Geraskier One-Shots

Bard

When he first met Jaskier, Jaskier was a bard. Loud and annoying, bright blue eyes and the most beautiful singing g voice. He was a nuisance in Geralt's side, some ragtag runaway that wanted adventure. He was someone who grew without knowing strife but knowing pain. He someone that would've hired Geralt for a join, not accompany him on one.

He was easy to love, easy to break.

He gave Geralt a new chance at life, gave him a chance to be loved. To be seen as more than just a Witcher, to be seen as a human. And all Geralt could do was shout at him, chasing him away.

The side of that mountain was the last time Geralt saw Jaskier.

"If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands," was what he said. His eyes glowing in anger, an accusatory finger raised. It wasn't what he meant, but he didn't need Jaskier's optimistic approach, he needed room to grieve.

To morn.

He needed to time to hurt.

That still doesn't mean he meant what he said, lord knows he didn't, but he said it.

"See you around, Geralt," Jaskier said. His voice was small, hurt. The footsteps that echoed behind him seemed to rock the ground he stood on. The world shaking with regret, but Geralt couldn't find the words.

He couldn't find the ability to apologize, he didn't know where to begin.

He continued on, trudging away with Roach. Surrounded by the lifelessness of the forest, the silence of a world without a colorful, promiscuous bard trailing behind him. The silence hurt, but he allowed himself to bask in it. For the silence of the night to envelop him, to ease away the scars of losing both Yennefer and Jaskier. Two people he loved, perhaps for different reasons, perhaps for the same, he wasn't sure.

Geralt only knew that he missed them both.

But, as fate would have it, he wouldn't stay parted from Yennefer for long.

However, fate seemed to have different plans concerning the bard. He only ever heard stories of Jaskier. Only catching in the gossip of villagers that had nothing better to do with their day.

"Have you heard of him?"

"Who?"

"The bard."

That's what they called him, 'the bard.' Never 'Jaskier,' always, 'the bard.'

That made the pain easier, being able to walk around the world without constantly hearing the name of a friendship he severed. But the pain was still there, it was silent, only cracking down on him in lowly taverns. In the corners of unoccupied space, space where Jaskier should be.

"Have you heard?"

"What?"

"They say that bard has died."

"Died you say?!"

"Yes, the poor thing just keeled over one day."

Dead?

That couldn't be.

No, that was wrong. A tale made by the people of this town, a town that happened to hate him. It was nothing more than a joke filled to the brim with malicious intent.

"Where did he die?"

"They found him at the coast, near the ocean. He was dead, grasping onto a medallion of sorts and his lute. Oh, it was so awful..."

The coast?

The coast.

A place he never got to go, a place he'll never get to go.

­­­___________

Meeting Jaskier for a second time was a surprise. This time, he sported a cap, shading his brunette hair, it was longer than the first time, brushing against the collar of his shirt. He looked more rugged, a bit taller, but his eyes were still sea blue. His smile was still as bright as the sun.

He was still Jaskier.

Armed with an acoustic guitar. Strolling across the packed bar, spewing on an on with a wretched song, one that was far to mundane.

Geralt couldn't believe it, not at first. Thinking that he was possibly seeing a ghost, or it was a vision brough on by the god-awful booze.

His grip on his cup tightening, heart dropping to the pit of his stomach. He was here.

Not at the coast.

Here.

"I love the way you just sit in the corner and," he made a gesture with his hand, "brood."

A response sat in his throat, burned the back of it. Itching to ask, questions filling his mind, pressing firmly against his heart. Questions of 'where' of 'how'? But then, there was also the buildup of an apology, an 'I'm sorry.'

"I'm here to drink alone," he breathed, eyes softening.

Jaskier only made a brief sound of acknowledgement before sitting himself down in front of Geralt. Hands linked over his cup, a bright look in his eye.

"You're a Witcher," He whispered, ducking his head down low.

Hm, so more observant that before.

"There are so few of you left, and you've managed to survive," A soft chuckle left his lips, lifting his glass, "That alone deserves a toast."

Yes, this was Jaskier, the same as before the same as always.

But he was a bit taller, a bit broader. His hands were calloused, not only at his fingertips, as they had been before, but around his palms. Jaskier was sharper, stronger.

"Jaskier," Geralt breathed, chest rising rapidly, "It's you."

"That's my name," He smirked, before the smile fell from his face, "W-Wait. How do you know that?"

It was him, but not him.

Jaskier but not his Jaskier.

A stranger.

A stranger he loved.

"Intuition," he retorted, raising his glass to his lips, gulping down the bitter liquid that swirled inside. He clenched his hand, holding himself back. He wanted so badly to reach over, to pull the bard into a hug, into a...something. He wanted to hear that damn song again, to deal with the weight of Jaskier's tunics on his back. He wanted it all.

"Is that so?" Jaskier beamed, raising his hand, sliding his guitar to his back, "Well, nice to meet you, Witcher."

"Yes, nice to meet you."

Bard.

___________

A/N: This is so half baked, I am so sorry