#Geralt of Rivia needs bathtub supervision??

[viking-raider]

Can Geralt not bathe himself???

Every time we see him in the tub, its either with Yen or Jaskier. Or that one lady of the evening that Eskel brought to Kaer Morhen!

[dancedelion]

omg have you heard Tolerate It from taylor swifts new album? it reminds me of your fics so much idk if you might wanna use it as a prompt. specifically "if it's all in my head tell me now, tell me i've got it wrong somehow / i know my love should be celebrated, but you tolerate it" but also just like the whole song in general hahaha xo

Ahhh you’re so right! It’s a really great song. (My other favorites from the album are ‘champagne problems’ and ‘right where you left me’) Thank you so much for the ask and the suggestion! I’m sorry it took me so long to actually get to writing a fic about it, I was busy with uni but I've been thinking about the fic all this time. I hope you like it!

Here it is (or here on ao3):

Geralt of Rivia is a man made of stone. He endures. The world spins around him, he stays the same. For a long time, he does. Nothing can faze him, nothing draws more than a sigh from him.

(He is the first man on earth.)

Nothing could surprise him or catch him off guard. He watches, he hears and he expects the unexpected. The way a witcher learns to feel the world, with all its contradictions, the threats in a gift and the gift in a threat. He learns to become the monster he hunts and understand its ravenous hunger. He has learned to recognize a trap and to walk straight into it, head held high.

(He weathers it.)

His knees might break, his leg might be bruised, might be bleeding, might be crushed beneath the enormous body of a monster he killed, but as long as it can move, he will move it. No gash in his arm will stop him from hunting. No slammed door will stop him from sleeping.

(He weathers the storms, the nights, the long days, the sad days.)

He sleeps in the woods. On rainy days, he sleeps wet. On snowy days, he sleeps cold. In monster-infested parts of the woods, he sleeps with one eye open.

(He weathers the stares and the talk and children running from him in the streets.)

No insult, no matter how well-deserved, can stop his stone heart. No breathing thing, no matter how misguided, no matter how wasted, no matter how cruel, can stop him from saving it.

(Nothing can break this curse, no true love’s kiss, no dragon’s breath. He wanders the world, he is made of stone.)

He doesn’t need.

(He weathers the crickets chirping close by.)

Nothing can change his opinion once he has made up his mind.

(Coin does not move him. Threats don’t move him. Do you dare to call the mountains noble? Do you grant a rock the notion of honour?)

Some things, a woman with soft skin and a sharp blade, a young girl with a future, stones in the street – some things leave him unbalanced. But in the end, even that belongs in his life, because it turned out to be made of pain.

But then –

Like the only thing that has ever been sudden. Like a flash from a time he does not remember. Something changes.

Someone changes. Him.

His mind, constantly. His clothes, whenever he can afford something better. His lovers like a traveller changes beds.

He – bright and inexplicable – saunters into Geralt’s life a minor nuisance – Geralt knows and deals with those – but then –

Jaskier stays. And the world becomes loud. And flowers become a sea of colours. And Geralt has rarely had to hide a smile before.

Geralt has always made do with the bare minimum, but Jaskier thinks he deserves lavender in his baths, clean clothes, healed wounds. And, just like losing the advantage in a fight, Geralt feels himself softening. The world is hard to withstand again, as if her were just a child, before his first trials, before anyone ever hurt him, and it’s all Jaskier’s fault. Hushed words hurt again, he can feel each scrape and even the smaller bruises. He never cared people were afraid until Jaskier told them to be impressed. He has never longed for something precious until -

He hates Jaskier for it, for the way his chest goes tight, for the way he misses the easy touches the moment they’re gone.

It was easier not to feel anything at all. It was necessary not to feel anything at all.

He wonders if Jaskier knows, if this was his plan all along - to become so necessary, so indispensable, so deeply lodged into Geralt’s heart that nothing could wedge him out. But Jaskier can’t have expected those feelings to grow so heavy - Jaskier would crumble under even half the weight of it. No. Jaskier never asked for this. Nonetheless, not even this unyielding bulk of emotion that Geralt can’t put a name to is enough to make Jaskier flee. He would never carry his share, but the sight of its mass doesn’t frighten him.

Of course Jaskier wants Geralt to like him. That’s how he gets what he needs, his adventures and his muse. The severity of it has never surprised him, he has always been strangely casual about it. Acceptant, even. And if Jaskier is not going to mind his affection, Geralt is not going to stop showing it, even though he does wonder where Jaskier’s limit is. If Geralt ever acknowledges it. If her ever puts a name to it. If he ever makes the wrong move –

He won’t. He needs this fragile thing whole now. He will be as fond as Jaskier can take, not a smidge more. The smallest bit of warmth from a witcher is scalding hot, he knows. So he is careful. He minds his movements. Nothing too startling, nothing too grotesque. No smile that shows his teeth. He won’t let it become so vast that it crowds Jaskier into a corner and forces him to reject it.

Jaskier tolerates the hair standing up on Geralt’s neck when he is bathing and his lingering glances whenever Geralt can’t control himself.

They both know Jaskier will only stay if he lets it go unsaid.

 ***

Jaskier never hoped for much from Geralt. At first, it was just a risk with massive pay-out. Geralt was intimidating and skilled while Jaskier had nothing on offer except for far-fetched promises. Only later, Jaskier realized how much better Geralt is. Not just better, but good. So good. Always trying to do the right thing. It’s clear destiny has great plans for him, no matter how much Geralt loves to deny it. And of course, Jaskier is only a footnote in his story. (No one knows better than Jaskier, he is writing it himself.)

Geralt will go out and save the world and he will let Jaskier wait for him. He will let Jaskier trudge after him and paint him beautiful in his songs. It’s perfectly understandable that Jaskier wants that – who wouldn’t want to get close to a legend? Some things are harder to get away with, but Geralt lets him, easily. He lets Jaskier make his excuses and they both pretend not to know the truth behind his little lies. Attend the festival with me to protect me from angry husbands, Geralt. Wear this doublet because that’s respectable, you heathen. Let me bathe you because you smell like a rat.

Geralt is much smarter than people give him credit for and he can see through Jaskier effortlessly. And of course he also is much kinder than people give him credit for, so he does not mention it.

Nothing Jaskier does can press Geralt into a final good-bye that Jaskier can’t wriggle out of and turn into See you next spring.

He is made of stone. Jaskier’s love won’t impress him, but it also won’t scare him, won’t hurt him.

(He tolerates the burning brightness of the sun. He tolerates the lizard’s small feet clutching onto him.)

Bottomline is, Jaskier gets to keep this. As long as Jaskier doesn’t let it overflow and keeps it just secret enough that his songs come across as odes rather than love letters, Geralt doesn’t mind it. As long as he keeps his mouth shut and leaves everything unspoken.

 ***

Jaskier’s favourite indulgence is bathing Geralt, perhaps because of just how much Geralt lets him get away with. The first time he did it, he was cautious about it but when he realized Geralt’s protest were half-hearted, he grew bolder. Geralt tolerates Jaskier’s hands messaging his scalp. He tolerates the petals and oils. He even tolerates Jaskier’s gentle touches so long as Jaskier reigns himself in and keeps them sparse.

Tonight, Jaskier offers to wash Geralt’s back and Geralt gives him a short nod. He is completely rigid under Jaskier’s hands, but he tolerates it. Jaskier relishes in being able to be kind to Geralt, but at the same time, he feels guilty for wanting more. Shouldn’t he be satisfied? Geralt gives him enough as it is.

Jaskier knows this is the kind of love that smothers people, violently, until their eyes are bulging and their limbs twitching. It’s the king of love to break free from, unless you have skin as though as his. And not many people do.

Jaskier is exceptionally good at making people leave. It’s his second talent – right after being a bard, he’s a leavee. Someone who gets left. Geralt is the only one who can put up with his love for any length of time. It’s precarious – each touch might be the one that is too much. When Geralt finally tells him to leave and never return. So Jaskier plays his risky game and tries to walk the edge.

“If you leave them out in the cold for too long, frozen. Let them eat mushrooms from the woods – poisoned. Don’t watch how much alcohol they’re drinking – dead. She is very concerned,” Geralt tells him while Jaskier adds more oil to the water.

Jaskier blinks. What had they been talking about? Ah right, a sorceress in love with a human.

“Uhm,” Jaskier says slowly, “Geralt, have you forgotten that I, too, am human?”

“It’s very concerning.”

Jaskier shakes his head and keeps walking around the bathtub. It’s not like he can do anything to stop Geralt from seeing him as weak and incapable. And yet –

“Excuse me? If you think I need constant supervision like a dog, I will be very insulted.”

He emphasizes very. He is already insulted. Geralt, however, is not looking at him. Like he’s not even worth being noticed.

“Humans are fragile,” Geralt says to the water, “you turn your back or don’t pay attention for a moment and they’re gone.”

“Ah, ah,” Jaskier lifts his finger and wiggles it disapprovingly, “don’t believe you’re getting rid of me so easily.”

Jaskier lets his gaze wander over Geralt’s sculpted back. He allows himself to look only because he knows even witchers don’t have eyes in their back.

He wonder who else has touched Geralt, has dared to love him, as held his gaze in the candlelight and made him smile. He wonders if they did it right.

“Susceptible to diseases, falling victim to mild weather conditions, a bad harvest,” Geralt apparently can’t let this go. “You can barely make it a few decades.”

Jaskier is inferior, sure, he gets it. Knowing Geralt, he probably doesn’t even realize how insensitive he’s being.

Jaskier lets his hand sift through the water to see if the temperature is right, then he decides the bath is missing some petals. See, Geralt. Still useful.

“You say that like it’s nothing,” Jaskier says, “that’s a whole lifetime.”

“It’s a sabbatical.”

That statement makes Jaskier so indignant he has to stop trying to pick the most beautiful petals and turn around.

“You’re just over a hundred,” Jaskier scoffs. “And you’re not invincible either.”

Seriously. Maybe writing all those high-praising songs about Geralt are getting to his head. He should write a song about how Geralt is just a totally average guy, actually, that can be killed too if he doesn’t pay enough attention to who he insults during his bath.

“I’m hard to kill,” Geralt says, “humans… a gust of wind could blow you over.”

“I don’t believe it’s quite so dramatic,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I have managed to keep myself alive this long after all.”

He carefully keeps his gaze on Geralt’s head and his dripping hair, conscious not to let it wander further down and make Geralt uncomfortable.

“Barely,” Geralt presses his lips together. “I had to save you from almost drinking poison twice, from slipping or stumbling down the stairs at least a dozen times, from angry men with shovels over eight-”

“Okay, okay, stop, I get it,” Jaskier quickly interrupts. “I might not be the prime example.”

Finally, Jaskier walks around the tub to hand Geralt a towel. When Geralt gets up, the water splashing, Jaskier hurries to turn his back. There are lines, and this is one.

He listens. Ruffles. Shuffling. Wet footsteps over a wooden floor. Clothes rustling – a pull. Jaskier turns back around, now that Geralt is wearing pants.

“Well,” Jaskier says, eager to get back to what they were originally talking about, “she loves a human, so what? It can’t be as bad as being hopelessly in love with a witcher, you can be sure of that.”

Geralt, who had just pulled a black shirt over his head, abruptly turns.

“A witcher?” Jaskier freezes. Ah. Fuck.

He spoke the unspeakable. He said the poetically and pathetically unsaid. Another line he promised himself he would never cross. He doesn’t want to test Geralt too much.

He can tell his heartrate speeds up and he hopes against hope Geralt will ignore it, will ignore his sweating hands. Maybe if he just acts casually enough, this can be another thing Geralt tolerates. (Oh, if he could say it, Jaskier would never stop.)

“Don’t be obtuse, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt flinches backward, a small movement.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He tries to parse Geralt’s reaction, but Geralt is just staring. He’s not taking it well. Maybe he thinks he has to respond, so he’s awkward and trying to find a gentle way to state the obvious. Maybe Jaskier just made it too literal, too personal. So direct that it’s suddenly uncomfortable, when Geralt could overlook all of Jaskier’s other slip-ups.

Laid out like that, Geralt might feel guilty about just accepting it. Even though Jaskier would be more than happy to just continue as they were, giving as much as Geralt would let him. Would it help if Jaskier promised not to mention it again? How can he step back behind that line? How can he swallow the words back down again?

How can he stop Geralt from leaving?

 ***

Geralt knows he’s giving too much away again, with his idiotic reaction. He should take it in stride, like he does all of Jaskier’s little love affairs. But he can’t move, can’t do anything but look at the fragile human across from him, who just won’t understand what exactly it is Geralt is so afraid of.

(Once you blink out of existence, I’m the one who will have to deal with the damage you’ve done to that wall I built around my heart.)

Geralt can deal with all those lovers who come and go, who are so loveable that it just makes sense Jaskier would leave him for them. But he never thought –

He didn’t expect –

A witcher?

Why would Jaskier love a witcher? Witchers are too brutish, too brutal to be worthy of a love like that. Then again, when he thinks about his friends back at Kaer Mohren, someone like Eskel, yes, it doesn’t seem so strange. Because deep down he’s always known it’s not being a witcher that makes him untouchable. It’s something else, something far more terrifying. Because that makes it his fault. It’s his own fault Jaskier doesn’t like him.

And Geralt should never, ever ask him to. He should get a grip, shake himself out of it and just accept that Jaskier can love a witcher. Just not him.

Act like it’s nothing. Act like it doesn’t matter. It’s just a small incident they can sweep under the rug like every other time Geralt was being a little too much.

“I -”

Geralt has forgotten how to speak.

Each moment he draws it out longer, the less likely it becomes that Jaskier will forgive this overreaction. Not as easily as the last few times.

What if Geralt just asked, why it can’t be him? Could Jaskier forgive that? No. They both know. It’s that Geralt can’t ever get it right, that he’s too harsh, has too many edges. It’s that all of his affections are pitiful, laughable, compared to what Jaskier really deserves.

Okay. Okay. He just needs to calm down. They can walk through this. He tries his best to smooth out his expression.

“I’m sorry.”

Deep breath.

“So, who’s caught your attention now? I didn’t know you’d met another witcher.”

As he says it, it becomes terribly clear all out of a sudden how very replaceable Geralt is. Geralt isn’t giving Jaskier anything he can’t get elsewhere. If this other witcher allows it, Jaskier can just as well travel with them. If Geralt makes it anymore plain what a bad friend he is, Jaskier will leave without hesitation. Especially if Geralt can’t get a grip on his emotions. Jaskier needs to be absolutely sure that Geralt will never make a move that will be embarrassing and uncomfortable for both of them.

But Jaskier’s jaw falls open, almost comically.

“What – what the fuck are you talking about?”

Damn it. Jaskier won’t just let him circumvent the topic then. Geralt has made things too awkward earlier with that long stretch of silence. Being casual won’t do this time.

“Fuck,” he says, looks away. “I’m sorry.”

Forcibly, he drags his eyes back again. Please, he tries to somehow communicate. Please just tolerate it.

“I don’t understand why you’re apologizing.”

Geralt swallows audibly. The statement is a little hard to interpret. Maybe this is Geralt’s olive branch. Jaskier is willing to pretend this little mishap never happened. All Geralt has to do is go along with it and they can be back to normal.

“Hm,” he says.

He’ll go to sleep. Maybe in the morning, Jaskier will go off with his witcher. But maybe he’ll come back in the spring, bored of the witcher like he gets bored of all his other lovers. Geralt has to hang on to that possibility.

“Wait, no -”

Jaskier is suddenly scrambling to get closer. Geralt pauses in his step.

“Wait, wait, wait, conversation not over,” Jaskier says quickly, stops in front of Geralt. “What witcher are you talking about? What the fuck, Geralt?”

“I – your love – I – it doesn’t bother me,” Geralt says, staggeringly unconvincingly.

It is a little strange, now that Geralt thinks about it. Where did Jaskier meet this witcher, and why did Geralt not notice? They’ve been travelling together for weeks. Maybe he met this witcher longer ago. In spring, before they met again. If that’s the case, that means it’s more serious. It’s been on Jaskier’s mind a long time. Fuck.

“Really?” Jaskier asks. “It doesn’t?”

Maybe this is why Jaskier hasn’t told him all this time. He was afraid how Geralt would react, if he would take it badly.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier lets out a long breath. “I was so worried.”

Geralt nods curtly. Good. He said the right thing, then. Jaskier’s heartbeat quietens down.

“But then, it hasn’t bothered you so far, am I right?” Jaskier gives him a lopsided smirk.

It’s an irritating thing to say. Surely Jaskier noticed that all of his dalliances had bothered Geralt, at least a little. It might be that Jaskier expected more of a reaction out of Geralt because this is more than a dalliance.

“Hm.”

Out of all the people Jaskier could choose to settle down with, why did it have to be a witcher? He wonders if it’s just implied that they won’t keep travelling together. Should he ask? No, better not. That would make it seem like it does bother him. He doesn’t want to put Jaskier off more than he already has.

“Does…” Jaskier seems hesitant, shy even. “Does that mean you don’t mind when I tell you?”

Geralt’s hands clench, but he unclenches them again quickly. No, he does not mind to hear about how much Jaskier loves someone else, about how he is going to leave and live a happy life with them. He doesn’t mind at all.

“No.”

“Wonderful.”

Geralt waits for a beat, certain that Jaskier is about to start gushing about this witcher he met, but it doesn’t come. The conversation seems to be finally over. Jaskier is humming contentedly under his breath while they are getting ready for bed. It’s good. (It’s the last of this Geralt might ever get.)

They have a room with two beds. Geralt lies still and listens to Jaskier’s calm breath.

Jaskier blows out the candle on his bedside table.

“Goodnight, Geralt. Love you.”

…

?

???

“What?”

“I said, goodnight.”

“After - after that.”

“You said you didn’t mind. You can’t take it back now.”

The light of Geralt’s candle flickers up after a quick use of Igni.

Jaskier is shooting him cautious looks from the other bed.

“You said you didn’t mind,” he repeats.

“I said I didn’t mind if you talked about your witcher,” Geralt says, because it’s the easiest thing to say. This one he knows.

“Stop talking about yourself in the third person, it’s weird.”

Stunned, Geralt sinks against the wall.

“Me?” “Yes, you. Who else would I be talking about?”

Who else, indeed.

“I thought you met someone.”

“Yes, I did, in Posada. You were there.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Come on, Geralt, stop playing dumb. You’ve known for years I’m in love with you.”

“You’re in love with me,” Geralt says, dumbstruck.

“Geralt, are you okay? We just had a whole conversation about it.”

Jaskier is sitting up in his bed too now. He looks small in the shadows, even smaller when he draws his legs up. Geralt can only keep watching him.

“Wait, you really didn’t know? You thought I was talking about another witcher?” Geralt nods mutely.

“Oh.”

There is no other witcher. Can that be right? Geralt has a distinct feeling he is misunderstanding something.

“Well, I’m sorry. If you didn’t know,” Jaskier says. His voice has turned very soft. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s gaze on him.

“I didn’t.”

“I thought you did. I really did. But, uhm. I get this is a lot to deal with. If you. If you would like time to process, I could -”

“No.”

“Oh. Good.”

Geralt sits up urgently, swings his legs over the side of the bed. Jaskier is instantly alarmed.

“You don’t have to go,” he rushes to say. “You can just get used to it. Nothing has to change.”

“I just want -” Geralt closes his eyes, takes another deep breath. “It’s hard to say.”

“Whatever you want, really. If – if you want me to leave, I will. Of course.” “No. I.”

He stands up abruptly. Each of his movements is stark and sudden. Why can’t Jaskier just understand him? Why can’t he just say all those things he thought both of them knew, when it was really just him all along? Him, in his head, with a myriad of unfeelable things.

He steps toward Jaskier stiffly, watches Jaskier’s eyes go wider. He climbs onto the bed and presses Jaskier back by his shoulders. Wills him to get it. He searches his eyes, wants so viscerally, so obviously, that Jaskier must see it.

“Oh,” Jaskier mouths. “Is this -”

His hands come up to cup Geralt’s face.

“Yes,” Geralt’s voice doesn’t come out as anything more than a whisper.

“Darling,” Jaskier says, like it’s a revelation.

Geralt needs to tell him. Out of all the things he has never said, this one is burning his tongue. He leans down and presses his lips to Jaskier’s in the half-dark. Jaskier draws his head back only to catch his breath. But it wasn’t good enough. He needs to say more. He needs to tell Jaskier in all the words that he has.

He breathes another kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, then one against the barely visible dimple on his cheek. Nothing cushions Geralt against the way Jaskier’s hands slide up into his hair and his grip tightens. His hair smells sweet. His eyelids flutter. Love is lighter, now that Jaskier is helping him carry it.

Jaskier lets out a breathless laugh. Geralt wants to catch his pretty smile. He wants to make that smile everyday. He wants to draw up laughter from the bottom of Jaskier’s stomach.

It’s disarming. Geralt is still wearing pants and a shirt, but he feels stripped down. It’s all laid bare now, all those impossible hungers. All forbidden wishes. Each place on Jaskier’s face that Geralt has dreamed of kissing.

Here is something soft, something that has always lived in him. Jaskier has just chiselled away at the stone until he found it and fed it and made it grow into a vast expanse of tender touches and whispered words.

“Is this okay?” Jaskier says quietly.

Okay. Okay is a flavourless four-letter word. It weighs much more than that.

It’s significant. Substantial. It extinguishes sadness swiftly, like an uprising flame just before it can consume everything else.

“It’s beautiful,” Geralt says, because he’s never been particularly good with words. “It’s perfect.”

I want you, I want you, I want you. Aren’t you frightened?

Geralt takes one of his hands from Jaskier’s shoulders and props it up next to Jaskier’s head instead. Looming over him, a threat in the darkness, Geralt keeps his face close to Jaskier’s, his eyes fixed on his eyes, as if to ask him.

Jaskier answers with an cheerful smile.

I’m elated, darling. You have me.

It’s nothing to take. It’s nothing to endure. It’s no weight to crumble under. It’s something to have. Something to share. Something to make real in the dead of night and fantastical at dawn.

It’s the most precious thing Geralt has ever been allowed to have. And it’s a privilege, getting to keep it.