Of Bards and Witchers

Twentieth

    Something changes after that-- what exactly that is, Jaskier can't put a name to. Only that his companion's gentleness woke an urge he can't quite dampen no matter how much he tries to push it from his mind. So he doesn't push it from his mind, but he doesn't quite act on it either. He finds himself more liberal in his touches-- reaches across their shadowed table in the back corner of an inn to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear; thumbs dirt from the man's cheek as they eat by their fire a few paces from the path. Small things that do little to nothing to soothe the bittersweet ache of his heart.

    Geralt stills each time, flickers his gaze over the bard's face-- always unsure in the wake of it, the bard finds it amusing in a mildly sad sort of way. He doesn't quite reciprocate but also doesn't push him back.

    Jaskier is okay with that, he really is-- after all, the White Wolf of Rivia is not only his muse, but his oldest and very best friend. He'd never forgive himself if he squandered such a thing with the silly whims of his heart-- he'll care from a safe distance as he's always done.

    --

    He meets-- well, sees-- Cirilla for the first time when she is only five, while he plays for yet another Cinturian ball-- it's a miracle in itself he'd been allowed back after the ruckus of her mother's betrothal. There was no thought of turning down the invitation ( not that he could have if he wanted to ). The Lion Cub of Cintra sits beside her grandmother with her hands rested primly in her lap, ashen hair cascading down her delicate shoulders and visage stony enough that he swears he sees Geralt in it, and he's met with a wave of nostalgia so strong that he nearly misses the strings of his lute entirely.

    Nearly. He's been at this for years, what kind of bard would he be if he couldn't play with his eyes elsewhere?

    She looks just like her mother when she was young, though the she is younger-- and, oh, that was ages ago now, wasn't it?

    Her head turns toward him and he turns his own swiftly. His fingers might not ever fail him but his voice just might.

    --

    Jaskier sits before the mirror and traces his face, prods his cheek, tilts his head to catch the shape of his jaw and the stubble dusting it. He pays little mind to Geralt's steady gaze-- something is nagging at him.

    They've been traveling together for just over a decade. He doesn't look a day over twenty. One would think the road would age a man-- or the stress of constant travel, or gods forbid a decade passes. He is thirty-two years old now, and there's practically nothing to show for it.

    "Geralt," he begins-- but, well, now that he's thinking about it, why look a gift horse in the mouth? His gaze flickers to meet the man's through their reflections. "Do you think I should grow a beard?"

    The Witcher wrinkles his nose before he can manage to school his expression and Jaskier chuckles some beneath his breath. "I'll take that as a hard no," he tuts. "I suppose you're right, it'd age me." As he turns away, he thinks Geralt looks rather pleased.

    --

    It's gods-only-know-how-late when Geralt stumbles into their room-- stumbles-- caked in blood and guts and all other sorts of grime he's sure, but he doesn't have time for even a noise of complaint as the man staggers and falls into a kneel hard. He's clutching his side, breathing laboriously, stubborn as ever trying to pull himself back up by his sword that mindlessly picks at the wooden flooring.

    Jaskier's heart beats so fast it might just break free from his ribs.

    "Geralt--" the man himself grunts and struggles back to his feet-- Jaskier isn't stupid enough to sit there and not do something; he rises from his seat with haste and drags it behind the man, who promptly falls into it with a groan. "You sorry man," the bard mumbles. "It's alright, we'll sort you out. What would you do without me, hm?"

    He pulls the sword from his grasp gingerly and sets it to the side; his fingers make quick work of the various buckles and straps, and although some bits are heavier than others this is hardly his first time ( even if he does let them drop to the floor with a resounding thud ), and Geralt is as compliant as he can be in his sluggish state. Wounds are cleaned-- the mild are bandaged and worst sitched and then bandaged. He takes a damp rag to the man's face and neck, tucks his hair back behind his ear, promises him a warm meal and bath when he wakes.

    ( All that in itself had taken some work-- the first time he'd tried to help, the Witcher had snarled like a kicked dog and gnashed his teeth-- which, he supposes, is more than fair, even if it did jab painfully at his heart. )

    Said heart flutters through the thick of his ministrations and he babbles relentlessly under his breath, continues to do so as he stuggles Geralt into bed ( and mourns their pristine sheets, though there's little he could do about it ) and joins him. Whispers about everything and distinctly nothing until the man finally gives in to sleep. He wants to smooth the crease of his brow with his thumb. Instead he moves a little closer, closes his eyes.