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Geralt stared helplessly at his bard; his bard that was supposed to be practically useless. A broken wrist had grounded Geralt for now, and Jaskier had offered to escort him somewhere safe, which Geralt had taken to mean an offer of companionship and perhaps some help with the horses. Instead, what he got was so much more. The bard in front of him was a completely different man to the boy from Posada, or even the week before. Jaskier was meant to be the helpless one; the one who lazed around on his lute, chattering away whilst Geralt built the camp, hunted for dinner and ensured their safety.
Not whatever this was.
It seemed that Jaskier had been holding out on him. The tents were raised in almost record time as Jaskier sang to himself. He found enough firewood and dried leaves with ease, despite the damp air, and he'd even trapped and skinned a rabbit. Although he had wrinkled his nose at that one and whined when the blood splattered over his chemise. He'd taken care of everything, putting a finger on Geralt's lips when he’d tried to offer help.
“When did you learn all this?” Geralt asked once they were sitting around the fire, grazing on rabbit legs.
Jaskier's blue eyes flashed to him, a fond smile on his face. “Come now, Geralt, do you think me stupid? How long has it been? Ten years? Fifteen?”
Geralt thought about it and realised he wasn't sure. Years melted together with time, age meaning nothing to him beyond the aches in his bones. So he shrugged and cocked his head. “Something like that.”
“And how many months of the year do we spend together?” The bard's tongue flicked out to swipe across his lips and then he elegantly cleaned the mess from his fingers.
“Erm…”
What was the question again?
“The point being- not all of them. I'm a travelling bard, Geralt. I travel all the fucking time. So yes, maybe when we're together I relax a little bit but, my dear witcher, that is because I can. It can be very tiring being a bard on the road. Some might say that I’m a target when I’m alone, so it’s actually nice to be able to switch off when I’m with you.”
Geralt blinked as he took in Jaskier’s words. All these years when he’d thought the bard was just being lazy, it was because he felt safe? Because of Geralt. In his experience, despite his skills and his profession, people very rarely felt safe because of him. They were free of their monsters but in their eyes, Geralt was just as bad- if not worse. After all, it took a monster to kill a monster. But Jaskier wasn’t like them. He saw Geralt. He’d spent years following him, learning how to walk the path and then he’d walked it alone for weeks at a time, if not months. He’d taken the skills that Geralt had shown him and he’d utilised them.
Not so helpless after all.
Well. Fuck.
“I’m an arse,” Geralt admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. “I never saw- I never tried.”
Jaskier’s hand cupped his cheek, lute calloused fingers brushing against his stubble. “I never let you see. It suits me to be underestimated, dear heart. In fact, no-”
“What?”
It was Jaskier’s turn to look sheepish. “Well, I- and don’t judge me, I. It’s laughable really-”
“Spit it out, Jask,” Geralt growled, tired of the half sentences. He could hear Jaskier’s heart racing, the spike in adrenaline in his sweet chamomile scent.
“I’ve been helping the elves. Playing in taverns and court, getting information about safe passage, supplies. Ah, that sort of thing really. Nothing too much.”
More blinking. Fucking hell, had Geralt really been so blind? He could track monsters through thick forests and smell days old mess on sheets but he hadn’t even noticed that his supposed best friend was dabbling in spy work? Working with the Scoia’tael?
“Since when?”
Jaskier’s face flushed and his fingers plucked unheard chords on his breeches. “A couple of years.”
“What in the hells, Jaskier?”
“I know. I know. It’s very hypocritical of me. After all, respect doesn’t make history, but I felt bad!”
Geralt couldn’t take it anymore, he closed the gap between them and crashed their lips together in a bruising kiss. One hand cradled against his chest, and the other holding the back of Jaskier’s neck. All this time Jaskier had been something more.
And Geralt had never seen him there.