Chapter Text
Geralt found him three weeks later.
The mountain had been a hard slog to walk down on his own, but he wanted to get as much distance between them as possible. Jaskier knew he wasn’t the most useful travel companion in the world, but he hadn’t realised how much of a burden he’d been on Geralt’s already overtaxed shoulders. Geralt trekked the Continent slaying dangerous monsters for poor pay, blatant sneers from humankind and very few rewards.
Jaskier had tried, in his own way, to do what he could to change that. He wasn’t much use at anything else other than singing, fucking and getting into trouble, which Geralt would then fish him out of. He’d tried to use his one real skill to help Geralt and improve his reputation, but then had foisted himself on the man over and over again, thinking they enjoyed each other’s company.
Geralt was too kind, and soft-hearted. He protected Jaskier for decades, shared his hearth, let him share in his adventures, and Jaskier had hardly repaid him at all. He attempted to fumble his way through patching up the Witcher when he was hurt and sang for their supper when they passed through a town, but it didn’t balance out at all with how many times Geralt had saved him from mortal peril, or hunted for their dinner, or shared his warmth when winter drew in.
All Jaskier had to offer was his love, and it was a paltry thing. Jaskier romanticised it even in his own head as faithful devotion, but after burying himself between so many thighs to try and distract himself it wasn’t even faithful, just devotion. Unwanted and lovesick devotion, dishonest and pathetic in turn.
Geralt deserved a love who could match him, and Yennefer’s passion seared comet-bright, obscuring the dim and meagre starlight that Jaskier could offer. They’d been alive with fury on that mountain top, both of them wild with beauty.
Jaskier was a dull little human and had bumbled in when Geralt was seething about losing the love of his life. He wasn’t even surprised about Geralt’s reaction, at this point. He’d been waiting for Geralt to send him away since Posada and was genuinely grateful that their travels had lasted so long. It had been brilliant, every miserable and muddy minute of it. He only wished he had been more helpful to Geralt, and not a weight around the poor man’s neck.
Still, if Geralt said it was over, then it was. He would make his way to Oxenfurt and hope that he could scrape his heartbreak into enough poetry to live on.
He made it to the inn back where they started the dragon quest and got himself a room for the night and a nice bath.
It was quiet without Geralt, but then it had often been quiet with Geralt as well. He could almost imagine the man, just out of the corner of his eye, patiently waiting for his turn in the bath as Jaskier talked his ear off about some nonsense. He shook himself out of it. There was no point in indulging in fantasy. This was the way it was now, and the sooner he got used to being alone the better.
He wasn’t angry, and there was no true cause for weeping when he had been given twenty wonderful years unasked for, but the best thing in Jaskier’s life had now ended, and he felt sombre with it. Jaskier usually talked, or hummed to himself, or composed under his breath, but he rather felt that silence, save the soft rippling of the bathwater, was rather appropriate.
The room was dim with only one candle lit to ward off the night, and the wind picked up outside. He sat, alone, in cool water, holding his vigil stoically and staring unseeing out into the dark window as the rain trickled down.
Jaskier planned his route rather differently alone than he used to. He headed from inn to inn, sacrificing speed for the safety human settlements brought, a slow and demented tavern crawl across the width of the Continent where he could ply his trade. He was adaptable. He could navigate the intricacies of court diplomacy as well as fend for himself in the wild, and adapting to a post-Geralt existence would not defeat him. If his smiles were a fraction dimmer than before, there was no-one around who knew to tell.
He sang as many songs about the White Wolf as he could fit into his set without losing his audience, and happily taught children history-songs and whatever rudimentary writing skills their parents thought necessary when he passed through smaller hamlets, slipping in exciting stories of brave Witchers wherever he thought he could manage a little subtle indoctrination, which was very frequently.
He hitched lifts with farmers or merchants for a story and a song and smiled and laughed and entertained as he always had.
When he walked alone, he passed through the scenery like a ghost, letting his eyes drink in the beauty around him, not disturbing the birdsong with his song or playing, but slipping peacefully and silently through glades and winding moors alike.
He bumped into Geralt again near the border with Redania.
Jaskier was performing his usual set now, classic local folk songs interspersed with thrilling tales of the White Wolf set to atmospheric music. As soon as he spotted the Witcher walk in and over to the bar, he finished his song as unobtrusively as he could and quietly took his ale off to an empty table in the furthest corner. He still needed to get lodgings for the night but didn’t want to disturb Geralt any more than he already had.
He packed his lute away in its case again, and busied himself with his notebook, working on a few hasty sums to divide his current coin by how much further he had to travel. Geralt had looked the same as ever, uninjured and only dusty from the road. Just the sight of him again was something he had never hoped for, and Jaskier committed it to memory for all the long years ahead. It was good to see, but Jaskier didn’t reflect any further on it and settled to his work. He was no stranger to sleeping rough if necessary by now, and he always earned more the closer to Redania he travelled, where more people had heard of him, so rationing coin wasn’t a major worry at this point, just a sensible precaution when travelling alone.
He was startled out of his long division by a tankard being set down on the table. Geralt stood there, white hair shining in the candlelight.
‘Sorry, did you want the table?’ Jaskier reached for his lute and packed up his notes as quickly as he could manage. It was rather full in here tonight, and he could do his work just as well up in a room.
‘No.’ Geralt sounded inscrutable as ever, and Jaskier halted his shuffle off the bench and dared a glimpse of his face. Yellow eyes bored back into him, and Jaskier slumped down in his seat again awkwardly.
‘I wanted. To apologise.’ Said Geralt swiftly and motioned at the tankard of ale. Jaskier was taken aback, but accepted the peace offering with only slightly shaky hands. He didn’t quite follow what was happening but blankly defaulted to the etiquette lessons that had been drilled into him in his youth.
He stood sharply and swept a deep courtly bow to the Witcher, baring his vulnerable neck.
‘I am undeserving of your apology, but for the good you have done for me I would repay your kindness. Please allow me to buy you a drink in turn.’ He felt stiff, and the formalities allowed him a distance he could try and think through.
Never in his wildest half formed dreams had he imagined seeing Geralt so close again, let alone the man apologising to him for something that had been so long coming. The least he could do for his old travel companion was an ale or something. It was a poor offering for everything Geralt had done for him, and he hung between trying to express his gratitude and trying to leave the man in peace, as he had requested. It was churlish to refuse such a boon as his presence without even having to beg for it, and Jaskier settled for smiling openly up at Geralt as he had so many times before.
Geralt stared back unblinkingly, and then nodded and sat down on the bench opposite his in one graceful manoeuvre. Jaskier scrambled out and caught the barmaid’s attention as swiftly as he dared, using half his remaining coin to buy Geralt a dusty bottle of strong dwarvish liquor, and bore it back to the table before he had a chance to catch his breath. He set it down in front of the man and hesitated as to whether to sit down again himself. He felt awkward in his skin in a way he hadn’t in years, too aware of how much even Geralt’s kindness could bear.
‘Sit down Jaskier.’ Said Geralt, exasperation audible. He sank down on the bench again and shifted his own tankard between his palms nervously. Normally he would fill the silence with as much chatter as he could, but he was too wary of shattering the tentative peace.
Geralt raised his bottle in a toast, and Jaskier smiled and sipped his ale. Geralt ignored the glass entirely and drank deeply from the bottle.
Jaskier let his gaze roam over the rest of the tavern, idly people watching. It felt safer than meeting Geralt’s gaze again, and he honestly couldn’t think of anything to say.
The silence around their table simmered for long minutes, and then settled. Jaskier’s pen scratched quietly into his notes as Geralt made his way steadily through the bottle. Periodically he felt the man’s stare on his face, but he lost himself in a half-finished sonnet, calmly appreciating the peace of a thousand past campfires.
He didn’t feel the need to frantically try and hold the Witcher’s attention as he once had, knowing that their time together was over, and savouring this chance meeting while it lasted. They would once again go their separate ways in a few hours, but he could pretend it was any other night in any tavern in their travels for a few lovely moments, before he had realised how unwanted his presence had been, the nostalgia bitter and a sweet relief all at once.
Geralt sighed eventually, and Jaskier glanced at him briefly, half his mind still spinning through synonyms.
‘The last wish.’ Geralt murmured. ‘I bound our fates. She found out… I was angry.’
Jaskier’s thoughts whirred. He abandoned his poetry and rested his elbows on the table. His companion was mourning the loss of the love of his life, and Geralt needed the paltry comfort he could offer. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we need to get you more to drink.’
Jaskier hadn’t dared voice his opinion on the actual wish itself, and it wouldn’t do any good even if he had. The best he could do was ply the Witcher with liquor, a formidable task at the best of times, and help him drown his sorrows.
He bought another bottle of liquor and began a long and amusing story of a noble he had once known, and the man’s amorous misadventures with a pair of identical twins. Jaskier resumed his role as entertainer, and Geralt seemed glad to take his mind off things.
Two hours later, Jaskier’s well of stories hadn’t run dry, but Geralt’s bottles had. There were a few people left downstairs, but Geralt’s gaze was vaguely unfocused and he listed to one side.
‘Have you got a room?’ said Jaskier. Geralt produced a brass key from his pocket and stood, scraping the bench back sharply. Jaskier scrabbled for his belongings and ducked under the Witcher’s arm, bracing him as Geralt meandered up the stairs, leaning heavily on Jaskier to keep his balance.
They managed to get into the room without any incidents of property damage, and then as soon as the door shut behind them Geralt was on him before he could blink. His mouth crashed into Jaskier’s, and Jaskier froze, his lute falling from trembling hands as lust boiled through him. Geralt picked him up effortlessly and pushed him against the wall, rolling his hips and leaving a wet trail of bites down Jaskier’s neck.
Jaskier’s mind shattered against this onslaught. He had yearned for this for so long, and his body knew the motions so well he responded automatically for long gasping seconds as his cock filled urgently. This was wrong. Geralt was drunk, and more importantly, didn’t want Jaskier. He was confused, seeking to vent his grief at losing Yennefer in another’s body, and Jaskier was convenient, and notoriously slutty. Geralt was turning to him for comfort, and Jaskier’s heart wobbled briefly in his chest.
He pushed at Geralt’s shoulder ineffectually and broke into shivers as he felt Geralt’s length press against him.
‘Geralt, you don’t want this.’ He managed, gasping for air, guilt stabbing at him and diffusing the madness of arousal.
Geralt bit gently at the sensitive skin of his ear and Jaskier’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head.
‘Need you, Jask…’ Geralt grunted, and made for the laces of Jaskier’s breeches.
‘Are you sure?’ Jaskier said, resolve weakening. This would be the last time he ever saw Geralt, and to finally be able to touch him would tempt a much greater man than he.
‘Shut up for once.’ Geralt growled into his ear, and Jaskier was done resisting. He batted Geralt’s hands away from his trousers and shoved him over towards the bed as forcefully as he could manage. It probably didn’t even register to Geralt, but he allowed himself to be moved, and sank down on the bed.
Geralt was laid out like a feast, but the room was dark, and he could make out the occasional pale line of his body, which was enough to work with. He unlaced Geralt’s breeches swiftly and wrapped his mouth around Geralt’s cock. He bucked and those powerful hips flexed, but Jaskier rode it out with patience borne of long practice. Geralt made an attempt at pulling Jaskier up to meet him, but Jaskier merely pulled his mouth off briefly and murmured, ‘Let me take care of you.’
His bones ached with wanting, but this was about Geralt, pleasing him and relieving some of the loss he must be feeling. Geralt was all that made the world good, and he was brimming over with love for the man, wild with it and desperate for anything he could do to help.
Geralt slumped into the bed, hands feverishly gripping Jaskier’s short hair, and he concentrated all his skill on making it as good for Geralt as he could possibly manage it. He settled swiftly into the right mindset, relaxing his throat and stifling the urgent reflex to gag as Geralt thrust sloppily into his mouth and groaned. His eyes watered, and he could barely make out the man on the bed past the tears clinging to his eyelashes.
Guiltily, he stored up every feverish impression in a warm and sunlit part of his mind, memorising how his love tasted and felt in his own mouth. He didn’t try to tease, nor use any of his usual tricks, simply let himself be a warm and willing hole to be used, and within scant minutes Geralt was pulling his hair at the roots, and forcing his cock as deep as it could get, and the tang of bitter salt was pouring down Jaskier’s throat.
He didn’t try and extend the moment past bearing, only indulged himself in one last taste to clean Geralt off a bit and tucked his softening cock back into his smallclothes. By the time he had wiped his eyes and gathered himself enough to look up at the Witcher, Geralt was asleep.
His knees ached, and the chill of the room seeped through his clothes. He felt small and cold, and terribly lonely. For twenty years he had daydreamed idle fantasies of Geralt seeking out his bed, but never like this, as a replacement for someone else. His shoulders slumped, and he quietly reached for his bedroll and curled himself up tight in the corner of the room, exhaustion and guilt too much to bear.