Chapter Text
Things are different now. They needed to be different, but Geralt is consistently surprised by just how different Jaskier is.
It’s only been five days since he’d woken to find Destiny had returned to him that which he thought he’d justly lost, but the most jarring difference is he hasn’t once heard him sing. With fall rapidly devolving into winter around them, thoughts of home frequently pass Geralt’s mind, but some small part of him yearns to hear a tune before then. There’s no moon out tonight, so their campfire provides the only light, and Jaskier sits with his shoulders hunched across from him, gazing thoughtfully into the dark forest beyond.
There’s something pensive in his gaze, his brow slightly furrowed as if in deep thought. As Geralt watches him over the crackling flames, a hint of anxiety creeps into his gaze, drawing his brows lower. He blinks a few times, sits upright, and turns his thoughtful gaze to Geralt. “What do you suppose those men meant to do?”
Geralt frowns, tilting his head. “What men?”
The bard looks at him disbelievingly. “Oh, I dunno,” he mutters with a false air like he’s casting about for what he was saying. “Perhaps the ones who drugged and kidnapped you?”
Truthfully, he hasn’t really spent much time thinking about it. He’s been so preoccupied figuring out how their new dynamic works, and wondering why Jaskier doesn’t seem to sing anymore, that he hasn’t had time to ponder. So he shrugs. Jaskier looks more troubled at the gesture, so he shakes his head. “Suppose I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Hadn’t-?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows, letting out a huff somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Well, that makes one of us,” he mutters, glancing around the forest around them like a brigand may be hiding behind every tree.
“Hey,” Geralt says firmly, earning his gaze once more. “You brought us through that hemp field before Dorian, so even if they managed to track us that far, the trail goes cold at the inn; we have nothing to worry about out here.”
Looking entirely unconvinced, Jaskier presses his lips together and nods slightly.
Geralt is painfully reminded how little confidence the bard seems to have retained in him. There was a time Jaskier would have shrugged off all anxiety simply by virtue of the witcher’s presence, but that was so long ago now. The only way forward is with a different tune; he needs to be worthy of that confidence once so blindly invested in him. “Jaskier…” The bard watches him with a drawn expression, uncertainty glittering in his clear blue eyes as the witcher listens with dramatic flair. In the brush directly behind him, a mouse family walks over each other in a hole, and they’re the largest thing within at least half a mile around them. “There’s no one anywhere nearby.” When Jaskier still doesn’t appear convinced, Geralt opts for a lighter, almost teasing tone when he continues. “How is it that we’ve been reunited five days, and I haven’t heard a single tune from you?”
Jaskier leans back slightly, raising an eyebrow and glancing around as though searching for a visual prompt for the question. “Are you complaining? Because I was under a pretty strong impression that my music wasn’t exactly to your taste. In fact, I believe you once compared it to a pie with no filling.”
Geralt shrugs, glancing down at the fire between them. It’s true that many of the embellished compositions had been, in and of themselves, poor pieces of music in Geralt’s opinion. But it isn’t the music itself that he’s searching for. “I won’t deny that.” What had he hoped to accomplish bringing this up? “Suppose I just… missed it.”
Jaskier frowns, leaning in over the fire and scrutinizing him. “What are you playing at?” he asks suspiciously.
Geralt returns his frown, crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders. “Hm?”
Eyes narrow, the bard shakes his head slightly. “You’re being so strange. I mean, you’ve always been strange, but these last few days you’ve been exceptionally so.”
“What are you talking about?” All Geralt has thought about since their reunion is fixing whatever damage he’d done on the mountain all those years ago, and taking better care of Jaskier. What’s so strange about that?
“Okay, play dumb if you like,” Jaskier says lightly, standing and coming around the fire to sit beside him and bump him with his shoulder. “I mean, I’m not complaining; you’ve certainly been immaculately pleasant to me, so… that’s nice.” There’s something wistful in his voice, and it draws a frown from the witcher.
“What’s wrong?”
Jaskier looks up at him, a hesitant look on his face. He buries his hands in his lap and looks past the witcher, apparently searching for words. “Geralt, I don’t… I appreciate the strides that you’re making now, I do, um…” He swallows, tongue passing uncertainly over his lower lip. “I just- I don’t want you to feel… obligated, um, to be here. With me. D’you know what I mean?” When those blue eyes return to Geralt’s, they’re full of apprehension.
It makes something in the witcher’s chest tighten and twist. “I’m not sure I do,” he breathes.
Jaskier lets out an exasperated huff, standing to pace alongside the fire. “Look, you don’t owe me anything, okay?” There’s an unprecedented amount of anger in his voice, though he looks to the stars as he speaks. “And I don’t want to be… an obligation.”
Once upon a time, Geralt would have told Jaskier to stop being dramatic, waved him off, and gone on without a second thought. Now, though, this line of thinking is one he does feel the need to shut down. So he stands, pacing quickly to meet his bard, and takes both his soft, fidgety hands in his. Those clear blue eyes fix on his, determined but quietly uncertain. “I need you to hear this, and I mean really hear it,” Geralt says in a low tone, looking at him seriously. “You are not an obligation. You are not a burden, or a responsibility, or a chore. Jaskier, you are… a privilege. Having you here, on the road, it’s something I didn’t know I needed until I lost it, and I am so grateful - eternally grateful - that you’re here, with me, right now.” He places a hand on Jaskier’s face, running the pad of his thumb over the rough stubble on his jawline. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out, but there is no one on the continent I would rather have by my side. So thank you, for saving me; for being here; for staying with me.”
Jaskier’s expression is carefully drawn, and he tilts his head slightly. “Huh,” he says quietly.
Geralt wonders for a moment if he’ll say more, but the silence stretches between them.
Deep blue eyes, shining in the firelight, watch his face searchingly. Tentatively, the bard raises a hand to Geralt’s chest, placing his palm flat against his sternum. He looks at the hand, brows drawing low in thought.
“Your lack of response is mildly unsettling,” Geralt mutters, earning an amused look.
“Oh, how the tables have turned,” Jaskier returns, not looking up from his hand.
It really is strange how their dynamic has shifted so drastically. Fifteen years apart, and they’re closer now than they’ve ever been. Thanks in no small part to personal growth, Geralt likes to think.
Geralt places a hand over the one on his chest, and Jaskier’s now playful gaze returns to his. “Do you have your lute?”
The bard frowns. “I appreciate all the effort, but you don’t have to pretend to enjoy my music.” His gaze falls slightly, smile faltering. “You are absolved, I’ve already forgiven you. We can just be normal again - well, different, but normal.”
Geralt doesn’t bother to repress the small smile that comes onto his lips. “Do you have it?”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, though his smile widens, and he draws back. “Of course I do. But I’m not going to play for an unappreciative audience.”
Geralt, still holding onto the hand, stops Jaskier from walking away again. The bard looks back at him, raising an eyebrow. Geralt does his best to look pleading, and the bard’s brows draw low in disbelief. The witcher draws the hand up to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the back of it. “Please?”
Jaskier stares at him for a long moment, then gives a slight shake of his head. “You’ve really changed,” he mutters under his breath, wonderment in his eyes. Gradually, that mischievous smile slides into its familiar place and he looks up at Geralt quizzically. “You really want to hear me play?”
“Hmm,” Geralt hums, putting on a countenance of overdramatized thoughtfulness and looking up at the stars. In truth, he doesn’t really care about the music. But he misses that self-important air Jaskier gets when performing, and if this can bring it back, he’ll take it. He looks back to find the bard looking patiently expectant, a knowing glint in his eye. “Yeah, I think so.”
Jaskier narrows his eyes, but his smile widens. He steps closer, pressing their joined hands between their chests to look up at Geralt pointedly. “Only one problem; I need both hands.”
Geralt winces like that’s a serious problem he hadn’t considered. “Maybe you can just sing,” he says softly.
Jaskier raises an eyebrow, amusement glinting in his bright eyes. There’s still something reserved about his demeanor, though, and it makes Geralt’s stomach churn. “Perhaps, but seeing as it’s been so long, I think you deserve no less than a proper number.” He steps back just far enough to bring Geralt’s hands to his own lips, presses a kiss to the back of it, and then lets go and turns to where his lute case lays beside his satchel. The touch sends an uncanny warmth spreading through Geralt’s chest.
The case is opened, and Jaskier pulls out the instrument and regards Geralt uncertainly. “Any requests?” he asks cheerily.
A shrug is all Geralt offers by way of response as the bard pulls the strap over one shoulder. Jaskier purses his lips thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Suppose I ought to warm up first, at any rate…” He plays a halting scale, then rubs his palms together and holds his hands out toward the fire. “Bit cold out,” he comments as the scent of anxiety drifts to Geralt on the wind.
He’s… nervous? That doesn’t make any sense. Jaskier has never once balked at the opportunity to perform, regardless of the audience - or lack thereof, for that matter. Why should he be anxious to play in the middle of nowhere with no one around?
As the bard initiates another scale on the fretboard, following this with his voice as well, Geralt takes a seat on a stone across from him, watching. Jaskier keeps glancing at him, giving him this weird, nervous half smile. And he’s still warming up - what is he doing?
“You alright?” the witcher asks.
Jaskier waves a dismissive hand, letting out a short chuckle. “Why shouldn’t I be?” Despite his words, Jaskier’s shoulders tighten at the question and he avoids Geralt’s gaze. He clears his throat. “Just, ah, trying to decide on a composition. Would be easier if you had a particular tune in mind, but…” Rather than finish that thought, he sings another scale, higher this time.
The anxiety is thick now, pouring off of him in waves, and Geralt scrunches up his nose. “Just… something honest.”
Jaskier stops playing in favor of drawing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “How rude of you to insinuate all my music isn’t honest.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow, and the bard cracks a smile.
“Fair enough,” he mutters over a soft laugh, looking back down at his instrument and playing another scale. “Something honest, huh?” He taps his chin thoughtfully.
After a few moments, Geralt raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Don’t think so hard about it, just play the first thing that pops into your head.”
Jaskier groans melodramatically. “Don’t think so hard about it, he says.” He shakes his hands at his sides, turning his gaze to the sky. The bard closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose, and carefully lays his hands back on the instrument. Eyes still closed, he levels his head and begins plucking a gentle riff. “It’s what my heart just yearns to say… in ways that can’t be said. It’s what my rotting bones will sing, when the rest of me is dead; it’s what’s engraved upon my heart, in letters deeply worn… today I somehow understand the reason I was born…” He hits a sour chord, and frowns, opening his eyes to look accusingly at his instrument. “The reason I was…” he plays the chord again, then shakes his head. “Not that one - sorry.” A fresh wave of embarrassment rolls off of him, and that’s about all of this strangely uncharacteristic humility that Geralt can take.
He stands from his boulder and quickly paces up to his old friend, who studies his shoes and strums idly into another tune. “You don’t have to,” Geralt says softly, and Jaskier just shakes his head again. “I just… wanted to see you relax, but clearly this wasn’t the route to that.”
Jaskier scoffs, looking up at him with indignance. “I will have you know, I find this very relaxing. I am perfectly relaxed - so relaxed, in fact, that I can’t even be bothered to select a number. Perfectly, entirely relaxed - why shouldn’t I be?”
Geralt raises his hands in surrender, but if the slight narrowing of Jaskier’s eyes is any indicator, his disbelief must still show on his face. The bard shakes his head, glancing past him. “Okay, maybe not entirely relaxed, I mean, you’re not the most forgiving audience.”
Geralt drops his head back, mastering his frustration. Of course, it’s only fair for Jaskier to assume he’ll be critical when the only comments he’s ever really had on his music were asking him to stop playing it. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?
With a sigh, he turns his gaze back to Jaskier, mustering all the gentility he can find. He steps into the smaller man’s space, taking hold of his lute strap to gingerly lift it over his head. Jaskier’s gaze is fixed past Geralt on some distant point, his brows drawn low and lips pressed thin. “Jaskier,” he prompts gently.
“Hm?” the bard returns brightly, tone discordant to the nerves showing in his expression. He still doesn’t meet his gaze.
Geralt lets out a sharp sigh through his nose. He takes Jaskier’s soft hand in his, and with his other nudges the bard’s chin. When Jaskier meets his gaze again, there’s a carefully crafted mask of flippancy in his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he returns quickly, giving a tight smile. “Why should-?”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, a little more harshly.
The smile falls from Jaskier’s face, and he glances around as though there’s anyone else there. “Geralt… I don’t have it anymore.”
The Witcher tilts his head. “What do you mean you-?”
“I mean I don’t have it,” the bard repeats almost petulantly, dropping his head against his chest. “I’ve lost it.”
Geralt frowns. “What did you lose?” He thought they were talking about music, but clearly the bard’s mind was elsewhere.
“It, you know…” Jaskier draws his hands up to his shoulders as he raises his head. “The- whatever makes the music-” He snaps his fingers. “The muse. My muse has run off spitefully, and left me devastatingly devoid of inspiration.”
So he was still talking about music. Strange segue. Geralt can’t help but think the whole issue is a bit dramatic. Of course, Jaskier has always been dramatic. He’ll inevitably get over this ‘runaway muse’ thing and write again in time; he isn’t fragile, Geralt can be sure of that. He lets out a disbelieving snort.
Jaskier looks at him sharply, brows drawing low. “It isn’t funny, Geralt.” he straightens, drawing himself up indignantly. “The spirits of poetry do not visit me,” he says, looking wistfully past his companion.
Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. He decides then that humoring this mourning for an imaginary spirit responsible for somehow manifesting art through people - a scapegoat for the creative success the bard unfathomably refuses to accept - is not going to do either of them any good. He draws back, but on second consideration decides dismissing the idea immediately might not be helpful either. Jaskier would no doubt take it as a personal sleight, rather than as the rational and realistic address of the situation it was.
Jaskier grinds his jaw but says nothing further for a moment. He takes a step back and crosses his arms, and several times seems to almost speak.
When he doesn’t, Geralt tilts his head. “It’s late,” he says with a whisper of a sigh, drawing back as well toward his bedroll.
Jaskier stays still for a long moment, blinking slowly and thoughtfully, before nodding his head suddenly. “Right,” he says, and moves to his own accommodations.
Across the fire, Geralt can see him in the dancing light as he settles in. Jaskier frowns at the fire as though he’s solving mathematic equations, pulling his bottom lip through his teeth over and over. When they’ve lain quietly for a few minutes, settling in, Jaskier gives a great huff and rolls onto his back.
A few minutes pass, and then the bard lets out another, louder sigh and shimmies down under his blankets. He's quiet a few minutes, then grumbles something under his breath about rocks under his roll, shifting and scooting about until Geralt can't take it anymore.
“Is there…something on your mind?” asks the witcher.
“No, no, not at all,” Jaskier says firmly. A few more moments of silence pass, before he suddenly turns over to face his old friend. There's an accusatory look in his eye. “You really aren't concerned at all about those men?”
So he's still on this. “No,” Geralt says.
“Or the mage they conspire with? Not on your list of priorities?”
“No,” Geralt says again. “The hemp fields-”
“Yes, yes, I'm quite familiar, but bear with me: regular tracking.” The bard rolls onto his back, staring down the stars as he picks up steam. “They seemed rather determined, and every one terrified of this mage - even the leader, who tried his best to give the impression of fearlessness. Who is to say they should just give up so easily?”
Geralt sits up with a long-suffering sigh. He wants desperately to calm the bard’s fears, but he doesn't have the words to soothe. Perhaps he can offer vigilance, if his friend won't trust innate competence. “I'll stay up,” he offers.
Big blue eyes flick to him for a moment, before Jaskier shakes his head. “You don't have to do that, Geralt. I-I'm sure you're right and we've nothing to worry about. It's… been a while since I was on the road.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hums his understanding, but folds his legs anyway and doesn't lay back down.
Drawing his hands to his face, Jaskier presses his palms into his eyes. He takes a long slow breath, then sits up as well, reaching for his pack. Out comes the flask, and Geralt turns away as his friend drinks deeply of it.
The stink of bourbon sours the air.
Jaskier puts the flask away and shimmies back down under the covers, on his side facing Geralt this time. His eyes are brimmed with uncertainty, and his mouth set in a hard line like he's considering carefully his next words.
What if it's never alright? Geralt wonders. What if that uncertainty and nerves and alcohol are just a part of who he is now?
What if he never sees that bubbly smile, or hears that unhindered laugh again?
The past few days, he's been so involved in trying to regain trust that he hadn't yet stopped to wonder if the man he knew is in there at all, or had been ground to dust beneath the boots of a cruel world. A cruelty Geralt had no small part in inflicting.
But laying under the flickering firelight, big blue eyes watching Geralt like he’s still trying to decide whether he's really there, Geralt knows it's a stupid line of thought. Of course Jaskier is still Jaskier; he might be hurting, hardened at the edges a bit, embittered by years of unnumbered sorrows Geralt was not around to witness, but at the end of the day, he is who he always was.
Wiser, maybe.
More cautious, certainly.
Angrier, no doubt.
But no less Jaskier. No less the man Geralt had loved so fiercely all those years ago that it scared him shitless. No less full of love and light, he was sure, if he could only reach deep enough to coax it out.
The bard's eyes begin to fade to distant points, fluttering and eventually closing. When his breathing has evened into the safe rhythm of sleep, Geralt relaxes a bit. When sleep loosens his features, Geralt can see the man he left on that mountain 15 years ago. Light and boisterous and full of hope. It makes his gut twist and pull.
Tonight will be a long night, he thinks as he settles in to meditate. Tomorrow, he will have to think of something to put a smile back on that face.