buried in the stacks.”

Jaskier leans back, dragging his hands to the edge of the table. He studies the man in front of him with a pondering hum.

“Aleksy. It's imperative you answer my next question honestly.” The man nods in agreement. “What is your opinion about the social and systematic treatment of elves and other nonhumans?”

Tawny eyes widen in surprise. “Oh.”

Jaskier encouragingly hums.

“It's deplorable, professor,” the man tests.

Jaskier nods in agreeance.

Reassured that they share the same risky views, Aleksy continues, “It's vexing. And I… Well, I study law here, have been for a few semesters now, and the policies I keep uncovering…” He pauses, a shaky exhale leaving him as he crosses his arms. “Xenophobia is so deeply rooted in the northern kingdoms. From smaller aggrievances of dictating which provinces certain races can sell their products to larger legislation prohibiting interracial marriage or property rights. There's blatant prejudice written into the very codes of law! No human is guaranteed legal protections, not under the monarchies, but nonhumans demonstrably suffer under bigoted policies.”

Aleksy's fists clench as he tries to control his breathing. Jaskier, on the other hand, is trying to smother his surprise. It's one thing to realize that nonhumans are being unfairly prosecuted. It's another to uncover just how far xenophobia and racism is buried. He vaguely knew of the laws, but he's never considered their prominence nor collective affect.

Jaskier has been focused on changing social views and wide-spread education/thoughts. It's an important field, there is a need for this side of the movement, but it doesn't stop the legal and systemic issues nonhumans are facing. His methods will gather them sympathy, support, and lessen outright hate, but it's a slow process. It will not save anyone now.

He also knows his specialities don't lie in the legislation nor legal side of this matter. His current focus is suited towards his capabilities, but a one-sided effort will not go far. Hell, he probably won't be able to change any of it if he keeps going about this alone.

What he needs are connections. People. He may not know law nor have a voice in any royal court, but others do. They know the history Jaskier seeks, have the answers he's been searching for, and might already have some processes/plans in motion. He can't do this by himself.

“Alesky. I wasn't aware of the… magnitude of the legal aspects. While I am interested to learn and change such, I have been focusing on the stories humans pass onto each other. The societal side to the issue, so to speak.”

He grabs his first notebook, the one detailing different materials in the library, and slides it over to Aleksy.

“I am a storyteller, a poet, a bard. I know how to shape and change public perception and the impact that words have.” He points to the notebook with a scowl. “What we say about history, what we teach about the past and our transgressions against others, is vital for the impacts it still has today. We have persecuted, eradicated, and systematically erased the presence of nonhumans. Then we turn around and lie about our involvement. We frame them as evil and monstrous to the point that we still actively harm them despite no longer ‘being at war.’”

He wearily sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I wasn't even aware of the falsities until recently, how prevalent and implanted the propaganda goes. I didn't know the role I played in this nor the hate I perpetuated unknowingly. I believed myself to be better while spreading harmful lies. And I want to change this, I do, but there are very few accounts here in this library that even allot a smidge of blame onto humans for their actions.” 

Azure eyes lock onto wide tawny ones. “I wish to do more, to become someone who supports others instead of being someone who, even through ignorance, oppresses them.” Intertwining his fingers, his voice drops low. “So, why did you seek me out?”

Aleksy's surprise bleeds into hope as he leans forward. “A group of us have gathered in Oxenfurt to change everything. That's why I approached you.”

“And your plan was to… seduce me for your efforts?”

Aleksy’s grin turns sheepish. “You're early enough in your career that you could reach a significant position of power within a decade. I was going to gather more intel and feel out your intentions.”

“Hmm. And you heard rumors about my sexual encounters so you figured I'd be an easy target.”

“I- Uh…” The man sighs and nods his head. “Yeah.”

Jaskier laughs lightheartedly. “Alright. You've certainly charmed me, even if it's not in the way you intended. Why don't you help me put these books away while you tell me about this group of yours.”

The tension drains from Aleksy as he startledly blinks at the poet. “Really?”

From where he's gathering a stack of books, he glances up at Alesky. “Really. I have a feeling we're going to become good friends.”

The man beams as he quickly stands up to assist Jaskier. While they work, he details the different individuals and efforts of the group. Jaskier is pleasantly surprised that the group consists of humans, dwarves, a gnome, an elf, halflings, and a druid. They have relations with nymphs, but none of them were willing to move to Oxenfurt.

The group exists mainly in the city. For those directly influencing the university, there are seven students and one professor, hence their desire to recruit Jaskier (who was seen researching nonhumans as well as his very public relations with a witcher).

The leader of this organization is a human by the name of Maja. A sharp, brilliant woman who's as clever as she is careful. Jaskier hasn't earned her trust quite yet, but he has high hopes for their partnership. For now, she is interested in his ideas to gather educational material from various sources for Oxenfurt's library.

Time will tell how Jaskier's efforts will aid their cause even though they are not direct in their shaping of Oxenfurt’s future. He is hopeful for the foundations he's building.

Jaskier secures a meeting with Oxenfurt’s chancellor where he ensures his teaching position is secure in the winters and that any educational material the poet brings, regardless of their creator or message, will be accepted as a donation. He also ensures they will be accessible to any student or faculty and not subject to censorship.

There's more the bard needs to do, but he has gained numerous allies and an avenue for progress. It's more than he thought he'd be able to accomplish in a single winter.