Work Text:
The contract was too easy. The town had claimed a whole nest of drowners "Surely there's half a dozen, at least!" the alderman said, and so Geralt had prepared for a whole nest. He'd taken more doses of his potions than usual, just to find that there were only two drowners. His silver blade had sliced cleanly through their slippery grey skin and the battle was over quickly. He'd searched up and down the river for over an hour as the sun continued to set, but no luck. There was nothing else to fight.
He collected the to heads of the drowners and lit the bodies aflame with a quick burst of igni. He trudged back to Roach where she was tied to a tree waiting for him a little ways away. He secured the trophies to her flank and started off towards the road.
"Humans know how to exaggerate, don't they Roach?" He patted her neck as he lead her back to the inn where Jaskier was surely performing as he waited for Geralt to return.
A gentle breeze blew, not even enough to stir the dust on the road, but it still sent a violent shiver up Geralt's spine. His scalp tingled where the wind brushed his hair and his hands twitched with restless energy. He could hear everything alive in the forest; a fox chirping as it fed it's young, a squirrel scurrying through the branches above, the river still bubbling and rushing alongside him. He shut his eyes against the fading light of the evening that pierced them. This didn't help, but succeeded in making him even more keenly aware of the way his clothes and armor weighed heavy and scratchy against his skin.
After a painful hour, the sun set, and Geralt finally arrived back in the town. A handful of people remained on the street, but they avoided him and ducked into their homes. Distantly he wondered if his eyes were still blackened, and he scowled. He didn't like townsfolk, or anyone really, to see him while he was... changed. Many may think his kind to be monsters, but he didn't see the need to give them more proof.
Thankfully, the exchange with the alderman was short. Generally, Geralt preferred to have Jaskier with him when he was accepting payment, his companion was always quick to defend him and made sure he wasn't shortchanged. Jaskier must have worked the man over already, however, because despite the circumstances, he was paid in full for the original negotiated amount.
A lick of satisfaction curled in his chest, warm and full, and he found himself, if only for a moment, with more spring in his step.
When he arrived at the inn's stables he took the time to settle Roach, relieving her of her tack and blanket. He brushed her down from mane to tail until she shined and the shaking of his hands quieted. From within his pack he drew an apple, which she munched appreciatively. Geralt pressed his head to her neck and focused on getting his heart to slow. Her scent and the steady thrum of life was familiar. She was his home, a constant in his life. A sour knot formed in his gut when he recognized the attachment. She was not the first Roach, nor would she be the last. He could not afford to love- was not meant to love.
Despite his unease, he allowed himself another brief moment of resting against her, till she huffed and clicked her teeth at him. She bumped her head against him affectionately when he withdrew, and then again to urge him away.
"Good girl, Roach." He patted her once more, "You always know what I need."
Exhaustion was creeping into his knees when he entered the inn. Geralt stayed carefully in the shadow by the door. He searched the small crowd for Jaskier and found him, as usual, in the center. The bard truly was in his element, winking at men and women alike, strutting about the group with an exaggerated wiggle of his hips. There was an attractive glistening on the back of his neck that Geralt couldn't help but notice. His eyes were flashing with a joyful spark that only ever appeared when he was on stage.
When he noticed Geralt, his performers grin widened even further, and for a moment, Geralt thought he would begin a particularly rousing rendition of Toss a Coin (as performances when Geralt was present tended to garner more coin). As Jaskier danced through the audience however he cast an appraising eye at Geralt, something that seemed like recognition was visible for just a moment, and then gone as he returned his full attention to the congregation of excited patrons.
The raucous singing and laughter was grating however, and Geralt could only stand so much. He turned to the stairs to make his escape, before the pounding of foot stomps could make a more permanent home in his head. After the last of the lute's strong chords he heard Jaskier dismissing his audience and thanking them for how lovely they'd been. He even promised them a sequel performance for tomorrow.
Geralt had just set his swords down against the wall of their room, when there was a knock at the door. He sniffed the air: lavender, cedar, adrenaline, and just a touch of sweat. He opened the door before Jaskier announced himself.
"Are you alright?" Jaskier stepped towards him, slowly, his eyebrows were pinched together as he gave Geralt another thorough once over.
He didn't reply and instead moved to turn away, intending to take off his armor. Jaskier caught his arm before he could though, and Geralt stiffened. The tremor in his hands returned, and he felt his heart begin it's hasty thump thump thump within his chest. His body still itched for a fight.
"Hey, hey. Talk to me, what's wrong?" Jaskier came round to face him, and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. "You weren't supposed to be back till late."
Instead of pulling away, he leaned into the other man's touch. It was warm, and he could feel the bard's pulse through his finger tips; comforting, grounding. He closed his eyes, and Jaskier ran his thumb over his brow carefully. The burn, the desire to move, stilled in his muscles, and he couldn't help but release the smallest of sighs.
"I've called for a bath, hmm? Does that sound good?" He said, and when he did, Geralt could feel the puff of his breath against his face and smell the lingering scent of honey wine.
"Let's get that armor off you, I'll bring my soap down. That might help." Jaskier's other hand came to the other side of his face, and he pulled their foreheads together for a brief moment.
The line of tension that spanned the breadth of his shoulders loosened and let his head fall further down.
"That's it. Another deep breath for me, can you do that?"
Geralt hummed quietly in reply as new wave of fatigue washed over him. Distantly he heard Jaskier mutter to himself something about that damned ridiculous alderman, s'got no idea what he's talking about. Then deft fingers were undoing the buckles and clasps of his armor. Before long, Jaskier took one of his hands and was leading him down the stairs and to a room off the kitchens.
"Good... Good. The waters nice and warm."
It was good. Geralt began to realize just how cold he was. When Jaskier was helping him remove his clothes he started to shiver. The bard ran a startlingly warm calloused hand down his back and took hold of his arm to steady him as he stepped into the bath.
Geralt sank into the tub greatfully, letting Jaskier rub the stress out of his back. Jaskier's scent- or his soap; that lavender and cedar, rose through the air with the steam of the bath. He felt the warmth slink through his muscles, settle in his bones and blossom in his chest. It was familiar, it was safe.
"That's better, isn't it? When I was a boy, I loved to roll around in the dirt by my fathers stables. My wet nurse would scoop me up and take me to my mother's great big bath tub to wash." His accent slipped into something more posh than Geralt usually heard it. It wasn't... unpleasant. More so, it wasn't often Jaskier spoke sincerely about his life before Geralt. He knew the bawdy tales of his academic years at Oxenfurt, the nefarious pranks he and Valdo Marx pulled on each other, but there was nothing of substance.
"Tell me." He asked quietly, a sudden sleepiness tugging at his eyelids.
Jaskier's hands stilled in his hair, but only for a moment, and Geralt could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind. But then the rhythmic combing of his fingers resumed.
"I was born, Julian Alfred Pankratz, in twelve twenty-two, my mother always said it was a warm day, but dreadfully rainy. I had an older sister, of four years, Maribella. She used to read to me by the hearth." He paused, and Geralt imagined now that Jaskier's eyes were closed, just a sliver of tongue poking out from between his lips as he tried to recall the details.
"I learned to walk and talk in the long halls of Castle De Lettenhove," The hint of Redanian crept back into his voice when he said the title. "I used to march all around the banquet tables with a pan flute if you can believe it." Jaskier chuckled, but Geralt could smell something... almost musty creep into the air around them when he continued.
"As firstborn son I was supposed to take my father's place, as a Viscount. Music wasn't much of a priority when I was tutored. The panflute mysteriously disappeared, and eventually after begging, I got my hands on a lute. She was beautiful, not like Filivandrel's, but she was. It was that same bonne who first taught me to play, Elspeth stayed as a maid even as I got older."
That dank scent flared strongly and hung in the air. Jaskier's sadness; it molded like fruit, left out in the sun for too long.
"Mother and Father eventually grew tired of... my fancies. One day I came home and Elspeth and the lute were gone. I only stayed a few months after that. It was decided Maribella would take my place as heir, and I wandered off to Oxenfurt. I met my nemesis, that pautonnier, Valdo Marx." His name was punctuated by a rougher pull on his hair and Geralt grunted his disapproval.
"Yes, yes I know. The very name makes me seethe as well." Jaskier placated. When he continued his voice was genuine again. "And then eventually I met you. Everything that has come since has been a better luxury."
That couldn't possibly be true. Jaskier journeyed with him through mud, and filth, and occasionally in the face of monster guts. He'd ruined more boots in their time together than he probably had in his whole life previous. When they were together, they rarely slept in inns, rarely had even halfway decent stew. The ground was hard and the further north they trekked, the closer together they had to sleep because of the cold, even with the fires. (That Jaskier had gotten quite good at building thank you very much, not that Geralt would ever say so.) How could that possibly be better than a life in a castle, or even a life remaining a professor at Oxenfurt? Geralt had visited there, once before, to see him. They had not one, but two libraries, and even a bath house. Not a room, but a house. Not to mention Jaskier was recognized for his talents in academic circles; unlike with tavern folk, who could be difficult to appease at the best of seasons.
"You're lying." Geralt grumbled, drawing in on himself.
"Oh I should think not." Jaskier scoffed with a pat to his shoulder. "I am traveling with my muse, the man who has inspired some of my best work. I get to choose who I spend my time with. I don't have to put up with sycophantic codswallop." His voice softened then, "I have gotten to see more of life and love than I ever thought I would. Lettenhove is not my home. My life, my lo-" He cleared his throat and moved on before Geralt could question. "My home is on the Path with you. It has been since we met at that tavern in Posada, and so it will be."
Home.
Despite everything he'd been taught, Geralt could find no argument to parse with him. So he didn't. And if, when they lied down in their shared bed that night, he let Jaskier lay a little closer than normal, well, no one had to know. Because they were at home.