A/N

I only recently watched the show on Netflix after a friend nudged me to do so. In the blink of an eye I had fallen for Geralt/Jaskier and this story was written. I've no idea what happened, but I blame RoostersCromedCDF for it. Thanks, honey!

Many thanks to my beta fredbasset from AO3. Without her, it would be even more obvious that English is not my first language. Remaining errors and typos are all mine. The Witcher/Wiedźmin is property of Andrzej Sapkowski (books) and Netflix (show). I only borrowed the characters of the show for this work of fan fiction.

The Witcher And His Bard

"A room," Geralt muttered, his rumbling bass scarcely audible to anyone farther away than a couple of feet from the Witcher.

"A room for you and your bard. Aye," the innkeeper said, nodding towards Jaskier in a not unfriendly way.

"He's not my bard," Geralt replied in a threateningly low voice, glaring at the man behind the counter.

"I'm not... I'm not his bard," Jaskier stuttered simultaneously. "I'm not anyone's ba- I'll have you know that- Now, isn't that the most-"

"Oi!" The innkeeper interrupted Jaskier's ramblings. "Are you not the one who's singing praise and prose about the White Wolf? The great Witcher Geralt of Rivia?" the man asked in astonishment, looking expectantly at Jaskier.

"Well, yes, that's right, that's me. I'm Jaskier the Bard and-" Again, he was rudely interrupted by the man behind the counter.

"And you are the infamous Witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken, or not?"

"The very same," Geralt grumbled, being his ever-stoic self, even though he feared his eyes were about to betray him.

The innkeeper looked from Jaskier to Geralt to Jaskier and back again, innocent non-understanding written all over his face. "Well, but then he is your bard, right? Or..." he drawled, narrowing his eyes to a slit. Apparently, he was still trying to solve the puzzle regarding the Witcher Geralt and his bard.

Townsfolk! Geralt ground his teeth so hard that he felt spikes of pain running up his jawline. He only just kept himself from rolling his eyes. "Just give us a room," he squeezed out through clenched teeth, pinching his nose between his fingers.

"Aye," the innkeeper said again, grabbing an old, rusty key from a box under the counter. Suddenly, his face lit up. Brandishing the key like a dagger, he stretched his arm out, almost touching the bard's nose with the tip of the key. "Now I know," he said in an intimate tone, nodding smugly. "He's your Witcher." He winked at Jaskier.

Jaskier's jaw dropped and he blanched instantly. "What? Don't say that," he sputtered. "That's even worse! What makes you think he... I, that I would be..."

Geralt snatched the key from the innkeeper's hand with such force that he wasn't sure if it wouldn't leave the man with a broken bone or two in his fleshy hand, but he couldn't care less. Without any further word or grumble he turned around and stomped away, looking daggers at any patron daring to throw a glance in his direction.

The nerve of them!

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Jaskier watched Geralt make his way to the stairs leading to the guest rooms, dread pooling in his stomach.

Oh, that so didn't bode well for the evening, or the next ten years at that!

"How dare you say something like that? Don't you know what that man is capable of?" Jaskier asked angrily, his voice a pitch too high for his own liking. He swallowed a couple of times to calm his nerves, turning around to face the innkeeper. "How can you say that?"

"What?" the innkeeper barked back. "What's your problem, bard? I know Geralt of Rivia, he has helped this town out many times, even before you started clinging to his coattails. If you're not his bard, what are you then? His puppy? Is he even aware of you following him around everywhere?" The innkeeper barked a laugh, and a handful of patrons joined in.

"Did he spell a cast on you?" one of the drunkards asked.

"Maybe he's one of the monsters the Witcher hunts, and it was bewitched by him to entertain him whenever it pleases the Witcher," another one said, and again laughter erupted in the dim tap room.

"It would explain the bad singing!"

"And the flamboyant clothing!"

Flamboyant?! How did drunkards like them even know the word, Jaskier wondered.

The harsh and unkind laughter hurt Jaskier's ears and he could feel them getting hotter with every insult the patrons uttered. He glowered at the innkeeper one last time. Grabbing his lute, he turned and followed Geralt with sagging shoulders. He only hoped the Witcher hadn't heard anything that the innkeeper and the drunk men had voiced so carelessly after Geralt had left. Thinking about the Witcher's excellent hearing, however, Jaskier's heart sank. There was no chance he hadn't heard what had been said, not unless he'd decided to ignore or block it out.

Dragging his feet, Jaskier made his way upstairs as slowly as possible. He wondered if this was maybe the incident that would finally turn the scale. The trigger it needed to finally turn Geralt's fragile acceptance of dragging the bard along his way towards the realisation that he was nothing more than the millstone around the Witcher's neck.

He sighed.

At the top of the stairs he hesitated, not sure what room they had been given or where Geralt had gone to. He couldn't remember the innkeeper making a remark about the room, and certainly the keys didn't have numbers on them. He looked along the poorly lit floor to see if there were any numbers on the doors at all. Which there weren't. Just as he recalled what the man behind the counter had said, that Geralt had been to this town many times before, and therefore probably been assigned to the same room every time he came here, Jaskier heard the well acquainted grumble, muffled by wood and stone.

"Stop lurking there and provide some hot water!"

This finally broke through Jaskier's stupor and he began to move towards where the voice had come from. It became increasingly unnerving to Jaskier that the Witcher could sense his presence even through thick walls and wooden doors.

"What? You want me to go down again and ask for hot water so you can take a bath?" He opened the door and entered the room, leaving the door open. "They just mocked me and you expect me to go back down so they can deluge me with even more mockery? I'd rather not!" He stamped his foot to emphasize his words. He wasn't at fault for what had been said down in the tap room, and yet he knew it was him who'd have to take the brunt of the consequences in the end.

"And food," Geralt said without even looking up. "Unless you're eager to eat down in the tap room?"

"A- what? No! No, I'd rather not eat down with these ignorant, dim-witted drunkards, thank you very much!"

Geralt looked up, his piercing, amber stare getting caught on Jeskier. "Then I suggest you get food and hot water brought up here."

"Why me? Why don't you go down yourself and ask? You could've asked when we were downstairs, you know? But no, the broody Witcher prefers to make a dramatic exit, and the poor bard can look-"

Geralt heaved a sigh, the kind of heavy, what-have-I-done-to-deserve-this sigh coming from deep within, revealing so much more than a thousand of the Witcher's words ever could. If he would ever speak more than a handful words, that is. "Didn't you say you'd have two hands to help?" Geralt perked a brow, a rare sight in the usually calm mien. "Earn your keep? Stuff like that?"

Jaskier stared at Geralt. "Earn your keep? Really?" He huffed and turned, leaving the room with rapid strides, making sure the door shut with a bang behind him. So, apparently it was really true what they'd said downstairs. Was he no more than a stray dog the Witcher had decided to let tag along after him for a while, as long as it pleased him? Nothing more than the bard the Witcher burdened himself with to sing his praise for however long he deemed it necessary?

Jaskier realised that he still had his lute in his hand and pondered for a moment going back to the room, but then he thought that since he was a bard after all he could just as well take his lute with him wherever he went.

When he entered the tap room again, no one took note of him and he eased his way towards the kitchen.

"Erm," he uttered, trying to get the kitchen maid's attention. "Hello there, would it be possible to get hot water for a bath for my, erm, that is... Hot water for a bath. The Witcher would like to take a bath and then have some food and ale brought up to the room."

"Hot water for your master?" the innkeeper asked.

Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin, turning around to find the sturdy man standing only inches behind him.

How in the world had the man been able to sneak up on him?

He heard the kitchen maid chuckle in his back. "He's not my master, he's a friend. And when I say friend I mean..." Jaskier trailed off. Knitting his brow, he decided it was not worth wasting any more words in this matter. "Can you bring-" He was interrupted. Again.

"What? Neither your Witcher nor your master? Come now, bard, you confuse me," the innkeeper teased.

Jaskier opened his mouth to say something, to explain the nature of his relationship with the Witcher, well, or rather their travel companionship, or whatever it was that associated Geralt and him. He shut his mouth again with a click when no words would form, neither in his head nor on his tongue.

"I've never heard of a witcher become friends with a human. It's against their nature, if nothing else. It's never been heard of before." The man squinted at Jaskier for a moment. "Never mind, lad. I'll have hot water and food and ale brought up to your room in a short while. You don't leave a witcher like Geralt of Rivia waiting for too long. Hurry up and tell your master, things are on their way." He brushed past Jaskier, barking orders to the maids in the kitchen.

Jaskier stared after the man, then he raised his chin and turned on his heel. Better not leave Geralt waiting.

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The rest of the evening was spent in blessed silence. Geralt had taken a hot, cleansing bath, for once without Jaskier chewing his ears off, and the maids had brought food and ale after servants had removed the bathtub. They ate mostly in silence, Geralt only harrumphing every now and then when Jaskier waited for a remark or a reply to whatever nonsense he'd spilled.

As usual, Geralt had not listened closely, but it had amused him to no end to watch the bard stutter and sputter. It had been obvious that the young man had something on his mind but didn't know how to address it with the Witcher. Through all the bard's ramblings, Geralt wasn't able to get to the root of the problem, and he decided to wait until Jaskier mustered the courage to address the problem or until it had sorted itself out.

After dinner, Geralt had stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his back, and stared at the ceiling as he was wont to do. Jaskier had picked up his lute and sung a few lines, but even Geralt had noted that the singing and playing was far beyond the bard's usual skill.

"Don't you want to go down and earn a coin or two? Isn't that what you usually do when we stay at a tavern?" The words were spoken without ill intent or sarcasm, yet Geralt knew as soon as the last word had left his lips that it might have been a mistake.

The music ended abruptly with a discord.

"What? You're really asking me to go down and earn some coin? Is it because it hurts your ears to have to listen to me or because I've not earned something today? If I may remind you, it was me who secured the last four contracts for you, including this one today. So forgive me if I'm for once tired and not in the mood to sing your praises before a drunken crowd." He put his lute down beside him. "It was a long day travelling and watching you doing your Witcher things and I'm tired. Instead of annoying the world any further with my pitiful poetry I shall retire. Good night." Jaskier kicked off his boots and layed down.

"Jaskier," Geralt grumbled. "That's not what I meant."

"Fine," the bard replied after a moment. "Then all is well."

Minutes passed. Jaskier rolled from one side to the other, while Geralt lay as still as a statue. Another difference between his kind and humans.

"They were wrong," he said softly.

A heartbeat. Two. His, not the bard's.

"What? Who? What do you mean?"

Geralt could hear the curiosity in the bard's voice, despite the grudge he obviously still bore. "Your singing. It's not bad. Not at all." He heard the bard sucking in air sharply. "Good night, Jaskier," he added, and he was genuinely astonished to find that his usually harsh voice had a warm timbre in it.

"Night, Geralt."

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Geralt still lay awake long after the last candle had burned out. The fire had almost gone out, too, only the embers' glow illuminated the room and it was getting cooler now that the flames had stopped licking at the logs and spreading warmth through the room. He didn't mind finding no sleep, too much of the world's tribulations were on his mind from time to time, keeping him from his slumber. But the bard's heartbeat had steadied a while ago, finally, finding the constant rhyme again that resonated with his even breathing now. He thought back to what had caused the turmoil in the young man's body and mind, the words the innkeeper and the patrons in the tavern had uttered and Geralt had riposted with his usual angry growl and stern stare.

His bard.

He had to admit, he liked the sound of it. And if it warmed his heart against the chilling air in a cold night, and if his apparent anger about being tied too closely to the bard was only feigned, no one needed to know. Least of all Jaskier. He swore to himself to ensure that nothing ever happened to the bard, not as long as he chose to be the Witcher's travel companion.

Or friend.

With a rare, small smile playing around the corners of his mouth, Geralt of Rivia finally fell asleep.