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"You know," Jaskier said as Geralt watched him slide clumsily onto Roach's saddle. "You've been a lot nicer lately. Though now I've pointed it out you'll probably stop."
Geralt made a clucking noise and began to walk, Roach following behind obediently. "I'm always nice," he said dryly.
"Like now, when I asked for a ride, I wasn't really expecting you to, you know," Jaskier said, his lute bouncing against his back as Roach trotted, "actually say yes."
Geralt glanced over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. "You want to switch back?"
"Absolutely not," Jaskier said, resting both hands on his hips as he looked around. "I quite like the view from up here." He felt himself tilting off-balance and quickly grabbed Roach's neck. "And those blisters I talked about are really, very real."
Geralt grunted, grabbing Roach's lead as they reached a narrower part of the trail, leading her carefully through the underbrush. He even, Jaskier noticed, held back a branch that would have scratched Jaskier's leg.
--
The inn was plain fare, the room bare except for a bed, a wash-basin and a chamberpot. The fire was cold, its ashes scattered across the floor and blown about by the wind from the opened window.
"Last room we got, take it or leave it." the innkeeper said. When Geralt tossed her a coin she tested it with her teeth, looking almost disappointed to find it solid.
"Anywhere we could get a bite?" Jaskier asked hopefully.
"The kitchens closed hours ago," She replied, turning to disappear down the stairs.
"Unbelieveable," Jaskier scowled after her. "I know this is far from Novigrad, but one expects a minimum of service."
"At least it has a bed," Geralt said, dropping his pack against the ground and rolling his shoulders with a weary sigh.
Jaskier walked to the fireplace, stirring the ashes with the toe of his boot. "I'm sure we have to fetch our own wood as well."
"I get the feeling not many head in this direction." Geralt rooted through his pack with one hand. "Here."
Jaskier fumbled to catch the hard roll of bread Geralt threw at him.
"Not a mutton supper, but it's all I have."
Though the bread was hard as rock, Jaskier was touched. "Your last roll, for me?" Jaskier sat heavily in the bed, noticing, strangely, that Geralt's ears looked redder than usual. Could have just been the light.
"It was thrown at you after your last performance," Geralt said, "So really, it's your last roll."
"Ha ha," Jaskier said, but he gnawed at the crust, watching as Geralt stood and grabbed the washbasin, disappearing out into the hall. When he came back, he had filled it with well water and was carrying a cord of wood under his arm. "Oh you didn't have to do that," Jaskier said weakly, "I could have ... helped."
Geralt rolled his eyes disbelievingly, setting down the washbasin before moving to the fireplace. Soon, a fire was roaring, warming the room and casting it in a cheery light. It did little to hide how shabby and unkempt the place was, but did brighten the atmosphere a bit.
Jaskier put aside the half-roll he was holding to pull off his boots. "I almost resent you for being so industrious, as it obligates me to wash before bed and for once, I am so fatigued I may prefer sleeping in the filth." He startled when he saw Geralt kneeling before him.
"Your blisters," Geralt offered, dipping a clean rag in the basin. He rolled down Jaskier's socks and Jaskier hissed when he felt the cool cloth against his sore feet.
"A thousand curses upon the stones of Crinfrid," Jaskier said, a little shakily, lowering himself back onto his elbows. In the firelight, Geralt's hair gleamed gold.
Geralt hummed in reply, opening a jar of sharp-smelling ointment and rubbing it gently on the bottom of Jaskier's feet before wrapping them in bandages.
"Well you're certainly of a mood to provide the service this establishment is lacking," Jaskier said, flexing his bound toes.
"The last thing I need is for you to take on a limp and slow us down," Geralt said gruffly.
--
The fire went out in the night and, under the thin blankets, Jaskier found himself gravitating closer and closer to Geralt's body, until he awoke with his nose in Geralt's collarbone, Geralt's chest hair tickling his chin, Geralt's arms, warm and hard, wrapped around his shoulders.
Jaskier tried to wriggle free stealthily, but in the middle decided that it was not so bad after all, and allowed himself to dissolve once more into sleep.
--
Fortunately, the kitchens opened for breakfast.
Unfortunately, all they served was greasy, squeaky sausages on slabs of sour dark bread. Jaskier watched as Geralt wolfed down his food, unconcerned with the dark, suspicious glares of the few people in the tavern.
They were, after all, not far from Blaviken.
"Why did you ask me to come with you?" Jaskier asked.
Geralt swallowed hard, reaching for his tankard.
"You've never asked before," Jaskier said, "I usually just ... find you. Tag along."
Geralt had found him at Oxenfurt, months and months after they'd parted ways at the Mountain. Jaskier had been welcomed back by the faculty, if not with open arms, then with a certain reluctant respect. His songs, after all, were on everyone's tongue. He was the man of the moment, the people's poet. Jaskier had even been contemplating taking a tenure there until Geralt had arrived on his doorstop, promising an adventure worthy of a ballad.
And Jaskier realized that he found the idea of comfortable beds and cooing admirers rather dull, after all.
"If this is your way of apologizing for sending me away on the mountain, I accept it," Jaskier said, reaching across the table to thump Geralt on the back a few times. "I am a great man, my heart is full of forgiveness, and besides," he shrugged. "I've come to accept that this is how you are."
Geralt grunted, looking away as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
--
Jaskier was still trying to guess what monster Geralt had brought him out to see, as they continued traveling east. On the way up from Oxenfurt, Geralt had taken a few jobs - a wraith outside of Denesle, a nest of Arachasae near Troy - but thus far the ultimate destination eluded them.
They rode for two more days. All the while, Geralt continued acting ... nice. He allowed Jaskier to ride Roach for as long as he wished, to the point that Jaskier actually started feeling guilty about it and insisted that Geralt take back his seat under protestations that he was growing soft in the stomach from all the sitting. He patiently tolerated Jaskier singing the same lyric again and again and again because he needed to get it right. He was even more loose-lipped with details than normal, telling Jaskier stories of his childhood in Kaer Morhen, the horrors but also the rare warmth of brotherhood.
Jaskier took notes but he knew, privately, that he would never use them to write any song. That they were just for him.
On the morning of the third day, Jaskier saw the sparkle of water on the horizon and smelled the salt air of the coast. The ragged shoreline of Redania stretched before them, at once terrifying and majestic. The rambling, rocky grassland gave way to sheer cliff faces and dark mountains, the water foaming as it battered against the rock.
They made camp on a grassy ridge, Jaskier plucking his lute under the bright blue sky as Geralt polished his silver. Across from their inlet was a rocky mountainside, its face dotted with caves.
"Now you're just teasing me," Jaskier said accusingly, as the first bars of dark touched the sky.
"Am I?" Geralt smoothed a handful of oil over his leather scabbard, working it in the cracks with his thumb.
"What did you come here to hunt?" Jaskier asked. "I haven't seen anything all-"
Geralt raised a finger to his mouth, then pointed behind Jaskier. Jaskier turned to see ... dragons. Small dragons, really reptiles with wings, their scales shining opalescent in the dying sun.
"Watch," Geralt said quietly, but Jaskier didn't need to be told, scrambling to his feet as dozens of dragons began crawling out of the cave openings, chittering to each other as they pushed into flight. Soon there was a rainbow of color as dragons swooped and gamboled over the water, shooting puffs of fire into the air.
"This is amazing," Jaskier mumbled, too stunned to even retrieve his notebook.
"Drakenoids," Geralt said behind him. "The Reavers almost wiped them out generations ago. This might be the last enclave left."
"How did you ...?" Jaskier turned.
"They have a mating season every 40 years," Geralt said, his expression soft as he watched the scene. "40 years ago ... I was at the right place, right time."
Together, they watched the dragons dance until dark fell.
--
"I think I figured it out," Jaskier said quietly when they lay in the bedroll under the star-dotted sky. He turned, seeing Geralt's back, and gently rolled him over with a hand on Geralt's arm until they were facing each other. Geralt's expression was uncertain, his muscles were stiff under Jaskier's fingers. Jaskier felt as if he were stepping off a cliff as he pressed his lips to Geralt's and murmured, "Correct me if I'm wrong."
But Geralt never did.