#just gentle geraskier today folks

[thefamouswhitewolf]

The inn was noisy and far too hot for Geralt, but Jaskier seemed to be drinking it in as he sang from table to table, the patrons inside throwing coins at his feet and the cheekiest of them even tucking them into Jaskier’s waistband as he passed by. It wasn’t that they wanted to touch him but a pretty bard that could also sing rather well was a rare commodity in that part of the Continent.

Geralt sat in the corner as usual, a pint of ale in his hand while the pitcher sat beside it, still dripping with condensation. The ale got rather cold in the winter months and the innkeepers often had to bring the casks in from the storehouses because they worried about them freezing, though the notion that alcohol can’t truly freeze solid was still a foreign concept to most of the back-water brewmasters.

The Witcher enjoyed his ale fairly cold anyway so he wasn’t complaining, tossing back the rest of his pint as Jaskier started into one of his well-known songs, the cheers of the crowd actually hurting Geralt’s ears a bit. He wasn’t grumpy or in any mood south of complacent, but certain things in day-to-day life still pained him. Strong scents, both foul and pleasant, for one. Loud, raucous yelling, for two. Seeing someone manhandle his bard, for three.

The song cut off as a large man about Geralt’s size reached out to grab Jaskier by the doublet, hauling the bard back against himself as he stood up. Jaskier’s first response was to one-hand the lute and reach into that same sleeve with the other, his intent on fetching the dagger hidden within. Geralt wasn’t immediately on his feet until he saw the glint of the steel, not wanting a scene since they’d already paid for a room and the night had barely just begun.

Jaskier didn’t often need saving any longer; he’d trained under Geralt to properly wield daggers in a close-combat fight, and to throw them when it was long-distance. The bard didn’t put them to real use that often either; men usually backed off when they saw the look of hate in those pretty grey eyes, daggers in both hands and ready to put holes in them. The threat alone was usually sufficient, and this case was no different.

One of the drunk’s companions slapped his hand away from Jaskier’s clothes and dragged him away immediately, leaving Jaskier to tuck his dagger back into his sleeve as the innkeeper roared at the drunkard, forcing him and his friends to leave. He stated that they were worth less than what he’d paid for the bard to be there for the night--Jaskier had made a handsome sum of money because he’d become well-known on the Continent over the years--and he’d rather have the bard and his brooding fucking Witcher there, than the drunks and their piss-poor manners.

Geralt sat back down, not a weapon bared and slightly perplexed with how smoothly the situation had handled itself, and went back to drinking. The place calmed down but the interruption caused a lull in Jaskier’s performance, giving rise to the bard wandering back to Geralt’s table and sliding himself onto the bench facing the Witcher.

Pouring a mug of ale for Jaskier, Geralt eyed the bard curiously, judging his state of mind. Jaskier took the mug and downed half of it, giving a light cough and a bit of a wheeze, as the ale hit him full force. It was a good brew, and he was sure Geralt would order more if needed. They had coin enough for ten men since Geralt’s slaughter of a gryphon in the neighbouring kingdom, and no expense had been spared in the weeks following it.

“Getting faster with those blades, bard,” he rumbled, a light smile on Geralt’s face. “Could be you’re going to surpass me on that front.”

Jaskier snorted softly and reached across the table to touch the back of Geralt’s hand, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled when Geralt didn’t immediately pull away. They’d been in what Jaskier termed a committed relationship for the better part of a decade, but Geralt was still sketchy about showing it off in public. Their type of romance wasn’t unheard of and was oftentimes encouraged in places where males made up the majority of the population, but romance at all was always going to be a touchy subject to Geralt.

“Hardly. I saw you get up to defend me, you beast. That man was nearly your size and he backed off as soon as he saw my blade, did you see? I’ve found that the bigger the man is, the faster he falls when faced with real danger.”

“Is that so?”

Jaskier nodded. “You, my dear Witcher, are the exception. The only thing I’ve ever seen you fear, is losing me.”

Geralt felt his stomach fall right out of himself at the mere mention of it. Jaskier was right. Decades of living alone, not having someone to care for, or to be cared for by, had turned the Witcher into something of a love-lorn damsel. He’d kill any man that put his hands on Jaskier--or any woman, for that matter; some were more fierce than the men and Geralt had scars to prove it.

“I think you should go finish your performance, bard. Night’s still young and the ale’s good. I’ll sit here for the remainder of it, and then we can retire when you’ve had enough.”

Geralt changed the subject of love often, but Jaskier already knew the truth. Geralt talked in his sleep and he got chatty when he’d been into the good ale, so the bard gathered up his lute and started right back into the unfinished song, sure that he’d be told everything he wanted to hear later that night in the comfort of their bed.