Of Bards and Witchers

Tenth

If Jaskier had any sense he'd have packed more-- in fact, he's begun to make a mental list titled 'Things Geralt Will Call Me Stupid For Forgetting And/Or Not Purchasing,' such as but not limited to: a bedroll ( again ), new boots ( as presently his were at the brink of being walked to death ), and a cloak, gods damn him. But really, how was he to anticipate a downpour in the middle of a dry spell?

In any case he's soaked and freezing, but so focused on keeping Filivandrel's lute from becoming waterclogged that he doesn't notice Roach's slowing.

He thinks back to the day a storm not unlike this one drowned all the flowers in the garden outside his bedroom window in Kerack. Wonders if the same fate might befall him, however unlikely.

"Bard."

He stumbles to a hault at the steed's head and turns to look up at her rider, sopping wet and, as Geralt might attest, blessedly silent for once. The Witcher stares at him so intently that it makes him shuffle on his feet. He blinks and droplets spill down his cheeks to join the ones falling there resolutely; shifts so as to tuck his lute case more thoroughly between him and his undone doublet.

"Yes?" He asks.

Jaskier wouldn't deem such an answer so profound, at least not under these circumstances, but Geralt is so moved by it he dismounts and works undone the ties of his cloak. When it settles weightily on his shoulders and the Witcher pulls the hood up to shield him further from the elements he thinks he might be dreaming. It's warm, and even if it doesn't smell that great ( although there is something to it that is distinctly Geralt, which he finds he doesn't mind ) he is decidedly grateful because he hadn't even realised he was shivering. It isn't long before the man himself is soaked through, though he only mumbles something about Roach and a cave. He isn't really listening-- although he's swathed in warmth it brings attention to other discomforts. That being said, he's bone tired and miserable. The cloak is warm but heavy and does little to settle the chill already worked into his bones due to his soaking garments-- and he had been clutching his lute with such fervor that he finds his arms ache as he loosens his hold.

"Jaskier," the Witcher says. His brows are creased-- he looks worried.

It loosens his tongue enough to speak. "I'm quite alright, my friend. Tired, is all. And soaked. Cold. Actually, I lied-- I am most definitely miserable. Not that I am ungrateful for-- Will you be alright, by the way? You don't have--"

And then Geralt's hands are under the cloak and grasping his waist firmly-- fingers slip just beneath the hem of his shirt and, oh, they're quite warm, actually. And rather large. Jaskier finds himself wondering how he hadn't noticed these things before and why he was noticing them now. He has not even a moment to consider what is happening or what to say before he's being lifted-- not for the first time-- and plopped carefully onto Roach's saddle. He blinks owlishly.

"Do I even weigh anything to you?" He blurts, as he hugs his lute to his chest.

Geralt rolls his eyes and takes the reins, guiding his steed forward through the muddy earth. "No."

Jaskier licks his lips, then sighs heavily. He isn't sure where Geralt intends to take them but he's certain that if they don't find somewhere soon he's going to pass out in this very saddle-- which is another thing entirely! It was made quite clear that this was not something which he was allowed to do. Roach was loyal to a fault, and picky, and Geralt was, for lack of a better term, posessive.

He shifts a little. "Geralt, will she buck me? Is this okay? I don't want her to think she has to carry me, I'd be fine to walk on my own-"

The Witcher peers up at him-- and that's weird to say, really. Just as weird as peering down. The crease in his brow has lessened, at least.

"Quiet, Jaskier."

For once, he obliges.

The feeling of Geralt's hands on his waist linger, and the sent of him envelops him wholly, and he is tired but altogether content. He wonders belatedly, if it had not been raining, if their scents would intermingle in the air and what his companion would think of it. And then Geralt's lips quirk to one side, ever so slightly. Oh, he thinks. He's pretty.

Fuck.

--

Jaskier was right about the baroness-- she wasn't worth much on her own but nobility had connections and he was finally able to play something substantial to get them talking. Granted, it was still about Geralt.

It must have gone over well, because somehow he finds himself, only two months later, escorted into Cintra to perform privately for their princess's twelfth birthday.

He'd heard stories.

A child of chaos rattling stone walls with her voice when tempted. A child of great power.

Pavetta is a child, but she is more than just stories. Chaos leaves a metallic taste on his tongue-- he's familiar with it, he'd met sorceresses and sorcerers alike. Pavetta is dripping in it.

She steps down from her seat and pads over to him. He kneels. Somewhere in the back Queen Calanthe snorts, but Pavetta is giggling at the gesture. His heart swells.

"What is your name, Sir Bard?" She asks.

He inclines his head. "Jaskier, Your Highness," he says, "or, rather--"

Her eyes are as wide as her grin as she exclaims, "Buttercup the Bard!" and erupts into a fit of giggles. Jaskier can't help himself from beaming.

Princess Pavetta is simply a child. The chaos is over-shadowed by the pink of her cheeks and her poise, the laughter that bubbles from her throat and the bright eyes and the pale hair that fall in waves down her shoulders.

He must do well. Calanthe expects him to perform again the following summer.

--

"Geralt, for crying out loud, there's no need for manhandling-- Yes, I am quite sure I can walk on my own--"

And he does, pushing Geralt's arm from his shoulder as he stumbles his way through the cave's threshold. Even if it is draining, even if his legs feel ready to give out under the weight of his soaked garments. The chill has crept under his borrowed cloak-- at least he isn't shivering. Yet.

Geralt huffs as he practically collapses into a sitting position on the man's bedroll and fumbles with the cloak's clasp. The Witcher busies himself putting together a fire-- which thankfully doesn't take long.

Jaskier is eccentric, but not stupid. From there it's stripping from clothes that stick dreadfully to his skin and warming before he can catch a cold or worse, if he hadn't already. He sighs at the feel of dried clothes and a warm fire and falls back.

Geralt drapes the cloak back over him.

"Geralt," he says, sprawling out.

"Hmm."

"You're doting on me like a mother hen."

"Hmm."

He sits up so that he might catch the man's gaze and readjusts the cloak over his shoulders. "Thank you, Geralt. Are you sure you're alright?"

The Witcher peers back at him with that familiar look, mutters something about the fire, and it's then that understanding befalls him.

"Oh," he says. Geralt prods at the flames with a steady hand.

The Witcher has never had someone to ask after him.