Chapter Text
Anxiety thrummed under Jaskier’s skin. There was nothing he could do to change Geralt’s mind about this contract, the stupid man was too noble to turn away a call for help from those less fortunate, and they both knew that the peasants would have been dying for a good deal longer than the gentry, even though it was only now that the Marquess of Kernow deigned to call anyone in to deal with the threat. Stupid, noble Witcher , he thought, taking in the broad swath of his companion’s back, shoulders set and straight. But the thing was Jaskier knew Kernow. He’d played there before, he knew what the Marquess was like.
His fingers were tapping against his thigh, and he found himself chewing at his lip, picking at the chapped skin from their long trek along the road. It was still only late spring, and the air was sometimes still cold and dry in the mornings, and Jaskier tried to be considerate (not, especially, his strong suit) with their water skins, which left him a little dried out from time to time.
“Jaskier,” Geralt grunted from in front of him.
“Yes, Geralt?” He could hear his voice was a little pitchy, still caught in the throes of his tension.
“What is it?”
And it was not that Geralt never asked what was wrong with him (because, according to Geralt, what wasn’t wrong with him would have been the shorter list) but the witcher was usually more demonstrative than vocal in his care. Jaskier often wondered if Geralt would have still been like this —laconic, noble, somewhat irritable— had his life turned out differently or if these qualities were inherent to his character.
“Oh, nothing,” Jaskier brushed him off, waving his arms around. “Just, you know, composing!”
“That’s a crock of shit, Jaskier, if you were composing you’d be engaged in that infernal humming and muttering to yourself. What’s got your knickers in a twist?”
Jaskier couldn’t help the smile that cracked across his face, a little gust of warmth in his chest at Geralt’s litany of complaints, sure evidence that Geralt knew him just about as well as he knew Geralt.
“Well,” he could feel the urge to hedge welling up in his throat, “It’s this job in Kernow.”
“What of it?” Geralt sounded long-suffering but Jaskier knew that if he really wanted him to shut up he wouldn’t have said anything at all. In fact, getting a full question rather than a semi-inquiring hum was practically a gilded invitation for Jaskier to continue.
“I’ve been to Kernow, Geralt,” Jaskier said and he could see Geralt’s head tip somewhat, could sense the rolling of those golden eyes. “No, listen to me, this isn’t a case of cuckold husbands or jilted ladies! It’s the Marquess. It’s—”
Suddenly he wasn’t quite sure how to continue. The golden rule of their partnership had long been an unspoken agreement not to discuss their dispositions. Witchers, Jaskier knew, are submissives; a little gift to humanity ( more like a sick joke , Jaskier thought, with venom) to make it easier to integrate these would-be monsters into general society. Jaskier knew that Geralt knew of the bard’s own disposition. Though often mistaken for a Verse, with his bright clothes and pampered manner, he was nevertheless a Dominant. He loved a good parlor game, not at all averse to playing the part of the eager Verse or willing sub, but it had always been a game, a frisson of transgression to spice up an intimate assignation.
“I don’t trust him, Geralt,” Jaskier finally said, voice quiet, but he knew the Witcher could hear him. “Kernow… They’re too close to Cintra, and that ever present danger makes them overly fond of tradition and order. The Marquess is one who likes to lord himself over others, to display his power and— And I would hate for something to happen if you were to enter into a Contract with him.”
He let the end of his sentence rush out as quickly as he could. Geralt hated it when Jaskier fussed over him, but he couldn't help it. Geralt was a good man, and more than that, he was Jaskier’s friend, perhaps his very best friend across the whole of the Continent, and it broke Jaskier’s tender little artist’s heart the way the world spit on him and tried to grind him down.
“What would you have me do, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, and his voice was tired. “People are dying and, moreover, we need the coin.”
Jaskier pursed his lips. He knew it was a stupid impulse, but there was a part of him, one he tried his hardest to leave locked away unless he’d found a willing and interested partner, that ached to provide for his friend. He wanted to tell Geralt that he didn’t have to do this, that Jaskier would play in every tavern they came across until his fingers bled if it would ensure that Geralt had a roof over his head and food in his belly. But that wasn’t what Geralt wanted and so Jaskier bit his tongue.
“I know, but… Surely there’s something we can do to limit the hold he’ll have over you? If you could have another Contract…”
Jaskier came to a stop. That was… That was certainly an idea. It would undoubtedly be playing with fire, placing before him an opportunity to taste that which he most desired in this life, without truly being able to possess it. But, if it would keep Geralt safe…
“Jaskier. Bard!” Geralt’s voice suddenly cut through his thoughts and he blinked, shaking his head and looking up to meet Geralt’s gaze, realizing suddenly that Roach was stopped and turned part way towards him so that Geralt could look him full in the face.
“I’m going to hate whatever comes out of your mouth next,” Geralt grumbled. Jaskier couldn’t help the impish grin that stole over his face at that. Geralt, indeed, knew him well.
“Another Contract, Geralt!” The Witcher merely raised an eyebrow at him. “If you had another Contract which predated and superseded whatever Contract you entered into with the Marquess, you would be able to ensure real limits on what he can ask of you!”
“And where, Jaskier, would I find such a Contract?” Geralt gave him that stony eyed look which he liked to pull out when he felt Jaskier was demonstrating a lack of sense about how the world worked. It was very common when Jaskier complained about the lack of spices in their food after several weeks in the woods or when he lamented the quality, or lack thereof, of the amenities at the inn in some town too small to even have a name.
“Ah, well,” and here Jaskier couldn’t fight the color that rose to his cheeks, “You could always enter into a Contract with me?”
Jaskier smiled and he knew it looked strained on his face, the muscles in his cheeks feeling like hard lumps of clay pushed and prodded into a parody of a human expression.
“Hm,” Geralt replied, turned Roach and started back along the road.
Jaskier let out a sigh. But, he figured as he took the first step back onto their path, Geralt hadn’t outright said no.
+++
They made camp in a small clearing off the road.
Jaskier often wondered if Geralt had memorized every useful opening of the trees against the sky across the entire Continent or if he had some extra, unknown Witcher sense which allowed him to suss out the best places to make camp. Jaskier never found as good a spot to stay the night when he was on the road by himself, which was only one of the reasons he preferred to travel with caravans or merchants or any other traveler when he was apart from his Witcher.
Geralt took care to untack and brush down Roach, while Jaskier did his best to collect useable firewood for them to warm their evening meal over. Also, as the afternoon moved on towards evening, that springtime chill would set in and Jaskier, for one, had no interest in losing sensation in the tips of his fingers (despite how entertaining it was to then stick them in Geralt’s neck, who hissed like a pissy cat and never failed to make Jaskier laugh).
As he broke down the smaller twigs and branches into kindling, he felt the day’s earlier anxiety settle back under his skin. He tried as much as possible to focus on the task of building the fire in such a way that they would get a good, long burn, but he couldn’t shake the rush of words and questions which tumbled through his mind. In the early days of their acquaintanceship, and (though Jaskier would never admit it) in some of the dark, cold nights of winter when he was alone in Oxenfurt, Jaskier had imagined what entering a Contract with Geralt might be like.
The magic of the Contract was little understood, perhaps because it was so commonplace. Obviously the mages at Ban Ard and Aretuza surely studied these things, and, as evidenced by the cruel fate of the Witchers, some knowledge about how the bonds were formed must exist. But for all the reading he’d done at Oxenfurt, Jaskier had yet to find a book which could explain how and why the Contract worked, they could only assure him that it did.
It wasn’t that no pull existed between a Dom and a sub outside of a Contract, Jaskier had even read of times where a Contract had been forced between two people because the will of the Dom was so strong as to overcome the will of the sub. And a strong enough Dom could stretch the limits of a Contract if it was badly worded or left open ended. Perhaps that was a feature of natural magic, the same way a wish to a djinn could so easily go awry; the language was important, always.
He was surprised to realize that he’d already stacked the fire in the way that Geralt had showed him. Bereft of further sticks and fuel he got up and went over to his pack to try and settle into a bit of comfort while he waited for Geralt to return from setting his snares or whatever it was he did to capture the little critters that fed them along the road between the outposts of human civilization. Bedroll laid out, he leant against his pack and found himself fiddling with the strings on his lute, checking the tuning and strumming discordantly as he let his thoughts wander.
He nearly leapt out of his skin when, with a small, sudden whoosh, his carefully stacked fire burst into flame.
He looked up in time to see Gerald uncurling his fingers from the sign for Igni . The Witcher also had two pheasants hanging from his fist, which, being more than they could usually rustle up, especially this early in the season, seemed to Jaskier a good omen, despite his general misgivings about the situation in which they currently found themselves.
Geralt set to preparing the birds to cook, while Jaskier unearthed their meagre supplies, a jar with a selection of spice powders, and the iron pot they used for all their cooking. He set to mixing their corn meal with water to produce little cakes they could cook alongside the meat.
Geralt finally spoke as the pleasant aroma of bubbling fat and searing meat wafted up from the fire, filling their campsite with a sense of home and comfort despite the fact that they were sitting under the stars at some random place along the road.
“What are your terms?” Geralt rumbled.
“...and that’s why it’s so important to consider the purposeful use of off rhymes— Sorry, what?” Jaskier interrupted himself and turned curious eyes to meet Geralt’s golden gaze across the fire. He’d been doing his best to fill the silence to keep himself from dwelling on the trouble sure to befall them if they walked into the Marquess’ court without some kind of plan or protection in place.
“A Contract, Jaskier,” Geralt explained, as if Jaskier were missing the obvious in a conversation they had both been participating in, rather than the reality of Geralt returning to their afternoon conversation without any sign or signal to his devoted companion. The nerve! “What are the terms of your Contract, Jaskier?”
Jaskier swallowed hard around a piece of pheasant that suddenly sat heavy and difficult in his throat. His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed again, licking his lips to try and wet them. Tension strung along his spine, tingling in his fingers and his toes, and it seemed impossible that he should be so warm in the cool air of the spring evening.
He took a deep breath.
“First, you are to take any action you think is necessary to save anyone who finds themselves in danger, second, you are to disregard any orders which would result in you being harmed either directly or indirectly, and third, any order I give you shall supersede any order given to you by anyone else, and if, at any point, there is confusion about how to follow these directives, you shall seek clarification from me. You are free to enter into a limited, secondary Contract in addition to this one,”
He hadn’t planned to speak with such finality, but he knew, as he heard the words in the air between them, caught in the smoke rising lazily from their fire, the hot air making Geralt’s features bend and flicker, he knew they were right. He could feel the start of something catch between them, the air charged with something more than the flames and heat. The shape of the Contract was designed as a long, permissive leash, crafted to give Geralt freedom to make his own decisions, but to tie him to Jaskier’s will all the same. It wasn’t exactly what he would have offered under normal circumstances (although there were no normal circumstances that involved a Contract between Jaskier and Geralt, something of which the bard was painfully aware), but it did something far more important: it would ensure that Geralt’s first responsibility in obedience would be to Jaskier, before anyone else.
(Shamefully, Jaskier coveted its final clause, the one which would defer any uncertainty to his own judgement. Jaskier knew all too well that left to his own devices, Geralt rarely prioritized himself or his needs and desires. But his phrase, which was expressly intended to undercut the power of the Marquess to command Geralt, opened up a little hole in the terms of the Contract which would ensure the compulsion to seek out Jaskier’s guidance at exactly the sorts of times when he might be able to put Geralt on a path to treat himself with greater kindness.)
Geralt’s gaze didn’t waver beyond the haze of the fire, if Jaskier hadn’t been completely unable to pull his gaze from the face of his companion, he might have missed the soft nod of ascent which tipped the Witcher’s face forward.
Voice slightly hoarse, Jaskier reached for the formal words of The Proposal of the Contract.
“With these words I do offer the Contract, may our wills be bound as one.”
Geralt never even blinked.
“With these words I do accept the Contract, to be guided by your hand.”
The potential which Jaskier had felt humming across the fire flared and what had existed as a suggestion at the edge of his mind solidified, and Jaskier felt his breath catch.
The crackling of the fire filled the space between them and Jaskier returned, silent, to his pheasant, and let the sounds of the forest rise up around them.
+++
The court at Kernow is about what Jaskier expected, about how he remembered. They handed Roach off to the Marquess’ stable hands and waited for word of their arrival to reach the Marquess and to be brought to him and announced. Jaskier still couldn’t shake the anxiety which buzzed in every part of his body. He shook himself, like a dog shaking off water and reached deep down to find that well of calm, that little reservoir he relied on to face a crowd, to command a sub, or to bandage Geralt up when something got one over on him. He took a deep breath, slow and even, and another, with his eyes closed, and straightened his shoulders and looked over at Geralt.
His companion was giving him that inscrutable look, not dissimilar to the one he’d given him across the fire when they entered into the Contract together. It would have made Jaskier nervous if it didn’t make him want to prove himself to the Witcher, show himself worthy of Geralt’s trust and respect.
“You have to let me lead,” Jaskier said, voice pitched low and serious. The walls could well have ears in this part of the Continent and he didn’t want the half-truth of their arrangement to become known to the Marquess. Court politics and magic both rested on weasel words, and it was best not to leave themselves exposed to anything that might seek to force itself into any cracks they’d left, unwittingly vulnerable. The knowledge that the Contract had been negotiated to leave Geralt his freedom rather than as a true melding of their wills into one was exactly the sort of thing that the Marquess would exploit mercilessly, and Jaskier trembled at the thought of Geralt being left vulnerable because of some misstep or mistake of Jaskier’s.
“We have to sell this as a real and proper Contract, so you have to let me be in charge when we go to face the Marquess,” Jaskier cut his eyes to look at Geralt. The Witcher wasn’t looking at him, but rather down the hall, but Jaskier recognized his posture as one of readiness, the one he had early on in a hunt, all his senses stretched out, paying attention to every snap of twig and rustle of leaf. The muscle in his jaw flexed, and then Geralt nodded once, and Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Don’t you worry, witcher mine,” he said, looking down the hall, trying to add some levity to the moment, “I’m actually quite good at this.”
There was a little huff from next to him and then, softly, almost at the edge of his hearing, a quiet, “I know.”
The next moment, one of the Marquess’ men, dressed in his lord’s colors, appeared at the end of the hall and cut towards them, closing off any more negotiation between them.
+++
“The Witcher and companion,” announced the guard as they made their way through to the Marquess’ court chamber. There were guards and courtiers arrayed along the sides of the room and a long open space before a dias on which sat the Marquess’ throne and seats for his family and advisors.
A murmuring swept through the room as Jaskier and Geralt made their way toward the Marquess. Geralt was keeping a half-step behind the bard, as was customary for a submissive walking with a Dominant, especially one with whom they had a Contract. The susurrus of voices increased as they became more visible… More exposed. Jaskier had set his shoulders at the arrival of the guardsman, and didn’t let his posture droop or drop, aware that all the eyes in the room were focused on them, on him as the unexpected party. For all that people knew that Witchers were submissives, designed to submit to Contracts with local authorities and gentry, the commanding presence of one so tall and strong usually undercut what the humans knew logically to be true.
Jaskier’s bread and butter was performance, it was his business to know exactly how a room of strangers viewed him and his actions and in the years since he left Oxenfurt, he had honed that skill. He knew what people saw when they looked at him: soft, pampered, effete at times, prone to fits of pique and pettiness. In short, Jaskier was not a threat. But all the same, he was a tall man, broad in the shoulders, and when the situation called for it, he could ensure that all eyes in a public house or a ballroom were glued to him. And in the bedroom… Well. There were the lucky ones who knew exactly what the full extent of Jaskier’s presence could be.
Right now, Geralt needed Jaskier’s performance to be flawless. No matter how many years it had been since he held a position in court more powerful than that of a jester, the lessons he had learned as Julian Alfred Pankratz were now of paramount importance.
At last, they were before the Marquess. Close enough that he could get their measure, but not so close as to present a threat (well, at least, by human standards, Jaskier thought, a Witcher, especially one of Geralt’s caliber, was a threat as long as he was inside the castle walls).
“Welcome to Kernow,” the Marquess greeted them. The man was tall, even seated as he was, clearly still in fighting shape, though his body, having reached middle age, was showing some signs of the good years passed as head of state. His stomach was starting to paunch, and the skin around his jaw was getting loose. The Marquess had dark hair, pulled back from his face in a plait, what had once been stark and striking black was now tending towards iron grey, threaded through with white. His brows were heavy above his eyes, which were dark, but sharp, darting over them and taking them in. “Who are you, who presents himself with the Witcher?”
Jaskier stared back, and after a moment of meeting the Marquesses eyes, turned his head to speak to Geralt who still stood a half step behind him.
“Kneel to the Marquess,” he said, voice quiet knowing that Geralt would hear him clearly, and that equally in the expectant silence of the chamber that their audience would hear him as well.
Geralt met Jaskier’s gaze for a moment and then stepped forward and dropped to one knee, bowing his head over. Jaskier could tell that he was peering up at the Marquess despite the submissive pose. The troubadour set one hand on Geralt’s shoulder, to ground himself but also to remind Geralt that he wasn’t facing these people alone. The touch spent sparks climbing up Jaskier’s arm, warmth spreading from their connection, closing the loop between Jaskier’s command and Geralt’s obedience. He drew strength from it, gaining the assurance he needed to deal with the Marquess. Jaskier, too, bowed to the Marquess, bending at the waist, deeply enough to recognize the Marquess’ position.
“I am the bard Jaskier, Lord Kernow,” he said. “And I present to you Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, in answer to your notice.”
The Marquess didn’t lean forward, but the way his body tensed made Jaskier think that he wanted to.
“Surely the Witcher can speak for himself, bardling?” answered the Marquess. While their positions spoke plenty clearly, the Marquess, it seemed, was going to make Jaskier formally announce the Contract between them and thus his claim on Geralt. It was exactly this sort of game that had caused Jaskier to quit court in the first place.
“As well he can, when I permit it,” Jaskier replied. He kept his voice soft, if not quite obsequious, but didn’t take his eyes off the lord in front of him, unwilling to defer to him in more than word. “The Witcher and I are Contracted,” he pitched his voice to carry throughout the chamber to ensure that no one could mistake or mishear him, staking his claim before the Marquess and all members of his court.
“I see,” said the Marquess. Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure that he did, but elected not to comment. He could feel Geralt’s shoulder tense minutely beneath his palm and squeezed it in reassurance, without thinking. They had thrown a wrench in the Marquess’ plans for Geralt, that much seemed obvious, but it was as yet unclear what their little obstacle would mean for their sojourn in Kernow. “Very well,” the Marquess finally declared, “I am sure you are wearied from your travel, you will be taken to your rooms until such a time that our situation can be sufficiently explained. Steward!”
A finely dressed man with a sharp face and sharper eyes stepped forward, bowing to the Marquess before leaning in for his lord to whisper in his ear. A quiet murmur of ascent and he stepped away. Jaskier could feel Geralt get restless where he kneeled, an excited hum thrumming between them as Geralt forced himself to remain as Jaskier had directed him. The steward waved over one of the footmen who stood behind the dias and gave him some instructions, too low for Jaskier to make out, though Geralt might well have heard them. Jaskier didn’t move, nor did he give Geralt any sign to stand up, as he waited for the Marquess to formally dismiss them. The devils were in the details in the matter of court politics, and making oneself scarce too quickly was often as disastrous as overstaying one’s welcome.
The footman stepped forward and bowed to the Marquess. The Marquess nodded to him and dismissed them. Jaskier gave Geralt’s shoulder another squeeze.
“Come on, Witcher,” he said, unable to quell the light fondness which accompanied the moniker, hopeful that it was lost on the surrounding courtiers. Geralt rose smoothly from his position and followed Jaskier and the footman out of the chambers.
+++
“Hm,” Geralt made a dubious sound after the servant closed the door to the rooms.
Jaskier had asked for bathing supplies to be brought up to them along with their things from the stables. He cut his eyes over to his companion.
“What is it?”
“Just an interesting name,” Geralt replied, eyes still roving around the space. “The steward told them to bring us to the blue room.”
Jaskier turned fully towards the rest of the room and looked around carefully. The room was, indeed, oddly named. A light cabbage green predominated on the soft furnishings, accented here and there with a light rose color. The large four poster bed had heavy curtains embroidered with roses against a green backdrop. The light, floral colors and patterns repeated on the settee and its pillows, and the fur in front of the fire was an impressive, ivory colored pelt. Indeed, the more Jaskier looked around, the more he was certain that there was not a single item in the entire room which could be mistaken for having even a bluish tinge.
“Well, that certainly is… something!” Jaskier replied and clapped his hands together. The inconsistency between the name and the interior decorating made him uneasy. Perhaps it was a sign of the lord’s ironic sense of humor, or a joke among the keep’s staff, but Jaskier couldn’t help the paranoia that coiled in his gut. In the world of lords and courtiers, any sign of the names of things being out of line with their reality was a sign that something more lingered beneath the surface.
Jaskier took quick steps to bring him flush against Geralt’s back. It was only when they stood this close together that Jaskier remembered that they were of a height. Geralt always seemed to take up so much of his attention, drawing his eye even in a crowded room, that it seemed only logical that the man should be as big in reality as he was in Jaskier’s own mind. He wrapped one arm around and across Geralt’s body, resting his hand on the far shoulder. At the same time he brought his other arm around to grasp Geralt under the jaw and tilt his head back to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.
Geralt tensed but Jaskier spoke into the room at large, “Come here, stay still.” He pushed the words towards the bond between them, letting them resonate with the timbre of an order.
Jaskier turned his head until his nose was nestled in the hair at Geralt’s temple. He thanked the doubled deity of thieves and storytellers, whom he believed looked out for bards and Witchers, for Geralt’s enhanced hearing.
“I think we should assume that everywhere we are, someone can see us. I didn’t mean for this to happen, but we should maintain the appearance of a genuine Contract even in these chambers.”
The words barely had breath as Jaskier spoke as softly as he could, his lips brushing against Geralt’s hair.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Jaskier said, closing his eyes and letting the familiar smell of dirt and leather and horse and that base note of Geralt which existed underneath it all fill him up, a reminder of why he had talked them into this in the first place. This – Geralt – was what was at stake here and there was little Jaskier wouldn’t do or endure to ensure that Geralt made it through. “It’ll be like it usually is, I promise. We’ll get through this.”
Geralt let out a low, assenting rumble and Jaskier knew that what he was saying was a bald faced lie; it was nothing like it usually was, and worse, Jaskier couldn’t really find it in himself to be sorry when he could stand this close to Geralt, touch him, and feel him bend like a willow switch to his direction.
Jaskier let him go and stepped back.
“Let’s get you out of that armor and ready for the bath,” he said out loud. “It ought to be here soon.”
He undid his doublet and slipped it off, folding it and placing it on the foot of the bed as he heard Geralt set to work on the buckles and straps that held his armor on.
He turned and took a moment to appreciate the sight of Geralt’s silhouette being revealed as he removed pauldrons and bracers. He stepped forward and set to helping him remove the rest, ducking under Geralt’s arms to come round his front and casting the Witcher a mischievous smile, while the Witcher met him with a somewhat incredulous eyebrow. And for a moment it was exactly as it was when they found themselves in an inn, Jaskier making a nuisance of himself trying to ‘help’ Geralt, while the Witcher humored him. But just as the bubble of pleased warmth was rising in his chest, a knock sounded at the door and all the good cheer that Jaskier felt popped and was replaced with the icy chill that had been crawling under his skin since they’d decided to come here.
He caught Geralt’s eyes for a moment, doing his best to mimic the facial expression Geralt always shot him when he followed him into the woods on a hunt, the one which said ‘don’t you move, I will deal with this.’
Jaskier straightened himself back up to his full height, and went to open the door. He delved down into himself and tried to remember what it was like to be Julian Alfred Pankratz. He opened the door just enough to see out, without making it seem like an invitation to enter, one eyebrow raised, face otherwise impassive. A scullery maid with her eyes carefully cast downward and away from Jaskier’s face, accompanied by two young men, stood outside.
“The bath you ordered, sir,” she said, voice shaky but determined. Jaskier felt his unease grow, and not a little guilt bloom in his chest, at the sight. He prided himself on being able to charm kitchen staff and stable hands as easily as courtiers and always did his best to slip away at least once during any court assignment he accepted, no matter how short, to play for the housestaff as well as the lord or lady. But this was enemy territory and, more importantly, it was his job to make sure Geralt could complete his work here unmolested.
“Excellent,” he said and opened the door the rest of the way. “Just over there by the fire, thank you.”
The scullery maid nodded, never raising her face up, though Jaskier thought she might have darted her eyes up to look at him. The boys behind her were less circumspect, looking over to where Geralt stood, quiet and unmoving, observing the goings-on.
The tub was filled about halfway, nothing like some of the impressive bathing experiences that Jaskier had observed at courts with mages who could see to all the needs of the nobility they served.
The boys set down the tub, bowed quickly to Jaskier and left. The maid dipped into a curtsey by the door and before she left, eyes still glued to the floor in front of Jaskier’s feet, she said, “If you have need of anything, at any time, please don’t hesitate to call for me.”
She gestured quickly to a thick, gilded rope which hung by the door, “If you pull on this, it will alert me and I will come immediately at any time, sir.”
She curtseyed again and hesitated.
“Thank you,” Jaskier replied, realizing that she was waiting to be dismissed. He tried to keep his voice warm, her nerves making it difficult for him to remain aloof, despite his own desire to get her out of the room. “We will keep that in mind.”
The maid curtseyed again, and scurried out of the room as quickly as propriety would allow.
As the door finally shut behind her, Jaskier turned around to find Geralt already looking at him. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, and while Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what the look on Geralt’s face meant, he was sure the unease he felt was easy to read on his own.
“Well, get in, warm it up if you like,” Jaskier said, voice full of forced cheer (not that anyone who didn’t know him would be able to tell, he was a consummate performer, after all), and Geralt rolled his eyes and stripped off his shirt, and started to shuck his trousers. Jaskier stepped forward and picked up the items Geralt had discarded and tidied them away, until he heard the splash and quiet hum that always accompanied Geralt getting into a bath.
Turning around, he rolled up his sleeves, and took a minute just to take in the sight before him. Catching Geralt unawares was functionally impossible, but there were moments in their shared life on the road where Jaskier got to imagine what it might be like to see Geralt in the calm of solitude. He let himself look the Witcher over; he sat in the tub, knees sticking up but relaxed out from the hip, resting against the sides of the tub, he was leaning back, slouched low enough that the wooden lip cradled his shoulders and his arms were stretched out, wrists resting against his knees, his head tipped back slightly, white hair loose around his face and tumbling across his shoulders. His face was free of the usual look of consternation or pain, the little divot between his brows was still there, but it was the expression of someone concentrating on the subtleties of a favorite dish, memorizing it to be able to recall it in the time between the present enjoyment and the uncertain possibility of encountering it again in the future. The scars that touched nearly every part of Geralt’s body almost disappeared where the firelight gilded his skin on one side, rendering him in golden warmth which made Jaskier ache to reach out and run his fingers along the soft arc of skin and muscle. On the other side, in the cooler light of the room, Geralt’s skin was like marble, the scars on his bicep, on his forearm, on his pectoral, on the side of his ribs, looked like ribbons of silver or maroon velvet, transforming him into a statue unfit to leave the artist’s studio, because Jaskier knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Geralt’s beauty would drive lesser men to madness.
“Jas,” Geralt’s voice rumbled as if from another room, filtered into Jaskier’s awareness.
“Hm?” Jaskier looked up and saw a sliver of gold peeking through Geralt’s half-open eyes, fixed on his face. “Yes, yes, I’ll be right over.”
He pulled the soaps and salts out of their bags, grabbed the bowl on the table by the bed, and went over to stand behind Geralt. He reached over his shoulder and dumped a few of the salts into the water, which was steaming slightly, from where Geralt must have used igni to heat the water to the near boiling temperature the witcher preferred for his baths.
“Lean forward,” Jaskier directed, dipping the bowl into the water, “Now tip your head back.”
He poured the water over Geralt’s hair, running it over the strands and trying to keep it from running into his face and eyes. He put the bowl down and grabbed their soap, lathering up his hands and starting to work the soap through Geralt’s hair, starting from the bottom and slowly working his way up until he was working his fingers against Geralt’s scalp.
It was odd to be doing this without feeling the freedom to chatter away to Geralt about anything and everything that popped into his head as he usually would. But their usual ribbing and teasing seemed too open and vulnerable for the uncertainty they found themselves in. He didn’t think it would be wise to let his mouth ramble without thinking about it, because Jaskier’s ability to filter his thoughts and retain his poise tended to evaporate around Geralt. So he started to hum, one of the songs he was working out, as yet without words.
He rinsed Geralt’s hair and passed him the soap, letting him begin the process of washing his arms and chest. He dipped his hands into the water, rinsing them off, and started to stand up.
“Wait,” Geralt interrupted him, Jaskier paused his motion. “Back,” Geralt said, holding the soap back over his shoulder for Jaskier to take. Geralt’s hair was pulled back, dark with water, and his head was turned just enough that Jaskier could see his ear, outlined by firelight, the edge of a cheekbone.
“Yeah, of course,” Jaskier heard himself say, taking the soap.
With his fingers slick with soap, running over the smooth skin and ridged scars on Geralt’s shoulders and back, Jaskier found himself thinking, that no, this really was nothing like it usually was between them at all.
+++
The Marquess, it seemed, had decided to make them wait. They finished the bath, Jaskier washing himself quickly, standing up, in the cooling water left behind when Geralt finished. He dressed in the clothes he had with him that most closely met the standards for “meeting the Lord of contested border territory, to negotiate a Contract.” And then they waited.
And they waited.
And they waited.
Waiting was all well and good for Geralt, man of few words, and seemingly infinite patience. Well, Geralt’s temper was short and his nerves were infamous when it came to Jaskier’s babbling and crowded human settlements, but when it came to filling the dead time on a job or while they were waiting for it to get dark enough to sleep after making camp in the forest, Geralt was a master of keeping himself occupied.
The talent, it seemed, extended to keeping busy in the dubious seclusion of a set of chambers in an untrustworthy lord’s keep. Jaskier was not so blessed. He didn’t have swords to sharpen, nor did he have mending to do, nor could Jaskier make the anxious gibbering running through his head go away. Jaskier hated waiting, he hated idleness (unless there was something else he was supposed to be doing, like when Geralt woke him up at the crack of dawn to get packed up and hit the road again, in those cases he absolutely adored idleness), and found it impossible to sit still and occupy himself with something else while something unpleasant loomed over his head. So he paced back and forth and fidgeted and cast anxious glances over to where Geralt sat near a window willing the time to pass more quickly.
He’d entered the phase of his pacing and fidgeting where he was chewing compulsively on his bottom lip and imagining all the ways in which things could go terribly, horribly wrong, and tapping his hands in a nervous rhythm against his thighs in a way that one of his classmates at Oxenfurt had once compared to “a particularly anxious and deeply misguided woodpecker” which was a description that continued to baffle and offend him, even all these years later.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said.
“What?” Jaskier replied, in a tone which perhaps did not convey absolute calm and resilience in the face of uncertainty and danger.
“Come sit on the bed,” Geralt said, voice was low and gravely, but lacking something of the irritated edge that usually made itself known when Jaskier was in ‘one of his moods’ (to quote a certain Witcher) and that was enough to make the bard pause. He looked the Witcher over carefully. His face and hair were clean from the bath, his jaw shadowed lightly with a few days beard growth, but it just made him look rugged and handsome, adding definition to his strong jawline and shading beneath the sharp jut of his cheekbones. Jaskier had shaved himself quickly after his wash up in the tub, knowing that even two days without would lend him an air of ‘forest-dwelling vagrant’ due to the powerful beard growth he had inherited from his father. Geralt’s long hair caught on the stubble and wisps curled and danced around his face. They looked poised to catch against his mouth and tangle in his eyelashes, and Jaskier knew that Geralt hated when that happened, yet, for whatever reason, refused to cut his hair to a more easily managed length.
Jaskier took a deep breath and walked over to the side of the bed closest to where Geralt was sitting. He sat down and found that his knees immediately set about jittering up and down entirely independent of his control.
He looked up and saw that Geralt had put his swords to the side, resting carefully on their scabbards, gleaming in the fading light filtering through the window. Geralt stepped toward him and was suddenly backlit, casting his face in shadow and all the wisps of his hair catching the light and making a pale halo around his head. Suddenly, Jaskier could see where the tension coiled in Geralt’s shoulders, drawing them up toward his ears, the way his hands curled into fists now that they were unoccupied, the knuckles pushing against the skin and making it go bone white, the way his body was pulled taught, as if waiting to spring into action. Geralt was just as unsettled and unhappy with this situation as Jaskier was. However, the Witcher wouldn’t be doing either of them any favors if he strung himself out like this before they even knew the scope and scale of the threat they were facing.
“Come over here, let me fix your hair,” Jaskier demanded. Getting Geralt set to rights would do him a world of good. For all that Geralt grumped and grumbled, he loved it when Jaskier would braid his hair to keep it out of his face. He rarely allowed the bard the opportunity to perform this act of service, but Jaskier relished it every time.
Geralt let out a little grunt of acknowledgement and then walked over to their things and rummaged around in one of the packs before making his way back over to where Jaskier was sitting. In one graceful movement (the sort that people who had never seen Geralt fight would not believe him capable of), he kneeled between Jaskier’s legs, facing away from him, and sat back on his heels, as if he were preparing for a meditation. Then he brought his hand up to his shoulder, to hand something back to Jaskier. The bard stretched out his hand to grab the thing that gleamed between Geralt’s fingers.
It was a comb.
The fine toothed metal object had been a rare find that Jaskier had encountered over the winter in Novigrad while they had been apart some years back. He’d given it to Geralt in an offhand manner as spring started to tumble into summer when they met up again, pretending it was something he’d accidentally dug out of his pack one afternoon. He suspected that Geralt had known even then that he was bluffing, that he’d seen it amongst the fine wares of a merchant who proudly described its dwarven make, the detailed craftsmanship which had gone into the spine, and the sturdy teeth. Jaskier hadn't seen it since, had figured that Geralt lost it, or gave it away, or left it behind at Kaer Morhen the next winter. Instead, here it was, nestled somewhere amongst their belongings, in some place that Geralt knew exactly to find it.
Jaskier cleared his throat, “Excellent.”
He set about his task with care and concentration, careful to run the comb slowly through the white strands before him, carefully picking out knots and tangles, and separating Geralt’s hair into three chunks, making sure the parts were straight and neat. As he finished each section of hair he carefully set about braiding it, pulling the hair in at the scalp so that the braids rested along his skull, about halfway back, he tied them off, then splitting the hair again, left the bottom strands to fall around Geralt’s shoulders and cover his nape, in the manner that the Witcher preferred, and resectioned the hair, pulling the top half back into a braid that fell straight down, mimicking the half pulled back style that Geralt generally sported.
As he carefully arranged the braids and checked that they were even and looking as they should, Jaskier became aware that he and Geralt had started to breathe in sync. His hands were steady where they curled in the Witcher’s alabaster locks, and the tension that had drawn Geralt’s shoulders tight had disappeared. One shoulder was even pressing lightly against the inside of Jaskier’s thigh, a warm, steady pressure which reminded him that they were here, in this moment and this place, together.
Jaskier took a big breath and let it out slowly, thinking of the breath control exercises they had practiced in Oxenfurt; the reminder that breath was where all life began, that feeling it rush into your lungs and being careful of how you expelled it was first among the lessons one had to learn. He nudged Geralt ever so lightly with his knee, more like pressing back against his shoulder where they rested against one another, hoping to check in with his companion.
Geralt let out a hum, a sound uncharacteristically inflected with contentment, but otherwise seemed reluctant to respond. Jaskier stared at the back of his head and desperately wished he could see the Witcher’s expression. Did he have his eyes closed? Was he smiling? Perhaps his expression was that smooth and slightly fuzzy expression some subs got when they sunk into the feeling of being looked after. Jaskier brought his hands up, ready to lay his fingers against Geralt’s temples and tip his head back to see for himself, when there was another knock at the door.
The warm and relaxed silence that had wrapped around them shattered.
In a moment, Geralt was standing moving back towards the window and the spot where he’d left his swords. Jaskier watched him, saw how he held himself at the ready again (though his shoulders were more relaxed, he noted with some pride), and with a sigh he stood up from the bed, straightened his doublet and his shoulders and went to open the door.