He either was going to implode with annoyed curiosity or stab Geralt of Rivia in the face. Those were the only two options.

Well, that, or just ask what the hell his problem was. But Gods knew if the damn man would give him a straight answer.

After leaving Upper Posada, they travelled a few days on their own. The more Jaskier tried to talk and connect, the more grunts and groans Geralt responded with. It was like the man was a shy clam. Jaskier wasn't really sure how to deal with all the perturbed looks the Witcher always threw at him, especially with no words ever spoken to back them up.

Hell, he'd even taken to practicing the lute while walking, because Geralt would just get on his horse (named Roach, of all things), and ride ahead of him. In theory Geralt could just trot off if he hated him so much, but he never did.

Jaskier couldn't figure the damned man out. Did he like him, hate him, or tolerate him? And why?

Finally, unable to take those yellow eyes being so implicitly intrusive, he asked, "What the hell are you looking at?"

Geralt moved his eyes down to his pack, like he hadn't just been burning holes in Jaskier's skin. Setting up camp was so awkward with this Witcher. He was observant in an unsettling way, like he was hunting down every stray, odd piece of the bard.

White Wolf, indeed.

The Witcher said, nonchalantly, "You're not stiff."

Not knowing what he really meant by that, Jaskier's face scrunched up. "Okay? Thank you for that mildly unsettling observation."

"A tavern bard can sleep on the ground; I'm surprised."

If only he knew how often Jaskier had slept on the ground. Before he picked up any merchant or banking jobs, he was just a nameless fool trying to find a way to live. Sure, anything from the early days was blurry for him, but he could at least remember the broad brushstrokes of hard dirt and dying fires. He could even feel the ache, a phantom memory, of a deep pain in his side. A night sleeping on a rock, before he learned better, no doubt.

But that was not a story he wanted to share with the Witcher. To him, he'd only had twenty-ish years of experience, all in Posada. He needed his stories to line up. While Geralt wasn't much of a curious one, he didn't need to give him reason to change his tune.

Flashing his best smile, normally only saved for cute barmaids and slutty nobles, Jaskier said, "I'm a man of many talents. What can I say?"

"Hmm." Preoccupied with pulling out food items from his satchel, Geralt added, "We should be reaching Gulet in the morning. Bored yet?"

Jaskier didn't appreciate his tone. It was the kind that expected him to be like a whimsical child, bored and tired of being out in the real world already. Geralt probably thought him the spoiled son of some noble who left on his own impulses to be a Bard. From his clothes and behavior, it wasn't the wildest assumption. However, he wasn't petulant because he was a child. He was petulant because he was so old that everything was annoying and exhausting, so he had to find fun in the world or he'd kill himself.

...That got dark, but wasn't a lie.

Again, though, he couldn't sass back at Geralt with honesty. Maybe this is why he didn't talk to one person long; it eventually made him want to tell his life's story. The parts he remembered, at least.

With a deep sigh, Jaskier pulled out the bard charm. While Geralt's condescending bulslhit was tiresome, at least he could be witty about it. "I don't get free bread anymore, but I see something other than four square walls made to cope with male misery in a small town, so I'll call it a net gain. Instead I just watch your misery, but it comes with greenery and a much more handsome face, so I think it's the kind of melancholy I can get behind." When there was no reaction from Geralt, Jaskier almost wished he had one of those rolls with him. They were great projectiles to throw at idiots. He was funny, dammit. But he settled for amusing himself; he'd done that for years on his own. Still talking, Jaskier continued his rant, "Will say the early mornings are sort of getting to me, though. Do we always have to get up with the sunrise?"

"Get over it."

Jaskier was about ready to substitute a roll for a rock.

This man dared to ask him how he felt about travelling and now was back to grumpy. Did he ever have real conversations with people or did he just get what he wanted and then act like a brick wall of a human?

Their conversation in the bath was fairly decent, but looking back, Geralt was asking about Tybalt and trying to figure out Jaskier's deal. Since then, it was like the bard had turned into the equivalent of a giant clay doll. Just some annoying cargo he was lugging around.

Well, Jaskier was not going to let this idiot brute get to him. They were just travelling companions, nothing more.

It didn't mean anything that he chose the kind of answer that would irritate him the most.

"Somehow your short answers only make you all the more fascinating." And Geralt still didn't react, just started peeling a damn potato with his knife. Jaskier groaned, threw down his blanket, and laid on top of it. "What's for dinner?"

"Food."

He was going to kill this man. After years of being a generally unproblematic human, three days into adventuring and he was going to commit murder and he didn't even care.

Good looks didn't make up for this.

"Har har, hilarious." Watching Geralt's fingers glide across a potato, peeling it perfectly with an unbroken touch, the bard felt his emotions cool and his thoughts transfixed. Jaskier's annoyance faded at the sight of a more complicated man than the bristle and blade Geralt kept exuding. He had to remind himself there was more than muscles and protection that brought him here.

Maybe he could try to be less of a reactionary asshole; be the curious side of him, not just the equally crotchety old man. Jaskier started with a compliment. "You know, you're a surprisingly good cook."

"Long years on the road teach you something." That wasn't an insult; it was a start.

Jaskier wanted, craved, to crack a joke about how he didn't learn how to cook despite his time on the road; even when he travelled like a richer man, he either just stuffed his face with bread or had someone else make meals.

Looking back, maybe there was a reason he had a bread problem.

After he opened his mouth for the third time, wanting to compliment Geralt but trying not to do it in such a way-too-honest, a blow-his-cover kind of way, the Witcher started shaking his head.

Part of Jaskier wanted to flare up again, yell at him, but he knew his anger got neither of them anywhere. And, worse, it reminded him too much of a monster he once knew. He left it behind on purpose; he would not go back there again.

Instead, he spent the next half hour watching Geralt stir together a meal, giving him those glances every so often. Once the pot was boiling, but he wasn't, he asked with a tempered voice, "Why do you keep looking at me like I'm some sideshow entertainment?"

"You won't be here long."

Jaskier laughed, but it had a bitter aftertaste. "I said I want to follow your adventures. I don't joke about that. Sure, I am rarely serious in general, but if I do get serious? Oh, then no one can stop me."

"Sure."

"I don't know what childhood abandonment issues you have, but just trust me, will you?"

Handing him a bowl of some soup concoction, Geralt replied, "I don't."

"Fair. Maybe just don't assume the worst of me, then?"

"Also no."

Sighing, Jaskier tired of trying to make a different man out of the Witcher. He was who he was, guarded, grumpy, and hostile to anyone trying to find themselves closer to him. No amount of good intentions or tapered anger would change that.

While Jaskier would stick to being the better, happier, cheerier man he wanted to be, Geralt was going to be a fortress of self-inflated stoicism and masculinity. And that was fine. Definitely fine.

It had to be fine.

After a bite of soup, again, surprisingly good for road food, Jaskier asked, "Can I get you to say you won't stab me in my sleep? Is that something you can do?"

"... Yes."

"Wonderful. Willing to not murder me is the start of a great bond." Staring down at his bowl, Jaskier had some harsh honesty that he was half-convinced was more for himself than Geralt. "You could actually try with people sometimes, you know. Just saving lives every so often doesn't net you friends."

"I know."

When their bowls were empty, Jaskier gave them a quick rinse in the river they'd been following to Gulet. He got back to camp once they looked clean enough, and Geralt was already tucked into his bedroll, turned away from the fire.

It was like the guy actively tried to be an asshole. No wonder he struggled to make friends with anyone, why Jaskier was the first person he talked to in weeks. Three days, and his best progress with him was when he was just desperate to get his tangled hair unknotted. That made Jaskier feel dirty. He thought he was manipulating the Witcher to do what he wanted, but maybe he wasn't the only one.

He couldn't spend all night thinking about it, though. They had to get to Gulet in the morning. And maybe Geralt was right, maybe they should part ways there. What was he trying to prove, anyway? That he could go on adventures and not get tempted by the lightning rods in his fingertips?

One night with a bristly man and he slipped into being a much angrier man. What would make his powers any different?

Jaskier let the darkness seep into his eyes and settle him to sleep, wondering if his selfishness was getting the best of him all over again.

In the morning, he woke to a strange cup next to his face.

Rubbing his eyes and sitting up, he asked, "What is this?"

Nodding at the drink, Geralt was already packing his things. "Helps with the mornings."

Jaskier stared at the mug in front of him. Picking it up, it seemed like some sort of root tea. Probably took some time to wake up and get it ready for him, to boil water over the remnants of the fire. That is, or use those mythical Witcher powers to heat it up.

Peering up at the man saddling his horse, this mug spoke to a different human than the scowl on his face or his insults last night.

Breathless, Jaskier said, "Thank you. This is-"

"Don't."

He didn't push it. Jaskier just sipped his tea while Geralt deconstructed the rest of their camp.

Just like their supplies, Jaskier packed away his thoughts of leaving. Tybalt wasn't a fluke; helping Geralt with his hair wasn't one either. There was something, not quite touchable, about this man.

Jaskier couldn't help but notice how he looked like a misplaced vampire in the sunlight, like he'd lived his life being told he didn't belong here, but forced to go out anyway. He couldn't stop noticing it, no matter how much small talk they made on the rest of their walk.

Emphasis on small talk, though. It was mostly Jaskier raving about some weird dream he had, with a dryad and several angry nature spirits. That, or discussing the bare minimum he knew about Gulet from Posada rumors. Geralt just sat there and listened, but unlike last night, that was fine.

Gods knew Jaskier spent enough time talking with himself over the years. Having an audience just gave a new, voyeuristic flair to it.

But their conversation didn't stay on their own for too long. After the seventeenth farm they passed, they came upon two guards gripping their swords like they were threads of fate.

Knowing Geralt wasn't the most friendly folk and might scare the poor boys out of their skin, Jaskier spoke first, "What are two handsome fellows like you doing this far out of town?"

"There's a wraith stalking the farms at night. We come out here in the mornings to assess the damage from the spectral beastie." Though their voices were all sarcastic and pithy, Jaskier could tell their amygdala's spoke otherwise. "I'd say be careful, but looks like your friend there is packing some serious-" As the taller guard with the large upper lip traced over Geralt's get-up, his eyes bugged. "Bloody hell, is that a silver sword?"

Jaskier was quick to not have some Gulet guards raising a fuss the second they got back to town. He remembered what rumors were like for Witchers nowadays; not too friendly. Especially not for Geralt, with Butcher of Blaviken tied to his name. "Absolutely not, it just looks silver. He likes to polish it quite often, if you know what I mean. But best of luck with your search, men."

Even though they seemed to believe him enough, the two men tipped their helmets and rushed off like their mummies just called for dinner. And not just any dinner, but their favorite meal in the world.

That, or their mothers were just that terrifying.

The second they were out of sight, Geralt smacked the back of Jaskier's head. "That could've been a job."

Jaskier rolled his eyes. No wonder Witchers had such bad PR, between the slapping and poor business sense. Patting Roach, he said, "It will be a job. But we can't take it from poor guards getting the shit shifts. We take the job from the richer folk terrified their silver spoons might get pulled from their mouths. A win for the poor guards, not having to scrounge up coin for us, and we get paid better by less desperate, more paranoid men."

"We?"

"Oh, don't get your stupidly tight pants in a rustle. You'll be doing all the real work. I'm just here to chronicle."

Geralt gave a curt nod. "Good. You'd die immediately."

"You really think so little of me?"

"Yes. I could break you over my knee like I was cracking an egg."

Shrugging, Jaskier frowned a little. He didn't like the image that was put in his head, of an egg with fabulous fashion sense shattering in half. He didn't know how that would be put back together again. "Wow, that was a little threatening."

Geralt chuckled on his high horse, literally. "Trust me, if I was threatening you, you'd know." As they entered the town, it was fairly small and unimpressive. There were defined dirt roads and some larger buildings, but it was in no way industrious like other large cities. While watching a young boy kick another in the shins, Geralt insisted, "You don't have to be so sensitive about everything."

Jaskier was still wincing at the poor smaller child nursing his leg. "It's a bard's way. The world is our reflection and we must see the art in it."

"Right." They came up to a tie-out. Getting off Roach, Geralt knotted her reins onto a post, securing her tight. "Ignoring your stupid bard thing, let's go find someone who wants that wraith gone."

While Geralt seemed to be in a different headspace, Jaskier still didn't appreciate his comments on being a bard. "I'll just follow behind, being stupid."

"Isn't that what you always do?"

Oh, that was asking for it. While Jaskier had decided to stick with this somewhat asshole, that didn't mean he needed to take insults lying down. He was not getting paid to let this man toss his dick around; that hadn't been his job is nearly a century.

But, of course, Jaskier was going to have the most fun he could with the revenge. No better way to make friends than be an impertinent asshole, right?

Walking up to a slightly better dressed man in front of a tavern of sorts, Jaskier said, "Hello, me and my mute manservant heard there's a wraith problem. Who would we meet to talk about that?"

"Well-" The man's eyes flitted to Geralt, but Jaskier could have none of that.

With a swift interruption, the bard shook a finger in front of the man's face. "No no no, trust me, he's too dumb to understand you. Just talk to me."

The tavern man gave a very unsettled, flitting look in between Jaskier and Geralt. But, he eventually got the nerve to speak. "I, uh, I'd guess if anyone would be wanting to talk to you it'd be the mayor. He's at the community building over there." He pointed to this larger, wider construction with a big crest on the front.

Right. That would've made sense.

Tipping his head like he had a hat, Jaskier said, "Why, thank you good sir."

As if he'd burn alive if he stayed too close, the man briskly walked away. Jaskier felt quite proud of himself, but when he turned, Geralt looked less than pleased.

The Witcher growled, his yellow eyes a special level of sharpened and pissed. "What the hell was that about?"

"A mute manservant doesn't have to talk to people, does he? I did you a service."

Jaskier walked past Geralt, heading towards the central building. Rolling his eyes, Geralt followed. "Sure you did."

"Shh, the muscle doesn't speak." When he reached the guard in front, he said, "We're here to see the mayor."

Unlike a bigger town with fancier streets or scarier, greedier mayors, the guard shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, sure." Then, he opened the door and led them in. "It's to the left. If you get lost, God save you."

Much to Jaskier's chagrin, Geralt picked up the pace and went into the room first, with this devious look in his eye. Somehow he was intrigued and horrified all at once. He didn't know if this was going to be the most fascinating moment of his life or more reason to try to incinerate the Witcher.

Standing in front of the Mayor's desk, the man didn't even get to stand before Geralt had his arms all crossed, saying, "Heard you had a wraith problem."

"...We do." The rail thin man looked the skittish type, crooked glasses falling off his nose and his eyes flicking over to Jaskier. The Bard didn't know what it was about this town, they seemed baffled by the pair. Maybe the combination of a scary Witcher and a well-dressed man with a lute really blew their minds.

Geralt raised a hand, like waving Jaskier away. He didn't like that, not one bit. He liked what came out of Geralt's mouth even less. "Don't worry about him. He owes me a life debt, so he follows me around like a slave until he feels like he's humiliated himself enough to earn it back. I'd say he's a little over-committed to the role, but hey, life debts."

Jaskier was stunned. One, because he'd never been so boldly offended in his life. But two, because that was the most words he'd heard out of the Witcher the entire time he'd known him, and they were used to make him look like an idiot in front of a town mayor.

Helpless, Jaskier played the part, giving an open-mouthed nod.

With his own eyebrows knitted, the mayor looked like he thought he was going insane. "...Right. Anyway, are you saying you can help?"

"As a Witcher, yes. For a price."

Instead of questioning Geralt in any way, he just let out this deep, long sigh of relief. Guess the wraith thing was causing quite a bit of trouble, right here in Gulet city. "Trust me, we'll pay you handsomely. That thing has been a blight on this town for far too long. She was once the miller's daughter, so we tried to respect his wishes to leave her be, but she's caused too much damage. She needs to go." Glancing over at Jaskier, the mayor tentatively asked, "Your.. Slave. Does he really enjoy having his clothes like that?"

Jaskier had to contain his visceral rage. This man was dressed in droopy, mustard orange drapes. How dare he?

His simple blue travelling jacket and matching pants were much more refined than anything this man might ever wear.

Geralt redirected on his behalf, though, and again Jaskier wasn't sure he actually appreciated it. "He says if it's ever needed, he'd be happy to distract a monster to save my life. I tell him he should value his life more, but he insists."

"Poor, brave young man." The mayor came around his table and took Jaskier's hands in his own. His eyes were so sympathetic and piteous that it took all the bard's energy not to punch his face through his lute. The lute would die, but that would be a worthy sacrifice. "Pledging yourself to a Witcher is a dangerous business, but if you die, it'll be for a good cause."

"... Thank you." After the mayor released his hands, Geralt didn't even bother with any sort of fake-ass pretenses anymore. He just walked out, with Jaskier behind him. Tragically, because out of politeness he felt obligated to wave at the man. Even though he definitely did not want to wave at that bloody idiot.

When they were finally outside again, Jaskier yelled, "I hate you. You made me look like a fool."

"You talked for me. I wanted to return the favor." Geralt kept walking in front of him like he hadn't just told the mayor of an entire town that he was a pathetic meat-shield. The mute ruse to a nobody was one thing, but this? Even if he wanted to ditch him now, he couldn't. Gulet would never be hospitable for him. Everyone would know him as the Witcher's little bitch, for fuck's sake.

But Geralt seemed unphased, saying, "Now, let's get some supplies. We have a job to do. Unless you have decided this is all too scary?" The man didn't even look back at him. The nerve.

Picking up his walking pace, Jaskier insisted on striding toe to toe with Geralt, able to look up into his eyes. He smirked. "Can't frighten me that easily. I am a brave young man, remember?"

"Good, because I don't want to spend extra hours killing a monster because I have to make sure it doesn't kill you."

Jasking couldn't help puffing his cheeks. Guess pathetic meat-shield wasn't too off from what Geralt thought of him. "I can take care of myself, thank you."

"Untying knots weaker than your grandmother's macrame doesn't count." Sighing, Geralt stopped and looked at Jaskier very seriously. Like he was trying to give him an out, if he wanted it. "It's going to be a long night."

Lucky for Jaskier, he wasn't that much of a little bitch. "As long as you can handle it."

He knew Geralt didn't mean to, especially because he shut it down the second it happened, but he smiled. "I'm starting to think you're more trouble than the wraith is."

Jaskier wasn't quite sure if he liked being that much trouble.

Especially because he secretly loved the thought of being trouble.

Guess he'd see tonight, truly, if following this Witcher was a good idea or not. From the bottom of his heart, he wanted it to be. Who could resist a good idea that came with a fascinating and handsome man who made him tea in the morning?

A travelling companion who kept things interesting and fed him sounded like a dream.

But Jaskier also wasn't sure if that was the selfish powr-rush about being with Geralt talking or if this really was, in fact, a good idea.

/

The choice was extra long chapter or short one, so I made my choice. Obviously long, because I have no self-control.

Either way, I love getting to have these two test out their boundaries and dynamic. It's like every conversation is a game of chess, but it's played by two idiots who don't know the rules and don't care.

Can't wait to see what a real battle has in store for them.

Thanks as always to my lovely patrons:

Danyell Jones

Amy Connolly

See you Wednesday!