The bard is an absolute idiot.
That’s all Geralt’s been thinking about for the past hours, watching Jaskier play and play and play. And now, finally sets down his lute and stops—although setting down is generously put: the bard more like drops his instrument and slumps.
”Fine,” the witch spits and glares daggers at Geralt. ”You’re free to go.” She releases Geralt with an impatient flick of her wrist and turns to go.
Geralt doesn’t watch her leave. He’d like to say he forgets her as soon as she vanishes into the shadows but he can’t because she made him watch Jaskier play until his fingers bled and then carry on. No, he won’t forget her, not in a long while, but he puts her out of his mind as he hurries to Jaskier’s side.
The bard’s face is pale and he’s shaking with exhaustion, but the idiot is still grinning like a maniac.
”I did it!” He exclaims. ”Did you see? I did it!”
”Yes, I saw,” Geralt grits out as he gently picks up the lute and scowls at the strings slick with blood. ”She made me watch.”
”So, what do you think?”
”What I think…” Geralt starts and then lets out a long breath. He rummages around the lute case for the cloth Jaskier uses to wipe his lute every once in a while and carefully cleans up each string. The cloth is some light fabric but it doesn’t stay light for long. It makes something in Geralt’s chest clench.
”Yes?” Jaskier asks, stretching the word.
”I think you’re an idiot,” Geralt says.
Jaskier snorts. ”Yes, well, that’s nothing new. You think I’m an idiot on a daily basis, don’t you? So, pray tell, what made me an idiot in this particular case?”
Geralt wipes the lute’s body and neck clean of small blood droplets, places it in its case, and finally lifts his head to look at Jaskier. ”Because you didn’t have to do this,” he says.
”Of course I had to!” Jaskier retorts, indignant.
”No, you didn’t.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. ”Yes, I did, and no, we’re not going to continue this back-and-forth tug-of-war for longer.”
”You—”
”No,” Jaskier says, suddenly serious. He presses a bloody finger on Geralt’s lip to silence him and then winces as the light touch clearly hurts his fingertip. ”Despite what you think, I’m actually an adult who can make his own mind. She gave us a choice: either she was going to torture you to compensate her of whatever offense we supposedly committed, or I was going to play the whole cycle of The Lament of Katina Van Wyk.”
Geralt growls. ”That thing was too fucking long, your fingers—”
”My fingers can take it. Yes, the cycle is very long and she clearly didn’t expect anyone to actually remember the whole thing. But she clearly didn’t also expect that White Wolf’s bard graduated from Oxenfurt with honors—and who did his final presentation on this very cycle.” Jaskier’s lips draw into a wolfish grin. ”So, yes, my fingers might hurt like hell but I fucking played the whole damn thing!”
Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand in his and turns it palm up to examine the damage. ”You are a fucking idiot.”
”We’ve already established that,” Jaskier says calmly.
”You won’t be able to play until they’re completely healed,” he says.
Jaskier shrugs. ”It was worth it.”
Geralt bares his teeth. ”I don’t like to see you get hurt,” he grits out. The ”Not because of me,” goes unsaid but he knows Jaskier hears it anyway because his eyes go soft.
”And what makes you think the feeling isn’t mutual?” He asks quietly. ”I’d rather play my fingers to the bone than see you hurt and humiliated like she was planning to do. And I won’t let that happen, not on my watch. You’ve been sneered at and humiliated enough. This, though?” He waggles his fingers and almost manages to stifle the hiss of pain. ”This is how my fingers sometimes look like. We used to compete in Oxenfurt sometimes, just to see who could last the longest. I always won.”
Geralt shakes his head. ”You shouldn’t—”
”Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do,” Jaskier says. ”You don’t get to dictate my actions.” His voice is calm but the look in his eyes reminds Geralt of the time when he almost made the biggest mistake of his life.
It’s a warning he promised he’d heed.
So, Geralt takes a deep breath, unclenches his teeth, and consciously forces his shoulders to relax. ”We should get those fingers treated,” he says and gently kisses the sluggishly bleeding fingertips.
”Yeah. Except that…” Jaskier bites his lip and looks sheepishly at Geralt. ”I can’t feel my legs?”
”Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jaskier,” Geralt says, picks his idiot bard and his lute in his arms, and takes a deep breath before he starts to walk away from the fucking forest they never should’ve stepped in. Jaskier falls asleep even before he’s out of the clearing and Geralt allows himself a moment to stop, press his face in Jaskier’s hair, and just breathe for a moment.
Then he walks away and doesn’t look back.