#geralt heard Jaskier giving out complements and was like don’t mind if I do

[bluedillylee]

Jaskier learns cats don’t like witchers

[crowleyellestair]

For A Swim - Jaskier blurb

AN// This is a silly little thing, but here it is.

Summary: Jaskier goes for an involuntary dip with a creature, and Y/n has to perform CPR.

 Velen was a bog filled with monsters and disappointment. Thugs and vagrants filled every nook and cranny of the area, and the trio had been on guard for days traveling the lands. There had been a contract to take out a mysterious fog creature in the thickest part of the swamp but it seemed to be an easier job. Foglets were never easy, but it could have been worse.

And then it got worse.

The fog had cleared, even as Geralt still had to dispatch of the magic projections that still lingered from the creature, when Y/n noticed a Water Hag. It wasn’t a surprise that one was here, but it did mean she needed to turn her attention from her bard. Jaskier was seated safely on a rock at the edge of the water, with a high enough vantage point where there would be no need for him to move closer. Y/n moved from her spot next to him to engage with the hag. The two had giving the witcher commentary as usual, but whenever she got involved with the fight, Jaskier only had eyes on her.

Little shouts of encouragement were thrown, or little gasps of fear could be picked up when she miss-stepped. Today was no different, so as she rolled through shallow water and dogged the lump of mud thrown her way, she heard the proud ‘nice one’ that slipped from him. It wasn’t smart to listen to him in the heat of battle- she knew that well. Every time she sparred with the witcher, Jaskier would watch and comment, usually complementing her, and it would lead to Geralt winning. The witcher would lecture her on how losing focus would get her killed, but no matter how hard she tried, no matter the situation, her mind always finds its way back to Jaskier.

The Hag’s tongue whipped out from its mouth, venom dripping with every swipe through the air. She pirouetted out of the way, her back to the creature. It fell for her trick, lashing its muscle towards her, but Y/n threw a perfect perry. She looped the sword around its tongue and put all of her strength in bringing the blade to the ground, effectively cutting the tongue of. Loud shrieks fell from its mouth, and a small cheer came from her right as the bard approved of her move. Geralt stood to her left, ready to join as he finished the Foglet off for good. They both moved in tandem, dogging mud being thrown, and claws striking against their blades. There was a moment of stillness in their fight, where the Hag seemed to rethink its strategy, when Y/n heard a familiar gasp. She hadn’t miss-stepped, so she turned to look at why fear took an audible form from Jaskier. It was in that moment when she saw him being drawn backwards off the rock, and into the water behind him.

Y/n all but threw her sword down, running to the rock. Geralt called after her, but she was busy ripping her jacket off. Once she was free of the heavy layer, she dove from the rock. The water was murky, and her heart pounded so fast that she knew her air supply was short. Only the movement of mud alerted her to where he was. She found a leg and grabbed on, pulling against whatever was holding him. Y/n was frantic, and fear set in quickly. After a moment of aimless jostling, she tried to move up his body, finding a scaled claw in his collar.

Curses flooded her mind as she didn’t have a weapon on her.

Think.

Think!

You’ll lose him.

Time’s running out.

It hit her fast, remembering he kept a small pen knife in the lining of his trousers. Her hand fumbles for a moment, ripping it from the cloth, and embedding it in the creature’s hand. It was quick to release the bard, and she was even quicker to start bringing them to the surface. The edges of her vision started to blur, but air flooded her lungs as she reached the surface. Geralt was at the edge of the water, grabbing her arm and dragged the two to the shore.

Geralt laid Jaskier down, but it was clear that he couldn’t hear the bard breath by his worried expression. Y/n pushed him out of her way as she ripped the doublet open. Tears started to prick her eyes, and her breathing became labored. Still, her hands started to compress against his chest. A shaky version of Toss a Coin left her as the song gave a great rhythm to perform CPR. Geralt helped by tipping his head back, and closing his nose.

“O valley of plenty, o valley of plenty. You’re not allowed to die, Jaskier. There’s so much we have yet to do- so much time to spend.” Y/n leaned to his mouth and started to breath. She quickly went back to the compressions, then back to breathing into him. During the next round of compressions, Geralt’s hand dropped onto her shoulder, but she couldn’t stop. More tears ran down her still damp cheeks, and she went to breath again. Her lips met his, when he started to cough. He curled onto his side to let the water out of his system, and she scooped him into her arms. Her grip was tight, but he didn’t fight it as he drew deep, ragged breaths. After a moment, his arms wrapped around her waist best he could, ang he nuzzled into her collar bone. There were a few more moments of silence until Jaskier broke the air.

“It wasn’t my fault-.” His tone was playfull, but Y/n’s hands cupped his cheeks and pulled him away to look into his eyes.

“If you ever- ever try to leave me like that again…. No more hunts for you.” Her right hand moved up to be able to brush wet clumps of hair from his forehead. Her lip still shook, and Jaskier tightened his hold. Y/n couldn’t stop replaying the events behind her eyelids despite him being safe in her arms.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re damn right. I don’t care if it was that creature, you’re not allowed to be in harms way.” Geralt interjected.

“Creature?” She nodded, but didn’t look away from her bard.

“Drowner I think. I injured it, but I don’t know where it went. We also need to get you a new knife. I don’t care if you didn’t want the last one, you’re getting a new one. Or three.”

“Anything,” to calm you. The words weren’t spoken, but the thumb he placed on her bottom lip to still it was symbol enough.

It was silent most of the way back to the inn. They received payment, and bought two rooms. Jaskier had finally looked down at himself in the inn’s mirror and wasn’t fond of what he saw. The outfit was ripped and still damp, and behind him, Y/n was just as wet and looking down anxiously. It was a look he didn’t want to see on her again.

“To bad I couldn’t witness you ripping my doublet open. I bet it was a sight to see.” Again, his tone was playful, but was met with a serious one. She simply started shedding her clothes, not sparing him a glance.

“I’ll buy you a new one. As many as you like.” He turned, and captured her hands. Her eyes found his, and he could see the fear still gripping her.

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You’re ok, and that’s what matters.” Y/n tried to pull away, but he yanked back, her chest meeting his, and his arms caught her in an embrace.

“You’re still fearful. What can I do to ease you of that?” His nose dug into her hair, and he closed his eyes in waiting. It took her a couple tries before she exhaled.

“I almost lost you without having the chance to…” Jaskier’s heart started to pound, knowing where it was going. He knew- knew she loved him back. The last thing he wanted to do was push her, though, so never made a move past flirting and a caring hand.

“Well, Darling, I’m here now. You can tell me anything.” Y/n leaned back, seeing the hopeful and encouraging smile on his face. It was what she needed to finally admit,

“I love you, Julian.”

“And I you, my dearest Y/n.” She sighed, closing her eyes. She seemed to revel in the moment, in the feeling of his arms around her.

“May I kiss you, dear heart?” Y/n smiled, but there was that specific tilt to the corner that told him she was up to something.

“We kissed earlier, my star.” His heart skipped a beat at the name, and smiled. It soon dropped when the confusion set in.

“I don’t remember such a momentous moment.”

“Well, yes. You were unconscious, and I was technically resuscitating you, but my lips touched yours. Twice.” Her eyes were still closed, so to grab her attention, he dipped her. Her hands grabbed at the ends of the frayed doublet, and a gasp left her. Y/n’s gaze snapped open to find her bard smirking.

“Then I want another.”

[king-finnigan]

(I’m So) Human - Chapter 1

Summary: From the moment Jaskier lays eyes on the white-haired stranger in Posada, he's mesmerized. The man is a mystery he can't wait to solve, and for twenty-two years he finds himself by his side, trying to find out who Geralt of Rivia really, truly is. Eventually, he gives the Witcher his heart, hoping that, maybe, this time, it won't get broken.

A/n: I suck at summaries tbh, the fic is basically just Jaskier pining, set to the lyrics of Human by Dodie (which is an amazing song by the way). As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

You can also read this on AO3! M A S T E R L I S T

The first time he sees the white-haired stranger in the corner of the tavern, he’s mesmerized. Absentmindedly, he picks a cup of ale or wine or whatever from a passing tray, the woman holding it invisible to him as he keeps his eyes trained on the man.

“Love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.” Great one, Jaskier. The stranger stays quiet, piquing the Bard’s interest even more. It’s always the silent ones that have the most to tell.

More silence. Suit yourself then, I’m not giving up. “No one else here has hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance. Except” he moves until he’s in the man’s line of sight “for you.”

He sits down, and notices the yellow eyes, rolling in annoyance. A reaction. Good. The golden irises make a beautiful contrast with the white of the hair and the black of the armour. Like dandelions sprouting from snow, surrounded by rocks, unaware that spring has not yet started. I’ll have to remember that for my next song.

He cocks his head, as he sees the two swords lying next to the stranger, and he can practically taste the lyrics and notes of his next ballad on his tongue. This man will have so many stories to tell.

It is then that he realizes it’s not just a man he’s sitting in front of, but a Witcher. And not just any Witcher, either. One he’s heard a thing or two about, as a matter of fact. Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.

He licks his lips, a nervous tick he used to be chastised for when he was young. “Oh, fun.”

I wanna pick you up and scoop you out.

 He follows Geralt out of the tavern, along the path to Dol Blathanna, where the elves used to live. Sure, he gets punched in his stomach by the Witcher, but when has he ever let a minor setback stop him, really? I’ll take that over getting pelted with food, any day.

The Witcher doesn’t answer any of his inquiries, though, only granting him a disinterested ‘Hmm’ once or twice. Still, there are other ways to get a story.

Jaskier sighs, as his feet start to hurt and the blistering sun hurts the back of his neck. He almost – almost starts to regret the decision to follow the Witcher around, but he figures doing so will already make a better song than anything he’s written for the past few months.

And maybe, just maybe, if he can get some more information about the Witcher’s past adventures, somehow, or about the monsters he’s fought, Jaskier can finally start earning some money from his music. Like everyone in my life has said I wouldn’t.

I want the secrets your secrets haven’t found.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been a few hours since he’s met Geralt, and he’s full of inspiration and ideas and music as they walk back to Posada. He’s strumming his new instrument, and he silently apologizes to his old, now broken lute, but gods what a beauty this one is.

Jaskier’s ribcage hurts when he breathes too deeply, and he’s got a headache from the stone projectile that the Silvan hit him with, but he’s singing his ideas out to the quiet mountains around him – and to the one on the horse behind him.

“Where’s your newfound respect?” Jaskier looks back when he hears the gravelly voice, still not really used to the sound of it. He can’t help but notice the way the light reflects on the Witcher’s hair, the way his yellow eyes complement the sun above them beautifully. He shakes the thoughts away, shrugs.

“Respect doesn’t make history.” Because that’s what he needs to do – make history. He’s low on money, on supplies, on self-confidence, and the way he’s been pelted with food and insults every day for the past week tells him he’s not going to get the coin he so desperately needs unless he writes the best song anyone on the Continent has ever written, and spreads it around as quickly as possible. This is that song.

Not only that, but he’s seen the way people look at Geralt, he knows how low on coin the Witcher is. They both need the fame and the money.

The perfect symbiotic relationship. The Bard sings the praises of the Witcher, who, in turn, provides him with new song material. If only Geralt would realize that.

And maybe, just maybe, Jaskier would find the friend he’s been missing all his life. Someone who believes in him the way his family never has. He turns back around, and starts walking again, singing the foundations of his new song to the empty mountains around them.

A few heartbeats pass, and he can’t help but smile as he hears the clopping of Roach’s hooves behind him again.

Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend.

 That evening, they’re sitting in a tavern again, a little ways outside Posada, in a corner, as Geralt seems to prefer. I should remember that.

The Witcher is counting his coin, and Jaskier pretends not to see how little there is, as he’s scribbling his new song in his notebook. Geralt orders two more ales with money he doesn’t really have, and Jaskier doesn’t protest.

They sit in comfortable silence, only interrupted once in a while by a stray comment from the Bard or a question that doesn’t get answered. Please just talk to me. He doesn’t mind the lack of response that much, though, as he’s already glad Geralt hasn’t told him to fuck off yet, or straight-up left. Thank the gods he’s still here with me.

He looks at the way the candlelight dances across the Witcher’s skin, old scars casting long shadows over his face. Jaskier tried asking about them earlier, but Geralt had just frowned, and the Bard had sensed that he didn’t want to talk about them. So he hasn’t asked again.

Yellow eyes meet his and he looks away, gazing around the room as he takes a sip of stale ale, eyes returning to the Witcher once he senses Geralt isn’t looking at him anymore.

He feels warm, fuzzy, and he frowns at the pint. It’s only his second, and he usually doesn’t get drunk this fast. He looks back at Geralt, and the fuzzy feeling increases. He hopes the Witcher won’t leave without him tomorrow. Don’t hope too much, Jaskier.

Yet, he doesn’t want this feeling he gets every time he looks at Geralt to go away. Not just yet, anyway.

Call me the one, this night just can’t end.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been a month since he’s met the Witcher, and they’re in the woods, halfway between two towns, both of the villages too far away to reach before midnight. It’s okay, though. Jaskier’s used to sleeping outside by now.

He lays his bedroll down as Geralt lights the fire, the heat barely managing to chase away the chill of the early autumn night. Jaskier smiles as he remembers the time he tried to build a fire, two weeks ago. Geralt had barely managed to stop him from burning down the entire forest, and the Witcher had told him he’s never ever allowed to make a fire again.

Geralt now sits down heavily on a log, his hands fumbling with the straps of his armour, eyes weary and annoyed. Gods, I’m tired of seeing him struggle every night.

Jaskier rushes over, nimble fingers undoing the straps and knots quite easily. Geralt scoffs, his hand coming up to push the Bard’s away. “I can take off my armour perfectly fine by myself, thanks.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, standing upright and putting his hands on his hips. “I know that, dear Witcher, but you take forever to do it. So, let me help, and we’ll be able to eat three hours earlier than if you were to do it by yourself. I’m starving.”

Geralt looks at him for a moment, yellow eyes calculating, flickering in the light of the fire. Finally, after a staring contest that leaves Jaskier weak at the knees, the Witcher looks at the ground. “Hmm.”

The Bard takes that as permission, and bends forward again, undoing the straps, ignoring the way his fingers itch to reach his hand up and touch Geralt’s skin, to brush over the old scars and the shadows the light of the flames cast.

He glances up, and sees the Witcher’s gaze on him, a strange look in the golden eyes. Jaskier cocks his head, letting go of the armour and placing his hands on his knees as he lifts up his eyebrows. “What?”

Geralt looks back at the fire, the weird glint in his eyes suddenly gone, face even. “Nothing.”

Jaskier frowns, but continues his work after a moment or two, in a silence that isn’t entirely comfortable.

Will you share your soul with me?

 “Come on, Geralt, surely you have some interesting stories to tell me.” Jaskier has his notebook in his lap, pencil ready to write down any sparse detail the Witcher might give him.

Geralt shrugs. “It’s monster hunting, Jaskier, it’s not as interesting as everyone thinks.” He smirks at the annoyed look Jaskier gives him. Oh, you bastard, you just love aggravating me, don’t you?

Geralt continues: “You get the contract, you find the monster, you kill it, you get money sometimes. That’s all there is to it.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, and rolls his eyes, making a show of putting the pencil and the notebook away. “Really, Geralt, if you won’t tell me anything, then I’ll just have to follow you around some more.”

He sneaks a look at the Witcher, and sees him frown. He waits a few seconds, insecure, hands fidgeting a little, and relief washes over him as Geralt doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell him to fuck off or go away.

Instead, the Witcher shrugs and stands up, spreading his bedroll on the ground near the fire, back turned to Jaskier. “You should sleep, it’s getting late.”

The Bard hesitates. “Right, right. I’ll uh… yeah.” He lays down on the other side of the fire, hands tucked beneath his head. He looks at Geralt’s back, the slow rise and fall of the broad side with every deep breath of the Witcher, lulling him to sleep, as he tries to imagine a story for each and every one of the Witcher’s scars.

Unzip your skin and let me have a see.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been half a year since he’s met the Witcher, and they arrive at an inn, where the innkeeper informs them there is only one room left, the town unusually busy with the upcoming Spring Festival. Geralt shrugs and takes it, walking away as the other man tries to say something, his voice dying in his throat as Jaskier looks at him apologetically.

As they walk up the stairs, the Bard eyes the bar that covers the entirety of the ground floor, trying to calculate if there are enough people there to make a performance worth his time. Some rich-looking men walk in, and he decides in favour of making some coin tonight.

He follows Geralt through the hall to their shared room. This isn’t the first time they’ve slept in the same room, since they always seem low on coin, and inns are an expensive luxury. Neither of them considers it a problem. This time, however, it’s a bit different. There’s only one bed. Oh no.

He opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. His mind is blank and, for once, he can’t find his words. Geralt doesn’t seem fazed, though, and starts taking his armour off. He looks at Jaskier. “Are you going to help me or are you just going to keep staring at me?”

I could stare at you for the rest of my life, Witcher. He sputters, and drops his stuff in the corner unceremoniously, rushing over to Geralt to help him with the straps that are harder to reach. The silence lasts for a minute or two, until Jaskier finally remembers how to speak. “Uh… Geralt.”

The Witcher looks at him in annoyance. “What?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, glancing around the room, keeping his eyes trained on anything but Geralt. “There’s only one bed.”

Silence. He finally looks up at the Witcher, who frowns at him. “And?”

The Bard notices that his fumbling fingers are slightly shaking, and he lowers his hands, balling them by his sides. Keep it together, Jaskier. “Who’s going to sleep on the floor?”

Geralt snorts, looking at him incredulously, as if he’s just asked the most stupid question in the world. He looks at me like that a lot. The Witcher shakes his head slightly. “No one is.”

“Oh.” Jaskier nods, hands coming up again to continue their work. “Okay.”

Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend.

 He comes back from his performance later that night, setting his lute down in the corner, dunking a bag full of coin next to it, the clinking of metal loud in the quiet room as it hits the wood. But oh so satisfying.

Geralt is already fast asleep, and Jaskier pulls of his doublet as silently as possible, changing into his night clothes quickly. The only light in the room comes from the fireplace, and he pokes at the low flames for a moment, pushing them back to life. He turns around, startling as he meets golden eyes.

He winces. “Sorry for waking you up.”

Geralt lays back down, pulling the sheets closer as Jaskier slips into the bed. It’s big enough for the both of them but his heart still flutters at the close proximity to Geralt’s bare back, the light of the fire dancing across the muscles. “It’s fine, Jaskier, go to sleep”

The Bard doesn’t close his eyes, though, and he simply watches as Geralt’s breath deepens again. He resists the urge to stretch his fingers out, to cross the four-inch gap between them into unchartered territory. Surely, Geralt wouldn’t appreciate it if he did.

So he watches, unable to close his eyes, shivering slightly as he realizes the Witcher’s hogging all the blankets. You beautiful, annoying bastard.

He takes in every small freckle, every old scar on Geralt’s back, the flames in the hearth slowly dimming as the hours progress, making themselves at home in his heart instead.

Call me the one, this night just can’t end.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been ten years since he’s met the Witcher, and he sighs as he throws his arms up in exasperation. “It’s a Siren, Geralt! That would make for an amazing song, why won’t you let me come along?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Because you would take out your earplugs to hear the Siren’s song, and you would die. That’s why.” He cuts off Jaskier’s rebuttal. “Don’t tell me you weren’t already planning on doing that, I know you.”

Jaskier steps in front of the Witcher as he makes a move to walk out of their shared room at the inn. “Well, if you know that’ll happen, then does it really matter if I do it? You’ll know to hold me back!”

Geralt sighs and pushes the Bard aside. “It does matter because I don’t want to have to rescue you while I’m fighting a Siren. I’ll need to put all my focus into not dying myself, so I won’t be able to keep you safe as well.”

The Witcher opens the door, only for it to be pushed shut again by Jaskier. The Bard ignores the way Geralt snarls at him, determined to come along. “I’ll be fine, Geralt. I’m sure the Siren’s song won’t even be that alluring. I mean, you’ve heard it before, you haven’t died yet.”

Geralt groans a little, and takes the front of Jaskier’s doublet in his hand, pushing the Bard against the wall. Jaskier tries to ignore how close they are, how he only has to move forward an inch to bridge the gap between them, how he’s fantasised about being in this position so many times. Stop it, Jaskier.

Geralt sneers at him, his breath fanning over the Bard’s skin, setting fire to his soul. “I didn’t die because I’m a Witcher, and you’re not. End of discussion.” And with that, he’s gone in the blink of an eye, the door slamming behind him, leaving Jaskier alone in the room.

I’m so human.

 He startles as Geralt throws his bag down next to him, sitting down heavily as he orders a drink from the barmaid. Jaskier can immediately tell something went wrong. There’s fire in the golden eyes, and the Witcher looks like absolute hell, white hair drenched in salty water, his clothes torn in several places, deep, barely healed wounds visible on his skin.

“So, how’d it go?” The Bard pushes a plate of food he had already ordered toward Geralt, and the Witcher shoves it away, brow creased and angry. Something definitely went wrong.

“Like shit.” He downs his ale in one go, slamming it back down on the table. He seems determined to leave it at that, probably hoping Jaskier will stop asking questions. He should know better by now.

“How come? Did something happen?” He gets no response, and worry flares up in his chest. He ignores the way Geralt’s hand clenches on the table, how a muscle pulls in his jaw. “Geralt, what happened? Talk to me.” His hand fidgets with the hem of his shirt, and he starts to ramble, nervousness in the pit of his stomach. “I mean, please do tell me, you didn’t even let me come along to listen to the Siren’s song and-“

He flinches as the Witcher slams his fist on the table, a hush falling over the crowded room, picking up again after a few seconds.

“That’s exactly what happened,” Geralt hisses, “some idiots almost got themselves and me almost killed because they were so desperate to hear the Siren’s song.” He points his finger at Jaskier, accusing. “They were just as stupid as you, and you’re very lucky I didn’t let you come along or you would’ve died.”

It’s silent for a few seconds, before Geralt stands up abruptly, his hands flat on the table. “Next time I tell you you’re not allowed to follow me, you. Fucking. Listen. Understand?”

Jaskier nods shakily, and the Witcher turns around, stomping upstairs, leaving Jaskier alone at the table.

We’re just human.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been sixteen years since he’s met the Witcher, and he finds him fishing in a town called Rinde. He looks tired, and Jaskier can’t help but feel concern for the mania the Witcher seems to exude. The dark circles under the golden eyes are deep, and his movement jagged, forced, as if he has too much energy yet none at the same time. And let’s not forget the stupidity of the idea of asking a djinn for a nap.

He’s surprised when Geralt tells him he can’t sleep, a million different ways to help him get some rest crossing his mind, ranging from ‘let’s get a hammer’ to ‘I’ll wash your hair and sing you to sleep’. Still, he doesn’t say anything of the sorts, instead opting to focus on the recent heartbreak he went through. You will manage, but I’m not sure I will if you tell me to go.

That’s when Geralt insults his singing, and betrayal and confusion courses through his veins. This is somehow worse than you telling me to leave. He stutters, hands shaky as he points his finger at the Witcher. “You need a nap!”

His brain short-circuits again, when Geralt finds the amphora. “What’s that?”

The next few minutes are a blur, everything happening all at once, and in the end he’s left gasping on the forest floor, blood leaking from his mouth. He reaches back, trying to find Geralt, trying to find his anchor in this world, and feels a warm hand on his shoulder, calming him down.

Lean for me and I’ll fall back.

 Geralt helps him on Roach, climbing on the mare behind Jaskier, strong arms around him, holding onto the reigns. He spurs the horse on, and they ride to the town, in search of the elven doctor. Jaskier gasps and wheezes, more and more strength leaving him with every ragged breath, with every drop of blood falling from his lips.

He leans back a bit, finding comfort in Geralt’s broad chest, the arms tightening around him slightly. His mind wanders, as the trees become a blur around him, to his most recent heartbreak.

He could’ve – should’ve known the Countess would leave him. They hadn’t exactly had the most stable of relationships. Still, it hurts. Being rejected over and over again always does. Usually, he’s gone by the morning, before he has the chance to develop something deeper than infatuation, before the other person can break his heart.

The only exception had been the Countess, and look where that got him. Back into misery, back into insecurity and hurt.

Back into Geralt’s life. The only other person he has exposed his heart to, and the only person who hasn’t crushed it. Something flutters in his chest, and he writes it off to the blood he’s coughing up again, before leaning back into Geralt’s chest.

You’ll fit so nicely, you’ll keep me intact.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been sixteen years since he’s met the Witcher, and he’s never seen the Geralt act so unbelievably stupid.

“Are you perhaps short of a marble?” He walks sideways as he tries to keep up with Geralt, who’s stalking back to the house Jaskier just escaped from. On his way to save that terrifying Witch, for some reason. Great, typical Geralt. Fucking idiot.

Chireadan, the elven doctor, grabs Geralt’s arm, earning a pointed glare from the Witcher. “You have to go in there, don’t you? I recognize the look, I know how you feel.” Look? What look?

“You’re making me uncomfortable.” Same here. Geralt tears his arm away from the doctor’s loose grip, and starts walking towards the house again.

Jaskier has to run to catch up with him. “Do not tell me this is actually the moment you’ve decided to care about someone other than yourself.” He stands in front of Geralt, and the Witcher finally stops.

Geralt looks at him, cocking his head, something Jaskier can’t quite identify in his yellow eyes. “She saved your life, Jaskier, I can’t let her die.” With that, he pushes past the Bard, back into the house.

Jaskier sighs, and considers following Geralt for a moment, but ultimately decides against it. Really, what good can he do against such powerful magic? His shoulders sag, and he tries to push back the uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Surely, Geralt will be fine, he’s faced worse threats before.

He’ll let the Witcher handle it, he decides. It’s best for him to stay outside, to make sure that no one, not even he, gets in Geralt’s way.

The building collapses behind him.

Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend.

 Geralt is alive, and Jaskier can’t take his eyes off him, only looking away when the Witcher meets his gaze. They’re sitting in a tavern in Rinde, and the room around them is noisy. A lively crowd, but Jaskier doesn’t feel like performing tonight. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s side for even a second, scared the Witcher might disappear if he looks away, back to the Witch, or dead after all.

At some point Geralt grows annoyed at Jaskier’s quietness and staring. “Djinn got your tongue?” He laughs at his own stupid joke as he takes a sip of ale, and the Bard blinks, trying to clear his mind.

“No, sorry. Just… a lot happened today, is all.” He looks down at his lukewarm pint, his stomach recoiling at the smell of it, mixed with the scent of sweat that rolls off the people around him in waves.

Geralt stands up. “Well, I’m going to sleep.” He walks to the stairs, to their shared room. Jaskier follows fifteen minutes later, trying and failing to compose himself before going upstairs.

Geralt is already fast asleep, somehow, when Jaskier gets there. He changes into his night clothes, but sits on his bed the rest of the night, looking at Geralt’s sleeping form. The Witcher’s usually so crass face is serene, and Jaskier wonders what he’s dreaming about. Wonders if he’s there, too.

He’s afraid to look away, to fall asleep, scared Geralt might not be there when he wakes up. All those times I’ve watched him sleep, and I never once asked him if Witchers dream.

Call me the one, this night just can’t end.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he sits down slowly, carefully next to Geralt on the rock at the edge of the cliff.

He knows Geralt is hurting, he knows he blames himself for what happened to Borch, Téa and Véa. He knows he can’t say anything to make it right, but he tries anyway. “You did your best. There’s nothing else you could’ve done.”

It’s silent for a few moments, and the whistling of the wind reminds him of Oxenfurt, of the familiar beaches and the open sea. I think Geralt would love the ocean. He licks his lips, a nervous habit he still hasn’t lost after all these years. “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is, if you give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

Geralt smiles a little, half a chuckle leaving his mouth and Jaskier considers that a victory. “We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.” Please say yes, please say yes.

Silence. His mouth decides to run off without him. “Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it?” Great one, Jaskier, remind him of it again.

It’s quiet for another moment, and he decides to continue: “Life is too short.” Too short to spend another day without you. “Do what pleases you, while you can.” His voice has trailed off into a whisper, the words too loud to say them at a normal volume.

Finally, Geralt speaks. “Working on your next song?” I’d never write a song about your pain.

“No, just…” he hesitates, unsure of what to say, “just trying to figure out what pleases me.” A lie. He already knows.

I want to give you your grin.

 They sit there for a while, watching the sky turn a million different shades of pink, orange, purple, and, eventually, dark blue as the sun sets. Geralt hasn’t rejected his idea to go to the coast, but hasn’t said yes either, and Jaskier is on edge.

Still, the Witcher hasn’t told him to fuck off, either, and hasn’t left. He’s just sitting there, looking at the view, face peaceful and serene, for once. Jaskier can’t stop himself from stealing glances of Geralt’s profile, admiring the way the sunlight dances across his skin, makes the white hair almost glow. He looks like an angel.

Suddenly, Geralt stands up, taking a deep sigh. He claps his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder as he turns, making his way to… oh.

Disappointment and hurt rears up in the Bard’s chest, as he sees Geralt enter Yennefer’s tent. Maybe he just wants to talk.

He waits for what seems to be an eternity, confusion, hurt, and anger in the pit of his stomach. The sun is fully gone now, and cold creeps into his bones. Geralt still hasn’t emerged from the Witch’s tent.

“Oi!” A voice calls out from twenty yards away. He looks over, seeing one of the dwarves. “What’re you doin’ out there on yer own, Bard? Come sit with us.”

Jaskier smiles lightly, stealing one last glance of the tent before making his way over to the fire, trying to fight the tears forming in his eyes.

So tell me you can’t bear a room that I’m not in.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he’s never felt more lonely.

He’s sitting by the fire, no more than embers in ashes, as the dwarves snore around him. His bedroll is soft underneath him, but he can’t bring himself to lay down and go to sleep.

His eyes hurt from being kept open too long, and he has to remind himself to blink, to chase the fuzziness in his vision away. He rubs his shoulders a bit, fingers freezing and stiff against his doublet, cold creeping into his bones.

He sighs, unable to keep his eyes off Yennefer’s tent. Geralt still hasn’t emerged from it, and Jaskier can only imagine what they’re doing in there. He suppresses a spike of jealousy that carves against his insides.

That should be me. He shakes his head to drive the thought away. Geralt clearly doesn’t feel the same way about him. He hasn’t taken up on Jaskier’s offer to go to the coast, and he went to Yennefer’s tent immediately afterwards. Besides, Geralt is his own person, he can do as he pleases.

His heart stops for a second at the thought. Do as he pleases. Oh.

Jaskier’s driven Geralt straight into the arms of the Witch.

He fights to hold back the tears spilling from his eyes, and rubs his arms some more, half in search of warmth, half in search of comfort. He keeps staring at the tent, hoping, foolishly, that Geralt will emerge from it before the dawn, and return to Jaskier once more.

Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend. Call me the one, this night just can’t end.

҉    ҉    ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he wakes up alone.

He looks around, startling as he sees the sun already high in the sky. The fire has completely died out, and everyone else, including the dwarves, are gone. Yennefer’s tent has disappeared.

He grabs his stuff, jogging along the path, calling out for everyone and anyone. He’s hungry, and still half-asleep, but determined to find out where the others are, and – most importantly – why they left him behind.

Though, he can kind of figure out why himself. He’s not part of the dwarves’ company, and Geralt and Yennefer were clearly too busy doing… whatever to wake him. And hasn’t the Witcher always said that Jaskier is no use in a fight? Why wake him up when he’s so useless, right?

He finds the dwarves near the entrance to the cave at the top of the mountain, seemingly unable to move. Clearly one of Yennefer’s spells, the bitch.

He finds Borch, Téa and Véa at the cave, and nearly has a heart attack.

He finds Geralt and Yennefer, thick as thieves, there as well. The fight is clearly long over, and anger courses through his veins when he finds out what he’s missed. A golden dragon, an epic battle, magic. The makings of the most amazing song ever.

Though, he feels no desire to write about it, as he looks at Yennefer, Geralt, and Borch, talking. A Sorceress, a Witcher, a Dragon.

I’m so human.

 He watches, as they talk, waiting patiently until he can go to Geralt. Maybe he’ll accept my offer to go to the coast, this time.

He looks up, as Yennefer barrels past him, tears in her eyes, anger on her features. Good riddance. They shoot each other a dirty look before she leaves.

He sighs, fidgeting with the edge of his fingernail as Geralt and Borch talk some more. Obviously, they have great and important matters to discuss that they think Jaskier too lowly for, as they don’t even spare him as much as a look.

He’s hurting, but he tries to ignore it. Maybe once they’re on the road again, and have left all this nonsense behind them, things will start to feel normal again. He misses the Witcher he knew, the one who actually made jokes, the one who let him wash his hair until it was white again, the one who didn’t constantly seem to think about Yennefer, or was more occupied with her than with his best friend of twenty-two bloody years.

Borch leaves, finally, and Jaskier can see a flash of hurt and anger on Geralt’s face. He knows the feeling all too well, and stands up. Yesterday, he was able to soften the Witcher’s pain, talking to him, distracting him, lightening the mood overall. So maybe today he can, too. And then, they’ll be on the road again. Everything will be normal.

And neither of them will be hurting so much.

We’re just human.

 “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” Oh.