A/N: Forgot to crosspost this from AO3 too, oops.
Will I ever write a Geraskier fic that isn't just a variation on the theme of "Geralt realizes Jaskier cares about him and That's Okay"? Probably not. These lads make me so utterly soft. And continuing my personal theme of writing fics for The Amazing Devil songs, the soundtrack for this fic was mostly Battle Cries, with a dash of Marbles thrown in for flavor.
Huge shoutout to Geraskier Week on TUmblr for kicking my ass into gear and motivating me to finally get this finished.
Finally, I ended up trawling the Witcher Wikia and various forums online while writing this fic, so although I'm drawing primarily from the Netflix canon, there are some game details sprinkled in. Apologies in advance for all the liberties I took with the game canon, and with Oxenfurt Academy in particular.
As always, if you enjoy this, please consider leaving a review! Your positive feedback validates me and clears my pores. Happy reading :)
Interlude; The End of All Things
It strikes Geralt, as the flickering firelight casts Jaskier's silhouette in hazy relief, that Jaskier has grown old. His silver-dappled hair glints in the moonlight, and a lifetime of laughter has carved itself into the wrinkles that line his face. He has shed the troubadour's costumes of his youth in favor of something approximating sartorial pragmatism, vibrant pigments and intricate embroidery traded in for layers of soft wool and deerskin in an array of muted earth tones. He groans now when he settles cross-legged before the fire, and his joints crack audibly when he stretches after waking.
The realization unsettles Geralt, leaves him feeling like he's ended up on the wrong side of a hastily cast Aard sign. Jaskier has always seemed larger than life, all grandiose ambition and stubborn rejection of good sense, a steady presence that Geralt has come to regard as an unshakable constant. It's easy to mistake Jaskier's persistence for permanence. It's easy to forget that Jaskier is, ultimately, only human.
Sitting here now, though, watching Jaskier grimace as he shifts against the hard ground, it is undeniable that the years are finally catching up to him. How much longer will Jaskier be content with weathering the elements and contending with the uncertainty of mercenary work? How long until Jaskier realizes that in devoting himself to crafting a legacy for Geralt, he has forgotten to create a legacy of his own?
After all, he does not have a wife or children, for their nomadic lifestyle is conducive to neither. He has no home to return to between stints with Geralt, whether a sprawling mansion vaunting his wealth or a comfortable cottage replete with souvenirs from his varied exploits. How many experiences has Jaskier sacrificed because some contract or irate nobleman drew them elsewhere? How many untouched fields of snow has Jaskier never seen; how many harvests at Novigrad has he yearned to celebrate from halfway across the Continent—
"You're staring," Jaskier points out.
"You wanted to go to the Kovirian coast," Geralt responds.
Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "I suppose you're right," he muses, as though the thought had not occurred to him before now. He claps his hands together and grins. "To Kovir, then! A change of scenery would do us good; I can practically feel my creativity evaporating with the heat. And who knows — with the water so close at hand, perhaps I'll finally convince you of the merits of bathing regularly, and not just when your hair is too encrusted with monster muck to tie back."
The ease with which Jaskier not only accepts the change of subject but assumes Geralt is coming along is bewildering. Geralt hadn't meant his words as an invitation. They had simply been an observation, a reminder that Jaskier doesn't need to shackle himself to the danger and austerity that characterize Geralt's existence. He tries to say that, tries to suggest that Jaskier should make his own memories, but all that comes out is, "I've already been."
"Brilliant!" Jaskier exclaims instantly. "You'll know how to make the most of it, then, and you can explain the tide to me. I've never understood how tides work," he confesses, "not even when my professor took a cane to my thighs in an effort to beat the knowledge into me. Where does the water go, Geralt? Does the ocean eat it? I quite prefer the origin myths, truth be told, the ones that say there's some large creature reposing in the inky depths — a whale, maybe, or a kraken — that pulls in a lungful of water with a great, heaving breath, before spitting it all out again to create the tide."
And the thought of that is so absurd that Geralt finds himself saying, "Whales don't breathe water," instead of go without me like he'd meant to. By the time he remembers to protest, the Kovirian foothills have given way to steeper inclines beneath them, and leaving Jaskier to his own devices now would be as good as a death knell. So Geralt stows his objections away with his swords, and they press on.
Kovir is as irritating to traverse as Geralt remembers. Unforgiving mountains form imposing walls around them, dousing them in shadow for hours on end, and Geralt wets his silver blade nearly daily from the monsters that hide in the caves and crags. Eventually they encounter signs pointing to Creyden, and a deep weariness blankets Geralt, darkening his mood and throbbing in his skull with every step he takes. Mercifully, though Jaskier must yearn for a warm bath and a flagon of ale, he says nothing as they skirt the city, and Geralt tries to comfort himself with the reminder that he does not have Jaskier's blood on his hands.
Not yet, whispers the part of him that remembers Renfri's perfume in his nostrils, Renfri's blood seeping into his clothes.
Not ever, Geralt vows in return, because he will leave Jaskier in Pont Vanis, and all responsibility for keeping Jaskier's blood in his body with him.
But he receives three contracts in quick succession upon arriving in Pont Vanis, and so Geralt is still there, whetstone in hand, when Jaskier flings himself onto their bed and declares, "I can't stand it, Geralt, the salt in the air is wreaking absolute hell on my lute strings," just two weeks after they finally reach the damn city.
"Replace them," Geralt offers.
"I'd tear through my coin faster than a nymphomaniac at a brothel," Jaskier laments. "No, the coast is simply too intractable for a craft as nuanced as mine. Quick, Geralt, let's make our escape before another bloody kraken rises from the depths."
And there he goes again, binding himself to Geralt without hesitation. Geralt frowns. Almost involuntarily, his eyes are drawn to the crow's feet blooming at the corners of Jaskier's eyes, so stark against the pale of his face that Geralt cannot comprehend how he hasn't noticed them before.
"Go to Oxenfurt," he says finally. It's one of the few places on the Continent that holds meaning for Jaskier without holding any for Geralt. "Burden your Academy with your music instead of me. They deserve the punishment, if they saw fit to unleash you upon an innocent world."
"You're a menace," Jaskier says without heat. "You would hate the Academy. They're all posh, self-satisfied bastards, and every last one of them thinks they're the final bastion standing between the modern masses and the ruination of proper education."
"How lucky that I'm not going, then," Geralt says. He runs his blade across his whetstone twice more before deeming it properly sharpened and trading it out for his silver sword.
From the corner of his eye, Geralt sees Jaskier bolt upright. "Of course you're coming," he huffs, affronted. "Imagine the looks on their faces when I show up with a Witcher in tow! Oh-ho-ho, that mongrel La Voisier will shit himself when he realizes I've been telling the truth all these years; see if he ever impugns my poetry again." He falls back onto the mattress, chuckling to himself.
After a moment, he adds, "Besides, the professorial quarters are more than large enough for two. The Academy may be full of pompous shitheels, but they know how to treat their own. A warm bath would await you every evening, scented with perfumes sweet and lush enough to give the Beauclair Palace Gardens a run for their money. The feasts the Academy hosts outshine those offered by any royal court in the Four Kingdoms, and you would have access to a panoply of entertainment of a caliber unrivaled by any playhouse or troupe of minstrels across the Continent. So long as I have a post at the Academy, you shall want for nothing, dear Witcher."
"I already want for nothing," Geralt mutters. It would be more accurate to say he does not allow himself the luxury of wanting, but the semantics don't matter when the outcome is the same. "Much less to be surrounded by people insufferable even by your standard."
"Right, yeah, that's a fair point. Wouldn't want you murdering the only people on the Continent who recognize my genius." Jaskier sighs, despondent. "What a shame; it would have been quite vindicating to pull one over on La Voisier, but there's no fun in laughing alone."
Geralt suppresses the urge to massage his temples. He's never met someone with such a pathological aversion to graceful exits as Jaskier. Giving Jaskier a taste of the comforts he has sacrificed in favor of sleeping in stables and cleaning dried blood from Geralt's leathers may be the only way to tempt him into settling safely within civilization once more.
"If I go, you will as well," Geralt says slowly, trying not to admit he's giving Jaskier's words any consideration.
"Obviously," Jaskier scoffs. "They'll eat you alive without me to serve as an intermediary."
Geralt sighs, and he regrets it instantly, knowing without looking that Jaskier has taken the sound as the concession that it is. "Oxenfurt is more easily reached by water than land," he says over Jaskier's delighted crowing. "We'll scout the docks tomorrow."
Within hours of walking through the Academy's gates, Jaskier amasses a small flock of admirers, students and faculty alike tripping over themselves to shower him in praise and adulation. With Jaskier occupying the center of attention, Geralt receives little more than a few wayward glances, and the reception — or lack thereof — makes his head spin. Though he doesn't care for attention, he is used to receiving more than his fair share of it; to be given precisely none is as refreshing as it is disorienting.
Soon they are shown to one of the empty professorial suites, where, for once, Jaskier's claims do not reveal themselves to be exaggeration. Elegant furniture dots the chambers, and bookshelves holding enough tomes to fill a small library line the walls. A steaming bath has already been drawn near the fire, with a small table sitting beside the tub that holds a literal cornucopia overflowing with fruits and nuts.
"Valley of plenty, indeed," Jaskier remarks. He pulls a cluster of grapes from the depths of the cornucopia and tips his head back, bringing the cluster to his mouth so he can pluck individual grapes from their stems using only his teeth. It takes Geralt a long moment to realize he is staring, and a longer moment still to drag his gaze away. Oblivious to Geralt's ogling, Jaskier sighs, "Oh, it's good to be back. Bath's all yours, by the way. One of us ought to take advantage of it before the water cools, and they'll want me in the main hall for supper soon. Don't worry about your meal; I'll arrange to have something sent up."
Geralt narrows his eyes. "None of these stuffed shirts want you dead?"
Jaskier laughs. It's a musical sound, bright and carefree, like he's drunk on pleasure alone. "Not one, Geralt! Can't you tell? They adore me here."
In the privacy of his own mind, Geralt can admit that he sees why.
He means to make his escape within a week, but every time he starts packing his bags, Jaskier cites a need for Geralt to act as a guest speaker at Jaskier's next lecture. It's a flimsy excuse, as Geralt doesn't ever speak. Mostly he serves as an example. One week, he stands silently before fifteen wide-eyed pupils as Jaskier lists eight different ways to describe how the sunlight illuminates his sword; the next week, Jaskier has him recount some of his more eventful kills so his students can practice creating epics from the barest of details.
Eventually Geralt realizes this is Jaskier's way of bragging about knowing a Witcher and living to tell the tale, his way of taking some small reward from Geralt after all that Geralt has taken from him. He feels a little less like Jaskier's kept man after that, knowing that he's paying in his own way for the space he occupies in Jaskier's chambers and the food Jaskier pilfers for him. It's not terribly unlike a contract, and Geralt has learned the hard way not to pass those up without reason.
Before he knows it, summer has faded and come again, bringing with it the end of both the school year and Jaskier's lectures. "The quarters are mine for as long as I want them, of course, but the Academy is horrendously boring in the off-season," Jaskier complains after his final lecture for the term, his voice muffled by the pillow he has buried his face in. "No adventures to be had, no adoring audiences to serenade, and only old farts to flirt with. It almost makes me want to run off again, find another Witcher in need of a barker, except you're rather one-of-a-kind, aren't you?"
"Could try your luck anyway," Geralt mutters, steadfastly ignoring both Jaskier's question and the subsequent warmth blooming in his chest. He catches the pillow Jaskier tosses at him and chucks it back in one smooth motion. The muffled thump he is rewarded with and the quiet groan that follows make him smirk.
"Nah," Jaskier says, drawing out the vowel. "I'm quite happy with the Witcher I've got, thanks. Your penchant for tripping headfirst into trouble makes you a phenomenally compelling muse. I never run out of material when you're around." The sheets rustle as Jaskier turns over. "Speaking of trouble, it might be time to go find some. I should refresh my repertoire before the masses forget your name, and I need inspiration."
Given that he still sometimes hears the very first ballad Jaskier had written about him, as they walked away from the edge of the world, in taverns and on street corners, Geralt doubts a year of silence will be enough to erase him from the memories of the masses. As long as there are monsters in need of vanquishing, Geralt's name will be whispered throughout the Continent.
Jaskier's name, on the other hand…
Who will speak of Jaskier once he is gone? Who will preserve Jaskier's memory when he can no longer sing of it himself?
Geralt's gaze falls on the books that surround them, leatherbound stacks of vellum memorializing stories and legends for all eternity, and a thought occurs to him. Before he can second-guess himself, he says, "You should publish your poetry. Retire off the revenue."
"Geralt!" Jaskier drawls, his voice syrupy sweet with delight. "Are you admitting, my dear Witcher, that you think my poetry good enough — nay, exquisite enough — to turn a profit?"
There's nothing Geralt can say that won't spark some kind of monologue, so he remains silent.
It doesn't make a difference, because after a moment, Jaskier confesses, "I've already tried, you know. I've been trying for years, actually, but no publisher in the Four Kingdoms will work with me. Not because the quality of my work is subpar, mind you! No, apparently I'm flighty, can you believe it? Sure, having no permanent address might make communication difficult, but difficult doesn't mean impossible! What need would a publisher have to communicate with me anyway? The money can go directly to the bank, and I can hire an underling to answer the fanmail."
The way Geralt's chest twinges at discovering another desire Jaskier has given up because of him is harder to ignore this time, but he manages it all the same. Jaskier will be free to chase all his unrealized dreams once Geralt rides out toward Kaedwen.
Distantly, he hears Jaskier say, "Although… If I had a Witcher standing behind me, all menacing and do what he says-like, with his swords glinting conspicuously in the sunlight…"
"Absolutely not," Geralt growls. "Find another solution. Get a permanent address."
Jaskier does not get a permanent address. Instead, he drags Geralt to an illuminator and then a bookbinder, where he spends most of the afternoon poring over materials and holding ink samples to the light to watch how the reflections dance across the walls. When he is happy with his selections, he pays a visit to the most eminent publisher in Oxenfurt, a woman who is decidedly unimpressed with Jaskier's brand of charm.
"Gods, you again?" Geralt hears her say as Jaskier steps inside. "Fuck off, Jaskier. I've already told you, I don't deal with scoundrels and harlots, and you're wretched enough to be both."
Jaskier pauses with one foot past the threshold, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "Come now, Ritvi, don't badmouth me in front of my partner."
"Partner?" Ritvi asks, just as Geralt finally manages to push Jaskier fully through the door. Her eyes widen when they fall on him, no doubt taking in his hair and his medallion. He meets her scrutiny with a steady gaze.
There's a long moment of silence in which Geralt shifts to lean against the doorjamb, his arms crossed against his chest and his pack falling slightly to one side to keep his silver sword from colliding with the top of the doorframe. Idly, he wonders whether Jaskier slept with Ritvi herself or her husband.
Eventually, though Geralt does nothing but stand in the door and notice absently how Jaskier's doublet clings to his biceps, Ritvi sighs and beckons Jaskier to her desk. Jaskier walks out an hour later with a publishing deal far more lucrative than a first-time author has any right to expect.
"It'll be two weeks before the final proof is ready, which means two more weeks stuck at the Academy," Jaskier says as they head toward the market. He sounds strangely apologetic, though Geralt can't fathom why. Geralt isn't the one who had wanted to add "published author" to his list of epithets, or the one who will have to wait another two weeks to make that dream a reality.
"You could spend your time in worse places," he points out. "Try not to burn the place down too soon. Even your adoring audience might find that unforgivable."
Jaskier stumbles to a stop, narrowly avoiding being bowled over by a passing pedestrian in the process. "Are you leaving already?"
Geralt hums in assent. He looks over his shoulder at Jaskier, silently beckoning the bard to keep moving.
Jaskier cocks his head and rests a hand on his hip. "I'm sure Ritvi can manage final edits without me," he says finally. He hurries to fall back in step with Geralt. "Honestly, I think she would prefer it that way. She still hasn't forgiven me for sleeping with her husband. Or for sleeping with her sister."
Geralt hadn't considered the existence of a sister. He doesn't turn to look at Jaskier when he says, "You're not coming with me."
Jaskier laughs. "Oh, I'm sorry, have you obtained another barker in the past thirty seconds that I don't know about? Of course I'm coming. Someone's got to sing your praises."
This time it's Geralt who stops in his tracks. He pivots to face Jaskier with a growl already rattling in his throat. "The whole point of publishing your poetry," he bites out, "was so you could retire. Not so you could throw away your efforts to slum it on the roads again."
"I don't want to retire, though," Jaskier says plainly. "I want to come with you."
Geralt suppresses a frustrated sigh. Must he spell it out for Jaskier? "You have a home here. A job. Peers who admire you. Stay and enjoy it. Don't squander the life you've built for some romantic notion of adventure."
"Must we have this conversation in the middle of the street where anyone can hear us, with all the filthy smells and sounds of Oxenfurt marring the moment?" Jaskier mutters.
"I will not be responsible for your inevitable regret."
A soft noise of understanding tumbles from Jaskier's lips. "Is that what this is about? After all these decades, you're still waiting for me to wake up and realize I've grown tired of you?"
The fight bleeds out of Geralt at hearing his fears voiced so succinctly, leaving him limp as a puppet torn from its strings. "There's more to living than you'll find with me," he pleads. "I've already stolen the best years of your life. If I can't give them back, at least allow me to leave you the remainder."
Jaskier blinks. Slowly, deliberately, he steps closer, raises his hands to cradle Geralt's face, leans forward to rest his forehead against Geralt's. The proximity is overwhelming; Geralt lets his eyes flutter shut so he won't be tempted to catalogue the shades of blue that swirl in Jaskier's irises. "Nonsense," Jaskier breathes, his voice pooling against Geralt's lips like rainwater. "How can you steal what is freely given?"
"Don't," Geralt says hoarsely. "Don't waste what little time you have on me, instead of seeking the things you want."
Jaskier chuckles. "There is nothing I want, my dear Witcher," he whispers, his words heavy with promise, "not a single thing in this world, that I do not already have."
FIN