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Geralt is used to eating without a spoon; it is an unnecessary indulgence, and unnecessary indulgences interfere with survival. He doesn’t need a spoon. He barely even thinks about its absence.
And then comes the bard.
Jaskier is an explosion of color and light and affection. He sings and he dances and he touches Geralt without any fear or anger at all. And when Jaskier realizes that Geralt doesn’t have a spoon, that he eats with his hands more often than not, the bard immediately resolves to fix the problem. Despite Geralt’s many insistences that he doesn’t need one, that he has led a perfectly fine life all these decades without owning any cutlery, Jaskier doesn’t rest until he has made enough coin to buy Geralt a sturdy, shining metal spoon.
And Geralt almost refuses it. He doesn’t need it. It feels uncomfortably close to putting him in Jaskier’s debt. But he knows that if he doesn’t accept, Jaskier will irritate him until he gives in, and despite all his attempts at remaining aloof, the hope and happiness he sees shining in Jaskier’s eyes make him reluctant to refuse the bard anything.
When he takes the spoon, Jaskier’s smile is as bright as the sun. Geralt’s chest feels full of an unfamiliar warmth, something like fondness and happiness and maybe even love. He feels for a moment that perhaps a little indulgence isn’t such a bad thing, after all.
Jaskier stays. He sings. He smiles. He laughs. The two of them eat together, each with their own metal spoon, and Geralt smiles more than he has in years.
And then, because of course nothing good can ever really last in Geralt’s life, it all goes tumbling down the side of that godsforsaken mountain.
When Jaskier grabs his bag after stumbling down the mountain, he doesn’t realize he has both their spoons in it, both his and the one he gifted to Geralt so that he would be able to eat like a man instead of an animal.
And Geralt then arrives at the bottom of the mountain, and Jaskier is gone. Not waiting for him. Not forgiving him like he’s always done. Gone. And Geralt climbs on Roach and makes his way to the next town. He tries not to notice the empty seat at his side when he finds a table in the back corner, the seat that should be filled with a shiny songbird who always seems to stand in the spotlight, no matter how dark the back corner table is. And Geralt fishes through his bag, and he realizes his spoon is missing.
He immediately knows where it is. He remembers Jaskier washing up for both of them and sticking the spoons in his bag, because why split them up? Of course they’d eat together again in the morning, like they always do.
The barmaid brings Geralt’s soup and puts it on the table with his ale, and Geralt stares down at it for a long time. His eyes feel hot. He knows Witchers can’t cry—he hasn’t cried since he was a toddler. But his eyes feel strange and hot, and he’s breathing a little faster than he should be, and he can feel the ghost of that damned smooth, carefully polished spoon that Jaskier bought him in that little town in Kovir with the drowners. He can feel it as if he’s holding it in his hand, shiny songbird prattling next to him in the spotlight he carried with him everywhere.
Geralt clenches his fists once, then makes himself relax. Then he picks up the damned bowl of soup and lifts it to his mouth.
When Geralt finally brings himself to seek Jaskier out, when he finds Jaskier again, he's playing a ditty on their spoons. He's singing an absurd song of defiance and Geralt doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry, because Jaskier seems so much more carefree than Geralt dared to hope but he also seems to have completely forgotten that it's Geralt's spoon, and that shouldn't hurt as much as it does, but it feels like a symbol of all the gifts and kindness Geralt lost when he threw away Jaskier's heart on the mountain. It's part of why he hugs Jaskier back without so much as a second of hesitation -- he missed the bard and he loved the bard more than he knew, and right now, he needs the comfort almost as much as Jaskier does.
But he doesn't have time for feelings like that, not while the world seems to be falling apart around him, so he gets Jaskier out of the cell and sets off and tries his best to forget about the messy feelings the bard is so good at inducing in him. He does his best to apologize, of course, but he knows it isn't as good as it should be. He'll make up for it later, he hopes.
Then the whole mess with Voleth Meir happens and he forgets about almost everything that isn't keeping his daughter and the rest of his family alive, at least as well as he can. He comes out of the battle in a haze of grief and bewilderment. He talks to Ciri and they go to bed, and he manages to doze a little bit before dawn. He stumbles into the kitchen with everyone else, sits down on a bench they managed to salvage, takes a bowl of stew--
And realizes that he doesn't have a spoon. Whatever cutlery might have been lying around Kaer Morhen has been moved or destroyed.
He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring into the stew as though it might somehow solve his problems. He is just about to give up and go back to bed when, to his great surprise, he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.
He looks up. It's Jaskier, gazing down on him with a soft little lopsided smile.
"Here," says Jaskier. Geralt looks down.
Hesitantly, almost nervously, Jaskier is offering him his spoon.
"Don't you need it?" Geralt rasps. He's noticed, despite everything, that Jaskier doesn't have his lute. He does not want to deprive Jaskier of the only thing he has that resembles an instrument.
"You need it more," says Jaskier gently. He presses the spoon into Geralt's hand.
Geralt takes it. Jaskier sits down beside him. Wordlessly, he hands Jaskier a bowl of stew. Jaskier takes it, and his smile becomes a little bit more real.
"Thank you," whispers Geralt. Jaskier says nothing, but he shifts until their thighs are touching under the table.
And, when Geralt brings the spoon to his lips, the stew tastes almost like hope.
Jaskier sits next to Geralt with his bowl, and he begins to eat. Geralt is distracted by the feeling of Jaskier’s leg against his, by the shock of feeling something other than grief and pain and nauseating fear for the first time in so long. By the small, glorious flicker of hope. But eventually Geralt notices that Jaskier is eating slowly, much more than is usual for him. Jaskier is taking a few bites and then setting his spoon down in the bowl, as if he needs a rest.
Geralt discreetly glances over. He starts to smile his little, private smile at the sight of Jaskier’s spoon, the twin to his own, back in Jaskier’s hand, safe at his side.
And then he sees Jaskier’s fingers.
Jaskier must have felt him tense, because he glances at Geralt in concern. He follows Geralt's gaze to his own red, inflamed fingers. He grimaces.
"It's not as bad as it looks?" he offers weakly.
"Jaskier," says Geralt, helpless. Jaskier winces again.
"What happened?" asks Geralt, though a part of him fears he doesn't want to know the answer.
"What, you don't have an idea?" says Yennefer from behind him. Geralt almost jumps; he hadn't noticed her coming in. All his attention had been focused on Jaskier.
Then her words sink in, and he remembers her mentioning something about the fire mage. Cold dread fills him.
"Firefucker?" he asks softly. Yennefer nods.
"He wanted information about you and Ciri," she says, and Geralt's breath catches in his throat.
Ignoring his distress, Yennefer peers down at Jaskier's hand. She hums.
"Come to my room later," she says to Jaskier. "I think I can do something about this."
"Thanks," says Jaskier weakly. Yennefer nods and leaves the two of them alone.
There is a moment of silence.
"I didn't tell him anything," says Jaskier. Geralt almost flinches.
"That's not what I'm worried about," he says. The words feel so inadequate, but they're the best he has.
He looks at Jaskier, hurting and uncertain, the spoon that matches Geralt's in his hand. He thinks of everything Jaskier has done for him over the years, songs and kind words and gentle touches and spoons. He thinks that he has never done anything to really return the favor.
He turns to face Jaskier. Gently, hesitantly, he puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him into a hug.
Jaskier tenses for a moment, then melts into the hug like a puppet with its strings cut. Geralt holds him tight, breathing in the scent of him, and vows to make things better.
After this, Geralt is determined to give Jaskier his music back.
It starts with more spoons. As they clean up from the battle with Voleth Meir, they find all their lost cutlery and stack it back in the kitchen. Once there’s enough for everyone to eat with, Geralt steals some. He picks out a few spoons that are odd—some are wood and some metal or bone. A couple were poorly made, so they have odd, uneven shapes. They aren’t ideal to eat with, but he bangs them together experimentally, and the mix of shapes and materials makes a variety of sounds. Geralt really has no idea whether they actually sound good , but Jaskier will know.
Vesemir walks in the kitchen as Geralt is jangling two metals spoons together, and he raises an eyebrow. Geralt frowns, embarrassed, and starts to turn away. “We have plenty,” Vesemir says quickly. “Might as well put those to good use. Give the lad something to do.” He nods firmly, and Geralt smiles his thanks before fleeing the kitchen.
He finds Jaskier the next morning before training. Jask is perched on a balcony, watching Lambert and Eskel warm up. “Shouldn’t you be down there?” Jaskier teases.
“I’m going,” Geralt rumbles. “Wanted to give you these first.” Jaskier frowns in confusion, but holds out his hands as Geralt shoves half a dozen mismatched spoons into them. “Thought you could use them.” He turns and retreats for the training yard before Jaskier can say anything.
After Jaskier starts entertaining them all by banging rhythms on every surface in the keep, Eskel helps. He spends a couple of evenings carving wood while Lambert and Geralt teach Ciri to play Gwent.
On the third day, he gives Geralt a little piping flute. “Learned how to make ‘em a couple of years ago. Give it to him.” Geralt hugs him in thanks.
When Geralt presses the flute into his now-healed hands, Jaskier throws himself forward and hugs Geralt. Geralt hugs him back, as hard as he dares. “I haven’t played a flute in years,” Jaskier says, but he lifts it to his mouth and plays a lovely, twittering melody as if he were born to it.
Returning Jaskier’s music becomes a sort of competition. What kind of instruments can they invent? Jaskier can play most anything, and if there’s something he doesn’t already know how to make music on, he can learn or invent it himself. Ciri finds a set of hollow bird bones in the fields that make utterly haunting melodies when Jask taps them together and sings about lost love.
Vesemir gives Jaskier a pair of old horseshoes and a straight piece of metal that make an excellent tinkling drum set. The next day, Vesemir seals a handful of old nails inside a gourd for a rattle. Ciri shakes it as Jaskier drums and sings a marching song. “Used to make those for you boys when you were little,” he says quietly, watching Ciri shake her rattle in time to Jaskier’s stomping song, as Yennefer claps along.
Geralt frowns and thinks back, and he suddenly remembers the feeling of a smooth, wooden shaker in his hand, himself as a little boy sitting on the stone floor of Kaer Morhen with the other boys and laughing as he rattled it as loud as he could.
One night, Yennefer tells them about a huge instrument she saw in Zerrikania once. It had small blocks of ivory attached to long metal ropes that clanged inside a big wooden frame the size of a table. They don’t believe her until she draws a sketch of the thing on a piece of parchment. It’s bizarre: Who ever heard of a piece of furniture as a musical instrument?
But Jaskier’s eyes are huge as he looks at the drawing, and they can all see his fingers twitching as he thinks about running them over the keys. “Hmm,” Vesemir says. “There’s plenty of wood up in the forest. Lambert could probably weave some metal ropes.” Lambert starts to object, but Vesemir says, “He’s got the finest touch with braiding and metalwork of all of us.” Lambert’s mouth hangs open in shock for a moment.
Eskel says, “I could carve the keys, but ivory is hard to come by.” He frowns.
Yennefer says, “I can get some in summer. I’ll portal to Zerrikania. There’s a couple of villages that owe me a favor. I’ll bring it back…assuming you’ll be back next winter?” She looks up at Geralt and Jaskier, a tiny smile on her face.
Geralt still doesn’t understand how Jaskier and Yennefer ended up as friends, but he’s glad they did. She spent days slowly, carefully healing his burns. He helps her learn to teach Ciri new things, more kindly and gently than any of them were taught as children. Geralt knows Yen wouldn’t intentionally hurt Jaskier anymore, but Jask swallows hard, and he suddenly smells afraid.
“I…,” he starts. He looks at Geralt, and the hall goes quiet around them.
“Of course we will,” Geralt says, stepping close to Jaskier. He reaches out and touches Jaskier’s hand. “Unless you don’t want to?” He swallows hard, suddenly afraid himself. There’s been so much. Jaskier might say no. Geralt steels himself for that. But Jaskier’s eyes go soft.
“Of course I do,” he says quietly. “As long as you’ll have me.”
“Perfect,” says Geralt hoarsely, his throat tight. And as they look at each other, Geralt knows that this summer, he’s going to have just one contract to fulfill, no matter how many drowners or kikimoras or wraiths he takes care of. There’s only one job that’s going to matter. Making drums and rattles and even a piano (whatever that is) are all very well, but what he’s going to find is the most important thing of all: A lute.
The moment they leave Kaer Morhen, of course, everything about that plan goes to shit.
It seems that Jaskier did more than write angry songs while he and Geralt were apart. Geralt only has to let Jaskier out of his sight for a day before the bard somehow manages to get kidnapped by soldiers, rescued by warrior elves, then kidnapped and rescued by some sort of supernatural being who gives him a slap in the face, an ancient story, and, because nothing in Geralt's life is ever simple, a magical elven lute. Geralt finds Jaskier a few days later with a slightly manic grin on his face and a tune about sevens and oppressors on his lips. He has very, very many questions, but they do not stop him from taking a moment to look at the beautiful instrument and sigh. So much for his grand plan.
He refuses to let this deter him, though. Jaskier has given him far more than spoons over the many years of their friendship. He has made Geralt's role as a witcher easier, safer, and more companionable. It is only fair that Geralt does the same. He keeps his eyes and ears open for any mention of Yennefer's mysterious Zerrikanian instrument. And, in the meantime, he does his best to provide for and protect his bard.
This becomes more complicated than expected almost immediately.
Knowing Jaskier, Geralt really should have expected something like this, but he still manages to be surprised when it turns out that Jaskier is now known as the Sandpiper, held as a hero among the elves, and is determined to help and inspire them through song now that he no longer has the resources to physically help them escape.
Geralt quickly has his hands full protecting the bard from vengeful human armies, as well as trying to keep Ciri safe. Ciri, unexpectedly, absolutely loves the whole thing -- she hears stories, helps people, and makes friends with a charisma that almost rivals Jaskier's. Geralt watches her with twin fondness and awe. He loves his daughter very, very much.
It's another thing Jaskier has given him -- this lighthearted, smiling version of Ciri. He knows how to bring out the joy in life and he has shown that to Ciri, these last few months. It only makes Geralt more determined to do something for him.
It is on one of Jaskier's missions that he finally finds something. They are in an elven safehouse, a friendly merchant's unused basement that has become something of a meeting place among nonhumans and their sympathizers in the area. Jaskier is performing a ditty to an enraptured audience of children. Ciri is singing along in the audience. To stop himself from becoming embarrassingly sappy about the whole affair, Geralt is looking at the collection of books that has somehow accumulated on a shelf in one corner.
He is just about to turn away when he sees the title — A Guide to and History of the Pianoforte . Geralt picks up the book and flips through it, eyes widening. It appears to be a whole volume of information about Yennefer's mysterious Zerrikanian instrument. He flips back to the beginning, hoping to find and memorize the important parts before they have to leave.
"I wouldn't have thought you the type to be interested in pianos," says a voice from behind him, and Geralt turns to see an older elf watching him with curiosity.
"It's for him," says Geralt, a little shy, nodding in Jaskier's direction.
"Ah," says the elf, her lips quirking in a knowing little smile. "I should have guessed. You're welcome to it, by the way."
"What?"
"The book. You're welcome to take it."
Geralt frowns. "I don't--"
The elf cuts him off. "Hush. I think you'll get far more out of it than most of the people who pass through here. Besides, the Sandpiper has done a lot for us. It's only fair that we return the favor."
Geralt's objection fades before he can think to finish it. He hums.
"I feel the same way," he says. The elf pats him on the back and turns back to Jaskier's performance with a smile.
When they leave the next day, Geralt has the book safely tucked away in his bags.
Eventually, they make it back to Kaer Morhen. The rest of the witchers arrive safely. Many of them, to Geralt's surprise and Ciri's glee, come with material that seems useful for building the piano.
Trying to construct the instrument without Jaskier noticing is difficult and a little ridiculous. Lambert once tells Jaskier that the coil of metal strings he is working with is for a strength potion. Coën manages to hold a whole conversation with Jaskier with a handful of ivory hidden behind his back. The process is difficult, and Geralt's book proves to be invaluable. Most humans would be unable to build it without years of training, but through a combination of enhanced hearing, Yennefer's magic, and absurd determination, the witchers somehow manage it.
Finally, the instrument is complete. Ciri, a bright grin on her face, tells Jaskier that they have a surprise for him and starts dragging him in the direction of the piano.
"A surprise?" says Jaskier. "What surprise? Has Lil' Bleater started eating my laundry again? Geralt, if you're just going to show me a laundry basket full of goat fur, I'm going to--"
Then they turn the corner into the room where the piano stands, and Jaskier's words are cut off by a gasp. Geralt watches as awe spreads across his face and he stumbles towards the instrument as though in a trance.
Geralt is fully aware of its significance. Not only does it mean that Geralt and his family are willing to go to such lengths for Jaskier, it means that Jaskier is always welcome back in Kaer Morhen. He cannot take the instrument with him, but wherever he wanders, it will always be here, waiting for him.
It seems that Jaskier is equally aware of the message. He tears his gaze away from the piano to look at Geralt, his eyes wide and shining with tears. "Why?"
Geralt opens his mouth then closes it again, searching for words.
"You... give people spoons," he manages eventually. "You deserve to get some, too."
Jaskier blinks. "I'm afraid I'll need you to clarify that a little, dear heart."
Geralt huffs, thinks, and tries again. "You... do things for people. You help. You forgive. You saw that I needed a spoon and you gave it to me. Even after the dragon hunt and the Firefucker, you gave the spoon back when I needed it. You do that for everyone. For people who no one else bothers to be kind to. You deserve to get some of that kindness back."
Suddenly, Geralt finds himself with an armful of bard. Jaskier clings to him tightly, burying his head in the crook of Geralt's neck. His scent is so full of joy that Geralt almost doesn't know what to do with it.
"Thank you," whispers Jaskier.
"You're welcome," Geralt whispers back.
He pulls his bard closer, tucks his face against his hair, and smiles.
The rest of the winter is filled with the sounds of Jaskier teaching himself a new instrument -- but, more importantly, with smiles, with laughter, with safety, and with certainty.
Geralt has never been happier to have paid attention to a spoon.