Work Text:
1759w Geralt x Jaskier
Believe it or not, Jaskier knows when he is being too much, knows when he has wound Geralt up near to his breaking point, so he stops just on the line. Toe peeking out, barely extending over it, and he waits for Geralt to rein in his irritation. Lets him simmer down and adjust to Jaskier’s latest explosive outbreak of song or his incessant chatter, with nought but a glower.
Jaskier winds him up. But stops when he sees Geralt about to unravel. Knows when he has had enough. Can see the frown firmly etched into the witcher’s brow, the mark deep and unmoving. Knows the differences in his sighs and grunts, knows when the latter is directed as a warning for him to quiet, and to quiet down before he shuts him up.
He knows all this, and usually, he can stop. Usually, he does it before it gets to the point where Geralt even has to warn.
I can hold my breath
I can bite my tongue
But then he met Yennefer of Vengerberg and all of a sudden he feels so small and minuscule in Geralt’s presence. Feels his typically loud and boisterous self, deflate and his existence wither. Like a dying weed, left out in a patch of grass by itself, with no one to tend to it, feed it, give it warmth, with no one to even pluck it out of its misery.
One minute Jaskier has the infamous white wolf’s attention, his never-ending gaze directed upon his admittedly trouble attracting form, and the next? A raven-haired beauty, with mesmerizing lilac coloured eyes and the allure of an unfairly attractive woman, has stolen it. A woman who just so happens to be a witch.
A powerful immortal witch.
How is Jaskier supposed to compete with that? How is he, a simple wandering bard, who too often gets caught in troublesome situations, who too often needs Geralt to fish him out of said problems, he who has no magical powers or abilities, how is he supposed to contend with that?
That would be like sending a man clad only in his breeches, with a stick fashioned into the shape of a sword, into battle, with his opponent dressed in the most sturdy of armour, the deadliest of weapons, with the Kings favour already tied securely around the weapons end.
He supposes he is not meant to.
If Geralt had wanted him, he would already have him.
So, as Jaskier watches Yennefer waltz into the tavern and by her mere presence alone, convince Geralt to join in on a dragon hunt, he not five minutes ago wanted no part of, he realises that perhaps again he is to hold his tongue. Batten down the hatches, and weather the storm. Until it passes on by in a wave of lilac and gooseberry.
She always disappears, and he always stays.
I can hold my breath
I can bite my tongue
I can stay awake for days
If that’s what you want
Jaskier will do this because if it is what his witcher wants, then his wish will be granted. Jaskier will only moan and kick up a fuss a little. Not enough to show his jealousy, not enough to confuse the witcher, not even enough to make Yennefer notice. Just enough so that his disapproval is known and heard, but never enough to make Geralt aware.
And Jaskier will carry on. Carry on singing his songs and his praise for his white wolf. He will plaster on a smile, pick up his lute and play the songs that earned him fame, earned Geralt respect, but mostly earned him a lifetime of heartbreak and sorrow.
Be your number one
When you are someone’s muse, especially to a talented writer and composer such as Jaskier, they become your everything. Even if the muse only lasts for a fleeting of time, it is still all-consuming enough to make it feel endless. Yet Geralt, this muse, has lingered, took hold of Jaskier in such a way, torn open his chest, found his heart and etched its name in swift sharp lines, causing it to bleed and never heal the same way again.
And the worst part is? Jaskier doesn’t even mind. He likes the feel of the scars etched into his heart. Likes the pain. He’s always been slightly masochistic. He thinks the pain helps him write better, and anyway if it means he gets to see Geralt smile more. If it means he has to watch on as Yennefer causes his witcher to finally open up and reveal his tightly held in emotions, if it means Geralt is actually happy?
Well, he can force himself to carry on.
I can fake a smile
I can force a laugh
I can dance and play the part
He is always playing a part. Dutiful son of a low ranking nobleman, a well-behaved student at a prestigious university, an attentive and generous lover, a crowd pleaser and poetic master. A barker for a witcher. A man who is in love with his muse but cannot show it. Must hide it. Even if he knows Geralt must have some sort of inkling. He is after all not as oblivious as some of his songs would suggest.
But if his witcher does not want to draw attention to this thing between them. If he chooses to ignore it, push past it,
If that’s what you ask
Then that is what Jaskier will do.
Anything for his muse,
His love.
He will continue to pour his heart out in song. Continue to play the strings of his elven lute late into the night, until his fingers crack and bleed, and his voice grows horse with overuse. He will continue to give.
Give you all I am
And he knows, knows without a shadow of a doubt, he can keep doing it. Over and over.
I can do it
I can do it
I can do it
But when he’s sat on that mountainside, next to his love. Next to the man he chose to follow and not to love, but couldn’t help it as love followed anyway. As he gives a sidelong glance at his muse, asking him to “leave tomorrow” “start again” “give me another chance to prove I’m a worthy travel companion”. When he says all this, pours his heart out in subtle gentleness, asks to go to the coast, to take a chance,
and Geralt decides to turn away? To choose not him, but her.
He watches Geralt get up and walk away, feels his heart stretch as it breaks, feels the scars etched so deeply start to tear. As he watches Geralt leave to go to her tent, where he knows the witch will open up her arms and cocoon Geralt in her enticing scent and magical heat. Offering up things that the bard can only imagine. Could only dream up and immortalize in song, but not in person.
But I’m only human
And I bleed when I fall down
He thinks that’s it. That he is done forever feeling like this. That he cannot continue picking up the remains of his broken heart, carefully finding the etchings and stitching them back together, can’t keep holding onto something that so clearly does not want him back. He cannot compete with somebody that offers eternity.
I’m only human
He sometimes thinks that they forget that. That he doesn’t have forever like them. That the years he has spent by Geralt’s side are more than half his life, and to any other human, they would understand. They would get what that means. But witchers are old, older than most, they’ve been around a while, and perhaps they don’t get the significance of this act.
It hurts. To not be acknowledged. The one thing he is proud of is his constant presence by his muse’s side, his constant support and his constant drive to change the opinions of those around him. To make them see the witcher, his witcher, the way he sees him. To make them witness the greatness and kindness of this man, and it takes forever.
It takes half his life and still counting to change the harshest of critics, those still rigid and settled in their ways, to see the man the way he does. And he thinks perhaps Geralt doesn’t get that. Doesn’t understand.
And I crash and I break down
Your words in my head, knives in my heart
Standing on the mountain top and listening to the words straight out of his nightmares. As if Geralt had bore witness to them in the many nights spent lying on forest floors, swaddled together to preserve heat, had heard them and took them. Plucked them from his head and spat them back out at him in a rage of fury. Built-up from somewhere deep inside.
You build me up and then I fall apart
And Jaskier knows that it’s not really about him. Not all of it. But still, the words hurt, they fucking latch on and dig into his skin, tear yet again more rips into his damaged and perpetually bleeding heart. And then his witcher goes and tells him the one thing you never want to hear from someone you love, “If life could give me one blessing it would take you off my hands”, to be wished for your existence to not be there. For your presence to have never been there.
Jaskier doesn’t know if his heart will make it out intact this time.
‘Cause I’m only human, yeah
He thinks perhaps there might be too many holes and tears for it to be stitched back up now. Yet, he takes one last look at Geralt, one last glance at the white wolf who stole away into the dark, took a part of him, never to be returned again, and he thinks maybe he will do this, maybe he will plough on, make himself vanish, disappear out of the witcher’s world, cause no more trouble,
If that’s what you need
He can do that. He can love from afar.
He has resigned himself to always be loving this man, to always be forever enamoured and awed by him. He has resigned himself to a lifetime of heartbreak and sorrow.
But maybe, maybe he won’t make it past this.
'Cause I’m only human, yeah
I’m only human
Just a little human
I can take so much
Until I’ve had enough
'Cause I’m only human