Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Here,” Jaskier says, holding out half of a sweet bun. 

Geralt just stares. 

“You bought that,” he says, as if the bard has somehow forgotten. Jaskier had waxed poetic for hours on their way to this town about his craving for a sweet bun. 

“Yeah?” Jaskier says, a bemused smile on his face. “Are you worried about eating stolen goods?” 

No, that isn’t what Geralt’s worried about. 

“What do you want?” Geralt asks, eyes narrowed. He’s traveled with the bard for four months now, and he still isn’t entirely sure how to read him. He hasn’t asked for anything of Geralt outright other than details about his hunts, which Geralt has largely refused to grant. 

“Uh, for you to take it?” The bard looks genuinely confused, and he gently waves the piece of bun in Geralt’s direction. Geralt just tracks the movement for a second before looking back. 

His mind flies through all of the things the bard could possibly hope to get in exchange for this trade. Geralt already gave in to feeding him after their third week together when the sight of the bard gnawing on molding bread was just too fucking pathetic to watch anymore. It had been a matter of enjoying his own supper to toss part of the rabbit to the bard. He refuses to think about the pleased little feeling that rolled through his chest whenever the bard beamed at him and happily ate what Geralt provided. It had to simply be relief that he wouldn't be blamed for the bard starving, Geralt told himself frequently. It wasn’t softness or weakness; it was practicality. 

If it’s not a trade for food later, then, perhaps it is another overture at getting Geralt into bed? The bard is too young for Geralt’s taste, his face still rounded slightly with youth. He’s beautiful, certainly, and shows all signs that he will be even more stunning once he properly reaches manhood, but Geralt has resolutely rejected all overtures. There’s no reason to trade a few minutes of fun (he’s certain that this young, the bard has yet to learn how to last properly) for the mess that would come after, or for the way Geralt would feel, having taken advantage of the youth’s inexperience in choosing partners. One day the bardling will learn better than to want Geralt, and for his part, Geralt has no wish to be a regret more than he already will be. 

Apparently impatient for the way Geralt is wandering in his own mind, Jaskier rolls his eyes even as he smiles, grabbing Geralt’s hand. Geralt’s first impulse is to pull back immediately, which he could do easily with his strength, but he doesn’t want to risk hurting the bard with the movement. Before he can tell the human to release him, Jaskier plops the bit of bun in his hand firmly and then lets go, giving Geralt a cheeky look. 

“Don’t try to ‘Witchers don’t indulge in pastries’ me or something equally absurd. I saw you eat a bun a few weeks ago, and I know you do.” Jaskier tells him mischievously, clearly believing that he’s getting away with something in calling Geralt on a lie. 

Geralt bites back the, “Witchers don’t indulge in luxuries” that he immediately wants to say. It’s too close to the bard’s guess, and he can imagine the way his face would light up at feeling correct. Instead he grunts and shoves the treat in his mouth, finishing it in two bites. It’s a waste not to savor the rich buttery sweetness of it, but Geralt can’t afford to enjoy it like he would normally choose to. Perhaps refusing to replicate the bard’s pretty manners will prevent an offering of this sort in the future. Geralt certainly doesn’t want him to feel like he’s currying favor with his baked goods. 

Jaskier just rolls his eyes with a smile and picks at his own half with pointed delicacy as they head towards the market for supplies. 

Geralt remains on edge throughout the shopping trip, certain that Jaskier will leverage the shared treat to try and get Geralt to purchase something foolish for him or to stay in the town for the night. For all that the bard flits about and tugs at Geralt’s sleeve like a child and waxes poetic about the comfort of mattresses compared to the “cold, hard, unloving” ground, however, he doesn’t bring the bun up at all. 

Geralt keeps the event in mind over the next few days they travel, but Jaskier appears to have forgotten it entirely. 

*

Geralt makes himself get out of the tub at last, after three rounds of heating it again with Igni. He moves carefully to avoid tugging the stitches Jaskier had painstakingly put in. The bard’s squeamishness has faded, thankfully, and his medical skills are improving. He still flinches whenever Geralt grunts in pain during the tending, but his hands are steady enough, his fingers clever and nimble. 

The hunt had been a hard one. The contract had been for a single griffin, but it had ended up being a mated pair, both of whom had defended their nest viciously. Geralt now bears a long list of bruising and slashes, some of which are certainly going to scar. 

He debates staying in the room and seeing if Jaskier will just bring him something up, but he doesn’t trust the bard not to get distracted by a pretty face or a pleasing form, and Geralt is hungry enough that he doesn’t want to wait. When he descends into the dining room of the inn, he finds that Jaskier has apparently taken a break from his performance, lounging languidly with his chair tipped back. His excitement at seeing Geralt makes him tip back too far, and Geralt watches with no small amount of amusement when he goes down with a yelp. 

Geralt settles in the chair across the table from him and doesn’t help him pick himself back up. Jaskier pops up on his side of the table, blushing furiously, and rights his chair. His voice squeaks when he first speaks, and he clears his throat and starts again. 

“Supper?” He asks, and Geralt grunts. Jaskier signals to the barmaid for two meals, and Geralt doesn’t miss the mistrustful look he’s given from the woman. Jaskier appears to miss it. “Now,” Jaskier says proprietarily, “details, please.”

Geralt amuses himself by giving as many one-word answers as possible, watching Jaskier’s frustration grow until the bard just begins scribbling away in his notebook without input, only looking up occasionally to use Geralt to fact-check himself. If he likes the facts he receives, he jots them down. If he doesn’t, he ignores them. 

It’s his usual process. 

The barmaid sidles closer, clearly aiming to get Jaskier into bed at some point, but the bard is too involved in the story he’s creating for a song to give her the usual attention he would. She pouts slightly and attempts to lean into his personal space when she sets his food down. When she’s only given an absent thanks in response, she apparently gives up, dropping Geralt’s bowl down carelessly before storming away. Geralt has the feeling that neither of them will be served by her again tonight. 

He doesn’t miss the disparities between their suppers, either. Jaskier’s bowl has at least twice that of Geralt’s, as well as a thick slice of bread where Geralt has none. It’s insulting, but it’s also not the worst offense Geralt’s ever endured. He picks up his spoon and makes to begin eating, but Jaskier looks up at last. 

“Did they run out?” He asks, looking at Geralt’s bowl with confusion. 

“Maybe,” Geralt allows. He highly doubts it from the smells he can pick up from the kitchen, but the bard has proven himself to be annoyingly resistant to accepting the way Geralt is treated, and he’s not in a mood to pull the bard from a fight. Jaskier frowns and reaches for his slice, splitting it in half and putting a piece on the side of each bowl before reaching across and switching them, giving Geralt the larger portion. 

“What?” Jaskier says to Geralt’s blank look. “I don’t have all your muscles to fuel, and besides, you didn’t see how much blood was pouring out of you. You should get to work replacing it all.” 

“This was yours,” Geralt insists, attempting to switch back. The bard has maintained his habit of food sharing in the two years Geralt has known him, and while Geralt has begun to believe that it’s not all down payments for a favor he wants later, there’s no way Jaskier is content with getting so much less to eat without wanting something in exchange. 

“I’m really not that hungry,” Jaskier tells him, parrying Geralt’s spoon with his own when Geralt at least attempts to make the portions more fair. Geralt gives him a look and Jaskier grins, pulling his bowl off of the table entirely and holding it close to his chest, out of reach. Geralt finally gives up and eats, studying the bard the entire time. 

When they return to the room, Geralt believes he finally understands the bard’s actions when the man shoots a covetous look at the bed. For all of his promises about being Geralt’s barker, the bard has yet to really pull in much coin, and while Geralt lets him stay in the room at the inns he pays for, he's made it clear from the beginning that the bed is always his and his alone. Geralt steels himself for a whine about Jaskier going hungry so Geralt can be fed as an attempt to gain access to sleeping on the mattress, but the bard just lets out a little sigh and lays his bedroll out on the ground nearest the small fireplace in the room. 

Geralt watches him do it, certain that he’ll devolve back into the dramatics he’d deployed in their first year of traveling together. The bard had made a production of getting ready to sleep on the floor for the first months it had happened, and Geralt expects a resurgence in the behavior now that the bard has gained leverage to negotiate with. Instead, however, the bard just settles down, wriggling in the way he always does before going still. 

Geralt settles down to sleep as well, but he pauses once he sits down on the mattress. He debates with himself for a moment, but he can’t ignore that his belly is fully because of Jaskier’s generosity. Even if the bard isn’t going to bring it up to leverage with, Geralt would feel like an ass for not matching his kindness. 

“Get on the bed,” Geralt says before he can think about it too much. Jaskier opens his eyes, looking up in surprise. 

“What?” He asks, and Geralt doesn’t miss the start of arousal in his scent. He’s hard-pressed not to roll his eyes and say forget it, but he manages. 

“You can sleep in the b-” He’s not even finished before Jaskier is scrambling up, nearly tripping over himself in the process, as if afraid Geralt will change his mind if he takes too long.

It’s not an entirely unreasonable concern. 

After a moment of slightly awkward silent conversation, Geralt gestures for him to take the side against the wall. Once the bard has settled, wriggling down happily, Geralt lies down on his side, facing away. He expects it to be unsettling, having Jaskier so close, but instead he finds himself strangely pleased. 

Geralt is surprised by the way it makes him feel, to know that the bard is behind him, away from an intruder who might try their luck at stealing from a witcher. He hadn’t realized the tension he’d held, half of his mind across the room wherever the bard was to monitor what he was doing and the other half focused on the noises beyond the door to anticipate if he’d need to get up and move the bard out of the way in case of attack, until it’s suddenly gone. There’s a certain amount of peace to having the bard between him and the wall, out of the way of any conflict if someone did get into the room. He has to order Jaskier back to his appropriate side of the mattress when he tries to wiggle closer, but Geralt still falls asleep faster than he has since he began traveling with him. 

When he wakes the next morning, he’s confused to find the bard pressed snugly against him, one long line of warmth along his side. It seems impossible that he wouldn’t have woken up to such an invasion of his personal space, but checking in on his own state of mind, Geralt finds that he feels better rested than he has in a long, long time. 

The bard snuffles softly in his sleep and turns his face in against Geralt’s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against the pillow before he stills once more, his breathing deep and even. Geralt feels the warmth of each exhale through his shirt, an unexpectedly intimate sensation. 

Geralt contemplates waking the bard by flipping him out of bed as a consequence of pushing past his side, but he decides against it. It wouldn’t do to let the bard discover how close Geralt had somehow let him get during the night. It would only go to his head. 

Instead Geralt carefully slips out of bed, snorting softly at the way the bard immediately rolls to take over the warmth left behind. It’s a relief, almost, to find that the bard’s proximity had apparently come simply from wanting to mooch warmth from Geralt. A genuine desire to cuddle a witcher would have signaled a defect in his brain that would have been worrisome. 

At the next inn they stay at, Geralt stops Jaskier before he unpacks his bedroll, jerking his head towards the bed. He’s conflicted, slightly, about allowing the privilege when he doesn’t directly owe the bard anything, but he also remembers how much better rested he was when he didn’t have to worry about the bard’s security. It’s simply because Jaskier will be out of the way if Geralt is between him and the door, after all. 

He wakes again to Jaskier pressed tight against him, and he decides it’s a small enough price to pay for peace of mind. 

*

Geralt wonders sometimes when Jaskier will give up on trying to make him suitable for highbrow company. After over half a decade together, he would have thought he would have already broken Jaskier’s optimism about making Geralt be polite in company, but the bard is nothing if not determined. 

This is why Geralt has found himself at yet another “artist gathering” hosted by Lord Something Or Other. 

As part of Geralt’s ongoing attempt at proving he doesn’t belong, he keeps to himself at a table in a corner of the room, glowering away anyone brave enough to try and venture closer. He passes the time observing Jaskier work the crowd. It’s different than when he works an inn’s dining hall or a pub. He maintains his energy and clear delight at performing, but there’s much less jumping on tables and stomping his feet in a rhythm for people to match. 

As only one in a gathering of artists, he also doesn’t have to play the whole time. Once he’s finished his round of performing and passed the torch along, Geralt sees him begin searching the crowd and waves his hand once to shorten the effort. Jaskier smiles when he catches sight of the motion and immediately makes his way to Geralt’s side. 

He plops down with a satisfied groan. 

“I am exhausted, darling.” The petnames have only become a regular thing of Jaskier’s in the past couple of years, and Geralt carefully doesn’t think about how he feels about how often they’re used for him. “Having fun, being broody in the corner all night?” Jaskier is teasing him, and Geralt glowers. 

“I told you I didn’t want to come.” 

“Yeah yeah yeah.” He switches to the deep voice he uses in an attempt at sounding like Geralt. Really he just sounds like he’s swallowed gravel. “‘I’m Geralt, and I’m so sad and moody, and I hate parties and smiling. Grr.’”

Geralt does not grace him with a response. 

Jaskier waves to a passing serving maid to gesture her over and snags a pasty with a wink and a thanks. He splits it in half and passes part to Geralt, his eyes still on the room. 

Geralt takes it, comfortable enough with the gesture by now even if it still confuses him when it’s done in this context. On the road, Geralt understands it. It’s a matter of sharing a treat when they can’t afford to buy more. In a hall like this, however, the habit persists, and Geralt doesn’t know what to do with it when there’s no practical reason for it, surrounded as they are with drinks and food. 

It also confuses Geralt that Jaskier is willing to be seen doing something as friendly as sharing food with a witcher. Jaskier has never acted ashamed of their knowing each other, quite the opposite actually, but he’d thought that Jaskier would at least want to preserve face in front of the upper echelon of society. Geralt has more than a few acquaintances who behave this way, amiable enough one on one or among the masses but entirely unwilling to claim any sort of connection with him among the groups they feel matter. 

Geralt doesn’t know how to handle someone like Jaskier, someone who claims a connection no matter their surroundings or audience. 

“Thank you for coming,” Jaskier says, breaking Geralt out of his own thoughts. The bard’s eyes are still fixed on the crowd around them, people watching, but Geralt picks up the slight flush across his cheekbones. “I know you hate it here, but I always do better when I know I’ve got at least one person who won’t boo me if I flop.”

The admission is a surprise. Jaskier is the very epitome of confidence, utterly unafraid of what people may think in any given situation. 

“It’s silly, I know.” Jaskier’s blush deepens as if to support his statement. “But I still get nervous before each performance. I always do better when you’re in the audience, though.” 

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond to the admission, so he grunts. Thankfully, Jaskier takes it as enough and smiles at Geralt, something small and private and grateful. 

When Jaskier rises for another performance, Geralt makes sure to pay attention, giving Jaskier a small nod each time the bard looks his way. 

*

Geralt has accepted a variety of payments throughout the years. Some villages are simply too small to have enough coin on hand to pay him with without bankrupting the populace. It’s annoying, certainly, to have to do something like carry a chicken around with the hope of selling it later for coin, but Geralt could never refuse people who need him, and he ends up taking them all. 

The payment for this contrast had been a small assortment of things, a bolt of wool cloth, a new pair of boots he’d decided to give to Jaskier since his were wearing thin, several pairs of knitted socks, and a massive pasty stuffed with potatoes and cheese. He’d taken the payment with thanks and made his way back to the town proper where Jaskier had set up to try his hand at busking. The hat the bard had put down is predictably light on coin, but he certainly isn’t lacking for appreciation. A small crowd of children has gathered around him, eyes massive and entirely engaged in what the bard’s saying. 

“-for ‘tis not but bad luck to play with a puck, less your grandkid be borne and befriend a young faaawn-” There’s the slightest hesitation on his substitutions in the song, and Geralt can’t help but snort a laugh. Jaskier had clearly run through his small supply of child-appropriate songs. 

The slight fumbling of the lyrics aside, the children join in with aplomb at the chorus, singing with varying levels of skill but matching levels of enthusiasm. Geralt hangs back as Jaskier works the crowd as easily as he works any other, stooping down to their level and even leading them in a stomping dance. 

Catching sight of Geralt at last, Jaskier gives him a head nod of acknowledgement and announces that there will only be one song more. There’s a collective groan of protest, but Jaskier leads right into an upbeat song that has them dancing happily around. When it’s over, they attempt to wheedle more out, but they take the refusal with grace. Jaskier gives him a bow as grand as the ones he gives in a court, and the children are clearly pleased, imitating him to the point that two of them overbalance and tip over. 

He leaves them laughing and returns to Geralt’s side, falling into step and launching immediately into questions about the hunt. Geralt answers in his usual short way, but the bard seems pleased enough. 

When they return to Roach where she’d been stabled in a farmer’s barn for the wait, Geralt quickly packs away his payment and readies for the road. The town is too small for an inn, and there’s enough daylight yet for them to make progress. Geralt had heard rumor of a graveir two towns over and decided they might as well make a start at heading that way. 

Once the rest of it has been packed away, Geralt fishes out the pasty from where it had been wrapped in cloth. Without thought, he splits it in half and automatically passes part to Jaskier, who beams at him, pleased. It takes Geralt a moment to understand what he’s so happy about, but when he does, he looks away, mounting Roach immediately and nudging her into motion. 

Jaskier’s smile lasts all through the day, even when they settle down in the fall chill of a night under the stars, and Geralt makes a small note to share more often, if only to keep the bard’s morale high. 

*

Geralt has found himself at yet another gathering, outfitted in dark grey trousers and jacket that Jaskier had produced from nowhere, suspiciously tailored to Geralt's exact measurements. Geralt had attempted to resist, but Jaskier had wheedled and begged until he had agreed if only to get some peace. 

As the gatherings he’s been forced to attend go, this isn’t the worst one. It’s a collection of artists and performers Jaskier had studied with, and the atmosphere is relaxed. Geralt had even allowed himself to be drawn into a few conversations. Apparently in their time apart Jaskier brags extensively about Geralt’s knowledge of monsters, and Geralt has the novel experience of being drawn into conversations for the sake of his intelligence, not his mutations. 

It’s new, and Geralt finds a surprising amount of enjoyment in it. (Not that he’ll ever, ever let Jaskier know). 

There’s also a great deal of friendly one-up-manship among the performers around a makeshift stage, and Geralt makes his exit from his current conversation to wander closer. As unexpectedly enjoyable as the night had been, he’s reaching his limit for socializing and is hopeful that he can convince the bard to depart soon. 

Jaskier is just finishing up a song when Geralt approaches. Feeling generous, he joins in the applause. When his bard sees him clapping, he smiles so wide it crinkles his eyes. Jaskier takes a bow and snags a bottle of wine from a table as he leaves the stage, moving to Geralt’s side. 

He’s loose-limbed and relaxed with wine and the thrill of good company, and he leans against Geralt heavily. Geralt allows it, even tossing an arm around his shoulders if only to steady him. Jaskier shivers slightly although the room is quite warm, and Geralt pulls him slightly closer in response. 

“Well, dear witcher,” Jaskier drawls, “how badly have I beaten my competition?” 

The arrogance isn’t new, but in the soft candlelight, his own nerves and discomfort also dulled by alcohol and good food, it stirs an unexpected interest in Geralt that surprises him. Against his will, his eyes drop briefly to the bard’s lips, allowing himself a quick moment to study their softness before he makes himself look away. Geralt wants to kiss him, he realizes with a surprised little shock. 

“I think I beat them all by a long mile, but-” 

Jaskier continues chattering away, and Geralt takes the moment to dig through his own thoughts. Where had that urge come from? 

The bard had certainly filled out over the years, growing into his frame in a distinctly pleasing way, even as his face remained beautiful, an appealing softness to it. He’s attractive, Geralt can allow. It’s just an objective fact. 

Geralt also can’t deny that his dreams have taken a few liberties, but his waking thoughts have at least usually remained free of urges.

Well, for the most part. 

“-although Alicja was certainly excellent,” Jaskier says. “Black hair, brown eyes, green dress, holding a harp,” Jaskier adds for Geralt’s benefit. Geralt tilts his head in acknowledgement and finds his attention drawn by the line of Jaskier’s throat as he tips his head back to drink straight from the bottle. He licks his lips once he’s done, chasing the wine on them, and Geralt makes himself breathe and think about sword forms to get himself under control. 

Jaskier sees him looking and raises an eyebrow, lifting the bottle to him in silent offer. Geralt accepts it on reflex and takes a long sip. 

It’s good wine, smooth and slightly spiced. 

He tells himself it’s the alcohol itself that makes his mouth tingle, not the knowledge of pressing his lips to where Jaskier’s were just seconds before. 

*

In the aftermath of the djinn, Jaskier still has lingering pains in his throat along with occasional nausea. Geralt had been ready to track Yen back down again, but Jaskier had refused for reasons he wouldn’t explain. A hedgewitch Geralt had talked the bard into visiting had explained that it was just lingering effects of so much magic used on his person, but for all of her reassurance, it’s still alarming to watch Jaskier lose weight when he’s supposed to be back to normal, Geralt’s mistake wiped away. 

Geralt has watched the bones of his wrists and cheekbones get sharper and felt a confusing mix of alarm and guilt. He’d taken greater care when hunting, trying to find the plumpest possible game to tempt Jaskier with. He had even bought some of the rarer spices he knows Jaskier loves. For all of his efforts, however, Jaskier still rarely finishes an entire meal, claiming too much soreness in his throat and pushing his leftovers to Geralt to finish for him. When they’d ordered a bath last night, Jaskier going first as usual, Geralt had seen the faint outlines of his ribs and barely resisted the urge to order food brought to their room immediately. 

Geralt buys soft, tasty things to tempt him into eating, wanting to see his frame full as it should be. Jaskier insists on splitting all of him in his usual habit and even shoves it at Geralt’s mouth when he tries to refuse. 

“Stop it,” Jaskier tells him. “You’re ruining all the fun of holding the guilt over your head if you keep giving me things before I can wheedle them out of you.” 

“Poor baby,” Geralt mocks, entirely to make Jaskier shove the full bun in his mouth to be spiteful. He lets the bard have his petty vengeance, glad simply to make progress on his goal of putting weight back on him. 

He doesn’t want Jaskier to continue dropping weight and end up getting sick or being unable to keep up, after all. It also makes him a more comfortable bed partner, those soft parts of him. It’s simply reasonable to want him to have a bit of extra flesh as per usual, for the sake of Geralt’s comfort when the bard presses close to steal his body heat. 

It’s all very logical, really. 

*

The inn is certainly not the most august establishment they’ve stayed in before, but Geralt thinks it might be one of the best sights he’s ever seen by the time they reach it. 

The day had begun with a contract in a town that had resolutely held onto its prejudices against witchers, and even Jaskier’s best attempts at flirting and teasing had done little to gain them any welcome. They had had time to kill when no one was able to locate the headman, and Jaskier had attempted to curry them some favor with his damned coin song, but an angry crowd had hissed and heckled him into silence. Geralt could have handled the anger and rejection on his own, having done it his entire life, but any of it directed towards the bard made him edgy, especially when Jaskier would certainly never cut his losses and flee. If it came to a fight, Geralt knew that Jaskier would remain right at his side, no matter the risk. 

He had had to scruff the bard by his doublet when an especially bold farmer had thrown a rotting squash at Geralt. The projectile had missed widely, but Jaskier had still tensed, ready to pick a fight. The resulting power struggle had driven a wedge between them for the rest of the day, although Jaskier had chimed in as usual to cajole a fairer price for the contract when they’d finally been shown to the headman’s house. 

The hunt had been relatively easy, but Geralt had still gained a slash to his arm. Jaskier had patched him up even as he still simmered about Geralt holding him back, and they had returned to the headman’s house, where they’d been shorted by nearly a third of the agreed-upon price. 

“Given how well you seem to be,” the headman had sneered, "clearly the contract wasn’t as difficult as I was led to believe.” 

“Well then,” Jaskier had said, and the cool rage in his voice had had Geralt’s full attention immediately. “Perhaps I should find another nekker nest and shove you in. That way you can see how difficult it is yourself.” 

“Is that a threat?!” The headman had shrieked, his tone drawing attention from the other villagers walking past the porch they were standing on. The man had turned to the onlookers then. “I am being threatened! This beast and his whore have threatened me!” 

Geralt had chafed to hear Jaskier called his whore, but he’d also had his hands full dragging the bard back when he had lunged forward, ready to make good on his threat of violence. 

There had been a struggle that ended only when Geralt tossed him over his shoulder and carried him out of town. The headman’s taunts as they walked away certainly hadn’t helped the situation, and Geralt would be wearing more than a few bruises for the next few days as a result. 

When they’d made it a safe distance from town, he’d finally set the bard down, immediately snagging him when he’d attempted to bolt back the direction they’d come. After a shouting match, Jaskier had finally desisted, sulking for a good hour afterwards. 

His good mood had returned in time as it always did, and soon enough he was chattering and whistling and singing away as ever, meandering from side to side on the road to investigate anything he deemed interesting. 

Geralt’s mood had been slower to return to normal, and he had instead looked forward to finding a pub to sit in with a pint of ale in hand and letting Jaskier chatter away at him between sets. He wasn’t sure when it had become something to look forward to, but he took a certain amount of comfort in it now. 

Unfortunately for his mood, Jaskier had found an acquaintance of his almost the moment they’d entered, some aristocrat he knew from his school days. In short order, Geralt had found himself abandoned at a table in the corner as Jaskier’s friend dragged him to the middle of the pub to dance to the music from the bard that had already set up shop for the evening. 

Geralt had read the energy between the two of them, and when Jaskier finally makes his way back, pressing a hand to the friend’s hip before he does, Geralt already has a good idea of what he's going to say. 

“Henio and I are going to find a place to catch up for a while.” 

Geralt doesn’t respond. He’s annoyed that he was right, and he’s not sure why, other than the fact that he hates the prospect of being alone in this pub for however long Jaskier takes to fuck this Henio person. After a quick look in the man's direction, Geralt thinks nastily that at least he probably won’t have to wait for too long. 

“-and I promise I’ll-Are you okay?” Jaskier cuts himself off suddenly, his brow creased in concern. Geralt doesn’t know what’s on his own face to have prompted the response, but he carefully schools his features to be blank. It doesn’t matter that he’d wanted an evening of the bard chattering away to him. He’s not Jaskier’s lover. He doesn’t have a right to his time. 

“Fine. Go fuck your lordling.” There’s an edge to his voice that Geralt doesn’t particularly mean to put there, and it makes Jaskier look even more concerned. 

“Alright then. I’ll meet you back down here, yeah?”

Geralt grunts and Jaskier takes it as permission to run off. Against his will, Geralt watches as the two of them trip their way upstairs, giggling as if they’re getting away with something and exchanging hungry kisses before they’re even out of sight of everyone. 

Suddenly Geralt’s ale doesn’t taste quite as refreshing. 

Geralt’s meanly gratified that Jaskier comes back down not too long after, when Geralt’s only had time to finish two ales. For all of its brevity, however, Jaskier seems well-pleased enough by his tryst, plopping down next to Geralt on the bench with a happy sigh, so close their knees touch. 

The bard reeks of sex and the horrible cologne of the man he’d chosen for the evening, and Geralt reaches down to plant a hand against his waist and push, gaining some distance to breathe air unsullied by the bard's choice of fuck. Jaskier attempts to maintain his position with his feet braced against the floor, but for all of his own muscularity, he’s still nothing against Geralt’s enhanced strength. 

“You’re very rude,” Jaskier says cheerfully, giving Geralt a shove in return before he accepts his exile. He snags Geralt’s tankard and takes a sip, the movement of his head revealing a dark mark on his throat that looks damningly like a lovebite. Geralt snatches back his mug before he thinks about it, and Jaskier blinks at him, surprised. Geralt curses his own reaction, equally confused. He’s never cared about the bard stealing his drinks before now. It makes no sense that he should care now, even though the bard has a disgusting bruise that Geralt’s going to have to look at for the next few days given that the man can never keep his doublets properly fastened. 

Geralt ignores the kicked puppy looks he gets and refuses to share his drinks for the rest of the evening. 

*

Henio is waiting at the door to the inn the next morning with a pastry in hand. Geralt shoulders past as Jaskier stops, accepting the treat with happy surprise. By the time Geralt's retrieved Roach and saddled her, the two are still talking. He briefly contemplates just walking away, but a small part of him doesn’t want to see what happens if Jaskier has to choose between him and Henio. At least if he remains, he can believe he’s at least as important as a random fuck. 

It’s a pathetic thought, and it does nothing for Geralt’s mood. 

Geralt remains a distance away, so far that a human wouldn’t be able to make out the conversation between the two, but he hears it clearly. 

“Oh come now, Juju,” Henio whines, and Geralt rolls his eyes at the disgusting petname. Juju. Honestly. 

“I said no.” Jaskier’s tone is firm, much less welcoming than it had been previously, and Geralt finds himself absurdly pleased. 

“What? Don’t give me that ‘We haven’t slept together’ line again. I’ve seen the way you look at him. You’ll fuck a monster, but you-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jaskier tells him, and his tone is colder than ice. “You don’t know shit about him or about me, either. I follow him because I want to, and he is ten times the man you could ever dream of being.”

“I know he can’t give you the sort of life I can,” Henio argues, and his saccharine tone has dropped. There’s a curl of anger now, frustration at not understanding why he can’t have what he wants. “A life of squalor with him as his whore, or being kept in luxury by me? It’s an easy choice.” 

“You’re right,” Jaskier says, and Geralt hates the way it makes his stomach twist to hear that. He knows he can’t provide a life like a lord, and he also knows that after the frustration of yesterday that Jaskier likely doesn’t want to- “I would rather be a witcher’s whore than your kept man, any day.” From the choking sound, Henio is as surprised as Geralt by the assertion. “Don’t give people ultimatums, Henio. I’m afraid you’ll only ever be disappointed.” 

Jaskier practically prances his way back to Geralt’s side, his pastry still in hand. When he reaches him, he splits it in half, handing Geralt the bigger piece. 

“Shall we?” He asks, as he keeps walking without waiting for an answer. 

With one last look to the lord at the inn door, still sputtering, his face as red as a beet, Geralt follows the bard, savoring every mouthful of the treat. 

*

In the aftermath of the mountain, after Geralt managed to ruin every good thing in his life in the stunning span of about fifteen minutes, he finds himself struggling to remember how to return to traveling entirely alone. It’s what he had been afraid of, all of those years ago when Jaskier had begun tagging along. 

In the end, however, it hadn’t been Jaskier who had chosen to leave. Geralt had left him, storming down the mountain before Jaskier had a chance to follow. 

Geralt’s misery is entirely his own fault, and it makes the sharp pain of each slip-up even worse. 

He automatically keeps to one side of beds, turns almost constantly to make a comment or a joke to air, and the first time he buys a pastry in a market, he splits in half and reaches out to the side without thought. Roach noses hopefully in its direction, and Geralt pulls it away. 

It shouldn’t hurt so much, eating a whole bun. 

Each bite sticks in his throat. 

*

When he finds Ciri, at least his learned habit suddenly has a purpose again. He hands Ciri the bigger halves of things, and he’s gratified by the pleased look she has every single time. 

It’s not the only thing he learned from Jaskier that comes in handy. He thinks of the bard each time he’s able to make camp before Ciri reaches her true breaking point, each time he helps her work snarls out of her hair, each time he rubs calm circles on her back and hums soft, low songs to her when she wakes from nightmares. 

As he uses the things he learned for and from Jaskier, Geralt feels the bard’s absence like an ache. He’s heard from witchers who have lost limbs about phantom pains, hurt from something that’s no longer there. 

He understands it now, the ache of something you no longer have. 

On a trip into a remote town to buy supplies, Geralt decides to treat Ciri to a sticky bun, rich and dripping with syrup and studded with dried fruits and nuts. She’s lost some weight since they’d begun traveling together, and she’s sometimes too anxious to eat much. He’s careful with their coin, unable to take many contracts with her in tow, but the opportunity to get something buttery and rich into her is too good to let pass. 

When the girl splits it in half and hands a piece to Geralt with a wide smile, Geralt’s breath catches as he superimposes another face over hers, the same wide, trusting eyes, but blue instead of her clear green.

He takes the treat when Ciri insists, but it’s utterly flavorless in his mouth. He splits his half in two and hands part back to Ciri, who hesitates, but takes it when he presses it into her hand. He could be chewing on parchment for all of the enjoyment he’s able to garner from it, even as Ciri hums happily to herself and licks her fingers clean when she’s done. The loss of Jaskier has drained the color from his life, and it’s evidently drained the taste from it, too. 

*

In the aftermath of the battle at Kaer Morhen, Geralt doesn’t see much of the bard, despite his best efforts. Jaskier makes himself useful, flitting around like an industrious and flamboyant bee, slotting himself into any chore he can find. He bullies his way into tasks the same way he bullied his way into Geralt’s life, and he’s equally effective at it. 

Even at mealtimes, Jaskier is usually late, held up or distracted by a task he's assigned himself. Geralt regrets the lack of time to spend with him, and so tonight he makes a point of saving a place next to himself, motioning Jaskier to it when the bard pauses, looking for a spot. 

Jaskier hesitates for a moment but complies, settling down next to Geralt and accepting the plate passed to him. Geralt sees Jaskier split his piece of bread in half and also sees the aborted little movement of his arm as he starts to hand it to Geralt before he stops himself. He flushes, slightly, and sets down one half on the edge of his plate, eating the other half quickly. 

It’s absurd, how much it hurts to watch. 

The movement also draws Geralt’s attention to the blistered skin of his fingers, and he reaches for Jaskier's hand before he thinks about it, pulling it closer for inspection. Jaskier’s body tenses immediately, and he yanks his hand back, pressing it against his stomach protectively. Geralt tries to meet Jaskier’s eyes, to ask a question without needing words, but the bard evades him. Geralt sees the way the bard reads the table, making sure that no one else noticed what happened. For all appearances, no one had, and Jaskier eats his meal quickly and excuses himself. 

Geralt forces himself not to immediately bolt after him since Jaskier apparently doesn’t want attention, but he eats more quickly than he usually does and ignores the looks he gets when he refuses more. Ciri begins to follow him automatically from the table, but he presses against the top of her head to keep her in her spot. 

“Eat, or you’ll never get big enough to wield a sword properly,” he tells her, teasing, and she swats at him, landing a fist against his stomach with a laudable amount of force. 

He leaves to the sound of Lambert congratulating her on the punch, and Eskel giving her tips on how to get more force behind it in the future. Geralt shakes his head fondly. They’re terrible influences on his child surprise, the both of them. 

Geralt is so glad she has them. 

His lightness fades as he approaches Jaskier’s room, scenting the smell of hurt and panic immediately. His concern grows when he picks up the first wafts of hard liquor. It’s a scent he’s smelled more and more on Jaskier, and he’s starting to think it’s something he can’t keep ignoring. 

He knocks and waits. There is no response. 

“Jaskier?” He calls softly, and he hears the man sigh, clearly annoyed. Geralt makes himself persist, knocking again. 

“Come in,” Jaskier’s voice calls, and he sounds exhausted. 

When Geralt opens the door, he finds the bard on his bed, boots still on, a bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t miss how Jaskier immediately pushes his right hand behind a fold in the blanket under him, hiding it from view. Geralt closes the door behind himself and leans against it. Jaskier remains looking at his bottle, rubbing his fingers over it as if studying the texture of it against his skin. 

“Did you want something?” Jaskier asks, and his voice is tight, even as he tries to inject some levity into it. Geralt tries to gather his thoughts, to figure out what exactly it is that he wants, and Jaskier holds the bottle out to him. “Want a swallow?” He offers. 

Geralt uses the offer as an excuse to step closer and accepts the liquor, although he doesn’t take a sip. 

“You’re still angry,” Geralt says. He doesn’t miss the flicker of surprise that flits across Jaskier’s face before he brings it under control. 

“What makes you say that?” Jaskier says, his voice carefully even. “You said your bit. We’re fine now, right?” There’s the slightest challenge in the question that tells Geralt that this is a test. He desperately wishes he knew the right answer. 

“You don’t…” Geralt hesitates. It sounds so stupid, even in his own head. But he can’t ignore it, not after so many years of having it and then so much time wanting it back. “You don’t share with me anymore. With food.” He resists the urge to wince. It sounds as childish as he'd thought it would. 

“There’s plenty of food,” Jaskier responds. “You don’t need me to share.” There’s the slightest emphasis on “need me.” Geralt wishes he knew what to do with the hint. 

“Yes, but I…I want you to.” He offers. It’s faint, but the words cause the slightest little hitch in Jaskier’s breathing, which Geralt chooses to see as progress in the right direction. “I want things to be like they were before.” That’s not entirely true. Ideally, he’d like more. He’d like to finally explore what he’s spent so long resisting. After so much time apart, after so many changes in his life, it feels utterly stupid to be afraid of more.

For starters, however, he’ll settle for what he had before, now that he knows to appreciate it. 

“Why?” Jaskier asks, leaning forward to take the bottle. Geralt holds it just slightly out of reach, and the bard gives him a look. “What, are you in favor of sobriety now?”

Geralt is painfully ill-equipped to have this conversation, but it also desperately needs to happen. Jaskier has smelled of anxiety and fear and alcohol too much recently. Geralt can’t keep taking the easy way out. Jaskier deserves better from him. 

“You aren’t happy here,” Geralt says, ignoring the way it feels to say it. He so desperately wants Jaskier to feel happy here. Jaskier doesn’t respond, pressing his lips together and trying to grab the bottle again. Geralt pulls it farther out of reach, setting it down on the floor at the foot of the bed. Jaskier flops backwards, scowling. Geralt feels the irrational urge to reach out a hand and smooth the furrow between his brows. 

Jaskier remains quiet, and Geralt feels a new pang of sympathy for each time Jaskier has tried to reach out to him and received only silence in response. It’s to Jaskier’s credit that he didn’t give up in year one of traveling together, and it makes Geralt want to try even harder to deserve it. 

“Please talk to me, Jask.” 

“About what, Geralt?” Jaskier sounds tired again, and he won’t make eye contact. 

“I want you to be happy here,” Geralt tells him, daring to reach out and rest a hand above the bard’s knee. Jaskier’s eyes flick down to it, and Geralt waits for the order to remove it. It doesn’t come, and he doesn’t think he imagines the way Jaskier softens slightly. 

“I don’t know how,” Jaskier confesses, and Geralt squeezes his leg supportively. “I don’t fit here, Geralt. You said you need me, but need me for what? What am I doing here that someone else couldn’t do faster and better? I don’t even have my lute anymore. And if you don’t need me to-” His voice cracks and he swallows. He doesn’t continue. Geralt inhales deeply to fortify himself before he moves, shifting up to sit on Jaskier’s left and press shoulder to shoulder. He wants the reassurance of Jaskier against him, and he dares to hope that it will please Jaskier as well. 

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever had,” Geralt tells him, and he feels as much as hears Jaskier stop breathing for a moment. “You’ve made my life better, brighter. After Blaviken…” He trails off, and Jaskier takes his hand in his, linking their fingers together. It shames Geralt, that the bard would still reach out after Geralt has hurt him to offer support at a painful memory. “After Blaviken, I thought my world would always stay that dark. I thought I had finally woken up to the way the world really is, ugly and hateful and utterly fucking pointless." He pauses, leans into Jaskier slightly more. "And then I met you.”

“If I’d known bread-based innuendo was such a bright spot, I’d have done it more often,” Jaskier jokes, but his voice is tight. Geralt squeezes his hand gently, and Jaskier squeezes back.

“You saved me,” he tells Jaskier honestly, words that Geralt has never been able to say, even in his own head. He needs to say them now, though. He needs Jaskier to understand. “From my darkness, from my loneliness. You saved me, Jask.” 

“All I did was trail behind you and write incredible songs.” 

“Incredible might be stretching things a bit.” The comment makes Jaskier elbow him, moving both of their hands in the process as they remain linked. “You stayed, Jaskier. Through every contract, through every shitty town, through every rainy night and muddy road. You stayed with me, Jaskier. And I was so used to people leaving that I didn’t know what to do with you.” Geralt turns then and coaxes Jaskier to look at him. This part is important. “I treated you poorly, Jaskier. I took things out on you that I shouldn’t have. I didn’t deserve your loyalty. I still don’t, not yet.”

A tear spills down Jaskier’s cheek, and the bard immediately raises a sleeve to scrub at his face, wiping the others away before they can fall. Geralt waits until he’s done so he can look him in the eye again. 

“I regretted what I said on that mountain as soon as I said it. It wasn’t true, Jaskier. I was angry and wanted to take it out on someone. You’re the best thing life has ever given me, Jask. I’m sorry I ever said otherwise.” 

“You didn’t find me afterwards,” Jaskier says, and Geralt catches the slightest tremble of his lower lip. “All of that time, and you never tried to find me, even when I made it easy for you. You didn’t try to find me until you needed me for something.” Geralt can hear the pain in his voice, and it makes his own throat feel tight. 

“I was ashamed,” Geralt tells him. “It’s not an excuse, I know, but I was. I was too ashamed to go after you once I left and with time, I wanted to give you space to be angry. I chose when we parted. I wanted to let you choose when or if you wanted to give me another chance.” 

“I don’t think I’m capable of not giving you chances,” Jaskier tells him. “I was ready for a fight. I’d rehearsed it a hundred times. And then you were in front of me, and all of it disappeared. I was too relieved that you were back to throw the fit to end all fits that I planned on.” Jaskier ducks his head then, his hair falling forward to obscure his face. “I’ve only ever wanted you,” Jaskier says, his voice soft. “I just wanted you to want me back.”

“I do,” Geralt says, and Jaskier looks up sharply. “It’s true, Jaskier. I was always too afraid before, to face what wanting you meant. I thought it would be easier to lose you later if I never discovered what more felt like.” 

“I would never choose to leave.” Jaskier’s voice is fierce, as if offended by the thought of it. It makes Geralt smile slightly. 

“I know that. If I could fuck up as badly as the mountain and still have you follow after me through all of this, then I don’t think there’s anything that’s going to scare you off.” Geralt swallows, afraid of saying what he wants to say next but more afraid of not saying it when he’s almost brave enough to finally get it out. “I love you, Jaskier. I have for a long time. You don’t have to return it. I don’t expect you to. But you deserve to know it.” Jaskier is quiet a long moment, searching Geralt's face. 

“Is this just to make me share my bread with you again?” Jaskier’s joke is unexpected, and it startles a laugh out of Geralt. 

“No. It’s to let you know that I don’t need what you can do. I just need you, Jask.”

“If I’m not mistaken,” Jaskier tells him. “This would generally be the part in the plotline where there’s a kiss.” Geralt smiles and tips the bard’s face to his with a finger under his chin. 

“I’d hate to ruin your narrative arc,” he tells him seriously, and Jaskier grins before he leans in, setting every nerve in Geralt’s body ablaze with light when their lips meet. 

Of the things he’s shared with Jaskier, he thinks that kisses might be his favorite. 

*

Their bread sharing resumes, and it becomes a playful race, played subtly at mealtimes, both of them trying to be the first to grab a roll or slice of bread to split it between themselves. It’s silly, entirely unnecessary given that there’s always enough for everyone and that they end up grabbing more anyway, but Geralt finds it becomes a highpoint, something to look forward to entirely for the small, secret smile Jaskier gives him. 

There are wounds yet to be healed, Geralt knows, and old scars that will yet need tending, but it all seems more manageable with Jaskier beside him. 

During his turn in the kitchen, Jaskier makes sweet rolls for breakfast one morning. It’s only the two of them in the kitchen, and Geralt takes the opportunity to stand behind Jaskier, wrapping his arms around the bard’s waist and tucking his chin over his shoulder, pressed cheek to cheek. 

“I’m doing something,” Jaskier says, but the pleasure in his tone outweighs the playful annoyance. 

“I’m helping you,” Geralt insists, pouring in a cup of milk before Jaskier has the chance to reach for it with his bandaged hand. Yen has been working on healing it, but Jaskier's nerves can only take so much at once, and Geralt can't stand to watch him tremble in terror. Until it can be fixed entirely, Geralt tends the wounds religiously, treating them with a salve for pain and wrapping them in new bandages twice a day. 

“Seriously, Geralt,” Jaskier says, and Geralt is pleased by the laugh he can hear in his voice. "I need to get breakfast done.”

“I won’t stop you,” Geralt promises, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bard's cheek. Jaskier laughs and elbows him when Geralt then rubs his cheek against the bard's, cringing away from the rasp of their stubble rubbing together. 

“Ugh, stop that,” Jaskier says with a grimace that still can’t quite hide his smile. “That feels the way nails on chalkboard sound.” Geralt does it again just to start a playfight of Jaskier trying to wiggle out of his hold, calling a truce with a kiss to the soft skin behind the bard’s ear. 

Geralt is admittedly more a hindrance than a help, maintaining his position behind Jaskier and just moving with him when needed. Jaskier, however, doesn’t complain, and the sweet rolls are finished soon enough. 

“Test for poison,” Jaskier says, ripping one in half and bringing part over his shoulder for Geralt to try. Geralt accepts the bite, nipping playfully at the bard's fingers before he pulls them away. 

“Good,” Geralt tells him once he swallows, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. 

“Be still my heart,” Jaskier complains, turning in Geralt’s arms to face him. “Would it kill you to lavish me a bit with praise? A little stroking of my ego?” 

“I could stroke other things,” Geralt offers, and Jaskier groans. 

“You’re terrible,” he tells Geralt, pulling him in for a kiss. Geralt nearly purrs when Jaskier deepens it, savoring each moment, each movement. The taste of the baked good, while delicious, is still nothing compared to the sweetness of Jaskier’s lips pressed to his. 

*

“Make the bard stop it.” 

Geralt looks up at Lambert’s voice in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. 

“What makes you think I have any control over what Jaskier does?” Geralt’s not entirely sure what “it” his brother is referring to, but he does know his own ability to modulate the bard’s behavior is severely limited. Lambert rolls his eyes, entering the room and kicking the door shut behind him before planting his hands on his hips, scowling. 

“The fucking weird bread foreplay,” Lambert states, as if it’s an obvious thing and not a completely unintelligible series of words. Geralt turns away from the sketch he’d been refining in a bestiary and leans against his desk, one elbow against the surface. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“The fucking bread sharing thing,” Lambert says, raising his hands in a gesture of incredulity at Geralt’s apparently blindness. “You two are always disgusting with your bread sharing at mealtimes bullshit, and it doesn't even stay there. I just went to the kitchen for something to eat, and he ripped apart his bread and gave me half. About shoved it in my mouth when I didn’t take it. Apparently you’re not fucking him well enough if he’s branching out to the rest of us.” The end of the statement is meant as a challenge, something to raise Geralt’s hackles, but the memory of leaving Jaskier trembling and nearly insensate with pleasure the very night before goes a long way towards quashing any of Geralt’s insecurities on that front before they even begin. 

“You think Jaskier’s trying to fuck you?” Geralt asks doubtfully. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He has taste.” The comment, as he expected, gains him a book tossed at his head, which Geralt catches neatly. 

“I mean it,” Lambert growls. “I don’t need your leftovers. Did you put him up to it?” Geralt hears the insecurity beneath his brother’s irritation, and it makes something in his heart ache, the memory of feeling the same doubts, the mistrust that someone like Jaskier could just want to do something like share bread without wanting something in exchange. 

“He’s not trying to fuck you,” Geralt tells him plainly. “He likes sharing. That’s all.”

“Or being shared,” Lambert challenges, but Geralt again doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“Trust me,” Geralt tells him. “If he was trying to fuck you, you’d know. He’s not subtle.” Geralt was witness to enough attempts at a strip tease in their early years together to say it with certainty. 

“Then what’s he doing?” Lambert says, and Geralt can hear how much he’s still trying to hold onto his belief that Jaskier would only share as an overture to fucking, to getting something in exchange. It makes Geralt want to get up and hug his brother, so he does. Lambert stiffens and Geralt half expects a fight, but eventually he just returns the embrace. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more vulnerable. “I don’t understand him,” Lambert confesses. “I know you love him or whatever, but he’s confusing.” Geralt huffs a laugh. 

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think anyone will ever understand him. I certainly don’t.”

“Well you’re dense as a brick, so that’s not a surprise.” The comment makes Geralt thump him on the back, but he maintains the hug, willing to hold on as long as his brother will allow. Once upon a time he would have already pulled away, afraid of encroaching too long, but after enough years with Jaskier, he knows the value of waiting for someone else to let him know how long they want to be held. It’s often longer than he’d ever dared dream. 

“He’s just being friendly,” Geralt tells him. “If you want to make his day, split something and share it with him. Trust me, he’ll be insufferably happy for the rest of the day.” 

“Gods forbid. It’s already like living with a fucking sunflower,” Lambert mutters. He squeezes once more, slightly, before he moves back. Geralt releases him but claps one hand on his shoulder. 

“You’ll get used to him,” Geralt says. 

Lambert grunts a dubious noise and leaves, but at dinner that night, Lambert passes Jaskier half a roll without looking at him, and the smile that lights up the bard’s face is enough to keep Geralt warm all throughout the snowstorm that night. 

He’s glad he finally gets to share Jaskier with his family here in Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier has certainly shared enough with him.