Of Bards and Witchers

Ninth

    They’re sharing a room in a nice Novigrad inn— sharing because it’s cheaper, and they’re poor as it is. The days are growing colder and that means not only are there less contracts for the Witcher but folk are fickle in anticipation of the cold weather ( and therefore more annoyed by the very sight of the bard prancing about with his unending grin. ). Not that he’s complaining, it’s a nice inn and nice inns mean nice baths and nice beds and good food— in any case, they are sharing a room, and it is there that he presents Geralt with his prize.
 
    “A comb,” the Witcher deadpans.
 
    Jaskier waves it about, partly for dramatic effect but partly because Geralt has a habit of following things with his eyes and he finds it amusing. Like he’s tracking its movements and getting ready to pounce— not unlike a cat chasing a feather in the wind.
 
   “A comb!” He exclaims, then sets his palms on the man’s chest and pushes him back— or thinks he’s pushing, at least; Geralt might just be generous ( or curious ) enough to allow the movement— so that he’s seated on the edge of their bed. “I bartered for it in the market. We’re going to brush your hair.”
 
    “You stole it.”
 
    “What an utterly outlandish accusation,” he huffs, feigning great offense. “I found it.”
 
    Geralt searches his face. “What happened to bartered?” He asks.
 
    “Quiet,” Jaskier mutters, jutting a lip petulantly. “You misheard me, it isn’t like you ever give me your full attention anyhow.”
 
    The Witcher stares. They both know Geralt mishears nothing.
 
    Alright, maybe he had stolen it— but not from a market stall. It just so happens that his latest suitor had it lying on the nightstand beside them; delicate, finely crafted, and very obviously unused. They were generous enough in their spending to have a decorative comb— and it shouldn’t have been but his mind had wandered, as it often did, and, well Geralt— “Stop staring at me like that.” It just seemed a waste to let it sit there, is all.

    Jaskier sniffs and decides, instead of suffering the man’s gaze, to move, so he clambers onto the bed and kneels behind him.
 
    This wasn’t so different from the routine they had fallen into in their months of traveling together. Geralt no longer tensed— or at the very least it didn’t last as long— when he settled behind him, nor does he comment when Jaskier gathers his hair. He’d washed it himself plenty of times by now, but this was their first time to have a luxury such as a comb. Jaskier himself didn’t own one, his hair was short enough that it didn’t tangle as such. Geralt, on the other hand, has been outright neglecting himself.
 
    “You are thinking loudly.” He says— or, literally, I’m bored, hurry up.
 
    Jaskier tuts and begins to untangle what he can with his fingers, then hums under his breath as he takes the comb to the Witcher’s snowy locks.
 
    Go to sleep, go to sleep,
    Close your azure eyes;
    If you close those azure eyes,
    You’ll cuddle up to me.
 
    Go to sleep, go to sleep,
    You little falcon;
    When you grow
    We’ll go to the field.
 
    He drags the comb slowly through the Witcher’s locks. The man is relaxed as he sits perched on the edge of the bed; likely he’s begun to meditate as Jaskier works through the knots. If he listens just enough he can hear the soft rumbling being worked from Geralt’s chest, not unlike a feline’s contented purr.
 
    —
 
    Julian’s favorite part of the Lettenhove estate is the tree outside his bedroom window— or, more specifically, the warbler that has taken up home in it. It wakes him at the first dregs of dawn, and while he cannot stand being up at such an hour normally, he finds himself reluctant to miss its performance. He always somehow finds himself leaving the warmth of his bed and padding barefoot across the cool wooden plains of his floors to lean against the windowsill.
 
    Sometimes he pulls up the chair from his desk and falls back asleep there.
 
    Usually he just listens.
 
    Often he wonders what it would be like to step from his sill and leave this place behind, whether that means soaring or otherwise.
 
    A knock sounds at his door. His shoulders tense almost painfully. The warbler quiets.
 
    “Honorable Julian Pankratz,” comes a voice. “The Viscount de Lettenhove requests your presence at breakfast this morning.”
 
    “Yes,” he sighs. “I will be there shortly.”
 
    —
 
    The first time they part ways is not because Geralt has finally shaken him off, but because Jaskier has been asked to perform at a courtly affair and as it happens Geralt detests them— the Witcher heads east instead, at the promise of work. And Jaskier had anticipated the disappointed ache of losing his muse, of course, but he didn’t expect to feel so empty. So lonely. At least in the silence at Geralt’s side he could always look up and find someone looking back— even if he did look away every time their gazes met.
 
    Now he stood in front of the mirror in his appointed quarters, fidgeting with his collar and hands twitching with that familiar urge to itch. No fidgeting, keep your back straight as a rod— tonight he was here to perform, not partake, but it never hurt to flaunt his nobility just a bit. It garnered him a scrap of respect at the very least, and he was requested by name.
 
    Baroness de Eldeham requests kindly the presence of Honorable Julian Alfred Pankratz, bard Jaskier, by way of performance—
 
    His face had soured at the very sight, but he managed to school his expression with a bit of effort at Geralt’s questioning gaze. He folds the letter closed and tucks it into his doublet. “I’ve been invited to perform for the baroness,” he says, working a smile to his lips. “A fine opportunity— she stands offering quarters and payment, of course—“
 
    “You don’t want to go.”
 
    Jaskier shakes his head fervently, “Quite the contrary, my friend! I wouldn’t miss this for the world— she’s hardly a notable baroness but word will spread nonetheless and once it does—“
 
    Geralt cuts him off with a “Hmm,” and shoves a chunk of bread in his mouth. Jaskier sniffs but says nothing more. His food remains barely touched that night.
 
    —
 
    A real bath is something Jaskier will never take for granted, a nice bath in a large tub is cause for reverence. No matter how many streams they stop to bathe in, he can never rid himself of the feeling of being dirty. An occupational hazard— one that was bearable, but he’d complain about nonetheless and— what in Melitele’s tits—
 
    “Pardon me, or pardon you, rather, what in the world are you doing—?”
 
    Geralt stands there with a resolutely unimpressed look, bare of all but his towel, like, What does it look like, Bard—? and promptly drops the thing before joining him. Jaskier blinks owlishly, tucking himself farther back, and then turns his face away entirely— he’d seen the man bare before, obviously, that comes with bathing in streams, but—
 
    “Your thinking is just as annoying as your speaking,” Geralt grunts. “Which is saying something considering I cannot hear it—” and at the very least he is decent ( submerged, rather, and thank fuck this tub is unreasonably large ) when Jaskier’s head snaps toward him, because that is probably the longest sentence Geralt has ever said to him in one go, and it was insulting.
 
    “You are an unreasonably rude brute.”
 
    The Witcher rolls his eyes. “This water is cold.”
 
    Jaskier blinks. “The water is hot, you just like it boiling— don’t you dare with the Igni, Geralt, you will cook me alive—“
 
    “I prefer your thinking to your grating voice.”
 
    “Insufferable Witcher—!”
 
    Geralt silences him with a splash of water to his face— or tries to silence him, he assumes. In reality he just sputters indignantly.