cowt 12 sett 3 M4: silver and gold (the witcher, geralt/jaskier, pg13)

[janie_tangerine]

 “I was wondering,” Jaskier says, and Geralt already dreads what’s going to come out of his mouth. I was wondering is always the preamble to some question that would be downright painful to answer — it probably says something about how fucking perceptive Jaskier can be, noticing things most people wouldn’t and bringing them out in the open and making Geralt think about — things he would rather not even consider.

 

He mutters something like what as he trods along — it’s a bad and narrow road in the woods and he’d rather not ride Roach as they try to get to the other side.

 

“Just, a few witchers did pass through in Oxenfurt, this year.”

 

“Trying to drown out their sorrows?” Geralt mutters — that city is too crowded and too noisy for his tastes, but they do sell excellent and cheap beer, making it better when it comes to that than most others.

 

“No, either looking for work or just on their way to somewhere else, but — don’t distract me,” Jaskier waves his hands. “Just, I noticed, none of them actually has long hair.”

 

Oh, fuck.

 

“And none of them has it of such a peculiar color as yours.”

 

“Yeah, and?”

 

“I was wondering if it was just a chance? Or if —”

 

“No,” Geralt cuts him. “I’m the only one with the peculiar color. And that’s everything I have to say on the matter.”

 

“Will you ever not be stingy with the details?”

 

“Save your breath. It’ll get more narrow.”

 

Jaskier huffs and drops it, thankfully, and Geralt is just glad he did it without insisting any further.

 

As if his hair color is unique.

 

If he knew that it would single him out so much, he’d have screamed himself raw in order to convince the mages to not put him through the Grasses again, not that it would have changed their mind. They’d have just forced him anyway and it would have been an entirely more unpleasant matter.

 

It’s not unique. It’s even worse than his eyes — not that those aren’t a dead ringer for what he is anyway and like people don’t notice them, but — well. At least they’re not that distinguishing a trait when it comes to witchers. The hair is just something he can’t escape from — he wishes it was gray sometimes, or at least some human-resembling shade of it, but no, of course it had to be the unnatural kind of.

 

Just so he would go around making sure everyone knew exactly what he is and what he became like this for.

 

He’s not going to share.

 

He’s fucking not going to share, especially when it comes to why he goes through the damned effort of not cutting it, and Jaskier can stay without his damned details.

 

He walks along, pulling Roach gently behind him, and tries to not think about it any further.

 

— —

 

He doesn’t think about it any further until they finally reach the next town, which is of course not very big, with just one contract to be found on the board and a whole lot of people staring at him wrong. And they’re not even that close to Blaviken — great. The last thing he needs is more stoning today, not with his filthy mood, but the contract is relatively not bad all things considered. He could do a lot worse than — supposedly — four nekkers terrorising the countryside. He supposes that he’ll get at least half of the promised money, which is still enough, so he grabs the notice and goes to find the alderman, glares Jaskier into silence when the man says that he should be glad to get that half, accepts the contract and drags Jaskier out of the house —

 

But not before he hears a couple of the man’s maids whisper behind him.

 

“Oh,” one of them says, “it’s the one with that hair.”

 

“He really looks like a beast,” the second replies, and Geralt grabs Jaskier by the arm harder and hurries his way out.

 

“What the fuck?” Jaskier hisses when they’re finally outside.

 

Geralt just shrugs. “You didn’t notice in the two years you’ve been harassing me for details?”

 

“I mean — yes, I noticed, and I don’t fucking like it —”

 

“Let it go,” Geralt shrugs, “it’s useless.”

 

“But they never — said it because of that!”

 

“You just haven’t been around long enough,” Geralt shakes his head. “Just — find an inn and wait. This isn’t going to take too long, I think.”

 

“Couldn’t I just come —”

 

“No,” Geralt says.

 

“Can you at least promise me some details?”

 

“Maybe,” Geralt shrugs, and maybe the fact that Jaskier seemed that shocked about people reacting to his hair that way has mollified him, some, and at least he doesn’t press, so —

 

He goes off where he was told he would find the nekkers and hopes that at least the innkeeper isn’t the kind that would send him to sleep in the stables.

 

— —

 

For once the information was correct — the nekkers were indeed four, no surprises or farmers mixing a monster for another or secret nests hiding anywhere near, and so he stalks back to town with all four heads in a sack and his eyes still potion-black, not relishing how people will react to them, but he’s too fucking tired to wait it out and he just — wants to drop on a bed and pass out for the next fucking week.

 

He gets as far as giving the alderman his proof and taking his money, and then —

 

He walks towards the inn literally flanked by half of the town or so it seems, because they’re just — staring as he passes by and murmuring, except he can hear them, and all of those comments are about his hair or eyes or how said hair is covered in gore and how he smells like the beasts he kills as if he ever chose that, fuck’s sake —

 

At the fourth child who screams when he sees his black eyes, he just speeds forward and heads towards the inn, figuring that the sooner he’s out of their sight the better, and he finally arrives at the inn — he’s not surprised to see that Jaskier is not performing, but he has a feeling that the local audience wouldn’t appreciate any of his latest compositions.

 

Of course, everyone just stares at him as if they wish he’d evaporate into thin air, and he kind of fucking wishes he could —

 

“Usually,” the innkeeper says, “I wouldn’t have let you sleep upstairs, but the bard paid triple my fare, so. Get up before I change my mind. Third door on the left.”

 

Geralt doesn’t even bother answering him and goes upstairs at once, heading for the door in question, and then he slams it behind his shoulders before placing his swords on the ground.

 

“Geralt!” Jaskier says, standing up from the bed. “Finally, I was getting — what’s wrong?”

 

“… I’m fine,” Geralt shrugs, shucking off his armour, wishing he could wash already.

 

“You’re not,” Jaskier shakes his head, “I can see it a mile away.”

 

“How?”

 

“You’re growling, you’re holding yourself so still you could sharpen your own swords on your legs and you’re biting your lip so hard it’ll bleed, I think it’s plenty fucking obvious.”

 

The fuck, Geralt thinks, did he really —

 

“And I can imagine why.”

 

“… You can?”

 

“This entire stupid town has been glaring daggers at you, the alderman sorely underpaid you —”

 

“Leave it.”

 

“He did!” Jaskier protests.

 

“Yeah, well.” He finds a chair and drops down on it, wondering how he’s going to get dirt out of his hair and skin enough to actually not ruin the bedding. “My unique hair and eyes plus my great reputation mean that I can’t complain about that. Leave it, really. It’s worthless.”

 

“Watch me,” Jaskier shakes his head. “Right. I’m getting some water brought up.”

 

“They never will,” Geralt sighs.

 

“I am paying,” Jaskier shushes him, and truth to be told, he does manage to have some warm water brought up — not a bath, but enough that he can wash off grime and gore with a towel, except that his damned hair is out of the question —

“Want me to do your hair?” Jaskier asks then.

 

The fuck.

 

“There’s no need,” Geralt immediately retorts.

 

“You can’t possibly reach well that far and it’s coated in… whatever that stuff is.”

 

“Nekker insides.”

 

“Disgusting, Geralt, disgusting. Anyway, I have enough good soap to make sure it gets out. And I wouldn’t ruin such pretty hair, really.”

 

Geralt drops back on the seat. “Pretty?”

 

“Very,” Jaskier says. “Are you serious? It looks silver in the moonlight and when it’s clean and you treat it decently it just shines. I’ve seen snow what, two times, three, but that — wasn’t half as nice white as that. And while I get that you most likely hate it —”

 

“How would you know?”

“Considering how you reacted when I asked you, it wasn’t so hard to grasp the point.”

 

Damn it. The man is fucking observant.

 

“— Anyway,” Jaskier goes on when he doesn’t reply, “it’s still very pretty hair and I’d love to help you out with it. So?”

 

Geralt should just tell him to fuck off. Also, it would mean letting Jaskier behind him, but —

 

But honestly, if Jaskier tried anything, he could kill him in a split second, and unless he has a knife on himself, which he doesn’t, Geralt would know, he couldn’t.

 

And he’s too fucking tired.

 

“Whatever,” he says, and sits with his head back while Jaskier goes to grab whatever soap and oils he has in his bag, and not long later hands with long, roughened fingers are carding through it, washing it carefully, soaping it up and then rinsing and doing it again and occasionally scratching his scalp, and maybe it takes Geralt a bit to just relax, but the moment he realises Jaskier really just wants to wash his hair and is apparently humming under his breath as he gets gore out of it, and —

 

Fuck.

 

It’s nice.

 

He hums in appreciation as Jaskier keeps on rinsing it with warm water, and then —

 

“If I ask you yes or no questions, will you answer them? Just for curiosity.”

 

“I could also not answer,” Geralt points out.

 

“You could. So, can I ask?”

 

“Whatever,” he concedes.

 

“You wear it long because you like it, don’t you?”

 

He could also have not answered it.

 

Except that he knows Jaskier got tense the moment he said it.

 

He sighs, leaning back. “How did you guess?”

 

“It’s obvious that if you’re supposed to fight monsters having long hair makes it easier for them to grab it, and you’ve had it long since forever or so I’ve been told, so it has to be because you like that, and honestly? You should.”

 

“I — I should?”

 

“Nothing wrong with a little vanity. It’s very pretty hair, and it looks very lovely long, and with all the crap people throw at you, you should be able to at least wear it the way you like. There,” he says, “all clean. Let me put some oil on it. And for that matter, those girls at the alderman’s were idiots.”

 

“Were they,” Geralt replies, feeling completely out of his depth.

 

“Sure. So it’s white. So who cares? And it’s not like the eyes change anything either. So they’re golden. And? They’re also pretty.”

 

“… Are you serious?”

 

“How could I not be? They look like glittering gold, if anyone doesn’t like them, honestly, their business.”

 

He shrugs, Jaskier’s fingers still carding through his hair, feeling so good he kind of wants to sleep here and now. “It just reminds them I’m not human,” he shrugs. “It’s fine. I never expected different.”

 

“That’s even more stupid. You save their asses every other day, they underpay you, you don’t even complain, you barely even ask for payment when you know that they don’t have the coin, and you’re not human? Bite me,” Jaskier shakes his head. “Honestly, next place less terrible than this, I’m getting you showered in that damned money.”

 

“There’s no need —”

 

“There is a lot of need. Shush. Let me braid this. It’s so soft, it would be a crime to let it knot at night.”

 

Geralt can recognise it when he’s not going to win a fight, and this is one, and fuck but it feels good to have someone say it as much as he shouldn’t, but —

 

Fuck that.

 

“They were ugly.”

 

“What?”

 

“The nekkers. Extremely ugly. Gray skin, rotten teeth, about to fall off, the likes.”

 

“Well, thanks for that, and what does that have to do with your hair?”

 

“Nothing, but you wanted details, didn’t you?”

 

Jaskier laughs at that, muttering that he’ll absolutely make sure people know how exactly those orcs can be ugly when he writes a ballad about this, and Geralt lets him braid his hair, and —

 

If right now he doesn’t feel as inhuman as he generally does, he’ll just — he’ll treasure the feeling.

 

And maybe he will stop expecting Jaskier to just leave and go back to Oxenfurt the moment he gets bored. He has a feeling he’s not going to anytime soon, and fuck that… he actually does like the damned prospect.

 

 

 

End.