Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: safe
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier
Tags: Pre-Slash, Canon-Typical Violence, Missing Scene, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Bathing/Washing, Scars, Massage, Hair Washing
Wordcount: 2263
Notes: Partecipa alla M3 della #1 settimana del COWT10

Summary:
Geralt comes to Oxenfurt to sell scrap metal, and stays to see Jaskier perform. He doesn't get to leave. Not yet.

Excerpt:

“No, I’m just... going,” Geralt finishes, lamely, gesturing. “Back on the Path.”

Jaskier gapes at him. “You know it's the middle of the night, right?”

Geralt pats the bag at his side, feels for his last Cat potion. His very last potion. “I can see in the dark. The blizzard shouldn't hit for another couple hours or so—”

“I know you can, but Roach can't! Stop mistreating that poor horse—hold up, you can smell blizzards now? Don’t answer.”

Chapter 1 { AO3 | DW}

Chapter 2 { AO3 | DW }

Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s coin, and sometimes there’s scrap metal, in the form of piles and piles of discarded weapons, around the carriages assaulted by ghouls. After all, necrophages eat the dead, not their belongings. It’s really not witcher work, but even a witcher has to eat somehow.

“You’ll lame your horse, if you keep doing this,” the smith grumbles, when Geralt drops the saddlebag filled with swords, daggers and parts of armor on the counter. “It’s what, the third time this week?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “Couldn’t bring all of it in one trip.” Besides, Roach can take it. “How much?”

The man doesn’t answer for a long time, carefully observing and touching every piece . “Crap, all of it, but it’s crap I can melt down,” he drawls finally, holding a dagger close to his eye. “Still, I can’t give you more than three hundred crowns.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “Four hundred.”

The smith glowers. “Three hundred and fifty, and I don’t want to see you again until next season, at least.”

“Four hundred,” Geralt insists again, thinking of his tattered armor in need of repairs, his depleted potions, the smell of upcoming blizzard that filled his nostrils as he rode through the fields towards Oxenfurt.

The man tsks and pulls the scraps behind the counter, pushing them carelessly in a pile. A leather pouch makes its appearance on the rough wood with a brief sound of coins clicking against each other.

"Three hundred and fifty. Take it or leave it, witcher. Go kill some monster or some shit, instead of bothering me.”

Geralt doesn’t move. “Please,” he says, quietly. He’s not above begging, with so little money, so close to winter.

The smith makes a show of ignoring him, but Geralt can hear his heartbeat quicken, can see the gears moving in his head, can taste the fear building up in his sweat. He is probably wondering if the Butcher of Blaviken will kill the smith of Oxenfurt for fifty crowns. Before Geralt can muster the effort of feeling insulted, the man stops pretending to ignore him.

“Okay, fine,” he snaps. “I cannot give you more than three hundred and sixty crowns. I simply don’t have them. But to make up for the difference, I can get you a room to the Silver Strings for a couple nights, at least. Would you be interested?”

Geralt frowns. “The inn?”

The smith nods. "The owner is a friend of mine, owes me a favor. I can give you a letter for him, he’ll let you stay free of charge and give you anything you want to eat or drink. Take care of your horse, too.”

The offer tempts him. Food that he didn’t have to catch and ale that wasn't old and sour, a warm place to stay at night; the warmth of people milling about, living their lives, fighting their fights. Roach could use the time to rest, too. He had really overworked her, these days.

The smith writes a few smudged lines on a piece of parchment and pushes the letter in his hand together with the pouch of coins, threatening him with empty words about seeing him again too soon and shooing him out of his shop.

*

The Silver Strings is a building on the corner a couple streets over, bigger than Geralt expects, painted in a bright robin egg blue. A silver sign hangs over the door, visible even in the dimming light, a lute and a laurel embossed in its shiny metal surface. It’s getting darker outside but people are still loitering outside the door, talking animatedly among themselves, so distracted by their own chatter they don’t even notice him arrive.

Inside is warm and loud and packed with people gathered around the stage, where a group of musicians is playing a bright song. The familiar smell of spilt ale and unwashed humanity assaults Geralt’s nostrils. He has to push his way through the crowd to reach the counter, and to ignore the whispers that immediately start spreading in his wake; he instinctively tucks the leather of his bag closer against his body and lowers his head.

“I’m looking for Stjepen,” he says when he’s finally next to the counter. It’s almost a shout, to make himself heard over the noise of the other customers, and he has to repeat himself twice before the innkeeper, a towering, burly mountain of a man turns around with a deep frown etched in his rough face.

“You found him.” The man's expression brightens in surprise when he sees Geralt. “Ah, master witcher!”

Geralt blinks at the title, briefly bewildered at the unfamiliar show of respect; then he remembers the note in his pocket, he pulls it out and hands it to him. “I have a letter for you.”

The innkeeper reads the note and swears under his breath. “I did promise he could ask for a room whenever he wanted, but of all the nights that dirty son of a whore could come to collect his debt—!” he grumbles, then he looks at Geralt, apologetically. “I’m really sorry about this, master witcher. I really don’t think I can accommodate you with a room for tonight. You might have noticed there’s quite the full house.”

Geralt smirks dryly at the weak attempt at humour; he noticed alright: between the chatter and the music, he can barely hear his own thoughts. He shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll settle for whatever you have to eat, a pint of your strongest ale, and I’ll be on my way. So we can consider both of our debts collected.”

“That I can do.” Stjepan excuses himself with a nod and disappears in the back.

Already regretting his decision, and already missing the blessed quiet of the frozen roads, Geralt sits down and waits. He concentrates on the noises coming from the kitchen, trying to tune out the bustle behind him, but it’s almost impossible, so he ends up focusing on the music coming from the stage instead.

He doesn't know anything about music, but the songs are all fast paced and wordless, with a sort of electric energy infused with anticipation to them. It’s pleasant enough. Someone keeps the rhythm thumping their feet on the wooden floor or clapping their hands; when the song ends the clapping turns messy and scattered, giving way to the buzz of gossip.

“Here’s your food and your drink,” the innkeeper says, coming back with a jug and a dish.

Geralt nods his thanks. “What’s tonight, anyway?”

Before Stjepan can answer, a deafening roar, louder than any of the cheers that there had been until that moment, erupted from the lot behind him. Geralt cannot suppress a pained grimace at the sound.

The innkeeper gives him a dry smirk and just points at the stage, encouraging him to turn around and look.

Dressed in a green-gold shot silk doublet and matching pants, lute and smile polished to a sheen, Jaskier of all people parades himself on the stage, basking in the attention with the delight of a child in a candy shop. He waves and banters and plays with the crowd for a short while, and then he stops on the very edge of the platform and clears his voice.

Silence falls on the mob. It’s suddenly dead quiet, eerie and uncanny. It prickles at Geralt’s senses like the flicker of a sign cast in secret.

Jaskier breaks the spell with a familiar chord of his lute. Everyone starts breathing again.

“I heard... a rumor,” the bard starts, in his normal speaking voice, accompanying himself on the lute as if in song, “that a famous guest has graced us with his presence tonight, Oxenfurt.”

The crowd cheers again, as the bard’s eyes find Geralt’s at the other side of the room. He winks.

Geralt’s mouth twitches. He stops himself from flipping him the bird, and gives a slight nod instead.

Jaskier’s smile widens, and the first lines of Toss a coin to your witcher fall from his lips. It’s as embarrassing as the first time the bard sang it for Geralt years ago—even without all the awkward first-attempt rhymes, and with all the extra verses about some of his newest achievements. He lets the familiar tune wash over him as he eats his dinner and puts a dent in his pint of ale, and if there’s a hint of a smile on Geralt's lips whenever the crowd joins in for the chorus, well. He’s still some definition of human under all those mutations, after all.

At the end of the last chord, the cheer-and-quiet spell repeats itself. The next few songs Geralt recognizes as being local repertoire, traditional tunes that everyone from Oxenfurt knows and loves; Jaskier spends a few words about each song before playing it, adding verses and changing the lyrics every now and then to get a laugh out of the audience, keeping the focus on himself like a magnifying glass in the sun until the very end.

The last two songs are other originals from Jaskier: an unfamiliar ballad about a girl with a heart spun out of silver strings that was clearly composed ad hoc for the evening, and a dirty, funny jig about mistakenly rejecting advances from especially good-looking lovers in increasingly ridiculous ways out of anxiety—one that Geralt definitely heard before from some other bard, in some other inn somewhere, without knowing it was Jaskier's—that has everyone leer and laugh and clap their hands to the beat; and then the performance is over, the bard bows his thanks and gets off stage.

It takes Jaskier a while to wade through the crowd, having to stop now and then to talk to his admirers; when he finally gets close to the counter, the innkeeper already has a pint of ale ready for him.

“Stjepan! Good man.” Jaskier briefly raises his mug in thanks before downing a quarter of it in one go, and sighing in relief. He then turns to Geralt, and his smile is tired but no less bright than before. “Geralt of Rivia, aren't you a sight for sore eyes. What brings you to Oxenfurt? I’d love to presume that you came to see little old me on the opening night of my little homecoming show to encourage and support me, but I’m pretty sure you didn't even know that Oxenfurt was my hometown before this very moment, did you? Besides you never liked my music.”

Geralt feels slightly buzzed because of the ale—the innkeeper has been refilling his jug without him asking the whole evening; warm and full for the first time in weeks, he just laughs and shakes his head. “It’s good to see you, Jaskier. Glad to see that you’re not forced to stuff bread down your pants in order to survive, not anymore.”

“Ha! Not in Oxenfurt, at least. Should’ve seen me last month in Maribor. I’ve cleaned so many leftovers off the tables I’m pretty sure people thought I was doubling as a maid to make ends meet.”

He mimics sneakily stealing a bite off Geralt's plate while singing the chorus to Toss a coin with a full mouth, and Geralt snorts. “The glamorous life of the vagrant.”

“Indeed, indeed. I do not mind it, though. I always hear interesting things on the road.” He lowers his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “For example, I've heard a tale about a witcher and a Striga in Vizima, a tale I’d really like to know more details about—”

“I’ll show you the scars next time,” Geralt interrupts him, unwilling to ruin a good mood. He drains his jug and stops the innkeeper from filling it up again, getting on his feet. “I need to get going.”

“I’ll walk with you," Jaskier gets up as well. “Are you staying at the Alchemist? Their curfew is bullshit, but I know a maid there—I’m sure she’ll be willing to let you sneak through the backdoor if I ask her nicely—”

“No, I’m just... going,” Geralt finishes, lamely, gesturing. “Back on the Path.”

Jaskier gapes at him. “You know it's the middle of the night, right?”

Geralt pats the bag at his side, feels for his last Cat potion. His very last potion. “I can see in the dark. The blizzard shouldn't hit for another couple hours or so—”

“I know you can, but Roach can't! Stop mistreating that poor horse—hold up, you can smell blizzards now? Don’t answer,” Jaskier stops him before he can open his mouth, and turns to Stjepan. “You don't have any room to spare? I’m guessing you don't, but I can’t just let him ride at night like that.”

“It’s fine, Jaskier. I’m used to it.”

“That's just the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” The bard takes another sip of ale, sucks on his teeth in thought. “Ha! You could stay in my room—it's the best in the whole inn. It has to be big enough for two people, that's the whole point of it, really. It’s supposed to accommodate the guest artists so they can, ah, meet their admirers, if you know what I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Geralt answers, dryly. “I appreciate it, but—”

“At least stay for another pint? We haven’t seen each other in two years—that’s a long time, for your information. That's no way to treat a friend, Geralt.”

“We’re not friends,” Geralt sighs and sits back down. “One more pint. Just the one, though.”

Jaskier whoops in victory and offers another round to the whole room.

Chapter 2 { DW } { AO3 }