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The man in front of him isn’t really what Jaskier expects from the great Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, Butcher of Blaviken – for a start, he’s just given the coin he got for the job (a job he hasn’t completed, because of… reasons) to a load of elves who tied them up and smashed his lute. Sure, they gave him another one, one much better than his previous instrument, but most people would consider their behaviour at least a little rude. Geralt just seems to take it in his stride, and as they head out of town, Jaskier studies the man in black, silent and stoic on his horse, and wonders if all the rumours haven’t been greatly exaggerated. Well. He can at least fix that, even if Geralt won’t let him do anything else.
Eventually, he learns more about Blaviken, through nights spent out in the woods, sat by the campfire in a vain attempt to stay warm, and realises that no matter how Geralt tells the story – calling himself a monster, reminding Jaskier that he slept with Renfri, took advantage of her (so he says, but Jaskier’s yet to meet the adventurous woman who doesn’t want to leap into bed with his white-haired companion), and then killed her anyway – he’s never going to tell him the truth. It was an impossible situation, and Geralt made a choice. Sometimes, Jaskier thinks that’s what people really call a Witcher for – to make the choices that ordinary people don’t want to make, or can’t, or will weigh too heavy on them for the rest of their lives. Instead, the choice is left up to the supposedly emotionless Witcher, the mutant, the outsider, so that the people of the village can go about the rest of their dull little short existences knowing that, at the very least, they didn’t make the choice that led to whatever situation they end up in.
It makes Jaskier so angry that these people refuse to spend the next thirty, forty, maybe fifty years concerning themselves with a decision, so they put it on someone who may as well be functionally immortal, who will have to carry the guilt for the next hundred, two hundred, five hundred years. Geralt will never forgive himself for Renfri’s death, never forgive himself for making what he now believes was the wrong choice, but he never stops to think what might have happened if he’d chosen to take down Stregobor instead. Would he have died, and the mage taken Renfri anyway? Would he have succeeded, and the mage’s magic failed, stopped the crops growing, forced the whole village to perish as their harvest yield grew smaller? He can’t know the future, he can only know the past, and that what is done is done. But Renfri is just one of the many ghosts that Geralt carts with him everywhere he goes, and sometimes Jaskier is surprised the Witcher’s back isn’t bent double under the overgrown burden he places on himself.
Jaskier will always shirk blame, as often as he can, but even he feels a little guilty after the broken glass has settled and Geralt’s stalking out of Cintra, probably unwelcome at least until Calanthe dies, maybe longer. It’s his fault Geralt’s there, after all, bathed clean, hair brushed, doublet pulled tight over his muscles – he was the one who insisted that Geralt come with him, under the guise of protecting him. Really, he just wanted to see Geralt cut loose for one night, to get drunk and enjoy himself, to eat fine foods and not worry about his coin purse, and maybe bed some noble lady looking for a bit of rough to round out the evening. Instead, he watched Geralt’s discomfort, the way every eye was drawn to him, how Calanthe drew him to the high table and spent half the night trying to convince him to murder for her.
Instead, Geralt takes the side of the hedgehog knight, and defends him against the guards. Once more, something Jaskier got him into has led to Geralt having to fight his way out, having to take his life in his hands and stand up to powers unknowable and deadly. This was meant to be a holiday of sorts for him, and instead, it’s just more work for Geralt to slog through, and the furrow between his brows deepens as the night goes on, making Jaskier want to soothe it away with his fingers. Geralt looked a lot less stressed in the bath, once Jaskier had rubbed camomile into all those aching muscles, and put bergamot and strong salts into the water that the bard uses himself when his hands and arms ache from playing. He knows it’s foolish, but in that moment, watching Geralt’s defeated posture, the way his shoulders hunch and roll, the man clearly already wrapped up in his own blame, he wishes he’d changed their plans and just clambered into the tub with the Witcher and kissed him silly. He doesn’t know what the outcome of that might have been, but surely, surely it couldn’t be as bad as all this.
The Law of Surprise. That’s an old one, something that’s grown out of fashion over the years, but Jaskier’s not surprised that it’s something Geralt calls for – after all, Geralt’s old himself, and it’s probably some old Witcher thing. Later, when Jaskier learns that’s how some of the boys came to be at Kaer Morhen, he realises why Geralt’s face went so dark and lost when he saw Pavetta’s body convulse as she threw up. He had done exactly what the masters who trained him did, he’d recruited another child to go through hell just like he had, and even knowing that was no longer possible, Geralt couldn’t stand the idea that he’d been the cause of someone else’s pain. But for now, he just knows that, even if Geralt won’t be back to check on the child, he will. He’ll take care of this, because someone should, and he isn’t going to put more on Geralt. He’ll steer clear of the Witcher, and give him some time to travel on, without having to put up with Jaskier for a while.
Bumping into Geralt at the side of the river, just after he’s been dumped, Jaskier immediately notices that the years apart haven’t been kind to Geralt. If anything, the Witcher looks worse than he did when he left; wild-eyed with exhaustion and stress, unable to sleep, snarling at every question he’s given. Some of his armour seems to be missing, and Jaskier wonders if he’s sold it for food, or even for a bed. He means to soothe Geralt’s worries, to convince him into an inn, a hot bath, a rub down, and a soft bed. Failing that, most men fall asleep straight after they get off, and Jaskier’s not too proud to admit that he’d welcome giving Geralt a helping hand with that, too. But Geralt’s snippy, sharp, and Jaskier himself is just that bit too close to wounded to be able to take the rough with the smooth. It’s not a bad fight, as fights go, but the line about his singing is too close to the bone, reminding Jaskier of all those things his parents said about how useless his so-called talent was, and how he’d need to grow out of it at some point. If he isn’t the best at what he does, Jaskier doesn’t see how he can disagree with them.
Imagining he has wishes is a heady feeling, and Jaskier takes a moment to wish for a couple of petty things before he starts to think of the third one, to give Geralt some rest, to take some of the weight off him. Everyone gets tired, but when a Witcher gets tired, there are mistakes he might make that are too costly for him to survive, and Jaskier isn’t about to let Geralt die on his watch. He doesn’t know quite when his heart opened itself up to the moody bastard, but now it’s happened, he can’t let it go, can’t close himself off and pretend it isn’t happening. So he shapes the words, and then there’s nothing but searing agony, his throat swollen as he coughs blood and wheezes, staring at Geralt with wide, terrified eyes. Geralt will fix this, Geralt has to fix this, and later, Jaskier will kick himself for being exactly like all of those scared villagers, turning to the Witcher when he needs something, rather than asking what he can do for Geralt.
Realising that he never had the wishes in the first place, and that it was Geralt’s wish that stole his voice is a hard blow, and something he has to work through on his own, but more immediate is the terror that Geralt is dead, that a collapsing building and some mad witch is enough to end the life of one of the greatest men Jaskier believes have ever existed. He’s too kind, too easily given to charity and empathy, and that’s probably a fatal flaw in a Witcher, and why Geralt is always two meals away from starvation, but it’s what made Jaskier fall in love with him, and if he’s dead… well, then Jaskier can do nothing but mourn all the words left unspoken. So to see him alive, with the witch riding him, both of them so wrapped up in themselves that they don’t hear him at the window – Jaskier doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s a little like having his heart broken for the second time in as many days. He waits, anyway, because he’s never had the good sense not to go where he’s not wanted, and tags along when Geralt leaves. The Witcher doesn’t tell him to leave, and Jaskier thinks that will have to be enough, for now.
(Between the djinn and the dragon, they grow closer, and the first time a tipsy Jaskier kisses Geralt, he’s gently eased back and told that he doesn’t owe Geralt anything, that he doesn’t have to do this, that he doesn’t take payment that way. It’s sweet, and so Jaskier doesn’t laugh too much, before he leans in for another kiss, marvelling at how Geralt lets himself be manhandled towards the bed, pressed down onto the sheets, and kissed again. It’s only when Jaskier moves away to strip off his clothes that Geralt gently grasps his wrist in a silent plea to stay close, to keep touching him, and so Jaskier undresses stood between Geralt’s parted knees, never out of contact with him for a second. Once he’s undressed, Geralt looks at him like he’s something impossible, something too good, and when his hands shake as he reaches out to touch, Jaskier doesn’t mention it.
“I’m a monster,” Geralt says, “I don’t deserve this.”
“I hate how you talk to yourself,” Jaskier counters, with another kiss. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”
“You must not meet many people,” Geralt says, but the corners of his mouth are twitched up in an approximation of a smile, so Jaskier lets him get away with it, as he starts on the Witcher’s clothes, not wanting to be the only one naked.
All in all, Geralt asks him five times if he’s sure, and Jaskier reassures him, every time – he’s sure, he’s been sure for so long, and as much as Geralt can’t be his, at least he doesn’t belong to anyone else, either. Friend of humanity is right, he thinks to himself, rueful in the dawn light, looking at Geralt’s hair spread out on the pillow, the softness of sleep taking some of the stress off the Witcher’s face – but if this little sliver of Geralt is all he can have, he’ll take it, with both hands, and never let go.)
The dragon hunt brings up a lot of things that Jaskier wishes could have stayed buried, just for a little longer. He can’t pretend it doesn’t sting when Yennefer shows up and Geralt instantly drops everything else to go to her, but he reminds himself that they never made any promises, and Jaskier certainly hasn’t been faithful. It’s just that Yennefer is so unlike Geralt, so mean-spirited, so uncaring of anyone but herself, so desperate to get whatever she wants, no matter the cost. Whereas he’s literally watched Geralt give a child the shirt off his back, sleep in a stable to give a young family the last room in the inn, give a working girl twice her usual fee just to take a night off – he’s not stupid with his coin, he just values the lives of everyone else over his own. Yennefer seems to consider herself the most important person in any room, regardless of who it contains, and Jaskier’s fingers itch with the urge to snatch Geralt away and remind him who looks after him.
He doesn’t mean to listen in when they talk about fertility, but they’re hardly being quiet or subtle, and besides, it’s his job to make sure Geralt is safe and not doing something bloody stupid, so he lags behind them a little and lets the wind carry their words to his ears. It surprises him that Yennefer wants a child, but then he hears her talk and it’s not about the joys of motherhood, or raising a child in a better life than hers, but about being loved, being the entire world for something, and somehow, he’s not surprised anymore. He doesn’t begrudge her that, it’s none of his business why someone wants a babe, but a selfish little part of him is glad that Geralt’s sterile, too, that he can’t give her the child she so desperately wants, even if she finds a cure for herself. Geralt deserves better than her. (Geralt deserves better than him.) When they make camp, Geralt sits up, late into the night, and all of Jaskier’s coaxing to lie down beside him doesn’t matter, doesn’t work. He tries to remind Geralt that there’s no reward for being the last one awake, but when he’s shrugged off, there’s nothing he can do but go to bed. Maybe things will seem brighter in the morning.
A lot happens. Borch and his companions fall into the abyss. Geralt and Yennefer fall into bed. Jaskier tries to get Geralt to come with him, to just… go somewhere where he can look after his Witcher, where they can be safe and happy and not have to watch people plummet off cliffsides. Where he won’t have to see the emptiness in Geralt’s eyes where he blames himself for not being strong enough to save them. When it turns out that they’re all alive, and Borch is a dragon, of all things, Jaskier wants to hit him for being so impossibly smug and put together when he made Geralt carry the weight of their supposed deaths, on top of everything he already carries. When Yennefer storms off, he tries to soothe Geralt as best he can, tries to extend the olive branch – and Geralt snaps. Jaskier stands there and lets the vitriol wash over him, and the worst part is... he knows Geralt’s right. For someone who considered himself taking the burden off Geralt, he’s certainly added a lot of pain. He doesn’t blame Geralt for finally getting tired of it all. He just wishes he could have had a kiss goodbye, one last taste of the man he never deserved, and will never have again.
When he sees Geralt again, there’s a girl with him, one he instantly recognises as Princess Cirilla. Geralt looks exhausted, war-torn and weary, stained clothes, missing armour, tangled hair, and dark circles under his eyes. But at the core of him, there’s something that Jaskier’s never seen before – and he realises that it’s love. That now, with Cirilla, Geralt’s finally found someone who isn’t a burden, who isn’t too much, or who he begrudges nothing. Someone whose existence doesn’t bring him pain, and Jaskier aches at that. For so long he wanted to be that, but never could – but still, the princess is in no state to take care of Geralt, so Jaskier takes a deep breath, steels himself, and walks up to his old friend and past lover, offering his room, the bath, some food. Geralt looks him in the eyes and says thank you, of all things, and Jaskier wants so badly to kiss him.
Later, when Ciri is in bed and it’s Geralt’s turn for the bath, Jaskier gets out the camomile and remembers another bath, another inn, what feels like a lifetime ago. Geralt goes pliant and easy, lets Jaskier take charge, take care of him, eyes closing in the heat of the bath and with the ministrations of Jaskier’s talented fingers. Afterwards, Jaskier manoeuvres the half-awake Witcher towards the large bed, Ciri on the cot nearby, and pulls the blankets over him. When Geralt blearily opens his eyes and looks at him, Jaskier feels like he can see through time, can see all the years they’ve had together, and it feels like that first punch to the gut all over again.
“Come with us,” Geralt says, slurring his words because he’s so tired, “to Kaer Morhen.”
“Ask me again in the morning,” Jaskier says, and then, because he’s weak, he kisses Geralt’s forehead, smoothing back his hair before he leaves him to sleep. If he never sees Geralt again, at least he’ll know that the last moment they shared was soft and peaceful, something just for them. It’s not much, but he’ll take what he can get.
When they make it to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier honestly thinks Geralt is about to die – they’d left it so late that the snows had come in, and Geralt has had to work twice as hard getting both Jaskier and Ciri up a path that’s referred to as The Killer. As Geralt goes limp in the snow, Jaskier pounds on the forbidding gates almost crying in desperation, tears freezing on his cheeks as Ciri kneels in the snow next to the man she’s taken as her father, shaking with sobs. The relief is so palpable when they open that he honestly thinks the men coming out into the snow have golden, holy auras around them.
“He tried to get two humans up The Killer?” one of them says, an older man with grey hair and beard, who speaks with an air that says he knows he’s going to be listened to.
“Too fucking noble for his own good,” says another, with a woollen cap over his ginger curls, voice raspy and tone dismissive.
“He is, isn’t he?” Jaskier says, with a tired smile. “I keep telling him that, but he just doesn’t see it.”
“You the bard?” the third man asks, turning into the light and revealing deep scarring down one side of his face, bad enough that Ciri gasps before she can stop herself. “And this would be the child surprise, I take it.”
“He talked about us?” Jaskier asks, as the two younger men get themselves under his shoulders and start dragging him into the keep, the older man taking charge of Roach, Pegasus and the donkey pulling the cart of supplies. He puts an arm around Ciri and shepherds her inside the gates, which are closed quickly behind them, and follows where Geralt is being taken.
“Only all the time,” the scarred Witcher says, with a quirk of his lips, even as they heave Geralt onto a chaise. “Thought he’d never get around to apologising.”
Jaskier laughs at that, shooing Ciri gently closer to the fire.
“He didn’t so much apologise as turn up, looking half-dead, and wait for me to take care of him,” he says, and the fondness in the eyes of the other Witcher speaks volumes.
Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir introduce themselves, and Ciri is put to bed with assurances that Geralt will be just fine. Jaskier sits near the fire, a mug of mulled wine in his hand, and watches Geralt’s breathing even out, losing that ragged edge it’s had all the way up the mountain.
“Doesn’t know how to relax, that one,” Eskel says, and brushes a hand over Geralt’s hair with a proprietary air, something Jaskier recognises because he’s done it himself. Now that he thinks about it, Lambert and Vesemir are sitting very close, with the old man’s hand on Lambert’s thigh, and they’re both looking at Geralt and Eskel like they’re the most important things in the world.
“We share, in winter,” Lambert says, clearly not one to mince words. “Can’t handle that, sucks to be you.”
“Takes all of us to make sure he rests,” Vesemir adds, softening the potential sting of Lambert’s words. “Be glad to have another pair of capable hands to get him into the bath and send him to bed at a decent hour.”
Jaskier looks over at Geralt again, knowing the fondness in his eyes is evident.
“I could do with some help with that, too,” he says, and sees how Lambert’s shoulders relax slightly, how Eskel’s hands no longer hover over Geralt, instead touching him with the surety of someone who knows every sensitive spot. “And you must know all the good tricks, too, if you’ve known him for so many years.”
They all laugh at that, a huff of sound that Jaskier recognises and loves, the same noise Geralt makes when he’s amused and contented and full – he thinks he’s heard it maybe four or five times in their years together, and hearing it from three different mouths doesn’t change what a wonderful sound it is.
They must be a little too loud, because Geralt stirs on the chaise, where his head is in Eskel’s lap, and starts to try to sit up.
“Easy, Wolf, that’s enough, you got them here in one piece,” Vesemir says. “Take your time.”
“Ciri, I – “
“Your cub’s resting,” Eskel murmurs, stroking over Geralt’s hair and trying to gently pull him back to lying in his lap. “It’s alright for you to rest.”
“Jask, he – “
“Your buttercup’s right here,” Lambert says, shifting closer so that he’s in Geralt’s eyeline. “We were just agreeing an extra pair of hands might be useful in convincing you to stay in bed past dawn.” There’s something implicitly filthy in how he says it, and Jaskier already knows he and Lambert are going to get on far too well.
Geralt’s eyes dart around the room, then finally settle on Jaskier, who gets up and goes over to him, kneeling before him.
“You’re alright?” Geralt croaks out, reaching to cup Jaskier’s face in one still-chilly hand. Jaskier smiles, pulling that hand to his mouth and placing a kiss on those cold, chapped, scarred knuckles.
“I’m fine, darling,” he says, gently. “We’re all fine.”
“But – “ Geralt starts, and Jaskier shushes him gently with a soft kiss, only pulling away when he feels Geralt relax back into Eskel’s lap.
“My love,” he says, with a little smile, “please. For once. Take care of yourself.”