Of Bards and Witchers

Fourteenth

    The thing about being a bard is that nobody gives a damn about you unless you're performing-- it's a lot like being a noble, really, except without the safety net of your status to protect you from heckling or otherwise. So in short, when a drunkard strikes you, shoves you into the mud for refusing to play him a song to go with his upteenth drink ( after you've finished up your set for the night, mind you! ) and raises his boot to bust in your ribs-- well. It's better to get it over with quietly.

    Too bad he isn't good at being quiet. Or getting out of trouble. Jaskier's only priority is keeping his lute from getting kicked in or scuffed. He rushes to his feet but Melitele's tits, there's little purchase in the mud caked about-- he falls back to his knees.

    "Whoreson," the man takes a lumbering step closer, sputtering-- his heart flutters against his ribs as he scrambles back towards the stables. "What're ye for if not ta entertain?"

    His back hits the wall of the stable and he presses flush against it, cradling his lute so tightly to his chest he just might splinter it himself. The drunkard staggers the last few feet between them and raises his boot. Jaskier screws his eyes shut.

    The impact doesn't come. There's no cracking of ribs or loss of breath or kicked in teath--

    There's a growl; a sea of curses and the thud of a body ( thankfully not his own ) against a far wall-- he cracks an eye open, can't help the relieved sigh that falls from his parted lips as he thunks his head back against the stable.

    The drunkard writhes pathetically beneath Geralt of Rivia's boot back across the structure, looking both disgusted and terrified, however he can manage it in his state. His companion only adds pressure to his pinned form, stares for a moment before releasing him completely.

     "Leave," he spits.

    The man sobers up rather quickly-- not before pissing himself, of course, and scrambles away from the mess.

    Geralt crosses back over the space to crouch beside him. "You didn't call for me," the man says. Jaskier can only imagine the note of bewilderment through the crease between his brows.

    "I'm filthy," the bard whines, instead of responding. He drags a hand down the neck of his instrument, presses his cheek to the coolness of her bodice. "At least she's okay."

    "She is a piece of wood," the Witcher states, obervationally. The man reaches over, sweeps his fingers across his forehead-- pulls a clump of mud from his hair. "You didn't fight back."

    "Gods no," he says, blanching. He reaches up to touch his own hair as Geralt raises a brow and takes him by the arm to help lift him to his feet. "I'm a bard, Geralt-- and thank you. Fighting might only ensure my death, it's best to let them have their way so that they move on quicker."

    His companion's expression falls stony. "You are a bard," he agrees. "In the company of a Witcher."

    Jaskier doesn't know what exactly prompts the "Huh," that tumbles from his lips as he brushes himself off. It isn't as if he wasn't aware, he just... "And I suppose you'd like it, then, if I called upon you whenever I get into a little bout?" He tuts. "My own big bad wolf? My Witcher in... gut stained leather?"

    "Yes."

    "Ah--" the bard sputters. Nothing meant by it, obviously, but the suddenness of the man's response turns his stomach; and so he turns toward the door fully, lest his heart flutter straight from his chest. "Well," he continues. "I do get into quite a bit of trouble, Geralt-- You'll come to regret those words eventually."

    He's fidgeting, he knows-- isn't playing his lute more so than plucking at random, and Geralt must recognize this because a warm hand settles against the back of his neck in a companionable gesture. Definitely companionable, he just can't help but remember the feel of them along his waist. He distracts himself as they move toward the door with a final shrill twang of his lute, then starts on something softer-- something with character and shape that brings his focus to the feel of his fingers against her strings.

   "You'd really do that?" the bard questions, suddenly. "Jump in like that if I asked?"

    Geralt's hand falls lower along his back as he ushers him toward their room. "Yes."

    "I'm a bard," he echoes. No one fights for a performer. Geralt pulls the door ajar and ushers him inside.

    "I'm a Witcher," the man huffs.

    Jaskier licks his lips. "Witchers do have feelings, you know."

   Geralt pats his shoulder, decidedly ignoring his statement, then shoves him ( lightly, for a man of his prowess ) toward the bath. He stumbles a bit-- thank Melitele he doesn't fall-- before steadying and relenquishing his lute to their only chair, discarding his doublet and setting to the buttons of his shirt.

    "Back in Oxenfurt my colleague Roderick called your kind beastly," he says. "I suppose he's right on some accounts, you do have beastly qualities, such as hearing critters miles away and the strength of ten men, but--"

    "Jaskier." Stop talking.

    "But," the minstrel continues, unperturbed. "You have needs and desires just like every other man. And you care, deeply; dare I say it, more than any man--"

    "Jaskier."

    The bard lets his garments pile onto the floor just this once-- they're ruined, anyhow, caked in grime, and settles into the tub. "So I would like you to know, Geralt," he says, finally. He lathers a dampened rag in soap and sets to scrubbing at his skin. "I think-- rather, I know Witchers have feelings. I know you are especially kind, even if you try to hide it under that gruffness, and over the last few years I have come to appreciate that kindness-- and admire it, actually, among your many other favorable qualities-- as well as consider you my closest companion and dearest friend."

    The room falls silent. He wrinkles his nose at it, disquieted, but when he parts his lips and lifts his head no words tumble out-- instead he startles, just a bit, and pauses his ministrations. The Witcher is crouched opposite him ( always crossing spaces quieter than a mouse ), leaning on the lip of the tub with his head rested on his arms. His brows are furrowed and lips quirked downward as he bores his gaze into Jaskier's, its the most open display of expression he's ever seen on the man.

    "I don't know," Geralt says, after a moment. "I don't know what to say. I don't understand you." It's earnest-- something in his eyes says he wants to, that he's mulling over Jaskier's words as if trying to pick them apart and decipher them. He remains still-- butterflies fluttering ceaselessly in his stomach as the man reaches over and brushes his thumb over the tender skin below his eye. "He got you."

    "Oh- am I bruising?" The bard frowns. Their hands brush as he reaches up himself and he tries to ignore it. "How am I to perform with a face like this?"

    The Witcher sighs and draws his hand back-- Jaskier feels the loss acutely, misses it yet is grateful because he shouldn't. "We have ointment," Geralt says, standing and moving back into their room. "I'll get it for you. It'll reduce the swelling."