Archive of Our Own

It’s the first time, that they sleep with each other, when Geralt says it.

“I love you.”

It’s probably too soon, but it still feels late; it comes out, as if it had to - like it can’t be kept hidden anymore. He has no say in this, even though say he does; nonetheless, it doesn’t feel like a decision, he’s made. It’s more of a duty, that yearns to be fulfilled; a responsibility, that he kept on running away from throughout the years, that he has got face this very moment and he’s never liked to be forced into anything; no, he couldn’t stand not being the one in control for so long, but this time, it feels good, so very good.

It tastes like desire, yet it sounds like absolution; he’s free, more free than he’s ever been before, as if his sentence has been finished, as if he’s done his penance and became the person he’s ought to be from the beginning. It’s been all coming down to this moment; the truth had to win, the fate couldn’t be fooled and for once he believes, that destiny, he’s always despised, may be a blessing in disguise; because that’s what it is: destiny. Both of them in the right place, at the right time, giving into all, that was meant to be; it’s only right, to let it be said. 

The phrase feels so fair, as it leaves his mouth, that he’d like to repeat it all over again, but he can’t. Not as he’s all in, not as he’s opened up more than he’s had ever before, just to be met with… nothing. 

Jaskier doesn’t say it back.

The silence fills the room; all that’s said, is left hanging in the air and with each passing minute, it feels like the meaning is bound to fade away. He didn’t expect it, no, he couldn’t have; not when he’s sure, that it’s right - that it’s true to both of them. A feeling this intense, couldn’t have not been reciprocated and he can sense, that it’s mutual in each and every part of the other, so why? he wants to ask, but can’t bring himself to; perhaps it’s too much, perhaps he’s not ready yet.

Geralt thought, he wasn’t either; but this moment, that he’s faced with nothing, but a “Please, don’t talk” - the most heart-wrenching, broken sound, he’s ever heard from the man - he deems, that he might’ve been - because ready, he wasn’t: but only for the most disenchanting aftermath, that came.

***

“I took, you’d be a cuddling type,” Geralt doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, even if that’s what it is.

Jaskier turns to him, giving him a smile from other side of the room. “No, no. Don’t worry about it.”

The witcher hums, although he can’t help, but do exactly that. 

The distance between them feels wrong; the urge to close it, as soon as he can, is bearing on him, but he tries his best not to give into it. It wouldn’t be fair to the man; after all, the moment it ended, he jumped out of the bed, as if it pained him to stay there any longer. It hurt; more than anything he could’ve done, but for that he has his reasons and even if those are not such, that Geralt could ever understand, he’s going to respect them. 

He’s already gone too far and crossed his line, by saying too much. Jaskier deserves to at least get a say in this - and if it’s space, that he needs, Geralt’s going to give it to him.

So, he keeps his eyes on the man, watching: watching, as Jaskier catches his breath, leaning against the door, even though Geralt’d rather, it’d be his chest; watching as Jaskier cleans himself with a cloth, even though it ought to be Geralt’s job; watching as Jaskier wraps the thin, poor blanket around himself, when the cold air hits his skin, even though it should be Geralt’s arms, instead. 

He watches and doesn’t do anything to stop him, because it’s his choice to make and this is his way to comfort, so to take it away from him because of caprice - even such, that feels like a need - wouldn’t be anything else, but cruel. 

Yet, the moment Jaskier starts to settle on the floor to sleep, he decides, that it’s only right for - after all - the Butcher of Blaviken to be cruel every once in a while.

“Jaskier,” he says, the warning in his tone.

“Yes?”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

It’s not something, he should’ve said.

No, he should’ve made the choice: either let the man do whatever, that is, that he wants to do or do anything it takes to get the reason out of him; the reason as to why Jaskier - the same Jaskier, who’d seemed so happy, as they’d fallen onto the sheets together just a while ago - is out of the sudden so far away. But Geralt’s not a man, everyone takes him for: he’s weak - so weak, that he’s sure the distance between them as well as learning the reason for it may just tear him apart.

So, he tries to keep both of those away; even if, deep down, he’s aware, that he’s going to regret taking the easy way out.

But that’s a problem for another day and another Geralt; maybe up till the time of the resolution, Jaskier’s going to be ready. Perhaps, there’s a chance, that this is all going to figure itself out. 

“Oh, it’s… comfortable like this,” the man falters - it’s clear, he knows what Geralt is trying to say and it makes the witcher’s heart clench, as he sees that he hates the very idea of it. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Don’t worry about it, again.

“Just get in here, Jaskier,” he tries to keep his voice firm, but it’s still comes out weak - no doubt, the bard can hear it too. He can only hope, he’s going to blame it on the post-sex fatigue. 

The man gets up from the floor with reluctance and tosses a brief glance at Geralt, like he’s just making sure, about… something, that the witcher can’t put his finger on.

“You don’t have to,” he assures, still hoping to get out of it. “You have a hunt at dawn, you should get a good night of sleep.”

I won’t get a good night of sleep without you, runs through the witcher’s mind, but he doesn’t dare to repeat it out loud.

“It’s never bothered you before,” is what he, in the end, settles for, meaning for it to be just on the right, easy side of teasing, but Jaskier pales and he knows, he’s just hit the spot. “Why’d you care now?”

There’s much more to the question, than meets the eye; it’s half-joking, half-serious, but able to do both in the full, depending on, which Jaskier decides on. If he wants to talk, that’s the ground for it, but if he wants to keep this to himself, it can do as just another of the dry, obnoxious comments, that Geralt so often gives him. 

It’s shameful, that he hopes the man’s going to play it off. Yet, as sure as he is, that his feelings are returned, Jaskier’s not ready.

If he was to talk now, he might just say something, that’s going to break him.

“Forgive me, for trying to be mindful of your needs, dear witcher,” the bard puts on an indignant act, that doesn’t suit the sad look in his eyes at all and maybe the witcher should point that out, but as he feels Jaskier get into the bed - even if it’s the far end of it - he decides to keep quiet. “I’ll never do this mistake again: I’ll be looking after myself only from now on.” 

There’s something so false in the way he finishes his teasing, that makes Geralt go tense and he prays to gods, that Jaskier doesn’t notice it. The hint of realisation sneaks into the his mind, but he can’t make any sense out of it.

“Hmm,” he lets out for Jaskier, because he feels, that he needs it. Distance, huh?

He didn’t expect Jaskier out of all people to need the distance. Truth be told, he’d always taken the man for a true romantic; beautiful words, grant gestures and all. He’s himself never been the type for that, but for Jaskier, he found himself wanting to be: he realised, that with the bard, the closeness felt like a need, not other than the one to breathe. He wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to just have him right here and there in all the ways possible and sleeping together for once didn’t do. It didn’t satiate the hunger, nor quench the thirst - it didn’t satisfy him like it used to before. He needed more, even if more, seemed less.

Yet, Jaskier doesn’t seem to see it the same way.

It feels like torture to have Jaskier this close, but so far away. He wants to reach out and take him into his arms, even if it was to end with this, but he keeps his composure; he can’t ruin it for his sake, he can’t ask for more, if this is all, that Jaskier’s willing to give him.

In the end, it’s Jaskier, who makes the rules and Geralt, who follows them. 

Perhaps, it’s weak of him once again; but to the bard set the pace, is a right thing to do. Jaskier needs it, in the way, he can’t understand and even if all of him cries, that it’s wrong, he doesn’t know Jaskier as well as Jaskier knows himself. If he expected more from him, it’s only because, he wanted it to be more; but it’s all that there is for now, it’s too soon, it’s not the time for it yet and if he keeps hoping, that any moment, he’s going to feel a warm body against him, or arms around him, or kisses pressed onto his skin, it may kill him, because it’s not what the bard wants - not yet.

As he falls asleep, he wonders, if the right time is going to come at all.

I’ll be looking after myself only. 

Geralt wishes, that he’d do so.

***

They sleep with each other a lot more times after that. It always ends the same way. 

Jaskier has yet to stay with him in bed; as soon as they finish, he’s gone, taking care of himself, leaving the place next to Geralt cold and empty. He’d lie, if he said, that it doesn’t hurt.

Nonetheless, the idea of the aftermath doesn’t keep it from happening; it still does, only more, as the time goes by. It’s always Jaskier’s initiative and as content Geralt is to have the assurance, that he wants it, he can’t help, but despise it each and every time. 

He hates with all his has the way Jaskier gets closer, just before it happens. He can’t stand that way, in which he smiles at him with those glint in his ocean-blue eyes and sweet nothings on his lips or that way, in which he wraps his arms around him, like he’s going to keep him. It’s the most heart-breaking part of each evening; even more than the so-called afterglow - because at the beginning of it, in his kisses, there’s always a promise, that won’t come true and in his touches, there’s always a notion, that’s leading nowhere. 

The feeling of Jaskier’s body underneath him, that comes soon after, doesn’t help - even if it’s the best thing, that’s ever happened to him. It’s all that, he could’ve wished for, but it’s still not enough, because it’s all false, rehearsed and there’s never true satisfaction to be found in it. 

Yet, he craves it all the same.

He tried to stop himself from giving in; to wait until it can be fine, because it’s going to be, it has to be. Yet, each time, he proves himself too far gone in his self-destruction and he lets it happen, no, he makes it happen, even though he knows the consequences, but the closeness… God, this closeness - even if it’s fleeting - is so intoxicating, so overwhelming, that he’d ruin the world for it. If he has to pay a price of his sanity for a moment more of it, then so be it. 

Jaskier’s worth it.

***

“Who is he?” asks his brother, as he looks at the bard from across the table. 

It’s an accident, that they’ve run into the each other at the bar and Geralt regrets that it happened. As good as it is to see one of his brothers, he’d much rather avoid the introduction.

“It’s Jaskier,” he says, feeling Jaskier’s eyes on him. “He’s a…”

A close friend. No, that doesn’t sound right. A lover. No, that’s too idle. A partner. No, that’s so formal. 

It’s Jaskier, he’s the best thing that happened to me, he thinks and he’s so tired of it all, that he’s about to say it, because maybe then, it’s going to be over. 

He doesn’t get to.

“A travel companion,” Jaskier offers.

He turns to the bard just enough for their eyes to meet.

Until you’re ready.

“Yes.”

***

The bard finishes his set and Geralt can’t keep his eyes off him.

It’s not Jaskier; no, if it was he’d enjoy the music. This in here, he doesn’t enjoy at all; it sounds false, there’s no feeling in it and it’s trying-too-hard and not-doing-enough at the same time, but although it’s bad, there’s something, that intrigues him about the bard.

The man keeps looking at him since they’ve came to the tavern. It reminds him of Jaskier, back in Posada: there’s the very same interest in his eyes, the very same grin on his face. 

But there’s a difference: he doesn’t come close. 

He can sense his fear, as makes rounds in the inn, trying to interact with a public and reaches out to him as well. It’s readable from the way he moves, that even though, he’s curious - just as Jaskier that day was - he doesn’t dare to close the distance between them, the fear having him in his hold. It’s endearing, though; his poor flirting from afar, the nervous glances his way or trying to touch him without doing so - gets him to smile, even if pitiful as it is.

God, because of Jaskier, he sometimes forgets, that people fear him.

“Go talk to him,” he turns to face his bard. “He’s into you.”

Before the witcher can say anything, he’s gone, just as fast as he came.

***

They’re back on the Path.

It’s late in the evening; they’ve already set the camp and got everything done and it’s one of those rare times in the woods, when they’ve just got time to relax. 

It’d be perfect - if it weren’t for just a thing.

They’re too far apart.

“Jaskier,” he says, his tone gentle, “Come here.”

The bard glances up at him, before he puts his lute and songbook aside and gets up. There’s a look on his face, that the witcher’s all too well acquainted with, as he starts making his way to him and he must’ve misread his intentions, because this is very much not what he means.

Fuck. Geralt feels… guilty.

“No,” he tells Jaskier. 

The bard freezes. “…No?”

Geralt shakes his head. 

“…Then what is this about?”

He hates the causal way Jaskier says it.

“I wanted you to tell me about whatever that is, that you’re working on,” it comes out weak. “Or play me a song, if you’d like that.”

The bard tilts his head, his expression unreadable.

“I’m not working on anything special. I’d bore you to death.”

Geralt shrugs: “Doesn’t need to be special. I’d take anything.”

The witcher can’t tell, if he’s seeing it right, but if by any chance he does, then there’s hurt, painting the bard’s features.

“I don’t think so.”

It’d make things so much easier, if Jaskier said as much, as he talked.

***

“God,” he hears from the distance, “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t get to say anything, before Jaskier is at his side.

It’s an ugly kiss; it’s full of desperation, but no passion, it’s a complete mess and if it wasn’t Jaskier, Geralt might’ve been repulsed, but this time, he welcomes it like a dying man.

The bard’s face is all tears, blood, sweat and dirt, and as he keeps on crying into the witcher’s mouth, Geralt can taste the saltiness of it all on his tongue, but he only leans into it, hoping that it’s the reassurance, the man needs. He can feel arms around his neck and nails digging into his skin so deep, that it hurts, but he can’t help, but hold him closer. 

Jaskier’s unable to catch his breath, panting, even as he pushes away just enough for their lips to part and rests his forehead against the witcher’s, seeking out comfort in the intimacy. Although, there’s a hint of relief on his face, the tears keep on coming and his body is trembling, making it impossible for Geralt to indulge him any longer, as he takes a step back, just enough to make sure, that Jaskier’s listening. 

“Shh,” he hushes, as the bard lets out a sob at the loss of the contact. “It’s fine. You’re fine. I’m fine.”

Jaskier shakes his head, frantic, as if he’s in a haze. “No, no, it’s not”

Geralt caresses his arm, in an up-and-down motion. “It is. We’re okay.”

His hold on the bard is firm, keeping him in place, as he’s close to falling onto the ground.

“I… I thought-” he tries to speak, but breaks out into a cry again. “I thought you were dead.”

To that, Geralt can’t say much. 

Jaskier clutches at his shirt, crashing his head onto his chest and Geralt just lets him; lets him ride it out, as he just keeps on holding him, whispering, if truth be told, nonsense into his hair. Jaskier cries and cries, and it’s so much, that Geralt feels like crying himself. He can only hope, that he’ll never have to see him like this. It’s wishful thinking and even so, nothing he ought to wish for in this life, but it doesn’t stop him from praying, that it won’t happen ever again. 

It feels like hours, before he calms down and it’s so much more painful, than what he’s just gone through.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier chokes out, pushing himself away from him. “I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

The witcher’s taken aback. “Don’t apologise. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Jaskier leans against a tree, sliding onto the ground, as he keeps on shaking his head. “No, I shouldn’t have… I have no right to… ”

Geralt has to fight himself to not gape. “Jaskier, what are you talking about?”

The bard looks away. „God, Geralt, I’m so sorry.”

He thinks about just taking Jaskier into his arms again. It’s easier; so much easier to just hold him and have him there, until the worries go away.

But Jaskier needs distance, doesn’t he?

“Jaskier,” he tries again, pleading for any hint, as to what’s going on. “What is this about?”

It takes a moment for the bard to speak again.

“…I’m disgusting,” he states with all seriousness. “I’ve got you dirty.”

The witcher can’t hide his disbelief any longer: “That’s it? That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Yes. No,” Jaskier presses his face into his hands. 

“I have no problem with it.” Geralt shrugs, “It’s just a bit of a mess-”

“It’s not about the mess. It’s about me making it.” the bard interrupts. It all comes out in one breath. The witcher’s body goes tense, even before the bard finishes in a whisper: “I won’t do this again, I promise. Just… please, don’t hate me.”

Geralt kneels at his side, not understanding a thing.

“I’d never hate you, Jaskier,” he reaches out a hand to him, but the bard hold out his palm to stop him and the witcher feels like the world’s around him is falling apart. “Fuck, no. I wouldn’t,” he assures. He tries to keep his composure, as he asks: “What even got you this idea?”

Jaskier never tells him.

***

It’s another hunt gone wrong.

“You take Roach,” it leaves no place for discussion. “Go to the city. Don’t look back. We’ll meet in a few days.”

Jaskier looks at him, confused. “…Why?”

Geralt stops his pacing around the camp and turns to the bard.

“What do you mean by that?” he can’t keep himself from asking in disbelief. “I’ve just told you-”

“About the incubus, yes,” the bard finishes for him. “That’s why I don’t understand, why you’d like me gone.”

Geralt can only stare at him.

“I mean, I’m just saying,” Jaskier tries to explain, as if the witcher didn’t get the implication. “You can work off the spell on me.”

It’s a proposition more forthright than ever before and there’s a hint of something in the bard’s tone, that tells him, this out-of-the-sudden bluntness doesn’t come from the place of willingness.

“No,” Geralt deadpans. “I understand.”

Jaskier hums. “Good.” 

For a moment none of them speak.

“…So, I take it, I can stay?” 

“No.”

Jaskier’s expression falls. 

“Geralt, come on.” he assures, “Please.”

“Jaskier, I said “no”.”

“I said “please”.”

“It’s still a “no”.”

The bard crosses his arms on his chest. “There’s no reason for a “no”.”

No, it’s definitely not just willingness; there isn’t any of it at all. The pressure, that he puts on the witcher, to let him stay isn’t a product of neither his courtesy to help him through it nor ignorance to the consequences, of what he’s asking for. He’s begging him, like he’s life is on the line; there’s a façade of composure, as he speaks, but the desperation in his eyes betrays it, leaving Geralt vexed at his complete lack of understanding, but before all confused.

Throughout the years, Jaskier’s as good as studied monster trivia. He’s aware, more than most,  of both the things, that an incubus does to a man and that an out-of-control witcher can do, when his last restraint is gone. There’s no point in spelling it out for him; Geralt’d only waste his breath, because there’s not a chance he doesn’t know - no, he can well imagine, what it’s going to be like. 

It makes Geralt’s insides turn: he can imagine, the way Geralt’s going to treat him in his haze, toss him around and hurt him and he sounds fine with it; nonchalant even, as if he didn’t just proposition him with a service of a common whore and expected the witcher to take him up on his offer with no questions asked.

He sounds like he’s…

“Jaskier,” he begins, but doesn’t get the chance to go on. 

“No, no, I get it,” his tone tells him, he really doesn’t. “I’m not for that.”

…trying to prove himself.

Geralt repeats the words in his head - they’re not wrong. “Exactly.”

Jaskier tosses a brief glance aside, staring there for a while, like he’s debating it.

“I could be,” he, in the end, offers and the witcher frowns, not sure if he’s sure, if he’s following. “For that too, I mean. If you’d like me to.”

But there’s no reason for Jaskier to prove anything to him.

Geralt studies his face: “I wouldn’t.”

Jaskier looks like the world’s just crushed onto him.

“Well,” he puts his hands on his hips. “…I’m not going to get you a place at a brothel.” 

“I wasn’t going to ask you to.”

“Oh, sure, you weren’t,” the bard derides.

Geralt shakes his head. “I wasn’t.”

Jaskier lets out a cold laugh. “Yes, yes, of course. You’d only suggest it.”

The witcher sighs, not even trying to get a word in.

“It’d be a waste. A complete waste,” there’s a change in the bard’s demeanour and he hates it. “…I’d be cheaper. Free, in fact. Not only that, but I can give it as good as any whore in there…”

It’s a poor seduction, if that’s even that; there’s no hint of lust, although lustful is what he’s going for. There’s an act of want, in the way he reaches out to touch him - implying, all the time, only implying - and he looks up at him, the expression of desire on his face, even though his eyes are empty and his lips are trembling and he expects Geralt to want him like this. For God’s sake, like this, as if the witcher can’t see through it, through him, as he’s making himself out to be a cheap imitation of an experienced courtesan, meanwhile his eyes are begging him not to let it go any further. 

It’s a bad look on him; but it’s even worse on Geralt.

“…I’d be good to you. Just as good as any of them can be, I promise. You won’t even notice, it’s me.”

The touch on him feels perfect, even if it’s not; the desire - even if it’s not real - is familiar. The act is as feigned, as it gets, but it’s not something, he hasn’t seen before, although he can’t remember the moment it happened. It’s all so wrong, yet so right and…

He’s missed all of the signs.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Jaskier.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound as harsh as it does and as soon as the bard flinches, he regrets his tone and takes a deep breath, before assuring, as calm as he can:

“I’m not going to a brothel.”

It takes far too long for the statement to resonate with the bard and after it does, he opens his mouth and closes it again soon, repeating the action a few times. It almost looks like he’s not trusting himself to speak; in any other circumstances, Geralt’d take it for adorable, but that’s the last thing, he can think about at this moment. 

Jaskier shouldn’t be worrying about this at all.

”You’re not?”

“No,” he declares, “I’m just going to wait it out.”

And yet, Jaskier worries about it all the time.

“It won’t… hurt?”

“No.”

Even if it will - and it’s deemed to, although that he’s not going to tell the bard - it still can’t be any more painful, that the realisation, that hits him.

He hasn’t made a full sense of it yet, but enough for him to make a decision.

***

He stops after that day.

He’s no longer sleeping with Jaskier; at all.

***

As cliché as it may sound: drunk Jaskier is the very best Jaskier.

Geralt’d never tell him that, under no circumstances, but it’s a returning notion, that he likes to entertain, whenever both of them go out drinking. The witcher can’t get drunk per-sé; if there’s enough ale involved, he can get a buzz, but it’s rather mild, although pleasant nonetheless, yet when it comes to Jaskier - that’a different matter altogether. The bard drinks like there’s no tomorrow, which in return tempts the next day to prove itself, in fact, coming, in the most evocative way, that is the severe hangover in the morning. But, it’s just human, after all, a bit of debauchery has yet to harm anyone. As much as Geralt likes to complain about it, especially when it results in postponing of their departure, he doesn’t mind at all; although, no that’s an understatement. He enjoys it, shamefully a lot too; mostly, because of the simplicity.

Because, indeed, drunk Jaskier is very simple; unlike - to the witcher’s initial surprise - his usual self. When they just started travelling together, Geralt had been sure, that he could see right through the bard. It took him a long time, to understand, that he, in fact, doesn’t get him at all, because he’d always before found him more or less… well, transparent. There wasn’t much to him, on the face of it: just a spirit of inquiry, a need for adventure and a fear of routine, nothing that couldn’t have been blamed on the idle youth. Yet, the years gone by and the picture of Jaskier, that he’s had in his mind, started to fall apart; the more he get to know him, the less he seemed to know him and it made him more involved with the bard, then he could’ve ever expected. The aura of conundrum, hidden underneath the deft facade of openness, that surrounded him, intrigued him and drawn him in, making him want to unravel it all, even though it was impossible for him to get through the walls, that the bard’s built around himself, if he didn’t let him in. It’s both a blessing and a curse, that Jaskier never did; although, he’d sometimes open up, enough for the witcher to peek in, he’d always keep most of it concealed and it’d be a lie to say, it didn’t suit him. It’s always a good look on an artist, a mind like a maze, that only they themselves can manoeuvre through, meanwhile everyone else can only stand on the side and plead for a look inside, that they’re never to receive. 

Geralt always took himself for a man different from the rest, but he didn’t even notice, when he joined them all in the hopes of seeing just a bit more of Jaskier.

Perhaps, times like this, were exactly that. Even if they might’ve seemed like nothing to a bystander - just another man at the bar, overindulging in alcohol, that gets him out of his mind, with his friend - Geralt started to consider it a privilege to see Jaskier like this; most of his act gone. There’d be no more play at empty openness, but only forthright closeness; of course, there were usual signs of drunkenness too, it wasn’t a complete transformation. Jaskier’d run around, there’d be laughs, fun and good time, but when he’d talk - he’d do so, for real. None of his evasive ways around, no more abstruse phrases and perplexing gestures, just that, that he needs for to get out in the least sophisticated manner, that there is, which makes for a language, that Geralt can understand.

It’s a rare occasion; it arises only once in a while and each time it does, he tries to make the best out of it.

“You told me,” Jaskier begins, tapping on the glass with his finger. There’s a hint of seriousness in his tone, but he makes for such an amusing sight, that even though Geralt’d like to listen, he can’t concentrate as much as he’d wished to; not with his face flushed, his hair disheveled and his clothes wrinkled and turned, in the ways they shouldn’t be, standing in the hilarious contrast with his most annoyed expression yet. Nonetheless, he tries, noting each word from the other’s lips in his mind and if he sneaks his hand to his side to tug a streak of hair behind his ear, it doesn’t mean he listens any less. “No, you promised me, that you wouldn’t hate me.”

Geralt nods his head, sensing an accusation in his tone. “I did. I can do it again.”

Jaskier turns out of the sudden, as if brought out of the deep thought, to get a good look at the witcher, like he’s making sure, that he’s heard that correctly. As he’s met with nothing, but genuineness, he takes a while longer to examine him, a frown on his face deepening in suspicion, before he bends over the glass again and scoffs, shaking his head all the time. 

“I can do it again, he says!” he mumbles, taking a sip of his drink and putting it down, none too gentle, onto the table with a loud “clink!”, that gets him a displeased side-glance from the bartender. 

“I can,” Geralt explains, calm and patient, even as he has to mouth the lady behind the bar an apology for his company’s poor behaviour. “I’d do it as much as you’d like to hear it. There’s no way in the world, that I’d hate you.”

He barely finishes the sentence, when Jaskier whines: “Oh, but you do!”

Geralt purses his lips, trying to make sense out of it. The prolonged silence is sure to be taken for a confirmation, so he just throws in the next words to buy himself some time: “I don’t.” 

“You do, you do, you do!” the bard repeats. The sound of it is careless, close to full of actual glee, and he clasps his knees, as if he’s hit the jackpot, meanwhile, if it was true - it’s not, Geralt’s mind doesn’t even accept such scenario - it would be no laughing matter whatsoever. “You despise me.”

“That’s a very definitive way to put it,” the witcher deadpans, before he can stop himself. 

“But it’s exactly, how you should’ve put it,” Jaskier counters, straightening up, as if he’s claiming the victory. “You keep fucking with me, when you can’t even stand having me around.”

“That’s,” the words get caught in his throat and he feels like he can’t breath, “not true.”

“Right!” the bard shouts so loud, that all of the people at the bar glance at them, disapproving,  yet Jaskier doesn’t seem to care as he keeps going and points his finger at him. “You’re not fucking with me, you’re messing with me. The fucking’s come to an end!” he announces, throwing his hands up in the air and Geralt’s just learned, that witchers can, in fact, be very much embarrassed. 

He can feel all of the guests’ eyes on them and it’s one thing, that this is just uncomfortable and completely another, that Jaskier’s about to admit out loud - if everyone hasn’t caught up with it already - that they’ve been sleeping together and neither the witcher’s, nor the bard’s reputation is going to withstand such revelation, so he grabs the bard’s arm and raises him to his feet, keeping a hand on his back and letting him lean onto him, as he pushes his glass away. Jaskier’s about to protest, because of course, he is, but the bartender seems to have had enough of the two of them as well and she takes what’s left of his drink and pours it into a sink, before the bard can even open his mouth to make his indignation known. 

“…You’ve had enough, leave it,” he says, before whispering, hoping, that he can get through to the at least a bit more sober part of the bard’s consciousness: “Let’s get out of here. You’re angry, I get it,” he doesn’t, but it’s the natural thing to say, when you’re dealing with someone this incapacitated, “but if you keep going about it in here, you’re going to regret it in the morning.”

“What,” Jaskier doesn’t seem too eager to comply, but nonetheless lets him drag him up the stairs to their room, “if I keep going about it here?”

“Come on,” Geralt responds. It’ll do for a reply, but it’s in most encouragement to make sense.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, as they make it to the hall. “I mean, what are you gonna to do, if I keep going about it here?”

Geralt tosses a brief glance around, examining the surroundings and positively seeing no one. “Nothing. You can go on.”

Jaskier gapes at him for a moment, in total disbelief, before doing the only thing, the bard apparently deems rational, which means pushing himself in-between the door to their room and the witcher, like he’s trying to block the access to it. Geralt has to contain a laugh and decides not to point out, that it opens inside, as he searches for the key in his pocket.

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt!” he whines, beating his fist into the frame. “What would you do, if I screamed for all those men to hear, that you used to fuck me?”

The witcher sneaks his hand to the bard’s pocket, unable to find the key in his own, and Jaskier doesn’t even seem to notice in his tantrum. It’s serious - this is the the time of a resolution to all their problems; he really shouldn’t be this amused, but it’s getting only harder not to smile.

“That wouldn’t happen,” he disregards, fishing the key out. “I wouldn’t let you do that in the first place. Be reasonable.”

“Be reasonable,” Jaskier repeats, twisting his mouth, “He tells me to be reasonable!”

“Yes,” Geralt says matter-of-factly, as he opens the door and no longer even tries to fight the chuckle, that escapes him, when the bard stumbles onto the ground. “Reasonable.”

He reaches out to help Jaskier up, but the man bats his hand away, though he’s still sensible enough in his fit to move away from the door, enough for the witcher to shut them behind them.

“I’ll tell you, what you’d do,” the bard announces, very confidently for someone lying flat on the ground. “If I told them all, that you fucked me, you’d leave me.”

This sounds serious; far more serious, than anything he said before. Of course, it’s still told in this fashion of speaking, that lets it all turn to a joke, if the witcher’d rather see it as one, but with no doubt, there’s much more to it underneath, than usual dramatics of his and Geralt regains his composure like on command.

“I wouldn’t leave you, Jaskier,” he states, kneeling at his side. 

“Oh, no, no, you wouldn’t,” the bard jeers, “except that you would. The moment it’d happen, you’d be gone.”

There’s an urge in Geralt to reach out to him again; comfort, maybe caress, do anything, as Jaskier spirals right in front of him, but the idea of physical contact seems wrong.

Maybe it always did.

“I wouldn’t leave you,” he repeats, trying to be even more firm and it’s impossible to make it any clearer than this. “I’d never leave you, Jaskier. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

“If you have nothing more to tell me,” the bard cuts it out, pressing his palms to his face, “then you can just shut up and let me sleep. I’m no longer having a good time here and I’d much rather leave it, so…”

“Jaskier,” the witcher interposes, like he’s done a thousand times before. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

The bard kicks on the ground and rubs his face so hard, that it looks, like he’s trying to get rid of the skin on it.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor!” he chokes out in-between fits of laughter, “Is this a nod to the audience? A reference to the former act?”

Geralt makes up his mind not to interrupt him this time, although it’s mostly, because he wouldn’t even know the way to respond to this.

“Geralt, dear, you didn’t fuck me tonight,” Jaskier continues, unbothered by the lack of a reaction. “There’s no need for niceties.”

“You think, that I’m only taking care of you, because I fuck you?” he only realises just how ridiculous it sounds, after he says it out loud.

“It’s a present tense,” Jaskier corrects, flopping onto his side, so he’s turned his back to the witcher. “You no longer fuck me, that’d be a past.”

“Yes, sure,” Geralt dismisses, because he’s so close to the bottom of this, yet the bard keeps making this so much more difficult, than it needs to be. “You think, that I’m only taking care of you, because I used to fuck you?”

Jaskier seems to debate it. “Well, yes. That’s kind of the point.”

Geralt’s throat feels dry.

“…That’s bullshit,” he denies, the moment he’s sure enough, that he’s able to speak again. “You can’t be serious right now.”

“No, of course, I’m not serious,” the bard waves his hand, but the witcher notices he very conveniently keeps his arm covering his face, “Nothing about me nor about us is serious.”

Geralt shakes his head, so hard, that it’s a miracle, that his neck stays intact. 

“That’s not true,” he refutes, trying to not let the discussion go to silence, like it always does, even though his mind is going blank. “You’re very serious to me.”

Jaskier stretches on the floor, but it seems like it’s painful for him to do so and lets out a whine: “Oh, don’t fucking go there!”

“Go?” Geralt asks, because there’s nothing else can he do at this point. “Where am I going, Jaskier?”

“There!” Jaskier cries out and he cries in the literal sense too, the witcher realises, as the bard drops his hands to his side. “You’re going to get my hopes up again!”

“Get your hopes up?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes!” the bard rises up, propping himself on his elbows.

His entire body is shaking and he won’t keep himself up much longer; it’s one thing not to touch him for the sake of it, but it’s a different thing, when he’s about to bang right onto the hard floor and the witcher lays a hand on the back of his head to steady him and it get the bard to let out a yap.

“This! This is what I’m talking about!” he clenches his fists, but doesn’t move away, instead pushing his body forward, so he can rest his head on his knees. “Niceties. The fucking niceties.”

The silence falls between them with only the bard’s continuous cries to fill it.

“…I like taking care of you,” he says, in the end, and the man’s body goes tense. “There’s no reason for it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the bard snorts. “Taking care of me sure is a fun time.”

“No, it’s not fun,” Geralt ripostes. “It’s a hassle. Take a look at yourself, you’re a menace,” that gets a genuine grin out of Jaskier. “Not everything has to be a fun time, though.”

The fleeting amusement doesn’t stay with Jaskier much longer after that.

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees. “But it is with us. Just fun time.”

It seems to be impossible to be this close to the point, yet so far away, but count on Jaskier to make all impossibilities come true.

“…You need to keep going,” Geralt encourages, “if you’d like me to understand.”

The witcher’s sure, that the bard’s digging his nails into his skin deep enough for it to bleed, but it’d be futile to try to stop him, so he just looks away.

Jaskier doesn’t even ridicule him anymore, as he looks up and turns to face him, with a calmness, that’s unsettling, even for the witcher.

“You hate me this much, huh?” he asks, with the most depressed smile, the witcher’s ever seen on him. “You want me to say it?”

I don’t hate you is about to force its way out of Geralt’s lips, but the awareness of it not leading anywhere is enough for him to bite his tongue and he can only choke out a poor “yes”. Jaskier looks at him a moment longer, before only nodding his head.

“You’re just fucking me,” he says like it makes any sense, “I’m a good fuck to you and there’s nothing more to it. Not even that good, if you’re bored with me already,” he takes a deep breath, not to break out into a cry again. “It hurts. It very-fucking-much hurts, Geralt.”

Geralt takes a moment to study Jaskier, before he leans in closer to him. It’d be best to kiss him, runs through his mind, but no, that’d be empty; he kissed Jaskier a lot and it got them here, so, he decides to keep his hands to himself a bit longer, until he’s sure, what needs to be done, is done.

“You’d like it to be more?” 

Jaskier looks at him in an unspoken plea. “You’re going to leave, if I say it.”

“I’d like, that you’d like it to be more,” Geralt tries, but it comes out wrong, not enough yet. “It’s more to me.”

“…No,” the bard puts his hands up, like he’s trying to defend himself and perhaps, he is - he has been, “Don’t say that.”

The witcher doesn’t let go. “It’s always been more to me.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier begs, but if Geralt has to be cruel to him again to get it straight, he’s not going to stop; it’s too late for that, it’s been too long of this for that.

“I told you,” because even if he wanted to wait for Jaskier to be ready, before he says it again, there wasn’t a time, when he wasn’t and he’s a fool for not seeing it earlier, “I love you.”

He doesn’t expect Jaskier to say it back, because it’s not about himself; it’s about Jaskier, only Jaskier and he should’ve never made it any other way. Of course, Jaskier wouldn’t say it back, if he wasn’t even sure, if there was anything to say back. He should’ve noticed the signs before; there were so many of those.

“Who is he?” ”A travel companion” / ”Go talk to him. He’s into you” / “Doesn’t need to be special. I’d take anything.” “I don’t think so.” / “It’s not about the mess. It’s about me making it. (I don’t have a right to…)” / “I could be. For that too, I mean. If you’d like me to.” 

”It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“People say things, they don’t mean during sex, Geralt,” Jaskier pushes himself away from him, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

He pushes himself away and it’s the distance again. 

This time, Geralt doesn’t hesitate to take him into his arms; because Jaskier is just like Geralt is.

He needs the closeness too.

“I love you,” he says as sure as he can and it comes easy, because of that he’s always been sure.

Jaskier is shaking in his hold. “Geralt, you don’t have to.”

“I do,” he assures, because he does; it’s that, that Jaskier’s been needing all along and if Jaskier needs, Jaskier gets, because this is the way it’s supposed to be.

The way it’s been always supposed to be. 

“No, Geralt,” Jaskier insists and the idiot cries again, and Geralt loves him only more. “You don’t have to. I don’t want it, if it’s not real.”

And it’s the only reasonable thing for Geralt to do, as he says it.

“I love you.”

“Geralt, don’t say it.”

“I love you.”

“Geralt, please.”

“I love you.”

“Geralt!”

“I love you.”

“No.”

“I love you.”

“This is no way to have a conversation,” Jaskier laughs.

And they’re going to be fine.

***

It’s Geralt to initiate the kiss, in the end.

“I love you,” he says again, because it’s the right thing to do.

“I know,” Jaskier says - sure.

It’s nice to just be together. This close.

“So…” Jaskier breaks the silence, because the moment just has to be ruined, “Come, show me?”

It’s the most anti-climatic proposition of his so far and it’s perfect.

“You’re drunk.”

“I am.”

Oh.

It hits him.

“Jaskier, how much did you drink?”

“…”

“Jaskier, tell me.”

“…”

“Jaskier!”

“…”

“Are you going to remember this in the morning?”

“…”

“I’m not having this conversation with you again, if you forget.”

“…”

For fuck’s sake.

***

Jaskier doesn’t forget.

If he acts, like he did, it’s no problem.

Geralt doesn’t mind saying it again.