It takes weeks for Geralt to travel to Kaer Morhen with Ciri, to get her into the mountain fortress where she would be protected by both geography and the watchful eye of Vesemir. She would need to be trained, eventually, and come winter there would be a pack of witchers help with it. For now, though, she would be safe, and Geralt could attend to the other matter that weighed on his mind.
Jaskier.
He hadn’t seen the bard since they’d parted on the mountain. That had been months ago, and now that Geralt’s attention wasn’t entirely taken up by Ciri and her safety, he remembers something particularly important about the man that he’d sent away. Jaskier had gotten his fame by singing songs about the White Wolf up and down the entire gods-damned Continent, and now every squad of Nilfgaardian soldiers is searching for Geralt and his Child Surprise. The name Jaskier is basically synonymous with witcher’s bard, and that means that he’s in just as much danger as Ciri was. Perhaps more-- Nilfgaardian soldiers wouldn’t have harmed the princess. Geralt has no illusions that they wouldn’t extend that kind of courtesy to a flashy, talkative bard.
Nilfgaard would find him. They would hurt him. They would likely kill him, once they realize that any information that Jaskier could possibly have is months out-of-date and would be of no use to them, and Geralt doesn’t want to have his blood on his hands, too.
Geralt rides out, and he starts at the coast.
Jaskier has never been particularly concerned with covering his tracks, so it isn’t difficult for Geralt to pick up on his trail. He follows it to Novigrad, down through Oxenfurt-- people are particularly willing to speak of him there, Jaskier’s university acquaintances have looser tongues than Geralt would like about their famous alumnus-- and further still to Gors Velen. That seaside port is where the trail runs out, and Geralt moves from tavern to tavern searching for any trace that the bard had been there. He finds it on the second night of his search, when he overhears the barmaids talking about the charming bard who’d played the nearby tavern several nights before and had left with a few strange men and hadn’t been back to get his things from his room.
He corners one of them when she’s bringing a tray down from the upper floor, certainly terrifying the poor girl, but she’s useful-- she tells him where Jaskier’s room is and gives him the spare key to it, her little hand trembling the whole time. He tips her for her trouble before going upstairs and checking the room.
The Trials couldn’t strip emotions from witchers, but they did dull the more troublesome ones-- fear, most notably. But when Geralt steps into that room and sees Jaskier’s pack on the floor, his doublet, his lute-- there is an icy coldness in his guts that he hasn’t felt in years.
He gathers Jaskier’s things, to take them with him. He would want them back when Geralt found him, the first thing he would want to know is that his precious lute is safe in its case. The witcher picks up his doublet, and after a few days of airing out, the scent has begun to dissipate, but it’s still there-- the floral oils that he uses in his hair, the wax that he rubs into his lute to maintain the wood, parchment, ink, a hint of sweat and beer. Jaskier. There had been a time when Geralt couldn’t get the smell of him out of his nose, not with how it got on everything he touched, everything from the witcher’s old shirts to Roach’s saddlebags.
Something in his chest clenches. Geralt dismisses it.
He leaves the inn with Jaskier’s things slung onto his back, heading for the stables to fetch Roach and continue his search. He’s in the process of getting her tack settled when he sees the scrap of cloth caught on the rough edge of a board that frames an adjacent stall. It’s a creamy white color, soft when Geralt picks it up, and--
floral oil, lute wax, parchment
--he tucks the scrap into one of his pouches. Digs around in Roach’s saddlebags before he finds the potion that he wants, uncorks it, and throws it back like a slug of vodka. The effects hit within seconds, the world coming into almost painful clarity as his witcher senses heighten past their usual limits. He breathes in.
Geralt is assaulted by the influx of information, closing his eyes to parse it better. Jaskier was here, he’s certain of it, he can track the floral-lute-parchment smell of him, can almost taste the note of fear that sours it. There are other unfamiliar men, three of them, he thinks, and the group of them mount horses and ride off, the bard with them. Geralt saddles up and spurs Roach out into the night, following the trail through the streets and out past the gates of the city. He pushes her until she’s frothing at the bit, until he’s led to what’s left of a small fortification in the wilderness between Dorian and Maribor, some leftover outpost that has fallen into disrepair. It’s no longer useful for military purposes, but the stone’s still sound and there will be rooms inside with doors that still lock tight. A good place to keep a prisoner for interrogations.
It’s dark still and Geralt is quiet as he scouts the fortification, sparing only enough time to get an estimate of how protected it is. There are perhaps a dozen men, armed but lax in their security-- they don’t expect anyone to bother them. They don’t expect anyone to come for their prisoner.
Geralt breathes, and the scent of floral oil and lute wax may very well be scorched into his sinuses now. That feeling in his chest is still there, that vice-like clench, and the witcher oils his sword with hanged man’s venom in preparation.
He slips in a side door, and the lone guard there is dead before he can raise an alarm. The next ones are a pair, talking idly as they walk, and Geralt waits around a corner until they’re within range. He nearly decapitates one with the first strike; the other shouts before the witcher’s blade silences him, and he hears an answering call from deeper in. It only spurs him to move faster, strike harder. He kills any man that stands between him and the cells in the basement.
He knows which cell it is. He can tell from down the hall, would have been able to smell the blood and sweat and rancid stink of fear even without the potion enhancing his senses. There’s a key ring on a guard’s belt, and he takes it-- its former owner has no more earthly need of it-- and the key scrapes when he unlocks the door.
We're not friends. How many times has he heard Geralt say that? Jaskier stops counting after a while.
He should've listened. But nooo, he gets cocky, lets the way Geralt allows him into his stories and his scars, shares his food and his rooms and protects him from angry husbands get to his head, feed his ego. Obviously Geralt cares about him, right? He's just an actions-rather-than-words kind of guy. Life has been rough for him, he doesn't know how to communicate. So many excuses has Jaskier made for Geralt's behavior through the years, thinking of himself to be so smart for figuring out what he calls Geralt-speech.
He should've listened.
If like could give me one blessing...
The words play on repeat in his head over and over as he makes his way down the mountain - tired, dirty, alone. Hurting. "See you around, Geralt" had been an answer spoken from shock, but with every step he takes with heavy feet, pain and anger build in his chest until they finally explode. Two decades, the best years of his short human life, his best songs... all wasted on this son of a bitch.
He really should've listened, he thinks again when he stops by a river to wash his face, not wanting to reach town with his eyes red from tears spilled over the biggest asshole in the world. He truly is a fool.
(He gets drunk that evening, and sings and dances for the local tavern until his feet and throat are sore. Drinking songs, naughty songs, adventure songs. But not a single song about the White Wolf.)
Oxenfurt seems to be the most logical step, so he stays there for a while, trying to put himself back together. He finishes "Her Sweet Kiss", adding to it a new bitter twist that didn't have before ("gorgeous garroter"? "lovely garroter"? how about neither). Half of the dinner hall cries when they hear him sing it for the first time. And it's the only song about Geralt he sings when he goes back to the road.
There's war coming, people need bards to help them forget. Oxenfurt may be home (in a way Lettenhove never was and never will) but Jaskier is still Jaskier, and he grows restless easily. He needs adventure, he needs his freedom. So back to the road he goes, jumping from inns to taverns, from courts banquets to weddings, singing for both pleasure and coin. People keep asking for the songs of the White Wolf, he deflects the best way he can - it's hard to escape his reputation.
The three soldiers that kidnap him from his room definitely don't let him forget.
They don't believe him when he says he doesn't have any idea about Geralt's whereabouts. They ask him about princess Cirilla as well, because they know he's played in court before. Bloody hell, if their information gathering is so good, how come they don't know Jaskier hasn't seen that asshole of a witcher in over a year? If they've been tracking him, surely they would've noticed the lack of very specific songs?
Jaskier tells them that after the first day. Obviously being afraid and obeying doesn't change anything, so if he's going to get hurt anyway, then at least he wants to use his tongue as it deserves. They think the whole separation deal is an act - Jaskier snorts.
If only.
They hit him and whip him, they keep him chained and only feed him some water and bread in the morning that he gets to throw up later when feet connect with his stomach. They don't ask about Geralt's location any longer, changing the tactic to wanting to know the witcher's secrets and weaknesses. Those Jaskier does know. He still doesn't tell. He tells himself it's because he doesn't want Nilfgaard to win.
The truth is, even now, he's still a loyal fool.
They leave guards outside. A waste of soldiers, because nobody is coming for him. Geralt isn't coming for him, but this part he keeps for himself - the guards possibly shitting themselves at the chance the White Wolf may come for them is the only little pleasure he can get from this situation.
It seems there's some commotion outside tonight, but he isn't paying attention. Jaskier stays in the corner of the cell, face and clothes covered in blood, pants reeking of piss, hugging his legs and waiting for sleep to come - if it comes at all. When the door opens, he whimpers in fear and tries to make himself smaller.
Jaskier has never been afraid of Geralt. For him, all the time. Of him? Never. Yet he reeks of it now. And when blue eyes finally look up and see who it is, they widen, filled with shock. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming.
"...Geralt?"
The voice is barely a murmur, sounding tired and broken... and the smell of fear starts disappearing, only leaving a faint touch under a racing hearbeat. Because he's still a loyal fool. Because even if he wants to throw something at the witcher's head and tell him to fuck off, he knows he's safe from Nilfgaard now.
Jaskier is a huddled figure in the corner of the room, dirty and injured and afraid. Another man might have barely been able to recognize him through the grime and bruises, the missing doublet, the tattered chemise stained with blood. He looks nothing like the vibrant thing that sang at banquets and public houses, all smiles and winks and merriment. Geralt stands in the doorway for several agonizing moments longer than he wants to, senses assaulted by the evidence of what was done in this small, cold room.
The smell of fear is inescapable, and it's far worse than the reek of piss, vomit, and blood that clings to the bard.
His name, spoken so soft and in a voice hoarse from screaming and dehydration, spurs Geralt into movement. He is across the room in two strides, kneeling before Jaskier to assess his wounds. His mind is clear, focused. Underneath that witcher-trained lucidity, Geralt wants to walk back out into that outpost, find every man who laid a hand on Jaskier and drag them back from the dead so that he can kill them all again, but more slowly. What he needs to do is make sure that the bard is well enough to move, and if he isn't, to tend to his wounds.
"I'm here."
His voice is low and gentle, the same tone that he uses to calm Roach when she spooks. He reaches out slowly to unlock the shackles from around his wrists; then hooks two fingers under his jaw, tilts his head a little to get a better look at the bruising to his face, to see if it's serious. Checks his eyes for a concussion. Moves on from there, to the major joints-- shoulders, knees, ankles. Dislocated shoulders wouldn't have been uncommon for this kind of treatment, and are easily, though not painlessly, fixed. Injuries to the knees or ankles would mean that Jaskier couldn't walk and would be harder to mend, would possibly require a healer or a mage. It's the long-term outcome that concerns him-- Geralt would carry him as far as necessary.
"We need to leave." He needs to take Jaskier somewhere safe, somewhere that he could get him cleaned up and bandaged, put him in a bed to rest. Get a few good meals into him. "Can you stand?"
For once in his life, Jaskier stays silent. And that speaks volumes of his current state of mind.
I'm here, the asshole says, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had just drank together some piss-tasting ale the night before. It's so much, too much to be exact, even for Jaskier, who usually isn't overwhelmed by emotions. He's used to feeling a lot, but not this, definitely not like this. Pain, fear, tiredness, thirst; his body and mind are already trying to navigate them all. He can't let his heart add all his anger at Geralt now.
He can't let it long for the gentleness on that voice that for once is showing care.
And now he's starting to feel dizzy.
A short sob escapes his lips, a mix of relief at being saved and his other emotions creating a hurricane in his chest, but he swallows the rest down when Geralt reaches out to touch him. Not right now, not like this. He can't help flinching, not because it's Geralt, but because his body still hasn't caught up with the fact he's free now, he's safe. These fingers aren't here to hurt him.
(This one does it with words.)
Jaskier lets him check anyway, because he isn't sure himself - his whole body is screaming in pain, he wouldn't be able to tell his injures apart even if he tried. Thankfully there is nothing broken - they're all bleeding cuts or purple bruises, and he does whimper when Geralt touches those, but at least his bones are fine. (They did threaten his tongue. Jaskier isn't sure he would've wanted to be saved if they had come through.)
Geralt's comment gets him a nod, then a shrug. Can he stand? He isn't sure, but he's going to try. Hands grab the wall and Jaskier raises slowly, the back of his legs showing more gashes from whipping there. The answer to the question? It's a no. His whole body starts shaking and with a painful fuck! he falls to his knees, fire burning through his veins, making it hard to breathe.
"Geralt..." Pride and anger forgotten for now, Jaskier begs in between pants for the only thing he desperately needs right now. "Please take me out of here."
Jaskier's attempt at standing fails; he's been too badly whipped for his legs to bear the weight of his own malnourished body. The bard trembles and falls with a short curse and Geralt reaches for him to try to slow his landing. Bruised knees are barely anything on top of all of the other injuries that he's got, but his-- the bard is already more bruise than not. His breaths are short and too quick, and Geralt worries that his ribs are cracked or broken. He presses his palms to each side of his ribcage, feeling for a telltale crunch or shift that shouldn't be there.
Taking Jaskier out of there is the least that Geralt can do for him. He intends to do more. This is his fault, both for the fact that Jaskier would never have been targeted if he hadn't sang Geralt's praises from one end of the Continent to the other, and because he would never have been taken if Geralt had been with him.
He should have been with him. It's a simple truth.
"I'll need to lift you."
This is all the warning that Jaskier gets before Geralt gets one arm under his legs and the other around his back and lifts, picking him up like he weighs no more than a child. Easily, even though they aren't far off in height, since Jaskier doesn't have anywhere near the same mass as a witcher and he's likely lost some while in captivity, besides.
He carries him out of the outpost, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers as he makes for the nearest exit. Once outside, he whistles for Roach and she comes readily at his call.
"You'll need to hang on," he says, hefting the bard into the saddle. Roach stands patiently, barely even shifts as Geralt deposits Jaskier onto her back. He directs Jaskier's hands into her mane, giving him something to grab on to and keep himself steady. "You won't hurt her."
Geralt digs briefly through the saddlebags until he finds his cloak, tossing it over Jaskier's shoulders and securing it at his throat; both to keep the bard warm on the ride as well as to conceal his injuries and tattered clothes. Walking into a city with a battered man would raise questions that Geralt doesn't have the time nor patience to answer. Then he swings into the saddle behind him, and when he grabs the reins, his arms are tucked securely up against Jaskier's sides. If Jaskier is to fall from the saddle, he'd have to take Geralt with him.
"Come on, Roach."
He spurs her forward. A slower pace would be easier on Jaskier, but Geralt can't be sure that there are no more Nilfgaardian soldiers in the area. They need to go to ground quickly and hole up somewhere safe until the bard has recovered enough to move on, and then...
Something. Geralt hasn't thought that far into the future yet.
He rides them up to Vizima; it's near, and it's a city big enough to get lost in. He locates an inn, one that's out of the way and looks clean enough that Jaskier won't catch something just by sleeping in the bed. The price for the room is exorbitant, even more than the usual witcher markup that Geralt is used to, but he pays it without complaint. Jaskier needs a bed and safety more than Geralt needs a heavy coin purse.
His whole body aches when Geralt picks him up, the pain burning him from head to toe, eliciting the sharpest groan out of him. He needs a distraction, to put his attention on something else. But that would mean being extra aware of Geralt, of his body around him, of the fact he's being kind and helping him without complaining about him getting in trouble again. It would mean being aware of Roach, the good old girl who has carried him once before and it was during the whole djinn disaster, and that's one memory he doesn't need to revisit right now.
At least the feeling of her mane in his hands is familiar. Comforting. Jaskier tries to concentrate on that, on afternoons spent braiding flowers in her hair.
Don't think about the pain, he tells himself under the pressure of his body's wounds.
Don't think about you incredibly complicated feelings for Geralt, the man his brain wants to push away and his heart wants to cuddle under his protection, like the traitor it is.
At least the trip is short, and Jaskier suddenly finds himself very grateful for Geralt's cloak hiding him from the city's curious eyes. As social as he is, interacting with people is the last thing he wants to do right now - the first being finding a bed, crawl under the sheets and sleep for a whole week.
Those aren't Geralt's plans, however. He sits Jaskier on the bed but only to start inspecting him to check his wounds. Awkwardness slips in then - never in twenty years Jaskier had trouble meeting Geralt's eyes (unless he's failing to be sneaky when asking for a favor) yet now he can't stand the heaviness of that golden gaze. Jaskier may find care in them if he does, and Melitele knows it would be extremely foolish to fall for that again.
So he looks away instead, taking in every detail of the room they're in. Not their-- his, Geralt's usual cheap inn.
"You don't have to stay." His voice is rough when he finally speaks again, and he knows he probably shouldn't do that in the first place, but he can't stand the silence. It leaves him alone with his own mind, and it's not a pretty place to be at right now. "You can send a healer and go. It's not--" He swallows a sob. "I didn't tell them anything. You're safe to leave."
Once Jaskier is in the relative safety of the room, Geralt locks the door and sets their things down. Everything is kept out of the way except for the medical kit, which he sets next to the bed as he goes over to check the bard more thoroughly than he could've in the outpost. He takes stock of Jaskier's injuries, starting from the head and moving downward, calm and methodical.
His head seems relatively unharmed, aside from some bruising on the face-- they likely struck him, probably just with fists. They wouldn't want him too addled from brain trauma to talk to them, after all, just scared enough to be compliant. The neck is fine, collarbone intact, shoulders still in their sockets. Bruises and abrasions on his wrists from the shackles, but nothing that some salve and bandages wouldn't take care of. Geralt checks his hands and fingers with particular care-- they're Jaskier's livelihood, after all, and he's relieved to find that they're uninjured.
Geralt had been silent, inspecting Jaskier with an expression on his face like a thundercloud-- dark, angry, and brooding. Not at the bard, but at the state of him and at himself. This is what happens to everyone to gets caught up with Geralt and his bullshit destiny.
He looks up from Jaskier's hands sharply when the bard speaks.
"Shut up, Jaskier."
It's not the right thing to say, and part of him knows that. But it's ridiculous, the idea that he'd walk out the door while Jaskier is in this state, just send along a healer and leave him to his fate? While Nilfgaard is still looking for him? He'd just rescued the man, he doesn't want him to walk out the door and get captured all over again.
He reaches for the torn hem of Jaskier's chemise, intending to pull it off of him.
"I need to see your wounds."
Which meant he'd need the trousers off, too. They'd whipped the back of his legs, and he needs to have a better look at any bruising. Make an estimate at whether he has enough salve and bandages, or whether he'll need to send someone to wake the healer and get supplies. If possible, he wants to take care of everything himself, without involving any third parties that might have loose lips.
Three words. Just... three little words, words that he's heard thousand of times before coming from multiple people, words that were always favored by a very particular witcher. Hearing them right now, when he's feeling so emotional and vulnerable, is like getting punched in the stomach again.
Fuck this asshole of a witcher. At least his heart syncs up with his mind now, not wanting to seek Geralt's kindness anymore. Anger returns and, if he had the energy, he would scream.
"Didn't shut me up in two decades, witcher. Not going to start working now."
His tone is bitter, his lack of will power to say Geralt's name obvious. Not his best comeback, he admits, his sentences are choppy and lack dramatics, but it's the best he can do at the moment. Being sassy is all he has, his only weapon, the one he used against the soldiers when he realized being quiet and obedient wouldn't earn him better treatment.
(They did threaten him with worse, way worse. But he's no soldier, he's weak and wimpy, they were afraid anything would kill him, and they needed the information urgently. They threatened his hands and tongue as well. Jaskier yelled at them, tell them that damaging those was equal to actually killing him. They got the idea, but he has to wonder how many days would've passed before they would've decided to stop being careful.)
With a sigh and trembling arms, Jaskier starts undressing, slowly, painfully, whimpering whenever a particular wounded muscle is pulled the wrong way. At least this doesn't feel like a big deal, considering he and Geralt have seen each other naked many times before while washing in rivers or lakes. It does bother Jaskier, however, that this probably means there's no healer coming - the witcher plans to take care of him himself. Fantastic.
His legs have gotten the worst of the whipping. They kept mocking him, asking him to dance. Jaskier doesn't stand up to remove his pants, he lies down on the bed and raises his butt, which thankfully is only required for a couple of seconds, because he doesn't have the energy for more than that. He doesn't sit up after it either - the bed is comfortable. The cuts on his back are bothering him, and he feels like tearing his skin off, but the tiredness wins.
"...it's cold." He murmurs, his whole body shivering on the matress.
Before, Jaskier had always taken Geralt's shut ups more gracefully, with better humor. But that was before-- before the mountain, before Geralt had not just ruined his relationship with Yennefer, but also with Jaskier. Everything ruined, all in one fell swoop. It's probably impressive, how quickly the witcher managed to drive people away from him.
There's a venom in Jaskier's voice when he says witcher that Geralt's never heard from his mouth. Others, yes, but not him. And there's something equally bitter that makes its way into his scent, angry and sharp, and it almost doesn't matter what he says, not when the tone and his smell say it all for him.
Jaskier doesn't want his help. Geralt frowns, the expression putting deep furrows in his brow. Well-- too bad. He might not want it, but he's going to get it.
Geralt helps him with his clothes where he can, trying to keep him from having to bend or stretch and put pressure on his injuries, both for practical reasons and because hearing his pain makes the vice-thing twist tighter in his chest. With each piece of clothing removed, more injuries are revealed-- his abused back, his ribs and stomach mottled in red and purple, turning into greens and yellows where the bruises have started to heal. His legs, criss-crossed with the marks from a whip. Geralt is intimately familiar with the pain that a whipping can cause; there are towns that have blamed the arrival of a witcher for a plague or a crop blight or some other thing that was beyond his control.
He's pulling supplies out of his pack, his jar of medical salve and rolls of clean bandages, when Jaskier complains about the cold. His big hand rests on Jaskier's shin, left there from where he'd been inspecting a particularly nasty mark, and he feels the trembling start. He stands and goes to the fireplace, adding more wood and stoking it up so that the room warms. When he returns to Jaskier's bedside, he puts the cloak back around his shoulders; it doesn't matter if he gets blood on it, Geralt's bled on it plenty before.
There are more things that he'll need before he can tend to the bard, though. Water, for one thing, both for Jaskier to drink and for cleaning him. Washcloths, food, maybe a little hot mulled wine, if he could manage it. He's on his way to the door before he remembers some fragment of manners and says,
"Wait here. I need to get some things to tend to you."
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him, to fetch what he can as quickly as he can. When he returns, his errand had been mostly successful-- he has a large pitcher of water and a bowl, some cloths to wash him with and a little soap, whatever food could be scrounged up from the kitchen this late at night. No mulled wine, but there is a mug of cider that had been warmed for him.
Jaskier has always loved the city - all the sounds, the people, the different styles merging together in just one neighborhood. You never get bored in the city, and most importantly, it's full of opportunities. After spending his childhood in the family estate (where he's promised to never step again) and his young adult years in the college town he studied at, Jaskier has finally saved enough money to rent his own flat in the city, and it means a lot.
More and better paid tutoring jobs. More and better gigs. More and better various spaces to record cover videos at. And hopefully, a better chance at being discovered.
His online presence is nothing to laugh at - it's what's gotten him the money to move out, after all. He's not exactly famous, but he's well-known enough to get sponsors and occasionally be asked for a selfie in the street. All his social media has that lovely little tick next to his name that confirms he's someone. Sadly, even in this modern era, a contract with a record company is still the sign that a singer has really made it. But he's getting there, he can feel it. It's destiny.
All his excitement, however, doesn't make up for the fact that moving sucks. So many boxes! So many things to put in place! So much shopping for necessities to do! And no friends to help, which is the part that sucks the most. Jaskier is a people person, and he'll have to start from zero here. He still texts his sister during the whole process, for sure, and sharing the journey with his followers through pictures and short videos makes it a little less lonely, but it's still not the same.
Yet when Friday comes, he doesn't hit a single bar in the area, which shows how truly exhausted he is. He needs to unwind and recover energy before he can peacock around town. And that's when he remembers something: one of his followers mentioned a horse ranch near the area. Huh, that actually sounds perfect. He hasn't gone riding since he was a child, but he remembers enjoying it a lot. And one of the many reasons why he's chosen this city is because as big as it is, it's also really easy to quickly drive past the limits and finds trees and birds. A city boy he may be, but Jaskier also likes having some days out with nature every now and then, enjoying the sights and letting inspiration come from a sunset. It's like going on a little adventure.
So here he is on a Saturday morning, getting out of an uber with his guitar on his back and a satchel filled with his song notebook and some sandwiches for lunch, wearing comfortable yet fashionable clothes. The place is huge and well taken care of, and Jaskier is feeling the nostalgia hitting him already - this has been a great idea. He needs to remember to thank his follower later - although, didn't she mention her dad? Maybe he'll find her here as well.
Headphones are moved to his neck, sunglasses are hanged on his sweater and a picture of the entrance sign is taken before Jaskier finally takes the path up the house.
"Excuse me? Hello!" He says as he knocks on the door. "Good morning! I've been told I could rent horses here?"
The ranch at Kaer Morhen is a second chance, both for the horses that come in there and, if its owner is being particularly honest with himself, for Geralt, too.
It's really only luck that he has the place at all, a gift from an old friend who had a parcel of land that he didn't know what to do with. Turning it into a moderately successful ranch to train and rehabilitate horses took a lot of time and effort, but Geralt had had the time and needed something to put labor into. After his stint in prison and years of parole, the ranch was something that he built, something that he made better rather than worse. It helped him get back on his feet. And once he had gotten his life back on track and made a lot of progress fixing his many and varied personal problems, it was probably one of the major deciding factors in getting the judge to let him have visitation rights to his daughter.
Ciri was nearly twelve years old by the time he got to meet her. Building a relationship with a nearly teenaged girl was difficult, but ultimately every second that he could spend with his daughter was worth it. She was the best thing that ever happened to him, and he wanted to make up for all the time that he'd lost to his own stupid mistakes.
In time, visitation had become joint custody, Ciri's time split between the ranch and her mother's house in the city. And, of course, Yen is the better provider, with her law degree and her political aspirations, but Geralt likes to think that Ciri at least enjoys her time with him. Yen was always too good for him, too smart for him, and he couldn't even blame her for not telling him when she had gotten pregnant. Their relationship had always been rocky, an on-again-off-again thing that had no stability, no real chance of long-term survival. And then he had gone to prison a few years later, so. It was a smart move, really. He couldn't fuck up a kid that he never met.
The point is, Geralt's turned his life around. He has his daughter, he has a business doing something that he loves that also manages to keep the bills paid, he's on speaking terms with Yen and his foster father and most of his foster brothers. His life is okay. It's making sense.
Then, one Saturday morning while he's busy getting the horses their usual breakfasts of hay and grain, a tall, blue-eyed complication walks into his life.
He's just finished and is walking up the path to get started on his other chores for the day when he hears the sound of someone calling out and knocking at the door to his home. Ciri's at school, thankfully, so she isn't there to answer the door for some stranger. Some city boy, it looks like, with headphones around his neck and an instrument case on his back, looking more fit to walk into a cute cafe and take Insta-whatsit pictures of his lattes or something than to ride horses.
"Over here," he calls, to get the man's attention. Maybe this guy is just here for a few pictures with horses for social media. Geralt doesn't exactly care if he does that, so long as he doesn't scare them with the flash or do something stupid that would get him bitten or kicked. "You can ride here, if that's what you're looking for. You ever been on a horse?"
Jaskier turns to the sound of a very deep voice, already noticing the lack of greeting in return (Jaskier doesn't need clerks to go out of their way to be over the top welcoming, but would a "hello" really hurt?) but the little frown on his face barely lasts two seconds when he sees who exactly is in charge of his place.
A bloody adonis.
He worries his worry lip as he feels his throat going dry at the sight. The man is big and incredibly well built, thicker and stronger than a brick house; the hair is white and long, making Jaskier wish he could run his fingers through it. He's a father, too, which means this is his first time meeting a true DILF, one that apparently loves animals and has a voice that probably could make you come just by talking dirty into your ear.
Hopefully the lack of greeting was only a slip and he isn't actually rude, otherwise he'll have to text his sister and go through his bisexual crisis for the second time in his life.
(If you ask Elizabeth, she thinks her brother goes through a bisexual crisis every other day.)
Snapping himself out of it by clearing his voice, Jaskier hurries in direction of the man, reminding himself that this isn't a bar and the ranch looks like a place he'd like to visit again in the future, so he can't fuck up. For the sake of his lovely follower, as well. So his charm will be on, but not overly flirty. Gotta test the waters first - hell, maybe the man is as straight they come.
"I have! I used to ride all the time when I was a child." When he reaches the adonis' side, Jaskier gets a better look of his face and ugh, those eyes are as golden as the flower that names him and that jaw could smash rocks. How can one man be so unfairly handsome? With his best smile on his face, he offers a hand to shake. "Hi, I'm Jaskier. I recently moved to the city, and your daughter I believe? Recommended this place on Twitter."
The young man stares for a moment or two when he turns towards Geralt, but that's fine-- he's used to that kind of reaction. He knows that his appearance is intimidating, and in general, he prefers it that way, but it's sometimes a bit of a barrier to getting customers to come back. He tries, at least, to not be too frightening to children, but he still has all the muscle that he put on while he had nothing else to do in prison except work out and read, so he can't help but take up space. Built like a brick shithouse, Yen used to say, and that was even before he bulked up a bit. Now he's built like a brick shithouse on steroids or something.
Well. He could at least try not to scare this guy off, especially because he claims to already know how to ride. If Geralt really doesn't have to babysit him while he's here and he's interested in more than just a one-off thing, than he could be a consistent, easy customer who won't cause him any grief.
"Geralt," he replies, and gives the offered hand a brief shake. Then the man keeps talking, and the misgivings start to emerge again. Geralt frowns, his brow furrowing in a manner that he knows makes people nervous.
"How do you know my daughter?" Is he going to have to start keeping better track of what Ciri does on the internet? He knew he shouldn't have let her get that Twitter thing, she's always on it and he never knows what she's looking at. Something about memes, whatever those are. "She's too young to be talking to you."
He's going to have to sit Ciri down and have the Stranger Danger talk, isn't he. Talking to strange men on the internet, what's she thinking? If this creep keeps showing up and trying to talk to her or meet her or god help him, look at her funny, Geralt will kick his ass all the way back to the city.
Still no hello, but the guy introduces himself (even his name is manly as fuck, bloody hell) and accepts the handshake, which means he isn't rude, just kinda awkward. Limited human interaction over living with horses, perhaps? Honestly, it comes as a relief, so maybe things can go well after all.
...or maybe not. The question confuses him, since he's already explained how he knows the girl (through Twitter!) and then shock comes when Geralt adds the rest. Going extremely pale, Jaskier gasps and takes a step back, his voice reaching a high pitch when he replies with obvious nervousness.
"...bollocks. No! Nonononono, it's nothing like that!" He explains as he shakes his hands. "I'm a musician! She likes my music! She's a fan. How could I-- Ah, wait, just give me a second--"
He reaches into his pocket to take out his very extra looking phone (how does he keep it in those very tight pants, nobody knows) and proceeds to open Twitter, finding the thread with the girl quite easily since he liked it to have the ranch information at hand (but he stills murmurs fuck over and over during the whole process).
"Here, see? I don't even follow her back." He shows Geralt the conversation, then taps on the girl's username to access her account. A blue button offers to follow the account, and he's obviously not pressed it ever. "She likes my tweets and occasionally comments to discuss music or a funny meme. I don't even know her age or if that's her real name. That's all, I can swear on my guitar."
And that's one hell of a swear, because his guitar is his fucking life.
The city guy-- Jaskier-- starts backpedaling immediately in the face of Geralt's Angry Father face, which is really the only sensible thing for anyone to do in that situation. He repeatedly denies anything untoward about his interactions with Ciri, digging out his very fancy looking smartphone from his absurdly tight pants-- really, is that the fashion these days?-- to show Geralt the messages that they had sent. He peers at the screen, and it does look like the start of the conversation was a video that he had posted, and the thumbnail showed him sitting with his guitar. The music thing, at least, checks out.
He shows Geralt his daughter's profile, and the 'follow' button on it is clearly not active. Geralt hmms at it, and though his various grunts and nonverbal replies can be difficult to decipher without enough exposure, it doesn't sound as irritated as before. Maybe he can believe that this guy isn't here to creep on his only child. Maybe.
"Fine."
Was Ciri's username on this thing really 'by-the-power-of-SCREAMING'? Sure, he'd heard the stories of how she used to scream her lungs out as a child, but apparently she's embraced her sordid noisy past.
"It better stay that way." Well, he's already ruined whatever good first impression he could make here, might as well make it very clear that his daughter is so far Off Limits that she might as well be on the fucking moon.
"So. You're here to ride." Back to business and less terrifying avenues of conversation. "What style did you learn and what do you want to do?"
Both questions are necessary information for him to know how to get this kid set up. Though, he's going to see just how much this guy actually knows before he lets him loose with one of his horses. Jaskier wouldn't be the first idiot to walk in and try to lie to him about knowing his ass from a saddle.
"It will, I promise." He says with his best innocent face, both hands up in surrender. "In fact, I can come around when she isn't home, if that helps. You're just protecting her, being a good father. I can respect that."
Because yeah, now the initial scare is wearing off and the conversation replays in his head, he understands how the misunderstanding happened. In fact, he would've reacted with suspicion too if it had been about his sister. So this first impression? Far from bad. Not the best, for sure, but not enough to scare him off either. Geralt is a good dad, already showing more care in a couple of minutes that Jaskier's own father has ever shown for him in his entire life.
So he isn't only a DILF, he's a sweet DILF. His heart (and his dick) won't survive this.
Business talk is back, and Jaskier considers it a good sign, so he comes closer again, both to hear him better and to have a better look of those amazing eyes.
"English style. Always leisure riding, I was never one for competitions or polo. Blegh."
He pulls a face at the idea of sports, obviously this is the artist of the family. No, polo has always been his brother's thing, perfect handsome Frederick with his perfect beard and his perfect manners and perfect boring girlfriend. Some times Jaskier has to wonder how he and Lizzie are related to him.
"And that's what I'm looking for now as well. To unwind. To get on a horse and relax for a few hours, have lunch while lying on the grass and maybe compose a bit if inspiration strikes."
If that's allowed in the first place, but he figures that if the guitar was a problem, Geralt would've already told him so the minute he saw it. It's not exactly a small object to go unnoticed, now is it?
Geralt's trying his fucking damnedest to be a good dad, and hopefully he'll succeed. He just wants his daughter to grow up safe and happy, with preferably as few men creeping on her as is physically possible. He can play a part in that by physically intimidating any man who tries to get weird with her, and also by taking her to her martial arts classes.
She has a mean right hook.
Jaskier mentions polo and, taking into account his whole... everything, to be honest, just everything that Geralt is seeing right in front of him, he assumes that this kid is some kind of money. Rich parents, probably, who had their kid take English riding lessons and maybe forced him to do showjumping or something. Well, if that is the case, the one good thing is that rich kids usually get good lessons.
"I don't let anyone take one of my horses by themselves until I know they can handle it," he says. "And no one goes up on the trails alone. For safety."
Buddy system, always. If something happens out on the trail, there needs to be someone else there to either help or get help, preferably someone who knows the land well. And, really, that person is generally Geralt himself-- he usually leads the group trail rides, but he doesn't often get singles. Most people also don't want to be out in the wilderness alone with Geralt.
Geralt tips his head towards the barn, indicating for Jaskier to follow him back down.
It had taken some time to transform Corvo Bianco from a run-down, overgrown nobleman's villa into a vineyard with some semblence of its former glory. The majordomo, of course, was a great help, organizing the renovations and reconstructions necessary to make the estate functional again. The vineyard needed pruned and replanted, the olive groves rehabilitated-- and while these things were well within the expertise of Barnabas-Basil, the matter of the insides of the house was something for Geralt to deal with. And, as his only home had been a dilapidated witcher fortress in the mountains, he had no earthly idea of how to decorate a household.
Luckily for him, Dandelion had been all too willing to lend a hand. And, of course, after the house had been made properly homely, it was quite late in the year, and it was out of the question for his dear friend to try to trek north. The winters in Toussaint were mild and agreeable, and all the roads to Oxenfurt or Novigrad would surely be miserable and snowed over, and Geralt had plenty of room. It was only sensible for the bard to winter at Corvo Bianco, keeping Geralt company with song and good conversation over well-aged bottles of wine. He even managed to convince Geralt to go to some country noble's new year's banquet, a lavish affair that Dandelion enjoyed greatly despite the fact that he wasn't the bard for it. Perhaps even more so, because he sat at Geralt's side for at least half the night, getting increasingly soused on fine vintages and regaling him with his scathing critique of the entertainment.
It was a good winter. A good spring, too, as Dandelion claimed the delightful scenery had inspired him to write a few volumes of pastoral poetry. And then a good summer after that, as Geralt got news of a leshen a little ways to the south that needed to be taken care of, and Dandelion simply had to follow along, since he'd never had the pleasure of observing the witcher hunt for one. And then fall was wine season, Geralt, you surely wouldn't send your dearest friend away at the grandest time of year?, and once that was over, it was winter again.
Spring is, of course, fast approaching. The olive trees in the grove have budded and will soon be in full bloom; the early mornings are still cool, but the weather warms enough after the sun begins to climb to make taking Roach for a ride a pleasant affair. After months of comfortable living and being fed the best oats and hay that a famous vineyard could afford, she could use a little exercise-- so could Pegasus. If the bard would rouse himself before noon, Geralt might even entertain taking him along.
The blanket-wrapped lump that he'd left in bed that morning is gone when Geralt goes to check. Nor is Dandelion in the bath, or the kitchen, or even the study where he does his serious writing. Geralt makes his way outside to look for him-- perhaps he's decided that a little early rising would be good for the creative juices. And while a witcher wouldn't know much about that-- Geralt leaves all matters of the creative in Dandelion's capable hands-- he'd have few qualms with a bard that rouses himself when there are still a few hours of morning left.
That's what he says. Why? Because that's how it usually goes. They argue all the time, it's nothing new. And yet this time, it feels different. With every step he takes down the mountain, the shock slowly fades to leave room for other stronger emotions. Hurt. Sadness. Betrayal.
Anger. At Geralt or at himself for being such a fool? Probably a bit of both.
He had thought himself to be so smart, so good at reading Geralt, to see the real meaning of his actions behind the wall of brooding and grunts. He had thought we aren't friends had been Geralt trying to deal with his witcher logic by pushing away the things that mattered.
He was wrong.
And here he is now, with a broken heart and tears he can't stop from falling anymore when he hugs Roach after taking his things back. His favorite girl in the world gets one last sugar cube before they part, and he could swear she doesn't want him to leave. If only her master would agree.
That night, Jaskier spends it at a tavern, getting as drunk as he can. Bare feet jump on a table and he sings until his throat hurts, songs about everyone and everything, but not a single one about the White Wolf. Twenty years spent on that asshole, the prime of his youth - wasted. No more! The White Wolf can go fuck himself. Jaskier has plenty of other things to sing about.
(The fact he finishes Her sweet kiss with a new bitter, angry twist, is irrelevant.)
Sadly, the rest of the world hasn't caught up with this update in the bard's repertoire. His reputation follows him around, impossible to escape. His mind doesn't have enough of those creative juices either, this is worse than when he broke up with the countess. He needs a break, needs to rest, needs to bury himself in art and forget.
He needs Oxenfurt.
It would be a long trip, which he would usually not mind, but he isn't in the mood for it. Besides, war is getting closer, and he shouldn't be walking so freely while being an associate (ha) of the witcher that claimed the Cintra heir. So Jaskier, for once, swallows his pride and pays a sorceress to open a portal for him.
Judging by the look she gives him, she's reading his mind. Bloody hell, are all witches out to get him after all?
"You don't need Oxenfurt, songbird. You need something else."
He doesn't have time to ask what she means when the portal swallows him, only to drop him... somewhere. Definitely not Oxenfurt. A villa of some kind, it looks like? Fuck, if some guards were to find him here, he would be screwed. Jaskier hugs his lute to his chest and, with worry and anxiety taking over his scent, proceeds to explore the place as carefully as he can, staying behind walls and trees for hiding.
A vineyard. The aromas are nice, and the place in general is well kept. In other circumstances, he wouldn't mind spending time here, drink some fine wine and bring a lady to lie down with him on the grass. But alas, what he needs now are answers, and possibly a way out. The smell of (literal) horseshit suddenly hits his nose, and Jaskier decides to hurry in that direction - stables could mean a stable boy, one young and innocent that would help instead of yelling and kicking him out.
What he finds instead, however, kicks him right in the guts. Metaphorically.
"...Roach?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Is he here? Is that why the witch sent him this way instead of Oxenfurt? He can't stay, he just can't. And yet... he can't help coming closer to pet her. It's barely been a month, but he's missed her (well, not just her, but he doesn't want to think about the implications of that right now). She seems to be confused by him at first, but soon she gives in, accepting his stroking of her fur.
"My sweet girl, how come you-- oi!" Jaskier jumps in surprise when a second horse comes closer as well, bumping its head against his tired body. It's a lovely shade of white, and Jaskier finds himself thinking this the kind of horse he would pick for himself. "Easy there! I don't have anything to give you!" The white horse starts nibbling on his doublet, and Jaskier squeals as he tries to pull his sleeve away. "Oi, oi! Don't-- let me go, you beast, I need to go before he finds me!"
Geralt strolls the grounds, dressed comfortably in his white shirt-- made of some soft fabric that Dandelion had insisted that he get-- and those very tailored trousers that everyone always commented on, keeping an ear out for his wayward bard. He's nearing the stables when he hears the soft murmur of a familiar voice, pitched lower as though its owner is trying to remain unheard.
So that's where he is. Dandelion's sneaking apples and sugar cubes to the horses again, spoiling their breakfasts. That's how he got into Roach's good graces in the first place, bribing her with treats until she liked him best. As he'd said before-- her affections are for purchase, my dear, and I aim to buy.
He stands in the doorway of the stables, leaning against the frame. Dandelion's back is to him but his scent is unmistakable-- a little different today, but the base of it is the same. A more floral perfume than his usual woody, spicy scent. His hair is shorter, as well-- he must have really gotten up early if he'd already cut it, and that's a surprise-- and his doublet is more subdued. More like the clothes he would wear earlier in their friendship, when they traveled hard and all of his frippery would've never lasted.
"You may be a little late for that, my friend," he says, his voice warm with affection. "You've been found."
He's carrying his lute, as well, as his bags, as though he is about to go traveling. Had he meant to leave before Geralt woke, without even saying good-bye? The witcher steps a little closer, concern furrowing his brow.
"Dandelion?" Surely his dearest friend-- more than just friend, really, though they hadn't quite put the words to what they were yet-- wouldn't just steal away like a thief in the night. "Is everything all right?"
The sound of that very deep and familiar voice turns his anxiety up to eleven, and so Jaskier is too distracted by his own stomach making a turn to notice the affection in the man's tone, or the use of the f-word. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets out a very hearfelt-
"...fuck."
-just like Geralt (indirectly) taught him. Just his luck.
A mix of sadness and anger fills his scent as he turns around, ready for a confrontation, but confusion takes over instead when he sees what he's in front of him. His own brow furrows as well when blue eyes take in the details - the voice matches, so do the eyes and the hair - that jaw, as well, he would recognize anywhere, sharp enough to destroy rocks. Handsome as the day he met him, except... except it is all so wrong at the same time. The eye scar, the medallion, the beard, his age. What the fuck is going on?
"What-- how-- who--" There are other witchers in the world, he knows, he isn't that stupid. But only one wolf (because even if the medallion is all wrong, that's what it claims he is) is recognizable because of his white hair. Geralt once mentioned an old teacher living in Kaer Morhen, but supposedly he never leaves the place. Besides, Roach is here, that cannot be a coincide. That only leaves one explanation: magic. And so Jaskier's scent starts adding fear as well. "Bloody hell. Doppler? Glamour? Did that witch put you up for this-- this-- piss-poor impression?" Hugging his lute again, he starts walking back, ignoring Pegasus and hiding by Roach's side, finding her presence familiar and at least a tiny bit comforting. He doesn't want to depend on Geralt anymore, not after the mountain, but there's nothing he can do if a monster is involved. "I don't know what you want but when he finds out you stole his horse, he--"
Both his movement and his words freeze, though, when the creature calls him that. The one nickname he hasn't hear since he was a little kid - dandelion. His grandmother would compare him to flowers all the time, buttercups and dandelions being her favorite to use because of his sunny personality. When the time came for Jaskier to choose his new name, he knew exactly what to go for.
How dare this monster to rob such a beloved memory from him.
"How--" He gulps, hands trembling where they hold his lute. "How do you know that name? Stay out of my mind!"
Dandelion turns around, his scent suddenly full of fear and anxiety in a manner that Geralt had never smelled on him before. The concerned furrows in his forehead get deeper, and when the bard lays eyes on him-- everything is clearly wrong. The face isn't the same, more boyish than Dandelion's, and without his carefully trimmed facial hair. He's a little shorter, as well-- the bard that Geralt knew was just an inch or so taller than him, and this one was perhaps just an inch or so shorter.
But his eyes-- his eyes are the same, that unmistakable cornflower blue. Geralt would always know his bard by his eyes.
(He had, once when he was very deep in his cups, spoken to Dandelion about how all the very important people in his life had remarkable eyes. Yen's violet, the bard's cornflower blue, Ciri's brilliant green. Dandelion had spouted off some rubbish about windows to the soul and how all of his loves must therefore have brilliant souls, and Geralt had kissed him just so that he'd stop talking.)
"I'm not sure how I'd go about stealing my own horse," he says, only stepping close enough so that he can still see not-Dandelion. "But if it'll make you feel better, I can say I'll be mad at myself later for it."
There's a pang in his chest when the bard accuses him of being a doppler or a monster or something that isn't his cherished friend and muse, but there is something clearly going on here, so Geralt tries not to take it to heart. What he does know is that his friend-- even if he doesn't look like the friend that he remembers-- needs his help, and quite desperately. And he could never leave Dandelion's side when he needs help.
"I'm not in your head. I know that name because it's what you call yourself," he says, his voice low and soft, the same one that he uses when calming spooked horses. "You told me that your grandmother used to call you Dandelion, and sometimes Buttercup. You thought about calling yourself Buttercup instead, but decided that no one would take you seriously."
At the time, Geralt had told him that no one would take him seriously regardless of which flower name he used, and Dandelion had just puffed himself up in mock offense and stole his ale. He'd forgotten his irritation by the time he'd gotten to the bottom of the pint.
"Look, we can check, all right? You have a silver knife on you, don't you? I know I gave you one."
He can only hope that whatever... place this other bard came from, whatever Geralt had been looking after him, that he'd had the same concern for his friend's safety. Gods, though, this whole thing is Ciri's kind of business, not his-- she's the one who can go between worlds. He'll have to get word to her somehow, maybe through Yen.
Geralt holds out one of his arms; the sleeve is rolled up to the elbow, his scarred forearm bared.
"Monsters react to silver. Touch me with it and you'll know for sure."
For every step the creature takes towards him, Jaskier takes one back, feeling the traitor that is his heart beating furiously. He's nervous and scared, he wants to run, and yet he can't stop his ears from tingling at the sweetness of that voice speaking to him like that - like he's something precious to be protected.
Sadly, it doesn't last long. The next words are a knife twisting in his chest, and anger starts boiling inside him. He wants the monster to stop mentioning his beloved grandmother, he has no right!
"Oh, do shut up, you're terrible at this! I've never told anyone-" Eyes widen at the rest, and Jaskier being Jaskier, dramatic even in the face of (what he thinks it's) danger, puffs up, offended as he can be. Not taken seriously? The nerve! "EXCUSE YOU! There's nothing wrong with my name, you bloody wanker!"
Stop speaking to me as if you knew me, he wants to say as well, but he freezes once again when the creature exposes his arm for him. The metaphorical knife twists once more, dragging his heart through agony at the memory of having Geralt trusting him with his scars. Because of course he recognizes those scars, most of them at least - it's not strange for Geralt to have a couple of new ones every time they meet. He can name the story behind them all, and yet, these feel wrong as well. The position is correct, but they haven't healed right...
As if nobody has taken care of them.
Monsters react to silver, a lesson Jaskier learned early on. He's still anxious as hell, but there's something obviously going on here - even if the creature has gotten some details wrong, it still knows enough that makes Jaskier curious. Especially the details about his grandmother. He has no knife, but there's something silver with him that he could use. Another fond memory that he'd rather not bring into this, but beggars can't be choosers.
He opens the case of his lute to retrieve a little shiny something he hid in a pocket he sewed himself inside the case - a buttercup brooch, a gift from the Countess de Stael herself. Oh, if she could see the use he's giving it right now, she would probably feel incredibly smug. Gods, he wishes he could be in her arms right now.
A trembling hand comes closer very slowly and puts silver against skin... nothing happens. Jaskier stops breathing for a second and stares at creatu- man in front of him, not knowing what to say (and wow, isn't that a miracle), trying to make sense of it all. Is he dreaming? He's probably dreaming - he has been drinking a lot after all. Some movement next to them makes him look away from pseudo-Geralt: Roach, bumping her nose against the witcher, then against Jaskier himself. It makes him smile just a tiny bit - at least something stays true to how it should be.
"...I know her. And she knows us both. But you aren't Geralt." He says as he looks at the man again, this time with doubt sneaking into his voice. The details are still wrong, yet those eyes and jaw he would recognize anywhere. At least he isn't being attacked either, and that helps chase the fear away - if this was an enemy, Jaskier would be dead already. "I don't understand. What on Melitele's name is going on?"
Jaskier retrieves some silver from his lute case after Geralt's suggestion, but it isn't a knife-- it's a brooch. From a practical standpoint, it doesn't matter what form the silver's in, so long as it's silver, but this means that this not-Dandelion-- Buttercup, judging from the man's reaction to his anecdote-- doesn't have a knife given to him by a witcher who was concerned for his safety. What was his world's Geralt thinking? Unless he is constantly at the bard's side, isn't he worried about whether he'll be safe on his own?
Geralt couldn't always protect Dandelion, but he had at least wanted to make sure that the bard could protect himself, if push came to shove. And possibly not by braining someone with his lute, because he'd done that before and, while effective, it was something that he could only do once.
More importantly, though, the silver brooch is inert against his skin, because he's not a monster. That seems to be enough proof for Buttercup that Geralt isn't a doppler or some other nasty creature, but he still doesn't believe that he's Geralt. The fact that Roach noses up against him without hostility seems to help his case-- Roach wouldn't suffer someone unfamiliar in the stables with her. She's been known to kick even stable boys who aren't properly respectful.
"I am Geralt," he replies, as kindly as he's able. This is obviously coming as a terrible shock to the bard, so he tries to be tactful. It's not his strongest suit, but he has managed to speak to royalty without pissing them off, so he ought to be able to manage as much with a bard. "I don't know what's going on, exactly, but I'd bet that magic's involved somehow."
"I doubt you'll find the answer in here with Roach, anyway. She's not very talkative, most of the time. Come back to the house with me and we can try to figure out what's happened after breakfast."
Things generally look better after breakfast, he's found. Especially because he's not making his own breakfasts these days, and he has much better ones than stringy rabbit cooked over a campfire.
"There's always magic involved." He mumbles. "Fucking witches."
This is what he gets for not wanting to paint them all under the same Yennefer brush like a bigot? Fuck them all, seriously.
I am Geralt, the man says, and Jaskier feels a turmoil of emotions attempting to explode in his chest. Looking at him is almost like seeing a distorted picture from being dizzy or drunk, or hell- high. There's so much he recognizes yet at the same time, so much that feels wrong. It gets on his nerves. He feels confused, overwhelmed and... and...
Vulnerable.
That's it, that's the word. Vulnerable and exposed, and he hates it. This man treats him like he knows him, like he understands him, knows intimate details of his life, and he's... kind, which Jaskier wants to cling to but also infuriates him to no end. Even if he is Geralt, it's a still not good thing, not exactly. Sure, it means he isn't in any danger, but the pain from the mountain is still fresh, and he swore to himself he wouldn't give in again, he wouldn't follow the asshole around, wouldn't give him any more years of his life...
Jaskier wants to cry. He should be showering the man with questions, trying to uncover a new mystery, instead he feels anxious and helpless - wary, quiet, so much unlike himself. And that's because he doesn't know how to react without a breakdown (which he won't have, won't give this ass the pleasure). He wants to jump into those witcher arms and run away from him at the same time.
She is more talkative than you, he wants to reply out of habit. Except it isn't accurate, because this 'Geralt' has said more in a few minutes than Jaskier is used to hear from him in a whole week. One thing is true though, as much as it pains him: he won't achieve anything staying here in the stable. And food does sound nice...
Bollocks. Is it really breaking his word to himself if he doesn't have much of a choice?
"Where am I anyway?" He asks after putting the brooch back in the lute case, which he hangs back on his shoulder to follow notGeralt out, keeping more than a couple of inches between them. Even the brushing of their arms would destroy him, he's sure. "This is obviously not Oxenfurt."
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for rollstoseduce
Jaskier.
He hadn’t seen the bard since they’d parted on the mountain. That had been months ago, and now that Geralt’s attention wasn’t entirely taken up by Ciri and her safety, he remembers something particularly important about the man that he’d sent away. Jaskier had gotten his fame by singing songs about the White Wolf up and down the entire gods-damned Continent, and now every squad of Nilfgaardian soldiers is searching for Geralt and his Child Surprise. The name Jaskier is basically synonymous with witcher’s bard, and that means that he’s in just as much danger as Ciri was. Perhaps more-- Nilfgaardian soldiers wouldn’t have harmed the princess. Geralt has no illusions that they wouldn’t extend that kind of courtesy to a flashy, talkative bard.
Nilfgaard would find him. They would hurt him. They would likely kill him, once they realize that any information that Jaskier could possibly have is months out-of-date and would be of no use to them, and Geralt doesn’t want to have his blood on his hands, too.
Geralt rides out, and he starts at the coast.
Jaskier has never been particularly concerned with covering his tracks, so it isn’t difficult for Geralt to pick up on his trail. He follows it to Novigrad, down through Oxenfurt-- people are particularly willing to speak of him there, Jaskier’s university acquaintances have looser tongues than Geralt would like about their famous alumnus-- and further still to Gors Velen. That seaside port is where the trail runs out, and Geralt moves from tavern to tavern searching for any trace that the bard had been there. He finds it on the second night of his search, when he overhears the barmaids talking about the charming bard who’d played the nearby tavern several nights before and had left with a few strange men and hadn’t been back to get his things from his room.
He corners one of them when she’s bringing a tray down from the upper floor, certainly terrifying the poor girl, but she’s useful-- she tells him where Jaskier’s room is and gives him the spare key to it, her little hand trembling the whole time. He tips her for her trouble before going upstairs and checking the room.
The Trials couldn’t strip emotions from witchers, but they did dull the more troublesome ones-- fear, most notably. But when Geralt steps into that room and sees Jaskier’s pack on the floor, his doublet, his lute-- there is an icy coldness in his guts that he hasn’t felt in years.
He gathers Jaskier’s things, to take them with him. He would want them back when Geralt found him, the first thing he would want to know is that his precious lute is safe in its case. The witcher picks up his doublet, and after a few days of airing out, the scent has begun to dissipate, but it’s still there-- the floral oils that he uses in his hair, the wax that he rubs into his lute to maintain the wood, parchment, ink, a hint of sweat and beer. Jaskier. There had been a time when Geralt couldn’t get the smell of him out of his nose, not with how it got on everything he touched, everything from the witcher’s old shirts to Roach’s saddlebags.
Something in his chest clenches. Geralt dismisses it.
He leaves the inn with Jaskier’s things slung onto his back, heading for the stables to fetch Roach and continue his search. He’s in the process of getting her tack settled when he sees the scrap of cloth caught on the rough edge of a board that frames an adjacent stall. It’s a creamy white color, soft when Geralt picks it up, and--
floral oil, lute wax, parchment
--he tucks the scrap into one of his pouches. Digs around in Roach’s saddlebags before he finds the potion that he wants, uncorks it, and throws it back like a slug of vodka. The effects hit within seconds, the world coming into almost painful clarity as his witcher senses heighten past their usual limits. He breathes in.
Geralt is assaulted by the influx of information, closing his eyes to parse it better. Jaskier was here, he’s certain of it, he can track the floral-lute-parchment smell of him, can almost taste the note of fear that sours it. There are other unfamiliar men, three of them, he thinks, and the group of them mount horses and ride off, the bard with them. Geralt saddles up and spurs Roach out into the night, following the trail through the streets and out past the gates of the city. He pushes her until she’s frothing at the bit, until he’s led to what’s left of a small fortification in the wilderness between Dorian and Maribor, some leftover outpost that has fallen into disrepair. It’s no longer useful for military purposes, but the stone’s still sound and there will be rooms inside with doors that still lock tight. A good place to keep a prisoner for interrogations.
It’s dark still and Geralt is quiet as he scouts the fortification, sparing only enough time to get an estimate of how protected it is. There are perhaps a dozen men, armed but lax in their security-- they don’t expect anyone to bother them. They don’t expect anyone to come for their prisoner.
Geralt breathes, and the scent of floral oil and lute wax may very well be scorched into his sinuses now. That feeling in his chest is still there, that vice-like clench, and the witcher oils his sword with hanged man’s venom in preparation.
He slips in a side door, and the lone guard there is dead before he can raise an alarm. The next ones are a pair, talking idly as they walk, and Geralt waits around a corner until they’re within range. He nearly decapitates one with the first strike; the other shouts before the witcher’s blade silences him, and he hears an answering call from deeper in. It only spurs him to move faster, strike harder. He kills any man that stands between him and the cells in the basement.
He knows which cell it is. He can tell from down the hall, would have been able to smell the blood and sweat and rancid stink of fear even without the potion enhancing his senses. There’s a key ring on a guard’s belt, and he takes it-- its former owner has no more earthly need of it-- and the key scrapes when he unlocks the door.
Geralt pushes it open.
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He should've listened. But nooo, he gets cocky, lets the way Geralt allows him into his stories and his scars, shares his food and his rooms and protects him from angry husbands get to his head, feed his ego. Obviously Geralt cares about him, right? He's just an actions-rather-than-words kind of guy. Life has been rough for him, he doesn't know how to communicate. So many excuses has Jaskier made for Geralt's behavior through the years, thinking of himself to be so smart for figuring out what he calls Geralt-speech.
He should've listened.
If like could give me one blessing...
The words play on repeat in his head over and over as he makes his way down the mountain - tired, dirty, alone. Hurting. "See you around, Geralt" had been an answer spoken from shock, but with every step he takes with heavy feet, pain and anger build in his chest until they finally explode. Two decades, the best years of his short human life, his best songs... all wasted on this son of a bitch.
He really should've listened, he thinks again when he stops by a river to wash his face, not wanting to reach town with his eyes red from tears spilled over the biggest asshole in the world. He truly is a fool.
(He gets drunk that evening, and sings and dances for the local tavern until his feet and throat are sore. Drinking songs, naughty songs, adventure songs. But not a single song about the White Wolf.)
Oxenfurt seems to be the most logical step, so he stays there for a while, trying to put himself back together. He finishes "Her Sweet Kiss", adding to it a new bitter twist that didn't have before ("gorgeous garroter"? "lovely garroter"? how about neither). Half of the dinner hall cries when they hear him sing it for the first time. And it's the only song about Geralt he sings when he goes back to the road.
There's war coming, people need bards to help them forget. Oxenfurt may be home (in a way Lettenhove never was and never will) but Jaskier is still Jaskier, and he grows restless easily. He needs adventure, he needs his freedom. So back to the road he goes, jumping from inns to taverns, from courts banquets to weddings, singing for both pleasure and coin. People keep asking for the songs of the White Wolf, he deflects the best way he can - it's hard to escape his reputation.
The three soldiers that kidnap him from his room definitely don't let him forget.
They don't believe him when he says he doesn't have any idea about Geralt's whereabouts. They ask him about princess Cirilla as well, because they know he's played in court before. Bloody hell, if their information gathering is so good, how come they don't know Jaskier hasn't seen that asshole of a witcher in over a year? If they've been tracking him, surely they would've noticed the lack of very specific songs?
Jaskier tells them that after the first day. Obviously being afraid and obeying doesn't change anything, so if he's going to get hurt anyway, then at least he wants to use his tongue as it deserves. They think the whole separation deal is an act - Jaskier snorts.
If only.
They hit him and whip him, they keep him chained and only feed him some water and bread in the morning that he gets to throw up later when feet connect with his stomach. They don't ask about Geralt's location any longer, changing the tactic to wanting to know the witcher's secrets and weaknesses. Those Jaskier does know. He still doesn't tell. He tells himself it's because he doesn't want Nilfgaard to win.
The truth is, even now, he's still a loyal fool.
They leave guards outside. A waste of soldiers, because nobody is coming for him. Geralt isn't coming for him, but this part he keeps for himself - the guards possibly shitting themselves at the chance the White Wolf may come for them is the only little pleasure he can get from this situation.
It seems there's some commotion outside tonight, but he isn't paying attention. Jaskier stays in the corner of the cell, face and clothes covered in blood, pants reeking of piss, hugging his legs and waiting for sleep to come - if it comes at all. When the door opens, he whimpers in fear and tries to make himself smaller.
Jaskier has never been afraid of Geralt. For him, all the time. Of him? Never. Yet he reeks of it now. And when blue eyes finally look up and see who it is, they widen, filled with shock. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming.
"...Geralt?"
The voice is barely a murmur, sounding tired and broken... and the smell of fear starts disappearing, only leaving a faint touch under a racing hearbeat. Because he's still a loyal fool. Because even if he wants to throw something at the witcher's head and tell him to fuck off, he knows he's safe from Nilfgaard now.
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The smell of fear is inescapable, and it's far worse than the reek of piss, vomit, and blood that clings to the bard.
His name, spoken so soft and in a voice hoarse from screaming and dehydration, spurs Geralt into movement. He is across the room in two strides, kneeling before Jaskier to assess his wounds. His mind is clear, focused. Underneath that witcher-trained lucidity, Geralt wants to walk back out into that outpost, find every man who laid a hand on Jaskier and drag them back from the dead so that he can kill them all again, but more slowly. What he needs to do is make sure that the bard is well enough to move, and if he isn't, to tend to his wounds.
"I'm here."
His voice is low and gentle, the same tone that he uses to calm Roach when she spooks. He reaches out slowly to unlock the shackles from around his wrists; then hooks two fingers under his jaw, tilts his head a little to get a better look at the bruising to his face, to see if it's serious. Checks his eyes for a concussion. Moves on from there, to the major joints-- shoulders, knees, ankles. Dislocated shoulders wouldn't have been uncommon for this kind of treatment, and are easily, though not painlessly, fixed. Injuries to the knees or ankles would mean that Jaskier couldn't walk and would be harder to mend, would possibly require a healer or a mage. It's the long-term outcome that concerns him-- Geralt would carry him as far as necessary.
"We need to leave." He needs to take Jaskier somewhere safe, somewhere that he could get him cleaned up and bandaged, put him in a bed to rest. Get a few good meals into him. "Can you stand?"
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I'm here, the asshole says, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had just drank together some piss-tasting ale the night before. It's so much, too much to be exact, even for Jaskier, who usually isn't overwhelmed by emotions. He's used to feeling a lot, but not this, definitely not like this. Pain, fear, tiredness, thirst; his body and mind are already trying to navigate them all. He can't let his heart add all his anger at Geralt now.
He can't let it long for the gentleness on that voice that for once is showing care.
And now he's starting to feel dizzy.
A short sob escapes his lips, a mix of relief at being saved and his other emotions creating a hurricane in his chest, but he swallows the rest down when Geralt reaches out to touch him. Not right now, not like this. He can't help flinching, not because it's Geralt, but because his body still hasn't caught up with the fact he's free now, he's safe. These fingers aren't here to hurt him.
(This one does it with words.)
Jaskier lets him check anyway, because he isn't sure himself - his whole body is screaming in pain, he wouldn't be able to tell his injures apart even if he tried. Thankfully there is nothing broken - they're all bleeding cuts or purple bruises, and he does whimper when Geralt touches those, but at least his bones are fine. (They did threaten his tongue. Jaskier isn't sure he would've wanted to be saved if they had come through.)
Geralt's comment gets him a nod, then a shrug. Can he stand? He isn't sure, but he's going to try. Hands grab the wall and Jaskier raises slowly, the back of his legs showing more gashes from whipping there. The answer to the question? It's a no. His whole body starts shaking and with a painful fuck! he falls to his knees, fire burning through his veins, making it hard to breathe.
"Geralt..." Pride and anger forgotten for now, Jaskier begs in between pants for the only thing he desperately needs right now. "Please take me out of here."
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Taking Jaskier out of there is the least that Geralt can do for him. He intends to do more. This is his fault, both for the fact that Jaskier would never have been targeted if he hadn't sang Geralt's praises from one end of the Continent to the other, and because he would never have been taken if Geralt had been with him.
He should have been with him. It's a simple truth.
"I'll need to lift you."
This is all the warning that Jaskier gets before Geralt gets one arm under his legs and the other around his back and lifts, picking him up like he weighs no more than a child. Easily, even though they aren't far off in height, since Jaskier doesn't have anywhere near the same mass as a witcher and he's likely lost some while in captivity, besides.
He carries him out of the outpost, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers as he makes for the nearest exit. Once outside, he whistles for Roach and she comes readily at his call.
"You'll need to hang on," he says, hefting the bard into the saddle. Roach stands patiently, barely even shifts as Geralt deposits Jaskier onto her back. He directs Jaskier's hands into her mane, giving him something to grab on to and keep himself steady. "You won't hurt her."
Geralt digs briefly through the saddlebags until he finds his cloak, tossing it over Jaskier's shoulders and securing it at his throat; both to keep the bard warm on the ride as well as to conceal his injuries and tattered clothes. Walking into a city with a battered man would raise questions that Geralt doesn't have the time nor patience to answer. Then he swings into the saddle behind him, and when he grabs the reins, his arms are tucked securely up against Jaskier's sides. If Jaskier is to fall from the saddle, he'd have to take Geralt with him.
"Come on, Roach."
He spurs her forward. A slower pace would be easier on Jaskier, but Geralt can't be sure that there are no more Nilfgaardian soldiers in the area. They need to go to ground quickly and hole up somewhere safe until the bard has recovered enough to move on, and then...
Something. Geralt hasn't thought that far into the future yet.
He rides them up to Vizima; it's near, and it's a city big enough to get lost in. He locates an inn, one that's out of the way and looks clean enough that Jaskier won't catch something just by sleeping in the bed. The price for the room is exorbitant, even more than the usual witcher markup that Geralt is used to, but he pays it without complaint. Jaskier needs a bed and safety more than Geralt needs a heavy coin purse.
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At least the feeling of her mane in his hands is familiar. Comforting. Jaskier tries to concentrate on that, on afternoons spent braiding flowers in her hair.
Don't think about the pain, he tells himself under the pressure of his body's wounds.
Don't think about you incredibly complicated feelings for Geralt, the man his brain wants to push away and his heart wants to cuddle under his protection, like the traitor it is.
At least the trip is short, and Jaskier suddenly finds himself very grateful for Geralt's cloak hiding him from the city's curious eyes. As social as he is, interacting with people is the last thing he wants to do right now - the first being finding a bed, crawl under the sheets and sleep for a whole week.
Those aren't Geralt's plans, however. He sits Jaskier on the bed but only to start inspecting him to check his wounds. Awkwardness slips in then - never in twenty years Jaskier had trouble meeting Geralt's eyes (unless he's failing to be sneaky when asking for a favor) yet now he can't stand the heaviness of that golden gaze. Jaskier may find care in them if he does, and Melitele knows it would be extremely foolish to fall for that again.
So he looks away instead, taking in every detail of the room they're in. Not their-- his, Geralt's usual cheap inn.
"You don't have to stay." His voice is rough when he finally speaks again, and he knows he probably shouldn't do that in the first place, but he can't stand the silence. It leaves him alone with his own mind, and it's not a pretty place to be at right now. "You can send a healer and go. It's not--" He swallows a sob. "I didn't tell them anything. You're safe to leave."
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His head seems relatively unharmed, aside from some bruising on the face-- they likely struck him, probably just with fists. They wouldn't want him too addled from brain trauma to talk to them, after all, just scared enough to be compliant. The neck is fine, collarbone intact, shoulders still in their sockets. Bruises and abrasions on his wrists from the shackles, but nothing that some salve and bandages wouldn't take care of. Geralt checks his hands and fingers with particular care-- they're Jaskier's livelihood, after all, and he's relieved to find that they're uninjured.
Geralt had been silent, inspecting Jaskier with an expression on his face like a thundercloud-- dark, angry, and brooding. Not at the bard, but at the state of him and at himself. This is what happens to everyone to gets caught up with Geralt and his bullshit destiny.
He looks up from Jaskier's hands sharply when the bard speaks.
"Shut up, Jaskier."
It's not the right thing to say, and part of him knows that. But it's ridiculous, the idea that he'd walk out the door while Jaskier is in this state, just send along a healer and leave him to his fate? While Nilfgaard is still looking for him? He'd just rescued the man, he doesn't want him to walk out the door and get captured all over again.
He reaches for the torn hem of Jaskier's chemise, intending to pull it off of him.
"I need to see your wounds."
Which meant he'd need the trousers off, too. They'd whipped the back of his legs, and he needs to have a better look at any bruising. Make an estimate at whether he has enough salve and bandages, or whether he'll need to send someone to wake the healer and get supplies. If possible, he wants to take care of everything himself, without involving any third parties that might have loose lips.
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Fuck this asshole of a witcher. At least his heart syncs up with his mind now, not wanting to seek Geralt's kindness anymore. Anger returns and, if he had the energy, he would scream.
"Didn't shut me up in two decades, witcher. Not going to start working now."
His tone is bitter, his lack of will power to say Geralt's name obvious. Not his best comeback, he admits, his sentences are choppy and lack dramatics, but it's the best he can do at the moment. Being sassy is all he has, his only weapon, the one he used against the soldiers when he realized being quiet and obedient wouldn't earn him better treatment.
(They did threaten him with worse, way worse. But he's no soldier, he's weak and wimpy, they were afraid anything would kill him, and they needed the information urgently. They threatened his hands and tongue as well. Jaskier yelled at them, tell them that damaging those was equal to actually killing him. They got the idea, but he has to wonder how many days would've passed before they would've decided to stop being careful.)
With a sigh and trembling arms, Jaskier starts undressing, slowly, painfully, whimpering whenever a particular wounded muscle is pulled the wrong way. At least this doesn't feel like a big deal, considering he and Geralt have seen each other naked many times before while washing in rivers or lakes. It does bother Jaskier, however, that this probably means there's no healer coming - the witcher plans to take care of him himself. Fantastic.
His legs have gotten the worst of the whipping. They kept mocking him, asking him to dance. Jaskier doesn't stand up to remove his pants, he lies down on the bed and raises his butt, which thankfully is only required for a couple of seconds, because he doesn't have the energy for more than that. He doesn't sit up after it either - the bed is comfortable. The cuts on his back are bothering him, and he feels like tearing his skin off, but the tiredness wins.
"...it's cold." He murmurs, his whole body shivering on the matress.
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There's a venom in Jaskier's voice when he says witcher that Geralt's never heard from his mouth. Others, yes, but not him. And there's something equally bitter that makes its way into his scent, angry and sharp, and it almost doesn't matter what he says, not when the tone and his smell say it all for him.
Jaskier doesn't want his help. Geralt frowns, the expression putting deep furrows in his brow. Well-- too bad. He might not want it, but he's going to get it.
Geralt helps him with his clothes where he can, trying to keep him from having to bend or stretch and put pressure on his injuries, both for practical reasons and because hearing his pain makes the vice-thing twist tighter in his chest. With each piece of clothing removed, more injuries are revealed-- his abused back, his ribs and stomach mottled in red and purple, turning into greens and yellows where the bruises have started to heal. His legs, criss-crossed with the marks from a whip. Geralt is intimately familiar with the pain that a whipping can cause; there are towns that have blamed the arrival of a witcher for a plague or a crop blight or some other thing that was beyond his control.
He's pulling supplies out of his pack, his jar of medical salve and rolls of clean bandages, when Jaskier complains about the cold. His big hand rests on Jaskier's shin, left there from where he'd been inspecting a particularly nasty mark, and he feels the trembling start. He stands and goes to the fireplace, adding more wood and stoking it up so that the room warms. When he returns to Jaskier's bedside, he puts the cloak back around his shoulders; it doesn't matter if he gets blood on it, Geralt's bled on it plenty before.
There are more things that he'll need before he can tend to the bard, though. Water, for one thing, both for Jaskier to drink and for cleaning him. Washcloths, food, maybe a little hot mulled wine, if he could manage it. He's on his way to the door before he remembers some fragment of manners and says,
"Wait here. I need to get some things to tend to you."
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him, to fetch what he can as quickly as he can. When he returns, his errand had been mostly successful-- he has a large pitcher of water and a bowl, some cloths to wash him with and a little soap, whatever food could be scrounged up from the kitchen this late at night. No mulled wine, but there is a mug of cider that had been warmed for him.
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modern au, give me that dilf
Jaskier has always loved the city - all the sounds, the people, the different styles merging together in just one neighborhood. You never get bored in the city, and most importantly, it's full of opportunities. After spending his childhood in the family estate (where he's promised to never step again) and his young adult years in the college town he studied at, Jaskier has finally saved enough money to rent his own flat in the city, and it means a lot.
More and better paid tutoring jobs. More and better gigs. More and better various spaces to record cover videos at. And hopefully, a better chance at being discovered.
His online presence is nothing to laugh at - it's what's gotten him the money to move out, after all. He's not exactly famous, but he's well-known enough to get sponsors and occasionally be asked for a selfie in the street. All his social media has that lovely little tick next to his name that confirms he's someone. Sadly, even in this modern era, a contract with a record company is still the sign that a singer has really made it. But he's getting there, he can feel it. It's destiny.
All his excitement, however, doesn't make up for the fact that moving sucks. So many boxes! So many things to put in place! So much shopping for necessities to do! And no friends to help, which is the part that sucks the most. Jaskier is a people person, and he'll have to start from zero here. He still texts his sister during the whole process, for sure, and sharing the journey with his followers through pictures and short videos makes it a little less lonely, but it's still not the same.
Yet when Friday comes, he doesn't hit a single bar in the area, which shows how truly exhausted he is. He needs to unwind and recover energy before he can peacock around town. And that's when he remembers something: one of his followers mentioned a horse ranch near the area. Huh, that actually sounds perfect. He hasn't gone riding since he was a child, but he remembers enjoying it a lot. And one of the many reasons why he's chosen this city is because as big as it is, it's also really easy to quickly drive past the limits and finds trees and birds. A city boy he may be, but Jaskier also likes having some days out with nature every now and then, enjoying the sights and letting inspiration come from a sunset. It's like going on a little adventure.
So here he is on a Saturday morning, getting out of an uber with his guitar on his back and a satchel filled with his song notebook and some sandwiches for lunch, wearing comfortable yet fashionable clothes. The place is huge and well taken care of, and Jaskier is feeling the nostalgia hitting him already - this has been a great idea. He needs to remember to thank his follower later - although, didn't she mention her dad? Maybe he'll find her here as well.
Headphones are moved to his neck, sunglasses are hanged on his sweater and a picture of the entrance sign is taken before Jaskier finally takes the path up the house.
"Excuse me? Hello!" He says as he knocks on the door. "Good morning! I've been told I could rent horses here?"
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It's really only luck that he has the place at all, a gift from an old friend who had a parcel of land that he didn't know what to do with. Turning it into a moderately successful ranch to train and rehabilitate horses took a lot of time and effort, but Geralt had had the time and needed something to put labor into. After his stint in prison and years of parole, the ranch was something that he built, something that he made better rather than worse. It helped him get back on his feet. And once he had gotten his life back on track and made a lot of progress fixing his many and varied personal problems, it was probably one of the major deciding factors in getting the judge to let him have visitation rights to his daughter.
Ciri was nearly twelve years old by the time he got to meet her. Building a relationship with a nearly teenaged girl was difficult, but ultimately every second that he could spend with his daughter was worth it. She was the best thing that ever happened to him, and he wanted to make up for all the time that he'd lost to his own stupid mistakes.
In time, visitation had become joint custody, Ciri's time split between the ranch and her mother's house in the city. And, of course, Yen is the better provider, with her law degree and her political aspirations, but Geralt likes to think that Ciri at least enjoys her time with him. Yen was always too good for him, too smart for him, and he couldn't even blame her for not telling him when she had gotten pregnant. Their relationship had always been rocky, an on-again-off-again thing that had no stability, no real chance of long-term survival. And then he had gone to prison a few years later, so. It was a smart move, really. He couldn't fuck up a kid that he never met.
The point is, Geralt's turned his life around. He has his daughter, he has a business doing something that he loves that also manages to keep the bills paid, he's on speaking terms with Yen and his foster father and most of his foster brothers. His life is okay. It's making sense.
Then, one Saturday morning while he's busy getting the horses their usual breakfasts of hay and grain, a tall, blue-eyed complication walks into his life.
He's just finished and is walking up the path to get started on his other chores for the day when he hears the sound of someone calling out and knocking at the door to his home. Ciri's at school, thankfully, so she isn't there to answer the door for some stranger. Some city boy, it looks like, with headphones around his neck and an instrument case on his back, looking more fit to walk into a cute cafe and take Insta-whatsit pictures of his lattes or something than to ride horses.
"Over here," he calls, to get the man's attention. Maybe this guy is just here for a few pictures with horses for social media. Geralt doesn't exactly care if he does that, so long as he doesn't scare them with the flash or do something stupid that would get him bitten or kicked. "You can ride here, if that's what you're looking for. You ever been on a horse?"
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A bloody adonis.
He worries his worry lip as he feels his throat going dry at the sight. The man is big and incredibly well built, thicker and stronger than a brick house; the hair is white and long, making Jaskier wish he could run his fingers through it. He's a father, too, which means this is his first time meeting a true DILF, one that apparently loves animals and has a voice that probably could make you come just by talking dirty into your ear.
Hopefully the lack of greeting was only a slip and he isn't actually rude, otherwise he'll have to text his sister and go through his bisexual crisis for the second time in his life.
(If you ask Elizabeth, she thinks her brother goes through a bisexual crisis every other day.)
Snapping himself out of it by clearing his voice, Jaskier hurries in direction of the man, reminding himself that this isn't a bar and the ranch looks like a place he'd like to visit again in the future, so he can't fuck up. For the sake of his lovely follower, as well. So his charm will be on, but not overly flirty. Gotta test the waters first - hell, maybe the man is as straight they come.
"I have! I used to ride all the time when I was a child." When he reaches the adonis' side, Jaskier gets a better look of his face and ugh, those eyes are as golden as the flower that names him and that jaw could smash rocks. How can one man be so unfairly handsome? With his best smile on his face, he offers a hand to shake. "Hi, I'm Jaskier. I recently moved to the city, and your daughter I believe? Recommended this place on Twitter."
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Well. He could at least try not to scare this guy off, especially because he claims to already know how to ride. If Geralt really doesn't have to babysit him while he's here and he's interested in more than just a one-off thing, than he could be a consistent, easy customer who won't cause him any grief.
"Geralt," he replies, and gives the offered hand a brief shake. Then the man keeps talking, and the misgivings start to emerge again. Geralt frowns, his brow furrowing in a manner that he knows makes people nervous.
"How do you know my daughter?" Is he going to have to start keeping better track of what Ciri does on the internet? He knew he shouldn't have let her get that Twitter thing, she's always on it and he never knows what she's looking at. Something about memes, whatever those are. "She's too young to be talking to you."
He's going to have to sit Ciri down and have the Stranger Danger talk, isn't he. Talking to strange men on the internet, what's she thinking? If this creep keeps showing up and trying to talk to her or meet her or god help him, look at her funny, Geralt will kick his ass all the way back to the city.
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...or maybe not. The question confuses him, since he's already explained how he knows the girl (through Twitter!) and then shock comes when Geralt adds the rest. Going extremely pale, Jaskier gasps and takes a step back, his voice reaching a high pitch when he replies with obvious nervousness.
"...bollocks. No! Nonononono, it's nothing like that!" He explains as he shakes his hands. "I'm a musician! She likes my music! She's a fan. How could I-- Ah, wait, just give me a second--"
He reaches into his pocket to take out his very extra looking phone (how does he keep it in those very tight pants, nobody knows) and proceeds to open Twitter, finding the thread with the girl quite easily since he liked it to have the ranch information at hand (but he stills murmurs fuck over and over during the whole process).
"Here, see? I don't even follow her back." He shows Geralt the conversation, then taps on the girl's username to access her account. A blue button offers to follow the account, and he's obviously not pressed it ever. "She likes my tweets and occasionally comments to discuss music or a funny meme. I don't even know her age or if that's her real name. That's all, I can swear on my guitar."
And that's one hell of a swear, because his guitar is his fucking life.
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He shows Geralt his daughter's profile, and the 'follow' button on it is clearly not active. Geralt hmms at it, and though his various grunts and nonverbal replies can be difficult to decipher without enough exposure, it doesn't sound as irritated as before. Maybe he can believe that this guy isn't here to creep on his only child. Maybe.
"Fine."
Was Ciri's username on this thing really 'by-the-power-of-SCREAMING'? Sure, he'd heard the stories of how she used to scream her lungs out as a child, but apparently she's embraced her sordid noisy past.
"It better stay that way." Well, he's already ruined whatever good first impression he could make here, might as well make it very clear that his daughter is so far Off Limits that she might as well be on the fucking moon.
"So. You're here to ride." Back to business and less terrifying avenues of conversation. "What style did you learn and what do you want to do?"
Both questions are necessary information for him to know how to get this kid set up. Though, he's going to see just how much this guy actually knows before he lets him loose with one of his horses. Jaskier wouldn't be the first idiot to walk in and try to lie to him about knowing his ass from a saddle.
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Because yeah, now the initial scare is wearing off and the conversation replays in his head, he understands how the misunderstanding happened. In fact, he would've reacted with suspicion too if it had been about his sister. So this first impression? Far from bad. Not the best, for sure, but not enough to scare him off either. Geralt is a good dad, already showing more care in a couple of minutes that Jaskier's own father has ever shown for him in his entire life.
So he isn't only a DILF, he's a sweet DILF. His heart (and his dick) won't survive this.
Business talk is back, and Jaskier considers it a good sign, so he comes closer again, both to hear him better and to have a better look of those amazing eyes.
"English style. Always leisure riding, I was never one for competitions or polo. Blegh."
He pulls a face at the idea of sports, obviously this is the artist of the family. No, polo has always been his brother's thing, perfect handsome Frederick with his perfect beard and his perfect manners and perfect boring girlfriend. Some times Jaskier has to wonder how he and Lizzie are related to him.
"And that's what I'm looking for now as well. To unwind. To get on a horse and relax for a few hours, have lunch while lying on the grass and maybe compose a bit if inspiration strikes."
If that's allowed in the first place, but he figures that if the guitar was a problem, Geralt would've already told him so the minute he saw it. It's not exactly a small object to go unnoticed, now is it?
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She has a mean right hook.
Jaskier mentions polo and, taking into account his whole... everything, to be honest, just everything that Geralt is seeing right in front of him, he assumes that this kid is some kind of money. Rich parents, probably, who had their kid take English riding lessons and maybe forced him to do showjumping or something. Well, if that is the case, the one good thing is that rich kids usually get good lessons.
"I don't let anyone take one of my horses by themselves until I know they can handle it," he says. "And no one goes up on the trails alone. For safety."
Buddy system, always. If something happens out on the trail, there needs to be someone else there to either help or get help, preferably someone who knows the land well. And, really, that person is generally Geralt himself-- he usually leads the group trail rides, but he doesn't often get singles. Most people also don't want to be out in the wilderness alone with Geralt.
Geralt tips his head towards the barn, indicating for Jaskier to follow him back down.
"If you've got time, I can show you around."
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for rollstoseduce
Luckily for him, Dandelion had been all too willing to lend a hand. And, of course, after the house had been made properly homely, it was quite late in the year, and it was out of the question for his dear friend to try to trek north. The winters in Toussaint were mild and agreeable, and all the roads to Oxenfurt or Novigrad would surely be miserable and snowed over, and Geralt had plenty of room. It was only sensible for the bard to winter at Corvo Bianco, keeping Geralt company with song and good conversation over well-aged bottles of wine. He even managed to convince Geralt to go to some country noble's new year's banquet, a lavish affair that Dandelion enjoyed greatly despite the fact that he wasn't the bard for it. Perhaps even more so, because he sat at Geralt's side for at least half the night, getting increasingly soused on fine vintages and regaling him with his scathing critique of the entertainment.
It was a good winter. A good spring, too, as Dandelion claimed the delightful scenery had inspired him to write a few volumes of pastoral poetry. And then a good summer after that, as Geralt got news of a leshen a little ways to the south that needed to be taken care of, and Dandelion simply had to follow along, since he'd never had the pleasure of observing the witcher hunt for one. And then fall was wine season, Geralt, you surely wouldn't send your dearest friend away at the grandest time of year?, and once that was over, it was winter again.
Spring is, of course, fast approaching. The olive trees in the grove have budded and will soon be in full bloom; the early mornings are still cool, but the weather warms enough after the sun begins to climb to make taking Roach for a ride a pleasant affair. After months of comfortable living and being fed the best oats and hay that a famous vineyard could afford, she could use a little exercise-- so could Pegasus. If the bard would rouse himself before noon, Geralt might even entertain taking him along.
The blanket-wrapped lump that he'd left in bed that morning is gone when Geralt goes to check. Nor is Dandelion in the bath, or the kitchen, or even the study where he does his serious writing. Geralt makes his way outside to look for him-- perhaps he's decided that a little early rising would be good for the creative juices. And while a witcher wouldn't know much about that-- Geralt leaves all matters of the creative in Dandelion's capable hands-- he'd have few qualms with a bard that rouses himself when there are still a few hours of morning left.
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That's what he says. Why? Because that's how it usually goes. They argue all the time, it's nothing new. And yet this time, it feels different. With every step he takes down the mountain, the shock slowly fades to leave room for other stronger emotions. Hurt. Sadness. Betrayal.
Anger. At Geralt or at himself for being such a fool? Probably a bit of both.
He had thought himself to be so smart, so good at reading Geralt, to see the real meaning of his actions behind the wall of brooding and grunts. He had thought we aren't friends had been Geralt trying to deal with his witcher logic by pushing away the things that mattered.
He was wrong.
And here he is now, with a broken heart and tears he can't stop from falling anymore when he hugs Roach after taking his things back. His favorite girl in the world gets one last sugar cube before they part, and he could swear she doesn't want him to leave. If only her master would agree.
That night, Jaskier spends it at a tavern, getting as drunk as he can. Bare feet jump on a table and he sings until his throat hurts, songs about everyone and everything, but not a single one about the White Wolf. Twenty years spent on that asshole, the prime of his youth - wasted. No more! The White Wolf can go fuck himself. Jaskier has plenty of other things to sing about.
(The fact he finishes Her sweet kiss with a new bitter, angry twist, is irrelevant.)
Sadly, the rest of the world hasn't caught up with this update in the bard's repertoire. His reputation follows him around, impossible to escape. His mind doesn't have enough of those creative juices either, this is worse than when he broke up with the countess. He needs a break, needs to rest, needs to bury himself in art and forget.
He needs Oxenfurt.
It would be a long trip, which he would usually not mind, but he isn't in the mood for it. Besides, war is getting closer, and he shouldn't be walking so freely while being an associate (ha) of the witcher that claimed the Cintra heir. So Jaskier, for once, swallows his pride and pays a sorceress to open a portal for him.
Judging by the look she gives him, she's reading his mind. Bloody hell, are all witches out to get him after all?
"You don't need Oxenfurt, songbird. You need something else."
He doesn't have time to ask what she means when the portal swallows him, only to drop him... somewhere. Definitely not Oxenfurt. A villa of some kind, it looks like? Fuck, if some guards were to find him here, he would be screwed. Jaskier hugs his lute to his chest and, with worry and anxiety taking over his scent, proceeds to explore the place as carefully as he can, staying behind walls and trees for hiding.
A vineyard. The aromas are nice, and the place in general is well kept. In other circumstances, he wouldn't mind spending time here, drink some fine wine and bring a lady to lie down with him on the grass. But alas, what he needs now are answers, and possibly a way out. The smell of (literal) horseshit suddenly hits his nose, and Jaskier decides to hurry in that direction - stables could mean a stable boy, one young and innocent that would help instead of yelling and kicking him out.
What he finds instead, however, kicks him right in the guts. Metaphorically.
"...Roach?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Is he here? Is that why the witch sent him this way instead of Oxenfurt? He can't stay, he just can't. And yet... he can't help coming closer to pet her. It's barely been a month, but he's missed her (well, not just her, but he doesn't want to think about the implications of that right now). She seems to be confused by him at first, but soon she gives in, accepting his stroking of her fur.
"My sweet girl, how come you-- oi!" Jaskier jumps in surprise when a second horse comes closer as well, bumping its head against his tired body. It's a lovely shade of white, and Jaskier finds himself thinking this the kind of horse he would pick for himself. "Easy there! I don't have anything to give you!" The white horse starts nibbling on his doublet, and Jaskier squeals as he tries to pull his sleeve away. "Oi, oi! Don't-- let me go, you beast, I need to go before he finds me!"
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So that's where he is. Dandelion's sneaking apples and sugar cubes to the horses again, spoiling their breakfasts. That's how he got into Roach's good graces in the first place, bribing her with treats until she liked him best. As he'd said before-- her affections are for purchase, my dear, and I aim to buy.
He stands in the doorway of the stables, leaning against the frame. Dandelion's back is to him but his scent is unmistakable-- a little different today, but the base of it is the same. A more floral perfume than his usual woody, spicy scent. His hair is shorter, as well-- he must have really gotten up early if he'd already cut it, and that's a surprise-- and his doublet is more subdued. More like the clothes he would wear earlier in their friendship, when they traveled hard and all of his frippery would've never lasted.
"You may be a little late for that, my friend," he says, his voice warm with affection. "You've been found."
He's carrying his lute, as well, as his bags, as though he is about to go traveling. Had he meant to leave before Geralt woke, without even saying good-bye? The witcher steps a little closer, concern furrowing his brow.
"Dandelion?" Surely his dearest friend-- more than just friend, really, though they hadn't quite put the words to what they were yet-- wouldn't just steal away like a thief in the night. "Is everything all right?"
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"...fuck."
-just like Geralt (indirectly) taught him. Just his luck.
A mix of sadness and anger fills his scent as he turns around, ready for a confrontation, but confusion takes over instead when he sees what he's in front of him. His own brow furrows as well when blue eyes take in the details - the voice matches, so do the eyes and the hair - that jaw, as well, he would recognize anywhere, sharp enough to destroy rocks. Handsome as the day he met him, except... except it is all so wrong at the same time. The eye scar, the medallion, the beard, his age. What the fuck is going on?
"What-- how-- who--" There are other witchers in the world, he knows, he isn't that stupid. But only one wolf (because even if the medallion is all wrong, that's what it claims he is) is recognizable because of his white hair. Geralt once mentioned an old teacher living in Kaer Morhen, but supposedly he never leaves the place. Besides, Roach is here, that cannot be a coincide. That only leaves one explanation: magic. And so Jaskier's scent starts adding fear as well. "Bloody hell. Doppler? Glamour? Did that witch put you up for this-- this-- piss-poor impression?" Hugging his lute again, he starts walking back, ignoring Pegasus and hiding by Roach's side, finding her presence familiar and at least a tiny bit comforting. He doesn't want to depend on Geralt anymore, not after the mountain, but there's nothing he can do if a monster is involved. "I don't know what you want but when he finds out you stole his horse, he--"
Both his movement and his words freeze, though, when the creature calls him that. The one nickname he hasn't hear since he was a little kid - dandelion. His grandmother would compare him to flowers all the time, buttercups and dandelions being her favorite to use because of his sunny personality. When the time came for Jaskier to choose his new name, he knew exactly what to go for.
How dare this monster to rob such a beloved memory from him.
"How--" He gulps, hands trembling where they hold his lute. "How do you know that name? Stay out of my mind!"
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But his eyes-- his eyes are the same, that unmistakable cornflower blue. Geralt would always know his bard by his eyes.
(He had, once when he was very deep in his cups, spoken to Dandelion about how all the very important people in his life had remarkable eyes. Yen's violet, the bard's cornflower blue, Ciri's brilliant green. Dandelion had spouted off some rubbish about windows to the soul and how all of his loves must therefore have brilliant souls, and Geralt had kissed him just so that he'd stop talking.)
"I'm not sure how I'd go about stealing my own horse," he says, only stepping close enough so that he can still see not-Dandelion. "But if it'll make you feel better, I can say I'll be mad at myself later for it."
There's a pang in his chest when the bard accuses him of being a doppler or a monster or something that isn't his cherished friend and muse, but there is something clearly going on here, so Geralt tries not to take it to heart. What he does know is that his friend-- even if he doesn't look like the friend that he remembers-- needs his help, and quite desperately. And he could never leave Dandelion's side when he needs help.
"I'm not in your head. I know that name because it's what you call yourself," he says, his voice low and soft, the same one that he uses when calming spooked horses. "You told me that your grandmother used to call you Dandelion, and sometimes Buttercup. You thought about calling yourself Buttercup instead, but decided that no one would take you seriously."
At the time, Geralt had told him that no one would take him seriously regardless of which flower name he used, and Dandelion had just puffed himself up in mock offense and stole his ale. He'd forgotten his irritation by the time he'd gotten to the bottom of the pint.
"Look, we can check, all right? You have a silver knife on you, don't you? I know I gave you one."
He can only hope that whatever... place this other bard came from, whatever Geralt had been looking after him, that he'd had the same concern for his friend's safety. Gods, though, this whole thing is Ciri's kind of business, not his-- she's the one who can go between worlds. He'll have to get word to her somehow, maybe through Yen.
Geralt holds out one of his arms; the sleeve is rolled up to the elbow, his scarred forearm bared.
"Monsters react to silver. Touch me with it and you'll know for sure."
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Sadly, it doesn't last long. The next words are a knife twisting in his chest, and anger starts boiling inside him. He wants the monster to stop mentioning his beloved grandmother, he has no right!
"Oh, do shut up, you're terrible at this! I've never told anyone-" Eyes widen at the rest, and Jaskier being Jaskier, dramatic even in the face of (what he thinks it's) danger, puffs up, offended as he can be. Not taken seriously? The nerve! "EXCUSE YOU! There's nothing wrong with my name, you bloody wanker!"
Stop speaking to me as if you knew me, he wants to say as well, but he freezes once again when the creature exposes his arm for him. The metaphorical knife twists once more, dragging his heart through agony at the memory of having Geralt trusting him with his scars. Because of course he recognizes those scars, most of them at least - it's not strange for Geralt to have a couple of new ones every time they meet. He can name the story behind them all, and yet, these feel wrong as well. The position is correct, but they haven't healed right...
As if nobody has taken care of them.
Monsters react to silver, a lesson Jaskier learned early on. He's still anxious as hell, but there's something obviously going on here - even if the creature has gotten some details wrong, it still knows enough that makes Jaskier curious. Especially the details about his grandmother. He has no knife, but there's something silver with him that he could use. Another fond memory that he'd rather not bring into this, but beggars can't be choosers.
He opens the case of his lute to retrieve a little shiny something he hid in a pocket he sewed himself inside the case - a buttercup brooch, a gift from the Countess de Stael herself. Oh, if she could see the use he's giving it right now, she would probably feel incredibly smug. Gods, he wishes he could be in her arms right now.
A trembling hand comes closer very slowly and puts silver against skin... nothing happens. Jaskier stops breathing for a second and stares at creatu- man in front of him, not knowing what to say (and wow, isn't that a miracle), trying to make sense of it all. Is he dreaming? He's probably dreaming - he has been drinking a lot after all. Some movement next to them makes him look away from pseudo-Geralt: Roach, bumping her nose against the witcher, then against Jaskier himself. It makes him smile just a tiny bit - at least something stays true to how it should be.
"...I know her. And she knows us both. But you aren't Geralt." He says as he looks at the man again, this time with doubt sneaking into his voice. The details are still wrong, yet those eyes and jaw he would recognize anywhere. At least he isn't being attacked either, and that helps chase the fear away - if this was an enemy, Jaskier would be dead already. "I don't understand. What on Melitele's name is going on?"
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Geralt couldn't always protect Dandelion, but he had at least wanted to make sure that the bard could protect himself, if push came to shove. And possibly not by braining someone with his lute, because he'd done that before and, while effective, it was something that he could only do once.
More importantly, though, the silver brooch is inert against his skin, because he's not a monster. That seems to be enough proof for Buttercup that Geralt isn't a doppler or some other nasty creature, but he still doesn't believe that he's Geralt. The fact that Roach noses up against him without hostility seems to help his case-- Roach wouldn't suffer someone unfamiliar in the stables with her. She's been known to kick even stable boys who aren't properly respectful.
"I am Geralt," he replies, as kindly as he's able. This is obviously coming as a terrible shock to the bard, so he tries to be tactful. It's not his strongest suit, but he has managed to speak to royalty without pissing them off, so he ought to be able to manage as much with a bard. "I don't know what's going on, exactly, but I'd bet that magic's involved somehow."
Portals, probably. Gods, Geralt hates fucking portals.
"I doubt you'll find the answer in here with Roach, anyway. She's not very talkative, most of the time. Come back to the house with me and we can try to figure out what's happened after breakfast."
Things generally look better after breakfast, he's found. Especially because he's not making his own breakfasts these days, and he has much better ones than stringy rabbit cooked over a campfire.
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This is what he gets for not wanting to paint them all under the same Yennefer brush like a bigot? Fuck them all, seriously.
I am Geralt, the man says, and Jaskier feels a turmoil of emotions attempting to explode in his chest. Looking at him is almost like seeing a distorted picture from being dizzy or drunk, or hell- high. There's so much he recognizes yet at the same time, so much that feels wrong. It gets on his nerves. He feels confused, overwhelmed and... and...
Vulnerable.
That's it, that's the word. Vulnerable and exposed, and he hates it. This man treats him like he knows him, like he understands him, knows intimate details of his life, and he's... kind, which Jaskier wants to cling to but also infuriates him to no end. Even if he is Geralt, it's a still not good thing, not exactly. Sure, it means he isn't in any danger, but the pain from the mountain is still fresh, and he swore to himself he wouldn't give in again, he wouldn't follow the asshole around, wouldn't give him any more years of his life...
Jaskier wants to cry. He should be showering the man with questions, trying to uncover a new mystery, instead he feels anxious and helpless - wary, quiet, so much unlike himself. And that's because he doesn't know how to react without a breakdown (which he won't have, won't give this ass the pleasure). He wants to jump into those witcher arms and run away from him at the same time.
She is more talkative than you, he wants to reply out of habit. Except it isn't accurate, because this 'Geralt' has said more in a few minutes than Jaskier is used to hear from him in a whole week. One thing is true though, as much as it pains him: he won't achieve anything staying here in the stable. And food does sound nice...
Bollocks. Is it really breaking his word to himself if he doesn't have much of a choice?
"Where am I anyway?" He asks after putting the brooch back in the lute case, which he hangs back on his shoulder to follow notGeralt out, keeping more than a couple of inches between them. Even the brushing of their arms would destroy him, he's sure. "This is obviously not Oxenfurt."
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