Inspired by a fanart by spielzeugkaiser on tumblr with their permission.

He normally stayed away from Geralt's hunts. That was the deal: Jaskier earned them wages in the inns where he remained to watch over their things, while Geralt went after dangerous creatures to fill the rest of their coin purse.

He'd seen the wounds that Geralt had come back with more often than not, and the many scars that littered the man's pale back. He knew every story of every scar, how some had nearly taken Geralt away from this world while others had merely caused him a week's worth of strife. He'd written verses chronicling each jagged line, tunes he hummed to himself during the long nights when Geralt had yet to return to their camp. It was during those same nights that Jaskier had come to realize one thing: being a Witcher was an extended death sentence.

He'd known Geralt for years now, and throughout all that time, the only thing that physically changed about the Witcher was the number of scars he bore. Meanwhile, Jaskier wasn't blind to the fact that he continued to get older, and knew there'd be one day when he'd have wrinkles next to his eyes and silver in his hair. He wondered what Geralt would say then, to see him with hair so similar to his own.

That's if Geralt manages to survive long enough to see it, his traitorous thoughts whispered in a deep recess of his mind, something he tried desperately to ignore.

Jaskier would make sure Geralt lasted that long, no matter the cost. The man had gone so long without anyone watching his back. He deserved better than what Jaskier with his fragile mortality could provide, but he supposed anything he could do was better than nothing.

He fulfilled this duty in small ways at first. He learned to help skin and cook game, to search the woods for herbs Geralt could make into potions, and to bandage wounds in a manner that would leave less of a scar than normal. He spread songs of his friend's heroic deeds, he fought in more than one drunken fight to defend Geralt's name, and he'd nurse his resulting injuries in secret so Geralt would never know he'd been hurt.

It was just his luck that his worst injury in defense of Geralt would be the one that rendered all his work for naught.

He was watching Geralt in the aftermath of a hunt from the edge of the clearing, where he'd been told to wait. The creature bodies littered the ground, and while the Witcher had done a fine job of slicing them into bits, they wouldn't be officially dead until they were burnt to ash. Jaskier stayed away at a safe distance for the more dangerous and unpredictable fighting, but now that it was over, the scene before him of his Witcher tossing body pieces into a fire was his muse for his next song.

Geralt was too close to the roaring bonfire to hear the snapping twigs off to one side in the thick foliage. The noise drew Jaskier's attention though, and he looked up just in time to see a pair of men holding sharp daggers stalking towards Geralt.

Geralt had his back turned to them as he picked up another pair of body parts to throw into the fire. He didn't see the threat, and he wouldn't see them in time.

Jaskier was moving before he even realized it. His graphite and notepad laid forgotten on the first floor as he darted forward with surprising speed to intercept the men as they crept into the clearing. They didn't notice him until it was too late; he came up on their left side with a cry of "Geralt, look out!" and shoved the larger one back into the towering bonfire. As the man tumbled into the flames and was buried under the ensuing collapse of burning wood, Jaskier found he couldn't stop his momentum and fell into the ring of smouldering charcoal at the fire's edge. He'd stretched his hands out in front of himself to catch his fall, which meant they pressed full-force into the hot coals.

He felt the scream that tore from his throat more than he heard it. He felt the heat searing his hands, he tried to scramble away but the movement only made the pain worse, he looked up and saw the unmoving body that lay in the center of the fire, he'd killed a person–

"Jaskier." Geralt's voice was gravely with barely contained rage, but his hands were remarkably steady as they gripped Jaskier's waist and pulled him away from the fire.

Somewhere dimly he wondered what Geralt had done to dispatch the second attacker so quickly. He wondered if he even wanted to know. He wondered if his hands would be alright, if Geralt would let him stay, if the pain would stop–

He decided it was be easier to stop wondering and simply focus on the warm hold of Geralt's arms around him as he was carried away from the clearing.

Their campfire was much smaller than the one they'd extinguished in the clearing. Jaskier watched absently as Geralt wrapped cloth around his burned hands. His hands were essential to him, to what let him stay with Geralt. Why would the Witcher let him stay if he couldn't perform and earn coin? He couldn't pick herbs now, or help with meals, or patch Geralt up after an event like this. He was useless.

Jaskier didn't realize Geralt had finished bandaging him until he let out one of his trademark grunts. He allowed his eyes to finally drift away from his damaged hands, and of course the first thing they fell on was his lute, where it lay at the foot of the log they were seated on. He moved to grab it, but the slight clenching of his hands made him recoil and hiss in pain. Tears began to prick at the corners of his eyes, but Jaskier willed them not to fall as Geralt reached around him to pick up the lute and put it in his lap.

"Well…" He wasn't even sure what to say or who he was saying it to. Geralt? Himself? His lute? "I guess that's it." He took a shaky breath and finally turned to look at the Witcher. "I know you never liked my playing, I–"

Jaskier's words trailed off as he took in Geralt's expression. The man looked… sad. Guilty, maybe? He hadn't the faintest idea why Geralt would be feeling either emotion. After all, it'd been Jaskier's fault that it'd ended up this way.

"...Don't look like that," he found himself saying, wanting to reassure Geralt despite the fact that Jaskier himself was the injured one. "I know you didn't want something like that to happen." He needed to look away from Geralt, away from his piercing yellow stare, and so his gaze fell back to his trusty lute still resting in his lap. "I can…" He gently set his cloth-covered hands down on the polished wood. "I can still sing." I'm still useful, don't make me leave.

"Teach me."

The Witcher's unexpected words made Jaskier look up so quickly he swore he gave himself whiplash. "What?"

Geralt closed his eyes (probably to keep himself from rolling them) and took a deep breath before repeating himself. "Teach me how to play. Just–" He broke off awkwardly as he reopened his eyes and ran a hand through this loose hair. "Just until you can do it again."

Jaskier finally lost his internal battle as he felt a few tears leak freely down onto his cheek. "Geralt…"

Jaskier would swear to his dying day that in that moment, seated by the flickering fire with his throbbing hands in bandages, that he saw Geralt's lips quirk up into a smile.

(If Geralt was in the habit of denying things, Jaskier was sure he would. In reality, he'd probably only glare if it was mentioned.)

Despite how much he loved to play his lute, Jaskier's top three favorite moments in his life all involved others playing it.

Third would be the first lute lesson he ever gave Geralt. The memory would be forever burned in his mind: how Geralt's white hair and the instrument's strings equally shone in the dappled sunlight; how the grass felt beneath their bare feet as Jaskier sat across from him; how he'd gently placed his bandaged fingers on each note to show Geralt where to move next; how Geralt had blushed when Jaskier praised him for playing his first chord.

A part of him would always be in that grassy forest campsite of theirs, giving a bit of himself to Geralt as he taught him a skill so dear to his heart. He'd never forget the rare smile Geralt had given him in return after he was able to strum a full line of one of Jaskier's songs.

The second moment would be during their first stop at an inn while he was injured. He'd been mid-song, hand to his chest as he belted out the tune he wrote amidst the choir of tipsy voices, and he'd turned around to see Geralt sitting on a stool, playing his song on his lute for him to sing to.

Geralt was truly a sight to behold: a Witcher playing a lute from the shadows of a crowded inn. He still emanated his typical aura that made most common folk avoid him– or maybe it was the swords strapped to his back– and his glare was still present, but his fingers danced across the strings and made the entire room lively.

Geralt's face was one of intense concentration as he tried to keep from making mistakes but Jaskier knew he wouldn't, since he played flawlessly when they practiced together. The Witcher wasn't a natural, but he was a damn good lutenist.

As much as he loved the Witcher, the fact that Jaskier's absolute favorite memory wasn't of just the two of them gave testament to how much they both loved Geralt's "child of surprise," little Cirilla. She'd wormed her way into both of their hearts, and just as Jaskier had taught Geralt the instrument that he loved, he did the same for Ciri.

The difference was that this time, he wasn't teaching alone.