Sleeping comes quicker than he expected. He's nervous at first, not knowing how Geralt would react. But once he senses he won't be pushed away, that this form of contact is welcome, then relaxing is incredibly easy. The witcher's presence is indeed very comforting - Jaskier feels safe and cared for, human contact being exactly what a touchy person like him needs to calm him down.
Now if only Geralt would pet his head... too tired to do something about it now, but next time he needs to be sure to put the witcher's fingers on his head before falling asleep. Whatever he wants, right?
Sadly, sleeping comes quick but doesn't stay calm. Emotionally exhausted as he is, the reality of his captivity comes back for more. In his nightmare, the Nilgaardian soldiers are half monsters, and they don't only hurt Jaskier, they hurt the people he loves too - somehow they have captured some of his Oxenfurt friends, and suddenly Princess Cirilla is in there too, and right after that Geralt also enters the picture. They thank him for providing the information they've been needing and that hurts worse than the blade that comes for his throat--
The hand on his shoulder wakes him up just as he's about to scream. He groans in pain instead when he suddenly pulls his sore body away from the monster hands... except they aren't monster hands. It's dark, but he'd recognize that broad silhouette anywhere.
"...Geralt?" He asks between pants, his heart racing and his scent reeking of fear. His cheeks are wet from tears and damn, for once he wishes the witcher's eyes weren't so good in the darkness. This is embarrassing to say the least. "You're alright."
A hint of relief in his voice, the nightmare still livid in his mind.
Jaskier wakes with a start, pulling away from Geralt until his injuries stop him. He puts a hand on Jaskier's chest to steady him and keep him from moving any further; he'll pull everything open if he's not careful, and then they'd be back at square one. He smells salt, sees the wet trails on Jaskier's cheeks. His voice has that wet, slightly congested tone of someone who has been crying.
A nightmare. It's a similar story with Ciri-- waking in the night with wet cheeks and frightened eyes from dreaming about the destruction that Nilfgaard can wreak. The second person that Geralt cares for who has been left in terror from them. Ciri, though, usually finds comfort in curling against Geralt's chest and letting him hold her until she stopped crying. She's a twelve year old girl, though, so would the same tactic even work with a grown man?
"Of course I'm all right," he says. Strange, for Jaskier to be worried about him after a nightmare. "It was just a dream."
He still reeks of fear and anxiety, though. Geralt sighs; if it works for a twelve year old girl, it may very well just work for Jaskier.
The hand on his chest is an anchor that keeps him from panicking farther, the familiar voice helps him remember he's safe, even if he doesn't feel so quite yet. His mind has trouble understanding what Geralt is asking of him at first - after all, climbing in his lap isn't exactly part of their usual sleeping routine.
When the answer clicks, however, Jaskier doesn't hesitate. He'll be amazed at the fact he gets to cuddle Geralt in the morning, right now he needs him. Cloak wet with sweat, Jaskier drags it with him as he sits across the witcher's lap and puts his arms around that wide chest, hands holding onto black cloth as if his life depended on it.
"There were--- there were other people there with me." It comes out muffled, because he's burying his face in Geralt's chest. "Friends they used to make me talk. And then-- and then Cirilla was there too, and you, and they thanked me for the information, and there was a sword coming for me because I wasn't of use anymore..." His whole body trembles, his voice cracks. Not a single big word used in chopped sentences, that's how shaken he is. "I didn't tell them anything, Geralt, I swear..."
There's little difference, really, between holding Ciri and holding Jaskier; the bard is larger, certainly, but he curls up in much the same way that she does, shoves his face into Geralt's chest. His arms clutch at him and his fingers bunch his shirt up at the back. Ciri always calmed faster when he held her tightly than when it was a loose embrace, so hopefully Jaskier would be the same. The bard's heart is hummingbird fast in his chest, his breaths quick, his limbs shaking even as they're holding on. He doesn't like it.
Jaskier tells him about the dream, how Nilfgaard found the people he cared for and used them to make him talk, so that they could find Ciri and himself. It's awful, mostly because so much of it rings true-- they would have done whatever was necessary to get information about Ciri's whereabouts, and they would have killed him once his usefulness was over. The worst part is what he says afterwards, his voice tremulous and desperate-- I didn't tell them anything, I swear-- the fear in it, and the loyalty. Even if Jaskier didn't know where he was or where he had taken Ciri, he still knows so many other important things about him. He could have told them about his potions, the places he liked to stop, friends and allies that he would go to. He's far too shaken to lie, and even if he wasn't, Geralt would have still believed him. Jaskier is loyal even when Geralt doesn't deserve his loyalty.
"I know," he says, and sets one large, calloused hand on the back of Jasker's head. "It's all right, you're safe now. I won't let them touch you again."
It's a promise that he probably shouldn't make-- he'll have his hands full with protecting Ciri, nevertheless adding Jaskier, a bard exceptionally prone to finding trouble, to the mix. But, well, it's his fault that the bard's in this kind of trouble, he has a certain obligation to keep him out of any more of it.
A tight embrace is definitely the way to go - it helps him feel shielded from the outside world. Jaskier takes a deep breath and tries to center himself, concentrating on the fingers on his head and the sound of Geralt's slow heartbeat. His own slowly starts to calm down, and the shaking of his body becomes a lesser tremble.
A forty years old man, being cradled because of a nightmare. Part of him is embarrassed, especially because it's happening in front of Geralt. But the part of him that feels emotions freely and craves human touch reminds himself that there's nothing wrong with this, that adult men should be allowed to express themselves with dramatics as well, and the fact Geralt is supporting him instead of pushing him away means he isn't being judged. It speaks highly of their relationship as well. They're comforting thoughts.
"I know. I'm always safe with you. Even after a year away, you found me. I trust you with my life, Geralt of Rivia."
It's wild to be saying these things when mere hours ago he had been throwing a pillow and a string of insults at Geralt's face. What can he say? When Jaskier loves, he loves with all his heart, until that love itself consumes him. Besides, Geralt has been making up for it with both actions and words that Jaskier would've never expected. Whatever you want.
No assumptions. No anymore.
"...would it be fine by you if I slept like this?"
A forty year old man who had just been taken from the grasp of torturers, so perhaps a little neediness could be forgiven. And there aren't very many people that Geralt would have even considered doing something like this for-- just Ciri, really, and Jaskier. Yennefer would never ask him for something so vulnerable, and the idea of any of the other witchers needing this? Absurd.
Just a twelve year old girl and a middle-aged bard.
A middle-aged bard who had followed him across the Continent for two decades and, apparently, trusts Geralt of fucking Rivia with his life, despite all evidence that he shouldn't. But in time, maybe he could prove himself worthy of Jaskier's trust.
"Yes. Go to sleep."
He shifts, bringing Jaskier with him as he does, so that he can lean back against the headboard of the bed; it'll be a more comfortable position for him to maintain and an easier angle for the bard to lay at. He's forty, after all-- going the whole night with his neck in an awkward position will just make him stiff the next morning. Geralt tilts his head towards Jaskier's, the bard's hair brushing against his nose--
floral oil, lute wax, parchment--
"I'm here." His voice is a low rumble in his chest. "You're safe."
And he would still be there in the morning, when Jaskier woke up-- in no small part because he literally can't get out from under the bard without waking him.
It's the perfect position. Jaskier nuzzles Geralt's chest, wide and warm and oh so comfy, smiles against those strong muscles when he feels the rumbling of that (very sexy) voice against his musician ears, together with Geralt's slow heartbeat, an unique rhythm of his own. He lets those simple yet powerful words wrap him in safety and comfort, and suddenly he finds himself humming, remembering what Her Sweet Kiss was originally about before the disaster that was the dragon hunt happened.
"I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance..." He mumbles as he slowly falls asleep again. "Gorgeous garroter, jury, and judge..."
The nightmares don't return.
Jaskier wakes up to the sun on his face, but the warmth that surrounds him isn't coming from it. Did he butter any biscuits lat night? A quick look up after rubbing his eyes tells him no, this is the one biscuit he's tried to butter for years with no success. The events of the evening slowly return to him, and he has to swallow before his heart even tries to start spilling feelings all over the witcher's lap.
He stayed. And he let Jaskier sleep cuddled against him. Whatever you want - Melitele please have mercy.
"Geralt..." The man is meditating - he shouldn't be too sudden with his movements. And that's his excuse for cupping Geralt's face, and no the fact he's dying to touch more. No sir, not at all, just looking out for the witcher. "Good morning, my friend. Have you meditated all night?"
Jaskier sings something against his chest before he falls back into sleep-- something soft and a little melancholy, the melody of which Geralt thinks he may have heard before. In a tavern, maybe, while he was traveling north with Ciri. He hadn't paid much attention to it, though; it was the wrong bard, the wrong voice. It hadn't actively irritated him, though, like it did when other bards sang Jaskier's songs.
Geralt can tell when Jaskier wakes by the change in his heartbeat and his breathing, the way it picks up from the slow sleeping tempo. He moves and Geralt shifts to accommodate him, loosening his grasp and allowing Jaskier some freedom of movement. The bard knows him well enough by now, though, not to startle him out of his meditation, and the gentle hand to his cheek brings him fully back to true wakefulness.
"Hmm."
Not exactly the most articulate good morning greeting that Jaskier has probably ever received, but he's well versed enough in the nonverbal language of this particular witcher to hear the affirmation in it. Meditation isn't a long-term substitute for sleep, but Geralt will be fine, for now. He can sleep at Kaer Morhen, when everyone he cares about is safe behind stone walls and deep snow.
"How do you feel?"
He'll have to check on Jaskier's injuries anyway, but the salve should've helped with the pain and swelling throughout the night.
Indeed, there's an affirmation hidden in that hmm, and Jaskier finds himself delighted to discover he still has it, he can still read and understand Geralt like few people can. Despite everything that has happened... or should it be including? Because Geralt has loosened his grasp, but hasn't pushed him away yet. It can't be said he's doing it for the sake of Jaskier's nightmares anymore.
Whatever you want.
The hand on Geralt's cheek pulls a little back, only leaving calloused fingertips that brush the pale skin of the witcher's neck. Bare and trusting, Geralt would -and has- let Jaskier put a blade against it, not questions asked. They have been close enough to breathe the same air before and yet... something changed last night. For the better.
Whatever you want.
The question is what makes him snap out of it, reminding him of the less happy happenings of their reunion. Right, wounds and soldiers going after them, that's a thing. Danger makes emotions run higher and more tense, Jaskier reminds himself. They'll be back on the road soon, back to their usual routine. He should wait for them to fall back into that, finish mending their friendship and get used to these little changes before doing anything daring (maybe even stupid). Geralt often offers things with out thinking - he means them, but they also overwhelm him (so much for not getting involved, Jaskier would often say) and Jaskier doesn't want to scare him off so soon.
After all, they have all winter.
"Good! I feel good. Still a bit sore, but you've done a wonderful job with my injuries. And I've taken a magnificent rest." Okay, sure, the nightmares weren't fun, but after that? Cuddling Geralt truly has made it a wonderful way to sleep - deep and safe. It's over now, though, and he shouldn't overpush his stay, so he climbs off Geralt's lap, still carrying his cloak with him. Not letting go of it any time soon, thank you. "We should start planning our trip to Kaer Morhen. We'll need coin, correct?"
The tip of Jaskier's tongue peeks out, a gesture that always happens when he's deep in thought. "Oxenfurt. Two days, three at most, no more, I promise. A couple of guest lectures could grant me all the coin we need." We, not I. Traveling together again means it's also their money and their supplies. "Plenty of drowners to kill too. Easy hunts to lay low."
Jaskier gets out of his lap and Geralt watches him carefully for any sign of pain or discomfort when he moves. It seems about as the bard had said-- a little sore, a little tentative when he starts to bear weight on his legs, but otherwise steady. A few more days of rest and steady meals and he ought to be well enough to travel on Roach.
There is the matter of coin, of course-- Geralt would be able to make the trip to the keep after resupplying basic necessities, but Jaskier will require more. He'll need sturdy winter clothes, new boots, a heavier bedroll. At least two pairs of gloves, preferably lined with rabbit fur for warmth. Another cloak, because even if he's enamored with Geralt's right now, he'll need one with a better lining. Add onto all of that the cost of another horse and the additional food and water they'll have to carry for another man, and it adds up quickly. It's certainly more than Geralt has on-hand.
"Oxenfurt."
He doesn't usually stop there for hunts, mostly because it's a well-protected city that rarely has much work for him outside of drowners. Not particularly lucrative. And he'd given it a particularly wide berth in the past year, since it's a favorite haunt for Jaskier and he was fairly certain that his welcome would be far chillier.
And the whole place is full of students. Students who are all painfully, vociferously familiar with the tales of the White Wolf.
"You'll be in such high demand? Unless we're lucky, I won't be able to find any high paying contracts there, and I don't have the coin to cover your supplies now."
There's a wry twist to his lips. "That's assuming that all of your colleagues aren't going to run me out of town."
"Will I be in such high demand, he asks!" Jaskier replies after throwing his head back and laughing. "My dear witcher, there's a permanent professor position waiting for me for whenever I decide I cannot travel anymore. Which isn't happening any time soon, may I add."
Jaskier will stick to Geralt's side until his body gives in, and that's one thought he'd rather avoid right now. After walking back and forth in front of the bed to feel his legs (sore, but good), Jaskier grabs his lute and tests his fingers with a couple of simple notes. He won't be performing this week, most likely, but he needs to know everything is alright. The relief that takes over his body is obvious even for those without witcher senses.
"I usually offer guest lectures the whole winter, Geralt. Since this time around I won't be staying, doing two or three now would be a nice way to compensate for my absence. My reputation stays intact and we get good coin out of it - the classrooms will be full thanks to the exclusivity of it." His body is still sore so he isn't as dramatic as he would usually be, but there's at least two open hands representing how grand that would be.
That is, until Geralt adds that little part at the end. Oh dear. Biting his lower lip, Jaskier returns to the bed and sits next to him, his hand landing on Geralt's knee. A deep breath - okay, here goes nothing.
"We would be arriving together, so it'll be fine, they'll instantly know everything is better. They don't know any details, mind you!" He hurries to clarify without meeting Geralt's gaze. "But I haven't exactly been subtle about it. I-- I haven't talked or sang about you since the dragon hunt."
It's been over a year since Geralt had heard Jaskier's laugh, had seen the way he throws his whole head back, how his shoulders shake with it. It's... good, to see him still capable of mirth, and so quickly after coming out of a dark place. For such a dandy, Jaskier is surprisingly resilient. And that, too, would serve him well, both on the road and up at Kaer Morhen.
And it's good that Jaskier has true confidence in his ability to get them enough coin for their journey. If he's truly so well regarded in Oxenfurt, sitting on a professorship that he doesn't plan on coming back to for a long time, than his few lectures will give them enough to get to Kaer Morhen. And perhaps Geralt will even have a little time between drowner jobs to stand at the back of one of his full lecture halls and listen in a little; he won't know much about the subject, but he could come and see what all the fuss is about.
Geralt is almost surprised at Jaskier's discretion when it comes to talking about their parting on the mountain; he would've thought that the bard would've bemoaned his cruel treatment to anyone who would listen, like he had complained to Geralt about being dumped by the Countess de Stael. But, he had been...
silent.
Jaskier is rarely ever silent. He wasn't even silent about the Countess, and he claimed that she had left him to die a heartbroken man. He had been wrong-- it wasn't the Countess that would accomplish such a feat, but the thoughtless cruelty of a witcher.
"I see." Jaskier can't even meet his eyes. He hadn't thought that everything would immediately go back to the way it was after this, but the fact that his name had not even passed the bard's lips is a harsh reality. "You should know that I have no expectations. Your songs are your own, to use or discard as you please."
If he doesn't write another song about his white wolf, Geralt will understand.
Geralt is taking it well, and why wouldn't he? Isn't this better than destroying his reputation again? Jaskier continues to worry his lower lip as he realizes why he had been worried: he could come off as incredibly cold. And he may be many things -dramatic and a petty- but cold and uncaring isn't one of them. Caring too much is the problem in the first place.
He can't let Geralt think he discarded him so easily - not when it was actually the complete opposite. Asshole wouldn't leave his mind no matter how hard Jaskier tried.
"Don't flatter yourself, you silly witcher, I didn't do it because of your expectations." Sounds horrible, but Jaskier is using his best teasing tone, and he forces himself to look at Geralt again, even adding a playful nudge of his elbow as a distraction. "I was trying to move on, to forget. My reputation followed me around, and I was running away from it. A meaningless task, to be honest, I was never able to forget about you."
After a moment of hesitation, the hand on Geralt's thigh moves to rest on the witcher's chest, over his heart. Jaskier hums to the rhythm of the witcher's pulse.
"My muse is back." He says with a smile. "And he'll be sharing his home and family with this humble bard. The White Wolf shall live again in my song."
It was cold, yes, the thought that Jaskier could have put him down as a muse as easily as he had picked him up. But it would have been warranted, even just-- Geralt had treated him coldly for far too many years. A single year of being given it in return is nothing. If Jaskier hadn't spoken his name for another two decades, it would've been deserved.
Geralt isn't sure if he's pleased or not that the bard's reputation had haunted him, that he couldn't forget him. He shouldn't be-- it's selfish and cruel, and part of the conditions of their renewed friendship is that he won't be cruel anymore.
The bard's hand rests over his chest, above the heart that beats once for every four of Jaskier's. Perhaps every three, now; against his will, Geralt's heart picks up its pace a little as he says my muse is back.
"You'll be able to sing about more than just my hunts, if it pleases you. My brothers are less stingy with the details."
And Jaskier will have a whole winter to get the details out of Eskel and Lambert, and to put those into appropriate prose. By spring, he can have a fresh new repertoire of witcher songs to entertain the Continent and fill his pockets with coin.
Is it his imagination or has Geralt's heartbeat gotten a little bit faster? Jaskier's tongue peeks out again - damn, the signs keep coming. No assumptions, he reminds himself. It's okay to let hope flourish. We'll get there. Since Geralt seems okay to have Jaskier's hand on his chest, he keeps it, chuckling at the comment.
"Of course it'd please me! I still can't believe you thought I wouldn't want to go to Kaer Morhen. So much for me to see and learn, Geralt. I'll write a ballad to honor your home, and your brothers as well. Many reputations for this bard to fix. But don't worry-" A wink. "-you'll always be my favorite."
It's not too flirty, is it? Jaskier isn't sure where the limits lay anymore, but he's slowly learning that they're incredibly fun to blur them. He had always been afraid of it before, of losing this precious friendship over it, but Geralt is open to it so... may as well play to the rhythm of this new song.
"Is this a yes to going to Oxenfurt then? As a bard's muse, you'll be well respected. By staying at the university, we'll have food and bed for free. And if you want to avoid the sewers, I'm sure the fishermen will have something for you to kill at sea. Or you could do your own fishing, this time with less djinn in it."
A joke. It feels good to be able to tease Geralt like this again, it's a balm for his soul. Congrats, Geralt, the everlasting babbling is back.
Jaskier has not moved his hand. Geralt isn't entirely sure why this is a fact that he's even taking note of, because Jaskier has touched him plenty of times in the past. This should be nothing special or unusual, the bard has always been physically demonstrative. Perhaps he's just... more so, now, because there's been a year without? Geralt is hazarding a guess, but he's too poorly versed in affectionate gestures to really know for sure.
And then Jaskier winks. Geralt stares at him for several long moments like he's just revealed that he's secretly a bruxa in disguise, mulling over this turn of events in his head. Usually, the bard winks at his audience when he's playing to charm them, or at barmaids and tavern wenches that he wants to tumble. So for him to wink at Geralt-- well, he must want to make sure that the witcher knows that he's teasing. That must be it. The joke, of course, is that he's Jaskier's "favorite" witcher because he's the only witcher that he's ever met. He's favorite by default.
Though it would hardly be surprising if he enjoyed the company of other witchers more than Geralt. Eskel, in particular-- they would get along well. The squeezing vice feeling returns to his chest, all the more irritating because he can't discern its cause.
Geralt moves, dislodging Jaskier's hand from his chest under the guise of getting up to check his medical kit. He used a significant amount of his supplies last night, so he'll need to take a good stock and replace what's missing. The bandages will need to be changed after a while, and salve reapplied. Practical concerns are a welcome thing to focus on.
"Oxenfurt is fine." It's a good idea, they should take advantage of the free room and board. "I'll be able to keep myself busy. We can leave as soon as you're well enough to ride."
With the bad experiences of the dragon hunt and the captivity left behind them, having Geralt clean his wounds is a whole new deal. Both his heart and his dick are properly alert for it now, and it's a miracle that Jaskier doesn't pop a boner right there. What is going through Geralt's mind during the whole process? Can he smell the spike of arousal in the air? Can he hear Jaskier's heart buzzing when he kneels in front of him to tend his legs? It's not even a naughty thing (that's for the hands on his thighs) - it's about the powerful image of the mighty White Wolf kneeling to his feet, not losing what makes him magnificent.
Jaskier feels more like a king at that very moment than he ever felt in the luxury of Lettenhove.
And that feeling gets even more intense when, after a couple of good days of resting (where Jaskier uses the nightmare excuse to cuddle Geralt in his sleep), Roach is offered to him and to him alone. His favorite girl in the world gets a hug from him, of course, and some sugar cubes, plus a promise of a good brushing later. Part of Jaskier wishes they could ride together, bodies pressing against each other, but he knows it'd be too much weight for Roach. Besides--
Well, there's something to be said about having Geralt guiding the horse in front of him. This powerful man who has lived a century and saved humanity thousands of times... here he is, being serviceable for this mere bard. The powerful feeling returns, and Jaskier can swear is intoxicating, addicting, exquisite.
He keeps Geralt's cloak around him, protecting his identity, but also because being allowed to keep it and having something of Geralt surrounding him all the way makes him giddy as hell. Sadly he isn't allowed to perform anywhere either, first because of his injuries and then for protection, so being again on the road is a blessing. At least when they are alone, Geralt lets him play and sing to his heart's content as long as it isn't too loud. Jaskier can do that.
It's both beautiful and terrifying how easily they fall back in their usual routine. It's like things never got interrupted, and yet something has shifted - for the better, thankfully. Geralt is truly trying, and Jaskier devours the attention, daring to do a little more and more every day. He flirts and touches Geralt, puts as little space between them as possible while camping, cuddles him like a freaking octopus when they fall asleep. Jaskier knows there's a new talk to be had about the direction this is going, especially concerning -and ugh, he hates having to acknowledge the issue- certain sorceress, but they'll get there in time. Geralt doesn't seem to have caught on yet, a mix of the man being as thick as a brick and being distracted by the threats that follow them, but Jaskier has waited twenty years, he can wait a few days more. The fact he feels confident about it now, that his hope isn't meaningless, already means a lot.
It's not wishful thinking anymore. It's a fucking real possibility of having a shot. If they weren't trying to be sneaky, Jaskier would sing to all the gods and heavens above.
He may be no witcher but he can tell when they're close to Oxenfurt - that sea smell is unmistakable. And yep, only a little later the bridge comes into view, the colorful walls behind it, the ships and fishermen little shadows on the shore. Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt's shoulder as he does his best not to fall off Roach - not only because of the leaning in, but also because his body is already all bouncy with excitement.
"Geralt, let me down, please. It'd be best to walk in together." Like equals, he doesn't add. "Besides, you don't want to be the face they get to greet, do you?"
When they leave for Oxenfurt, it's only reasonable for Jaskier to ride on Roach; he's better but still injured, and his slowed pace would only delay them on the road. The combined weight of both of their sets of gear and their bodies would be too much for the poor mare, too, so if one of them had to walk, it ought to be Geralt. He could tolerate a more strenuous pace than even Jaskier when he was well, and for longer; they wouldn't lose too much extra time. The bard seems pleased at his new position, too, and barely even complains.
Camping is similarly more pleasant than Geralt remembered. Jaskier still plays his lute incessantly, but he deigns to do it more softly when Geralt reminds him that he's a wanted man. They fall back into a modified version of their old routine, and the changes seem to sit well with the bard; he's back to his usual vibrancy and complete disregard for personal space. Since that first night at the inn in Vizima, he has apparently decided that having a witcher in his grasp is the only way that he can sleep through the night, and shared bedrolls has become the norm. This is mostly fine-- the nights are cold and sharing is an efficient way to keep warm, but has occasionally led to awkward mornings where Geralt has to run through a mental checklist of every potion recipe he knows, in alphabetical order, to get rid of a slowly-burgeoning problem. He blames Jaskier's restless sleep and propensity for clinging.
It's not something that he has the liberty to think about, anyway. Nilfgaard continues to pursue them, and the further north they go, the better chance they have at evasion. Jaskier is still injured, they are only newly friends, and the fact that he continually smells like arousal just underscores their need to get to the city. Once he's within its walls, Jaskier can find as many pretty barmaids or tavern wenches as he needs to get it all out of his system before they go to Kaer Morhen. And, godsdamnit, if their funds weren't so tight, Geralt might think that he needs to find his way to a brothel and pay to get some pretty blue-eyed little thing into bed, too.
The salt in the air tells Geralt that they aren't far; once they're approaching the bridge, the witcher grunts in assent at Jaskier's request to dismount, reaching up to help him out of the saddle. It is better if the bard takes the lead here, in his adopted hometown.
Getting through the gates is easy, and Jaskier knows the streets like the back of his pretty hand. Accommodations are the first thing to get squared away, and after leaving Roach in the university stables with firm instructions to the stableboy to treat her well, Jaskier just has to sweep in, all charm and wit, and speak with some rectors or deans or what-have-yous to get access to his rooms again. All while Geralt makes his best attempt at blending in with the wall, in the hopes of attracting as little attention to himself as possible.
Oxenfurt is huge. Colorful (on wooden roofs, decorations and art everywhere), aromatic (gotta keep the fish smell away with fine flowers and perfumes), well designed. Crowded and very, very loud. That crowd, however, is nothing like the ones in other cities. There are merchants, of course, but there are also musicians, dressed in even more colors than Jaskier himself, playing or singing at every other corner. Scientists and philosophers, dressed in dark gowns, carrying piles of books and having deep arguments in the middle of the street.
No matter the group they belong to, eyes turn to them as soon as they enter the town, and the whispering begins. White Wolf, the muse and Master Jaskier is heard all over, and Geralt -with his mighty witcher ears- may pick on the subjects of their discussion, a mix of excitement over finally having the famous muse visiting their city, Jaskier arriving earlier than usual, and questions about the state of their relationship with judging looks thrown at Geralt. Jaskier tries his best to ignore those and puts up his charms to work - says good afternoon to anyone that he knows, offers winks and cute smiles, promises to talk to them later... and when inquisitive eyes ask a silent question about the man next to him, he offers a thumbs-up as explanation.
The city quickly catches on and soon the judging looks disappear to leave a warm welcome instead. Young students look excited when they see them walk by together, wondering if the White Wolf will be at the lectures as well. And that sound? Well, Toss a coin is now hummed by the merchants or even played by a group of bard trainees by the fountain.
Jaskier can't help smiling at it all, he thinks Geralt deserves the appreciation, but also knows he's probably hating every second of it.
"Sorry about that." He whispers to the witcher and gives his forearm a squeeze. "But we are here now."
The university is big and imposing, the style of the building matching the rest of the city. Here Jaskier has way many more people to say hi to, but he nudges Geralt to hurry upstairs, where the witcher is asked to wait outside the office while the bard does his thing. The dean is thankfully understanding - at first he isn't a fan of the idea of Jaskier skipping next winter, but having exclusive lectures AND the presence of the White Wolf makes up for it nicely.
Which means that, when Jaskier leaves the office with keys in his hands, he can't stop the man from following him. Oh dear.
"Geralt of Rivia. The untamed muse." No 'mighty witcher' or 'butcher' or even 'white wolf'. Muse, and to this guy, that carries more weight than any other word he could've used. His head is bald yet his white beard is bushy, brown eyes are filled with curiosity and respect... also maybe a little amusement, especially when he glances at a fidgeting Jaskier by his side. He offers Geralt a hand to shake. "Professor Mateusz Nowak, dean of Oxefurt University. It's an honor to have you in our academy - Jaskier has told us a lot about you. Allow me to thank you for allowing one of our best students to grow into the fine artist he is today by sharing your company, your protection--"
"Professor..." Jaskier groans, as this was a father embarrassing him. It's kinda cute, really.
"--and your unique perspective of the world. At my old age, one would think there isn't much left to see, but the stories about you still amaze me. I trust you'll find our quarters quite accommodating. I know the locals will have some sewer troubles to talk to you about, and they'll pay you for it, but please consider bringing any reminders of your hunts to our science department. We also know how to reward handsomely."
He hates the whispers in the streets, even if the wide-eyed students and scholarly academics are calling him White Wolf instead of Butcher. He hates the way they stare at him, their idle curiosity, the probing questions that they ask each other in hushed tones. He hates the snatches of song that he hears on street corners, the familiar notes that brought him so much coin on his travels, but played by unfamiliar hands. It's almost a relief when they get to the university proper, because everyone inside is more interested in small talk with Jaskier, as acquaintances do. He seems to know the entire damned campus, a fact that Geralt really shouldn't be surprised about.
Waiting outside of the dean's office is fine; Geralt just leans against the wall next to a statue of some founder of the department or whatever horseshit, his face set in an expression of such stony neutrality that, when combined with armor and the two swords on his back, makes an effective deterrent for inquisitive students and professors alike. The whispers don't stop, but they at least hurry quickly by him and only make brief eye contact. One particularly brave gaggle of students nearly makes it within five feet of him, but the one among them who had dared approach-- some mousy thing clutching a book, the title of which he can only read as The Collected Works of J before it's covered by her hand-- loses her nerve under his wilting stare.
Except for the one that follows Jaskier out of the office, apparently. He addresses him, at least, by his fucking name, a surprising rarity in this town, but adds on some ridiculous epithet about being an untamed muse, whatever the hell that means. The sour-lemon expression twists his mouth, betraying exactly how little he wants to be interacting with the Dean of Just Give Jaskier the Fucking Keys, but if he doesn't at least acknowledge him, this interaction will just be even longer. Geralt gives him only the most perfunctory shake of the hand. The academic blathers on about company and protection and something about perspective that Geralt very nearly snorts a laugh at, and Jaskier at least has the decency to look embarrassed about the whole affair.
The only break in his brick wall of an expression comes at the mention of coin, and that's only to make a affirming grunt; if the scientists have some use for drowner corpses, they can have whatever ones he doesn't harvest for potion ingredients.
With the bare minimum of social interaction satisfied, Geralt turns to Jaskier.
Usually this is the part where Jaskier would make faces to correct Geralt's manners, but honestly? He wants this interaction to be over with as well, and Geralt is much better than he is at scaring people away. As soon as the witcher asks his question, Jaskier jumps in between the men, hands going up with the jiggling of the keys.
"YES! Why yes I am. Thank you for your welcome, Professor Nowak, but we had a long trip here and--"
The old man has the audacity to laugh, but at least he nods. "Yes, yes, we both have things to do. You're free to go, my boy." He snorts to himself when he realizes what he's said and puts a hand on Jaskier's shoulder. "Except you aren't a boy any longer, are you? It's my age talking. It feels like it was only yesterday that little Julian arrived to my office, asking me to help him change courses without alerting his father's prying eyes."
At that, Jaskier's face goes white, his whole body tenses. He glances at Geralt, checking for a reaction, and he misses it when the dean pats his back and tells him he'll see him later before going back to his office. The door closing is what snaps him out of it, and with his heart stuck in his throat, he motions to the stairs with a tilt of his head.
"Shall we?"
It's stupid, to be bothered by that. It happened over twenty years ago. It's in the past! Geralt won't give a fuck, no matter how much he hates nobles - besides, he probably has an idea at least, Jaskier reminds himself, considering the snippets of his childhood he's incorporated while babbling the road away.
The dean pats Jaskier's back and Geralt has the urge to reach out and break his wrist for it. It's a brief urge, here and gone, and the old man seems completely oblivious about the fact that something he said made Jaskier go pale and his scent shift from embarrassment to anxiety. He's gone quickly enough, and the bard tries to recover his customary cheer as they leave for his apartments. His scent can't lie nearly as well as his face can.
Geralt stays silent while they walk, until Jaskier brings it up of his own accord.
"Hm."
The bard is forthcoming on nearly all subjects, seemingly content to prattle away on whatever topic catches his fancy at that moment. He's been relatively reserved on the topic of his childhood, though, dropping only a few little anecdotes and comments about the life he had before he went to Oxenfurt. It hadn't taken long into their acquaintance for Geralt to guess that he had come from some kind of good breeding-- it was written into his mannerisms, his knowledge of courtly etiquette, his taste for fine things. A minor lord's son, he would've guessed if pressed. It hardly matters, because if Jaskier had any interest in whatever titles or estates he might have a claim to, he would've gone for them by now.
"Fine. Why do you look like you're staring down a wraith when someone mentions your father?"
Geralt asks, and Jaskier reminds himself to consider it a good thing. He's trying to be better friend, to take interest in him, and the way he phrases the question shows he's been paying attention. He's also doing it because he wants, and it's not everyday that he gets 'wants' out of Geralt. Jaskier can appreciate that much.
"I may prefer the wraith." He mumbles after worrying his lower lip for a couple of seconds. Geralt's comparison, however, gives him an idea for how to phrase the issue in the most direct way. "Let me put it this way: if right now we find two doors, one hiding Yennefer of Vengerberg and the other hiding Count Vincent Horatio Pankratz..." He pulls a face. What a horrible sentence. "And you make me choose one to go through, then-- I'll choose the witch." A pause. "And you can never, ever tell her that I said that."
Keeping his priorities straight, isn't he? But man, it feels good to get that off his chest, to be able to rant about his family non-stop. The dramatic hand gestures return as they make their way upstairs, having another floor to go yet, and Jaskier's mood changes from anxious to frustrated at the world, which is something he deals with better.
"I know you hate nobles, Geralt, so think of all the reasons why you hate them and put them in one arsehole of a man. The 'perfect' quintessential lord by all means - and the 'perfect' quintessential lady, too, my mother wasn't that much better. In fact, I hate most people in that dreadful house." Most, not all. He may go into details about it later, but it's not what Geralt asked for. "They didn't approve of anything I did. Wanting to go out and seek adventure isn't what good little viscounts do. I skipped my fencing classes because I was awful with the sword, unlike my brother the mighty heir, and would hide to play with my grandmother's harp, but that's a lady's hobby." Rolling his eyes at that, his tone deriding. "Tutors were allowed to educate me with canes. Oh, kissing the maid's daughter? It was wrong because she was a commoner, and kissing the maid's son was wrong because he was a boy. My future was decided for me already - I was to marry a nice, rich lady I didn't love and make more little lordlings for them."
By the time they make it to a hallway, Jaskier is stomping. A tantrum may be a little too much, but it's liberating to let it all out.
"I wanted to run away so I-- kind of did. I pretended I would finally behave and convinced my father to send me here to study law or history, paid it all in advance. Except when I arrived, I asked the dean to change me to the arts department. I only returned to the estate once after that, to pick the rest of my things. I haven't seen anyone since then." They make it to the right door, but Jaskier doesn't open it yet. He turns to Geralt, head tilt as blue eyes try to read gold for their thoughts on this whole deal. "Julian Alfred Pankratz died that day. It's Jaskier of Oxenfurt now. Grandmother used to call me 'my buttercup', and I promised her I wouldn't stop singing."
So his name honors her memory. A pause, then a question - tentative, nervous. "...do you think I'm an entitled brat now?"
"She'd be offended that you're afraid of someone more than her."
And possibly amused, as well. To think, there's someone out there that Jaskier hates more than Yennefer of Vengerberg-- Geralt wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't heard it from the bard's own mouth.
As Jaskier talks about his estranged family, he riles himself up more and more, going from anxious to angry. It's an improvement, really; anxiety is just a step off of fear, and Geralt hates the smell of fear on Jaskier. But it's no wonder that he didn't like talking about his family and childhood, considering that it seemed to have made him miserable. There was no way that Jaskier was going to settle down and be a perfect little lord, not unless his father had tried to beat every bit of what made Jaskier Jaskier out of him.
The bard became what he wanted to become, his destiny be damned. Geralt can't find fault with that.
(A long, long time ago, a boy who would become a witcher had wanted to be a knight.)
Geralt's voice stays even, but the corner of his mouth tics upward in a hint of a smile, giving away the fact that he's teasing.
"You are a brat, Jaskier, but not because your father's a count."
Yennefer being offended at being second place is actually a lovely mental image that Jaskier enjoys for like two seconds before realizing that to achieve that he would have to tell her about his family life, and there's no way he's giving her that kind of ammunition. The fact she takes jabs at his aging already hurts enough.
(Some day he won't be here to pick the pieces she leaves behind after meeting with Geralt, and he'd rather not think about that.)
That hint of a smile already tells him no, Geralt doesn't care that Jaskier used to be one of those nasty little nobles, and that's a huge relief. So the teasing is well received, even if it kinda comes with an insult in it - Jaskier had told him some banter is fine, and he meant it. It means he can playfully-insult and throw pillows back!
Anger slowly leaving his body (gosh, Geralt is so good at influencing his emotions), he chuckles. "If one day you're short of coin, I'll gladly pay you to punch him in the face." A pause. His tongue peeks out again. After playing with the room keys for what it feels like an eternity (it's actually a couple of seconds), Jaskier comes closer, puts a hand on Geralt's chest and quickly kisses his cheek before whispering. "Thanks for listening. And understanding."
Too much? Who knows, but he won't be staying to find out. As soon as he's done with his little flirting attempt, he's turning around to finally open the door to the bedroom - there's no much light in, curtains are closed. But enough light filters through for even a human to notice it hasn't been lived in a long time, although it has been cleaned at least. All furniture is fancy and designed with artistic carvings - the desk and chair, the bookshelf, the closet, the trunk at the end of the big canopy bed. The curtains, too, have beautiful patterns painted on them, and there are paintings hanging on the stone walls.
Jaskier ignores it all for now, he just runs to the bed and lets his body drop on it, burying his face in the incredibly soft pillows.
"...ouch. My body may've not liked that." It doesn't sound like he cares though, he looks comfortable. "Come, Geralt, appreciate what a real bed is like before I drop the rules on you and you decide to ignore me."
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Now if only Geralt would pet his head... too tired to do something about it now, but next time he needs to be sure to put the witcher's fingers on his head before falling asleep. Whatever he wants, right?
Sadly, sleeping comes quick but doesn't stay calm. Emotionally exhausted as he is, the reality of his captivity comes back for more. In his nightmare, the Nilgaardian soldiers are half monsters, and they don't only hurt Jaskier, they hurt the people he loves too - somehow they have captured some of his Oxenfurt friends, and suddenly Princess Cirilla is in there too, and right after that Geralt also enters the picture. They thank him for providing the information they've been needing and that hurts worse than the blade that comes for his throat--
The hand on his shoulder wakes him up just as he's about to scream. He groans in pain instead when he suddenly pulls his sore body away from the monster hands... except they aren't monster hands. It's dark, but he'd recognize that broad silhouette anywhere.
"...Geralt?" He asks between pants, his heart racing and his scent reeking of fear. His cheeks are wet from tears and damn, for once he wishes the witcher's eyes weren't so good in the darkness. This is embarrassing to say the least. "You're alright."
A hint of relief in his voice, the nightmare still livid in his mind.
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A nightmare. It's a similar story with Ciri-- waking in the night with wet cheeks and frightened eyes from dreaming about the destruction that Nilfgaard can wreak. The second person that Geralt cares for who has been left in terror from them. Ciri, though, usually finds comfort in curling against Geralt's chest and letting him hold her until she stopped crying. She's a twelve year old girl, though, so would the same tactic even work with a grown man?
"Of course I'm all right," he says. Strange, for Jaskier to be worried about him after a nightmare. "It was just a dream."
He still reeks of fear and anxiety, though. Geralt sighs; if it works for a twelve year old girl, it may very well just work for Jaskier.
"Come here."
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When the answer clicks, however, Jaskier doesn't hesitate. He'll be amazed at the fact he gets to cuddle Geralt in the morning, right now he needs him. Cloak wet with sweat, Jaskier drags it with him as he sits across the witcher's lap and puts his arms around that wide chest, hands holding onto black cloth as if his life depended on it.
"There were--- there were other people there with me." It comes out muffled, because he's burying his face in Geralt's chest. "Friends they used to make me talk. And then-- and then Cirilla was there too, and you, and they thanked me for the information, and there was a sword coming for me because I wasn't of use anymore..." His whole body trembles, his voice cracks. Not a single big word used in chopped sentences, that's how shaken he is. "I didn't tell them anything, Geralt, I swear..."
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Jaskier tells him about the dream, how Nilfgaard found the people he cared for and used them to make him talk, so that they could find Ciri and himself. It's awful, mostly because so much of it rings true-- they would have done whatever was necessary to get information about Ciri's whereabouts, and they would have killed him once his usefulness was over. The worst part is what he says afterwards, his voice tremulous and desperate-- I didn't tell them anything, I swear-- the fear in it, and the loyalty. Even if Jaskier didn't know where he was or where he had taken Ciri, he still knows so many other important things about him. He could have told them about his potions, the places he liked to stop, friends and allies that he would go to. He's far too shaken to lie, and even if he wasn't, Geralt would have still believed him. Jaskier is loyal even when Geralt doesn't deserve his loyalty.
"I know," he says, and sets one large, calloused hand on the back of Jasker's head. "It's all right, you're safe now. I won't let them touch you again."
It's a promise that he probably shouldn't make-- he'll have his hands full with protecting Ciri, nevertheless adding Jaskier, a bard exceptionally prone to finding trouble, to the mix. But, well, it's his fault that the bard's in this kind of trouble, he has a certain obligation to keep him out of any more of it.
And the whole... friends thing. That, too.
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A forty years old man, being cradled because of a nightmare. Part of him is embarrassed, especially because it's happening in front of Geralt. But the part of him that feels emotions freely and craves human touch reminds himself that there's nothing wrong with this, that adult men should be allowed to express themselves with dramatics as well, and the fact Geralt is supporting him instead of pushing him away means he isn't being judged. It speaks highly of their relationship as well. They're comforting thoughts.
"I know. I'm always safe with you. Even after a year away, you found me. I trust you with my life, Geralt of Rivia."
It's wild to be saying these things when mere hours ago he had been throwing a pillow and a string of insults at Geralt's face. What can he say? When Jaskier loves, he loves with all his heart, until that love itself consumes him. Besides, Geralt has been making up for it with both actions and words that Jaskier would've never expected. Whatever you want.
No assumptions. No anymore.
"...would it be fine by you if I slept like this?"
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Just a twelve year old girl and a middle-aged bard.
A middle-aged bard who had followed him across the Continent for two decades and, apparently, trusts Geralt of fucking Rivia with his life, despite all evidence that he shouldn't. But in time, maybe he could prove himself worthy of Jaskier's trust.
"Yes. Go to sleep."
He shifts, bringing Jaskier with him as he does, so that he can lean back against the headboard of the bed; it'll be a more comfortable position for him to maintain and an easier angle for the bard to lay at. He's forty, after all-- going the whole night with his neck in an awkward position will just make him stiff the next morning. Geralt tilts his head towards Jaskier's, the bard's hair brushing against his nose--
floral oil, lute wax, parchment--
"I'm here." His voice is a low rumble in his chest. "You're safe."
And he would still be there in the morning, when Jaskier woke up-- in no small part because he literally can't get out from under the bard without waking him.
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"I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance..." He mumbles as he slowly falls asleep again. "Gorgeous garroter, jury, and judge..."
The nightmares don't return.
Jaskier wakes up to the sun on his face, but the warmth that surrounds him isn't coming from it. Did he butter any biscuits lat night? A quick look up after rubbing his eyes tells him no, this is the one biscuit he's tried to butter for years with no success. The events of the evening slowly return to him, and he has to swallow before his heart even tries to start spilling feelings all over the witcher's lap.
He stayed. And he let Jaskier sleep cuddled against him. Whatever you want - Melitele please have mercy.
"Geralt..." The man is meditating - he shouldn't be too sudden with his movements. And that's his excuse for cupping Geralt's face, and no the fact he's dying to touch more. No sir, not at all, just looking out for the witcher. "Good morning, my friend. Have you meditated all night?"
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Geralt can tell when Jaskier wakes by the change in his heartbeat and his breathing, the way it picks up from the slow sleeping tempo. He moves and Geralt shifts to accommodate him, loosening his grasp and allowing Jaskier some freedom of movement. The bard knows him well enough by now, though, not to startle him out of his meditation, and the gentle hand to his cheek brings him fully back to true wakefulness.
"Hmm."
Not exactly the most articulate good morning greeting that Jaskier has probably ever received, but he's well versed enough in the nonverbal language of this particular witcher to hear the affirmation in it. Meditation isn't a long-term substitute for sleep, but Geralt will be fine, for now. He can sleep at Kaer Morhen, when everyone he cares about is safe behind stone walls and deep snow.
"How do you feel?"
He'll have to check on Jaskier's injuries anyway, but the salve should've helped with the pain and swelling throughout the night.
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Whatever you want.
The hand on Geralt's cheek pulls a little back, only leaving calloused fingertips that brush the pale skin of the witcher's neck. Bare and trusting, Geralt would -and has- let Jaskier put a blade against it, not questions asked. They have been close enough to breathe the same air before and yet... something changed last night. For the better.
Whatever you want.
The question is what makes him snap out of it, reminding him of the less happy happenings of their reunion. Right, wounds and soldiers going after them, that's a thing. Danger makes emotions run higher and more tense, Jaskier reminds himself. They'll be back on the road soon, back to their usual routine. He should wait for them to fall back into that, finish mending their friendship and get used to these little changes before doing anything daring (maybe even stupid). Geralt often offers things with out thinking - he means them, but they also overwhelm him (so much for not getting involved, Jaskier would often say) and Jaskier doesn't want to scare him off so soon.
After all, they have all winter.
"Good! I feel good. Still a bit sore, but you've done a wonderful job with my injuries. And I've taken a magnificent rest." Okay, sure, the nightmares weren't fun, but after that? Cuddling Geralt truly has made it a wonderful way to sleep - deep and safe. It's over now, though, and he shouldn't overpush his stay, so he climbs off Geralt's lap, still carrying his cloak with him. Not letting go of it any time soon, thank you. "We should start planning our trip to Kaer Morhen. We'll need coin, correct?"
The tip of Jaskier's tongue peeks out, a gesture that always happens when he's deep in thought. "Oxenfurt. Two days, three at most, no more, I promise. A couple of guest lectures could grant me all the coin we need." We, not I. Traveling together again means it's also their money and their supplies. "Plenty of drowners to kill too. Easy hunts to lay low."
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There is the matter of coin, of course-- Geralt would be able to make the trip to the keep after resupplying basic necessities, but Jaskier will require more. He'll need sturdy winter clothes, new boots, a heavier bedroll. At least two pairs of gloves, preferably lined with rabbit fur for warmth. Another cloak, because even if he's enamored with Geralt's right now, he'll need one with a better lining. Add onto all of that the cost of another horse and the additional food and water they'll have to carry for another man, and it adds up quickly. It's certainly more than Geralt has on-hand.
"Oxenfurt."
He doesn't usually stop there for hunts, mostly because it's a well-protected city that rarely has much work for him outside of drowners. Not particularly lucrative. And he'd given it a particularly wide berth in the past year, since it's a favorite haunt for Jaskier and he was fairly certain that his welcome would be far chillier.
And the whole place is full of students. Students who are all painfully, vociferously familiar with the tales of the White Wolf.
"You'll be in such high demand? Unless we're lucky, I won't be able to find any high paying contracts there, and I don't have the coin to cover your supplies now."
There's a wry twist to his lips. "That's assuming that all of your colleagues aren't going to run me out of town."
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Jaskier will stick to Geralt's side until his body gives in, and that's one thought he'd rather avoid right now. After walking back and forth in front of the bed to feel his legs (sore, but good), Jaskier grabs his lute and tests his fingers with a couple of simple notes. He won't be performing this week, most likely, but he needs to know everything is alright. The relief that takes over his body is obvious even for those without witcher senses.
"I usually offer guest lectures the whole winter, Geralt. Since this time around I won't be staying, doing two or three now would be a nice way to compensate for my absence. My reputation stays intact and we get good coin out of it - the classrooms will be full thanks to the exclusivity of it." His body is still sore so he isn't as dramatic as he would usually be, but there's at least two open hands representing how grand that would be.
That is, until Geralt adds that little part at the end. Oh dear. Biting his lower lip, Jaskier returns to the bed and sits next to him, his hand landing on Geralt's knee. A deep breath - okay, here goes nothing.
"We would be arriving together, so it'll be fine, they'll instantly know everything is better. They don't know any details, mind you!" He hurries to clarify without meeting Geralt's gaze. "But I haven't exactly been subtle about it. I-- I haven't talked or sang about you since the dragon hunt."
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And it's good that Jaskier has true confidence in his ability to get them enough coin for their journey. If he's truly so well regarded in Oxenfurt, sitting on a professorship that he doesn't plan on coming back to for a long time, than his few lectures will give them enough to get to Kaer Morhen. And perhaps Geralt will even have a little time between drowner jobs to stand at the back of one of his full lecture halls and listen in a little; he won't know much about the subject, but he could come and see what all the fuss is about.
Geralt is almost surprised at Jaskier's discretion when it comes to talking about their parting on the mountain; he would've thought that the bard would've bemoaned his cruel treatment to anyone who would listen, like he had complained to Geralt about being dumped by the Countess de Stael. But, he had been...
silent.
Jaskier is rarely ever silent. He wasn't even silent about the Countess, and he claimed that she had left him to die a heartbroken man. He had been wrong-- it wasn't the Countess that would accomplish such a feat, but the thoughtless cruelty of a witcher.
"I see." Jaskier can't even meet his eyes. He hadn't thought that everything would immediately go back to the way it was after this, but the fact that his name had not even passed the bard's lips is a harsh reality. "You should know that I have no expectations. Your songs are your own, to use or discard as you please."
If he doesn't write another song about his white wolf, Geralt will understand.
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He can't let Geralt think he discarded him so easily - not when it was actually the complete opposite. Asshole wouldn't leave his mind no matter how hard Jaskier tried.
"Don't flatter yourself, you silly witcher, I didn't do it because of your expectations." Sounds horrible, but Jaskier is using his best teasing tone, and he forces himself to look at Geralt again, even adding a playful nudge of his elbow as a distraction. "I was trying to move on, to forget. My reputation followed me around, and I was running away from it. A meaningless task, to be honest, I was never able to forget about you."
After a moment of hesitation, the hand on Geralt's thigh moves to rest on the witcher's chest, over his heart. Jaskier hums to the rhythm of the witcher's pulse.
"My muse is back." He says with a smile. "And he'll be sharing his home and family with this humble bard. The White Wolf shall live again in my song."
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Geralt isn't sure if he's pleased or not that the bard's reputation had haunted him, that he couldn't forget him. He shouldn't be-- it's selfish and cruel, and part of the conditions of their renewed friendship is that he won't be cruel anymore.
The bard's hand rests over his chest, above the heart that beats once for every four of Jaskier's. Perhaps every three, now; against his will, Geralt's heart picks up its pace a little as he says my muse is back.
"You'll be able to sing about more than just my hunts, if it pleases you. My brothers are less stingy with the details."
And Jaskier will have a whole winter to get the details out of Eskel and Lambert, and to put those into appropriate prose. By spring, he can have a fresh new repertoire of witcher songs to entertain the Continent and fill his pockets with coin.
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"Of course it'd please me! I still can't believe you thought I wouldn't want to go to Kaer Morhen. So much for me to see and learn, Geralt. I'll write a ballad to honor your home, and your brothers as well. Many reputations for this bard to fix. But don't worry-" A wink. "-you'll always be my favorite."
It's not too flirty, is it? Jaskier isn't sure where the limits lay anymore, but he's slowly learning that they're incredibly fun to blur them. He had always been afraid of it before, of losing this precious friendship over it, but Geralt is open to it so... may as well play to the rhythm of this new song.
"Is this a yes to going to Oxenfurt then? As a bard's muse, you'll be well respected. By staying at the university, we'll have food and bed for free. And if you want to avoid the sewers, I'm sure the fishermen will have something for you to kill at sea. Or you could do your own fishing, this time with less djinn in it."
A joke. It feels good to be able to tease Geralt like this again, it's a balm for his soul. Congrats, Geralt, the everlasting babbling is back.
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And then Jaskier winks. Geralt stares at him for several long moments like he's just revealed that he's secretly a bruxa in disguise, mulling over this turn of events in his head. Usually, the bard winks at his audience when he's playing to charm them, or at barmaids and tavern wenches that he wants to tumble. So for him to wink at Geralt-- well, he must want to make sure that the witcher knows that he's teasing. That must be it. The joke, of course, is that he's Jaskier's "favorite" witcher because he's the only witcher that he's ever met. He's favorite by default.
Though it would hardly be surprising if he enjoyed the company of other witchers more than Geralt. Eskel, in particular-- they would get along well. The squeezing vice feeling returns to his chest, all the more irritating because he can't discern its cause.
Geralt moves, dislodging Jaskier's hand from his chest under the guise of getting up to check his medical kit. He used a significant amount of his supplies last night, so he'll need to take a good stock and replace what's missing. The bandages will need to be changed after a while, and salve reapplied. Practical concerns are a welcome thing to focus on.
"Oxenfurt is fine." It's a good idea, they should take advantage of the free room and board. "I'll be able to keep myself busy. We can leave as soon as you're well enough to ride."
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Jaskier feels more like a king at that very moment than he ever felt in the luxury of Lettenhove.
And that feeling gets even more intense when, after a couple of good days of resting (where Jaskier uses the nightmare excuse to cuddle Geralt in his sleep), Roach is offered to him and to him alone. His favorite girl in the world gets a hug from him, of course, and some sugar cubes, plus a promise of a good brushing later. Part of Jaskier wishes they could ride together, bodies pressing against each other, but he knows it'd be too much weight for Roach. Besides--
Well, there's something to be said about having Geralt guiding the horse in front of him. This powerful man who has lived a century and saved humanity thousands of times... here he is, being serviceable for this mere bard. The powerful feeling returns, and Jaskier can swear is intoxicating, addicting, exquisite.
He keeps Geralt's cloak around him, protecting his identity, but also because being allowed to keep it and having something of Geralt surrounding him all the way makes him giddy as hell. Sadly he isn't allowed to perform anywhere either, first because of his injuries and then for protection, so being again on the road is a blessing. At least when they are alone, Geralt lets him play and sing to his heart's content as long as it isn't too loud. Jaskier can do that.
It's both beautiful and terrifying how easily they fall back in their usual routine. It's like things never got interrupted, and yet something has shifted - for the better, thankfully. Geralt is truly trying, and Jaskier devours the attention, daring to do a little more and more every day. He flirts and touches Geralt, puts as little space between them as possible while camping, cuddles him like a freaking octopus when they fall asleep. Jaskier knows there's a new talk to be had about the direction this is going, especially concerning -and ugh, he hates having to acknowledge the issue- certain sorceress, but they'll get there in time. Geralt doesn't seem to have caught on yet, a mix of the man being as thick as a brick and being distracted by the threats that follow them, but Jaskier has waited twenty years, he can wait a few days more. The fact he feels confident about it now, that his hope isn't meaningless, already means a lot.
It's not wishful thinking anymore. It's a fucking real possibility of having a shot. If they weren't trying to be sneaky, Jaskier would sing to all the gods and heavens above.
He may be no witcher but he can tell when they're close to Oxenfurt - that sea smell is unmistakable. And yep, only a little later the bridge comes into view, the colorful walls behind it, the ships and fishermen little shadows on the shore. Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt's shoulder as he does his best not to fall off Roach - not only because of the leaning in, but also because his body is already all bouncy with excitement.
"Geralt, let me down, please. It'd be best to walk in together." Like equals, he doesn't add. "Besides, you don't want to be the face they get to greet, do you?"
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Camping is similarly more pleasant than Geralt remembered. Jaskier still plays his lute incessantly, but he deigns to do it more softly when Geralt reminds him that he's a wanted man. They fall back into a modified version of their old routine, and the changes seem to sit well with the bard; he's back to his usual vibrancy and complete disregard for personal space. Since that first night at the inn in Vizima, he has apparently decided that having a witcher in his grasp is the only way that he can sleep through the night, and shared bedrolls has become the norm. This is mostly fine-- the nights are cold and sharing is an efficient way to keep warm, but has occasionally led to awkward mornings where Geralt has to run through a mental checklist of every potion recipe he knows, in alphabetical order, to get rid of a slowly-burgeoning problem. He blames Jaskier's restless sleep and propensity for clinging.
It's not something that he has the liberty to think about, anyway. Nilfgaard continues to pursue them, and the further north they go, the better chance they have at evasion. Jaskier is still injured, they are only newly friends, and the fact that he continually smells like arousal just underscores their need to get to the city. Once he's within its walls, Jaskier can find as many pretty barmaids or tavern wenches as he needs to get it all out of his system before they go to Kaer Morhen. And, godsdamnit, if their funds weren't so tight, Geralt might think that he needs to find his way to a brothel and pay to get some pretty blue-eyed little thing into bed, too.
The salt in the air tells Geralt that they aren't far; once they're approaching the bridge, the witcher grunts in assent at Jaskier's request to dismount, reaching up to help him out of the saddle. It is better if the bard takes the lead here, in his adopted hometown.
Getting through the gates is easy, and Jaskier knows the streets like the back of his pretty hand. Accommodations are the first thing to get squared away, and after leaving Roach in the university stables with firm instructions to the stableboy to treat her well, Jaskier just has to sweep in, all charm and wit, and speak with some rectors or deans or what-have-yous to get access to his rooms again. All while Geralt makes his best attempt at blending in with the wall, in the hopes of attracting as little attention to himself as possible.
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No matter the group they belong to, eyes turn to them as soon as they enter the town, and the whispering begins. White Wolf, the muse and Master Jaskier is heard all over, and Geralt -with his mighty witcher ears- may pick on the subjects of their discussion, a mix of excitement over finally having the famous muse visiting their city, Jaskier arriving earlier than usual, and questions about the state of their relationship with judging looks thrown at Geralt. Jaskier tries his best to ignore those and puts up his charms to work - says good afternoon to anyone that he knows, offers winks and cute smiles, promises to talk to them later... and when inquisitive eyes ask a silent question about the man next to him, he offers a thumbs-up as explanation.
The city quickly catches on and soon the judging looks disappear to leave a warm welcome instead. Young students look excited when they see them walk by together, wondering if the White Wolf will be at the lectures as well. And that sound? Well, Toss a coin is now hummed by the merchants or even played by a group of bard trainees by the fountain.
Jaskier can't help smiling at it all, he thinks Geralt deserves the appreciation, but also knows he's probably hating every second of it.
"Sorry about that." He whispers to the witcher and gives his forearm a squeeze. "But we are here now."
The university is big and imposing, the style of the building matching the rest of the city. Here Jaskier has way many more people to say hi to, but he nudges Geralt to hurry upstairs, where the witcher is asked to wait outside the office while the bard does his thing. The dean is thankfully understanding - at first he isn't a fan of the idea of Jaskier skipping next winter, but having exclusive lectures AND the presence of the White Wolf makes up for it nicely.
Which means that, when Jaskier leaves the office with keys in his hands, he can't stop the man from following him. Oh dear.
"Geralt of Rivia. The untamed muse." No 'mighty witcher' or 'butcher' or even 'white wolf'. Muse, and to this guy, that carries more weight than any other word he could've used. His head is bald yet his white beard is bushy, brown eyes are filled with curiosity and respect... also maybe a little amusement, especially when he glances at a fidgeting Jaskier by his side. He offers Geralt a hand to shake. "Professor Mateusz Nowak, dean of Oxefurt University. It's an honor to have you in our academy - Jaskier has told us a lot about you. Allow me to thank you for allowing one of our best students to grow into the fine artist he is today by sharing your company, your protection--"
"Professor..." Jaskier groans, as this was a father embarrassing him. It's kinda cute, really.
"--and your unique perspective of the world. At my old age, one would think there isn't much left to see, but the stories about you still amaze me. I trust you'll find our quarters quite accommodating. I know the locals will have some sewer troubles to talk to you about, and they'll pay you for it, but please consider bringing any reminders of your hunts to our science department. We also know how to reward handsomely."
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He hates the whispers in the streets, even if the wide-eyed students and scholarly academics are calling him White Wolf instead of Butcher. He hates the way they stare at him, their idle curiosity, the probing questions that they ask each other in hushed tones. He hates the snatches of song that he hears on street corners, the familiar notes that brought him so much coin on his travels, but played by unfamiliar hands. It's almost a relief when they get to the university proper, because everyone inside is more interested in small talk with Jaskier, as acquaintances do. He seems to know the entire damned campus, a fact that Geralt really shouldn't be surprised about.
Waiting outside of the dean's office is fine; Geralt just leans against the wall next to a statue of some founder of the department or whatever horseshit, his face set in an expression of such stony neutrality that, when combined with armor and the two swords on his back, makes an effective deterrent for inquisitive students and professors alike. The whispers don't stop, but they at least hurry quickly by him and only make brief eye contact. One particularly brave gaggle of students nearly makes it within five feet of him, but the one among them who had dared approach-- some mousy thing clutching a book, the title of which he can only read as The Collected Works of J before it's covered by her hand-- loses her nerve under his wilting stare.
Except for the one that follows Jaskier out of the office, apparently. He addresses him, at least, by his fucking name, a surprising rarity in this town, but adds on some ridiculous epithet about being an untamed muse, whatever the hell that means. The sour-lemon expression twists his mouth, betraying exactly how little he wants to be interacting with the Dean of Just Give Jaskier the Fucking Keys, but if he doesn't at least acknowledge him, this interaction will just be even longer. Geralt gives him only the most perfunctory shake of the hand. The academic blathers on about company and protection and something about perspective that Geralt very nearly snorts a laugh at, and Jaskier at least has the decency to look embarrassed about the whole affair.
The only break in his brick wall of an expression comes at the mention of coin, and that's only to make a affirming grunt; if the scientists have some use for drowner corpses, they can have whatever ones he doesn't harvest for potion ingredients.
With the bare minimum of social interaction satisfied, Geralt turns to Jaskier.
"Are you done here?"
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"YES! Why yes I am. Thank you for your welcome, Professor Nowak, but we had a long trip here and--"
The old man has the audacity to laugh, but at least he nods. "Yes, yes, we both have things to do. You're free to go, my boy." He snorts to himself when he realizes what he's said and puts a hand on Jaskier's shoulder. "Except you aren't a boy any longer, are you? It's my age talking. It feels like it was only yesterday that little Julian arrived to my office, asking me to help him change courses without alerting his father's prying eyes."
At that, Jaskier's face goes white, his whole body tenses. He glances at Geralt, checking for a reaction, and he misses it when the dean pats his back and tells him he'll see him later before going back to his office. The door closing is what snaps him out of it, and with his heart stuck in his throat, he motions to the stairs with a tilt of his head.
"Shall we?"
It's stupid, to be bothered by that. It happened over twenty years ago. It's in the past! Geralt won't give a fuck, no matter how much he hates nobles - besides, he probably has an idea at least, Jaskier reminds himself, considering the snippets of his childhood he's incorporated while babbling the road away.
"You can ask. If you want."
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Geralt stays silent while they walk, until Jaskier brings it up of his own accord.
"Hm."
The bard is forthcoming on nearly all subjects, seemingly content to prattle away on whatever topic catches his fancy at that moment. He's been relatively reserved on the topic of his childhood, though, dropping only a few little anecdotes and comments about the life he had before he went to Oxenfurt. It hadn't taken long into their acquaintance for Geralt to guess that he had come from some kind of good breeding-- it was written into his mannerisms, his knowledge of courtly etiquette, his taste for fine things. A minor lord's son, he would've guessed if pressed. It hardly matters, because if Jaskier had any interest in whatever titles or estates he might have a claim to, he would've gone for them by now.
"Fine. Why do you look like you're staring down a wraith when someone mentions your father?"
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"I may prefer the wraith." He mumbles after worrying his lower lip for a couple of seconds. Geralt's comparison, however, gives him an idea for how to phrase the issue in the most direct way. "Let me put it this way: if right now we find two doors, one hiding Yennefer of Vengerberg and the other hiding Count Vincent Horatio Pankratz..." He pulls a face. What a horrible sentence. "And you make me choose one to go through, then-- I'll choose the witch." A pause. "And you can never, ever tell her that I said that."
Keeping his priorities straight, isn't he? But man, it feels good to get that off his chest, to be able to rant about his family non-stop. The dramatic hand gestures return as they make their way upstairs, having another floor to go yet, and Jaskier's mood changes from anxious to frustrated at the world, which is something he deals with better.
"I know you hate nobles, Geralt, so think of all the reasons why you hate them and put them in one arsehole of a man. The 'perfect' quintessential lord by all means - and the 'perfect' quintessential lady, too, my mother wasn't that much better. In fact, I hate most people in that dreadful house." Most, not all. He may go into details about it later, but it's not what Geralt asked for. "They didn't approve of anything I did. Wanting to go out and seek adventure isn't what good little viscounts do. I skipped my fencing classes because I was awful with the sword, unlike my brother the mighty heir, and would hide to play with my grandmother's harp, but that's a lady's hobby." Rolling his eyes at that, his tone deriding. "Tutors were allowed to educate me with canes. Oh, kissing the maid's daughter? It was wrong because she was a commoner, and kissing the maid's son was wrong because he was a boy. My future was decided for me already - I was to marry a nice, rich lady I didn't love and make more little lordlings for them."
By the time they make it to a hallway, Jaskier is stomping. A tantrum may be a little too much, but it's liberating to let it all out.
"I wanted to run away so I-- kind of did. I pretended I would finally behave and convinced my father to send me here to study law or history, paid it all in advance. Except when I arrived, I asked the dean to change me to the arts department. I only returned to the estate once after that, to pick the rest of my things. I haven't seen anyone since then." They make it to the right door, but Jaskier doesn't open it yet. He turns to Geralt, head tilt as blue eyes try to read gold for their thoughts on this whole deal. "Julian Alfred Pankratz died that day. It's Jaskier of Oxenfurt now. Grandmother used to call me 'my buttercup', and I promised her I wouldn't stop singing."
So his name honors her memory. A pause, then a question - tentative, nervous. "...do you think I'm an entitled brat now?"
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"She'd be offended that you're afraid of someone more than her."
And possibly amused, as well. To think, there's someone out there that Jaskier hates more than Yennefer of Vengerberg-- Geralt wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't heard it from the bard's own mouth.
As Jaskier talks about his estranged family, he riles himself up more and more, going from anxious to angry. It's an improvement, really; anxiety is just a step off of fear, and Geralt hates the smell of fear on Jaskier. But it's no wonder that he didn't like talking about his family and childhood, considering that it seemed to have made him miserable. There was no way that Jaskier was going to settle down and be a perfect little lord, not unless his father had tried to beat every bit of what made Jaskier Jaskier out of him.
The bard became what he wanted to become, his destiny be damned. Geralt can't find fault with that.
(A long, long time ago, a boy who would become a witcher had wanted to be a knight.)
Geralt's voice stays even, but the corner of his mouth tics upward in a hint of a smile, giving away the fact that he's teasing.
"You are a brat, Jaskier, but not because your father's a count."
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(Some day he won't be here to pick the pieces she leaves behind after meeting with Geralt, and he'd rather not think about that.)
That hint of a smile already tells him no, Geralt doesn't care that Jaskier used to be one of those nasty little nobles, and that's a huge relief. So the teasing is well received, even if it kinda comes with an insult in it - Jaskier had told him some banter is fine, and he meant it. It means he can playfully-insult and throw pillows back!
Anger slowly leaving his body (gosh, Geralt is so good at influencing his emotions), he chuckles. "If one day you're short of coin, I'll gladly pay you to punch him in the face." A pause. His tongue peeks out again. After playing with the room keys for what it feels like an eternity (it's actually a couple of seconds), Jaskier comes closer, puts a hand on Geralt's chest and quickly kisses his cheek before whispering. "Thanks for listening. And understanding."
Too much? Who knows, but he won't be staying to find out. As soon as he's done with his little flirting attempt, he's turning around to finally open the door to the bedroom - there's no much light in, curtains are closed. But enough light filters through for even a human to notice it hasn't been lived in a long time, although it has been cleaned at least. All furniture is fancy and designed with artistic carvings - the desk and chair, the bookshelf, the closet, the trunk at the end of the big canopy bed. The curtains, too, have beautiful patterns painted on them, and there are paintings hanging on the stone walls.
Jaskier ignores it all for now, he just runs to the bed and lets his body drop on it, burying his face in the incredibly soft pillows.
"...ouch. My body may've not liked that." It doesn't sound like he cares though, he looks comfortable. "Come, Geralt, appreciate what a real bed is like before I drop the rules on you and you decide to ignore me."
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