A/N: I posted this to AO3 and then totally forgot to crosspost here, oops.

I literally could not stop thinking about "Two Minutes" by The Amazing Devil as Jaskier's reaction to his and Geralt's fight in Rare Species, so I ended up writing a ficlet exploring that idea. I have a lot of thoughts and feels about Jaskier's characterization, honestly, because the show treats him like comedic relief but there's so much more going on under the surface that we only ever get a glimpse at.

I feel like I'm going to end up writing a fic for every The Amazing Devil song because they're all just so emotional and inspiring lmao.

Disclaimer as always: I've only seen the show, so sorry for any discrepancies with other Witcher media! If you enjoy this story, please consider leaving a review. Happy reading :)

all the stains and things they wrote

Jaskier drops heavily onto the bench across from Geralt, as though the earth's pull has increased twofold in an instant and Jaskier is helpless but to follow. He drains his mug in one long pull, grimaces as he thunks it down on the table, and gestures to the barmaid for another. While he waits for her to walk over, he pulls Geralt's mug out of his hand and drains that as well.

Soon a third mug is deposited in front of him, and a fourth in front of Geralt when Geralt turns a glare onto the barmaid. He expects Jaskier to bestow the same treatment on this drink as he had on the others, but instead Jaskier cradles the drink with both hands, his fingers interlaced, and stares into it as though it contains the lyrics to Jaskier's next great masterpiece.

In all this, not once does Jaskier look at Geralt.

Geralt takes a long pull from his own drink, both to keep it out of Jaskier's thieving hands and to avoid looking at the other man. Jaskier's silence, once so coveted, now chafes. It's a discomfort Geralt doesn't want to examine too closely, so he ignores it, and it fades into the great tangle of bad feelings currently taking up residence behind his sternum.

Finally, without preamble, Jaskier says, "Let's not do this whole song and dance where you pretend you meant what you said and I pretend the words didn't sting and we go on acting like we are simply strangers whose paths crossed through happenstance.

"I did mean them, I'm sure you're planning to say," Jaskier interjects, approximating a poor rendition of Geralt's gravelly tone, before Geralt can say — well, exactly that. "To which I say, bollocks! You didn't mean them. I know this because I know you. You don't care for blessings or destiny or wishes, and if you had wanted me taken off your hands, you'd have done it yourself long before now." He pulls one hand away from his mug to count with his fingers. "You could have pushed me into a ravine, maybe, or used me as monster bait, or simply ridden off and left me to plod along, steedless. But you didn't."

Geralt resists the urge to look away from Jaskier and settles for thinning his lips instead. Jaskier isn't entirely wrong; even through the irritation thrumming like icefire beneath his skin, Geralt can admit he has had myriad opportunities to separate himself from Jaskier over the years. There is no logical explanation for why Jaskier is once again sat across from Geralt, rubbing salt into Geralt's wounds with every word he says.

"So you don't get to do this," Jaskier insists, though his tone is still conversational, as though he is commenting on the fair weather or the cut of a woman's bodice. "You don't get to act like you're not equally at fault for every complication that has entered your life — myself included. I may have shoveled the shit, but you're the one who stood there and let me. And I don't know if you've noticed, mighty Witcher, but I have waded in after you every time to pull you out and clean you up again, with no regard for the shit staining my own trousers in the process."

Jaskier swallows. He lowers his free hand to the tabletop, where his fingers begin drumming a constant tattoo against the surface. Slowly, as though he is tasting his words before releasing them, he continues, "I don't expect you to apologize. I'm happy to play the fool, even now. That's my role, isn't it, in this two-man melodrama that we call our lives? I've been thinking, though, about what I said to you after Borch fell, and quite frankly, I am getting too old to deprive myself of the things that please me."

Geralt stills at that. He had forgotten, between Jaskier's inscrutably youthful looks and his stubborn insistence on surviving encounters that really ought to kill him, that Jaskier is human, with a lifespan a fraction of Geralt's own. Jaskier will be dead long before Geralt reaches the midpoint of his own existence, Geralt realizes suddenly. If Jaskier had taken Geralt's words to heart and disappeared before Geralt finally made the trek back down the mountain, Jaskier may have died with Geralt's parting sally being the last thing Geralt ever said to him.

The thought makes Geralt's stomach turn, though whether in vindictive pleasure or bitter remorse, Geralt doesn't know.

"For example," Jaskier is saying as Geralt tries fruitlessly to beat back the maelstrom currently swirling in his head. "Sleeping in open fields and shaded woods, the stars forming a glimmering tapestry overhead, without knowing what the next day will bring. A professionally crafted lute slung round my neck, its strings loose and familiar between my fingers, as a merry crowd claps and dances along. And your grumpy face peering at me from across the campfire, and ignoring me from Roach's back, and telling me about monsters and adventures I could never imagine.

"If you do not want me, then I will gladly leave you to brood alone while I set out to take the rest in whatever form I can find it. But life is short, Geralt, moreso for me than you, and — Melitele preserve me — I'd like to spend mine divesting you of the shit in which you so often find yourself." Jaskier smiles ruefully. "Even the shit I've shoveled."

Geralt still has not moved. He feels somewhat like he has taken all of his potions at once, and the world is splintering around him while he fights to regain his balance.

"If you slip out without a word, I won't fault you, and you shan't hear from me again," Jaskier says after a long moment. "But if you can find it in your heart to grant me one more chance, come find me, dear Witcher, and I'll follow you without a word. A few harsh insults won't succeed in banishing me where selkiemore guts and prolonged silence have failed, so let's leave all that back at the dragon's cave, yeah? I think I can forgive you, if you forgive me in turn."

Finally Jaskier puts the mug he has been cradling all this time to his lips, and his throat pulses as he swallows. When he is finished, he sets it down next to the other empty mugs and stands, a smile stretching his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes, though a casual observer would not know the difference.

Without ever having looked at Geralt, Jaskier turns to the bar, throws his arms out in invitation, and exclaims, "Who wants to hear a song, eh? The mighty bard Jaskier graces this lovely establishment tonight, eager to delight and enthrall, to make music and merry both!"

Without ever having said a word, Geralt watches him leave.

FIN