Chapter Text
“How dare you make mock a disabled man,” Jaskier complained loudly. “I may never sing or play the lute again.”
“You do not actually need your sight for either of those things,” Geralt felt compelled to point out. Not that he didn’t enjoy another round of pointless bitching, but in his limited experience, complaining did nothing. No one particularly cared when you were hurt or lonely.
Jaskier, his arms looped loosely around Geralt’s middle, pinched his stomach lightly as they continued down the dirt road on Roach’s back.
A fortnight ago, he had run into Jaskier in a tavern while Jaskier was attempting to outrun the local magistrate, whose wife he had been visiting overnight for some time. That she was young and bored and married to a man twice her age, Geralt did not doubt. That Jaskier was a cad and lived a far more dangerous life than Geralt himself, he also did not doubt.
He had come barrelling out of a tavern just as Geralt was going in, and grabbed Geralt, hastily explaining the issue on their way out of town. Geralt didn’t even get a damn drink.
Therefore, Geralt had spent the entire miserable night hungry and Jaskier had once again become his long-winded traveling companion.
There was a part of Geralt that was still waiting for Jaskier to get fed up and leave, but he supposed he wouldn’t so long as he was suffering the effects of the curse he’d inadvertently triggered while touching something he had no business touching. It was a reoccurring theme in his life, Geralt had noticed, and the chief reason they’d fled at least ten towns in as many nights.
Geralt slapped his hand away from his midsection. “I told you to leave that gold alone. No one leaves out a cauldron full of gold who’s up to any good.”
“It was so shiny,” Jaskier said by way of explanation. “So pretty.”
“Surprised you didn’t try to stick your cock in it,” Geralt grunted.
Like all beautiful things, the gold came with a terrible price. Apparently, those that were greedy would find themselves faced with great loss, an inscription that Geralt had wished he'd thought to read before Jaskier came barreling through the cave entrance, screaming, "We're rich!"
As near as they could tell, Jaskier would, over the following months, lose one sense at a time. It was unclear if he would regain the lost senses or what timeline this curse would follow, but there was very little they could do about it anyway. After all, at least three mages had turned them away for fear of rebounding the curse on themselves. Over the years, Geralt had learned that sometimes the only way around a problem was through it. There were some things that you just couldn’t run from, probably shouldn’t even try.
Yennefer might be willing to help them, but she was another thing that came with too high a cost. Whatever left her feeling permanently dissatisfied with life was something she had to resolve within herself; Geralt was self-aware enough to know that he would bleed himself dry trying to give it to her.
Besides, Geralt was waiting to see if Jaskier lost all of his senses before he went scraping after her. She had made it very clear that she did not care to hear from Geralt ever again. Repeatedly. Humiliatingly.
They’d arrived in a small town just outside of Nazair in time for the supper rush, the smell of food wafting out of homes and taverns as the sun set behind the mountains, painting the rooftops pink and orange.
Geralt stopped outside of a promising-looking establishment and slid off his horse, tying Roach to a beat-up hitching post. Jaskier followed but grabbed at his arm at the last minute. He missed by a solid foot and ended up spinning around and slapping Roach on the rump, who huffed and looked vaguely disgruntled.
“You know that you’re going to have to hold my hand and guide me,” Jaskier said.
Geralt frowned at him before remembering that he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. “Good luck with that,” Geralt said, walking ahead.
Jaskier stumbled behind him and began walking in the wrong direction before Geralt sighed, backtracked. He grabbed his elbow and steered him towards the tavern. “Big step,” Geralt muttered quietly, and, “There’s a puddle.” He was been so used to traveling the world with enhanced senses that it made him feel off-centered to have to consider the world from Jaskier’s newly-limited perspective. He was suddenly very aware of the long line of warmth of Jaskier’s body pressed close to his, the moment Jaskier turned his head toward Geralt and breathed into his neck, warm and damp.
“Your hands are extremely clammy,” Geralt said.
“Excuse the fuck out of me,” Jaskier replied faux-politely, but he was grinning. He was rarely actually offended by Geralt’s thoughtless bluntness. “It’s a bit nerve-wracking knowing that I’m dependent solely on you.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“With my life? Yes. With my dignity? No.”
“Didn’t know you had any to lose.”
“We always have something to lose,” Jaskier mumbled as they stepped into the warmth of the tavern. In the corner, there was a fire crackling away in the large stone hearth. The smell of unwashed bodies, fatty meats cooking, and sour ale assaulted Geralt, and he found himself turning into the familiar smell of Jaskier – sweat and dirt and the poncey lavender soap he used to wash, all underlined by the sharp tang of a deep streak of neuroticism.
They attracted a fair amount of attention and wandering eyes, though if it was because he was a witcher or because he had a full-grown man hanging off of him, Geralt couldn’t rightly say.
Jaskier’s hands clutched at Geralt’s waist, and Geralt tried to ignore the heat of it, the long, sure spread of his elegant fingers against his belly as he steered Jaskier towards a bench in the corner. He ordered three beers as soon as someone approached. He wasn't sure what Jaskier wanted to drink.
“We don't serve your kind here, Witcher,” the barmaid sneered. All around them, the tavern quieted down. Conversations stopped, and it was as if the city itself held its breath.
“Pardon?” Jaskier said, standing abruptly. He was facing entirely the wrong direction, but Geralt would forgive him this once; very rarely had anyone ever stood up for him, both literally and figuratively.
“We’ll go,” Geralt muttered, head down. He stood next to Jaskier. If he took Jaskier's hand a little more gently than before, then Geralt could hardly be blamed. It was growing late, and he was hungry and tired in a way that made his body feel twice as heavy, his feet drag. It was an exhaustion that went bone-deep and had no end in sight.
By the time they’d stumbled back outside, Geralt carefully steering Jaskier towards Roach, Jaskier was still seething. “That was unconscionable, after everything you’d done for them--”
“Don’t worry about it. I'm used to it.”
Jaskier shook his head sadly. "Oh my friend, that didn’t make it right.”
Jaskier had always been ridiculously easy to read but ever since losing his eyesight, he’d lost what little guards he ever had in place. Whatever he was seeing in Jaskier’s expression, Geralt couldn’t quite place it, but it made something uncomfortable squirm deep in the pit of his belly.
What do you see? What do see that makes you stay when everyone else left?
Geralt coughed awkwardly. “If you’re not too tired, we can make the next town by midnight.”
Jaskier sighed. “Guess we don’t have any choice unless we want to spend the night on the lee side of a mountain. Once was enough for me.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Geralt asked as he helped Jaskier astride, and Jaskier automatically wrapped his arms around Geralt’s middle.
“Never,” Jaskier answered, his breath warm against the shell of Geralt’s ear. “It was so cold, I thought I was going to freeze my bollocks off.”
“About earlier,” Geralt started, but couldn't quite find the words. “Thank you,” he said finally.
Jaskier didn’t ask what he meant. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You really did.”
They were making slower progress than he expected, but it was okay. The sun had gone down and the sky was full of stars. It was the kind of beautiful night that, many years ago when Geralt was a new witcher, untested and far more trusting, he might have appreciated. It had been a long time since he noticed the stars and he felt a small pang of regret that he couldn't point them out to Jaskier.
“Hold on,” Geralt said. “Long ride ahead of us and the road’s getting bumpy.”
“Always is,” Jaskier said. He rummaged around in the saddlebag for a moment and pulled out a ceramic jug with a wick. “If this helps, I can light it.”
Geralt had last seen that jug illuminating the small corner of the tavern they’d left. “Did you--”
“Those assholes deserved it.”
Geralt stifled a laugh before realizing that it was just him and Jaskier out here; there was no mystique to maintain, no particular reason to hide. So he laughed, the sound shaking loose and unfamiliar after so long.
He could feel Jaskier’s goofy smile against the back of his neck.
The road stretched out in front of them, dark and foreboding. Geralt had been traveling these roads alone his whole life. Funny that they didn’t seem so bad with Jaskier next to him.
"Let's go then," Geralt said.