Chapter Text
The tavern loomed overhead, ominous to him despite its warm and inviting atmosphere. For the most part, all towns felt this way to him, like false smiles hiding the knives that would gladly sink into his back if he were to drop his guard for even a moment. The average human had an opinion on witchers, and it was rarely complimentary. He, in particular, with hair hung in mats of white like filthy snow and eyes that answered the beating of his heart by turning slitted like a cat’s, found it very hard to pass through cities unnoticed and without comment.
This tavern, in particular, though, was a new level of horror. From the front steps, amidst the sound of unspectecting patrons and their revelry, he could hear the sweet tones of an almost mournful ballad.
It was unlike Jaskier to choose something somber. More unlike him to do so when the mood of the night was otherwise high, patrons drunk and skies clear and no wandering vagrants barging in on the illusion of safety.
He could consider it destiny, he supposed. Could imagine that Jaskier’s choice was spurred on by some part of him that knew that the evening boded ill for him.
Waiting on the steps would do him no good, whatever the reason. Steeling himself, he pushed open the door.
The room did not instantly fall silent, Geralt’s raised hood and hanging cloak buying him a few moments’ peace, but the effect was not enough to save him scorn completely. Slowly, conversations trailed off, and stunned silences or vicious whispers took their places.
In the back of the tavern, the strumming of a lute continued undeterred. Jaskier’s voice carried sweetly over the tensions, but the story is this, she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss-...
“You’ll find no business here, witcher,” a brave soul among the men spoke up, sneering at Geralt. “Begone with you.”
The music ceased. Geralt ignored all eyes on him except a single pair, wide and startled and painfully familiar.
“Geralt,” Jaskier greeted. It was uncomfortably hesitant. Though said like the start of a sentence, Jaskier followed it with nothing, simply watching.
A loss for words was not common from the bard. Geralt wasn’t sure what sort of thing he was meant to feel for having caused it. Nothing pleasant, for certain.
He crossed the room, approaching the bar, the man behind it watching him warily.
“No business, witcher,” the barman echoed, though quieter. “Whatever trouble you bring, we don’t need it.”
“Ah, pardon me.”
Geralt looked to his side as Jaskier appeared, giving the falsest performance of a smile to the barman.
The bard sat a few coins on the bar, sliding them across its surface. “He is with me,” Jaskier said, resolutely not looking at Geralt. “No trouble, just some rest and a drink, yes?”
The barman looked between them in clear distaste, but took the coin, and turned away, returning with two pints that he sat before them with a bitter air before vanishing again.
“Well,” Jaskier said, turning to Geralt at last. “Say what you will about me, Geralt, but my work is effective, at the very least. I’d almost forgotten how dreadful people could be about such silly things as your relative humanity. Honestly, wolf on the road you may be, but in the right situations, you’re almost domesticated. A sweet pup, more than a beast.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt said.
He got nothing further out. “I’ll leave you be,” Jaskier said, quickly, lifting his drink. “You must be on the trail of something, but I wouldn’t ask around here, lest you undo my hard work. You should drink that, though, and relax-...”
“Jaskier.”
“-Though I doubt you know what that word means.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted again, harsher this time. When Jaskier’s jaw snapped shut, lips pressing into a thin line, he pressed, quietly, “I came for you.”
Jaskier blinked at him. “For me?” he asked. Voice pitching up a bit, he asked, “What for? How have I offended this time?”
Geralt reached out, catching Jaskier’s wrist. They both froze at the contact.
“...Let go of me,” Jaskier said, very quietly.
Geralt released him immediately. “Speak with me,” he asked, just as soft. “Let me tell you what I have to say.”
Jaskier watched him, clearly debating with himself, before reaching out, gently setting his mug on the counter.
“I have a room,” he said. “I doubt I will be performing further tonight. We may as well go to it.”
Geralt left his mug untouched, and followed Jaskier to the stairs and up them, to a room at the far end of the hall.
The room was simple and small, but Geralt took little notice of it. He had priorities, very clear ones.
“Alright,” Jaskier said, as they stepped into the private space and closed the door behind them. “What is it that has brought the great White Wolf to my door?”
“An apology.”
Jaskier faltered. “I-...what?”
“An apology,” Geralt repeated, stepping up to Jaskier. “I said...many things I did not mean.”
“Oh?” Jaskier said. “Didn’t mean that you could no longer stand my company, then? That I was but a burden, thrust upon you by fate?”
Geralt winced. “That, precisely,” he said. “You-...”
They both stood in silence a moment: Geralt’s, hesitant; Jaskier’s, expectant.
“Never once have you been around me for any other reason than a choice,” Geralt said. “Even when we happened across each other, you and I only ever coexisted because we both actively chose each other’s company. You are the one thing in my life that does not answer to destiny.”
Jaskier made a face. “The one thing not meant to be around, you mean?”
“No!” Geralt said, quickly, frustrated. Trying again, he ventured, “I mean to say- I’m not trapped by you.”
Jaskier raised a brow.
“Dammit, Jaskier,” Geralt breathed. He reached up, dragging a hand down his face, and started again. “There are few things in the world I have the audacity to want for myself,” Geralt said, looking Jaskier in the eye, “but foremost among them is your company.”
Jaskier blinked. “You... want me around?”
“To the point of madness,” Geralt said.
Jaskier stared. “But…”
“I am protective of what I have,” Geralt said. “And I fight to keep anything in my life that I can. But never once have I had to fight to keep you. I sent you away before you could leave, but that was-....it was stupid . Just because I didn’t have to fight for your affections didn’t mean I shouldn’t.”
Jaskier took a deep, steadying breath, watching Geralt with wide, stunned eyes.
Then, he let out the breath, and declared, “This...will make for an excellent story.”
Geralt’s shoulders dropped in his relief. “Am I forgiven, then?” He reached out, catching Jaskier’s arms in his hands again. “Or, at least, will you give me the chance to be?”
“You would have been forgiven for much less than that,” Jaskier told him. “But I am always glad to hear you extend your emotional range beyond monosyllabic- oh!”
Geralt held Jaskier to him, lips brushing the top of his head as he held him close.
“Well,” Jaskier laughed into the embrace. “You certainly did miss me, didn’t you? Or have you been replaced by a particularly touchy doppler? I’ll have you know, if that’s the case, that I am properly familiar with every inch of this witcher, so you will have to have made a perfect copy-...”
“Dopplers copy to the blood,” Geralt said, releasing Jaskier. “You’d never notice a physical change.”
“Oh, I would,” Jaskier argued. “No doppler could perfect your particular mannerisms. I’d recognize the scowl on your face right away.”
“I’m not scowling,” Geralt said.
“Oh, you’re always scowling,” Jaskier said, reaching up to tap a fingertip against the wrinkle between Geralt’s brows. “Just a little. Even when you smile, there’s a tiny part of your face that still wants to be angry.”
“That’s not true.”
“Who spends more time looking at your face, hm?” Jaskier asked. “You or me?”
“....Hnn.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier said. “Well! Now that you’ve found me and I am your beloved companion once more, are you staying long?”
“I have nowhere to be but here,” Geralt said.
“Well then,” Jaskier said. “I could go about trying to talk our lovely innkeeper into another room key, or you could stay with me?”
“I’ll stay with you,” Geralt said.
And he did.
Geralt, Jaskier found, committed to apologies rather hard.
Over the days-gone-weeks that followed their reunion, Geralt was kinder, softer, quicker to smile and slower to insult. That was not to say he did not still tell Jaskier to shut up when he went on some tangent or make jokes at his expense, but they were done with less bite than before, and he always looked immediately torn, as though unsure if he should apologize for them or not.
Jaskier, for his part, did his best not to take advantage of this, treating Geralt as he would have ever done. Occasionally, though, it was impossible to resist his newfound ability to turn wide eyes and batted lashes on Geralt and find his way suddenly guaranteed. In this manner he got more time riding Roach, extra moments of rest on the road, detours to see beautiful sights along their travels, the most interesting stories of Geralt’s adventures without him, and - most treasured of all - gestures of affection from his friend, from reluctantly offered compliments to the most hesitant of touches.
His bidding was not the only thing that brought these on, though, which was interesting. During the day, Geralt was much the same as usual, keeping to himself unless directly approached. In public, Geralt turned into a sort of sentry, hovering close at hand while otherwise making any effort to be ignored, as though he could blend in as a regular hired bodyguard or something.
At nights on the road, though, or anytime they were alone, Geralt gravitated closer to him. They sat side-against-side, and slept the same, Geralt taking on a habit of turning over in the night and pressing his nose into Jaskier’s hair - a place he seemed fond of sitting it, which made Jaskier a bit more strict about his bathing, as whatever smell his bath oils left was apparently pleasing to the witcher’s delicate senses. Geralt also took up a habit of brushing his fingers through Jaskier’s hair or against the nape of his neck, catching his arm or wrist to get his attention, resting his arms around Jaskier’s waist as they rode together on Roach, and other small touches.
Jaskier’s running theory was that Geralt had gotten terribly lonely by himself, and had developed a complex that required he physically verify the presence of another living being periodically. Jaskier, always physical by nature, was happy to oblige, just as willing to comb Geralt’s messy hair free of whatever debris had lodged in it during a fight or rub at the knot that grew between his shoulders or toy with his fingers under the guise of getting dirt out of his nails during a bath.
And that was another thing - baths. Jaskier bathed first, when they readied a bath, because Geralt was usually disgusting and would leave the bathwater some vile brown when done with it, and Geralt would hover wash his hands ahead of the rest of him in order to have them clean enough to aid Jaskier in his own washing, very gently massaging in his bath oils without a word, occasionally drawing in deep breaths through his nose, once again showing a fondness for the particular herbal mixture Jaskier gravitated towards for washing.
Jaskier, in turn, participated in Geralt’s baths to the point he was certain would eventually become an annoyance, scolding him for his careless acts as he double checked that his hair wasn’t matting and his ears were clean and that he wasn’t giving himself any sort of new calluses from his recently exchanged boots.
In short, they mothered each other, fussing about each other’s well being and appearance and presence and a thousand other things.
It was strange, thinking of how distant Geralt had once been, but also nice.
It was comforting to know that, whatever they’d gone through, they’d still come out the closest of friends.