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Best Geralt
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Published:
2020-04-11
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2,980
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1/1
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Oh how unreasonable

Summary:

Five times Geralt says, “I love you” to Jaskier, but our bard doesn’t think that he’s serious, and so doesn’t say it back (plus one time which he does).

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

1.

“Thank you! Thank you! It’s been a pleasure, it truly has, but I must—” Jaskier breaks off his prolonged goodbye to the tavern’s rowdy crowd. For Geralt, who’s been quietly sitting in the back of the crowd, is looking awfully flushed (for a witcher) and almost... drunk. And when Jaskier really thinks about it, he’s never seen the witcher actually get drunk. Buzzed? Sure. A bit loose-lipped and perhaps more sentimental than he’d normally be? A time or two (usually after a hard hunt, or a particularly harsh word from some asshole, which triggers bad memories). But the White Wolf looks startlingly out of it.

In fact, as Jaskier approaches the table, Geralt lists to the side slightly, as he moves around to keep track of his bard. And while the molten yellow weight of his attention is gratifying, it is also worrying; Geralt, as he has stated many times before, does not do feelings. And then there’s that bloody smile— which, even if it is small, and precious and just for him, is not something he should be seeing (he only sees Geralt smile because he’s gotten good at watching the witcher with his peripheral vision).

And then Jaskier plops himself down next to his Wolf, and Geralt twists so he’s fully facing the bard and as he does, he hisses. Then the witcher’s hand shoots to his side, and, Jaskier is alarmed to see, the far too large dark, wet patch of blood emanating from his torso. That dopey little smile fades, and Geralt frowns down at where Jaskier’s hand has come to rest over his own, which is still grasping his bleeding side.

“What the fuck, Geralt?” The witcher blinks slowly, gaze entirely too muddled for the bard’s liking. “What the fuck what the fuck!” he repeats under his breath, until the words blend together like a mantra.

Then Geralt squeezes his hand. “Jaskier.”

He jerks away from the witcher’s touch, and frowns up at the idiot’s face. He groans, and then glares at his Wolf. “Please, please tell me that you’re not drunk and injured, Geralt— I may just lose it if you are.”

Geralt, the oaf, the idiot, the bastard, blinks sluggishly. He looks from Jaskier to the stage and back, as if that’s an answer. “Didn’t… think it was that bad— bandaged it before I got in— and I was tired, and you were… busy. Guess I underestimated the sit-situation.”

And, alright, fine. A small part of Jaskier absolutely glows at that. That his witcher had simply been content to sit back and watch him perform. But, that is also “A monumentally stupid thing to do, Witcher. I think you must have suffered brain damage on your hunt. For this—”

Geralt removes his hand from his side and waves it dismissively. Jaskier feels faint when he sees the glistening red coating his friend’s hand. “ ‘m fine, Bard.”

Jaskier mutters, “You’re really not” under his breath, and it’s a testament to how not okay the witcher is that he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, Geralt scrapes his fork over the last remnant of food on his plate, and tries to stand, swaying. The bard curses, and puts a hand on his Wolf’s (massive) shoulder. “Sit down, you enormous fucking idiot!”

Geralt blinks at him as he half-slumps back to the bench. He actually looks hurt. Gods above. “Sorry, Jask,” the witcher mutters.

The bard sighs. He pats Geralt’s shoulder again, thinking about the long, steep set of stairs they’ll have to conquer. Ah well. Nice change from Geralt lugging his drunk (and/or wounded) ass around. “It’s alright, Geralt. You’re still my favorite witcher.”

Geralt, half-sarcastically, half-not, mutters, “Love you too, Jask.”

The bard nearly falls off the bench, he’s so stunned. He blinks, takes a moment to recover (which Geralt doesn’t notice, because he’s injured and drunk), then sighs. “Well… alright then. Let’s get you upstairs and cleaned off, shall we?”

 

2.

The mage cackles, from where she’s (still) cowering across the room. “Shut up!” Jaskier hisses at her as Geralt sniffs his hair again. Of course, she doesn’t listen— and he should probably be grateful for that, because what’s a bard (even an admittedly good bard) going to do against a mage? “What did you do to him?” Jaskier bats away Geralt’s wandering hands, which seem intent on patting him down for any injuries. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

The mage recovers her breath, actually wiping at her eyes. “Gods above, I didn’t think it’d work that quickly. Or that well, come to think of it. You should count yourself lucky, Bard, to have a witcher wrapped around your little finger.”

But that’s not an answer, and he huffs, opening his mouth so he can demand to know what the fuck is wrong with Geralt when the witcher sniffs him again. Ugh. He turns to face his Wolf. “Geralt, dear witcher, my friend, could you perhaps consider holding off on… on sniffing me for a moment? Actually, hold that thought: why are you sniffing me?”

Geralt blinks, still looking entirely too dazed. “You smell good.”

Jaskier huffs. Unbelievable. He turns around. “What,” he demands, a feral glint to his blue eyes, “did you do to him?”

The mage rolls her eyes. “Nothing permanent, if that’s what you’re worried about, Bard. He’ll be fine come morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be making my exit—”

At this, the witcher blinks, frowns, and looks between Jaskier and the mage. “Stay here, Jaskier, I need to deal with—”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Witcher, but I don’t think that will be happening.”

Jaskier blinks. His and the mage’s eyes meet. She huffs, and seems to relent. Geralt takes a lumbering step forward and the bard shoots out a hand and uses nearly all his strength to hold the witcher back. “No, no, no, Geralt, dear. Not now.” Thankfully, the other man seems to get the message, for he huffs, and subsides. Silently, the bard gives a quick prayer of thanks.

But that blasted mage has, apparently, been watching this scene with amusement. “Alright, Bard. You want to know what I gave him?” Frantically, Jaskier nods. Yes, he very much does. She smirks. “It was supposed to affect him like all the other men of this gods-forsaken, sheep-fucking fiefdom. Only, I didn’t count on him already having an object of desire: you.”

Jaskier blinks, feeling, rather unpleasantly, similar to that time he’d been picked up by a griffin and almost carried off. “Um, excuse me, but what? Are you trying to say that Geralt—”

“I love you,” the witcher says clearly and plainly. As if he’s rattling off statistics about monsters, or an obvious fact, such as water being wet. The bard actually feels as if his heart’s being yanked out of his chest at that. No possible way. Clearly that blasted potion’s gotten to him— sure, witchers have feelings, but Geralt’s emotionally repressed enough to get ‘friendship’ and ‘romance’ confused when under the influence. Poor bastard. Jaskier carefully doesn’t think about the other time Geralt had said that he loves him.

During this moment of crisis, the mage seems to have portaled off. Jaskier curses.

Geralt just sniffs him again, offering an absent, contented, “Hmm.”

Well, at least there’s that.

 

3.

“GERALT! WATCH OUT FOR—” Jaskier attempts to move forward, tugging on his tightly-bound wrists. Damn those bandits! He winces at the dull smack sound of the large club hitting the back of his Wolf’s head. Geralt stumbles, shakes his head, and growls. A small part of the bard is thrilled at that noise. Not now, he tells himself harshly. He’s got to get out of these fucking ropes.

Thankfully though, even with the several bleeding gashes and possible head wound, the fight is soon over. Jaskier has not managed to free himself. The last bandit is sent fleeing with their tail tucked in, and Geralt turns towards him, looking faintly amused by Jaskier’s useless struggling. But then, as he steps forward, he stumbles, blinking. Fuck. “Jaskier?” asks the witcher, sounding hesitant, “Why are there two of you— didn’t think they were magic-using bandits.” Ah. Double fuck.

“There’s not— two of me, that is. You’ve just got a concussion. Apparently.”

Geralt nods, then winces. He blinks. “Good. That’s good. I love you, Jaskier, but even I couldn’t deal with more than one of you.” He sighs, looking, momentarily, quite put out. Then the witcher casually picks up his sword and stalks forward. “Now hold still, and I’ll get you untied.”

Jaskier stares, open-mouthed, not sure whether to feel more… more insulted or— something else. “Very well, Witcher. But then I’m taking a look at that head of yours.”

 

4.

“Here.” Geralt stands stiffly before him. Jaskier is huddled in front of the fire, shivering. He seems to have caught a cold, blast it. Not what they need just now, especially not with it being Autumn, and Geralt— Geralt leaving soon (well really soon-ish) to winter over in Kaer Morhen. Jaskier blinks, sneezes, and actually looks at what the witcher is holding out to him: flowers. “Will do fuck-all for your cold, but I… thought you might like them.” 

More specifically, his Wolf is holding a small, rough bouquet of purple-ish, daisy-like flowers. But they’re not Daisies. They’re Asters. Undying love, Jaskier thinks faintly. Wonder if Geralt knows that.

“Thank you, Witcher. They’re lovely,” he replies softly.

 

5.

“JASKIER! JASKIER—” his witcher’s panicked voice fades as the bard momentarily blacks out. Not good. Not fucking good, he thinks, coming to with a gasp. And after they’ve finally gotten to the coast too— how was he supposed to know that this particular village had a- a sea monster problem? He splutters, inadvertently swallowing more sea water as the tentacle— which is squishy, might he add— tugs again, pulling his head under the water.

This time, Jaskier manages to shut his eyes. But from the burning in his lungs, the bard knows he won’t be able to hold his breath for much longer. Damn, he thinks dizzily. Damn damn damn. Geralt’ll think this is his fault. Jaskier doesn’t want that. And this, apparently, is enough to give him a burst of energy.

He kicks firmly at the tentacle, scoring a hit to a sore spot— an open, blue-black wound from Geralt’s silver sword. Then he surfaces with a gasp. Jaskier treads water for a moment, and begins to swim. “Bard!” the witcher calls. He’s soaked, but has apparently managed to pull himself onto their capsized rowboat. “Jaskier, behind you!”

He huffs, firmly tells himself not to panic, does, and then continues swimming. He can feel his heartbeat, hears it, in fact, thrumming through his ears. Just keep swimming, Jaskier, he repeats firmly in his head. Just keep swimming, and ignore the giant fucking squid monster that’s following. Intent on eating you.

Somehow, he manages to make it to the boat, and Geralt, crouching awkwardly atop the wreck, pulls him out of the water. And not a moment too soon. A frankly massive tentacle reaches up, to tug at his ankle again, and the bard gets splinters in his palms, a few painful ones under his nails, as he scrambles to get a hand-hold. Anything to keep himself from being dragged back into the water. He pants.

And then Geralt snarls. The tentacle is suddenly gone, as the witcher cuts it off— spraying them both with blue-black blood, bits of slime, and still-wriggling squid flesh. Then, suddenly, the monster— most of which he still can’t see— disappears beneath the otherwise calm waves. “Ugh,” Jaskier says, spitting some of the gunk out. “That’s disgusting! I’m never eating calamari ever again.”

Geralt grunts, keeping a watchful eye out for another attack. But, miraculously, it seems like they may just be able to get away without further violence. The witcher reaches out and pulls the one remining oar from the water. Jaskier grabs a large plank of wood that’s floating nearby, and sits. “Start paddling,” Geralt orders. 

Shakily, Jaskier sits up. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

For a few minutes, it truly does seem like the beast’s gone for good. But then, the water ripples. “G-Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“I know we’re in the ocean, and so there are tides and things, but that— that didn’t seem like the tide.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Oh, gods.” Geralt slowly sets the oar down with splash and rises to his feet. He shakes his wet hair out of his eyes, and draws his silver sword. Jaskier scoots closer to the middle of the boat, clutching his wooden plank tightly. He sees a large ripple move by, behind them. “Witcher! I think it’s behind—”

The boat lurches wildly. Jaskier drops his plank and throws his weight forward, frantically trying to keep himself from being thrown off the capsized boat. Even Geralt, with as good reflexes as he has, is thrown somewhat off balance. Then the witcher’s eyes widen, and his nostrils flare. “Jaskier!” he barks.

‘What?’ he is planning to say. Then he feels that dreadfully-familiar, slimy and muscle-y grip around his leg. He’s tugged back off the boat. “Oh, fu—” Jaskier gurgles as his mouth and nose are abruptly filled with water. This time, the beast gives him no chance to resurface.

They go down, down, down. His mouth opens and the surrounding black depths fade into nothingness.

Warm, firm pressure on his lips— a beating on his chest. “Damn it, Jaskier!” A low growl. Air! He lurches upright, and gags as what feels like half the ocean abruptly comes spewing out of his mouth, and nose. Ugh. Eyes watering, throat stinging, the bard coughs. He draws in a wheezing breath. Then Jaskier blinks, and takes in their surroundings, shivering.

They’re back on shore— thank all the gods— and he feels damp, gritty sand beneath him. It’s cold. He coughs again, and blinks. Geralt growls, and thumps him on the back. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier groans dramatically. “Awful actually, Geralt, thanks for asking. Gods, it feels like I’m dying—” the witcher flinches, and he cuts himself off. Right. Probably not the best time for dramatics.

“You are not dying.” His Wolf’s eyes burn. Jaskier shivers again, so Geralt tugs him close, rubbing his arms, his back. “You’re not dying, Jaskier. I lo— care too much for you, to let you die,” the witcher concludes roughly. He’d almost said love, the bard thinks. Jaskier fakes another wheeze just to give himself more time to process this. Geralt tugs him even closer.

“Right then. I won’t die. Thanks for saving me. Again.”

The witcher nods. “You’re welcome.”

Jaskier laughs. Which sets off another coughing fit— “Oh, fuck me, that hurts!”

 

+1

Oh fuck, oh no, oh no oh no no no. “Geralt! Geralt, you bastard, stay with me!” Beneath him, the witcher gurgles, a thin line of blood leaking from his mouth. That can’t be good. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Jaskier babbles. He presses harder on the large, gaping hole in his Wolf’s side. The other man groans. He ignores this, and keeps the pressure steady, despite the growing, terrifying red slipperiness of Geralt’s wound.

“Ja- Jaskier…”

The scene before him becomes blurry. “Shut up, Witcher! Tell me, do you have anything in that bag of yours to stop the bleeding?”

Weakly, Geralt shakes his head. “Got- got crushed… in the fight. Jaskier, I—”

“SHUT UP, GERALT! You’re not dying on me.” He glances around. Where the hell did Roach go? If the witcher weren’t bleeding out quite so profusely, he’d go and hunt the horse down. But he can’t do that. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” a weak, shaky hand presses gently over his lips. Jaskier stills, and looks down. Geralt, looking entirely too weak, too pale, is gazing fondly up at him.

The world seems to fall into a hush.

“J-Jaskier, I... I love you.” the witcher’s eyes close. He goes awfully, awfully still.

“No! No, Geralt, don’t you dare die, you fucking bastard!” He sobs.

In the distance, Roach whinnies.

It’s another three days before Geralt wakes, and they are the longest three days of the bard’s life. He paces incessantly, and feels absolutely awful and gritty-eyed by the time the witcher twitches, grunts, and tries to sit up. Jaskier rushes to his side, and snaps, “Don’t move, you idiot!”

Geralt blinks dazedly up at him. “What happened?”

The bard laughs. “‘What happened?’” Jaskier repeats hysterically. “You almost fucking died— right there, in my arms! Do you have any idea of how desperately worried I was, Witcher? I haven’t slept in three days! I love you, Geralt, but if you ever do that to me again, I swear—” Jaskier cuts himself off as he realizes what he’s just said.

They both go still.

Geralt remains silent, absolutely silent, for a long moment after. Finally, he looks up. “You love me?”

“Y-yeah. I suppose I do,” he stammers.

“Then why haven’t you— I’ve said it before, Jaskier, so why’ve you never…” the witcher swallows, trailing off.

He huffs, throwing up his hands. “Because I didn’t believe you! That first time, you were drunk and injured, the second was when you got hit with that mage’s spell, the third— fuck, I think that was the concussion? No! It was the flowers, and I wasn’t sure if you knew their true meaning— the fourth was the concussion, and the fifth... Well, you didn’t really say it then. You just started to. Anyway, my point being: I didn’t know, Geralt. I didn’t know.”

Jaskier sighs, and sits at the edge of the witcher’s bed. His Wolf is silent for a long, long time.

“But you do love me?” Geralt asks eventually.

He smiles. “I do. I love you very much, in fact, my dear Witcher.”

Geralt smiles, yellow eyes warm. “And I you, Bard.” Jaskier carefully picks up his Wolf’s hand, kisses it.

Notes:

JOEY BATEY IS IN A BAND, called The Amazing Devil. AND YOU, YES YOU, NEED TO GO LISTEN TO THE SONG “Fair” RIGHT NOW! Do so here.

Coincidentally, the title of this is adapted from “Fair.”