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It had been nearly three hours of stony silence and no, Geralt had not enjoyed a second of it. Because before the silence there were hours of awful tavern drinking songs with lyrics dirty enough to pinken a sailor’s ears played perfectly in key but without any lute accompaniment . And in the two days before that there had been whining and cursing and things dropped with even more cursing.
“How’s the hand?” Geralt asked over the campfire while passing over a wood cup full of celandine, mint and chamomile tea.
Jaskier lifted his head, the fire casting shadows over the hollows of his eyes, sharpening all the soft angles. The deadly spark in his eyes looked more befitting to a vampire or a pissed off siren.
And he sipped his tea. No quip or eye roll or jab to distract from the pain of the situation. A few days ago Jaskier had injured his hand while struggling to open a jar of fruit preserves, cursing under his breath but refusing to go ask Geralt for help. Geralt suspected he’d bruised the bone or socket joint in his thumb with his too-tight grip on the lid. Jaskier’s grip strength was weaker during flare ups, and flare ups always came with cold weather and stress.
Days of moodiness and this turn was not comforting. Jaskier was always cranky when his hands hurt. Chilled weather turns him into a short tempered prick, making the last few weeks before they part for the winter a strain on both their patience. Cold hands, aching joints and-
“May I remind you that I’m barely twenty-five?! My problems should not be starting this young! I’m barely out of my cradle and I’m expected to hobble back home like some crotchety old man?”
And Geralt responded with his usual too-dry humor, “It’s more of a hike than a hobble. Roach helps.”
That was yesterday and Jaskier had laughed, but now Geralt would bet on a joke like that being returned with something rude.
Jaskier was already spiraling into depression, and Geralt didn't know what to do.
He supposed he’d do what he always does. He stood and started digging out the chamomile balm from their tangled, unintentionally shared packs. Immediately, Jaskier picked up on Geralt’s plans.
“I don’t think that’s going to help. It just hurts right now.”
“I know, but I’ve seen the way you’re carrying that arm.”
Jaskier got, predictably, defensive. “It hurts!”
“The rest of that arm will hurt more if you don’t treat it now. Won’t touch the hand, promise.”
After a resigned sigh, Jaskier shucked his doublet and rolled up his sleeve, holding his right arm out for Geralt to take. The only visual sign of the injury was a little puffiness around his palm, but otherwise it looked fine. Humming, Geralt opened the little jar and took out a sizable dollop of balm. Out of habit, of unconscious memory, the tension in Jaskier’s body began to relax.
Slow, incremental changes in body language as Geralt spread the balm over Jaskier’s forearm and began to roll over the knots in the muscle, up and down. Jaskier watched Geralt’s hands with content fascination, wincing only when Geralt focused on the worst knots.
When Jaskier first started having these problems, Geralt massaged the muscles of his arms at least twice a week and especially after tavern performances. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Jaskier would mumble as Geralt got to work, head ducked to avoid eye contact, not wanting to seem needy but needing, wanting this sort of care.
“I don’t mind,” Geralt would say, if he had any energy left in the day to talk.
And once Jaskier dared to ask if that was a lie. It wasn’t. “Why?”
And Geralt wasn’t about to tell Jaskier, ‘the same reason I don’t mind grooming Roach or making sure she’s fed,’ because it didn’t seem fair to Jaskier to compare him to Roach. Even if Roach was more dear to him than anyone. It was different with Jaskier, more complicated, more important. But the basics were the same, he wanted Jaskier to be safe, healthy, and happy. Two of those things weren’t possible if Jaskier’s hands were hurting.
Deeper than that, less practical, more selfish, was another reason. Holding Jaskier’s arm between his two hands, his calloused thumbs pressing into a knot before rolling up and down, turning cold hands warm and pink with gentle care, felt…
Witchers aren’t allowed wants, and all needs must be practical to survival and trade.
And yet here they were, with Jaskier’s arm in Geralt’s hands, under the stars in the middle of nowhere, the fire crackling softly, the light flickering over Jaskier’s soft features.
“That does feel better,” Jaskier mumbled sometime later, shoulders lax.
“Let me see your thumb?”
A low grumble that is usually more befitting of a Witcher.
“No pressure on the thumb, I’ll be gentle.”
“Okay.”
He cupped Jaskier’s hand in his and brushed his thumb over the soft space of wrist beneath Jaskier’s palm, mapping out the tiny bones that connect it all together. He worked his way over the section of palm below the thumb joint, fingers unusually delicate like paintbrushes in a master’s hand, light gliding touches. Jaskier’s hand was warming up by virtue of his whole arm being treated and the warmth of Geralt’s hands.
Jaskier giggled, arm jerking away. “That tickles!”
Geralt raised one unamused eyebrow. “Hmm.” Completely unamused, how dare anyone suggest otherwise. “Other one?”
“I didn’t even hurt this one,” Jaskier muttered, handing his left over all the same.
“You’re using it more to over-compensate.”
“How dare you! I have never had to compensate for anything in my life!”
“Your entire personality says otherwise.”
Jaskier squawked. “Rude!” His exaggerated indignation turned his cheeks as pink as his arm.
Geralt kept his focus on Jaskier’s arm, rolling that indignation around his head. “What’s there to compensate for?” he mumbled to himself. Because there were definitely things Jaskier did to distract from other things, but if it was to compensate for anything specific, Geralt had yet to pin it down.
And Jaskier stared at him, mouth open and eyes wide, frozen still for a moment before declaring, “absolutely nothing! As I was telling you!”
Geralt “hmm”ed and kept going. Long after the muscles of Jaskier’s arms were relaxed and stretched out, Geralt gently massaged the joints of his hands. He’d prefer to linger in this moment, but that would give away too much, so instead he gently folded the sleeves of Jaskier’s chemise over his arms. He helped Jaskier back into his doublet and handed Jaskier his warmest set of gloves. His bard had reached that familiar point of relaxation where he began to sag against Geralt like a ragdoll, content and warm by the fire.
Not for the first time this season, Geralt wished he could invite Jaskier to Kaer Morhen. He wanted to, but there were so many reasons why he couldn't, shouldn’t. For one, no human or mage had been to Kaer Morhen since it was sacked. If he were to bring a human, Geralt would have to ask the others if they were fine with it. Not because there was some written law, but because he’d be unsettled to return for winter and find a stranger in the only safe home he’d ever known. He won’t do that to the others.
That was a possible obstacle, the next not so much.
The path up to Kaer Morhen can be lethal, even to Witchers. He would be risking Jaskier’s life to get up there. To even attempt it, they would have to leave early in the season and save mass amounts of coin to invest in clothes and boots to keep Jaskier warm.
And that was just it. The cold was bad for Jaskier’s health. He would be miserable with aching hands all winter. A cold winter could lead to a recurring injury.
Geralt knew Jaskier would say yes to a winter at Kaer Morhen and not think about the potential pitfalls until they were on the mountain. Jaskier had proven time and time again that he didn’t think much for his own safety and health when there was adventure and stories to be had, when Geralt was involved.
But when they’re curled up in the same bedroll on that chilly winter night, Jaskier wrapped securely in his arms and the fire flickering but warm, Geralt lets himself imagine what winter at Kaer Morhen would be like if he brought Jaskier.
Eskel would adore him, but would be aloof at first. Jaskier would be charmed by his interest in literature and history. With Lambert… Lambert would either hate Jaskier and snark at every opportunity, or they would get on like a house on fire and Vesemir would regret ever letting a human into the keep. Vesemir would commit Jaskier to kitchen duty--until the first night and, again, regret letting a human into the keep--and then sic him on cleaning duty. Better. Maybe weapons maintenance. Terrible idea.
It would be the most entertaining winter they’d had since before the massacre.
Jaskier would sneak some white gull from under their noses and get too drunk. They’d play never-have-I-ever and Jaskier would lose too fast, or win. Hard to say. There were lots of human experiences Geralt was sure he could single Jaskier out on, but so many universal Witcher experiences that Jaskier could wipe the floor with them all at once.
With the way Jaskier was curled into Geralt’s chest, his hands rested flat over Geralt’s heart. Jaskier’s sleepy human heartbeat pulsed faintly in his fingertips, three times faster than Geralt’s. Hands warm from contact, calloused but otherwise softened by balm and massages. Present, steadying. And Geralt imagined Jaskier sleeping in his bed because cold Kaer Morhen winters meant huddling for warmth.
That is what he wants, but Witcher’s aren’t allowed to want. Survive, but not want.