Chapter Text
He did get some pieces of bread pelted at him during his performance, but given that that isn’t the worst thing that’s been thrown his way, he’ll take it.
He does, actually, take the bread. It’s free food, and Jaskier isn’t exactly in a position to turn it down.
First he gathers the bread in his pants because that’s what’s available, and then he stores it in his pack, and orders himself a drink because he fucking deserves it, gods dammit. It isn’t his fault that the people of Posada have no fucking musical taste.
It's when he’s half through his mug of ale that he sees the boy across the room. There’s a mane of very pale hair falling across his shoulders. The cheekbones on the fucker are unreal, truly, the bone structure is that of the gods themselves.
He’s so taken with the face that Jaskier almost misses the swords. They are huge and menacing and Jaskier just catches all the leather and studded armor that follow. There’s really only one type of person who carries swords like that, and Jaskier has never met one before. He’s so enamored he could die. A witcher? And one that looks this fucking delectable? Mercy.
Jaskier goes a bit closer, cradling his mug of ale close to his chest. He stops about a foot from the table this witcher is currently brooding at, looking very serious and stoic.
“Hello, dear,” Jaskier starts, not one to be put off easily, even if the witcher in front of him is narrowing his eyes. And… and pouting his mouth in a rather sexy manner that probably should not be sexy given how he’s sort of glaring but Jaskier’s never claimed to not be easily swayed.
He watches the witcher closely for a few moments. Jaskier doesn’t stand a chance. It’s his mouth, more than anything.
That, and the few words that come out of it. How he stutters when he first speaks, tripping over his tongue and bottom lip. Fascinating.
“The fu—fuck do you want, bard?” He goes red when he stutters, all across his cheeks, down his neck, possibly past his collarbone, if only his armor wasn’t covering so much of him.
You, was that not obvious? Jaskier thinks to himself, but he can’t go scaring off something so delicate, blushing the way he is, eyes darting. Jaskier wets his bottom lip and waits for the flush on the other boy’s cheeks to subside. He decides to sit while he waits, and just for something to do with himself, grabs the chair nearest him and plops himself down. He crosses his legs and leans across the table, rests his chin in his palm.
“You look like you could use a friend, all alone over here.”
The boy grunts, brows pulling together in irritation. He has a strand of pale hair falling into his eyes that he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s pouting, actually pouting, and with a mouth like that, Jaskier knows he’s utterly fucked as far as leaving empty handed goes.
How the fuck did his hair get so white? It’s actually white, not blond, but he can’t be much older than twenty, the innocence in his face so utterly endearing. Reminds Jaskier of when he first stepped foot on the Oxenfurt campus. But sweet Melitele, he’s handsome. And sure, Jaskier is probably barking up the wrong tree, but it never hurts to at least ask. Usually.
The blush is fading. The boy’s face is returning to the almost ethereal pale that had first enticed Jaskier. He blinks at Jaskier, yellow cat eyes scanning his face. “You know I’m a witcher, don’t you?”
Jaskier puts a hand to his chest, gives this witcher his best dramatic gasp. “You are? I think I’m going to faint!”
The witcher snorts, tries to hide his laugh with a cough into a fist. The blush from earlier really is subsiding, so Jaskier figures it’s safe to ask the witcher’s name.
“What should I call you, oh mighty, frightening witcher?” Jaskier asks, raising a brow.
“Uh, Geralt.” He tucks the strand of white hair behind his ear, away from his yellow eyes which are framed by the longest, darkest lashes Jaskier has ever seen.
“Good to meet you, uh Geralt,” Jaskier says, unable to stop himself. He smirks at Geralt across the table. The blush is creeping back up, but this time at the tips of his ears.
“Shut up,” Geralt replies, half-hearted.
Jaskier laughs in full. “I’m sorry, I’m notoriously unable to resist low-hanging fruit. I’m Jaskier.” He holds his hand out to Geralt, who takes it after a moment, shaking it just the once. His grip is strong, which sends a thrill through Jaskier.
“You sure you want to sit here?” Geralt asks. He looks into his empty mug of ale instead of at Jaskier.
“Course I’m sure. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t.”
“Don’t want you to get kicked out or something,” Geralt says. The words are very soft, more mumbled than not. Geralt looks sad, until he says, “Though I guess with your performance that might happen anyway.”
Jaskier throws his head back and laughs. “You fucking cock! Not a fan I take it?”
“I don’t know anything about music,” Geralt says, once again looking at his empty mug instead of at Jaskier. He clears his throat awkwardly.
“Everyone knows something about music. You’re allowed to not like mine. Though that would make you both wrong and tasteless.”
“Your voice is nice,” Geralt replies, even softer. The blush is back. The blush is too much. The blush is so sweet, it makes Jaskier want to crawl across the table and into Geralt’s lap, just to see how much deeper that flush can go.
“But the writing and performance itself was horse shit, got it,” Jaskier teases.
“I didn’t say that!” Geralt says, ripping his yellow eyes away from his mug, meeting Jaskier’s eye. He looks so serious, so earnest. Jaskier sees that he’s teased a little too hard.
“I know you didn’t, I was only messing with you. Would you let me buy you another round, uh Geralt?”
Geralt smiles, his pouty, pink little mouth pulling up at the corners. “Sure, but only if you stop using that shit joke.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” Jaskier says. “But fair is fair.”
***
Jaskier spends his last few coins on a second round for Geralt and himself. He doesn’t regret it, can’t really. Not when he gets to watch how Geralt’s fingers flex around the mug, gets to watch Geralt’s pink upper lip get covered in foam from his ale. Geralt licks it clean, unaware of the effect he’s having on Jaskier.
“You’re a witcher, does that mean Posada has a bit of a monster problem?” Jaskier asks.
“Not anymore,” Geralt says, and when he lifts his mug again, it’s more about hiding his proud smile than taking a drink.
Jaskier leans back in his chair, hoping to show off the length of his neck and the broadness of his shoulders. “What did you kill?”
“A griffin. My first. Or, I guess, my first on my own.”
“Are you going to give me details?”
Geralt puts his mug down and shrugs. “What d’you want to know?”
Jaskier scoffs. “I want to know all of it! Obviously!”
Geralt puts the mug down. “You… want to know about a witcher hunt?”
“Course I do!” Jaskier replies. “It’s so exciting! Very knight in shining armor, really. And that makes for an excellent story. Actually, that isn’t a bad idea.”
“What isn’t a bad idea?” Geralt’s face is going worried. His eyes are going wide in a really adorable way and he’s wringing his hands. His fingernails actually still have blood underneath them, which should not be sexy at all.
“I could write songs about you. You know, how witchers are doing us all a big favor, how you’re all kind and good and really, tragically good looking.”
“Tragically?” Geralt’s eyes narrow.
“Tragic in the sense that it’s dramatic and makes me yearn and it’s too much for one poor soul to take.”
Geralt raises a brow. “Do you ever think before you speak?”
“Historically no, and I’m not about to start now.” Jaskier laughs, brings his mug to his lips again. He can sense Geralt’s confusion, but also his curiosity. Which is good, this is where Jaskier typically thrives.
“You’re an odd man.”
“Could say the same for you,” Jaskier counters.
“I’m not a man.”
“Yes you are, what are you talking about?”
Geralt rolls his eyes. “I’m not. I’m a witcher. Didn’t we just discuss this?”
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t a man!” Jaskier argues. And okay, maybe he’s the slightest bit tipsy, he did have a drink before approaching Geralt. But his point still stands.
“Witchers don’t feel things like people do, hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”
Jaskier scoffs. Sure he’s heard that, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. And yeah, Geralt might be the first witcher he’s ever met, but Geralt seems to think and feel just as any ordinary man does, if his sweet blush is anything to go by.
“You seem pretty man-like to me. You breathe, you drink, you laugh at my bad jokes, your face flushes when a good looking person chats you up,” Jaskier says, ending with a wink. This, of course, makes Geralt look to his hands as his face blooms in color again. Jaskier will never tire of this.
“I don’t remember laughing at any of your jokes,” Geralt replies. “And you’re still wrong. I feel things but not… not as much as a man.”
“Who told you that load of bollocks?” Jaskier says, feeling offended on Geralt’s behalf.
Geralt’s jawbone goes tight. He grips at his mug, hard enough that the tips of his fingers are going pink.
“All my elders. My teachers. My family.”
Ah. So Jaskier’s stuck his foot in his mouth again. As if that’s out of the ordinary. He clears his throat, begins fiddling with the ring on his middle finger. “Right, of course. I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that I try not to judge people until I get to know them. I mean, if everyone believed everything they heard about bards and applied that to me, well, they’d be a hundred percent right, but I’m just awful, I’m certain there are bards who aren’t terrible lushes and tarts. I’m not one of them but surely they exist.”
Now Geralt does actually laugh, in full now, not just a hint at one. A true smile unfolds on his face, and Jaskier lets himself be proud momentarily. He earned that one. And gods, what a beautiful smile it is.
***
They talk until their mugs are both empty, until the sun is beginning to set, and Jaskier is feeling confident enough to ask, “Would you be up to sharing a campfire this evening?”
Geralt raises a brow. “What do you need?” He asks, all suspicious.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I don’t need anything. What I want is your continued company, so I can keep admiring your pretty face.”
Geralt half-heartedly rolls his eyes, but goes red again. “You’ve no fucking shame, bard.”
“Why should I?”
“I don’t really have extra rations or anything, if that’s what you’re after,” Geralt says.
Jaskier sputters, only half offended. “I’m not after anything, I meant what I said, you brute! I just like you, is that so hard to believe?”
Geralt hums, then says, “Yes. A handsome bard wants a witcher’s company and wants nothing in return? Yeah, I find that hard to believe.”
Jaskier laughs. “I never said I wanted nothing in return. But sorry, let’s go back. You think I’m handsome?”
Geralt scratches at the back of his neck. “I don’t think I said that,” he decides.
“You just did, you said I’m handsome, I definitely heard that.”
“Fine, whatever, you can share my campfire. You probably want to because you can’t start a fire yourself.”
“You are so rude, it’s a good thing you’re so adorable, because really, you’ve no manners at all.” Jaskier folds his arms over his chest. “I’ll have you know I have started… several fires.” There was the time he tried to bake a cake with Essi and Priscilla and almost burned the entire kitchen down. There was also the time he’d lit his dorm curtains on fire when lighting candles for his date that night. He’d still gotten laid, actually.
“Sure.” Geralt stands from their table, lifts his pack from the floor. “I have to go get my horse.” He wets his bottom lip, then turns to face Jaskier in full. “You coming or not?”
Jaskier looks up at Geralt. There’s something so delicate inside the strength of him. All of him pulled taut but still waiting for Jaskier. He feels oddly, dangerously malleable. Jaskier wets his bottom lip and says, “Oh, most definitely.”
***
The sun is close to setting. Geralt is leading his horse, apparently called Roach (what an odd name for such a gorgeous horse) by her reins. She isn’t fond of Jaskier, but they’ve got time.
He walks close to Geralt, letting their shoulders brush occasionally.
“Oh shit,” Jaskier says, then crouches down in the road, looking at the insect in front of him.
It’s a large black cricket, one of its back legs broken. It won’t be able to sing.
“What is it?” Geralt asks, following Jaskier’s gaze.
“It’s just… oh bugger, poor thing. I need to get it off the road, so it’s not smashed underfoot, or by a wagon.”
“It’s just a cricket,” Geralt says, but is coming close, holding his hand out to let the insect crawl up his hand.
“Ugh, oh gods!” Jaskier mutters, cringing.
Geralt snorts. “Didn’t you want to save it?”
“Yes but not with bare hands ,” Jaskier says, shaking his head.
“Dramatic,” Geralt says, then sets the cricket gently into the grass, safely away from the road.
“For someone who kills things for a living, you’re apparently a great big softie.”
Geralt turns and meets Jaskier’s eye. “I never kill anything unless I have to.” He says it so earnest, so sweet. Jaskier swallows. He knows what he’s like. If he isn’t careful he’ll be in love before the sun is down.
“Right,” Jaskier replies. “Of course.”
***
They make camp, settling in for the night. Geralt removes his armor, which allows Jaskier to ogle him a bit, the cut of his shirt showing off the lines of his neck. Geralt starts a fire by doing something funny with his fingers.
“You made fun of me for not knowing how to build a fire, but I’m pretty sure that that’s cheating.”
“I’ll do it the old fashioned way next time,” Geralt says.
“Next time, yeah?”
Geralt shrugs, then chews on his bottom lip nervously.
“How did you do it by the way? That little flash of fire,” Jaskier says. He wiggles his fingers, mimicking Geralt’s movements.
Geralt looks relieved at the change of subject. “It’s called igni. It’s one of the signs witchers can do. There are five.”
“Five?” Jaskier smiles. He holds out his right hand for Geralt to take. “Show me.” He wiggles his fingers again until Geralt gently takes Jaskier’s hand in his own.
Geralts fingers are warm. Rough, but warm. His eyes look even more golden in the light of the fire. Jaskier is back to sober now, has been for a while, but he is still lust-stupid. He watches Geralt’s face as his fingers are arranged for him. Jaskier swallows thickly, trying to tamp down on the urge to simply turn his face and kiss the boy next to him. But he can’t do that, Geralt is far too shy.
“This one is igni,” Geralt begins. “I can create fire with it. This next one,” Geralt continues, “Is aard. It’s like, a gust of air. This one is quen. Creates a shield. And this one is yrden. It lets me immobolize the things I’m fighting.” With each sign, Geralt slowly positions Jaskier’s fingers. With each one, Jaskier feels his heart beat tick up in his chest.
After, Geralt gently lets go of Jaskier’s hand.
“That was only four.”
“Um. The other one I don’t use.”
“Why not?”
“It’s… I don’t like it.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, smiling. “Yeah, but what is it?” Jaskier pokes Geralt in the chest. He’s so solid, of course, all hard muscle because he has to be. Jaskier tries again to tamp down on his want.
Geralt’s eyes wander to the fire. He clears his throat, and says, “It’s mind control.”
“Oh, wow. So you could like, make people do things. Could make me do things?” Jaskier bites at his bottom lip.
Geralt turns back to him, gives him a stern look. “Seriously?”
“I’m just trying to figure it out! Could you just do a little whooshy whoosh and then I’d…what?”
With an odd finality, Geralt says “You’d do whatever I told you to.”
Jaskier, who never knows when to stop, blurts, “Kinda hot.”
“Unbelievable.”
Jaskier giggles. “Sorry, it’s just, you’re so serious about it.”
“Because it is, you idiot,” Geralt says, but there’s no heat to it. Geralt shoves lightly at Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’ve never used it anyway. Hopefully I never will. Don’t want to. I’ve seen people under axii, it’s fucking creepy. They go all blank.” Geralt shakes his head.
“Well, if you ever get curious, you could try it on me. I like being told what to do, in certain scenarios.” Jaskier winks. He sees how Geralt’s eyes widen a bit, how his cheeks go darker. Jaskier squeezes at his own knee, reminding himself to behave. He can flirt all he wants but he isn’t sure what will happen if he makes any sudden moves.
“Don’t you ever stop?” Geralt asks.
“Not really, no.”
Geralt smiles. “Gods, bard.” He shakes his head. “You’ve no shame. What are you like, seventeen?”
“Excuse you, I’m nineteen, and I’m an absolute terror, and you’re lucky you get to experience my utter nonsense. How old are you? And don’t you dare say you’re a hundred or something just to fuck with me, I can see the innocence in your eyes.”
“I’m twenty one. And I’m not… innocent. Shut up. We should get to sleep.”
“Oh, I suppose,” Jaskier agrees.
“Thank you,” Geralt says, the firelight licking across his face.
“What for?” Jaskier asks.
Geralt shrugs. “I had fun today. You’re… you’re easy to talk to.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Geralt. Believe you me.” Jaskier tilts his head, lets his weight sag to his left, into Geralt’s space.
***
Jaskier wakes to the sound of stone on silver, to the scent of smoke from the dying fire. The sky is grey, and Geralt is sharpening one of his swords, looking very rugged and stoic.
They share the bread that was thrown at Jaskier for breakfast. Geralt gives Jaskier handfuls of dried fruit. Geralt chews slowly, thoughtfully.
“I have to head south. I heard there were drowners.”
“Well, I could join you. I haven’t got anything on. Besides, you never told me about the griffin.”
Geralt lets him tag along, still looking suspicious but mostly amused. At least that’s what Jaskier is telling himself that barely there smile means.