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."
Decent coin for punching a smug prick of a nobleman in the jaw? Geralt's done worse jobs for worse reasons. And considering what Jaskier's told him about the man-- and that part about his tutors beating an education into him with canes-- he might even think about doing it for free. Just for the pleasure of it.
The hand returns to Geralt's chest for a moment before the bard's lips touch his cheek; nothing much, just a quick peck. A thank-you, apparently, for listening to him and for lightening his mood at the end of it. That's... not a usual way to thank a man for something? He's seen women do such things before, kiss each other on the cheeks, but perhaps Jaskier is just odd. Scratch that-- Jaskier is odd, and maybe this is just one of the ways that he is.
Doesn't matter. He's got the door open and Geralt follows him in, into a dormitory room that, judging from the faint smell of dust and stagnant air, hasn't been used in some time. It'll do, though, for a few days. Geralt drops his pack in a corner, out of the way, while Jaskier goes face down into his pillows. He huffs a laugh and meanders over, pushing aside the curtains of the canopy to see Jaskier basking in the softness of down comforters.
"The rules, huh?" He presses a hand into the soft mattress; it's been a long time since he'd slept in a feather bed. Probably not since the last time he took a contract with a lord who deigned to give him lodging, too. "Going to make me sleep on the floor?"
He hears that huffed laugh, don't even try to hide it, mister. It's such a beautiful sound, Jaskier wishes he could hear it more often. Considering how Geralt has been showing more smiles and kindness since they reunited, maybe that's another real possibility in their future.
"The floor?" Frowning, he turns his head to look at Geralt as if he had asked for piss in his ale. "We've shared beds ten times smaller than this, don't be silly."
And to make his point, he rests his body on its side to free some room on the bed, lute still hanging on his back without a care, Geralt's big black cloak almost a blanket of its own. They've shared sleeping arrangements in a variety of places, both normal and extremely weird, from swamps to inn beds. Not to mention the fact Jaskier has been cuddling the hell out of the witcher since his rescue, and he isn't planning to do so any time soon. It's been a blessing in a variety of ways: it keeps his nightmares away, helps bring sleep faster thanks to the sense of security, and of course, it makes him happy to simply touch Geralt. There's also the fact the mutagens make him a walking furnace, perfect for the autumn chill.
"I'm not talking about my rules - you already know how to live with me." He explains as he pats the spot on the mattress next to him, trying to get Geralt to truly test the bed. And isn't that a stomach turning thought? They've always been 'travel companions', which isn't really 'living together'... or is it? Jaskier would like to think it is. "I meant the university's rules. Maids clean these rooms, Geralt, and I know you don't like other people touching your stuff. So don't leave anything on the floor or the bed. Desk, trunk and wardrobe are safe. If you want anything to be sent to clean, leave it in the basket by the door. You'll hear the bells that announce the different meals of the day, if you don't show up on time then you don't get a second chance..." He shrugs and grins. "Except we all sneak into the kitchens anyway. You can ask for baths before breakfast or after dinner unless it's an emergency. And considering I've seen the insane researchers at the chemistry department get multiple baths a day because of badly prepared potions, I think they'll make an exception for you too if you end up covered in monster guts. Library is open most of the day if you're curious." He then tosses something to Geralt - a spare set of keys. "Any questions, dear witcher?"
Jaskier rolls over so that he's not a starfish sprawl across the mattress, freeing up space that Geralt could occupy. He sits on the edge, and the mattress is soft enough that it depresses easily underneath his mass. A real feather mattress, definitely. And the comforter must be stuffed with down, so it'll be warm enough even for someone like Jaskier. It ranks pretty highly in terms of quality beds that Geralt has gotten to sleep in.
He lays back, closing his eyes and letting himself sink in a little. He thinks about what it might be like, spending the winter months here-- having the liberty to be picky about his contracts, with the option of not taking any at all and just spending hours in the library, writing commentary in the margins of monster manuals; coming back at the end of the day to this little room and its big feather bed, to Jaskier sitting at the desk, plucking out some tune on his lute while he composes. His tongue sticking out between his lips a little as he concentrates and makes notes, quill softly scratching on the page. Then, when he notices that Geralt is back, the smile that breaks across his face like the sun over the horizon--
An idle fantasy. Meaningless.
"Keep my things off the floor, washing in the basket, don't be late for meals, baths when I need them," he summarizes. The spare set of keys flashes through the air and Geralt catches them without even needing to sit up. "I'll remember. Does the trunk lock? Should put my potion bag in there, just in case."
Last thing they need is for the maid to accidentally get into his potion bag and poison herself on a witcher concoction.
The question about the trunk gets affirmative humming from Jaskier, who gets a little distracted for a moment. Calloused fingers reach out to play with the witcher's hair as blue eyes soften at the sight in front of him: Geralt actually idling, enjoying a small piece of comfort for a change. Jaskier can feel his heart being squeezed by the concept - he wishes he could offer this all the time, every winter even. What a fool, making the assumptions he has the past two decades, he should've asked before. Now with Ciri around, he isn't sure if at least one winter would ever be possible.
Whatever you want. Maybe it'll just be a matter of asking next year, or the next. Ciri may like it here too, and he knows the university also has properties that are destined to permanent professors. As a guest lecturer, Jaskier gets rooms on campus, but with two witchers making the case for him, maybe...
For Melitele's tits, he shouldn't be thinking so far ahead. Nilfgaard is still a huge danger for all three of them - better take it one step at the time. It's how he's been living his life since he left Lettenhove after all. How come is Geralt capable of making him consider actually planning ahead?
(May be with the fact that waiting for Ciri to grow up is bad news for his own age.)
"In the afternoon, after the main classes are over." He explains as he finishes making a cute little braid right behind Geralt's ear. "I need to go and talk to the head of the arts department and settle on a proper schedule. I always try to snatch tea time, that way we get snacks brought to the lecture hall." With the braid done, and feeling very confident and daring, Jaskier moves to put his hands on Geralt's chess and his chin on top of them. "I know this city is probably incredibly overwhelming for you. Are you planning to hunt all day? I thought we could do our supply shopping in the morning - fewer people in the streets early on, all students and teachers are inside."
Jaskier's fingers touch his hair and Geralt lets him, and the sensation is familiar. Not unlike what it felt like when the bard washed his hair, a nice, vaguely comforting sort of thing. Between the soft bed and Jaskier's hands and the days he's gone without real sleep, Geralt could almost let himself relax enough to drift off.
Almost.
Though Oxenfurt is the safest place they've stopped since Geralt found Jaskier in that outpost, it's still not Kaer Morhen. It's not really safe, Jaskier won't really be truly secure until they're up behind those old stone walls and snowed in until spring. Complete isolation, both coming and going. No one up, no one down.
There are a few little tugs on his hair that eventually stop. Geralt pays it no mind, whatever Jaskier has done to him is probably fine. He's finished anyway, and the witcher feels the bed dip and shift as Jaskier moves towards him, then the weight of his hands and chin on his chest. The bard's body is a long line of warmth against his side where he lays.
He can feel Jaskier's breath brush against his neck with every exhale. It's far more distracting than Geralt assumed it would be.
"I can be back by mid-morning." There are some tasks that he wants to get done, but they'll be best accomplished in the very early morning. Far earlier than Jaskier would wake up; it would be worth it, though. "The less crowded, the better. I don't enjoy being gawked at."
He opens his eyes, then reaches up to feel along the braid that Jaskier wove into his hair. It's fine, he thinks. Of all the things that the bard could do, a few braids to keep his restless hands occupied is fine.
"You'll need warmer clothes, and not just for traveling. Your pretty silks will leave you very cold in Kaer Morhen." And Geralt couldn't keep him warm all the time, nor could he let the bard take all of his spare clothes. "And it wouldn't kill you to be a little understated while we're running from Nilfgaard."
They've been cuddling while sleeping for days now, yet Jaskier still can't believe he's allowed to simple lay on Geralt like this, the rhythm of his hearbeat and breathing under his calloused hands, as they idly chat and make plans to go shopping together. In his freaking Oxenfurt bed. It feels like a little piece of heaven, and he wishes they could stay like this for the rest of the day, make them bring cheese and fruit they can eat while still cuddling. Maybe he can add a couple more braids to that pretty white hair, Geralt doesn't seem to mind the one on him now, and that makes Jaskier giddy as hell.
Winter is coming, however, and they're both very busy and restless people. Maybe at Kaer Morhen? Now that's an idea.
"I know you don't. At least it's with admiration?" And not with rocks and prejudice, he doesn't say, but he knows Geralt gets the idea. "But I truly appreciate you coming, Geralt. It means a lot to be able to share my home with you."
He makes a show of rolling his eyes and pouting at the comment about his fashion choices, but his tone is light when he replies - as much as he likes dressing nicely, he knows this time the witcher is right.
"So you think my silks are pretty?" He teases with an arched eyebrow. "Hey now, I've been wearing your cloak! Black as a Nilfgaardian soldier's heart! And I'll keep wearing it on top of whatever colors I end up buying. Yes, Geralt, it'll be warmer clothes, don't worry." He quickly replies, thinking his friend may scold him on the idea of buying 'colors'. "Starting with thick, strong gloves for my talented fingers, we must protect those! I'd like to buy some gifts for your brothers as well, as a thank you for welcoming me. You should tell me what they like. And the princess!" He suddenly exclaims with wide eyes, realizing what being in a witcher fortress means for the poor girl. "There is no chance Kaer Morhen is ready for women. We should shop for her as well, Geralt." He tilts his head as he thinks of what a woman may need. "Some pretty ribbons for her hair, a nice comb as well. Linen rags for her monthlies. No make-up, but maybe a little piece of jewelry? And I'll be taking some of my books with me, I can share those with her as well. I bet there is no poetry in your witcher library."
Jaskier prattles about the shopping list, which is fine-- Geralt has learned over the past two decades how to tune out most of what the bard says while retaining only the important parts. Parsing through his unrelenting, rambling monologue is a fine art, one that Geralt is pleased to have cultivated. Following his train of thought can be exhausting sometimes, otherwise.
He agrees to warmer clothes, at least, though Geralt has no illusions that the bard will try to find them in vibrant colors and patterns. Technically, Jaskier can do as he pleases with his coin, since the majority of their funds here will be acquired through his teaching; the witcher is not the breadwinner in Oxenfurt. At very least, he wants to have a look at the things that he plans to get, to make sure that they're heavy enough. Then he moves on to gifts for his brothers, then jumps to gifts for Ciri and the various little comforts that a girl of noble origins might like to have in a witchers' fortress.
"Hm. Vodka, for my brothers. Enough of it and Lambert might not even be an ass."
Unlikely, but hope springs eternal. And, anyway, even if Lambert's personality doesn't improve with the liberal application of alcohol, Geralt could at least be too drunk to notice.
Geralt hums in a sort of vaguely agreeable indifference to the things that Jaskier suggests for Ciri; he doesn't know much about what a young girl might like, but he'd bet that the bard would. They could spare the coin for ribbons and trinkets if it might make her life in Kaer Morhen a little easier. His brain catches up with Jaskier's babbling after a moment, though, and his brow furrows.
Vodka? That's incredibly impersonal, Jaskier thinks. Then again, if they were all trained under the same bullshit rules Geralt was, then the rest of the wolves probably don't have any hobbies either, no 'wants'. It frustrates the hell out of him, but he doesn't want to start that argument now, so he just nods in understanding - vodka it is. Maybe he can get to know the other witchers better by his own means when they get there.
"Yeah, you know..." Jaskier frees a hand from under his chin and makes a vague hand gesture, as if it was obvious. His eyes widen when he realizes Geralt is being extremely serious and literal with his question. "...or maybe you don't."
He suddenly pulls back to sit on his knees, letting out a mumbled ouch when his own lute hits his butt. He finally takes it off and leaves it on the pillow before turning to Geralt with his hands on his waist, his face as skeptical and worried as the day Geralt told him he was looking for a fucking djinn because he couldn't sleep. Melitele help him, this is an actual conversation that is happening right now.
"Geralt of Rivia, old friend, dear witcher, mighty wolf... are you telling me that you don't know women bleed once a month?" A pause. A gasp when he puts two and two together. Get ready for the high pitch. "Don't tell me you left her with a man that doesn't know this fact either!"
He throws his hands in the air, clearly exasperated. Witchers, sigh.
Geralt looks at Jaskier while he makes a very vague and slightly ridiculous hand gesture that could mean absolutely anything, his face schooled into careful neutrality. The bard sits up, relieving the witcher's chest of his weight, and puts his lute on the pillow, and when he turns back Geralt is treated to the bard's face gazing down at him in thinly veiled and slightly concerned judgment.
He mentions bleeding women. Geralt thinks back to his lessons in anatomy for some frame of reference in this matter. He remembers learning about locations of major organs in man, beast, and monster-- mostly for the sake of knowing how best to kill it or how best to harvest useful tissues from it later. There were lessons in field wound care that involved how to staunch bleeding, but had no particular indication that women would be different from men in this area. Some back-country healers advocated the use of bleeding to balance humors for good health, but Geralt-- and, he would imagine, Jaskier too-- considered that to be an outdated and archaic treatment. If women were bleeding around him all of the time, he surely would have noticed, wouldn't he? And, yes, sometimes women smell a little like blood, but so do men sometimes, too.
"That seems... excessive."
Perhaps Jaskier is wrong about this. He's been wrong about plenty of things before.
"I would have noticed if women were bleeding all around me, Jaskier. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that you were singing about things that didn't exist in Posada, if this is what they teach you here."
For a moment, Jaskier can only, well... stare. Geralt isn't joking.
"Wait, wait." Both his hands open wide and bounce in a 'please slow down' gesture as Jaskier tries to understand what he's hearing here. "So because YOU-" He points at Geralt. "-don't know about it, it means it doesn't exist?"
He can't help it: he laughs, to the point where he has to grab his belly. What kind of logic is that? He knows witchers live for a long time, and Geralt has a century on him, but that's an incredibly stupid line of thought. Unbelievable.
"How could you not know! Geralt, this is-"
Jaskier's face suddenly falls, the laughter is cut off all of the sudden. Blue eyes are fill with sadness, and pity. Fuck.
"...because you've only bedded whores." And a very prideful witch that probably doesn't expose herself to him like that during those days. "Oh, Geralt."
Knowing the witcher probably doesn't appreciate the look he's getting from Jaskier at the moment, he decides to move the lute from the pillow and lie down next to Geralt, his head resting on that very wide shoulder.
"I'm sorry, my friend. I didn't mean to embarrass you. Although there's something to be said about that pompous logic of yours." His hand reaches between them to squeeze Geralt's fingers. If this conversation is happening because of witcher education bullshit, he better start providing comfort early on. Don't wanna get Geralt closing up on him. "A man's ballsack carries his seed, and we discharge it when we orgasm. A woman's womb carries her eggs. And once a month, if they haven't been impregnated, those eggs are expelled to make room for new ones. I think you can figure out from where by your own." A playful nudge. "So they put rags in their smallclothes to collect it and not to stain their skirts. I hope Cirilla is doing fine, this must be terribly embarrassing for her. I'm buying a special book to add to the Kaer Morhen library - and I suppose I will have to teach all this to your brothers, as well. What do they teach a witcher about woman's parts anyway?"
Jaskier is laughing, and it's not the kind of laugh that Geralt likes to hear-- he's laughing at him, as though he's some naive schoolboy who doesn't know how the world works. Geralt thinks that he's been more than patient with Jaskier these past few days, putting up with his chatter and his eccentricities, but he has no intention of taking his ridicule. The noise that comes out of his throat is a shade off of a growl, his lip twists and his jaw tightens and he is a moment from sitting up and getting off of that bed to go find some fucking drowners to kill when-- gods, he'd thought it couldn't be worse, but then there's pity on Jaskier's face. Fuck finding drowners to kill, he's going to walk into the fucking Pontar and drown himself.
He's stopped from participating in his own demise by Jaskier's head, which comes to lay on one of his shoulders. The tension in his body betrays how much he wants to get up anyway, erase the memory of that pitying look from his brain forever. And the way that Jaskier said it, you've only bedded whores-- because of course he's only gone to bed with whores (and one particular sorceress), no one would stand to touch a witcher unless they were getting coin for it. So what would a witcher need to know about this? It won't help him kill a monster and no woman would be with him for a minute longer than what his coin paid for.
What the elder witchers didn't teach all those boys at Kaer Morhen is as telling about their purpose as what they did. They were never taught what happens beyond the mechanics of fucking because it would never be more than just a fuck. It's a clear message-- don't ever make the mistake of thinking that there will be someone who stays, because witchers have death on their hands and grave dirt in their skins and are barely a step above ghouls to begin with. All that nonsense dies when the Trials begin.
Geralt's eyes are fixed firmly on the canopy overhead as Jaskier explains things to him, some of which do not need explaining, some of which, apparently, do. When he nudges him, it's like trying to elbow a statue.
What do they teach a witcher, he asks. Not enough might be the right answer.
"Only what's necessary to prepare us for bedding whores," he replies. "Why bother telling us about things we won't be involved in?"
Geralt being made of bricks is a joke Jaskier makes often, but he's truly turned into stone now. Fuck, he was right to think he would close up, and it makes the bard feel like shit for it. Especially when Geralt quotes 'bedding whores' - fuck, fuck, fuck. It makes him wince, his stomach turning with guilt. For once, Jaskier appreciates the whole smelling-your-mood thing witchers can do, hopefully Geralt can tell how bad he feels about it.
"I was an arse - spoke without thinking. Sorry, Geralt."
Both his hands search for the witcher's and hold it tightly, sending a reminder: not everyone out there hates touching you. It's not much, but still better than nothing. Although he has to wonder if Geralt would still not believe him after fucking. ...okay, definitely not the right time to think about that.
"Teachers can be like that some times. Only giving us the knowledge they think we'll need. Remember when you had to teach me something so basic like starting a fire?" Among other survival skills. Now that Jaskier knows Geralt better, he's amazed at how patient the witcher had been with him. How long would've he survived on the road if he hadn't met Geralt? A thought he can't wrap his mind around - he can't imagine a life without him. He's known him for more than half of his age now. "Please remember: it isn't your fault. You deserve the same things everyone else deserves, and that includes understanding how things work. Even if you aren't going to use them."
So much shows in the scent, the complex biological processes that betray what's in the mind of a man to a witcher with a nose like a bloodhound. Regret is notable in its presentation, sweet and bitter at the same time, reminding him a little of the sickly-sweet smell of decay. It slips into the floral oil-lute wax-parchment smell of him like water into cracks, lending credence to the sorry that he says. Men lie, but Geralt can smell it when they do.
Both of the bard's hands clutch at his, nimble fingers threading between his own, and he squeezes them as though he expects a response, for Geralt to hold his back. Jaskier touches him all the time, has so little regard for anything like personal space, but he has always been fearless around Geralt. It's like he latched onto the witcher when he was too young to have known to be afraid of him-- only eighteen, barely old enough to be out on his own-- and now he's fucking forty and he never will. Like those island birds that had never seen humans before and wouldn't fly away from them, trusting and unsuspecting.
"Hm."
He remembers having to teach Jaskier basic things-- how to light a fire, how to pitch a tent so that it wouldn't collapse on him in the middle of the night and make him shriek so loud that he wakes everything in a five mile radius. How to skin a rabbit and gut a fish. Practical things that a nobleman's son who studied art and music in the comforts of Oxenfurt would never need to know. He'd been exasperated and frustrated with the bard, most of those times that he'd had to teach him something that a witcher would've learned by ten. But now, after all this, on the run from Nilfgaard and seeking refuge at Kaer Morhen, he thinks-- I should've taught him how to use a fucking sword. I should've taught him how to get away when someone grabs him.
The stony tension of Geralt's body thaws a little; he ghosts his thumb across Jaskier's palm where the skin is still smooth and soft. The bard is upset about what he said, even though he shouldn't be-- none of it was wrong. Geralt should have learned to weather these kinds of little cuts by now.
"Witchers don't have wives or daughters. There would've been no reason to teach us, and there were no women witchers at Kaer Morhen."
Maybe at another school-- Kaer Seren or Gorthur Gvaed-- there would have been women witchers to teach them these things. Perhaps Kaer Morhen is strange for only taking boys into its training. Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter. What matters, and what will always matter more than Geralt's offense or embarrassment, is what Ciri will require.
"What else will I need to know? What will she need of me?"
The change in body tension is slight, but it's there, Jaskier can tell (and he's proud of himself for being able to read Geralt like that). Then that thumb moves on his skin and- oh. Such a small gesture, it makes him melt anyway. They're going to be fine, aren't they? Well, as fine as Geralt can be. But they're getting better at this, and that alone helps Jaskier feel a little less bad about the whole thing. Some times you have to poke at a wound to heal it...
"Listen to you, Geralt! Already being such a good father!"
Jaskier sounds so proud of him. What will she need of me? Gods, it's such a simple yet powerful question. As someone with a shitty dad, he can't start to describe how important that question is, how highly it speaks of Geralt. He already cares about Cirilla a lot, he can tell. It makes him happy that they have found each other, they'll be a cute little family.
(Will he be part of it? Geralt has responsibilities now, it can't be just the two of them together on the road having dangerous yet fun adventures anymore. What a scary thought.)
"Some women experience some pain during that period, but their experiences vary. Some of them prefer to rest, others carry on with their day and even will be down for a--" He suddenly remembers he's talking about Geralt's daughter and not women in general, so he interrupts himself by clearing his voice. "Where was I? Oh, we have all kinds of books about the matter in the library here, Geralt, don't be afraid of taking a look around. What else? I could teach you to braid her hair if you want. I think the biggest thing when it comes to girls is protecting them from the world and, well. Men. You remember Queen Calanthe, how she fought to stay above all the horseshit."
A magnificent woman, Jaskier has always thought. A bitch, sure, but a magnificent bitch all the same.
"But you're going to train her, aren't you? She'll be as strong- no, stronger than her grandmother. Just be there for her, Geralt. Don't be afraid of asking her what she needs. Offer your support. There are many things she won't understand either, so you can teach each other and figure things out together. And I know for a fact that you're a good teacher when you put your mind into it."
There's something about how Jaskier praises him for asking what seems like an extremely basic question that makes Geralt cringe on the inside, like he's praising a child for a finger-painting. Geralt is working with a handicap, certainly-- his closest father-figure is an old fencing teacher who used to box him 'round the ears for getting into mischief as a child-- but even he can manage this most rudimentary level of guardianship, right?
And he isn't her father. She had a father, and Geralt cannot replace him.
He listens to Jaskier's explanation with the same focus that he listens to townsfolk describing their monsters, like he's trying to commit every little detail to memory. Then he goes a little too far with his explanation--
"Jaskier."
--before he catches himself and keeps it on-track. Geralt has only been Ciri's guardian for a few weeks, but he cares for the girl in a way that he never experienced before. Some echo of what a father would feel for their child, left over after the mutagens had dulled everything else, he assumes. He can only hope that it will be enough.
With Jaskier's help, maybe, he can be at least passable at guardianship. But that would also require Jaskier to want anything to do with child-rearing, and he's seemed quite keen on avoiding marriage and children for forty years. Offering advice is one thing, but sticking around for the day-to-day is something else entirely.
"She has no one else, and there's too much power in her to remain untrained. There will be things that she'll need to learn that I can't teach her."
She'll need Yen. Even if the sorceress wants nothing more to do with him after the disaster on the mountain, he'll need her help simply because she is the most powerful wielder of Chaos that he knows. He'll do whatever it takes for Yen to teach her, just as he would've done whatever she had asked to save Jaskier from the djinn. But he can't show her everything that she needs to know, and, really, he isn't even sure if what he can teach are even the right things for her to know.
I'm afraid, he almost says. I'm afraid that this is a test that I have no hope of passing. I'm afraid that my failure will ruin her as well as me.
He says none of it. Instead, he says,
"I'll look through the library tomorrow afternoon, after we get supplies."
"We have a plan then. Don't be too mean on the poetry, please, I know how much you like correcting inaccuracies."
A joke. Words carefully chosen to take attention away from Geralt's other statement. He's an arse for doing that, he knows, a very selfish arse. Geralt's concerns are legit. But he doesn't want to think, even less talk, about Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg. Not on his bed, not while cuddling Geralt, not when he's having this delightful experience of having Geralt at his own home. Because oh yes, he does know where that sentence is going, he can guess who exactly can teach Ciri what she needs.
Whatever you want sounds less possible during moments like this. Being back on the road with Geralt, even while laying low, had been fantastic. They were, well, them again. But the reality of Ciri and Yen is closing onto them, and Jaskier has to wonder if Geralt truly had known what he had been promising, or it was just another case of him trying to be heroic and noble and then having trouble for getting involved too much.
Better not think about that now, he reminds himself. One day at the time. Over twenty years of living his life like that, not gonna change it now for the wolf. The songbird shall not be caged.
They go their separate ways after that - Geralt to check on contracts, Jaskier to arrange his lecture schedule and start working on his presentation. They meet again for dinner, which is quite an boisterous affair to say the least. The White Wolf is here after all! Tons of people approach them, and Jaskier does his best to keep their attention on himself to save Geralt from the hassle. He's invited to various tables, which is the norm, but he turns them down - his best friend needs the company and the shield against social interaction, so they stay at the end of a small table. Jaskier can't say no to performing, however, and he happily sings together with other musicians... the songs of the White Wolf. And by Melitele, it makes him feel ALIVE again. It's not just the audience -although he definitely couldn't ask for a better public, oh how he loves sucking all this lovely attention- it's the fact he can sing about Geralt again that has his blood boiling. Nobody else can sing these with the true experience behind them, no other song can get such emotions from him. He closes with Toss a coin, which has the whole hall roaring, and thanks all the gods for having been able to avoid Her sweet kiss. He returns to Geralt smelling of the sweetest bliss and repeats what he had said that night, with a little extra this time: my muse is back, long live his influence.
Throwing winks and charming smiles are a thing he still does during the performance, but nobody actually flirts with him when they approach him for a chat, not even old flings - probably because of Geralt, if he understands the teasing and weird questions correctly. Surprisingly, he finds himself not minding at all. His heart wouldn't be into it. A one night stand to empty his balls wouldn't be a bad idea (he hasn't had an orgasm since before his captivity and sleeping in the witcher's arms doesn't help), but true flirting and not just the pretty words he throws at everyone? Nope. Only one person is getting that from him now. Oh, how have things changed.
That one special person cuddles him again that night, under the comfortable and warm blankets of the perfect bed. Jaskier doesn't want to wake up.
He does, however. To an empty bed and the smell of-- whatever that is. He's smelled tons of shit on Geralt before (including literal shit), but this one is new. At least he's already in the bath, so Jaskier doesn't have to suffer it for long. A job, Geralt says, which does't make any sense - Jaskier remembers drowner smell. But hey, this is the coast, fish makes everything ten times worse, so he doesn't think too hard about it and enjoys the lovely sigh of a naked Geralt instead.
Shopping goes great. They find most things they need, from warm clothes for Jaskier to the vodka for Geralt's brothers, from the linen rags to the trinkets for Cirilla. A second trip will be necessary to get it all, but they finish this one with their most important purchase: a beautiful white gelding he decides to call Pegasus. Geralt helps him choose him, and Jaskier hopes his good eye includes judging a potential good friend for Roach. They buy a little cart as well.
His first lecture comes after that, so Jaskier leaves Geralt with their supplies and the horses (oh look, Roach has flowers in her hair, what a surprise -not-) to get ready. He begins with some small talk, getting to know new students and checking on old ones to see how they are doing. Then the introduction he always starts with: a reminder that the outside world is nothing like the inside of Oxenfurt's walls. Little does he know that the person that taught him that is sneaking into this class as well.
A long discussion that includes a variety of topics -from rhyming to note taking- follows it, and Jaskier is in his element. Speaking for hours about a subject he loves to people that understand it? Getting the attention and admiration of a whole room on him? Yes please. He loves every second for it. And he finishes with his (and the student's) favorite exercise: choosing one of his songs to analyse and discuss.
Her sweet kiss easily wins the vote.
He shouldn't be surprised, really. Usually the White Wolf is the most popular topic, but he hasn't written anything new about him in over a year. And Her sweet kiss has been a hit since he composed it, which proves how much of his heart there is in it - it always gets tears rolling. He's hesitant at first, but also ends up surprising himself at how quickly he gives in. Even if the details of the mess that is his love life have changed around a bit, the message of the song is still relevant. Singing it would be cathartic.
So he sits at his desks, crosses his legs, picks up his lute and sings, raw emotion going into every single word that leaves his lips.
He finally notices Geralt when he's half way through it.
Thankfully he's good at hiding most of his panic from the students, who are now also aware of the visitor - eyes only widen for a second before he looks away. But Geralt... he would able to hear his heartbeat picking up speed until it's only a buzz. To smell the pang and heartache rolling off him in waves. To listen to the very subtle shift in his voice, which breaks with emotion when he sings I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
Or maybe not so subtle. Half the classroom gasps when he reaches that part, and by the end, he has a new record of tears jerked. Many of them are glancing at Geralt too - did the witcher pay any attention, or has this been more pointless poetry to him? Before Jaskier can say anything (he needs a moment to recover from the emotional high he's now crashing down from), a crying girl raises her hand and speaks up.
"With all due respect, Master Jaskier... this 'fool' sounds like a complete imbecile."
A chorus of agreement takes Jaskier by surprise... he can only laugh.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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?"
no subject
"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."
no subject
(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."
no subject
Decent coin for punching a smug prick of a nobleman in the jaw? Geralt's done worse jobs for worse reasons. And considering what Jaskier's told him about the man-- and that part about his tutors beating an education into him with canes-- he might even think about doing it for free. Just for the pleasure of it.
The hand returns to Geralt's chest for a moment before the bard's lips touch his cheek; nothing much, just a quick peck. A thank-you, apparently, for listening to him and for lightening his mood at the end of it. That's... not a usual way to thank a man for something? He's seen women do such things before, kiss each other on the cheeks, but perhaps Jaskier is just odd. Scratch that-- Jaskier is odd, and maybe this is just one of the ways that he is.
Doesn't matter. He's got the door open and Geralt follows him in, into a dormitory room that, judging from the faint smell of dust and stagnant air, hasn't been used in some time. It'll do, though, for a few days. Geralt drops his pack in a corner, out of the way, while Jaskier goes face down into his pillows. He huffs a laugh and meanders over, pushing aside the curtains of the canopy to see Jaskier basking in the softness of down comforters.
"The rules, huh?" He presses a hand into the soft mattress; it's been a long time since he'd slept in a feather bed. Probably not since the last time he took a contract with a lord who deigned to give him lodging, too. "Going to make me sleep on the floor?"
no subject
"The floor?" Frowning, he turns his head to look at Geralt as if he had asked for piss in his ale. "We've shared beds ten times smaller than this, don't be silly."
And to make his point, he rests his body on its side to free some room on the bed, lute still hanging on his back without a care, Geralt's big black cloak almost a blanket of its own. They've shared sleeping arrangements in a variety of places, both normal and extremely weird, from swamps to inn beds. Not to mention the fact Jaskier has been cuddling the hell out of the witcher since his rescue, and he isn't planning to do so any time soon. It's been a blessing in a variety of ways: it keeps his nightmares away, helps bring sleep faster thanks to the sense of security, and of course, it makes him happy to simply touch Geralt. There's also the fact the mutagens make him a walking furnace, perfect for the autumn chill.
"I'm not talking about my rules - you already know how to live with me." He explains as he pats the spot on the mattress next to him, trying to get Geralt to truly test the bed. And isn't that a stomach turning thought? They've always been 'travel companions', which isn't really 'living together'... or is it? Jaskier would like to think it is. "I meant the university's rules. Maids clean these rooms, Geralt, and I know you don't like other people touching your stuff. So don't leave anything on the floor or the bed. Desk, trunk and wardrobe are safe. If you want anything to be sent to clean, leave it in the basket by the door. You'll hear the bells that announce the different meals of the day, if you don't show up on time then you don't get a second chance..." He shrugs and grins. "Except we all sneak into the kitchens anyway. You can ask for baths before breakfast or after dinner unless it's an emergency. And considering I've seen the insane researchers at the chemistry department get multiple baths a day because of badly prepared potions, I think they'll make an exception for you too if you end up covered in monster guts. Library is open most of the day if you're curious." He then tosses something to Geralt - a spare set of keys. "Any questions, dear witcher?"
no subject
He lays back, closing his eyes and letting himself sink in a little. He thinks about what it might be like, spending the winter months here-- having the liberty to be picky about his contracts, with the option of not taking any at all and just spending hours in the library, writing commentary in the margins of monster manuals; coming back at the end of the day to this little room and its big feather bed, to Jaskier sitting at the desk, plucking out some tune on his lute while he composes. His tongue sticking out between his lips a little as he concentrates and makes notes, quill softly scratching on the page. Then, when he notices that Geralt is back, the smile that breaks across his face like the sun over the horizon--
An idle fantasy. Meaningless.
"Keep my things off the floor, washing in the basket, don't be late for meals, baths when I need them," he summarizes. The spare set of keys flashes through the air and Geralt catches them without even needing to sit up. "I'll remember. Does the trunk lock? Should put my potion bag in there, just in case."
Last thing they need is for the maid to accidentally get into his potion bag and poison herself on a witcher concoction.
"When are your lectures?"
no subject
Whatever you want. Maybe it'll just be a matter of asking next year, or the next. Ciri may like it here too, and he knows the university also has properties that are destined to permanent professors. As a guest lecturer, Jaskier gets rooms on campus, but with two witchers making the case for him, maybe...
For Melitele's tits, he shouldn't be thinking so far ahead. Nilfgaard is still a huge danger for all three of them - better take it one step at the time. It's how he's been living his life since he left Lettenhove after all. How come is Geralt capable of making him consider actually planning ahead?
(May be with the fact that waiting for Ciri to grow up is bad news for his own age.)
"In the afternoon, after the main classes are over." He explains as he finishes making a cute little braid right behind Geralt's ear. "I need to go and talk to the head of the arts department and settle on a proper schedule. I always try to snatch tea time, that way we get snacks brought to the lecture hall." With the braid done, and feeling very confident and daring, Jaskier moves to put his hands on Geralt's chess and his chin on top of them. "I know this city is probably incredibly overwhelming for you. Are you planning to hunt all day? I thought we could do our supply shopping in the morning - fewer people in the streets early on, all students and teachers are inside."
no subject
Almost.
Though Oxenfurt is the safest place they've stopped since Geralt found Jaskier in that outpost, it's still not Kaer Morhen. It's not really safe, Jaskier won't really be truly secure until they're up behind those old stone walls and snowed in until spring. Complete isolation, both coming and going. No one up, no one down.
There are a few little tugs on his hair that eventually stop. Geralt pays it no mind, whatever Jaskier has done to him is probably fine. He's finished anyway, and the witcher feels the bed dip and shift as Jaskier moves towards him, then the weight of his hands and chin on his chest. The bard's body is a long line of warmth against his side where he lays.
He can feel Jaskier's breath brush against his neck with every exhale. It's far more distracting than Geralt assumed it would be.
"I can be back by mid-morning." There are some tasks that he wants to get done, but they'll be best accomplished in the very early morning. Far earlier than Jaskier would wake up; it would be worth it, though. "The less crowded, the better. I don't enjoy being gawked at."
He opens his eyes, then reaches up to feel along the braid that Jaskier wove into his hair. It's fine, he thinks. Of all the things that the bard could do, a few braids to keep his restless hands occupied is fine.
"You'll need warmer clothes, and not just for traveling. Your pretty silks will leave you very cold in Kaer Morhen." And Geralt couldn't keep him warm all the time, nor could he let the bard take all of his spare clothes. "And it wouldn't kill you to be a little understated while we're running from Nilfgaard."
no subject
Winter is coming, however, and they're both very busy and restless people. Maybe at Kaer Morhen? Now that's an idea.
"I know you don't. At least it's with admiration?" And not with rocks and prejudice, he doesn't say, but he knows Geralt gets the idea. "But I truly appreciate you coming, Geralt. It means a lot to be able to share my home with you."
He makes a show of rolling his eyes and pouting at the comment about his fashion choices, but his tone is light when he replies - as much as he likes dressing nicely, he knows this time the witcher is right.
"So you think my silks are pretty?" He teases with an arched eyebrow. "Hey now, I've been wearing your cloak! Black as a Nilfgaardian soldier's heart! And I'll keep wearing it on top of whatever colors I end up buying. Yes, Geralt, it'll be warmer clothes, don't worry." He quickly replies, thinking his friend may scold him on the idea of buying 'colors'. "Starting with thick, strong gloves for my talented fingers, we must protect those! I'd like to buy some gifts for your brothers as well, as a thank you for welcoming me. You should tell me what they like. And the princess!" He suddenly exclaims with wide eyes, realizing what being in a witcher fortress means for the poor girl. "There is no chance Kaer Morhen is ready for women. We should shop for her as well, Geralt." He tilts his head as he thinks of what a woman may need. "Some pretty ribbons for her hair, a nice comb as well. Linen rags for her monthlies. No make-up, but maybe a little piece of jewelry? And I'll be taking some of my books with me, I can share those with her as well. I bet there is no poetry in your witcher library."
no subject
He agrees to warmer clothes, at least, though Geralt has no illusions that the bard will try to find them in vibrant colors and patterns. Technically, Jaskier can do as he pleases with his coin, since the majority of their funds here will be acquired through his teaching; the witcher is not the breadwinner in Oxenfurt. At very least, he wants to have a look at the things that he plans to get, to make sure that they're heavy enough. Then he moves on to gifts for his brothers, then jumps to gifts for Ciri and the various little comforts that a girl of noble origins might like to have in a witchers' fortress.
"Hm. Vodka, for my brothers. Enough of it and Lambert might not even be an ass."
Unlikely, but hope springs eternal. And, anyway, even if Lambert's personality doesn't improve with the liberal application of alcohol, Geralt could at least be too drunk to notice.
Geralt hums in a sort of vaguely agreeable indifference to the things that Jaskier suggests for Ciri; he doesn't know much about what a young girl might like, but he'd bet that the bard would. They could spare the coin for ribbons and trinkets if it might make her life in Kaer Morhen a little easier. His brain catches up with Jaskier's babbling after a moment, though, and his brow furrows.
"Monthlies?"
no subject
"Yeah, you know..." Jaskier frees a hand from under his chin and makes a vague hand gesture, as if it was obvious. His eyes widen when he realizes Geralt is being extremely serious and literal with his question. "...or maybe you don't."
He suddenly pulls back to sit on his knees, letting out a mumbled ouch when his own lute hits his butt. He finally takes it off and leaves it on the pillow before turning to Geralt with his hands on his waist, his face as skeptical and worried as the day Geralt told him he was looking for a fucking djinn because he couldn't sleep. Melitele help him, this is an actual conversation that is happening right now.
"Geralt of Rivia, old friend, dear witcher, mighty wolf... are you telling me that you don't know women bleed once a month?" A pause. A gasp when he puts two and two together. Get ready for the high pitch. "Don't tell me you left her with a man that doesn't know this fact either!"
He throws his hands in the air, clearly exasperated. Witchers, sigh.
no subject
He mentions bleeding women. Geralt thinks back to his lessons in anatomy for some frame of reference in this matter. He remembers learning about locations of major organs in man, beast, and monster-- mostly for the sake of knowing how best to kill it or how best to harvest useful tissues from it later. There were lessons in field wound care that involved how to staunch bleeding, but had no particular indication that women would be different from men in this area. Some back-country healers advocated the use of bleeding to balance humors for good health, but Geralt-- and, he would imagine, Jaskier too-- considered that to be an outdated and archaic treatment. If women were bleeding around him all of the time, he surely would have noticed, wouldn't he? And, yes, sometimes women smell a little like blood, but so do men sometimes, too.
"That seems... excessive."
Perhaps Jaskier is wrong about this. He's been wrong about plenty of things before.
"I would have noticed if women were bleeding all around me, Jaskier. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that you were singing about things that didn't exist in Posada, if this is what they teach you here."
no subject
"Wait, wait." Both his hands open wide and bounce in a 'please slow down' gesture as Jaskier tries to understand what he's hearing here. "So because YOU-" He points at Geralt. "-don't know about it, it means it doesn't exist?"
He can't help it: he laughs, to the point where he has to grab his belly. What kind of logic is that? He knows witchers live for a long time, and Geralt has a century on him, but that's an incredibly stupid line of thought. Unbelievable.
"How could you not know! Geralt, this is-"
Jaskier's face suddenly falls, the laughter is cut off all of the sudden. Blue eyes are fill with sadness, and pity. Fuck.
"...because you've only bedded whores." And a very prideful witch that probably doesn't expose herself to him like that during those days. "Oh, Geralt."
Knowing the witcher probably doesn't appreciate the look he's getting from Jaskier at the moment, he decides to move the lute from the pillow and lie down next to Geralt, his head resting on that very wide shoulder.
"I'm sorry, my friend. I didn't mean to embarrass you. Although there's something to be said about that pompous logic of yours." His hand reaches between them to squeeze Geralt's fingers. If this conversation is happening because of witcher education bullshit, he better start providing comfort early on. Don't wanna get Geralt closing up on him. "A man's ballsack carries his seed, and we discharge it when we orgasm. A woman's womb carries her eggs. And once a month, if they haven't been impregnated, those eggs are expelled to make room for new ones. I think you can figure out from where by your own." A playful nudge. "So they put rags in their smallclothes to collect it and not to stain their skirts. I hope Cirilla is doing fine, this must be terribly embarrassing for her. I'm buying a special book to add to the Kaer Morhen library - and I suppose I will have to teach all this to your brothers, as well. What do they teach a witcher about woman's parts anyway?"
no subject
He's stopped from participating in his own demise by Jaskier's head, which comes to lay on one of his shoulders. The tension in his body betrays how much he wants to get up anyway, erase the memory of that pitying look from his brain forever. And the way that Jaskier said it, you've only bedded whores-- because of course he's only gone to bed with whores (and one particular sorceress), no one would stand to touch a witcher unless they were getting coin for it. So what would a witcher need to know about this? It won't help him kill a monster and no woman would be with him for a minute longer than what his coin paid for.
What the elder witchers didn't teach all those boys at Kaer Morhen is as telling about their purpose as what they did. They were never taught what happens beyond the mechanics of fucking because it would never be more than just a fuck. It's a clear message-- don't ever make the mistake of thinking that there will be someone who stays, because witchers have death on their hands and grave dirt in their skins and are barely a step above ghouls to begin with. All that nonsense dies when the Trials begin.
Geralt's eyes are fixed firmly on the canopy overhead as Jaskier explains things to him, some of which do not need explaining, some of which, apparently, do. When he nudges him, it's like trying to elbow a statue.
What do they teach a witcher, he asks. Not enough might be the right answer.
"Only what's necessary to prepare us for bedding whores," he replies. "Why bother telling us about things we won't be involved in?"
no subject
"I was an arse - spoke without thinking. Sorry, Geralt."
Both his hands search for the witcher's and hold it tightly, sending a reminder: not everyone out there hates touching you. It's not much, but still better than nothing. Although he has to wonder if Geralt would still not believe him after fucking. ...okay, definitely not the right time to think about that.
"Teachers can be like that some times. Only giving us the knowledge they think we'll need. Remember when you had to teach me something so basic like starting a fire?" Among other survival skills. Now that Jaskier knows Geralt better, he's amazed at how patient the witcher had been with him. How long would've he survived on the road if he hadn't met Geralt? A thought he can't wrap his mind around - he can't imagine a life without him. He's known him for more than half of his age now. "Please remember: it isn't your fault. You deserve the same things everyone else deserves, and that includes understanding how things work. Even if you aren't going to use them."
no subject
Both of the bard's hands clutch at his, nimble fingers threading between his own, and he squeezes them as though he expects a response, for Geralt to hold his back. Jaskier touches him all the time, has so little regard for anything like personal space, but he has always been fearless around Geralt. It's like he latched onto the witcher when he was too young to have known to be afraid of him-- only eighteen, barely old enough to be out on his own-- and now he's fucking forty and he never will. Like those island birds that had never seen humans before and wouldn't fly away from them, trusting and unsuspecting.
"Hm."
He remembers having to teach Jaskier basic things-- how to light a fire, how to pitch a tent so that it wouldn't collapse on him in the middle of the night and make him shriek so loud that he wakes everything in a five mile radius. How to skin a rabbit and gut a fish. Practical things that a nobleman's son who studied art and music in the comforts of Oxenfurt would never need to know. He'd been exasperated and frustrated with the bard, most of those times that he'd had to teach him something that a witcher would've learned by ten. But now, after all this, on the run from Nilfgaard and seeking refuge at Kaer Morhen, he thinks-- I should've taught him how to use a fucking sword. I should've taught him how to get away when someone grabs him.
The stony tension of Geralt's body thaws a little; he ghosts his thumb across Jaskier's palm where the skin is still smooth and soft. The bard is upset about what he said, even though he shouldn't be-- none of it was wrong. Geralt should have learned to weather these kinds of little cuts by now.
"Witchers don't have wives or daughters. There would've been no reason to teach us, and there were no women witchers at Kaer Morhen."
Maybe at another school-- Kaer Seren or Gorthur Gvaed-- there would have been women witchers to teach them these things. Perhaps Kaer Morhen is strange for only taking boys into its training. Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter. What matters, and what will always matter more than Geralt's offense or embarrassment, is what Ciri will require.
"What else will I need to know? What will she need of me?"
no subject
"Listen to you, Geralt! Already being such a good father!"
Jaskier sounds so proud of him. What will she need of me? Gods, it's such a simple yet powerful question. As someone with a shitty dad, he can't start to describe how important that question is, how highly it speaks of Geralt. He already cares about Cirilla a lot, he can tell. It makes him happy that they have found each other, they'll be a cute little family.
(Will he be part of it? Geralt has responsibilities now, it can't be just the two of them together on the road having dangerous yet fun adventures anymore. What a scary thought.)
"Some women experience some pain during that period, but their experiences vary. Some of them prefer to rest, others carry on with their day and even will be down for a--" He suddenly remembers he's talking about Geralt's daughter and not women in general, so he interrupts himself by clearing his voice. "Where was I? Oh, we have all kinds of books about the matter in the library here, Geralt, don't be afraid of taking a look around. What else? I could teach you to braid her hair if you want. I think the biggest thing when it comes to girls is protecting them from the world and, well. Men. You remember Queen Calanthe, how she fought to stay above all the horseshit."
A magnificent woman, Jaskier has always thought. A bitch, sure, but a magnificent bitch all the same.
"But you're going to train her, aren't you? She'll be as strong- no, stronger than her grandmother. Just be there for her, Geralt. Don't be afraid of asking her what she needs. Offer your support. There are many things she won't understand either, so you can teach each other and figure things out together. And I know for a fact that you're a good teacher when you put your mind into it."
Because he can start his own fires now.
no subject
And he isn't her father. She had a father, and Geralt cannot replace him.
He listens to Jaskier's explanation with the same focus that he listens to townsfolk describing their monsters, like he's trying to commit every little detail to memory. Then he goes a little too far with his explanation--
"Jaskier."
--before he catches himself and keeps it on-track. Geralt has only been Ciri's guardian for a few weeks, but he cares for the girl in a way that he never experienced before. Some echo of what a father would feel for their child, left over after the mutagens had dulled everything else, he assumes. He can only hope that it will be enough.
With Jaskier's help, maybe, he can be at least passable at guardianship. But that would also require Jaskier to want anything to do with child-rearing, and he's seemed quite keen on avoiding marriage and children for forty years. Offering advice is one thing, but sticking around for the day-to-day is something else entirely.
"She has no one else, and there's too much power in her to remain untrained. There will be things that she'll need to learn that I can't teach her."
She'll need Yen. Even if the sorceress wants nothing more to do with him after the disaster on the mountain, he'll need her help simply because she is the most powerful wielder of Chaos that he knows. He'll do whatever it takes for Yen to teach her, just as he would've done whatever she had asked to save Jaskier from the djinn. But he can't show her everything that she needs to know, and, really, he isn't even sure if what he can teach are even the right things for her to know.
I'm afraid, he almost says. I'm afraid that this is a test that I have no hope of passing. I'm afraid that my failure will ruin her as well as me.
He says none of it. Instead, he says,
"I'll look through the library tomorrow afternoon, after we get supplies."
no subject
A joke. Words carefully chosen to take attention away from Geralt's other statement. He's an arse for doing that, he knows, a very selfish arse. Geralt's concerns are legit. But he doesn't want to think, even less talk, about Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg. Not on his bed, not while cuddling Geralt, not when he's having this delightful experience of having Geralt at his own home. Because oh yes, he does know where that sentence is going, he can guess who exactly can teach Ciri what she needs.
Whatever you want sounds less possible during moments like this. Being back on the road with Geralt, even while laying low, had been fantastic. They were, well, them again. But the reality of Ciri and Yen is closing onto them, and Jaskier has to wonder if Geralt truly had known what he had been promising, or it was just another case of him trying to be heroic and noble and then having trouble for getting involved too much.
Better not think about that now, he reminds himself. One day at the time. Over twenty years of living his life like that, not gonna change it now for the wolf. The songbird shall not be caged.
They go their separate ways after that - Geralt to check on contracts, Jaskier to arrange his lecture schedule and start working on his presentation. They meet again for dinner, which is quite an boisterous affair to say the least. The White Wolf is here after all! Tons of people approach them, and Jaskier does his best to keep their attention on himself to save Geralt from the hassle. He's invited to various tables, which is the norm, but he turns them down - his best friend needs the company and the shield against social interaction, so they stay at the end of a small table. Jaskier can't say no to performing, however, and he happily sings together with other musicians... the songs of the White Wolf. And by Melitele, it makes him feel ALIVE again. It's not just the audience -although he definitely couldn't ask for a better public, oh how he loves sucking all this lovely attention- it's the fact he can sing about Geralt again that has his blood boiling. Nobody else can sing these with the true experience behind them, no other song can get such emotions from him. He closes with Toss a coin, which has the whole hall roaring, and thanks all the gods for having been able to avoid Her sweet kiss. He returns to Geralt smelling of the sweetest bliss and repeats what he had said that night, with a little extra this time: my muse is back, long live his influence.
Throwing winks and charming smiles are a thing he still does during the performance, but nobody actually flirts with him when they approach him for a chat, not even old flings - probably because of Geralt, if he understands the teasing and weird questions correctly. Surprisingly, he finds himself not minding at all. His heart wouldn't be into it. A one night stand to empty his balls wouldn't be a bad idea (he hasn't had an orgasm since before his captivity and sleeping in the witcher's arms doesn't help), but true flirting and not just the pretty words he throws at everyone? Nope. Only one person is getting that from him now. Oh, how have things changed.
That one special person cuddles him again that night, under the comfortable and warm blankets of the perfect bed. Jaskier doesn't want to wake up.
He does, however. To an empty bed and the smell of-- whatever that is. He's smelled tons of shit on Geralt before (including literal shit), but this one is new. At least he's already in the bath, so Jaskier doesn't have to suffer it for long. A job, Geralt says, which does't make any sense - Jaskier remembers drowner smell. But hey, this is the coast, fish makes everything ten times worse, so he doesn't think too hard about it and enjoys the lovely sigh of a naked Geralt instead.
Shopping goes great. They find most things they need, from warm clothes for Jaskier to the vodka for Geralt's brothers, from the linen rags to the trinkets for Cirilla. A second trip will be necessary to get it all, but they finish this one with their most important purchase: a beautiful white gelding he decides to call Pegasus. Geralt helps him choose him, and Jaskier hopes his good eye includes judging a potential good friend for Roach. They buy a little cart as well.
His first lecture comes after that, so Jaskier leaves Geralt with their supplies and the horses (oh look, Roach has flowers in her hair, what a surprise -not-) to get ready. He begins with some small talk, getting to know new students and checking on old ones to see how they are doing. Then the introduction he always starts with: a reminder that the outside world is nothing like the inside of Oxenfurt's walls. Little does he know that the person that taught him that is sneaking into this class as well.
A long discussion that includes a variety of topics -from rhyming to note taking- follows it, and Jaskier is in his element. Speaking for hours about a subject he loves to people that understand it? Getting the attention and admiration of a whole room on him? Yes please. He loves every second for it. And he finishes with his (and the student's) favorite exercise: choosing one of his songs to analyse and discuss.
Her sweet kiss easily wins the vote.
He shouldn't be surprised, really. Usually the White Wolf is the most popular topic, but he hasn't written anything new about him in over a year. And Her sweet kiss has been a hit since he composed it, which proves how much of his heart there is in it - it always gets tears rolling. He's hesitant at first, but also ends up surprising himself at how quickly he gives in. Even if the details of the mess that is his love life have changed around a bit, the message of the song is still relevant. Singing it would be cathartic.
So he sits at his desks, crosses his legs, picks up his lute and sings, raw emotion going into every single word that leaves his lips.
He finally notices Geralt when he's half way through it.
Thankfully he's good at hiding most of his panic from the students, who are now also aware of the visitor - eyes only widen for a second before he looks away. But Geralt... he would able to hear his heartbeat picking up speed until it's only a buzz. To smell the pang and heartache rolling off him in waves. To listen to the very subtle shift in his voice, which breaks with emotion when he sings I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
Or maybe not so subtle. Half the classroom gasps when he reaches that part, and by the end, he has a new record of tears jerked. Many of them are glancing at Geralt too - did the witcher pay any attention, or has this been more pointless poetry to him? Before Jaskier can say anything (he needs a moment to recover from the emotional high he's now crashing down from), a crying girl raises her hand and speaks up.
"With all due respect, Master Jaskier... this 'fool' sounds like a complete imbecile."
A chorus of agreement takes Jaskier by surprise... he can only laugh.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...