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• it doesn't matter who hurt you, or broke you down, what matters is who made you smile again •
Jaskier’s sitting at the biggest table in the tavern when Geralt returns, surrounded by what seems to be half the village. He’s talking animatedly, hands gesturing and pointing wildly, and he’s temptingly flushed down to what Geralt can see of his chest, hair tousled and eyes sparkling with mirth.
He's in his element, nearly as much so as when he’s playing; Jaskier lives to perform, in one way or another.
Geralt allows himself a small, fond quirk of his lips before he schools his face into neutrality, and starts making his way across the crowded room. Jaskier spots him as he approaches, and his own smile somehow, impossibly, grows even wider, making Geralt’s chest feel all warm and tingly.
“Ah, the man of the hour!” Jaskier crows as he pats the empty seat next to himself, then tugs at Geralt’s sleeve impatiently until Geralt settles down with a grunt. “Ale and food, for the brave Witcher who, oh so heroically, slew the swarms of nekkers that have been terrorising your humble town!”
Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes, but the urge is definitely there. Instead, he accepts the tankard someone passes him, and mouths, “Six nekkers,” behind Jaskier’s back, much to the amusement of the gathered people.
When Jaskier turns to scowl at him suspiciously, Geralt looks at him blankly, and takes an innocent sip of his ale.
The innkeeper brings him a heaping plate of meats and cheeses soon after—on the house, as a thank you for getting rid of the nekkers—and Geralt eats in silence, letting the rumbling sound of Jaskier’s voice wash away the last traces of adrenaline from the fight. One of Jaskier’s hands lands on Geralt’s knee, a comforting and familiar weight, and when he focuses on it, Geralt can make out the soft buttercups-teak-amber scent that is Jaskier under the more prominent tavern smells.
The conversations going on around him are mere background noise, right up until a barked, “That's gotta be utter horseshit, bard!” has all his senses hone in on a man across the table.
His voice is full of annoyed disbelief aimed at Jaskier, and could easily turn into genuine anger under the wrong circumstances; it happens often enough, with inebriated people spoiling for a good fight. Geralt sits up a little taller, and fixes his gaze on the man, eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
But Jaskier merely chuckles, light and disarming, and pours a goblet of wine. He slides it over to the man with a cheeky wink, and a teasing, “Oh, my friend, you greatly underestimate the force of nature that is a Witcher.”
Turning to address the whole table again, he continues grandly, “Armwrestling a half-giant? Not even a challenge! Taking down a troll? Like stealing sweets from a babe!”
Geralt has, in fact, had the misfortune of landing in a brawl or two with trolls. He’s not overly keen on repeating the experience, although he’s not going to point that out right now. The man who’d questioned Jaskier’s words is looking increasingly enraptured, nodding along eagerly now, and everyone else is listening with interest and awe as Jaskier keeps relating some of their more outlandish and peculiar adventures.
“But a Witcher is not only a most formidable creature in battle, oh no,” Jaskier says conspiratorially, quieter, and the people lean in closer, like moths caught by a flame. “Their skills can prove incredibly useful in other, more private endeavours, if you get my meaning.”
A young woman lets out a scandalised giggle, while one man chokes on his ale hard enough that his laughing friend has to clap him on the back.
Under the table, Geralt pinches the inside of Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier yelps through his own laughter, slanting Geralt a mischievous look.
A little nervously, another woman asks, “So much strength, though, is it not dangerous?”
“A Witcher’s strength is evenly matched by his control,” Jaskier explains, somewhat testily, and leans most of his weight against Geralt, as if to prove a point. “None of us have anything to fear. Well, none of you, I’d wager, unless one amongst you reveals themselves to be even more incessantly talkative than dear old me.”
There are chuckles all around the table, followed by a few more questions, and Jaskier himself is loose and relaxed where he’s pressed to Geralt’s side, but Geralt himself stiffens at the carelessly thrown out words.
A memory niggles at him, old and half-forgotten, though once he manages to pull it to the front of his mind, Geralt suddenly feels sick. Years ago, shortly after they’d met, on the trek up Filavandrel’s mountain; Jaskier’s constant chattering, a passing mention of Geralt’s old, hated moniker, Geralt’s fist in Jaskier’s stomach, Jaskier’s pained coughing and wheezing.
As if burnt, Geralt snatches his hand away from Jaskier’s leg, staring down at his leather-covered fingers in disgust. Geralt would never use his full strength on an innocent human, that much is true, but he’d hurt Jaskier nonetheless. Back then, just now most likely, and how many other times, without even realising?
And why?
Geralt’s had abuse hurled at him for decades, from both strangers and people he’d foolishly allowed himself to trust. Folk have spat at him, thrown rocks and rotten food after him, refused him pay, and chased him out of town with pitchforks and torches. He’s been tricked, betrayed, hated, yet none of that ever made him lash out with violence.
“Geralt,” Jaskier's voice is laced with concern, quiet enough for only Geralt to hear. He peers at Geralt with furrowed brows, but Geralt can't hold his gaze, ducking his head to escape it after a moment.
He keeps his eyes lowered while Jaskier makes their excuses to his disappointed audience, shame and guilt swirling together in his stomach. Even now, when he least deserves it, Jaskier's priority is to take care of Geralt, even when it goes against what he must have planned for the rest of his night.
Jaskier exchanges a few quick words and a handful of coins with the innkeeper, ordering them a bath and some more ale. They climb the stairs to their room in silence, and even while he helps Geralt out of his armour, Jaskier only hums a slow melody under his breath. It's for his comfort, Geralt knows, and it makes the guilt clump and rise, settling as an aching lump in his throat.
When there's a knock at the door, he's almost relieved that Jaskier has to move away to go open it.
Geralt keeps undressing as the buckets of hot water are carried in, and snatches up one of the tankards as soon as they're put down on the table in the corner, downing it in three big gulps. It does nothing to calm his ugly thoughts, but it does provide a distraction, even if a disappointingly temporary one.
Jaskier appears at his side to take it out of his unresisting hand, fingers whispering a caress across Geralt's wrist. “Come on, then, before the water grows cold.”
The heat of the bath does soothe away some of Geralt's tension. But then Jaskier goes to fetch a stool, goes to sit down at Geralt's back, and Geralt finds himself blurting, “Join me.”
Sharing baths is nothing unusual, hasn't been for some time, although it doesn't feel like something Geralt should be allowed to indulge in, right now. The thought of letting Jaskier take care of him, however, makes Geralt feel much worse, all the more as if he's taking advantage.
If Jaskier's surprised, he doesn't let on. He sheds his clothes unselfconsciously, right where he stands, and steps into the tub with an appreciative sigh. Geralt maneuvers him until his back is flush against Geralt's chest, his head tipped back to rest on Geralt's shoulder.
Reaching out over the edge of the tub, Geralt fetches one of the washcloths Jaskier had laid out, lathering it up before he starts to gently run it down Jaskier's arm. He falters briefly, feeling horribly selfish for enjoying the contact, but then Jaskier murmurs, “That's lovely, sweetheart, don’t stop,” and Geralt couldn't refuse even if he wanted to.
His mind drifts while he washes Jaskier, back to that very first day they’d met.
He remembers how irritated he’d been by the aimlessly yapping bard, to begin with, but also how strangely intriguing he’d found him. Coming across a human brave, or foolish, enough not to fear his kind had been rare, back then, and even with Jaskier’s tireless work, even after the countless ballads singing praise to the Witchers and their good deeds, most people are still at least wary of them.
Jaskier had been an anomaly, and Geralt had been curious, otherwise he would have ditched his pesky shadow before they’d ever set foot outside Posada.
For hours of their journey up the mountain, Jaskier had talked with barely enough breaks for breathing, doing his very best to sell himself as a worthy travelling companion. And, to his own astonishment, Geralt had found himself growing amused by Jaskier’s continuously more ridiculous suggestions—”A horse groomer! My flower crowns are things of legendary beauty, Roach would look marvelous in one!”—and actually considering his offer.
And then Jaskier had mentioned Blaviken, and Geralt had come back to himself, wondering what the fuck it was he was doing.
Allowing a human bard to travel with him, smiling to himself at Jaskier’s antics, horsing about with a bard when he should be focused on his task, on his work, on the Path.
And Jaskier’d still been talking, always talking, and suddenly Geralt had been furious, and—
And he’d punched Jaskier.
For daring to make him feel something beside completely fucking miserable for the first time in what had seemed like forever. For not being afraid of him, for trying to befriend him, for being good.
Too good for Geralt.
Hand shaking, Geralt drops the washcloth next to the tub so he can pull at Jaskier’s leg, exposing the inside of his thigh. And there, high up, it is; a small red mark on otherwise unblemished skin, standing out like a stark reminder of all of Geralt’s faults.
A wounded noise tears itself out of Geralt’s throat before he can stop it, and he stands quickly, turning away from Jaskier and his confused, “Geralt?” to climb out of the tub. He’s dripping everywhere, trembling all over as he stalks into the bedroom proper, then stops in the middle of it with no idea what to do.
A tentative hand lands on his back, between his shoulders, and Geralt twitches, but can’t find it in himself to shake it off. Seemingly emboldened, Jaskier pushes him towards the bed, then onto it, following after Geralt to straddle his lap.
Geralt realises his mistake when gentle hands cup his face, and intent blue eyes bore into his, Jaskier murmuring, quiet but determined, “Talk to me, Geralt.”
There’s nowhere for Geralt to look but directly at Jaskier. He clenches his jaw, grits his teeth, but Jaskier doesn’t back off. Instead, he starts rubbing his thumbs over Geralt’s cheeks, slow and soft, eyes firmly locked on Geralt’s.
Barely audible, hoarsely, Geralt grits out, “I hurt you.”
Jaskier frowns at that, moving one hand from Geralt’s face to poke at the bruise on his thigh. “This?” he asks with a disbelieving little chuckle. “Geralt, darling, I’ve hurt myself worse by walking into doors. Or roughhousing with my brothers, as a child. Or tripping over my own clumsy feet. It was in jest, I don’t mind. I like you teasing me, you know I do. And marking me, though I usually prefer your mouth to be doing the actual marking.”
Which Geralt knows, he really does, but it does little to reassure him right now. “Not this,” he forces out, then amends, “Not only this.”
“If this is about the dragon mountain again,” Jaskier begins, tenderly tucking a few strands of damp hair behind Geralt’s ears, “you have to know, by now, that I’ve accepted your apology. And forgiven you, sweetheart.”
Which Geralt also knows, though a reminder of that particular conversation is never a pleasant one. “You always do. Forgive me. And I—I keep hurting you.”
“Geralt, what—”
“When we met,” the words feel like rough gravel in Geralt’s mouth, “the day with the sylvan. I hurt you.”
Understanding flashes across Jaskier’s face. “You punched me. And I reminded you, tonight, didn’t I?”
At Geralt’s terse nod, Jaskier laughs softly. “It was a long time ago—”
“That’s no excuse!” Geralt snaps, then immediately clenches his mouth shut again.
Instead of rearing back, or getting angry, however, Jaskier turns thoughtful. “It isn’t, I suppose,” he allows after a moment. Rubbing at the tense muscles in Geralt’s jaw, he wants to know, “What happened? That day, I mean? Because, Melitele knows, I’ve made you furious since.”
Geralt has to close his eyes. “You showed no fear. You were annoying. You made me feel—” he cuts himself off, gives a helpless shrug. “You made me feel.”
“Oh, you old fool,” Jaskier says, nothing but fondness in his voice and face when Geralt dares to glance at him. He leans in to brush a brief, featherlight kiss over Geralt’s lips, then leans their foreheads together. He huffs a laugh, eyes crinkling in humour. “That would do it, wouldn’t it?”
“Jaskier—” Geralt tries to protest, but is promptly shushed with another kiss.
“Do you regret it?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.
“Of course you do. Would you do it again?”
Geralt shakes his head.
“No, you wouldn’t. Because you’re a good man, Geralt. You have faults, you misstep, as does everyone else. But you learn, from every single mistake, and that is such a precious gift, one that not nearly enough people possess. You try so, so hard to overcome all the prejudice, the disadvantages, the adversities that have been put in your way, and I am so, so incredibly proud of you, my love.”
Geralt genuinely does not know what his face does at that proclamation, but whatever it is, it has Jaskier snort inelegantly. “Yes, yes, I know. We’re done talking, I promise.”
Relieved, in more ways than he can count, Geralt cranes his neck to kiss Jaskier properly.
And when Jaskier demands, murmured hotly against Geralt’s lips, “Show me what that Witcher strength of yours is good for, darling," Geralt doesn’t hesitate.