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contemplativepancakes · 4 years

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killing me softly with his song

3k post-mountain mutual pining fix it. read on ao3 here!

Geralt isn’t supposed to feel things. At least, that’s what Vesemir had purported after he had finished going through the mutations. Had sat him down and had a whole conversation about it, in fact, but at the moment, Geralt is feeling rather lied to. He’s felt things before, of course he has, he knows that being a Witcher doesn’t truly mean his emotions are gone. Muted, would be a more accurate word.

But now…

It all feels so overwhelming. He can’t seem to escape the swirling unsettledness deep in his gut, the despair that threatens to crash over his head every time he sees something that reminds him of Jaskier, twisting the knife even more in his gut. Back on the mountain, Geralt had regretted his words almost as soon as they had left his mouth, but they had tumbled out of him, and he was powerless to stop it.

Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it’s always you shovelling it? If life was to give me one blessing, it’d be to take you off my hands!

Jaskier had tried to protest, but Geralt didn’t want to hear it in the heat of the moment, he was more interested in lashing out at anyone who would dare to contest his low opinion of himself. Sure, he might kill monsters, but does that really outweigh everything else?

He’s shit, through and through. He knows that. He’s glad Jaskier finally realized it, too.

The only thing that Jaskier being present all those times when Geralt found himself in trouble meant was that he was always there for Geralt. And really, if Geralt thinks back, he always was.

Geralt’s not sure what he ever did to inspire that kind of loyalty, but he knows he didn’t deserve it. The words he had spat proved that.

Geralt shakes his head as he thinks about all the ways Jaskier has helped him over the years. Even if Jaskier was practically in the middle of sticking his cock some place it really shouldn’t be, if Geralt needed him, he was there.

Jaskier washed monster guts out of Geralt’s hair too many times to count, and if it weren’t for Jaskier turning his reputation around, Geralt probably wouldn’t have been able to step foot in an inn any time in the past decade without being cast out.

And despite all those things, Geralt had still yelled at him, still made one of the only unwavering constants in his life walk away and not look back. What had Jaskier ever gotten in return, anyway? Geralt knows he’s not exactly the best company.

Geralt curses, and Roach noses at his shoulder from where she’s tethered to the tree he’s leaning against.

Geralt strokes his fingers over the soft velvet of her nose and huffs when she snorts in his ear.

“Yes, all right,” he grumbles under his breath, standing up and rustling through her saddlebags to find a sugar cube.

Jaskier had always given Roach too many sugar cubes for her own good.

Fuck.

Geralt looks at the saddlebags, fighting with himself and failing when he fishes out the blanket Jaskier always rolled up to use as a pillow. It smells of Jaskier’s scent that Geralt had liked the best, not the sour and unhappy scent he was pouring off when Geralt shouted at him to go.

Geralt unfurls it and holds it to his nose, avoiding looking at Roach. He’s sure she’s judging him.

Geralt is judging himself a little, too. What was he thinking?

He supposes Witchers are meant to walk the Path alone, so it was for the best. Inevitable. Better to get it out of the way now than later, that’s for sure. Jaskier will get married and have children and won’t want to travel with Geralt anymore, so Geralt is glad he won’t have to suffer through that. He’s not sure he could take it to have to watch a courtship of Jaskier’s that actually lasted, that didn’t end with Jaskier coming back to him.

No, Geralt has feelings, all right, and he’s never hated them more than he does right now.

Roach snorts, pawing at the ground, and Geralt reaches up to pat her shoulder. She’s getting irritated, so Geralt should pack it in for the night, but he itches to keep moving, to keep putting more distance between him and what happened. Roach huffs again, nickering a bit. “Fine,” Geralt grumbles. “We’ll stop in the next town. Happy?”

Probably not, because Roach never seems entirely happy with him these days. Well, Roach can join the club. Geralt makes a mental note to buy more sugar cubes. At least one of them should be happy.

By the time they make it to civilization, it’s much later than Geralt had anticipated. He hands Roach off to a stable girl, wagging a finger at Roach and telling her to be good. Then he talks to the innkeeper and secures a room before walking over to the bar. He desperately needs an ale. His mind has been going nonstop ever since Jaskier left, and while it probably won’t do a whole lot for him, it might slow his thoughts down enough to fall asleep. Maybe he should go to the brothel and look for a distraction. If he could find a fight, even better.

The barmaid plunks a mug in front of him, but Geralt hardly notices after a familiar chord emanates from the corner. Geralt whips his head around to look, but it’s just someone else playing one of Jaskier’s songs. Geralt clenches his teeth. He hates this one. Jaskier had made him out to be entirely too heroic. Geralt’s never been a hero. He’s just in it for the coin.

He’d had this conversation with Jaskier until he was blue in the face, a rare amount of words for him, in his desire to get his point across, but Jaskier had refused to believe him. Just fixed Geralt with a look and said, “Hmm.”

That was Geralt’s line, dammit.

Geralt’s eyes catch on a man sitting at the bar, wearing shoes with hardly a speck of dirt on them. They look like they’d pinch his toes quite a bit, and Geralt can’t help but shake his head at the lack of practicality of it all. His gaze travels up the man, noting his opulent doublet, and Geralt quickly looks away, taking his drink to a corner table.

He thumps the mug down, and several of the other patrons shoot him concerned looks. Geralt clenches his teeth. He has only his own social skills to rely on, now. It’s not a situation he prefers, to say the least. Jaskier was always the best at making people see Geralt as better than he truly was, something they didn’t have to be frightened of, or feel the need to drive out of town.

Geralt heaves a deep sigh. He wishes Jaskier was here.

Jaskier has never been one to turn down an opportunity for good song writing material, but for the first time, he doesn’t want it. He’s always been told heartache makes for the best song fodder, but somewhere along the way, things have gotten muddled, and he’d be perfectly happy if his heart was never broken again.

It still seems like a nightmare that he’s going to wake up from any second; Geralt is going to look at him from where he’s dousing the fire and tell him, “Wake up, lazy bones,” and Jaskier will protest and lunge for his notes as a new song idea that doesn’t reek of melancholy overcomes him.

Jaskier has pinched himself too many times to keep holding out for that hope, though.

In line with what his teachers at Oxenfurt told him, these days, Jaskier has plenty of song ideas. The problem is none of them seem particularly noteworthy. He doesn’t want to make anyone else listen to him reminisce about better days—about the gentle curve of Geralt’s rare smile, the fondness he held for Roach, the way he looked when moonbeams caught on his hair and made him seem even more ethereal than normal.

Even when Geralt was at his most frightening-looking, covered in viscera and ichor from his latest monster kill, Jaskier never lost that sense of wonder. Geralt could probably kill Jaskier with his pinky, but he let Jaskier tag along with him anyway, for years.

Geralt might pretend to be jaded and cynical, but Jaskier knows the truth. Jaskier saw the way Geralt couldn’t resist helping others, the way he always gave a subtle wave to the children he passed in the streets who didn’t shrink away from him, and let them pet Roach until their parents noticed and ushered them away. Geralt’s mouth would settle into a hard line and his shoulders would square, but he never commented on it, so neither did Jaskier.

Jaskier strums a chord on his lute thoughtfully, but it doesn’t sound right. Nothing has sounded right for days, and Jaskier is teetering over the precipice of despair.

He needs a distraction.

He makes his way to an inn, figuring whatever he’s met with, be it adoration or angriness at someone he’s scorned, it’ll be able to settle the unease that’s lived beneath his skin since that terrible night.

He had stumbled down the mountainside, veering off trail and crashing through the scratchy underbrush in his haste to get away from Geralt. Away, before Geralt had the satisfaction to see the emotion pulling at his face, the tears pooling in his eyes. Geralt’s cruel words could only have been aimed to deliberately hurt, even after all the time they had spent together. Well, hell, because of it.

Geralt thought he brought nothing but bad luck, and looking at the shambles his life is in, he’s inclined to agree. No wonder Geralt hadn’t wanted to take him up on his offer of getting away for a while. He doesn’t know why he suggested it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The coast? What would someone like Geralt want to go there for, anyway? It certainly wouldn’t be for the pleasure of Jaskier’s company.

Too much, too soon. Jaskier snorts at himself. It wasn’t too soon. Geralt just never wanted to hear it.

No lasting relationships, no steady job, no place to lay his head and call his own? Jaskier could be doing better, that’s for sure.

Jaskier lets out a heavy sigh as he stops with his hand on the door to the inn, distracted by a nickering from the stables. He looks over and sees a mare that looks just like Roach. Jaskier pats his pockets for his sugar cubes until he remembers flinging them all into a lake on his way down the mountain. It wasn’t his finest hour.

He walks over to the bay horse and pets her, running his fingers over her wiry fur. She snorts just like Roach would have, and Jaskier can’t help but be overcome by a wave of dejectedness. He really misses Roach; she always let him tell her about all his problems. Namely, Geralt.

Jaskier sighs. He supposes he should cut his losses and try to move on, snip Geralt neatly from his life, but they’re too bound together for any kind of removal to go smoothly.

Jaskier pets the white nose the horse has, just like Roach, and snorts at the coincidence. There’s no way Geralt made it this far south already, so it can’t actually be Roach. Jaskier has been travelling as fast as he can, because if he stops, he’ll have to think, and he certainly doesn’t want that to happen. The horse nips at his sleeve, drawing Jaskier back to the present.

This is practically the longest he’s spent away from Geralt besides during the winters, and Jaskier’s not a fan, to put it lightly. He combs his fingers through the horse’s coarse mane and adjusts the strap of his lute before he walks inside the inn.

Geralt sighs, drumming his fingers on the scratched tabletop before noting the stares he’s receiving and pulling his hand back on his lap. He doesn’t need to draw any unwanted attention to himself. He drains his third mug of ale for the night and is getting ready to head to his room when the inn door creaks open.

Geralt jerks his head in the direction of the noise on instinct, and his stomach drops when he recognizes the familiar face. His pulse immediately speeds, pounding in his ears until that’s all he can hear.

Geralt ducks his head, but not before he sees Jaskier returning his shocked stare. Geralt tips his mug back again, even though it’s empty, just to try and look busy. It’s been a month, so he’s sure Jaskier has already moved on, and Geralt speaking to him would just open up wounds for both of them. On a day when he felt particularly ready to lie to himself, he would say he’s mostly over his best friend getting torn from his life.

It reminds Geralt of when healers would try to stitch up his skin when just a little too much flesh was missing. Tight and pinched, and it stung something awful anytime he jostled it. That’s about how neatly having Jaskier walk away has healed, as well. Geralt is still waiting for the wound to stop itching.

Jaskier, for his part, just blinks when he sees Geralt. It’s like he’s seeing a ghost. Geralt looks like he’s been running from something, too, and for a second, Jaskier allows himself to hope. It’s quickly dashed when Geralt looks away from him like he’s been burned. Jaskier turns to settle into the corner, only to see there’s already a bard at this inn. Well. That’s peachy. The other bard stares wide eyed, his gaze flitting back and forth from Jaskier to Geralt, before a look of understanding dawns across his face and he hastily gets up.

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. He wasn’t aware their reputation had spread quite this far. Nevertheless, he takes the man’s spot, adjusting the strings of his lute just a bit, stalling.

Geralt is still at his table.

Jaskier clears his throat and strums his lute.

The fairer sex, they often call it…

He stares at the side of Geralt’s face, but Geralt doesn’t look back at him. Jaskier notices the way his shoulders tense up, though, and he’s not sure what to make of it.

I'm weak my love, and I am wanting

If this is the path I must trudge

I welcome my sentence

Give to you my penance

Garrotter, jury and judge

At that, Geralt turns his head to look straight at Jaskier, and Jaskier tries to resist the shiver that creeps down his spine. When Jaskier finishes the song, he finds Geralt still staring at him. He slings his lute over his shoulder and draws upon his reserves of bravery. He finds they’re about empty, but he walks over to Geralt anyway.

Jaskier approaches him, and Geralt’s eyes widen. Geralt was under the impression they were going to just ignore each other, like any other sensible people who don’t like talking about their feelings.

Jaskier has always been a wordsmith, though, so maybe Geralt shouldn’t be surprised. And by the sound of his song, it seems like Jaskier already knows what he wants to say, even if Geralt shouldn’t let himself hope that it means what he wants.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier says weakly.

Geralt bites his lip, and takes a chance. “Care to join me?”

Jaskier’s eyes get round, and a peculiar look crosses his face. He sits.

Geralt smells the unease coming off of Jaskier in droves, and Geralt takes a moment to grimace at the realization that it’s because of him. Even the first day they met, when Jaskier knew nothing about him, Jaskier hadn’t been so unsettled. Geralt supposes that’s just a side effect of his personality. It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s not the easiest person to be around. He’s sure many people would say he’s the person to be around, and it seems like Jaskier is inclined to agree.

But.

Geralt wants to try and make this right.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats, enunciating like Jaskier just didn’t hear him.

They stare at each other for a beat. “Interesting song,” Geralt says, casting Jaskier a sideways glance. “Did you find a new fancy?”

Jaskier smiles sadly. “I think you know.”

Picking up on conversational nuances has never been Geralt’s strong suit, but Jaskier’s song wasn’t exactly subtle, was it?

Geralt stands and Jaskier follows suit. Geralt tilts his head towards the stairs, and he can hear Jaskier’s hard swallows as he trails behind Geralt, to his room. Jaskier pulls the door shut behind him and looks at Geralt expectantly.

“Jask…” Geralt starts, and Jaskier tries very hard not to let himself be won over just by the soft tone Geralt’s taken. The one he reserves for the people he loves. Jaskier is sure Roach is the only one who gets to hear it often. “I missed you.”

Jaskier shuts his eyes briefly. It’d be easy to push Geralt away, tell him this is too little, too late, and it would certainly be less complicated than picking up the tattered ends of their relationship, but. Jaskier is weak, and he is wanting.

“I missed you, too.”

#the witcher #geraskier #ficlet #geraskier ficlet #geralt of rivia #jaskier #contemplative writing

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