Geralt's search for contracts goes about as well as can be expected-- mostly drowners in the sewers, maybe a water hag. Drudgery, really, both uninteresting work and low-paying, though he does notice that the payment is more generous than he would expect, and the man that he deals with calls him Master Witcher or White Wolf without a hint of disrespect. A little later, as he's returning to the University so as not to be late for dinner, a child approaches him in the street and grabs his hand, asking him if he's Master Jaskier's witcher, the one from all the songs, and when her mother comes to fetch her, she apologizes to him for being bothered rather than cursing at him for touching her child.
The bard hasn't returned to their shared room when Geralt comes back to change; armor and swords aren't appropriate for dinner in polite company, after all. He puts his potion bag back into the trunk to keep it locked up and, when he has to move a heavy blanket to make room for it, something falls out-- a notebook, hidden in the folds. It's Jaskier's, of course, and Geralt intends to put it back where he found it, except that he sees the title on the top of the page. The Witcher's Third Sword.
Geralt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can't not read it, he has to know what kinds of songs Jaskier sings about his cock. If for no other reason than that he should be prepared for the next time he steps into a brothel.
There's more in that notebook, though, than just dirty songs about various parts of Geralt's anatomy-- really, Jaskier, it's a stretch to say that the longest of all his blades is the one between his thighs-- and as he reads, Geralt can pick out when some of them were written just by the subject matter. Not all of it is about the witcher but much of it is, and there's a point where the tone takes a sharp dive into misery and melancholy and pain, and he knows exactly what happened then.
It's leagues away from the sonnets he'd penned earlier in the book, the ones that left their subject nameless as Jaskier wrote, in his neat, practiced scrawl, I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
He's in a strange mood come dinnertime, feeling off like he's made a mis-step in a spar and been caught wrong-footed. He and Jaskier sit at a far table in the hall for their meal, and even though there are plenty of friends and acquaintances that try to tempt him away with wine and good conversation, Jaskier stays with him. Eventually, though, the call for songs entices him, and it's like he's trying to make up for a year of banishing Geralt's name from his lips all in one night. The crowd eats it up, sings along to the chorus of Toss a coin until dust shakes from the rafters, and when Jaskier returns to him, he is proud and beaming and smells like happiness and second chances.
Geralt expects him to wander off with one of the many pretty people who stole snatches of his attention, but he returns with the witcher to their room afterwards. If he had wanted to bring someone back, he could have told Geralt and he would've left, made himself scarce for a few hours until he was through. But then he remembers that hidden notebook and I hunt for the liquid measure of your step and feels wrong-footed again. When they go to bed that night, Jaskier curls against his chest and Geralt lays awake in the darkness, listening to his sleep-slow heart in this bed that smells entirely of Jaskier. When his dreams start to turn restless, all it takes is for him to murmur I'm here, Jask, against his ear, soft and low, and the bard quiets in his arms. Geralt stays awake until he has to get up, so early that the sun hasn't even risen yet, and he doesn't dwell on why it feels so difficult to leave those body-warmed sheets behind.
He leaves behind a feather bed and a sweet, pliant bard to slog through the fucking ice-cold waters of the Pontar, digging through the mud until he has a bucket full of river prawns and clams, then fishes until he has a brace of trout to bring back with him to the University. He walks into the kitchen, muddied and still damp and reeking like fish and river scum; he drops his catch onto the counter in front of the head cook.
"Make something of this for Jaskier's dinner tonight," he says, turns on his heel, and leaves.
He catches a maid in the hall near Jaskier's room and asks her to fetch a bath for him, and she doesn't argue with him for even a moment after she catches a whiff of him; he even slips her a few coins once she fetched some help and filled the bath in their room with steaming hot water, in appreciation for how valiantly she kept her face from twisting up at his foul stench. Jaskier wakes to a mostly-clean witcher, and when he asks for an explanation as to why he'd been gone so early-- and apparently had gone dredging through the river-- Geralt replies only vaguely with a job. He simply doesn't elaborate that the job is one of a personal nature, not for coin, done only because he remembers that Jaskier loves seafood stews in autumn and he should have things that he likes. All is well, anyway, despite his vague answer, because Jaskier helps him wash his hair, and the oil that he puts in it smells like lavender.
The market is bustling by the time they get to it, and that's even when it isn't peak hours-- the clamor and riot of colors and sounds and smells is vaguely disorienting and discomfiting, but Geralt endures it for the sake of getting what they need. Jaskier purchases clothes and gifts, mostly on his own with the witcher lurking nearby, offering commentary only when prompted. It's easier when they look at horses, mostly because the market is calmer there for the sake of the animals, and Geralt has Jaskier sit on several geldings before he's satisfied that they've found an even-tempered mount. They bring the horse-- Pegasus-- back to the stables, then Jaskier has to run to not be late to his own lecture. Geralt attends to the rest of the purchases, and, with time to kill and an idle curiosity, makes his way to the building where Jaskier is lecturing. He finds the right room by following the smell of floral oil and lute wax, then by the sound of the bard's familiar voice. The lecture hall is full when he walks in, the class already started, so he leans against a pillar in the back and listens. Jaskier does well in front of a class, but he's always loved an attentive audience so it's hardly surprising that he takes to it so readily.
The last exercise of the lecture is an analysis, and Jaskier perches himself on his desk with his lute and plays. The melody is something that Geralt recognizes in pieces, something that he's only heard in parts and never as a whole. It gives him a vaguely uneasy feeling from the start, the same feeling that he gets when he knows he's forgotten something, and it reaches a head when Jaskier meets his eyes across the room and Geralt can smell the panic on him. A few of the students have noticed his arrival as well, glancing from him to Jaskier like they know a secret that he's not privy to.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
(Who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you. The words come back to him from over a decade past, from when Jaskier was a younger man and Geralt was so very stubborn.)
Jaskier's audience is moved to tears by the end, and if Geralt had felt wrong-footed before, now it feels like he'd tried to put his foot down and found thin air instead of solid ground. The class composes itself, and what was likely supposed to be an analysis of the structure of the song turns into commentary on its subject instead. Geralt stands at the back of the room and listens to the students call the subject foolish, debate on whether his actions are of simple ignorance-- in which case he is merely an idiot-- or from active choice-- in which he is cruel and callous. A few minutes off from the top of the hour, when the class is to be adjourned, Geralt slips out the door again to stand in the hall and wait for Jaskier to emerge. When the students file out, they walk past him and he feels their eyes on him, can hear their whispers as they leave, can even hear a little of their distant conversation after they've turned the far corner of the hall.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
Is he still weak, is he still wanting? Or did those tender sentiments die on the mountain, did they wither like the words in that notebook in Jaskier's trunk, where the pages at the end are barren and empty?
no subject
The bard hasn't returned to their shared room when Geralt comes back to change; armor and swords aren't appropriate for dinner in polite company, after all. He puts his potion bag back into the trunk to keep it locked up and, when he has to move a heavy blanket to make room for it, something falls out-- a notebook, hidden in the folds. It's Jaskier's, of course, and Geralt intends to put it back where he found it, except that he sees the title on the top of the page. The Witcher's Third Sword.
Geralt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can't not read it, he has to know what kinds of songs Jaskier sings about his cock. If for no other reason than that he should be prepared for the next time he steps into a brothel.
There's more in that notebook, though, than just dirty songs about various parts of Geralt's anatomy-- really, Jaskier, it's a stretch to say that the longest of all his blades is the one between his thighs-- and as he reads, Geralt can pick out when some of them were written just by the subject matter. Not all of it is about the witcher but much of it is, and there's a point where the tone takes a sharp dive into misery and melancholy and pain, and he knows exactly what happened then.
It's leagues away from the sonnets he'd penned earlier in the book, the ones that left their subject nameless as Jaskier wrote, in his neat, practiced scrawl, I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
He's in a strange mood come dinnertime, feeling off like he's made a mis-step in a spar and been caught wrong-footed. He and Jaskier sit at a far table in the hall for their meal, and even though there are plenty of friends and acquaintances that try to tempt him away with wine and good conversation, Jaskier stays with him. Eventually, though, the call for songs entices him, and it's like he's trying to make up for a year of banishing Geralt's name from his lips all in one night. The crowd eats it up, sings along to the chorus of Toss a coin until dust shakes from the rafters, and when Jaskier returns to him, he is proud and beaming and smells like happiness and second chances.
Geralt expects him to wander off with one of the many pretty people who stole snatches of his attention, but he returns with the witcher to their room afterwards. If he had wanted to bring someone back, he could have told Geralt and he would've left, made himself scarce for a few hours until he was through. But then he remembers that hidden notebook and I hunt for the liquid measure of your step and feels wrong-footed again. When they go to bed that night, Jaskier curls against his chest and Geralt lays awake in the darkness, listening to his sleep-slow heart in this bed that smells entirely of Jaskier. When his dreams start to turn restless, all it takes is for him to murmur I'm here, Jask, against his ear, soft and low, and the bard quiets in his arms. Geralt stays awake until he has to get up, so early that the sun hasn't even risen yet, and he doesn't dwell on why it feels so difficult to leave those body-warmed sheets behind.
He leaves behind a feather bed and a sweet, pliant bard to slog through the fucking ice-cold waters of the Pontar, digging through the mud until he has a bucket full of river prawns and clams, then fishes until he has a brace of trout to bring back with him to the University. He walks into the kitchen, muddied and still damp and reeking like fish and river scum; he drops his catch onto the counter in front of the head cook.
"Make something of this for Jaskier's dinner tonight," he says, turns on his heel, and leaves.
He catches a maid in the hall near Jaskier's room and asks her to fetch a bath for him, and she doesn't argue with him for even a moment after she catches a whiff of him; he even slips her a few coins once she fetched some help and filled the bath in their room with steaming hot water, in appreciation for how valiantly she kept her face from twisting up at his foul stench. Jaskier wakes to a mostly-clean witcher, and when he asks for an explanation as to why he'd been gone so early-- and apparently had gone dredging through the river-- Geralt replies only vaguely with a job. He simply doesn't elaborate that the job is one of a personal nature, not for coin, done only because he remembers that Jaskier loves seafood stews in autumn and he should have things that he likes. All is well, anyway, despite his vague answer, because Jaskier helps him wash his hair, and the oil that he puts in it smells like lavender.
The market is bustling by the time they get to it, and that's even when it isn't peak hours-- the clamor and riot of colors and sounds and smells is vaguely disorienting and discomfiting, but Geralt endures it for the sake of getting what they need. Jaskier purchases clothes and gifts, mostly on his own with the witcher lurking nearby, offering commentary only when prompted. It's easier when they look at horses, mostly because the market is calmer there for the sake of the animals, and Geralt has Jaskier sit on several geldings before he's satisfied that they've found an even-tempered mount. They bring the horse-- Pegasus-- back to the stables, then Jaskier has to run to not be late to his own lecture. Geralt attends to the rest of the purchases, and, with time to kill and an idle curiosity, makes his way to the building where Jaskier is lecturing. He finds the right room by following the smell of floral oil and lute wax, then by the sound of the bard's familiar voice. The lecture hall is full when he walks in, the class already started, so he leans against a pillar in the back and listens. Jaskier does well in front of a class, but he's always loved an attentive audience so it's hardly surprising that he takes to it so readily.
The last exercise of the lecture is an analysis, and Jaskier perches himself on his desk with his lute and plays. The melody is something that Geralt recognizes in pieces, something that he's only heard in parts and never as a whole. It gives him a vaguely uneasy feeling from the start, the same feeling that he gets when he knows he's forgotten something, and it reaches a head when Jaskier meets his eyes across the room and Geralt can smell the panic on him. A few of the students have noticed his arrival as well, glancing from him to Jaskier like they know a secret that he's not privy to.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
(Who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you. The words come back to him from over a decade past, from when Jaskier was a younger man and Geralt was so very stubborn.)
Jaskier's audience is moved to tears by the end, and if Geralt had felt wrong-footed before, now it feels like he'd tried to put his foot down and found thin air instead of solid ground. The class composes itself, and what was likely supposed to be an analysis of the structure of the song turns into commentary on its subject instead. Geralt stands at the back of the room and listens to the students call the subject foolish, debate on whether his actions are of simple ignorance-- in which case he is merely an idiot-- or from active choice-- in which he is cruel and callous. A few minutes off from the top of the hour, when the class is to be adjourned, Geralt slips out the door again to stand in the hall and wait for Jaskier to emerge. When the students file out, they walk past him and he feels their eyes on him, can hear their whispers as they leave, can even hear a little of their distant conversation after they've turned the far corner of the hall.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
Is he still weak, is he still wanting? Or did those tender sentiments die on the mountain, did they wither like the words in that notebook in Jaskier's trunk, where the pages at the end are barren and empty?