"Geralt?"
"Hmm."
Geralt shifted his weight slightly, made restless by the mass of humanity crowding the village streets. Too many people. There were too many damn people. The sight of them all made him itch in his armor.
"Geralt."
"Hmm."
It wasn't that he felt that he constantly had to be on the lookout for threats--he felt that every time he was in town. It was nothing new and it wasn't even an especially bothersome sensation. Spend enough time with everyone you met wishing you dead, and you were bound to develop a sixth sense for when danger moved from likely to imminent.
"Geraaaaalt."
"Hmm."
Granted, the bard had complicated matters. Prancing into mortal peril with no more concern than a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, thinking he could resolve any trouble with a wink and a smile.
The hell of it was, an improbably large percentage of the time, he could.
"Geralt!"
"Hmm."
But truly, Geralt was confident enough in his skills that he didn't worry overmuch about the kind of threats that mortal men might offer him out his flighty companion. The real objection he had to fairs or parties or feasts or events of any kind, really, where an abundance of people were gathered, was that they simply made him *uncomfortable.* Like he'd swallowed too much Cat and all of his senses were hypersensitized, so that normal sights and sounds scraped against his eyes and ears like a raw nerve. His skin felt too tight, aware that any moment, it could be subject to an unwanted--
Yank
Geralt whirled and found himself confronted with an unrepentant Jaskier, who had his arms folded across his (surprisingly well-muscled) chest and was tapping an inpatient foot, blue eyes narrowed.
"Did you just... pull my hair?" He asked, hearing traces of disbelief in his own flat monotone.
Jaskier huffed, flinging his hands in the air dramatically. "Well, how else was I supposed to get your attention? I've been calling you for the past five minutes with a total lack of response."
Geralt scowled. "I responded."
"Grunting at me died not count as a response, Geralt, we've been over this "
Geralt refrained from grunting, just barely. "What do you want?" He asked instead, lifting a hand to his hair to check that all of it remained attached to his head. That had been quite a tug, as hair-pulling went. He wouldn't be surprised to find a chunk missing.
"Stop it, your coiffure is fine." Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Other than being in dire need of a wash, but gods forbid you take the time to do more than splash a bucket of water over it."
"Jaskier," he gritted in his best menacing growl. "What. Do. You. Want?"
The bars have him an unimpressed look, not a trace of fear in his eyes. "Now that I have your attention," he said snottily, like the little brat he was.
For a moment, Geralt fancifully entertained the idea of punching him right in his pretty face, but since in reality he would disembowel anyone who so much as looked at the bard sideways, he quickly abandoned the notion. Instead, he settled for lifting a single eyebrow if what he assured himself was an intimidating fashion.
Jaskier studied him. "You look constipated. Are you constipated, Geralt? That would explain your bad humor. I can mix something up for you if so. It tastes like death, but it'll get the old bowels moving, make no mistake about that--"
Geralt closed his eyes briefly. "I'm not constipated."
"Just your normal cheery self, then?" the bard pressed. "Because you seem extra murdery for some reason. And you were ignoring me." A trace of a whine crept into his tone, and his lower lip jutted I'm an unconscious pout.
It was not cute, Geralt told himself firmly. Not cute at all, and it definitely didn't make him want to put his arms around Jaskier and cuddle him close and whisper apologies into his silky chestnut hair, which smelled like springtime and flowers and summer and all manner of beautiful things that Geralt had no business letting himself enjoy--
"Not trying to ignore you," he rasped, shaking his head to clear it off such ridiculous thoughts. "I just... There are so many people."
Jaskier shifted his focus from Geralt to the busy street beyond, which was a muddle of merchants hawking wares from their stalls, villagers haggling and shouting greetings to friends and neighbors, and rag-tag children playing their noisy games wherever they could find a spare bit of space. His eyes widened, as of he truly hadn't processed what a congested affair today's market had turned out to be, and he laid an unselfconscious hand on Geralt's chest in apology.
"Oh, dear heart, of course. I know how you hate crowds. Come, let's go back to our room and we'll have some lunch sent up, just the two of us, nice and quiet."
He made to draw away, and Geralt captured his hand without thinking, pressing it against his chest with one of his own. "Won't be quiet with you there," he murmured, allowing himself a small smile.
Jaskier laughed, the sound a balm over the grating buzz of the busy street. "No, well, I suppose not. But maybe it will be more bearable for you than all this."
"What did you want to show me?"
Jaskier hesitated, his cheeks flushing a delicate pink and his eyes darting guiltily to the store window he'd been idling in front of. "Nothing important, darling. Come now, let's go." He tugged gently at the hand trapped against Geralt's chest.
Geralt ignored the bard's efforts to free himself and instead followed his eyes to the display featured in front of the shop. It was a fetching black doublet, excellently tailored and sewn, with silver buttons down the front and the merest suggestion of a puffed sleeve. A handsome piece, to be sure, and well made, but...
"You want to try it on?" Geralt puzzled aloud, glancing between Jaskier's flustered face and the article of clothing on display. It didn't seem the bard's usual style at all. He usually favored bright, not colors, the better to draw attention to himself and present an easy target.
Jaskier shrugged. "I--maybe. I wanted to know... what you thought of it."
"It's... nice?" Geralt offered tentatively, baffled. He was missing something here. "Why?"
"Um." Jaskier caught his lower lip between his teeth. "I, um. What would you think of me. Wearing it."
Geralt studied the doublet a moment longer. Was this a trick question? Was Jaskier truly asking his opinion on fashion? He must be jesting, because he knew full well Geralt's only preferences as to clothing was that it be as free from holes and blood as possible. But the bard didn't look amused or sly--in fact, the expression on his face was almost embarrassed, the blush staining his cheeks spreading down his neck and making his blue eyes look extra bright and almost shiny, like maybe he was going to cry--
Geralt abruptly felt like he'd been slugged in the gut. "I don't--" he wheezed, confused, winded.
"It's just," Jaskier swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "You wear an awful lot of black and so does Yennefer and you always seem to think she looks...nice in it, and I was just wondering if you thought I --I might look nice in it... as well."
"Yen?" Geralt parroted dumbly, feeling wrong-footed. "What does Yen have to do with anything? You're nothing like her."
Jaskier made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, a single tear caught in his thick lashes, and a giant fist reached into Geralt's chest and closed around his heart, squeezing mercilessly while his head pounded from the ceaseless roar of voices in the background. Jaskier tugged at his hand once more and this time it slipped free from Geralt's suddenly nerveless fingers, allowing the bard to turn and flee down the street, his shoulders hunched and shaking slightly, running away like he finally saw the same monster in Geralt that Geralt saw in himself.
When Geralt stepped into their room at the local inn an hour later, he was relieved to find Jaskier already there, perched cross-legged on the bed and strumming his lute with one hand while he scribbled lyrics on a scrap of paper with the other.
"Geralt, welcome!" He cried, beaming a dazzling smile toward the Witcher. "You're just in time to hear my latest composition!"
He looked, Geralt reflected, like Jaskier always did. Bright grin, careless gestures, dancing blue eyes... Anyone else might have been fooled. Anyone else might have thought they'd imagined his reaction at the store front.
But Geralt wasn't anyone. He could see the faintest signs of redness around those dancing blue eyes, the tiny wobble at the corner of that devil-may-care grin, and it was wreaking havoc on his carefully maintained control. He wanted nothing more than to rush to the bed, fall to his knees, and promise his bard whatever it took to erase the hurt he'd caused, however inadvertently. Instead, he took a measured breath and stepped into the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click.
Jaskier watched him, cocking his head to the side curiously as he noted the package Geralt carried. "Shopping, my friend?" he teased. "You? Let me guess. You've refreshed our stock of potion ingredients."
"Not quite." Gods, was that his voice? He barely recognized it. He sounded like he'd been chewing on gravel.
"Sword oil? A new whetstone?" Jaskier suggested, pretending to puzzle it over seriously, tapping a finger against his lips.
"No." His fingers tightened reflexively and he forced them to relax again, not wanting to damage the delicate fabric he held.
Jaskier snapped his fingers. "I've got it! It's a new set of tack for Roach! I hope you got her something nice this time to thank her for hauling your heavy carcass around."
Geralt shook his head, unable to voice a retort through a throat that felt thick with road dust. He stumbled forward and wordlessly pressed the package into Jaskier's hands.
"What, for me?" Jaskier breathed, looking up at him, big blue eyes wide with wonder.
Geralt nodded mutely, mercifully struck dumb.
Jaskier set his lute aside carefully, stealing a look up at Geralt from underneath his lashes. "Well, I must say this is a surprise, Geralt. I can't imagine what you've found for me. Maybe a new blanket so I'll stop stealing yours. Or a muzzle of some kind, that would be my --oh."
The little noise was sudden, shocked, punched out of Jaskier as the final layer of paper fell away to expose the material underneath.
And suddenly Geralt could speak again. Couldn't stop speaking, actually. Rather horrifyingly.
"I went inside to get the black one for you because you would look nice in it, of course you'd look nice in it, you look nice in everything, but when I picked it up this old lady came out of the back and looked at me and said, 'Shopping for yourself, dearie?' And I said, 'No,' and she said, 'Of course not, for your bard, then,' and she showed me a dark purple velvet and then a lilac striped and then a blue that would match your eyes perfectly but then I saw this and I--I--"
Jaskier had lifted the doublet from its wrappings and was holding it up in front of himself, his own voice having apparently failed him for once.
"I hope you like it," Geralt finished miserably, and gods, he was all but wringing his hands like a fucking maiden. What was wrong with him?
Jaskier's shocked gaze swung from him to the doublet and back again. "Geralt...ah. This material... It's not going to travel well, at all. It's going to wrinkle like a bitch."
"I know," Geralt sighed, hanging his head.
"A--and it's much too fine for daily wear. The slightest rough treatment will cause it to rip."
Geralt nodded glumly. Also true. It was not a piece meant for the life they lead, not at all. One good battle would seen it torn to shreds, unsalvageable.
"And Geralt, it's... It's pink."
It was. Very pink. A ridiculous color for a man, but as soon as Geralt's eyes had lit on it, he'd wanted to see Jaskier in it. It was the same color as the blush that warmed his bard's cheeks when he was happy or excited, the same color as the clever little tongue that darted out mischievously to wet his lips when he was telling a particularly salacious story. Consumed by the thought of how lovely it would look against Jaskier's glowing, creamy skin, Geralt was buying it before he'd quite known what he was doing. The shopkeep had packaged it up for him with a knowing gleam in her eye that Geralt tried his best to ignore.
"I'm sorry you don't like it--" he began, silently cursing himself for every kind of fool.
"Don't be stupid," Jaskier interrupted. "I love it."
"You--you do?"
Jaskier beamed up at him, spreading the garment carefully on the bed to run gentle fingers over the ostentatious sleeves, the delicate stitching. "Of course I do. It's gorgeous, Geralt. I had no idea you had such excellent taste."
Geralt huffed, uncertain whether or be relieved or offended.
Jaskier stood, effectively putting them nose-to-nose as he began to remove his shirt, dexterous fingers tugging at the laces. "Yes indeed. Excellent taste. Despite Yennefer."
"Hmmm," Geralt grunted, his eyes immediately drawn to the exposed skin and tuft of chest hair now peeking from the neck of Jaskier's shirt. "Still don't see what Yennefer has to do with anything."
"Oh you don't, do you?" Jaskier pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the bed, but didn't bother to pick up the doublet. He shook his head, then lifted a gentle hand to cup Geralt's cheek. "That's because you're an idiot," he told him fondly, then leaned in and covered Geralt's mouth with his own.
Geralt's lips parted on a gasp of surprise, and Jaskier immediately took advantage and slipped his tongue inside, his other hand joining the first to frame Geralt's face. Feeling inexplicably dizzy, Geralt steadied himself by holding onto the bard's slender hips. He'd been party to quite a few kisses in his long life, but none of them had ever made him feel like this. Like he was punch-drunk, reeling.
Like he was falling.
Jaskier nipped at his bottom lip and all of the blood in Geralt's body immediately decided to relocate southward and possibly also turn to fire along the way.
"It's like that, is it," he growled, his fingers tightening possessively, possibly digging in hard enough to leave bruises. The very thought cause a groan to rumble in his chest. Gods, he hoped there would be bruises.
Jaskier laughed breathlessly and pressed himself closer still, warm and alive and more beautiful than anything Geralt ever thought he'd be allowed to have. "Oh, my darling Witcher," he whispered between kisses peppered against Geralt's jaw. "It's always been like that."