Geraskier One-Shots

A bard, a fool

Looking back upon it now, Jaskier thinks himself a fool.

A fool to ever trust a Witcher.

A fool to ever trust Geralt of Rivia.

He thinks himself a fool to have expected a heart forged in the blazing fires of pain and crafted from the hands of the best of Kaer Morhen, to open for him. A silver-spooned bard. He cannot, for the life of him, even begin to understand what it was that possessed him to have bled his heart into that Witcher. To have worn his young heart upon his sleeve, to beg for Geralt to accept it.

He was a fool to love Geralt.

A fool to believe that Geralt would love him.

He does not know what possessed him to move at every whim of the Witcher. To place himself in danger at his beck and call. He cannot even begin to truly imagine what about Geralt enthralled him so. The man was cold, a hot-headed mess. Never once did he ever call Jaskier a friend. Years spent together, nearly half of Jaskier's lifetime, and Geralt would not even offer him the decency of a title, any title, other than that of Bard. A fool. Jaskier was a fool.

And even now, he is nothing but a fool to love him still.

A fool to wish Geralt loves him now. That their years apart have done him good, has made him realize just how much he truly loves Jaskier, how much he has always loved Jaskier. He can only wish these selfish dreams to become a reality, to materialize before him. To have the Witcher storm through and apologize.

For that is all he truly wanted, he wanted for the Witcher to understand how deeply he hurt Jaskier. To know how many tears he cried for him, how many angry ballads on scratched sheets of parchment there were for him. He just needed Geralt to know . To understand.

A fool.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, he prays that his voice is not as weak as his heart. Hopes to the Gods above that Geralt pays no mind to the tremors in his hands.

The Witcher is unfazed, dismissive - always so dismissive - "We don't have time, we need to go."

A fool.

Jaskier is nothing but a fool once more.

He can't stop the anger that befalls him, the burning blaze of his feelings rushing up the expanse of his throat, pushing out, "Are you sure?"

And Geralt - that bastard - has the audacity to look confused. His eyebrows twisting as if Jaskier has just uttered the most incomprehensible thing. When his mouth cracks open once more, he can only offer Jaskier, "...Yes...?"

"The last time we saw each other," Jaskier tries not to wince at the memory that floods him, tries to stay strong because he's angry, and Geralt deserves his anger, "You basically told me to fuck off. Remember ?"

Geralt looks away from him, a silent plea for him to stop. But Jaskier doesn't, he doesn't let Geralt leave him again, doesn't let his feelings go unsaid, "And you left me, on a mountain ," But the sadness and guilt that begins to pool within the Witchers eyes is nearly enough to break Jaskier's resolve, his anger dims, only for a bit, "Have you seen these boots? I mean, I pretty much slid all the way down that hill back to Kangorh!"

"Jaskier -"

No, no. No. NO. NO.

No.

He refused - Jaskier refused, he would never allow for Geralt to entrap him. Not with the sweet roll of his name from his lips, not the plea within his eyes, not the ache within his very soul. He would not be pushed back into a meek bard that stood at Geralt's side because having him in any way was enough for him, he would not. He would not.

"Don't fucking 'Jaskier' me, I'm talking to you. This is how this works."

He wouldn't bend, Jaskier refused to. He would not move at Geralt's command, he was no longer the Witchers disposable puppet. He would never be that again. Ever. There would never be a waking moment that Jaskier didn't carry his anger heavily within his stomach. Something so painful that pulled his weight down the side of that lonely mountain. He would never forgive Geralt. He would never fall back in love -

A strong hand came to rest upon his shoulder. A familiar weight, a welcome weight. Something that Jaskier had to fight the urge to press his body into. A hypnotizing hand, the press of fingers against the leather of his doublet had Jaskier's thoughts flooding. Head swimming with the beloved and painful memories of their past. Of what they were , of who Jaskier was . It burns him to remember, and the sentiment is found within his eyes as they begin to sting with tears.

"I need your help," Geralt says. He utters those words as if they hold no weight. As if it's a simple request, one granted upon a waiting soul. And perhaps - even after all these years - that is precisely what Jaskier is to him. A fillingless bard that hovers around him, a nuisance.

Jaskier cannot find it within himself to be angry at the way his heart soaks up those words. At the way he yearns to imprint them upon his soul. Those words dance within his mind, threatening to heal any wounds he had once left behind, threatening to tear down the resolve he had so shakenly placed around him. He looks to Geralt, finding his golden stare. The Witcher looks so sincere, so tender. He looks to Jaskier as if he truly does need him.

But Jaskeir knows - within the depths of his soul - that he is merely a means to an end.

"Fine," He seethes with no real malice.

After all, he is but a fool.