Archive of Our Own ^beta

There was only one inn in the simple town. It was close enough to the nearest city to see a few travellers, but far away enough that the clients crowding the tiny bar and filling the six or so rooms were mostly farmers or locals or traders.

Geralt had rented a small room, but even a straw bed was better than the soggy ground and a real bath was far preferable to the streams and pools he’d been washing himself in this past month. His hair was tangled with weeks-old monster blood and there’d been mud and entrails caked beneath his fingernails and in the creases of his palms for days. He’d asked for a bath to be sent up as soon as he’d arrived, and he’d taken his time scrubbing away the dirt of weeks and weeks of travel before heading back down to the tavern in search of something to eat.

He hid himself away in a shadowy corner with a pint of ale and a bowl of stew. He went largely ignored by the other drinkers: grateful that he’d solved their little monster problem, but still uncertain enough to give him a wide berth.

It was how he liked it. It was how he’d been travelling - alone and undisturbed - for over a year now.

He was raising the mug to his lips when there was a sound from the other side of the tavern. A lute being strummed. There’d been a sharp rise in travelling bards, he’d noticed, yet the sound of the lute still left him with an uncomfortable squeezing in his stomach.

The music could be tolerated, perhaps, were it not for the local bards’ habit of singing the same bloody songs. It meant that everywhere he went, he was followed. Followed by that fucking song. Every time he heard it, it left him feeling cold. Guilty.

The familiar opening chords began and he shrank into the shadows some more, keen to avoid drawing attention to himself. A few unfortunate bards had attempted to cosy up to him during their performances of this particular song, and all had found themselves quite swiftly down on their arses before they could even reach the first chorus.

And then the singing began.

Geralt nearly dropped his ale, his blood running cold. He’d know that voice anywhere. He felt frozen to the spot - unable to move, his stew slowly cooling in front of him. He suddenly didn’t feel hungry anymore.

With horror, he realised that the song was growing louder as the singer moved around the room, drawing ever-closer to where he was sat. He kept his eyes low, staring at the scratched surface of the wooden table, holding his breath.

Jaskier’s voice was unchanged. The sound of his dancing footsteps was unchanged, the plucking of his fingers on the strings. Even his smell - honey and wildflowers, still painfully familiar - was unchanged. It was unbearable.

He lowered himself even more, shoulders shrugged, head bent, pressing himself against the wall. But even tucked into the shadows like this he knew he was exposed - recognisable. It wasn’t every traveller who wore bloodstained leather armour and sported long, snow-white hair.

The singing grew closer and closer, the lyrics trilling, the notes reverberating around the tavern. Geralt’s inhumanly slow heart began to beat more fervently as something like fear gripped at him. 

Along with the song came his scent, distinct and overwhelming, overriding the smell of ale and food and sweat. The music was too-loud in Geralt’s ears, and even with his head bent, he could sense Jaskier coming closer, could imagine the expression on his face as he performed, the way he’d come swinging around the wooden partition with his lute gripped in his hand.

And then - there he was. There was a stutter in the song that lasted just a second - undetectable to anyone who wasn’t listening for it. Geralt knew he needed to keep his head down, he knew he needed to stay away, and yet - 

He looked up. Jaskier’s eyes were stuck on him, even as he sang. His blue eyes shimmered in the dark light of the tavern.

And then he was gone, moving back through the room.

The wisest thing to do would be to leave. To head back up to his tiny room and avoid Jaskier altogether. 

He’d forgotten how fucking blue those eyes were.

*

Jaskier was sat at the bar, tearing through a simple meal of bread and dried meat with a tankard of ale next to him.

“Jaskier.”

He didn’t even look up.

“You look… well.” It wasn’t technically a lie. Jaskier looked thin. He looked tired. He looked annoyed that his meal was being disturbed.

“Jaskier, listen. I… I need to apologise to you.”

He finally turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“Those things I said. I didn’t mean them. I was… I was a fucking prick, Jaskier.”

“Then we’re in agreement, it seems.” He went back to his food. 

For once, Geralt couldn’t sit with the heavy, uncomfortable silence. “You still… sing the songs?” He said, finally.

Jaskier shrugged. “It’s expected of me. The unforeseen consequence of the fame you so graciously gifted me. They all know who I am, now. There’s only one person they want to hear about.” He took a long drink. “There’s a new song, you know. I finished it after… after I left.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve probably heard it. Bastard bards keep stealing my songs. Her Sweet Kiss, they’ve called it.”

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat. He had heard the song - heard it several times, in fact, in inns and taverns and even brothels all around the continent. Jaskier noticed his sudden stillness.

“So you have heard it. Interesting. I decided to leave that one out this evening.” He drank once more. “You know, Geralt, everywhere I go, I’m forced to sing your fucking songs. If I don’t sing them, I don’t get paid. And unfortunately for me, I like being able to eat and have a roof over my head more than I hate you.”

It was like a knife in Geralt’s side. “No you don’t.”

Jaskier didn’t even look towards him, focused on the food. “Don’t what?”

Geralt shuffled his feet, nervously. He hadn’t been expecting this. “You don’t hate me.”

Jaskier stuffed another piece of bread in his mouth and chewed, slowly, while Geralt watched. 

“You know the problem with hate, Geralt?” He said, finally.

Geralt didn’t respond, so Jaskier continued.

“Hate is just love. It’s love, a step to the left. It’s love pushed too far. That’s all it is.” He sighed, his hand gripping the handle of his tankard so hard that his knuckles were turning white. “Both hurt. I’m done hurting, Geralt. I’m done.”

“I didn’t-”

“You never do. Never did. You know how long it took me to get back down that mountain, Geralt? How many missteps, how many times I thought I was going to-” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “No. It doesn’t matter. That was…” he pauses for a moment, working it out, and then laughs - hollow and mirthless. “That was thirteen months ago. I say I’m done with hurting but I don’t think hurting is quite done with me.” He finally looked at Geralt, his expression blank. “Clearly not.” 

He tossed a couple of coins onto the bar with a nod towards the innkeeper, and stood. “Goodbye, Geralt.”

He pushed past him - the casual contact of his shoulder thumping into Geralt’s sending a shock down his spine - and out of the tavern, his lute slung over his back.

Geralt swallowed. Shit.

He ordered another ale, downing it quickly, then slouched back up to his room. It was barely dark outside, and despite the ache in his muscles from his most recent hunt he didn’t feel particularly tired. 

Searching for a way to occupy his hands, he pulled his whetstone from his pack and began the arduous task of oiling and sharpening his swords. They’d cut through half a hundred monsters these past weeks, and while they were as deadly as ever the blades were quickly dulling through overuse.

He poured himself into his task, letting the gentle scrape of the stone up and down the blade calm him, filling his world. He focused on the slick oil beneath his fingers, the tart smell, trying to block out the image of Jaskier’s expression - not even hurt or angry, just empty. Nothing.

Jaskier hated him. He wasn’t surprised, of course - knew he had no right to be hurt by those words so casually flung at him. But his voice had been bitter and somehow older, somehow tired. The way he spoke about hurting made a little pit open up in Geralt’s stomach.

His hands froze on the sword, the whetstone gripped in white-knuckled fingers. He hadn’t even properly apologised. He’d just barged over to him, expecting…

He didn’t know what he’d expected. 

Jaskier clearly wanted him to leave him alone, but the guilt was wearing on him like the whetstone on the steel, grinding him down. More than that - more than the tearing, rending knowledge that he’d tossed Jaskier aside and made him hurt like that - was the sudden realisation of what he’d been too blind to see for all those years.

“Hate is just love. It’s love, a step to the left. It’s love pushed too far. That’s all it is.”

Had Jaskier loved him, all those months ago, stranded on that mountaintop? Had he loved him for the twenty years they’d travelled together, sliding easily in and out of each other’s lives? Had he loved him when he dogged his footsteps, slowly letting himself in?

Had he loved him - been in love with him - all this time, and Geralt had been too stupid and stubborn and fucking heartless to realise?

And if he had realised, what would he have done? 

Oh. oh.

The sword clattered to the wooden floor. 

Shit.

He needed to find Jaskier. He needed to talk to him, to explain… but he’d left hours ago, and there was no telling where he’d gone. Geralt could follow his scent and track him down - but would that only serve to further enrage him? Would it only push him away more?

Jaskier was staying in the town, that much was clear. That meant he had to be staying in the inn, too, and Geralt could find him early next morning before either of them left. Truthfully, he could easily figure out which room the bard was staying in, but again - it felt like a violation.

He’d have to wait. He’d wait all night, if he needed to.

Geralt picked the sword up from the floor. It had landed blade first, carving out a neat little chunk of the rotting floorboards. He swallowed, guiltily. Perhaps the swords were sharp enough. He tidied them back away, leaning them against the wall, tucking the oils and stone back into his bag, then settled himself on the edge of the bed.

He felt coiled, tense. Like a snake waiting to strike. Like electric air before a storm.

He was about to slip into a meditation when a sharp smell caught in his nose. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and there was a sudden, urgent panic in his chest. It took a few seconds for him to recognise the scent.

Blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

He was on his feet quickly, covering the length of the room in three strides and flinging the door open. 

There was a startled yelp. Jaskier stood on the landing just outside the room. Both of his eyes had been blackened and there was a tear across the bridge of his nose, blood streaming down his lips and chin. His leather doublet was torn and he was holding a hand to his side; when he moved, the smell of blood grew stronger, fresher. The leather strap of his lute was still slung over his shoulder but the lute itself was gone.

“Geralt-” he managed, weakly, before Geralt grabbed him by the arm and hauled him into the room, quickly shutting the door behind them.

“I shouldn’t…” he muttered, but Geralt was already guiding him to the bed, forcing him to sit with firm hands on his shoulders. Jaskier kept one hand wrapped firmly around his chest, pressing it to his side.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine, I need to-” He tried to stand, but Geralt forced him down again, kneeling in front of him.

“Jaskier.” 

Jaskier peered up at him through his swollen eyes. He licked his lips, deciding.

“I was jumped,” he said, finally. “Three men. Ah…”

He winced, and pulled his hand away from where it was pressed to his rib cage. It was covered in blood. Geralt flinched instinctively at the smell, then leant in to inspect the wound.

“It’s just a cut,” Jaskier said, his breathing shallow, “I’ve had worse.”

Geralt leaned back to stare at him. “What happened, Jaskier?”

“I told you. I was attacked. There were three of them. I tried to defend myself, but…” he shook his head, frowning, “they disarmed me. Stabbed me with my own fucking dagger. They took my fucking lute.”

“What did they want?”

Jaskier looked away, his lips tightly shut.

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier, I know you hate me but-”

“I don’t hate you.” 

Geralt stuttered into silence.

“I don’t… I don’t hate you,” Jaskier repeated, looking everywhere but at Geralt, his eyes darting around the room. “It’s just… easier. Easier than the alternative.” 

Geralt’s slow heart pounded in his chest. “Right.”

The bard sighed. “…They were looking for information. On you.”

Shit. “Did they see us talking earlier? Or-”

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier finally looked at him with a sarcastic laugh. “More than half my repertoire is about the great White Wolf. Everyone assumes I know all your little intimate secrets.” 

“So… what did you say?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Nothing,. You think this is the first time I’ve been roughed up by some arseholes looking to find you? I’m good at keeping my mouth shut, when it matters.” 

“This has happened before?”

“Why do you think I’ve taken to carrying a dagger with me?” He paused, frowning. “Not any more, of course, as they stole it from me.” 

“How often?”

“Geralt, this isn’t-”

“How often?”

Jaskier shrugged, then winced at the pain in his side. “Once a month or so? You’ve pissed off a lot of people, you know, myself included. Luckily I’m not an armed thug.” 

Geralt sighed, then reached a decision. He stood back up and went to grab his swords. “What did they look like?”

“Geralt…”

“Where did they attack you? If they want to know where I am, I’ll make their lives easier and go to them.”

“You can’t…”

Geralt span around, his steel sword clasped in his hand. “I’m going to find whoever did this to you, Jaskier, and I’m going to slice their fucking balls off.”

He strode towards the door, feeling the fury bubbling inside him. It mingled with the guilt - guilt which had now only grown after seeing Jaskier’s bruised eyes and bloodied face. It would feel good to stab something.

“Please don’t go.”

He froze with his fingers on the door handle. 

“Please, Geralt.”

He turned around. 

Jaskier’s blue eyes stared up at him from deep purple sockets. His lips were stained dark red, his hand clamped once more at his side.

Geralt leant the sword back against the wall with a sigh, relenting. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”