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They have known each other less than two months, and already Jaskier is on Geralt’s last nerve.
“What the hell, Jaskier?”
The man in question stands across from him wringing his hands, wearing an apologetic expression. His wide blue eyes are pleading for forgiveness, for even a small morsel of mercy, but Geralt cannot even contemplate it at the moment, not when their rented room at the inn looks the way it does, like it was ravaged by a griffin or two. Not when Geralt's coin purse, previously on the table, is nowhere to be found, not when the majority of Geralt’s potions lay in shards on the ground, their colorful contents sizzling.
“I’m sorry, Geralt! It all happened so fast . . . there was nothing I could do! I recognized some of them from the tavern and they were nice enough to us then, and they didn’t even bring any weapons, so I thought it was all just a big misunderstanding on their parts. Sometimes you just have to give a man the benefit of the doubt, you know? I for one have accidentally walked into the wrong room after a particularly wild night,” here he winks, “or when I was drunk enough. It happens to even the best of us sometimes, Geralt, so don’t you look at me like that. But then they started breaking things and stealing your coin and saying rather the rudest things, quite frankly—”
“You stupid bard,” Geralt grits out. He stomps to his saddlebags, looking to see if anything might have been overlooked in the looting. They are empty and torn, damp with spilled potions and sharp with broken glass. Most of his clothes are gone or ripped to shreds, too, and his rations for days on the road are gone. Even his ratty bedroll is nowhere to be found—what the hell do thieves need with an old bedroll? He sighs, a long and heavy and tired sort of thing. At least he brought his swords with him when he went to tend Roach, or this could have been very bad indeed. At least he will still be able to go on hunts and get the coin he needs for the rarer potion ingredients, but they will have to be easy jobs since he has none of the aforementioned potions. “How naive are you? Humans are never nice to witchers.”
Not even you, Geralt wants to add. Jaskier can flaunt their “friendship” all he wants. When push came to shove and Geralt’s privacy was invaded, his meager possessions stolen, Jaskier sat by and did nothing, just like every other human who has witnessed the cruelties witchers face while on the path. He could have shouted; Geralt would have heard since their window was open. He could have attempted to hold the thieves off, but judging by the impeccable state of Jaskier’s new deep purple doublet, he did not move so much as a toe in their direction and they did not hold him down in any way. He could have used the dagger that Geralt had given him for emergencies; if what Jaskier says is true, the men themselves did not even have weapons so it likely would have scared them away. But he didn’t. Of course he would not think a witcher was worthy of defending. Geralt’s face muscles tighten as he shoves the twinge of hurt he feels down, down, down.
Geralt drowns out Jaskier’s incessant ramblings as he cleans the room, discarding the broken items and salvaging what he can. He commands the bard to stay away from the potion spills because some of them are toxic to humans, even deadly, and for once Jaskier obeys him, relocating to the center of the bed. He has his lute cradled in his hands, a light little tune resonating from it, and Geralt’s eyes harden looking at it.
Noticing Geralt’s stare, Jaskier smiles grandly and lifts his lute. His prized possession, unharmed. “At least we still have this, right? How else would I write such amazing songs about your adventures, hm? So it could be a lot worse. We’ll still have your fame spread across the continent, all your adventures. The people will love you, just you wait!”
Geralt sweeps up the last of broken possessions— the ones the thieves didn’t want but still wouldn’t leave for the monstrous witcher to keep—and says nothing.
“Geralt,” says Jaskier, a tone more sober now. He waits until Geralt turns to look at him, stony glare already set in place. “I am sorry about all this, I truly am. I know you’re mad at me for not doing more . . . I’ll help you with buying new stuff. There just was nothing I could do and—”
Couldn’t or wouldn’t?
“Hm,” Geralt says, cutting off his tirade of excuses. He doesn’t want to hear them.
They spend the rest of the night in tense silence.
____
Some months later, Geralt is within a mile of their campsite when his nose tells him something is wrong. Hands slackening on the two rabbits he caught for their dinner, he stops and carefully scents the air around him. His eyes flicker between the gaps of trees rapidly, watching for threats even though he knows the scent of danger lay farther north of his position. The unwashed smell of two other men comes to him first, which is concerning considering how deep he and Jaskier are in the woods. Strangers never spell out good things for witchers. Next rises the scent of fear, desperation, pain—
and blood. Last comes the blood. Jaskier’s blood.
The rabbits land with a dull thud at his feet. He runs, withdrawing his steel sword. His thoughts are empty of everything but Jaskier. His last sight of the bard rises unbidden, smiling and waving and telling him to be safe while he hunts.
“I’m hunting for rabbits, Jaskier,” he deadpanned. “Not drowners.”
Jaskier waved a hand carelessly, rings glittering. “It’s all the same to me, darling. Drowners or rabbits, either way you’re to come back hideously gory without fail.”
He’s not covered in gore now, but if the men who caused Jaskier’s fear, his pain, his blood are there, he fucking will be.
Sword nearly thrumming with his blood lust, he bursts into the clearing where their campsite is. He is both relieved and disappointed to see that the two human men he scented earlier are gone, their scents already becoming lost in the wind. Their footprints in the trampled grass are the only remaining sign that there were ever intruders in the first place.
And, of course, the state of Jaskier.
Laying oddly hunched on his stomach a few feet away from the still merrily crackling fire, Jaskier’s normal light scent has been poisoned by the stench of pain. His hair is a tangled mess, falling over his face and interspersed with leaves and branches. Doublet torn in several places and hitched up his back, the revealed skin that Geralt can see is already darkening and swelling with ugly bruises. Alongside these, he has little red scratches littered over his body, and trembles continuously wrack over his entire frame, encouraging the cuts’ continuous bleeding. The grass surrounding Jaskier is also stiff and sticky with thick blood, more than the measly cuts could ever produce. Much more.
For a moment, Geralt’s fast reflexes and his training abandon him. All he can think about is how many times he has returned from a hunt, sometimes only with minor cuts and other times with severe injuries, and how expertly Jaskier tends to him. Even though Geralt can see the worry, sometimes even terror, swirling in his eyes, he does not hesitate to gently guide Geralt to the bed, armed with bandages and alcohol and a needle and thread. He sees the gaping wounds but his hands do not tremble as he disinfects the wounds, bandages fresh stitches, or wraps calloused fingers around Geralt’s shoulder in comfort. Until this moment, Geralt never knew how brave an action this was, to see one’s wounded travel companion (friend?) and not know if those injuries are even capable of healing, or if it’s too late. If no bandages or thread will save them.
He knows now.
Slowly, he tips back into focus, eyes falling on Jaskier’s prone form. He walks forward carefully, as he does when he walks toward a fallen monster that he is not certain is dead or alive. As if one step could tip the balance.
When Geralt falls into a crouch besides Jaskier, the bard pops his head up, twigs and leaves flying every which way as they dislodge from his hair. “Geralt!” he beams, teeth bloody in a smile. “You’re back! Where’s dinner?”
“Jaskier,” he growls. “What happened? Where are you bleeding? Show me.” Please don’t let it be fatal.
“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” still grinning that stupidly concerning bloody smile. “What’s more important is, look! I did it, Geralt!”
He shifts a little, biting down on a whimper much to Geralt’s distress, and reveals the reason why he looks so oddly hunched over, laying on his stomach—he is laying on top of what looks to be Geralt’s bags. As Jaskier moves to show him, his coin purse opens and a stray coin rolls his way, resting on his boot. While Geralt’s expression morphs into one of befuddlement, an ominous feeling creeps into his heart as the story weaves together in his mind.
“It was bandits,” Jaskier says proudly, face tight with pain but still grinning away. He clutches the bags protectively in both hands, and they are perfectly intact save for Jaskier’s blood soaking into them. “They were going to take your stuff, but I didn’t let them this time. They were going to have to go through me, I told them, and I will admit it was kind of a rough fight, I’m kind of glad you didn’t have to see it to be honest . . . “ He laughs awkwardly. “We both know I’m not much of a fighter, it was kind of pathetic. But I got in a lucky swipe with the dagger, you know, the one you gave me? And that scared them off! So you’re welcome, Geralt! Now you should be the one writing the ballads about my heroic deeds!”
There are no words to describe the emotions unleashed in Geralt at this proud speech. Fury at the bard for his idiocy and lack of self preservation, fear for his bard’s condition; deep down, he even feels a little warm at heart knowing that the bard acted so recklessly for him. But more than any of these, he feels guilt; it presses down on his shoulders and sends fine tremors through his strong hands.
“Shut up, bard,” he says finally. “Just . . . shut up.”
Ever so carefully, he begins to gather Jaskier close to him, pulling him away from his blood-soaked bags and onto the grass. He turns the man onto his side and searches lightly with his fingertips for injuries, particularly anxious to find the source of all this godforsaken blood. Jaskier goes with him willingly, stifling another noise of pain, and there is hurt blossoming on his face as quickly as a bruise. “Wait, I don’t understand. Are you mad at me? What did I do wrong? I saved all of your stuff . . .”
“And risked your life in the process,” snaps Geralt. Even as his tone roughens to a yell, his hands handle Jaskier like he will shatter. “You shouldn’t have fucking meddled in things that aren’t your business, bard! Honestly, what the hell were you thinking?”
“I thought this was what you wanted, Geralt!” he says with exasperation. “Merlin, why are you always so difficult? One moment you’re yelling at me for not doing enough, and the next you’re yelling at me for doing too much! There’s never any winning with you!”
Geralt doesn’t know what to say, and there are more important things to do right now than talk so he says nothing at all. Still, Jaskier’s words niggle at him, dredging up more guilt because at the end of the day, no matter how idiotic he can sometimes be, Jaskier is right. Months ago, Geralt did want that. He wanted Jaskier to defend him like the rest of humanity wouldn’t. He wanted more than Jaskier’s words claiming they were friends, that he truly did not see Geralt as a monster. He wanted Jaskier’s actions. They barely knew each other then, and Geralt had not trusted someone in so long. It was easy to see the worst in humanity when all they saw was the worst in him.
Now, probing Jaskier’s body for bruises, cuts, and open wounds, he realizes one should be careful what they wish for.
Whether he defended Geralt or not that day, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Geralt has known since then that Jaskier cares; it only took this long to realize it. Jaskier showed his care in every lopsided smile he gave Geralt, reserved only for him and no one else; in every brightening of his eyes as Geralt walked into the tavern when Jaskier was performing; in every hot meal, tailored to Geralt’s favorite foods; in every hot bath; in every soft “good night, Geralt” he offered before falling to sleep, mouth open in snores, completely at peace with being vulnerable before a witcher.
He finds the wound. It is a gaping knife wound on his thigh, and it is bad but it is not fatal, and everything within Geralt collapses in relief. Flinging a hand out to seize the nearest bloody bag, he roots through it for his medical supplies so that he can disinfect the wound before stitching it. Still marveling in his renewed hope over the situation, he almost doesn’t hear the bard mumbling.
“What now, bard?”
“That day.” Jaskier cuts a glance at him, eyes darkening with an indecipherable emotion. “When the villagers came into our room, took your stuff. I . . . still think about that.”
Geralt huffs under his breath. “It’s not like it affected you.” It affected Geralt. He wore himself to the bone taking on hunts to gain back the lost coin. It took months to fully resupply his potions and his supplies.
“You honestly think it didn’t affect me?” Jaskier demands. He attempts to push himself up only for Geralt to push him back down much more gently. “You think I wanted that to happen? I couldn’t do anything, and it was—”
“Why?” At Jaskier’s confused glance, he reluctantly elaborates, “Why couldn’t you do anything?” He doesn’t mean to still sound upset over it, he really doesn’t, and yet he does anyway.
“No. I . . .” Jaskier shakes his head. “This is completely pathetic, Geralt. I really rather not tell you, if you don’t mind.”
Geralt doesn’t push him. He merely says, “This will hurt,” before spilling a puddle of alcohol over Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier yelps, limb seizing on reflex.
“Merlin, give a man some more notice next time, Geralt!” he hisses, and then they both fall silent. It is not a comfortable silence.
The wound is halfway through being stitched when Jaskier speaks again. “I was scared,” he says, face tilted away from Geralt’s piercing gaze. He is looking at the sky. “They came into the room, and I just completely froze up because I was scared. I don’t know what of, honestly. It’s not like they even had any weapons. And it’s not like I haven’t been in tavern fights before. But there was something different about them coming into our room, just like that. A place where we're supposed to be safe. Something so . . . invasive. And they were rooting through your stuff and you weren’t there and—I just froze up. It’s so stupid. I mean, it’s not like you ever freeze up, and you fight these terrifying creatures every day . . . Then I see a few average sized men and I feel helpless.” Finally, his gaze comes back down to earth, and when he meets Geralt’s eyes Geralt swears he can see a faint glimmer on his lashes as he says, “I am so sorry, Geralt. I know I let you down.”
Warmth spreads through Geralt, soft around his hard edges, a balm to his sloppily stitched wound. Perhaps words aren’t so bad after all. His hand briefly stops stitching to clasp Jaskier’s knee in what he hopes is perceived as a gesture of affection—he wishes he were better at this. “You could never let me down, Jaskier,” he says gently.
“I just did, though,” the bard says blankly, seemingly more focused on the hand that is still curled around his knee, large fingers encompassing it completely. His eyes are wide. “You just yelled at me, remember?”
“Because you risked your life for something stupid. The next time something like that happens, you let them take the shit, understand?”
Jaskier’s eyes widen further. “But before . . .”
“I was wrong before,” he snaps, and at Jaskier’s slight flinch he squeezes his knee in apology. Out of his element and needing something to do with his hands, he reaches up to pluck a couple stray leaves out of Jaskier's hair, smoothing it down. “I—I was wrong. I don’t care about the stuff, I care—” About you, he finishes internally, but he cannot bring himself to say the words aloud. Jaskier seems to understand, though, and the smile he wears is small but real.
“Okay, Geralt.”
It is only much later, when Jaskier is snoring in his bedroll, wound stitched and bandaged, that Geralt realizes he has one last thing to say. Whether he would ever be brave enough to say it to anything but a sleeping bard, who could say.
“You’re not the only one who has frozen up,” he whispers into the night. His bedroll is a scant few inches away from the bard, but he doesn’t look at him. Like Jaskier did earlier, he looks at the sky instead, telling his secrets to the stars. “Because when I saw you bleeding out on the ground and didn’t know if I would be able to save you or not . . . I froze too. So I— So I understand, Jaskier.”
____
Nearly two years later, Geralt walks into their shared inn room after his hunt for a new contract in the small village they are currently residing in, and immediately sees that something is wrong. The small stuffy room they have rented for the night looks like it was ravaged by a griffin or two. His coin purse, previously on the table, is nowhere to be found, and the majority of Geralt’s potions lay in shards on the ground, their colorful contents sizzling.
And in the middle of all of the chaos stands Jaskier, crying.
“Geralt,” he says. “Geralt. I am so sorry—”
Geralt strides across the room and pulls the bard to him. “Are you okay?” he demands. “Where are you hurt?” His heart is thrumming wildly as he searches Jaskier for injuries, pressing lightly on his loose black shirt—one of Geralt’s, in fact—to check for any cuts or bruises. He sees a slight nick on Jaskier’s neck from a blade of some sort and growls, clutching Jaskier’s arms protectively.
The bard shakes his head, “I’m okay, I’m okay. They did threaten me a bit at first, but once I said I was willing to cooperate they left me alone. But . . . but they took everything, Geralt.” Sniffling, his eyes begin to tear again, guilt gleaming in their depths, which simply is not acceptable to Geralt.
“No,” says Geralt. He crushes the bard to his chest, who lets out a little oomph at the impact. Their foreheads touch, and Geralt feels that he can breathe properly again. He sighs and allows himself to lose himself in Jaskier’s presence for a moment, his warm arms, his latest perfume wafting off his skin, his soft little puffs of breath as they share the same air. “They took nothing.”
They took nothing because you are everything, he thinks fiercely.
Jaskier laughs wetly. “That’s very sweet of you to say, my love, very sweet, but they kind of did. I mean, your coin, your potions, your cloak, those disgusting pastries you’ve taken a fancy to lately . . .”
“Shut up, bard,” he knocks his forehead against Jaskier’s playfully, and he can feel his mouth curving in a rare smile. To hide it, he presses it firmly to Jaskier’s own grin, and they melt together, safe in the knowledge that as long as they have each other, they can never truly have nothing in the world.