"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.
Geralt's search for contracts goes about as well as can be expected-- mostly drowners in the sewers, maybe a water hag. Drudgery, really, both uninteresting work and low-paying, though he does notice that the payment is more generous than he would expect, and the man that he deals with calls him Master Witcher or White Wolf without a hint of disrespect. A little later, as he's returning to the University so as not to be late for dinner, a child approaches him in the street and grabs his hand, asking him if he's Master Jaskier's witcher, the one from all the songs, and when her mother comes to fetch her, she apologizes to him for being bothered rather than cursing at him for touching her child.
The bard hasn't returned to their shared room when Geralt comes back to change; armor and swords aren't appropriate for dinner in polite company, after all. He puts his potion bag back into the trunk to keep it locked up and, when he has to move a heavy blanket to make room for it, something falls out-- a notebook, hidden in the folds. It's Jaskier's, of course, and Geralt intends to put it back where he found it, except that he sees the title on the top of the page. The Witcher's Third Sword.
Geralt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can't not read it, he has to know what kinds of songs Jaskier sings about his cock. If for no other reason than that he should be prepared for the next time he steps into a brothel.
There's more in that notebook, though, than just dirty songs about various parts of Geralt's anatomy-- really, Jaskier, it's a stretch to say that the longest of all his blades is the one between his thighs-- and as he reads, Geralt can pick out when some of them were written just by the subject matter. Not all of it is about the witcher but much of it is, and there's a point where the tone takes a sharp dive into misery and melancholy and pain, and he knows exactly what happened then.
It's leagues away from the sonnets he'd penned earlier in the book, the ones that left their subject nameless as Jaskier wrote, in his neat, practiced scrawl, I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
He's in a strange mood come dinnertime, feeling off like he's made a mis-step in a spar and been caught wrong-footed. He and Jaskier sit at a far table in the hall for their meal, and even though there are plenty of friends and acquaintances that try to tempt him away with wine and good conversation, Jaskier stays with him. Eventually, though, the call for songs entices him, and it's like he's trying to make up for a year of banishing Geralt's name from his lips all in one night. The crowd eats it up, sings along to the chorus of Toss a coin until dust shakes from the rafters, and when Jaskier returns to him, he is proud and beaming and smells like happiness and second chances.
Geralt expects him to wander off with one of the many pretty people who stole snatches of his attention, but he returns with the witcher to their room afterwards. If he had wanted to bring someone back, he could have told Geralt and he would've left, made himself scarce for a few hours until he was through. But then he remembers that hidden notebook and I hunt for the liquid measure of your step and feels wrong-footed again. When they go to bed that night, Jaskier curls against his chest and Geralt lays awake in the darkness, listening to his sleep-slow heart in this bed that smells entirely of Jaskier. When his dreams start to turn restless, all it takes is for him to murmur I'm here, Jask, against his ear, soft and low, and the bard quiets in his arms. Geralt stays awake until he has to get up, so early that the sun hasn't even risen yet, and he doesn't dwell on why it feels so difficult to leave those body-warmed sheets behind.
He leaves behind a feather bed and a sweet, pliant bard to slog through the fucking ice-cold waters of the Pontar, digging through the mud until he has a bucket full of river prawns and clams, then fishes until he has a brace of trout to bring back with him to the University. He walks into the kitchen, muddied and still damp and reeking like fish and river scum; he drops his catch onto the counter in front of the head cook.
"Make something of this for Jaskier's dinner tonight," he says, turns on his heel, and leaves.
He catches a maid in the hall near Jaskier's room and asks her to fetch a bath for him, and she doesn't argue with him for even a moment after she catches a whiff of him; he even slips her a few coins once she fetched some help and filled the bath in their room with steaming hot water, in appreciation for how valiantly she kept her face from twisting up at his foul stench. Jaskier wakes to a mostly-clean witcher, and when he asks for an explanation as to why he'd been gone so early-- and apparently had gone dredging through the river-- Geralt replies only vaguely with a job. He simply doesn't elaborate that the job is one of a personal nature, not for coin, done only because he remembers that Jaskier loves seafood stews in autumn and he should have things that he likes. All is well, anyway, despite his vague answer, because Jaskier helps him wash his hair, and the oil that he puts in it smells like lavender.
The market is bustling by the time they get to it, and that's even when it isn't peak hours-- the clamor and riot of colors and sounds and smells is vaguely disorienting and discomfiting, but Geralt endures it for the sake of getting what they need. Jaskier purchases clothes and gifts, mostly on his own with the witcher lurking nearby, offering commentary only when prompted. It's easier when they look at horses, mostly because the market is calmer there for the sake of the animals, and Geralt has Jaskier sit on several geldings before he's satisfied that they've found an even-tempered mount. They bring the horse-- Pegasus-- back to the stables, then Jaskier has to run to not be late to his own lecture. Geralt attends to the rest of the purchases, and, with time to kill and an idle curiosity, makes his way to the building where Jaskier is lecturing. He finds the right room by following the smell of floral oil and lute wax, then by the sound of the bard's familiar voice. The lecture hall is full when he walks in, the class already started, so he leans against a pillar in the back and listens. Jaskier does well in front of a class, but he's always loved an attentive audience so it's hardly surprising that he takes to it so readily.
The last exercise of the lecture is an analysis, and Jaskier perches himself on his desk with his lute and plays. The melody is something that Geralt recognizes in pieces, something that he's only heard in parts and never as a whole. It gives him a vaguely uneasy feeling from the start, the same feeling that he gets when he knows he's forgotten something, and it reaches a head when Jaskier meets his eyes across the room and Geralt can smell the panic on him. A few of the students have noticed his arrival as well, glancing from him to Jaskier like they know a secret that he's not privy to.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
(Who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you. The words come back to him from over a decade past, from when Jaskier was a younger man and Geralt was so very stubborn.)
Jaskier's audience is moved to tears by the end, and if Geralt had felt wrong-footed before, now it feels like he'd tried to put his foot down and found thin air instead of solid ground. The class composes itself, and what was likely supposed to be an analysis of the structure of the song turns into commentary on its subject instead. Geralt stands at the back of the room and listens to the students call the subject foolish, debate on whether his actions are of simple ignorance-- in which case he is merely an idiot-- or from active choice-- in which he is cruel and callous. A few minutes off from the top of the hour, when the class is to be adjourned, Geralt slips out the door again to stand in the hall and wait for Jaskier to emerge. When the students file out, they walk past him and he feels their eyes on him, can hear their whispers as they leave, can even hear a little of their distant conversation after they've turned the far corner of the hall.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
Is he still weak, is he still wanting? Or did those tender sentiments die on the mountain, did they wither like the words in that notebook in Jaskier's trunk, where the pages at the end are barren and empty?
While he has a list of topics to touch upon, Jaskier always tries to let his classes run free when the opportunity presents. You can't organize art, having students letting their emotions run free is much better - and more productive too, even if some of his old, traditional professors would disagree. An artist getting caught in a passionate argument will produce more pieces (better and quicker too!) than one that is replying to an old prompt from an antique study program.
And discussing the meaning behind a piece is one of the directions that happen more often. It's a good topic, because as future artists themselves, the students must learn what happens when you word things certain way, how your intentions may come across, and the dear good ol' Death of the Author always makes for some heated fights. Linguistic theory is still, technically, happening. Usually it doesn't happen about his love life, though.
Jaskiet can't bring himself to stop them.
He should. Oh, he knows he should, because the more they notice he doesn't, the more daring their comments become, throwing teasing comments at him or Geralt. But he can't help it, hearing them talk is as cathartic as it was to sing the song itself. They put all his thoughts and concerns in all kinds of poetic words, indirectly insult Yennefer in the way that keeps his amusement levels incredibly high, and also indirectly insult Geralt in ways he'd never be able too because he's too far gone, like the fool he is.
Speaking of Geralt... Jaskier glances at him every now and then. He's nervous, for sure, but the conversation has brought back all the feelings he felt that day on the mountain, so he's feeling kinda petty as well. That witcher of his is thick as a wall (and he isn't talking about his muscles this time) and was forgiven too easily. Jaskier is being a bitch, he knows, but oh well. Respect doesn't make history. If an entire class can't get the class across, then nothing will.
He can't be that stupid, right? (His students may say 'yes'.)
The lecture is over and the students leave, but Jaskier doesn't follow them. He starts picking his things up at an incredibly slow pace. After taking a deep breath and internally asking his emotions to stay in place, he speaks - at a normal volume, because he knows those wolf ears can hear him.
"I wasn't aware of your interest in writing and linguistics, Geralt, but it was a pleasant surprise to have you here. Do you have a review for me? Three words or less."
A little throwback to the their first meeting, which now feels like it happened thousands of years ago. He doesn't move from behind his desk, however. If they're going to have any kind of discussion, better do it now, in here, under the privacy of the classroom. Walking through the hallways filled with people (sounds, smells, gossip) will only make Geralt close up more.
From out in the hall, Geralt hears Jaskier speak, calling him back into the room. He obeys, like a child being called into the schoolmaster's office for discipline, and closes the door behind him. Jaskier is standing up at the front, near his desk, and his things should've been packed up minutes ago. He's dawdling, and there's something in his scent, something that Geralt isn't sure if he likes. Nerves, maybe, and something bitter.
A review, in three words or less. It has been decades since Posada. So many things have changed since then, since he was the Butcher of Blaviken, sitting with his last coin in a run-down tavern, staring at a boy who didn't have the good sense to feel fear.
Three words. There are so many combinations of three words that he could use to respond to this song.
Are you wanting?
Geralt stands on the steps of the hall and it still feels like he still hasn't found stable ground, like he's still waiting to see if his foot will land on earth or if he'll fall.
"You deserve more."
He'd always deserved more than three words, even when his songs were... well, the song in Posada had definitely not been his best work. He deserves more for this, this thing that he'd made out of the pain that Geralt knows he was the source of.
(Fillingless pie, Geralt says across decades.)
"It's about us. You, and me, and Yen." Yen is a subject that sits heavily between them. Jaskier has tried to avoid it, but the issue is forced now. He sang of her, he should count himself lucky that it doesn't summon her like saying bloody Mary three times in a mirror. "I know you don't like her, but I didn't realize--"
He didn't realize the reason was competition, not simple incompatibility. Geralt assumed his animosity was because she had threatened his cock that one time, because she was always catty and is one of the only people that Geralt knows who can go toe-to-toe with him with words as their weapons and come out on top.
How is it that Geralt can play so easily with his emotions?
Jaskier loves openly and freely, leaving a little piece of his heart with every person he shares his affections with. Crushes and heartbreak both come and go everyday, a breeze that is never the same keeps this bird flying. His heart is worn in his sleeve, so it's not hard to stab it, yet not many people have managed to truly leave a mark bigger than a pleasant memory of the past. One had been the Countess, but even her Jaskier managed to move on from.
The other is, of course, Geralt. The witcher only needs to say a word, and Jaskier will be on his knees for him. Wolf fangs have pierced his heart and never let go. There's an irony in there, he knows, quite a hypocritical one, because 'becoming an idiot over the one you pine after' is something he's always made fun of Geralt for. Speaking of...
Here it is, the wolf playing with his emotions. You deserve more makes him melt and puts a smile on his face that matches the sweet scent of giddiness over a compliment... and all that quickly goes south when Geralt adds the rest of this thoughts. Because here he is, having opened his heart with song, having allowed a bunch of teenagers deconstruct the most melancholic and poetic love confession he's ever written...
And Geralt decides to talk about bloody Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg.
It's a conversation that Jaskier knows they need to have, and he's been saving it for the right moment. He definitely doesn't want her to be a shadow between them, he wouldn't start something with Geralt properly without her out of the picture. But reuniting hadn't been the right time, cuddling hadn't been the right time, and Geralt finally realizing Jaskier's feelings isn't the best moment either. In fact, it's the worst moment possible in the history of bad moments.
I tell you I love you, yet you still think of her.
The book Jaskier had picked up to pretend he was putting his things in order is suddenly dropped on the desk with a blam. His scent gets bitter and angry, his hands tremble as he raises his arms to open them wide.
"How observant of you, Geralt of Rivia! Yes, of course I fucking hate her!" Thank goodness Geralt has closed the door and the classrooms are designed not to let much noise in or out for the sake of the classes, otherwise this would get nasty quickly. Jaskier isn't exactly keeping his voice down. "She threatened my dick and put a knife against my THROAT! She takes pleasure in reminding me that I'm getting OLD!"
So it's not only because of you. I dislike her for myself, too.
"She shows up and only needs to snap her fingers-" He does exactly that. "-to have you following her around like a lovesick puppy! Meanwhile, your best friend in the whole world needs to blackmail you with food, women and wine just so you come spend some recreational time with him."
So it's not only over a love triangle. Our friendship suffered because of her, too.
Sighing and suddenly feeling utterly tired, Jaskier rubs his face with both hands as he lets his thighs and ass rest against the desk, not trusting his legs anymore. They've been doing so good, why are they arguing again? Ah, because of her. Obviously. Whatever you want - fuck, has he read it all wrong? Has he been an idiot after all?
"And then... she just leaves, as easily and uncaring as she barged in, leaving chaos behind her. And I'm the fool that stays behind, picking up the pieces of an imbecile of a broken witcher that won't hear me out."
Geralt can tell the moment that he said the wrong things, because Jaskier's sent goes from sweet and pleased to angry and resentful in the space of moments. Geralt is painfully, acutely aware of the fact that he is bad at this, almost spectacularly so, and it becomes evident as Jaskier takes the book in his hand and slams it on the desk. The sound and suddenness of his actions makes a muscle twitch in Geralt's jaw, and it's as good as a flinch.
Then he yells, arms spread to their wingspan, and Geralt weathers his outburst with the same measured stoicism that he takes physical blows. A year ago, if Jaskier had vented his bile at him in this way, Geralt would likely have told him to shut up, to leave, that he didn't want to hear it. He's had a year to come to realize how the blessing that he had demanded was more of a curse, and he has learned his lesson from it-- slowly, perhaps, but it has been learned. It had only taken days of being back in the bard's presence to alleviate the misery that had followed him since the dragon hunt.
"I hear you, Jask."
Geralt won't argue the imbecile part, or even the broken part, but maybe for the first fucking time, he hears Jaskier. Sure, it only took an immensely unsubtle ballad being sung directly to him, and then twenty minutes of a gaggle of university students calling him an idiot practically to his face for him to do so. And that in and of itself is a fact that rankles him a little the more that he thinks about it-- Jaskier rehabilitated his reputation and now people aren't afraid of him. That's a grievance that he'll have to come back to at some point, put a pin in that for later.
The point is that twenty years of ballads and following him across the Continent and touches and 'my dear witcher's and 'yet here we are's are finally resolving into a pattern in Geralt's head, one that says that all of Jaskier's little flirtations weren't just his naturally coquettish personality. And that there is the possibility that they still aren't, that maybe Jaskier hasn't completely given up on the idea of throwing his easily-broken heart at a brute of a witcher, even though time and experience has shown him that he won't be gentle with it.
But there is the specter of Yennefer of Vengerberg that must be dispelled. And it must be done with the right words, otherwise everything will go even more to shit than it currently is right now. This is perhaps not a task that should be entrusted to Geralt, but here they are.
"The djinn's magic will always pull Yen and I together," he says, and that would be a bad place to leave it. "But it has also ensured that anything that could have been between us is... impossible."
Yennefer made that clear before she made her way down the mountain. He has already lost me. How surprised Borch must have been to see his prediction come true so quickly, and for Geralt to ruin not just one relationship, but two, right in front of him. Like a stage play, The Many Fuck-Ups of Geralt of Rivia. A farce.
"Nothing I could do would ever be enough to prove our feelings genuine, and Yen would never accept a love built on something that isn't true. She made that much clear."
And then it's back to talking about Yennefer. Mood whiplash, once again. One would think Jaskier would've learned to protect himself from it by now, but this bird is too foolish for that. He may've not been caged by the wolf, but he's definitely been tangled deep enough in his fur. No matter where he flies, there's always dog hair on him.
"She got a nickname the day you met her." He replies with a broken voice, defeated hands falling on his lap as his whole body deflates. "I wait twenty years for it, and I don't get to savor the moment."
This room needs pillows. Hundreds of them.
Each word Geralt pronounces is a hit after hit to his guts. Part of him wants to run, wants to grab a bottle of vodka and chug it down completely. Why did he allow himself to hope? Whatever you want. He snorts, to both himself and at Geralt - so foolish, falling for pretty words and gentle touches that were probably spoken out of guilt.
"The djinn did this, Yennefer decided that. I don't give a fuck about them, Geralt. It's YOU that matters to me!" He throws his hands in the air before they fall on his lap again. "And all I'm hearing is that you're allowing them to end things because that's how things are, but it doesn't sound like something you want. Be honest, Geralt of Fatuousness: if she showed up again, begging you to take her back, wouldn't you?"
Blue eyes lock on gold, waiting for the answer. He's nervous and afraid of what he may hear, and he doesn't want Geralt to see that on his face, doesn't want to have the witchers's expression as he turns him down engraved in his memory either, but he endures... because as much as it pains him, he knows he needs it, or he'll never move on.
Remember me I ask, remember me I sing... Give me back my heart you wingless thing!
Geralt of Stupid-- he's getting that name thrown at him a lot in the past hour or so. First by a bunch of students, now by Jaskier, and he's been trying to keep his temper in check because the bard is angry with him and they have this unfinished business and they're... friends, but he's not making it easy.
"Yennefer would never beg me for anything, and definitely not to take her back."
If Yennefer wanted him, she would sweep in, all power and flashing violet eyes and carefully curated beauty, and she would expect him to come to heel like a dog at her feet. She takes what she wants and never asks, because she never needs to ask and never thinks she should need to. And for a while, when they're together, it's good, it's so fucking good, but then it will inevitably descend into the kind of arguments and fighting that can only be called disastrous. She barrels through his life with all the destruction of a hurricane and once she's gone, everything's a wreck. All he's left with is the memory of what it's like to be in the eye of that storm, surrounded by wildness and beauty that he can't control, and a stupid fucking heart that's torn in half.
He always ends up fighting with Yen and now he's fighting with Jask and he's always fucking fighting.
"You want me to be honest, Jaskier? Fine."
His voice is taking an edge, rising up to match the bard's yelling. It's good that the classrooms are sound-insulated, otherwise the noise might have attracted unwanted attention; they know there's a witcher in here with their precious famous teacher. And sure, there's all the songs calling him brave and noble, but he's still a witcher.
"No, I wouldn't take her back, even if she asked. You said you're tired of picking up the pieces? Well, I'm tired of always being in fucking pieces!"
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"She'd be offended that you're afraid of someone more than her."
And possibly amused, as well. To think, there's someone out there that Jaskier hates more than Yennefer of Vengerberg-- Geralt wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't heard it from the bard's own mouth.
As Jaskier talks about his estranged family, he riles himself up more and more, going from anxious to angry. It's an improvement, really; anxiety is just a step off of fear, and Geralt hates the smell of fear on Jaskier. But it's no wonder that he didn't like talking about his family and childhood, considering that it seemed to have made him miserable. There was no way that Jaskier was going to settle down and be a perfect little lord, not unless his father had tried to beat every bit of what made Jaskier Jaskier out of him.
The bard became what he wanted to become, his destiny be damned. Geralt can't find fault with that.
(A long, long time ago, a boy who would become a witcher had wanted to be a knight.)
Geralt's voice stays even, but the corner of his mouth tics upward in a hint of a smile, giving away the fact that he's teasing.
"You are a brat, Jaskier, but not because your father's a count."
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(Some day he won't be here to pick the pieces she leaves behind after meeting with Geralt, and he'd rather not think about that.)
That hint of a smile already tells him no, Geralt doesn't care that Jaskier used to be one of those nasty little nobles, and that's a huge relief. So the teasing is well received, even if it kinda comes with an insult in it - Jaskier had told him some banter is fine, and he meant it. It means he can playfully-insult and throw pillows back!
Anger slowly leaving his body (gosh, Geralt is so good at influencing his emotions), he chuckles. "If one day you're short of coin, I'll gladly pay you to punch him in the face." A pause. His tongue peeks out again. After playing with the room keys for what it feels like an eternity (it's actually a couple of seconds), Jaskier comes closer, puts a hand on Geralt's chest and quickly kisses his cheek before whispering. "Thanks for listening. And understanding."
Too much? Who knows, but he won't be staying to find out. As soon as he's done with his little flirting attempt, he's turning around to finally open the door to the bedroom - there's no much light in, curtains are closed. But enough light filters through for even a human to notice it hasn't been lived in a long time, although it has been cleaned at least. All furniture is fancy and designed with artistic carvings - the desk and chair, the bookshelf, the closet, the trunk at the end of the big canopy bed. The curtains, too, have beautiful patterns painted on them, and there are paintings hanging on the stone walls.
Jaskier ignores it all for now, he just runs to the bed and lets his body drop on it, burying his face in the incredibly soft pillows.
"...ouch. My body may've not liked that." It doesn't sound like he cares though, he looks comfortable. "Come, Geralt, appreciate what a real bed is like before I drop the rules on you and you decide to ignore me."
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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?"
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"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?"
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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?"
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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?"
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"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.
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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."
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"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?"
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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?"
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"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."
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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?"
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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The bard hasn't returned to their shared room when Geralt comes back to change; armor and swords aren't appropriate for dinner in polite company, after all. He puts his potion bag back into the trunk to keep it locked up and, when he has to move a heavy blanket to make room for it, something falls out-- a notebook, hidden in the folds. It's Jaskier's, of course, and Geralt intends to put it back where he found it, except that he sees the title on the top of the page. The Witcher's Third Sword.
Geralt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can't not read it, he has to know what kinds of songs Jaskier sings about his cock. If for no other reason than that he should be prepared for the next time he steps into a brothel.
There's more in that notebook, though, than just dirty songs about various parts of Geralt's anatomy-- really, Jaskier, it's a stretch to say that the longest of all his blades is the one between his thighs-- and as he reads, Geralt can pick out when some of them were written just by the subject matter. Not all of it is about the witcher but much of it is, and there's a point where the tone takes a sharp dive into misery and melancholy and pain, and he knows exactly what happened then.
It's leagues away from the sonnets he'd penned earlier in the book, the ones that left their subject nameless as Jaskier wrote, in his neat, practiced scrawl, I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
He's in a strange mood come dinnertime, feeling off like he's made a mis-step in a spar and been caught wrong-footed. He and Jaskier sit at a far table in the hall for their meal, and even though there are plenty of friends and acquaintances that try to tempt him away with wine and good conversation, Jaskier stays with him. Eventually, though, the call for songs entices him, and it's like he's trying to make up for a year of banishing Geralt's name from his lips all in one night. The crowd eats it up, sings along to the chorus of Toss a coin until dust shakes from the rafters, and when Jaskier returns to him, he is proud and beaming and smells like happiness and second chances.
Geralt expects him to wander off with one of the many pretty people who stole snatches of his attention, but he returns with the witcher to their room afterwards. If he had wanted to bring someone back, he could have told Geralt and he would've left, made himself scarce for a few hours until he was through. But then he remembers that hidden notebook and I hunt for the liquid measure of your step and feels wrong-footed again. When they go to bed that night, Jaskier curls against his chest and Geralt lays awake in the darkness, listening to his sleep-slow heart in this bed that smells entirely of Jaskier. When his dreams start to turn restless, all it takes is for him to murmur I'm here, Jask, against his ear, soft and low, and the bard quiets in his arms. Geralt stays awake until he has to get up, so early that the sun hasn't even risen yet, and he doesn't dwell on why it feels so difficult to leave those body-warmed sheets behind.
He leaves behind a feather bed and a sweet, pliant bard to slog through the fucking ice-cold waters of the Pontar, digging through the mud until he has a bucket full of river prawns and clams, then fishes until he has a brace of trout to bring back with him to the University. He walks into the kitchen, muddied and still damp and reeking like fish and river scum; he drops his catch onto the counter in front of the head cook.
"Make something of this for Jaskier's dinner tonight," he says, turns on his heel, and leaves.
He catches a maid in the hall near Jaskier's room and asks her to fetch a bath for him, and she doesn't argue with him for even a moment after she catches a whiff of him; he even slips her a few coins once she fetched some help and filled the bath in their room with steaming hot water, in appreciation for how valiantly she kept her face from twisting up at his foul stench. Jaskier wakes to a mostly-clean witcher, and when he asks for an explanation as to why he'd been gone so early-- and apparently had gone dredging through the river-- Geralt replies only vaguely with a job. He simply doesn't elaborate that the job is one of a personal nature, not for coin, done only because he remembers that Jaskier loves seafood stews in autumn and he should have things that he likes. All is well, anyway, despite his vague answer, because Jaskier helps him wash his hair, and the oil that he puts in it smells like lavender.
The market is bustling by the time they get to it, and that's even when it isn't peak hours-- the clamor and riot of colors and sounds and smells is vaguely disorienting and discomfiting, but Geralt endures it for the sake of getting what they need. Jaskier purchases clothes and gifts, mostly on his own with the witcher lurking nearby, offering commentary only when prompted. It's easier when they look at horses, mostly because the market is calmer there for the sake of the animals, and Geralt has Jaskier sit on several geldings before he's satisfied that they've found an even-tempered mount. They bring the horse-- Pegasus-- back to the stables, then Jaskier has to run to not be late to his own lecture. Geralt attends to the rest of the purchases, and, with time to kill and an idle curiosity, makes his way to the building where Jaskier is lecturing. He finds the right room by following the smell of floral oil and lute wax, then by the sound of the bard's familiar voice. The lecture hall is full when he walks in, the class already started, so he leans against a pillar in the back and listens. Jaskier does well in front of a class, but he's always loved an attentive audience so it's hardly surprising that he takes to it so readily.
The last exercise of the lecture is an analysis, and Jaskier perches himself on his desk with his lute and plays. The melody is something that Geralt recognizes in pieces, something that he's only heard in parts and never as a whole. It gives him a vaguely uneasy feeling from the start, the same feeling that he gets when he knows he's forgotten something, and it reaches a head when Jaskier meets his eyes across the room and Geralt can smell the panic on him. A few of the students have noticed his arrival as well, glancing from him to Jaskier like they know a secret that he's not privy to.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
(Who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you. The words come back to him from over a decade past, from when Jaskier was a younger man and Geralt was so very stubborn.)
Jaskier's audience is moved to tears by the end, and if Geralt had felt wrong-footed before, now it feels like he'd tried to put his foot down and found thin air instead of solid ground. The class composes itself, and what was likely supposed to be an analysis of the structure of the song turns into commentary on its subject instead. Geralt stands at the back of the room and listens to the students call the subject foolish, debate on whether his actions are of simple ignorance-- in which case he is merely an idiot-- or from active choice-- in which he is cruel and callous. A few minutes off from the top of the hour, when the class is to be adjourned, Geralt slips out the door again to stand in the hall and wait for Jaskier to emerge. When the students file out, they walk past him and he feels their eyes on him, can hear their whispers as they leave, can even hear a little of their distant conversation after they've turned the far corner of the hall.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting.
Is he still weak, is he still wanting? Or did those tender sentiments die on the mountain, did they wither like the words in that notebook in Jaskier's trunk, where the pages at the end are barren and empty?
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And discussing the meaning behind a piece is one of the directions that happen more often. It's a good topic, because as future artists themselves, the students must learn what happens when you word things certain way, how your intentions may come across, and the dear good ol' Death of the Author always makes for some heated fights. Linguistic theory is still, technically, happening. Usually it doesn't happen about his love life, though.
Jaskiet can't bring himself to stop them.
He should. Oh, he knows he should, because the more they notice he doesn't, the more daring their comments become, throwing teasing comments at him or Geralt. But he can't help it, hearing them talk is as cathartic as it was to sing the song itself. They put all his thoughts and concerns in all kinds of poetic words, indirectly insult Yennefer in the way that keeps his amusement levels incredibly high, and also indirectly insult Geralt in ways he'd never be able too because he's too far gone, like the fool he is.
Speaking of Geralt... Jaskier glances at him every now and then. He's nervous, for sure, but the conversation has brought back all the feelings he felt that day on the mountain, so he's feeling kinda petty as well. That witcher of his is thick as a wall (and he isn't talking about his muscles this time) and was forgiven too easily. Jaskier is being a bitch, he knows, but oh well. Respect doesn't make history. If an entire class can't get the class across, then nothing will.
He can't be that stupid, right? (His students may say 'yes'.)
The lecture is over and the students leave, but Jaskier doesn't follow them. He starts picking his things up at an incredibly slow pace. After taking a deep breath and internally asking his emotions to stay in place, he speaks - at a normal volume, because he knows those wolf ears can hear him.
"I wasn't aware of your interest in writing and linguistics, Geralt, but it was a pleasant surprise to have you here. Do you have a review for me? Three words or less."
A little throwback to the their first meeting, which now feels like it happened thousands of years ago. He doesn't move from behind his desk, however. If they're going to have any kind of discussion, better do it now, in here, under the privacy of the classroom. Walking through the hallways filled with people (sounds, smells, gossip) will only make Geralt close up more.
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A review, in three words or less. It has been decades since Posada. So many things have changed since then, since he was the Butcher of Blaviken, sitting with his last coin in a run-down tavern, staring at a boy who didn't have the good sense to feel fear.
Three words. There are so many combinations of three words that he could use to respond to this song.
Are you wanting?
Geralt stands on the steps of the hall and it still feels like he still hasn't found stable ground, like he's still waiting to see if his foot will land on earth or if he'll fall.
"You deserve more."
He'd always deserved more than three words, even when his songs were... well, the song in Posada had definitely not been his best work. He deserves more for this, this thing that he'd made out of the pain that Geralt knows he was the source of.
(Fillingless pie, Geralt says across decades.)
"It's about us. You, and me, and Yen." Yen is a subject that sits heavily between them. Jaskier has tried to avoid it, but the issue is forced now. He sang of her, he should count himself lucky that it doesn't summon her like saying bloody Mary three times in a mirror. "I know you don't like her, but I didn't realize--"
He didn't realize the reason was competition, not simple incompatibility. Geralt assumed his animosity was because she had threatened his cock that one time, because she was always catty and is one of the only people that Geralt knows who can go toe-to-toe with him with words as their weapons and come out on top.
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Jaskier loves openly and freely, leaving a little piece of his heart with every person he shares his affections with. Crushes and heartbreak both come and go everyday, a breeze that is never the same keeps this bird flying. His heart is worn in his sleeve, so it's not hard to stab it, yet not many people have managed to truly leave a mark bigger than a pleasant memory of the past. One had been the Countess, but even her Jaskier managed to move on from.
The other is, of course, Geralt. The witcher only needs to say a word, and Jaskier will be on his knees for him. Wolf fangs have pierced his heart and never let go. There's an irony in there, he knows, quite a hypocritical one, because 'becoming an idiot over the one you pine after' is something he's always made fun of Geralt for. Speaking of...
Here it is, the wolf playing with his emotions. You deserve more makes him melt and puts a smile on his face that matches the sweet scent of giddiness over a compliment... and all that quickly goes south when Geralt adds the rest of this thoughts. Because here he is, having opened his heart with song, having allowed a bunch of teenagers deconstruct the most melancholic and poetic love confession he's ever written...
And Geralt decides to talk about bloody Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg.
It's a conversation that Jaskier knows they need to have, and he's been saving it for the right moment. He definitely doesn't want her to be a shadow between them, he wouldn't start something with Geralt properly without her out of the picture. But reuniting hadn't been the right time, cuddling hadn't been the right time, and Geralt finally realizing Jaskier's feelings isn't the best moment either. In fact, it's the worst moment possible in the history of bad moments.
I tell you I love you, yet you still think of her.
The book Jaskier had picked up to pretend he was putting his things in order is suddenly dropped on the desk with a blam. His scent gets bitter and angry, his hands tremble as he raises his arms to open them wide.
"How observant of you, Geralt of Rivia! Yes, of course I fucking hate her!" Thank goodness Geralt has closed the door and the classrooms are designed not to let much noise in or out for the sake of the classes, otherwise this would get nasty quickly. Jaskier isn't exactly keeping his voice down. "She threatened my dick and put a knife against my THROAT! She takes pleasure in reminding me that I'm getting OLD!"
So it's not only because of you. I dislike her for myself, too.
"She shows up and only needs to snap her fingers-" He does exactly that. "-to have you following her around like a lovesick puppy! Meanwhile, your best friend in the whole world needs to blackmail you with food, women and wine just so you come spend some recreational time with him."
So it's not only over a love triangle. Our friendship suffered because of her, too.
Sighing and suddenly feeling utterly tired, Jaskier rubs his face with both hands as he lets his thighs and ass rest against the desk, not trusting his legs anymore. They've been doing so good, why are they arguing again? Ah, because of her. Obviously. Whatever you want - fuck, has he read it all wrong? Has he been an idiot after all?
"And then... she just leaves, as easily and uncaring as she barged in, leaving chaos behind her. And I'm the fool that stays behind, picking up the pieces of an imbecile of a broken witcher that won't hear me out."
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Then he yells, arms spread to their wingspan, and Geralt weathers his outburst with the same measured stoicism that he takes physical blows. A year ago, if Jaskier had vented his bile at him in this way, Geralt would likely have told him to shut up, to leave, that he didn't want to hear it. He's had a year to come to realize how the blessing that he had demanded was more of a curse, and he has learned his lesson from it-- slowly, perhaps, but it has been learned. It had only taken days of being back in the bard's presence to alleviate the misery that had followed him since the dragon hunt.
"I hear you, Jask."
Geralt won't argue the imbecile part, or even the broken part, but maybe for the first fucking time, he hears Jaskier. Sure, it only took an immensely unsubtle ballad being sung directly to him, and then twenty minutes of a gaggle of university students calling him an idiot practically to his face for him to do so. And that in and of itself is a fact that rankles him a little the more that he thinks about it-- Jaskier rehabilitated his reputation and now people aren't afraid of him. That's a grievance that he'll have to come back to at some point, put a pin in that for later.
The point is that twenty years of ballads and following him across the Continent and touches and 'my dear witcher's and 'yet here we are's are finally resolving into a pattern in Geralt's head, one that says that all of Jaskier's little flirtations weren't just his naturally coquettish personality. And that there is the possibility that they still aren't, that maybe Jaskier hasn't completely given up on the idea of throwing his easily-broken heart at a brute of a witcher, even though time and experience has shown him that he won't be gentle with it.
But there is the specter of Yennefer of Vengerberg that must be dispelled. And it must be done with the right words, otherwise everything will go even more to shit than it currently is right now. This is perhaps not a task that should be entrusted to Geralt, but here they are.
"The djinn's magic will always pull Yen and I together," he says, and that would be a bad place to leave it. "But it has also ensured that anything that could have been between us is... impossible."
Yennefer made that clear before she made her way down the mountain. He has already lost me. How surprised Borch must have been to see his prediction come true so quickly, and for Geralt to ruin not just one relationship, but two, right in front of him. Like a stage play, The Many Fuck-Ups of Geralt of Rivia. A farce.
"Nothing I could do would ever be enough to prove our feelings genuine, and Yen would never accept a love built on something that isn't true. She made that much clear."
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He called him Jask.
JASK.
So easily. Without Jaskier having to ask him for it.
JaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJaskJASK-!
And then it's back to talking about Yennefer. Mood whiplash, once again. One would think Jaskier would've learned to protect himself from it by now, but this bird is too foolish for that. He may've not been caged by the wolf, but he's definitely been tangled deep enough in his fur. No matter where he flies, there's always dog hair on him.
"She got a nickname the day you met her." He replies with a broken voice, defeated hands falling on his lap as his whole body deflates. "I wait twenty years for it, and I don't get to savor the moment."
This room needs pillows. Hundreds of them.
Each word Geralt pronounces is a hit after hit to his guts. Part of him wants to run, wants to grab a bottle of vodka and chug it down completely. Why did he allow himself to hope? Whatever you want. He snorts, to both himself and at Geralt - so foolish, falling for pretty words and gentle touches that were probably spoken out of guilt.
"The djinn did this, Yennefer decided that. I don't give a fuck about them, Geralt. It's YOU that matters to me!" He throws his hands in the air before they fall on his lap again. "And all I'm hearing is that you're allowing them to end things because that's how things are, but it doesn't sound like something you want. Be honest, Geralt of Fatuousness: if she showed up again, begging you to take her back, wouldn't you?"
Blue eyes lock on gold, waiting for the answer. He's nervous and afraid of what he may hear, and he doesn't want Geralt to see that on his face, doesn't want to have the witchers's expression as he turns him down engraved in his memory either, but he endures... because as much as it pains him, he knows he needs it, or he'll never move on.
Remember me I ask, remember me I sing... Give me back my heart you wingless thing!
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"Yennefer would never beg me for anything, and definitely not to take her back."
If Yennefer wanted him, she would sweep in, all power and flashing violet eyes and carefully curated beauty, and she would expect him to come to heel like a dog at her feet. She takes what she wants and never asks, because she never needs to ask and never thinks she should need to. And for a while, when they're together, it's good, it's so fucking good, but then it will inevitably descend into the kind of arguments and fighting that can only be called disastrous. She barrels through his life with all the destruction of a hurricane and once she's gone, everything's a wreck. All he's left with is the memory of what it's like to be in the eye of that storm, surrounded by wildness and beauty that he can't control, and a stupid fucking heart that's torn in half.
He always ends up fighting with Yen and now he's fighting with Jask and he's always fucking fighting.
"You want me to be honest, Jaskier? Fine."
His voice is taking an edge, rising up to match the bard's yelling. It's good that the classrooms are sound-insulated, otherwise the noise might have attracted unwanted attention; they know there's a witcher in here with their precious famous teacher. And sure, there's all the songs calling him brave and noble, but he's still a witcher.
"No, I wouldn't take her back, even if she asked. You said you're tired of picking up the pieces? Well, I'm tired of always being in fucking pieces!"
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