PSL with Doesntgetinvolved

[whatupbuttercup]

A fae, a witcher, and a horse walk into a haunted monastery.



Despite all appearances, Jaskier was a hearty fellow.

True, he enjoyed the finer things--silks, satins, furs, delicate jewelry, and soft feather beds--and he had the poise and general build of the sort of scholar who was often stuffed into closets by other, more robust scholars, but he had an appreciable level of sustain. He could trudge miles and miles through knee high snow without losing a toe, despite his terrible footwear and the thin nature of his cloak. He could skip along through fog and rain and pop up like a daisy when the sky parted again. He could trudge sun-baked roads in Roach's wake for far longer than any mortal man would dare attempt.

He complained the entire time, of course, loudly and constantly, but that was because he wanted to.

While he could do these things, that didn't make them pleasant...and each time they brushed up against that questionable line, where a normal traveling companion might not have been able to cope with the pace, or the terrain, or the weather, Jaskier worried that the Witcher would notice the discrepancy. He never did, somehow, not for all his years of hunting, but there was always a risk.

It was foolish, of course, to follow around a man who hunted monsters whilst being a monster who (ostensibly) hunted men, but Jaskier was a mercurial thing and easily bored. He didn't harm people the way some of these creatures did, he wasn't cruel or malicious, and he certainly didn't eat the flesh and blood of men or elves--none of that gruesome tosh, no--he just...granted favors. In exchange.

For things.

He...also absorbed a great deal of emotional energy from people, but that was a gift, sure as anything. It was a gift given to him in exchange for singing and, by all rights, his to take. If the crowds that watched him play and dance about got drunk faster or sleepy earlier, well, that was the trade off for a truly spectacular show, wasn't it? It fueled his magics and tricks, kept him hearty for the journeys ahead, and it was very efficient. He'd be a fool not to do it, really. After all, he couldn't just absorb energy from the Witcher--Geralt did not expend a great deal of emotion in the direst times and what he did? It was not the sort of thing Jaskier could even read, let alone use.

Gods' it was so curious, that. He couldn't even identify what the man was thinking, couldn't stare at his face and know how he felt. It was heady--he imagined it was what humans felt like all the time.

Geralt was a mystery, a puzzle, an enigma and, by the gods', Jaskier lived and breathed for curiosities to solve. How could he not follow Geralt unto the ends of the world?

He was like a moth chasing a torch.

"Geralt, it's cold as a witch's tit out here," Jaskier complained as they trudged. As he trudged, rather. Geralt was comfortably situated atop Roach. Roach had very long legs and thus the snow didn't bother her one whit.

It bothered Jaskier.

It shouldn't have, really, he'd wandered through heavier storms than the gentle falling snow that surrounded them now, but they hadn't seen a town in a week and it had been snowing for days already. He was exhausted and hadn't the reserves to keep himself warm without doing something showy and obvious in front of the Witcher. He needed a rest and a crowd to adore him--he was getting cranky.

And so very cold.

"How much farther is it to this monastery, anyway? I feel like we must have crested ten thousand steps by now. Who even makes a pilgrimage like this? It's fucking ridiculous if you ask me--monks and their...their...hiking--its unconscionable! They're like to kill someone!"

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[whatupbuttercup]

And then there was this.

Geralt didn't ask him if he wanted to ride, didn't offer him the kindness in exchange for something, he simply reached down and pulled him up. He gave him an order and a kindess all at once--which was...flummoxing. Words were tricky things, gifts even more so--Geralt seemed hellbent on avoiding the former while showering him in the latter. The Witcher gave him a dozen tiny boons a day--a human wouldn't have noticed, but Jaskier was a creature who twisted boons into compacts, it was the whole of his being.

He gave and gave and spoke not a single word about them.

This was another.

Jaskier's feet were freezing, his legs were so sore he hadn't even been able to feel it until he was astride Roach. He settled on the horse with a bedraggled sigh and gamely resisted the urge to plaster himself against the Witcher's back. He took what was offered but he had never and would never take something that hadn't been--fuck, it was cold--

"Geralt, would you mind terribly if I held on? Wouldn't want Roach to realize I'm up here and toss me off for presuming." The fact that he'd asked through near chattering teeth did not help him sell his near falsehood.

[doesntgetinvolved]

"She knows you're up here," Geralt pointed out, wryly. And Roach did, though she didn't seem to mind much, valiantly plowing on through the snow. He could hear Jaskier's teeth chattering still, and the bards' knee gave off no warmth at all where it was pressed against Geralt's leg.

He glanced over his shoulder, giving Jaskier a carefully neutral once-over. "Hmm," he answered, and it sounded like an agreement. He reached for the strap running across his chest and securing his swords to his back, tugging it loose. He could fasten the swords to his saddle for the time being, nothing was going to attack them in this blizzard. And that way, Jaskier would be able to huddle closer with nothing between them.

This wasn't something Geralt would have allowed many people to do. In fact, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of beings he would let huddle up against his back. But, as much as he tried not to think about it, his soft spot for Jaskier was there, and seemingly not going anywhere.