Sweatpants

It is a business trip like any other. They travel, they negotiate, they come back. This time is no different, except it definitely is. Their meeting gets postponed, and they are stuck in a hotel, revising documents and preparing new ones. It is a well-oiled machine, with a routine both of them know how to maintain in their sleep. Except Geralt is currently staring at Jaskier in comfy sweatpants and faded t-shirt that is obviously living its 7th life. In retrospect, it might have probably been his own fault that he requested a copy of a legal paper they were working on the day before, and it is 7am, so Jaskier has a right to appear in Geralt’s room in his sleep wear. And still. Geralt has to tear his eyes from the point where said sweatpants are hanging lower than it seems logical and polite, with the smooth and clingy material leaving very little to imagination. Jaskier is oblivious to Geralt’s inner battles. He is rubbing his eyes, trying to be inconspicuous about it and failing. He is a professional after all. Barefoot professional with messy bedroom hair, crumpled clothes and puffy eyes. Geralt feels a tug at his rib cage - he wants to touch, to hug, to devour, to debauch, to mess Jaskier even more and never let him go. He is fucked. Utterly and completely fucked. Geralt is known for never mixing his work and love life. The only exception was with Yennifer, and it damaged him, tore him apart, so he was careful to never make the same mistake again. Yet here he is, staring and not seeing the document in his hands, trying to function properly and fix whatever is unfurling inside of him. “Hm, boss, need anything else?” Jaskier is looking at him sleepily and Geralt wants to be on the receiving end of this cozy, unguarded, soft version of Jaskier every damn day. Of course, he can’t. It hurts. It’s somehow comforting and fitting. Geralt doesn’t deserve nice things. He shakes his head and moves towards the bed. He’s got this. He can control it. Jaskier follows him and falls into the still unmade bed, face-planting into the pillows, and sighs. The sound is muffled and a bit whiny, the t-shirt is rumpled and is showing a tiny line of skin that Geralt wants to know personally. “Get out.” It tells a lot about their relationship that Jaskier just buries his face deeper into Geralt’s pillow and mumbles something that Geralt can’t hear. While Jaskier gets more comfortable on Geralt’s bed, fitting between the blankets, his sweatpants twist around his legs and ass. It's unfair and distracting. Geralt imagines how Jaskier might sound and look when there is someone pressing him down, not letting him touch his cock, just letting him grind down the mattress, his hands locked in someone else’s tight grip, unable to move, yet trying to get free. Geralt pictures Jaskier beneath him, because of course it’s him who’s holding Jaskier down. He thinks that he’d press his nose just under Jaskier’s jawline, kissing and biting, tasting him, whispering filthy things and making Jaskier shiver. Geralt feels his blood move south and it wouldn’t do. He wants to shake Jaskier and make him leave, but he doesn’t trust himself, so he gets up and goes to the bathroom. It's a pathetic escape but it’s the best he can do at the moment. As he splashes cold water over his face, Geralt ponders how he’s going to stop this madness. He was never driven by hormones or loneliness, and he’s not going to give into something so basic and primal now. His life was so much easier when he didn’t let his thoughts drift this way. Jaskier was just an employee (well, he was never anything just, he was always very Jaskier about everything in his life). They got along just fine (Jaskier was the first and only assistant to stay at that position for over a year). They were professional (Jaskier flirted - but he did it with everyone he saw, it was part of this charm, though now Geralt was questioning his observation powers). As Geralt pats his face with a towel, perhaps, harsher than needed, he realizes that the reason he is so worked up over a simple hard-on is that it isn’t about biology or a breach or professional ethics at all. Geralt isn’t infatuated with a perky ass. He is interested in Jaskier’s ass. He is dying to see Jaskier’s reaction to all kinds of touches, to hear Jaskier’s moans, to learn about Jaskier’s emotions and his aspirations. Jaskier is the most coveted part of an equation and that is the scariest shit that Geralt ever faced. He isn’t prepared. He isn’t ready. And he doesn’t see how this could end well. By the time he’s out of the bathroom Jaskier is gone. It’s for the better. Geralt takes time to build up defenses, to strategize and make himself believe that he’ll get over this fluctuating emotional error.     And it works. It totally works, if Geralt is the one to judge. Everything is perfectly fine until one late evening when Jaskier is looking as sad as a kicked puppy and Geralt grunts in his general direction. Jaskier takes it as a sign to explain himself. “My ex is going to be in town in time for my mini-concert, you know, the one I’ve been telling you about for the last half-year. Ciri told him that I’m happy and have a boyfriend. So he’s going to see how it’s all a lie. Not that I want to impress him or shove my non-existent boyfriend in his face. I’m better than that.” At Geralt’s questioning gaze Jaskier sags lower in the office chair and hides his face in his hands. “You’re right. I’m so not better than that.” Jaskier looks up and continues. “You know, it’s just I had this perfect picture in my head. And I know that it’s stupid and I should be grateful for what I have. I am, I am. It’s just… You know?” Geralt doesn’t reply, just continues to shuffle his papers. Jaskier stands up, stretches and Geralt gets distracted. It’s the only reason why he hears himself say the next words, as if from the distance, as if looking with horrifying curiosity how his mouth forms the words “I can pretend to be your boyfriend.” Jaskier’s surprise mirrors the one Geralt feels on the inside, though he’s still putting papers from one pile into another with no real reason. “What? You would do that? Why? Really? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Don’t answer. I don’t want you to change your mind.” Jaskier is smiling and moving around the office, gesticulating quickly. “We’ll come up with a decent backstory of our epic love, don’t worry. I’ll think of something good.” Geralt finally looks up. “What’s wrong with our actual story? We met, we started dating. The end.” Geralt is deliberately avoiding silly words like “fell in love”. “Now, Geralt. Who would believe that?” Geralt knows who would. He would. Because it’s what is happening to him. Although very one-sidedly and unrequitedly. But still. Jaskier comes closer and sits down at the corner of Geralt’s table (it was an honor that he was granted in his 3d year of working with Geralt, after he helped to get a victory in an unwinnable case). He’s tapping on his lips as if lost deep in his thoughts. “How about we met before I started working for you? We hooked up, then broke up. Then we met again, you hired me for my wit and experience. Then we couldn’t fight our blossoming feelings anymore, so we finally hooked up for good.” “I should fire you so you can pick up a career as a writer of romantic novels.” Geralt raises one eyebrow at Jaskier who just huffs. “Ha-ha, you wish. Anyway, my dear star-crossed lover, we have our back-story worked out. Now I’ll have to re-watch The Proposal to freshen up this fake-boyfriend storyline, and we’re all good.” Geralt wants to ask “are we” but he says “See you Monday,” instead. See, he’s a professional. He’s got everything under control. He didn’t just monumentally fuck his life up. Jaskier stands up, fluid as a dancer, then in one swift motion kisses Geralt on the cheek, and with “See you Monday, love,” goes out of the office. Geralt forces his hand not to come up and touch his cheek and says from the bottom of this heart, “Fuck.”