A/N: Do I think this is particularly well grounded in canon? No, probably not, but it's close enough for jazz and I think it's a character beat worth examining. Enjoy!
Geralt had spent the first three months of Jaskier's—company? Acquaintance? Persistence? Whatever it was called when one accidentally acquired a traveling bard that seemed determined not to leave—waiting for acrid fear to overtake Jaskier's scent.
At first it had been simple expectation. Everyone is afraid around Geralt. Witchers in general are a reason for fear in most people. Those who know the rumors, though never the story, of Blaviken are often afraid as well. And Geralt didn't have the kind of personality that could set people at ease as Eskel did so easily, or even Lambert when he set his mind to it. There were those who do not let the fear stop them, now and then. Renfri's fear, for example, was the faint and sensible kind. With how things played out, it was a fear-come-true in the end.
The idea that Jaskier might be different never crossed his mind. Geralt had waited for the fear scent to arrive, even faintly, with the realization of who he was, when they stepped into the open air without so many other scents in the tavern that could have been concealing it, with the punch to the stomach, with the recalcitrant answers about monsters, with the first time he drew his swords, with the first fight that Jaskier witnessed, with the first time that Jaskier was in danger. He expects it in a thousand little moments and it never seems to come, and he was left wondering when it turned from something he anticipated to something that he wanted to put off for just one more day.
And when he finally returned to their little camp in the faint light of a sunrise that hadn't yet crested the treetops, with the effects of a potion still on him, his eyes black, his senses heightened, his blood pulsing in his veins, Geralt couldn't justify the stab of disappointment he felt when fear flooded Jaskier's scent.
Jaskier hadn't seen Geralt like this yet. It was mostly chance, the potions weren't necessary for every job. The times when Geralt did need the help were more likely to be the ones Geralt insisted Jaskier say back in the camp or the inn, and Jaskier didn't quite seem willing to discard that advice, though there were a couple of moments that seemed close. Somewhere in the back of his head, Geralt had started to make contingency plans for how to handle the day Jaskier snuck after him. Stupid. They wouldn't be needed now, wouldn't ever have been needed.
The discordant sound of Jaskier's fingers fumbling on his lute, something Geralt had never seen him do before, seemed to match the tone of the whole scene. Jaskier was turning to set his lute on the ground beside him, to stand, no doubt to run, and Geralt had enough wherewithal to begin to step back, to move slowly, to give Jaskier space to leave. Because he would be leaving now. And Geralt would be alone again. The way that it was supposed to be.
But Jaskier was ever determined to confuse him, and as soon as his lute was set aside, he was scrambling towards Geralt instead of away as any sensible man would do. The bard was nearly tripping over his own feet, for once looking as coltish as his young years, all of his performer's grace fled with the arrival of his fear.
A lack of composure, however, did not seem to translate into silence. Jaskier's familiar voice filled the air with words, "Melitele, Geralt, how much venom is coursing through your veins to cause that? You'll have to give me actual details this time, any fight that ends in these results must have been against a fearsome foe indeed. I won't tolerate your yeses and noes for once, I expect a full blow by blow account once we get the situation resolved, now where are you hurt? There's no wounds on your face or your hands, it must have gotten through your armor, though I've no idea how, I was under the impression that…"
And as the familiar chatter filled the air, in the same cheery tone the bard always seemed to use despite the way fear still rose off of him like smoke from a fire, Jaskier suited actions to words and began running his hands over Geralt's armor, searching for damage and uncaring of the blood and muck that worked its way into the crevices of his skin. Jaskier was going to set his fear aside in an effort to help him, and guilt created a heavy weight in his chest as Geralt realized that Jaskier must feel some kind of… obligation.
"I'm not hurt," he interrupted simply, and as softly as he was able.
It took a moment for the statement to register to Jaskier, "…but I suppose there's no good story without…what." And the baffled look he shot at Geralt seemed more exasperated than fearful. "I know you have your fancy magic Witcher healing, but your pupils are so dilated your eyes have turned black, darling, now is not the time for toxic masculinity and false pretenses of health when proper treatment will be just as efficient and a good deal more helpful, now tell me where you're hurt." There was an undercurrent of steel in Jaskier's voice on the last phrase, which made no sense in a human so afraid.
Geralt furrowed his brow, hastily smoothed it when he remembers that he was supposed to look as nonthreatening as possible. "It's a side effect of my potions."
"A side effect of…oh!" The tension fled from Jaskier's shoulders and the sharp fear finally stopped renewing itself. It still lingered in the air around them, but Jaskier no longer seemed afraid of him. In fact he was sagging forwards, trusting at least some of his weight to the hands Geralt brought hastily up to brace him. And then he was straightening, a playfully indignant glare not lining up well with the slowly dissipating fear or the heady relief now pouring off of Jaskier in waves. "And you never thought to mention it before? Think of the songs I could have written with this! No matter, I'll write them now. Could rhyme black eyes with something fun? Deep in the swamp where the bracken does rise/The Witcher steps forth with the black in his eyes. That has potential. Needs some polishing, of course, but what a way to set the scene! It's a bit less universal than you want in a good tavern song, but it could fit well into a lovely epic number, don't you think?"
And he was beaming as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his hands clean. Geralt had seen humans loopy with relief before, but what was there to be so relieved about when Geralt still looked so monstrous? "I scare people like this."
"Oooh, that's an interesting point, of course you can get away with a little more in words than in person, but maybe a little plausible deniability in terms of metaphor, hm?" Jaskier had gone back to his lute and began to pluck out a simple melody, "Then maybe it'll get people used to the idea and a later song can add a few more details without biasing the audience against our protagonist. But in the meantime, I'll know the full story, and that will give a sense of depth to what I'm singing, people can sense that kind of thing, you know. Oh, definitely not a C there, maybe if I…" And he played an almost identical melody, but much more smoothly, "Yes, that could work!"
Why the fuck wasn't he— "You're not scared."
Jaskier didn't even bother looking up from the chords he was trying one after the other, "Well, I imagine that if you'd lead whatever it was that you were fighting back here, and I am still expecting details on that by the way, there would have been a great deal more crashing and stabbing involved so it's not like there's anything here to be scared of."
And maybe Geralt should just be thankful that it hadn't been enough to scare him off forever, not that that was something to be thankful about when it would have at least given him a little peace and quiet instead of this incessant music that was even louder in his potion-enhanced ears— "But you were."
"Don't be ridiculous, I wasn't."
But Geralt saw the way he shifted his shoulders like he was lying and felt a sudden flash of anger at this needless facade, Jaskier pretending to be different just so he could be special, when he was ultimately afraid just like everyone else was— "Yes, you were. I smelt it."
That got his attention, and he gaped from where he had settled back onto the ground, "You can smell fear? Really, Geralt, you have to tell me these things! How am I supposed to make the adoring public understand the truth about Witchers if you won't even give me the truth about Witchers, honestly, it's like…"
"You lie." Geralt cut him off before he could build up enough steam to distract him from the point, "All the time. In your songs, to angry husbands, to your audiences. Don't lie about this. Not now. You were afraid." And if Jaskier could see past it, that was fine, but it didn't mean he got to pretend like he wasn't.
"Alright, fine," Jaskier looked away uncomfortably, and Geralt finally felt vindicated in something about their interactions, before the bard went and yanked the rug out from under him again, "maybe when my very difficult to injure friend turns up looking like he's on death's doorstep when we're nearly half a day's travel from the nearest healer, I'm a little…concerned. It's not like I fainted or anything." And he stood up and walked over to his pack, his body language closing himself off from the conversation as he rifled through it, presumably in search of the journal and quill which were actually laying by his still open bedroll.
But, for once, Geralt wasn't willing to drop the subject as he turned that idea over in his head, trying to find any reasonable conclusion other than, "You were scared…for me?" Not of me? Not even when I'm as inhuman as I can be?
Jaskier didn't seem to understand what he was asking, but he unintentionally provided confirmation anyways as he threw his hands up in frustration, "Yes, I know, it's ridiculous, you have your magic Witcher durability and are never actually in danger no matter what you do, now unless you can also magically turn up my songbook, I'll thank you to stop showing off!"
Geralt pointed to the journal as he tried to process the concept of a human, even as amiable of a human as Jaskier so often was, bonding with him enough to be scared for him. Jaskier had no such difficulties and grinned, "Oh, perfect, I need to write this down before I forget it. Black eyes, smelling emotions, and good at finding things. Tracking sounds more heroic though." And he was off, scribbling and muttering to himself, swinging his lute to the front to strum a few more chords.
And, as the effects of the potion finally faded from his bloodstream, Geralt accepted that Jaskier wasn't afraid of him. Maybe wasn't ever going to be afraid of him. And if a warmth grew in his chest at the thought, he told himself it was just the sunlight finally climbing past the trees.
A/N: There's a few different stories that use the idea of Geralt smelling (or not smelling) Jaskier's fear, and I couldn't resist throwing my hat into the ring. Please let me know what you thought!
