Chapter 1: Reunion
Chapter Text
Geralt shoved through the crumbling remains of the door, stumbling into the space that the portal had just been. He clenched his fists in the air as though if he could pull hard enough, he could drag Ciri back to him. The air hung heavy in the small space, the nauseating scent of ozone and smoke clinging in his nostrils, overwhelming to his head already hazy with adrenaline. He panted, grinding his teeth, and shaking his head in frustration and confusion.
They were going to come back. Once Yennefer realized it was safe, that the mage was gone, once she had waited long enough, she'd send a message, she'd find him again and bring Ciri back to him, and things would be okay again. She had to.
His mind raced with thoughts, doubts, fears. Ciri was wanted... wanted by so many people, for her abilities, her lineage, her blood, her power. He hadn't seen Yennefer since their parting on the mountain, mourned her apparent death, embraced her in her miraculous return. He'd like to think that he knew her, knew her heart, that she wouldn't...
But Ciri was... something, and Yennefer was… something else. If she knew, knew what Ciri was, what she stood for, what she could do…
No.
He couldn't let himself think that. She wouldn't. With all Yennefer's talk of wanting a child, that maternal desire he’d derided so cruelly, he couldn't think that she would do something to hurt Ciri.
But the look she'd given him as she'd walked through that portal, when he'd called out to her not to go… it fanned the growing spark of doubt in his chest. He couldn't shake the growing panic that Ciri was now in more danger than ever. That Yennefer wasn’t just going to come back.
And he was never the kind of man to sit patiently and just wait for things to happen. And especially not now when the child he’d finally taken responsibility for was on the line.
Assuming now that Yennefer was not just going to pop back into this room any second, he needed to find her, needed a plan, information. And he needed help.
There was someone, someone he knew, at least according to Yennefer, that had seen her recently, someone he trusted. The mere thought of him sent a painful ache of regret through his heart. Regret over the actions that had separated them in the first place, regret that this is what it took for him to finally work past his shameful avoidance of the man, and to try to make amends. There was a quiver of fear there, underlying the regret, that he might be turned away, that maybe Jaskier had moved on, was past whatever affliction he’d had that had allowed him to tolerate spending so much time by his side and was happy and thriving with someone else, doing something else. It was what he had hoped for Jaskier, that finally being rid of the sour-faced, grumbling witcher had turned his life around, but now facing the possible reality of that, Geralt felt the sting of loss. His concern for Ciri outweighed all the possibilities. If there was even a chance Jaskier knew something about what Yennefer was planning, he would take all the much-deserved ranting and scolding from the bard, only hoping that Jaskier would have enough forgiveness to at least hear him out afterwards.
He let out a heavy sigh as Nenneke came around the corner, putting out the flames still clinging to tapestries, and glanced around at the toppled furniture, the charred marks on the walls, and the bloodied bodies on the floor. He could hear several pounding heartbeats lingering at the edges of the hall, no doubt curious about the events that erupted into chaos before suddenly quieting again. Nenneke scowled at him, the weight of her expression bringing him back to the scoldings he'd received from her as a younger man. He'd brought violence into this sanctuary, a place meant to be free of the bloodshed of the outside world.
He shook his head. “I didn’t know that we’d be followed. I don’t know who those men were… how they found us.” He glared down at the slain corpses on the floor behind them. Nenneke raised an eyebrow.
“And yet, they did,” she said firmly. “Geralt-“ She started and Geralt could hear the lecture coming, and quickly cut her off.
"You don't have to say it. I know. But I couldn’t let them hurt her. If there had been some way to avoid this, I would have done it.” Geralt clenched his sword in his fist, his thumb rubbing some of the excess energy pumping through his body into the hilt. She eyed him carefully, giving a stiff nod. She looked past his shoulder at the empty room and narrowed her eyes.
“The girl?”
"Yennefer took her," he said carefully, his voice stiff.
Nenneke looked back at him, her sharp eyes taking him in. She'd known him too long, could see through him as easily as one sees through glass, and she was dangerous, the weapons she wielded were not ones made of metal, but the wisdom and insight that she had carefully honed and sharpened over years.
"Does Yennefer know about Ciri? Her abilities? Her power?”
“I don’t know. I’d not seen her in over a year, and we didn’t exactly have a lot of time to catch up. But if she doesn’t know, the longer they’re together, the more of a chance that she will.”
“You believe Yennefer could be a danger to her,” she said, less of a question than just speaking the words that were swirling in Geralt’s mind.
Geralt waited a moment before giving a stiff nod, and then a noncommittal shake of his head. "I don’t trust anyone with Ciri but myself right now. Even if she isn't intentionally endangering her, people are still after her, that mage got away, Nilfgaard is looking for her, and Ciri doesn't have control over her power yet. I know Yennefer is capable of taking care of herself, and Ciri managed to find her way to me from Cintra, but there’s too many factors at play right now. I can’t trust that Yennefer will keep her safe.” He let out a heavy breath, shaking his head. “Until I have her back under my care, she is in danger." Nenneke watched him carefully, giving a soft laugh under her breath, her lips curving up slightly on one side. Geralt frowned, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
Nenneke shook her head. “Knew you’d take to this fatherhood thing quickly.”
Geralt grunted, giving a stunted roll of his eyes before looking across the room. “It’s my destiny to protect her. She doesn’t deserve any less,” he said firmly, his thoughts buzzing around the fair-haired princess, worries about what Yennefer could have done, where she would have taken her.
Nenneke hummed, continuing to watch Geralt another moment before nodding towards the debris around them. "I suppose you'll be leaving this mess to me then?" She raised an eyebrow, looking back at him.
Geralt tightened his lips. "I am sorry for tracking my troubles into your sanctuary, Nenneke. I will make it up to you."
She rolled her eyes and gave a soft breathy laugh, resting a gentle hand on his forearm. "I'll hold you to that, Geralt. Just find that girl. Keep her safe." She started to turn away, pulling her hand back, but Geralt patted her wrist, keeping her attention for a moment longer.
"If I could ask one more favor...?"
Geralt groaned as he stumbled out onto the side of the dusty road, waving away the heavy odor of magic, breathing tightly against the twisting turns of his stomach.
Fucking portals, he thought bitterly.
After a minute, he stood from his hunched position, moving his hands off his knees, to look up at the walls of Oxenfurt in the distance in front of him.
Yennefer's words slid through his head as he walked towards the gates, his cloak pulled up over his head.
I ran into Jaskier in Oxenfurt. He was in some kind of trouble… This fire fucker was after him. A mage. I don't know who he was. He was looking for information. About you. He's looking for Ciri.
They hadn't had time to go into more detail than that and having had the unfortunate experience of running into the fire fucker himself, his worries about what Yennefer meant by trouble were roiling out of control. Surely, if the mage had found Jaskier, she would have said, if he’d been hurt, if he’d been… killed. She would have said something. But if she was lying, putting him on edge enough to worry, to distract him, but not enough to take Ciri and leave immediately… if she was hiding something to get to Ciri…
He ground his teeth against the doubts in his head. He just needed to find Jaskier. To make sure he was safe.
Some kind of trouble. As he walked up to the gate, his mind wandered. With Jaskier, trouble could mean... literally anything, especially trouble as defined by Yennefer about Jaskier, what with their tendency towards antagonism towards each other. Geralt had spent the past twenty or so years on the Path dragging Jaskier away from bar fights, saving him from angry husbands, wives, brothers, fiancees, after he'd slept with the wrong person yet again, picking him up out of the gutter when he'd gotten a little too liberal with the drink, and bailing him out after being arrested for things that were most definitely his fault despite his complaints stating otherwise. Jaskier bounced back quickly, the lessons learned never quite seeming to stick and he'd always end up falling into some other nonsense he trusted Geralt to inevitably help drag him out of, and despite Geralt’s groaning, he usually did his best to do so.
But the ferocity of that mage, the so-called fire fucker, Geralt was sure that this trouble would be more of the other kind Jaskier got himself wrapped up in. The kind that got Geralt’s stomach twisting with concern and guilt and that nauseating tinge of fear. The ones that left him with lingering memories of his hands coated in Jaskier's blood, nimble fingers weakly grasping at Geralt’s wrists as he hissed at the pain as his skin was stitched back together again. Hunts gone wrong, accidents on the Path, angry and hateful people in villages that weren’t too keen on having a witcher-praising bard in their midst. He recalled an incident years ago; Geralt had been out on a hunt and returned to find Jaskier in the alley behind the inn they were staying in, beaten half to death by a group of men who’d apparently been stewing over the popularity of the coin-tossing ballad, just waiting on their chance to show the bard that birthed the song exactly what they thought of it. Their opinions about witchers were certainly not improved by Geralt’s actions upon coming across that scene, but he found he cared very little about his reputation as he carefully carried Jaskier’s whimpering, bruised and bloodied body halfway across town, leaving behind the men moaning half-dead on the ground. They'd been lucky enough that the town's healer had been the one that put out the contract that Geralt had just fulfilled and agreed to take the small amount of coin that they had left to help heal Jaskier’s injuries. Geralt shuddered to think what would have happened if they'd had to travel to the next town for help, the idea of losing Jaskier because of who Geralt was, because of his involvement with Geralt, too much to even bear the thought of.
And now, even after pushing Jaskier away, trying to extricate the bard from the toxicity of his life, Geralt was still dragging him back into his problems, subjecting him to the merciless violence of a destiny that didn’t care who it hurt.
The guards at the gate gave him tight looks, demanding he pull down his hood, but they ultimately let him pass after seeing the round curve of his ears. One of them huffed and spat at his feet as he walked away, and he heard him mutter something about mutated freaks that Geralt chose to ignore. He clenched his jaw, focusing on finding Jaskier, letting the words he'd heard so many times before slide off his thickened skin.
He realized very quickly that he didn't have much to go on as to where Jaskier could be. The numerous times over the years that he'd visited Jaskier when he'd been in Oxenfurt, or they'd stopped in the city for a while, Jaskier had spent a lot of his time near the university, catching up with peers, holding guest lectures, drinking and performing and shopping. Geralt was loath to admit it, but he did enjoy visiting with him here, seeing Jaskier in this different element, a separate part of his identity, still just as comfortable sharing his knowledge and intelligence and skill as he was being on the dusty trail with Geralt or strumming his lute on an ale-sticky tavern floor. He supposed if Jaskier still had some of his trusted colleagues in the city, he may be hiding out with one of them while trying to avoid the mage, if he hadn’t been found already. Geralt recalled enough of their faces, that he was fairly sure he could track at least one of them down to get some information.
His journey through the city towards the university took a detour when he found himself tangled up in the familiar, but waning scent of the bard. It was faint, just the briefest tinge of lavender, rosemary, cheap ale, and musk that immediately rang a bell in Geralt's head. He frowned, glancing back towards his initial path, and went with his gut, turning down an alleyway to follow the scent. He made his way through the streets, hanging in the shadows and ignoring the strange looks from passerbys, and ended up standing outside the side door of what he assumed to be a tavern given the odor of alcohol-laden piss wafting up from the ground. Even under the nauseating smell, this place reeked of Jaskier. If he wasn't inside, then he had been recently and for a long enough time that his scent had worked its way into the very walls of the building. It was when the metallic tang of blood hit his nose that he shouldered in the door, splitting the lock away from the frame with a resounding crack.
He heard a sharp gasp of a woman, her heart racing, the shuffle of her legs on the floor. A pair of wide eyes looked up at him from the middle of the room, fear emanating from her as she tossed the scrub brush in her hand aside, cowering back against the column behind her.
"Please! No! Don't hurt me!"
Geralt would normally try to have more patience in these kinds of... delicate situations, but the overwhelming smells in this room, Jaskier's blood, his fear, the nauseating scent of burnt flesh, that lingered in the heavy air consumed any tolerance he had for this woman. He clenched his jaw tightly and stalked forward, close enough that he could see the red patch on the floor in front of a chair, a chair with slashed ropes wrapped around the arm rests and pooled at the foot of it.
It had to be the mage. He’d found Jaskier after all.
Geralt growled, turning his eyes back on the terrified woman, still shaking on the floor. She shook her head at him, hiding her face in her hands, the salty scent of tears seeping into the air.
"Where is he?!” He demanded through his teeth. His fingernails dug sharply into his palms. He could still see the dark stain on the floor, the metallic scent coating his nostrils and swelling in his lungs, and felt the need growing in his chest, the need to track and find and hold and protect, to tear apart whatever was in his way until he found Jaskier.
"I-I-" The woman was holding back tears now, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. Geralt held back another growl, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He forced himself to take a steadying breath, focusing as the air passed out of his nose, willing his anger to calm enough that the woman wouldn’t completely lose herself to her fear. He took a step back, giving the woman space, and held his hands up in an attempt at a placating gesture.
"Please," he said, his voice still coming out hoarse and strained, but slightly softer. He took another deep breath before continuing. "Please. Jaskier? Is he alive? Do you know where he is?” Geralt spoke softly and the woman seemed to calm, just slightly.
Her expression hardened, her eyes narrowing at him. He noticed the subtle shift of her hands, curling into fists as she watched him.
"You're not the one that did this to him, are you?"
There was a note of protectiveness in her voice that made Geralt like the woman a lot more, that Jaskier had someone that would stand up for him against a witcher. Geralt shook his head.
"I'm an old friend. I wanted to make sure he was alright," he swallowed tightly. "Do you know where he is? Is he still in the city? Did someone take him?”
She cocked her head, her eyes lingering on his medallion in a way that made Geralt shift on his feet.
"You're that witcher, aren't you? The one he was always singing about?" She asked, the pounding of her heart settled enough now that Geralt could hear himself think.
He swallowed, giving a stiff nod. He could only imagine what Jaskier had been saying about him since... their parting. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, at least not until he'd heard it from Jaskier himself. The woman's expression told him enough about what she'd been hearing that he knew they weren't the most complimentary of songs.
Geralt sighed. "Despite what I'm sure he's said, my intentions are not to hurt him. I just want to make sure he’s safe.”
The woman studied him carefully another moment, her heart rate slowing to a steady pace. He wondered what she was seeing in his expression that was calming her, if she had a similar resolve as Jaskier for tolerating the presence of a frightening witcher. She blinked once before letting out a heavy breath, her arms wrapped protectively around her knees that were folded up to her chest.
"I don't know. I wasn’t here when all this happened. The guards have been lurking around… we’re usually open already, but I can’t very well open our doors with all this here, you know, so I’ve been trying to clean up as quickly as I can.” She waved her hand at the bloody stain. “Only reason I figure it was Jaskier’s blood is because usually he’d have been passed out behind the bar trying to sleep off another hangover.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “That and the talk from the gossips across the street that he’d run out of here with some woman in a purple cloak, looking beat to hell.”
Yennefer, Geralt thought, not interrupting the woman as she continued speaking.
"I assumed that someone found out about..." She clamped her mouth shut, her heart starting to race again.
"Found out about what?” Geralt said. He knew the mage had been looking for information on him and Ciri, but if there was something else, if Jaskier had somehow ended up in another sort of trouble after being tortured…
The woman’s heart was racing again, and she glanced at the windows and the back door. "It’s nothing,” she lied. Geralt glared, taking a step forward.
“What was Jaskier involved in? Please, I need to know.”
“If word got out, we’d all be executed. I can’t,” She said, shaking her head.
Geralt frowned. Of course, the bard had gotten himself into something that he could be executed for… So much for trying to keep him out of trouble by keeping his distance.
"I have no desire to turn any of you in, and most people don't take the word of a witcher for shit." She considered that for a moment and Geralt continued. "I just need to find out where he went, so any information you have that could lead me to where he is would be helpful."
She sighed, pressing her lips together. She studied his face, her heart rate calming again before she gave a stiff nod. "You didn't hear any of this from me."
"Of course," he said, kneeling down to her level on the floor. She leaned towards him, lowering her voice to barely a whisper, her eyes flicking to the doors and the windows.
"Have you heard anything about the Sandpiper?"
Geralt walked back out of the tavern about twenty minutes later, not much closer to figuring out where Jaskier was now, but with a greater understanding of what he’d been doing the past year, his pack laden with what he could fit of Jaskier's meager belongings from the small room he had upstairs. He'd flipped through his notebook, thinking there could be some hint as to where he would have gone, but was met with a significant amount of scribbled angry lyrics primarily focused on a certain bastard witcher, and had quickly flipped it back closed. Jaskier had always been very protective over his writing and Geralt could almost hear the scolding as he shoved the notebook into his pack.
The question, now, was where Jaskier would have gone after escaping from the mage. If Jaskier had run out with Yennefer, then it would have made the most sense that he would leave the city with her, but he hadn't come with her to the temple, and she hadn't mentioned anything about where he'd gone. He’d obviously been injured, the scent of his blood and the burnt flesh still sticking in Geralt’s nose. Yennefer was capable of healing wounds, so it didn’t seem likely that they would have needed to seek out a healer, unless he was so injured that Yennefer hadn’t been able to manage it, or perhaps she’d been so concerned about the mage finding Geralt and Ciri and left Jaskier behind to recover or hide. Not that that fit with his doubts about Yennefer now, if she cared so much to come in and help Jaskier, who he knew she had very little affection for previously, why would she put Ciri at risk by kidnapping her now?
Geralt shook his head, pulling off the open street and into the shadows of an alleyway, rubbing his hands over his face. Maybe he should have just stayed at the temple. Maybe Yennefer would be coming back. Maybe Jaskier wasn’t even in Oxenfurt anymore, if he was smart, if that mage knew he was here and had taken him hostage and tortured him who knows how long, he would have left, fleeing when he had the chance. But… while Jaskier was smart in his own ways… he was also incredibly stubborn and attracted trouble like nothing and no one Geralt had ever seen before. Something the woman in the tavern mentioned stuck in his head, a comment that he’d disregarded in the moment.
“Honestly, he’s probably ended up back in the jail, even if the guards didn’t find out about the elves, he’s always getting himself dragged in there. Sometimes it’s because of his business at the docks, causing trouble so he can get folks onto the boats any way he can, but most of the time, it’s because he’s drunk on the streets, and they lock him up for the night to sober up.”
His stomach tangled into a knot of guilt at the woman’s words, that Jaskier had apparently been drinking so much that he’d been regularly passing out on the floor of the tavern, or causing disturbances in public enough to constantly get arrested. It was so unlike the Jaskier he had known before. He’d always appreciated a good drink and a healthy buzz, letting himself loosen up to a certain extent, but very rarely to excess, usually limited to the few times he was licking his wounds after a particularly difficult heartbreak. He had always gone on and on about the importance of moderation, that being a bard, he had to think about the health of his vocal cords and the way the alcohol slogged down his nimble talented fingers.
Geralt couldn’t imagine that what had happened on the mountain had affected him so much for so long. They’d been apart more than a year, so the excessive drinking must be due to… something else. The war, the Sandpiper-ing, some lovely woman breaking his heart… Geralt ground his teeth together, shaking back to the present. Getting lost in the past wasn’t going to help him, Jaskier, or Ciri now.
The jail was a slim chance, but it was as reasonable a theory as anything else, and he was wasting time just standing around thinking in circles. He sucked a deep breath in through his nose as he walked across the city towards the jail. He tried to narrow his focus as he walked, sticking still to the shadowed alleyways, and out of the bright open streets. Cities were hell on his heightened senses, not designed to be friendly to those of his kind, the smells and sounds and sights, all of them giving him a headache, and as much as he wanted to meditate to drown it all out, he needed to keep his attention open in case he came across Jaskier’s trail again. He turned a corner, and the jailhouse building came into view at end of the road.
A voice that he would know even if it had been decades since last hearing it resonated out of one of the barred windows, sending a wave of relief over his body.
“Oh, fuck,” Geralt breathed out, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension in his muscles slipped away.
He’s alive. He was alive and he was here and well enough that he was still singing some horribly annoying song, that Geralt wouldn’t admit sent a fond warmth through his chest at the sound of it. The fact that he was singing didn’t really mean a whole lot because Geralt was sure that even if every bone in the stubborn bastard’s body was broken, he’d still be crooning on about some nonsense. He bit back the smile that threatened to crawl up the edges of his mouth and made his way to the jail.
It only took a few minutes to sneak and fight his way through the jailhouse, using the sound of Jaskier’s voice to guide his path. He was motivated and the sleepy-eyed guards, complaining to each other about the fucking loudmouth in the back cell that they were close to beating the shit out of, were surprised enough that they didn't put up much of an issue.
Geralt clenched his jaw, waiting beside Jaskier's cell when he heard the last remaining guard threaten to cut Jaskier's tongue out if he kept singing. He nearly surged forward right then to punch the man in the face, but instead rolled his eyes fondly when the threat didn't deter Jaskier at all, almost immediately picking his song back up again. The guard shoved out of his chair in a huff, his bad day turning worse when he turned the corner and was blindsided by several hard punches and dropped to the ground in less than a minute. Geralt ran his hands over the unconscious man, unclipping the ring of keys from his waist, as Jaskier started to shout indignantly from the cell.
"Bloody hell! We are trying to rehearse in here!" Jaskier huffed. "Gentlemen, give me a moment while I deal with this guard's complete lack of decorum."
Geralt turned the corner and unlocked the cell door, watching as Jaskier continued his scolding of who he thought was the guard, as he pushed himself stiffly from the floor. They both froze when Jaskier's eyes fell on him,
“-Geralt,” Jaskier said, the name slipping from his mouth, his voice cracked and strained with emotion held back only by the fragile silence that they fell into.
In that moment, it was almost like time held still. Geralt took in the sight of his friend, his keen eyes flicking across Jaskier’s body in less than a second before he could process all the details. He could still remember the last time he’d seen him. And now, the differences and the similarities to the man that he had left behind all that time ago flashed through his mind. The way his hair hung near his chin, limp and heavy, lacking the usual bounce and sheen from his expensive oils and soaps, the bruises on his face and barely visible dried blood under his nose and mouth, the deep shadows under his eyes and prickle of facial hair on his usually carefully shaven chin. He looked thinner than he had the last time he traveled with Geralt, and there was an exhausted slump to his shoulders. He was clad in clothes unlike those Geralt had seen him wear before, his frilly chemise peeking out from his partially unbuttoned vest revealing a bright patch of blood.
Geralt couldn't help himself, taking the responsibility for all Jaskier's hardships the second he saw him. If he hadn't pushed him away...
Jaskier's eyes were bright, clinging desperately to the corner of the cell to the left of Geralt, like it was far more interesting, far safer to look at than the witcher. Geralt could hear the pounding of his heart, the nervousness and anticipation from his sudden presence. Jaskier shook his head, finally looking back at him.
"Fuck it," Jaskier breathed out, his feet pulling him forward, arms wrapping tightly around Geralt’s shoulders, clinging to his back, the tension draining out of him the moment they connected. Geralt matched the embrace, the warmth of Jaskier seeping into his chest despite the layers of leather separating them. So close, he could smell the cloying scent of blood and sweat, tinges of throbbing pain and fear wafting off his skin, that stink of burnt flesh and an overwhelming cloud of cheap ale, but underneath it all, he smelled like Jaskier, like lavender and rosemary and musk, and Geralt hadn't realized how much he had missed that, the way he occupied that missing space Geralt had reluctantly carved out for him over the decades.
"I missed you, too," he said softly as Jaskier broke apart and took a step back. Geralt fought the urge to reach out and pull him back again, wincing internally at the distance, and clenched his fists at his side. Jaskier stood, his muscles stiffening again, fingers fidgeting, the open desperation of his expression fading into suspicion. He blinked his eyes firmly, staring at the floor before meeting Geralt’s eyes.
"What are you doing here?" He asked, his voice tight. Geralt frowned. He knew their time was limited; guards were going to come looking very soon. He needed to prioritize here. Most important things first.
"Are you alright?" Geralt asked firmly, keeping his ears trained on the door, listening for the stomp of boots in the hall. He looked Jaskier over again, trying to scan for any signs of injury.
The widening of Jaskier's eyes told him that wasn't what he was expecting Geralt to say. He frowned, shaking his head incredulously. "What?"
Geralt huffed. "Are you hurt? That mage found you, right?” His eyes fell on Jaskier's right hand, the briefest glimpse of cracked red skin before Jaskier noticed him looking and hid his hand behind his coat, his heart pounding. Jaskier winced, giving a sharp shake of his head, narrowing his eyes.
"How did you- I’m fine. It’s nothing," Jaskier said, looking back to the cell walls again, grinding his teeth. “Why are you here, Geralt? You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be here.”
Geralt took a tentative step forward, ignoring the question again and holding out his hand, looking at Jaskier with concern.
"Let me see your hand." It was familiar, those routines that they went through. Jaskier would get hurt, say he was fine, and Geralt would push through Jaskier’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge he needed help and Jaskier would huff, but give in because he knew Geralt was only trying to help. Except Jaskier didn’t follow the script this time.
He glared, taking a small step back and crossing his hands over his chest. "I can take care of it myself,” he huffed loudly. "And I am managing just fine, on my own, just like you said that you wanted, remember?! Or do you not recall what you said to me up on that mountain? The one that you left me on? If life could give you one blessing and all that? I don’t need you holding this over me in another twenty years, Geralt, thank you very much.”
"Jaskier-" Geralt said, dropping his hand. The reminder of the words he had said out of anger lashing back against his face like frozen whips cutting into his skin.
"Don't fucking Jaskier me!" he stepped forward, pointing a finger in Geralt’s face, a blaze of anger wafting off of him. "You don’t get to do that, turn up and… pretend like its… I’m not… you can't just be here… like nothing-“ he huffed, his teeth grinding together in his mouth so loud Geralt could almost feel it. "-I am fine, and you... you..." He shook his head, heart pounding as he glared down at the floor like he was trying to get his words in order, like they were skittering across the floor like the mice racing into the corners of the cell.
Geralt hesitantly reached out, resting a hand on Jaskier's shoulder. He flinched at the contact and Geralt almost retreated, concerned by the wave of fear that came off him, but Jaskier quickly eased into his touch, the fear replaced with a look of tired resignation. He shook his head, making a soft whimpering sound in his throat, still staring down at the floor.
“I know. I'm sorry, Jaskier. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I am sorry it took so long for me to come find you to apologize,” Geralt said, and Jaskier tentatively flicked his eyes up at him before looking back down. “I was angry. Overwhelmed with… everything that had happened.” He took a deep breath, unraveling the words he had tried to rehearse in his head many times since their parting. “That doesn’t excuse me saying what I did, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I am sorry,” he huffed. Jaskier tensed, peeking up again carefully, his eyes shining.
Even if Geralt couldn't see them, he could smell the slight salt in the air as the tears filled Jaskier’s eyes, and then the bard laughed, a soft, beautiful sound, giving a shake of his head, running his eyes back up Geralt’s torso, pausing for a brief moment on his stomach before traveling the rest of the way to his face, cocking one eyebrow up.
“That was quite a lot of words, Geralt. Don’t hurt yourself now,” he said, rolling his eyes, a slight smirk curving his lips. Geralt pressed his lips together, shaking his head slightly. “But honestly, I don’t know how you expect me to take you seriously when you come in here after a year… wearing that.” He took a step back, motioning to the molded abs of his chest plate, his smirk growing wider.
Geralt rolled his eyes, fighting the smile at the familiar teasing. “It’s… functional.”
Jaskier barked a laugh, shaking his head. “For what?! Geralt, where in the hell did you find someone to mold abs into your armor!? Melitele, save me, you spend a year away from me and all sense of aesthetics just gets tossed out the window, doesn’t it?”
"Hmm," Geralt said. “Guess it’s good that I found you when I did then?” He added tentatively, his eyes trained on Jaskier’s reaction.
Jaskier swallowed tightly, the smirk smoothing back out, the lightness of the moment passing quickly. He cocked his head to the side with a slight nod. “Suppose it is,” he said quietly, his voice low, looking around at the cell, and then back at Geralt. “Can we get out of here? I think I’ve quite worn out my welcome with this audience, and, for once, I am really not looking forward to giving an encore.”
Geralt looked him over carefully, still trying to determine the source of his pain, wishing they had more than a moment to address his injuries. "Will you be able to walk alright? It will probably be best for the both of us to leave the city as quickly as possible, but if you need a healer-"
Jaskier waved a hand at him, rolling his eyes. "Nothing life-threatening, just a few bruises. I'm fine. I'll walk you through the whole happy tale once we’re far from this place.” He huffed, rolling his eyes at the foul-smelling cell.
Geralt nodded, reluctant to push too much. He listened at the door as Jaskier said his goodbyes to the group of mice sitting atop a bucket in the cell, and then they quickly and quietly made their way out of the jailhouse, stepping over knocked out guards as they fled.
Once they were a few minutes away, sneaking through the alleyways and avoiding the eyes of the guards marching the streets, Geralt expected Jaskier to start into his usual rambling, but he simply followed quietly behind. It was strange, unsettling, glancing back at the stiff movements, the tight seriousness in his expression, so unlike the loud, noticeable bard he used to travel with. As they crept through one of the darker alleyways, Geralt heard Jaskier’s footsteps slow, and turned to see him leaned up against the wall, holding his chest and panting. Geralt walked back, noting the wheeze of pain, as he tried to wave Geralt away, stumbling slightly as he tried to keep walking. Geralt reached out, grabbing under his arm, and guided him back, leaning him against the wall again and checking that they were mostly out of sight of passersby in the shadow of the alley before turning back to him.
Geralt didn't speak, his eyes dropping across Jaskier’s body, lingering on the patch of blood soaked into the front of his chemise. He reached out, running his fingers over it, pulling it up enough to see the skin underneath was smudged with dried blood, but was unwounded. He could see the edge of what looked to be a dark bruise but couldn’t pull the collar open enough to get a good look. Jaskier huffed, batting his hands away.
“Get a couple drinks in me before you start trying to take my clothes off, would you?” He said, trying to keep his voice light, but his breath was shallow and shaky as he tried to work through the pain. Geralt rolled his eyes, easily pushing past Jaskier’s hands and trailing to the bottom of his shirt which was tucked loosely into his trousers, and then paused, looking back up at Jaskier, leaving the obvious question unsaid.
Jaskier rolled his eyes, and then gave a noncommittal shrug, dropping his hands, clenched into fists, to his sides. Geralt gently untucked the shirt, lifting it carefully, revealing a spattering of bruises across the entirety of his chest. Geralt bit back a growl, carefully running his fingers over the bruises, pressing gently over the tender skin, feeling for broken bones. It should have been a relief not finding any, but Jaskier still looked as though he’d been trampled by a horse. He tried to steady his own breath, biting his tongue at a flare of anger, and was unable to soften his glare when he met Jaskier’s eyes that flinched away when he looked up.
“The mage did all this?” He asked stiffly, grinding his teeth together. Jaskier huffed and nodded, pulling his chemise out of Geralt’s hands, dropping it back over his battered torso.
“You would think being able to use magic, the fucker wouldn’t have been so liberal with his fists… but… well… as you can see from my poor beautiful body, you would be quite incorrect in that assumption,” Jaskier said with a bitter sing-songy lilt. He huffed, his voice lowering, tone more serious. “You know he was looking for you, right? You and your... your child surprise. For some reason, he seemed to think that I had some insider knowledge as to where you were.” He met Geralt’s eyes, misreading the anger there. “I didn’t tell him anything... not that I had much to tell, given I honestly had no idea where you were anyways.”
Geralt shook his head, his expression softening. “You know enough.” He swallowed thickly. “Thank you.” He pressed a gentle hand over Jaskier's waist, telling himself it was just to provide some comfort to his injuries with his touch. Jaskier relaxed into the warmth of his hand. “But that is the least of my worries now. This should never have happened to you and I’m sorry it did.” Jaskier let out a soft sigh and Geralt let his eyes fall closed, letting Jaskier's shaky breaths loosen the tight anger curled in his gut. The anger darkened, becoming something new, growing heavy and oozing, seeping waves of guilt through his body. This was his fault. If he hadn’t have pushed Jaskier away, then maybe he would have been able to keep him safe, keep Jaskier from-
“Hey,” Jaskier snapped. He was frowning at Geralt. “Stop that." He rolled his eyes. "I can practically smell you blaming yourself. This-" he motioned to his chest, letting his other hand grip around Geralt's wrist that was still resting on his waist. "-is not your fault. It’s not like you told me to build my entire career off your life story. In fact, I quite remember you telling me to do the literal opposite… for most of the decades we’ve known each other. I chose this, chose… you… and I knew the danger that aligning myself with you could bring.” He let out a shaky huff. “Besides, your witch made sure I got away from that fucker alive, and… well, somewhat unscathed… if you could believe it. Wasn’t in time to save my poor hand completely though.” Jaskier brought his other hand up, now willing to reveal the damage to Geralt. He could see the pale skin, once calloused from his lute playing, now marred, painful red burns licking across his fingers, heat radiating into the air. Geralt gently brought his hand underneath Jaskier’s, not holding, just resting below, his thumb stroking lightly across the side of his hand. Jaskier’s breath caught in his chest, and his eyes flicked up to Geralt again.
"Next time I see him, he’s dead," Geralt growled under his breath. Jaskier frowned, raising an eyebrow.
"Next time? He found you?” Jaskier asked, frowning. He glanced down the alleyway, his eyes narrowing in thought before he turned back to Geralt, cocking his head. “Hang on, how did you know about the mage?”
Geralt huffed and nodded, lowering his voice. "He found us at the temple.”
Jaskier's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “What?” Geralt could hear his heart pounding louder now.
“He showed up this morning when we were there, attacked us, tried to take Ciri.” Geralt shook his head, raging at himself for not being able to separate the asshole’s head from the rest of his body when he had him in the same room. He let out an involuntary growl, clenching his jaw. “He got away.”
“Fuck," Jaskier breathed out and swallowed tightly. "Geralt, I swear I didn't say anything about the temple, I didn't tell him-" Jaskier was close to tears again, his injured hand clenching into a tight fist despite the pain stinging in Geralt's nostrils. Geralt reached out, gently pulling his hand back open and smoothing over the unmarred skin, shaking his head. He forced his anger towards the mage down, lowering his voice, so when he spoke it was gentle, reassuring.
“Jask, he didn't take her. It's okay. She’s… well, she’s not exactly safe, but he didn’t take her. I know you wouldn’t have said anything if you could help it." He frowned, looking down at Jaskier's hand, stroking carefully over the edge of his hand where the skin was still unburned. Jaskier nodded, watching the movement carefully, his heart racing. “Ciri made it out... with Yennefer. She’s the one that told me what happened to you, or some of it. They-“
“Wait, Yennefer?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head, frowning. “How? She was just here... yesterday? The last I saw, the guards had her, and it really did not seem like she was going to get away from them." He shook his head.
"Well, she wasn't exactly forthcoming with the details. It did seem like she was hiding something the whole time she was there."
Jaskier snorted and rolled his eyes. "Now, why doesn't that surprise me at all? I don’t understand though. Why did you come here? Why didn’t you go with Yennefer and Ciri when they left?"
Geralt huffed. “I don't know where they went, and I don’t know what she’s planning. I don't know if I can trust her to be able to keep Ciri safe. She’d mentioned seeing you here, and I thought maybe-“
Jaskier’s heart stuttered, and he slipped his hand out of Geralt’s hold, dropping his arms to his side, the softness and concern in his expression hardening, just slightly. “Oh,” he said, the sound sticking in his throat. “What, and you think she’s going to… eat her or something?” He heaved a breath, shaking his head. “You knew she’d seen me, and you thought I would have some idea what she had planned. That’s why you came to find me.” He bit at the insides of his cheeks, leaning back against the wall the extra inches between them feeling like miles.
Geralt frowned, shaking his head. “That’s not the only reason. When she said that you were in trouble, I-“
“Just… it’s fine. I get it,” he said, his voice dripping with the bitter resignation that Geralt could see dulling the brightness of his eyes. “You don’t have to explain. It’s just… convenient timing…”
“I needed to know you were alright.”
Jaskier laughed humorlessly, holding up his burned hand. “Sure… you know, I’d be more inclined to believe you if you’d actually given a shit before, but… well-” He huffed, shaking his head and pushing away from the wall, stepping further away from Geralt. “Yennefer didn't tell me anything. We weren’t meeting up to plan your demise or share kidnapping plans, okay? I was moving on from you, she had her own shit she was dealing with, then she saved my life, we got separated, and that’s all I know," he said sharply, waving his hands out to his sides and shrugging with a shake of his head. "So, was that all? Stopped by for your quick apology and interrogation?" He snarled shakily, starting to walk down the alley. “Or was there something else you needed from me?”
"Jaskier, I wasn’t-“
"You know you brok-“ his voice cracked, and he swallowed tightly, shaking his head. “You… hurt me? When you left me up on that stupid fucking mountain?" He turned back to Geralt with tears in his eyes, his voice quivering with emotion. Geralt felt his chest tighten, an ache consuming him for the pain he'd caused. "We were… friends, Geralt. Even if you were loath to admit it, we were friends. Twenty years of my life, I spent by your side, and you just… “ Geralt could hear his teeth grinding together as he paused, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. “I waited for you, like the Continent's biggest idiot. You know, and I thought... 'It’s fine. Geralt's just upset. Once he's calmed down, taken a couple hours, he'll come around, he'll apologize and I'll apologize, and then things will go back to normal, just like we usually did. It's not like he's never said things like this before.'"
Jaskier pinned him with a steely glare, and Geralt already knew what was coming. Jaskier drew in a shaky breath before he continued.
"But you didn't come back. And after I waited... much longer than I am willing to admit, I stumbled down that mountain, alone, totally unprotected-“ he said pointedly. Geralt opened his mouth, wanting to interrupt, but Jaskier continued. “-In these fucking boots, boots that were not designed for mountain climbing, mind you… and I reach the bottom, and find that, oh look, Roach is gone, no sign of Geralt... but you know... he still has my things shoved away in his packs, and if he still has my things then that means there's still a chance that he'll cool off and come back, give me a chance to..." He trailed off, shaking his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. "But... then that stable hand calls out to me, passes me this bundle of all my things you'd pulled out of Roach's packs-” he lowered his voice, putting on a rural accent. “-‘Witcher left this for ya’, bard.’” He drew in a shaky breath, clenching his jaw, his voice pained and shaky. “And that was it. You were gone. And I was there, and… that was it." Jaskier shook his head, looking down at the ground.
“You weren’t alone,” Geralt said, his voice hushed. He heard Jaskier’s heart skip, and his bright eyes turned back up towards him, his brows furrowed in confusion.
“I think I would fucking know better than you if I was alone or not. The dwarves left and I-“
“I wouldn’t have left you unprotected, Jaskier.”
Jaskier bristled, the confusion turned back to anger. He crossed his arms over his chest. “But you did. You weren’t there, I waited. I waited for hours for you, and you never showed up, and I walked-“
“You took the longer way back down the mountain, the dwarves showed you before they left where to go since the walkway on the side of the rocks had broken. It took three days to reach the bottom. You barely slept.”
Jaskier’s lips parted with a strained gasp, heart rate picking up, and he shook his head. He swallowed tightly, his eyes filling with tears, his brows furrowing. “You… no… you left. I was… I was alone.”
Geralt hesitated, eyeing Jaskier carefully before shaking his head. “I followed you.”
Jaskier made a strangled noise in his throat, wrapping his arms around his chest tighter, looking away from Geralt. He shook his head again. Geralt could smell the salt of his tears sharp in the air. He muttered under his breath, the words just loud enough that Geralt could hear them. “Fucking… bastard.” Geralt took a hesitant step forward and Jaskier turned his eyes up, pinning him with the tearful gaze. “Why? Why wouldn’t you just… I thought I was… you left, and I thought… I thought I was going to die trying to get back down that mountain… why would you…” He huffed, scrubbing his uninjured hand over his face, the tears spilling over and down his cheeks. “Did you want me to hate you?” He asked, the words thick with emotion.
Geralt didn’t know what to say. He could feel it, that part of himself that lingered deep and rooted strong in his mind. The part that had kept him from returning to Jaskier all those months ago. The part that was hateful, spoke with the voices of the people that called him Butcher, that threw stones, that pushed him out of their villages. It told him that as much as he tried, he would always be the monster that people saw. That it was time that he forced Jaskier to see it, to accept what he was too. It was fear, guilt, insecurity, shame, harsh whispers that said that Jaskier didn’t deserve to be stuck by his side, that he was worth more than what a poorly socialized witcher could offer to him. Geralt was fodder for stories and songs, and Jaskier could write about anything and anyone. He was built for softness, perfumes, for fine clothes and fine wine, for gentle words whispered in the middle of the night, and all Geralt had to offer was rough hands and cruelty, horsehair and sweat, unintelligible grunts and disappointment. If Jaskier stayed with him, he'd be left bloodied and ruined in the end, so the pain of their parting had been worth it, the cruelty of his words, of leaving just the assurance that Jaskier would stay away. Jaskier needed to hate him.
It should have been enough, enough to keep Jaskier safe.
And yet.
It hadn’t been. Geralt’s mark was permanently etched into the bard, branding him for life, making him a target for his enemies to go after. And Geralt hadn’t held up his end. Jaskier had stayed away, maybe out of necessity, out of the need to protect himself, out of hurt, but Geralt had come back, had dragged himself back into Jaskier’s life again without a thought of what it would do to the bard he’d already caused so much pain.
“Geralt?” Jaskier said softly, bringing him back out of his thoughts. He was watching him carefully, the tears bunched in the corners of his eyes, the anguished expression softened to an aching understanding that hurt to look at. Geralt swallowed looking back down at the ground.
“I shouldn’t have come back. I’m sorry… I should-“ Geralt turned around, trying to force himself to walk away, to make that break that Jaskier deserved, to rip himself out of the bard’s life. But he had underestimated how much he missed Jaskier, how much his scent filled an aching part of his chest that he hadn’t realized had been empty, the comfort it gave him to see him alive and breathing and speaking. He’d underestimated how much his body would refuse to leave him once he was back in his presence.
“Geralt, stop. Don’t go, please,” Jaskier said, with a gasp. His footsteps echoed across the cobblestones as he made up the distance between them. Even if Geralt had been able to move, he would have frozen solid at the plea. Jaskier’s hand wrapped around his arm as he ran around to the front of him, staring up with wide desperate eyes. Geralt looked to the side, unable to keep from getting lost in his expression. “I don’t… just… I want to understand why you-?”
“I’m sorry,” Geralt choked out, softer, so soft he wasn’t sure Jaskier could hear it, even with how close he was. He should stop talking, stop trying to make this right; it’d be safer to let him go, to just keep pushing him away, even if Jaskier hates him, if he’s not with Geralt, he’d forget about this, he’d live, he’d survive. But that wasn’t true either, was it? Geralt’s influence had already hurt him even when they were apart, even tearing himself away hadn’t been enough to save the bard from being burned by destiny once again. And Geralt did need him, and he knew it was more than that, a deeper something that stung when he got too close to acknowledging it. He couldn’t even say why he had stayed, why he had spent three days trailing in the shadows after Jaskier on that mountain, why the very mention of his name had him racing back to Oxenfurt, why the thought of leaving him behind now made him want to tear something apart with his bare hands. Geralt felt the pit of anger and helplessness in his chest digging deeper, anger at himself, at his own stupid past self for pushing everyone away, for letting people in, anger at the consequences of his actions, at being unable to protect the people that he cares about most, anger for Jaskier, for Yennefer, for Ciri, for Roach… for Eskel.
Jaskier let out a strangled noise.
Geralt’s eyes shot up, blurred in the dim alleyway. He heard Jaskier gasp, a shaky and aching sound. Jaskier’s hand squeezed on his arm. Geralt wanted to reach out, ask if he was okay, his quivering breath filling Geralt’s ears.
But the words wouldn’t come, his mouth moving with the sound of Jaskier’s choked breaths. Jaskier moved closer and he could hear his soft rambling words coming out at the same time as the shaking gasps for air. The gasps that were too loud, close… Too close to be Jaskier...
Oh. Jaskier wasn’t the one making those sounds.
Geralt choked on air, his teeth grinding together so hard he was sure that they would shatter, every sensation around him too much.
Except Jaskier’s hand was pressing against his cheek, even as Geralt tried to move away, clenching his jaw to get the wave of emotions back down into the pit of his stomach. Emotions he wasn’t supposed to show, that he didn’t want Jaskier to see. Jaskier’s fingers smoothed across his skin, wiping under his eyes where tears would have fallen if he’d been more human. Geralt could make out the crinkles of worry at the edges of his eyes, his brows pushed up and together above the bridge of his nose. Jaskier frowned, pushing in closer.
“Geralt-“ Jaskier said softly, letting out a sigh and shaking his head, his eyes shiny again. Geralt tried to pull away, to hide his face, to hide the vulnerability that he couldn’t let anyone see, but Jaskier had always had a knack for drawing things out of him that he didn’t want anyone to know, and he couldn’t seem to get his muscles to cooperate, the feel of Jaskier’s hand on his cheek warm and comforting.
“You should hate me, I wanted you to hate me, so it would be… easier,” Geralt said, his words quivering irritatingly out of his mouth.
He remembered, years ago, before that banquet, before destiny bit him in the ass.
I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.
And yet, here we are.
And yet.
There was so much he wanted to say, wanted to convey, but the feelings buzzed around in his body, vague and unable to be changed into words. He bit down against them as they swelled up in his chest, feelings he hadn’t dared to allow himself, that he couldn’t, because he had to keep going, keep fighting, keep pushing, on and on and on, but then Jaskier was here, and looking at him with those bright blue eyes, the eyes that saw too much, that cut too deep, that knew him too well, and he couldn’t help but grab Jaskier in his arms and drag him into his chest, careful of his injuries, shoving his nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him buried beneath the filth and blood and sweat and fear. And Jaskier held him back, his uninjured hand tangling under his hair, scratching over his scalp, his other hand fisted against his back.
“I don't,” Jaskier said sadly. “I never did. I couldn’t even when I wanted to. Even when I thought I was going to get torn apart by some monster trying to get off the mountain. Or when that mage was taunting me, when he was going to kill me if I didn’t betray you. I never hated you.” Geralt could feel the words vibrated through their connected chests, soft next to his ears. “I should have. I wanted to hate you. Fuck, I wanted to hate you so much. I wanted to forget all of it... wrote a few… I wrote a few awful songs. I thought if I wrote it all down, how angry I was, how much you hurt me, I could make myself hate you. I could convince myself that it was something that I knew how to do, but… I couldn’t. And I hated singing that bloody song more than I could ever manage to hate you.” His body shook where they were pressed together, and Geralt ran his hands over the smooth surface of the leather jacket covering his back. “I’ve never been a smart man, Geralt. You were forgiven even before I reached the bottom of that mountain.” Jaskier said, almost whispering. He sighed, the strokes of his hand through Geralt’s hair smoothing the rough and tender edges of his emotions. Geralt shivered against him, breathing in the heady scent letting it fill his nostrils and drown out the rest of everything. Jaskier drew in a breath and swallowed hard. “But… if I come with you now… I can’t… you can’t keep pushing me away. I couldn’t bear it. Not again.”
Geralt pulled back, letting his hands drop from Jaskier’s shoulders and drift down, loosely holding his wrists. His eyes rested solidly on Jaskier’s face, holding his gaze, and he shook his head. “You should stay in Oxenfurt. It’s too dangerous.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I already got hurt here. That mage knows where I am, and if he finds out you came to find me, he’s going to come back. Honestly, I’d feel much safer with you.” He licked his lips, looking away a moment, his expression taking on a tightness that made Geralt’s chest ache. “But… I… I suppose I’d only slow you down… and I did mean it when I said I didn’t know anything, so I don’t really have anything to offer that could help you…”
“Jaskier,” Geralt said, cutting off his rambling insecurities. Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut, and he looked back up. “I do need you,” Geralt said softly. Jaskier looked away, the doubt written across his face. Geralt chased his eyes, pulling his chin back towards him with a gentle finger. He could hear Jaskier’s breath catch in his lungs. “I do, and I want you to come with me again, but I… I just… I’ve lost so much. I don’t want to risk losing you too.”
Jaskier’s eyes sparkled, his heart racing in his chest. He loosely shook his head.
“Then don’t push me away. I can take care of myself. I’ll find some way to be of help. I can’t really earn any coin, can’t play for our room for the night since my lute’s in pieces somewhere by the harbor, and, well, my hand...” He held up his injured hand between them, trying to step away. Geralt snorted, taking his hand gently, shaking his head with a glare. “But I could-“
“Didn’t seem to keep you quiet earlier in the jailhouse,” Geralt smiled softly, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to argue when Geralt continued. “You’ve always been much more than your songs, even if I do enjoy them,” he said, and Jaskier raised an eyebrow. Geralt huffed. “Alright, well, some of them. The songs aren’t the reason I kept you around all those years,” he paused, taking a breath. “Why I wanted you around. Why I want you around now.”
Jaskier kept his eyes on his hand, breathing slow and careful, staying quiet, though Geralt could hear his heart racing. He swallowed thickly. Geralt clenched his jaw. It put him off-balance to be the one in this position, needing to reassure, needing to speak. Jaskier always was so much better at that, and his off-putting ability to know what the witcher was trying to say before he said it, somehow reading the expression on his face, made things easier, but he could tell that Jaskier wasn’t going to give him the easy way out this time, and he’d actually have to use his words.
“You make it easier,” Geralt started, feeling the words tumble awkwardly from his mouth. Jaskier looked up at him hesitantly, waiting for him to continue. “This… life. Even if, for you, you just hung around me to write your songs and build your name, it meant something to me." Geralt shook his head, letting out a sigh. Jaskier frowned, narrowing his eyes. “And I don’t know what is going to happen with Ciri, with Yennefer. But… before they left, before she took her, I could already feel Ciri pulling away from me. She’s… been through so much, and she needed me to be more than I could be for her. Someone that could talk to her and make her feel safe. You know I’m not good at talking. I suppose if you’re with me… maybe you could help. With her, with Yennefer. With… dealing with this. Keep me from… fucking everything up.”
Jaskier raised an eyebrow, snorting a soft laugh through his nose. “We’ve been apart way too long, Geralt. You think I could help with not fucking something up? You’re sure you came to the right man?” He shook his head, holding up his hand in front of Geralt’s mouth. “No, don’t answer that, I don’t need you coming to your senses and realizing you’re making a big mistake.”
Geralt shook his head, a subtle motion, as his eyes softened. He pulled Jaskier’s hand away from his mouth, holding it gentle and firm between his fingers. Jaskier swallowed, his throat bobbing hard, drawing Geralt’s eyes down to the bare expanse of his neck. He shifted and Geralt felt the touch of his other hand on his wrist, warm and tentative, just the softest brush of his fingertips on his skin. His eyes flicked from the blue shine of Jaskier’s eyes, to the slightly parted lips letting out shallow breaths, and back up to his eyes. Geralt didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing, too focused on the way Jaskier’s gaze trailed down his own face. Jaskier swallowed again, blinking hard and flinching back with a deep shaky breath.
“We should go,” Jaskier said softly. “Don’t want to get stuck in here when night falls.” He gave a hesitant smile, removing his hand from Geralt’s wrist and stepping away. Geralt felt the loss immediately, letting his eyes linger on him before moving back into action.
They continued down the dark alleyway, quietly making their way past the buildings of the city until Geralt could sense that they were nearing the edge of the city. There was an openness in the air just out of reach beyond the walls he couldn’t quite see yet. He turned to check on Jaskier, immediately frowning.
Jaskier was panting again, his face clenched as he breathed against the pain Geralt could smell throbbing out of his nerves in aching waves. He was trying to hide it, subtly hiding the way he had his arm wrapped around his chest. Even if it was just bruised ribs, nothing broken, it was still going to cause him enough pain that walking the trail with him was going to be increasingly uncomfortable until they healed, and that was if the hand and his chest were actually all that had been injured. Despite how much he wanted to keep Jaskier close, to keep him in sight, to keep him safe, maybe it would be better to leave him in the city. Find some healer, someone Jaskier could trust to hide out with until he was better. He glanced up from the small patch of skin peeking out of the unbuttoned top of Jaskier’s chemise to find his eyes watching him, glaring sharply.
"You're not leaving me behind."
Of course. Fucking Jaskier and his stupid ability to read every thought on his face. Geralt huffed and opened his mouth to argue, but Jaskier cut him off.
"I am not staying here. That was more words than I have probably ever heard you speak...ever, so no. I am fine, and I am not staying here,” he said firmly. “Seriously, Geralt, they're just bruises. I’ve had worse. You’ve seen me when I've had worse," he added, and Geralt knew Jaskier remembered how guilty he felt for those times, given the smug knowing expression on his face. Geralt glared at him sharply.
"Jaskier-"
"You really just want to leave me here, totally unprotected?" Jaskier said, his eyebrows raising, a curve at the edge of his lips. Geralt frowned, narrowing his eyes. "What if you leave and that fucker just comes back and kills me… or kidnaps me… or I don’t know, chops my hands off?" Jaskier said, his eyebrows lingering near his hairline, and his arms waved out to the side. Geralt gave an irritated huff. Jaskier was way too dangerous with his intelligence and words, just as Nenneke was, and all he had to try and fend against them was his sour face and stupid metal swords. Not much of a fair fight.
"I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?" Geralt started, the smug determination on Jaskier's face cutting chunks out of his resolve to argue, the fear that Jaskier was right, and he would be in more danger staying here. And he really didn't want to push him away again, didn't want to insult his free will to be able to choose what he wanted to do with his life and time and energy.
Jaskier's mouth curved into a sly grin. "Well, what use is getting tortured if I can't use it to guilt you into something?" Geralt flinched at the reminder.
Geralt huffed. "It's going to be dangerous. You’re already hurt... I don’t know if I can keep you safe." Jaskier rolled his eyes.
"It's always dangerous, my dear.” Geralt flinched at the affectionate tone, the term of endearment he didn’t deserve. Jaskier cocked his head, continuing. “Besides, I have been absolutely bored to tears here. There's only so many nights of tavern performances and espionage a man can bear." Geralt stared at him down, and Jaskier sighed, keeping his eyebrows raised high.
Geralt knew he was going to regret this in some way, but the ease of having Jaskier back by his side after so long, his willingness to come along, the notes of forgiveness lingering in his voice, were too seductive to say no to. And it did make him feel a little better to have him with him, at least knowing that he was alive. The thought of leaving him here and not being able to know if he was safe, if the mage was coming back, if Jaskier was getting himself into more danger because that’s just what he does, made him grind his teeth and itch to grab his swords.
"Fine," he growled and Jaskier grinned, nudging Geralt's shoulder with a soft hum of victory. Geralt glanced back at him again, mentally taking stock of the ingredients in his pack, the meager amount of coin he had left, the lack of any potions fit for humans. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, obviously getting curious as to the delay in their escape.
“What’s the hold up?”
Geralt hummed. “I don’t have any potions you could take for your injuries. I might still have some salve left, but I don’t know how long it’ll last.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I told you, Geralt, it’s fine. Besides all the apothecaries in the city are absurdly expensive… or at least they are for me. No appreciation for our famous artists. Seriously, I spent all my coin from one night’s performance on the smallest vial of hangover cure I’ve ever seen. Granted I really needed it, but those bastards absolutely take advantage of the desperate and needy.”
Geralt noted another mention of Jaskier’s drinking with a frown, saving the discussion for later once they had dealt with the more pressing matters, but still felt a pit of concern curling in his gut.
“Hmm.” Geralt was reminded once again of his lack of coin. There was barely enough for even the ingredients to make the potion himself, let alone buy one, even if he wasn’t in the city. He frowned but nodded. “You’re probably right.”
Jaskier’s smile brightened. “I am right,” he said, nudging Geralt’s shoulder again. “Come on, we’re almost at the gates, and the sun is getting lower.”
It took another couple of minutes to reach the gates. They paused in an alley with a slightly obstructed view and Geralt narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his senses on the guards leaned up against the walls of the gate. He could make out muffled conversation, their hassling remarks to passing travelers about the shapes of their ears, but nothing related to a jail break or a white haired witcher they were looking out for, which left another question. He frowned at Jaskier.
"What did they arrest you for anyways?"
Jaskier hummed and cocked his head. "Ah, yes, that would be ‘peeping in the whorehouse.’" Geralt huffed and rolled his eyes, and Jaskier let out a dramatic sigh. "And not for the obvious reason, Geralt-" He whacked Geralt's shoulder. "-I am a respectable man… sort of. That was where the guards were holding Yennefer after they caught her. I was trying to put together an expert break-out plan when they pulled me for looking in the window, and then she obviously managed to get out somehow… otherwise… well, you know, then she found you shortly after... which, if I’m really thinking about it, is honestly, quite odd because… Geralt, are you even listening to me?” Geralt was focused back on the guards at the gate, and he nodded once. Jaskier huffed, following his eyes.
"Do you think they'll recognize you?" Geralt asked.
Jaskier shrugged, cocking his head and looking back over at him. "Who wouldn’t? I mean, I am a famous, world-renowned bard. Recognition comes with the territory." He paused, waiting for Geralt's eye roll, and then continued. "And to be fair, it's far from the first time I've been arrested in Oxenfurt. They seem to be quite particular about policing the behavior of very, very slightly intoxicated individuals wandering in the streets.” Geralt frowned at yet another mention of his drinking, but didn’t say anything, Jaskier continuing his speech. “So... is it likely they’ll recognize me?” He made a show of thinking before giving a stiff nod. “Yes, sure, of course. But really, the question you should be asking is, will they care enough to stop me if they do?” He cocked his head, quirking an eyebrow up. “If I’m being completely honest, they'll probably just be glad that I'm finally leaving." Geralt clenched his jaw, glaring back at the guards. He strained his ears, listening for footsteps, heartbeats, scenting for additional dangers. The weight of his swords on his back gave him reassurance that even if a casual walk out of the gates didn't work, they always had the option of the alternative… not murder, just… relying on his ‘intimidating grumpy witcher face’ as Jaskier had once put it.
Geralt nodded and pulled his cloak up over his head, turning to Jaskier and looking him over. "Stay close."
Jaskier’s lips pressed into a tight line as he returned Geralt’s nod and took a deep breath.
Chapter 2: Bath
Summary:
Geralt and Jaskier discuss plot things, and Jaskier gets a dip in a pool.
Notes:
A/N Geralt’s POV. Some mentions of blood/violence. Mentioned nudity (for bathing). No other warnings.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"-think that after so many incredibly popular songs, that you would have to be a fucking corpse buried ten feet under the ground not to know who I am?! I mean, honestly, you could walk into any tavern on the Continent and sing two words of Toss a Coin and everybody would be able to sing along and praise my wonderfully pervasive name for delivering such a masterful piece of work unto the world...AND YET, those two gate-guarding nobodies have never EVER heard of me!? It's downright unbelievable, an insult of the highest-" He continued shouting, the injuries to his chest seemingly ineffective at slowing the ranting down by much, though there was a slight breathlessness to his speech.
"You do realize that we were trying not to get recognized, right?" Geralt said trying to interrupt him enough that Jaskier would have to take a breath, which only earned him an irritated huff and an eyes in return.
"Yes, sure. Logistically, not being recognized is obviously the better option for us at this time, and I am an intelligent enough man to realize that, Geralt, but, and I know you wouldn't understand this, not being an established artist like myself, but when you’ve spent years carefully building up a reputation, my dear witcher, this sort of oversight is quite the heavy blow to my already fragile and floundering ego," he whined, sucking in a breath after that very long and rambling sentence, giving a dramatic wave of his hand over his forehead as though he were going to faint. When Geralt gave nothing more than a slight eyebrow raise in response to his theatrics, he huffed and glanced around the path they were continuing to walk down, frowning and furrowing his brows. He rubbed the back of his neck and cocked his head towards Geralt. "So, uh... is Roach around here somewhere, or are we just going to be walking the entire way to... uh, wherever?"
Geralt's chest ached, remembering the loss of his horse that had been his faithful companion for so many years. He gave a stiff shake of his head. "She's not," Geralt said, his voice rough. Jaskier's shoulders slumped with the realization of Geralt’s implication, his eyes softening as he saw the weight of the loss on Geralt's face.
"Oh,” Jaskier said, softly, pressing his lips together. He was quiet for a moment and Geralt briefly let himself think that would be the end of it, that maybe he hadn’t earned Jaskier’s sympathy again, when his voice cut through the silence yet again. “I’m sorry. What happened?"
"Was fighting a chernobog two days ago… and she was just… in the wrong place. She’s not the first horse I’ve lost. Sure she won’t be the last." He clenched his teeth together, flinching slightly when he felt Jaskier's hand on his arm, despite having heard him step closer. Jaskier looked at him, not with pity, but with a shared grief, an understanding.
"I'm sorry, Geralt. She was a good horse." He gave a soft sad smile, and Geralt appreciated the sincerity in his voice, returning his smile with a small one of his own.
"Yes. She was." Geralt felt the loss when Jaskier pulled his hand back away, continuing to walk beside him, more somber now, contemplative. Geralt drew in a quiet breath. "She missed you."
Jaskier looked back over at him incredulously, eyebrow cocked and a smirk curving his lips. "Don’t even pretend like she did, you liar! She barely tolerated me. That stubborn horse was always trying to take a chunk out of my backside… You do remember how many pairs of trousers I had to patch up because of her sneaky wandering mouth, right?" he said, laughing softly.
Geralt smiled and shook his head. "She kept nosing at my pockets thinking that I was carrying something for her to eat. I thought I might end up with a hole in mine at some point too."
Jaskier laughed brightly and Geralt sucked in a breath, unable to help the way his heart lightened at the sound.
"Cheeky thing. Well, I’m glad my attempts at bribery seemed to leave an impact on her," Jaskier said shaking his head. "I had bits of fruit stuck in my trousers for weeks after the...well…" Jaskier's voice trailed off and Geralt spared a glance at him, the pained expression on his face, how he paused to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. Jaskier let out a soft sigh, plastering a thin smile back on. "I’ll have to write her a song. People love tales about loyal and brave animals… It would have to be an epic ballad. She’d deserve no less than that." Jaskier said, going quiet a moment before his silence turned into a soft humming, the tune vibrating in the air around his lips. Geralt smiled to himself, appreciating the familiar sound, the presence of a person, the person, missing for too long beside him again.
After a minute, Jaskier quieted again, glancing back over at Geralt.
"So, your-" He spared a glance around them, narrowing his eyes as though he'd be able to notice anyone watching them from afar. He lowered his voice to a whisper, "er, are we safe to talk about this… the whole… everything… here?"
Geralt narrowed his eyes, listening carefully, looking around the path at the sparse trees leading into the woods on one side, the tall rocky cliff face on the other. They were surrounded by the sounds of nature, birds shifting in the branches, animal sounds on the ground, water and wind, but nothing concerning, and his medallion rested unmoving against his chest. He nodded.
“Should be fine.”
Jaskier let out a relieved sigh. "Good, great. Okay, so the child surprise... princess… girl… why do you think Yennefer was… planning something? I mean the temple was attacked, right? Couldn’t she have left with Ciri to protect her from that mage?”
Geralt frowned and shook his head. “The mage was gone. He’d teleported somewhere just before I could reach him, but he had gone. And Yennefer saw me… before she left. I told her not to go, but she looked back at me and said… ‘I wish I could’, and then went into the portal.”
“Well, that does seem… a little suspicious. But why would Yennefer want her anyways? I thought she was interested in having baby, not… stealing a teenager.”
Geralt glanced back over, rolling his eyes. "Ciri’s powerful… dangerously powerful. She has Nilfgaard after her, Cintra’s been left without an heir to the throne… that mage was after her. She could be a bargaining chip for… basically anyone. Or maybe Yennefer just wanted a daughter. She seemed like she’d forgiven me for what I said to her, but maybe she was still holding a grudge and stole Ciri to hurt me. I don’t know,” Geralt grumbled, his chest surging with protectiveness, the need to have his child back with him again. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes, and Geralt wondered what it was he was seeing in his expression that put that look on his face. Jaskier thought quietly for a moment, pursing his lips, before asking another question.
"What do you mean powerful? Powerful like… Pavetta?" Jaskier asked with a shiver, no doubt remembering the frightening display all those years ago at the Cintra betrothal banquet.
Geralt gave a nod. “Something like that.”
Jaskier huffed and frowned. “Well, maybe if Yennefer knew that, she might think Ciri’s power could help get her magic back... though, I don't know if that's even a thing, is that a thing? Can magic people-“
"What?" Geralt asked, trying to process what Jaskier just said. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, shrugging.
"Well, I mean, I'm not totally well-versed in the ins and outs of sorcery and mages and all that nonsense. I am still just a humble bard, Geralt, but it seems like a reas-" he muttered, and Geralt cut him off again.
"No, what happened to Yen's magic?"
"She lost it?" He said, like it was obvious. "I thought you said you saw her. She brought up the whole mage thing, but didn’t bring up something as important as losing her magic?" Geralt frowned and shook his head.
"She seemed... nervous. But she didn't say anything about that,” Geralt huffed, turning back to Jaskier whose own frown deepened.
“I mean, I guess that’s also a bit suspicious given you two are… well, you know… you two,” he said, giving a slight roll of his eyes. “She wasn’t exactly forthcoming about it when I saw her either though. She probably wouldn’t have brought it up if I hadn’t asked what the hell was going on with her… because she was acting… very weird.” Jaskier raised an eyebrow and rubbed over the back of his neck.
"What happened when she came to Oxenfurt?"
Jaskier shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't know, Geralt. She was on the run with some guy. He seemed a bit squirrely if I’m being honest, really shifty eyes, scraggly beard. Did not like him... at all. He seemed like the kind of guy that has killed at least a few people, and probably would not be opposed to stabbing a mouthy bard if he didn’t like him very much, so you can see-“
“Jaskier.”
“Yes, right, okay, anyways, apparently, they'd heard what I’d been doing in Oxenfurt somehow,” he glanced up at Geralt, narrowing his eyes. “Uh, oh, you probably don’t know about all that, see I’ve been-“
“The Sandpiper, the elves. I spoke with a woman at the tavern when I was looking for you, and she gave me some of the details.”
Jaskier frowned, pressing his lips together. “Well, that’s a bit concerning that she is just telling random strangers all of our horribly important secrets…” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Problem for another time, I suppose. Uh… right, so anyways, they heard what I’d been doing, and asked me for help getting to Cintra. I thought it was because of the whole she’s half-elf thing that she was trying to get there, to, you know, not be killed or imprisoned, but, again, she wasn’t really forthcoming with the details." He let out a sigh, looking up at the sky as he caught back onto the memories. "She was different though, like... sad... almost... or like... I don't know, not broken... but like hopeless? And-" He pointed at Geralt, making sure he was still paying attention. "-And, she... hugged me,” he raised his eyebrows for emphasis, smiling softly before continuing. “And, I don't know, she was actually, like, tolerable, which was strange... so I asked her what had happened because the Yennefer that I knew would never be that nice to me, and then she told me that ‘chaos was done with her.’” He cocked his head to the side, looking over at Geralt, noticing the solemn look on his face. "She really didn't mention any of that?"
“No,” Geralt said, stiffly. He could hear the truth in Jaskier’s heart as he spoke, and now Yennefer leaving this information out seemed all the more suspicious, and made him that much more concerned about Ciri’s safety.
Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Ah, let me guess, your reunion probably took a different direction, a less... verbose direction, a more-"
"Jaskier," Geralt warned gently. Jaskier huffed and held his arms out defensively, shaking his head.
"What? Tell me I’m wrong! You two always end up falling into bed together within mere seconds of being in the same vicinity as each other... either that or attempting to kill one another, which then subsequently leads straight back to the whole... falling into bed thing, so it really is not the most outrageous assumption." Jaskier cocked his head, kicking at a rock on the path as he walked. Geralt frowned, noting the slight bitter tone of Jaskier's voice, the attempt to hide it under his sarcastic humor.
"You know that Nenneke would have killed me if I'd even tried that, Jaskier, sanctuary from violence be damned," he said, feeling the need to defend himself further, but biting it down. "Was that it? What about the mage and the guards grabbing her?" Jaskier let out a huff and waved his head in a half-nod, half-shake.
“Yes, yes, relax… so impatient. I was getting there.” He scratched the prickles of hair growing on his chin, thoughtfully. “Where was I? She told me about her magic… Oh! Right, so I got her and what’s-his-name, scraggly beard man on the boat to leave, and that was when that asshole mage came out of nowhere, grabbed my poor lute and cracked her over my head. She’s in pieces somewhere on that dock, I’m sure.” He pouted, glancing wistfully back towards Oxenfurt. Geralt clenched his jaw, feeling his chest squeezing tighter, as he remembered what he walked into back in the tavern. Jaskier’s blood, the chair, the overwhelming scent of fear and burnt flesh. “Not that I’d be able to play her right now anyways,” Jaskier added, prodding at the palm of his injured hand. He heaved a shaky breath and shook his head.
“Anyways, he apparently dragged me back to the tavern whilst I was unconscious." His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard enough Geralt could hear it. "And, as you know, or you saw," he said, his voice shaking a bit. "We spent a long and just... ever so lovely evening together, or rather, morning... or I suppose both evening and morning... I was there for quite a long time. Longer than I preferred, that’s for sure. And, if I'm being completely honest, it definitely ranks with one of the worst evenings spent tied to a chair that I have ever had... definitely in the bottom three, and that is saying something given that night I had with-" Jaskier's rambling was growing panicked, the words coming quicker and quicker as Jaskier tried desperately to spin what had happened to him into something less serious.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said gently, placing a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, pulling him out of the painful memory. Jaskier’s words halted, and he ground his teeth, letting out a sharp breath through his nose. He glanced at Geralt out of the corner of his eyes. "We don't have to talk about this right now."
Jaskier shook his head, waving his hand at him. "I'm fine. It really wasn't that bad," he lied, continuing quickly before Geralt could point it out. "And I'm almost done," he said, jumping back into his retelling. "Skipping over all the fun, at some point, I don’t know exactly how long it was, but Yennefer came in, and honestly, she was brilliant. I’d probably say that about anyone that had come in and saved me, but she really just… I mean it was incredible. Terrifying and brutal, but incredible. She blew his fire back in the fucking bastard’s face... and, let me tell you, I am not a cruel man, but it was so satisfying hearing him screaming and burning instead of me for once. Fucking prick deserved it." Jaskier swallowed, clenching his jaw.
“Deserved worse than that,” Geralt said with a grunt. Jaskier huffed and nodded. His heart rate picked up slightly, and his hand twitched at his side, but Geralt didn’t mention it.
"Yennefer cut me out of the chair, dragged me out into the streets somewhere, we got chased, got separated, and that was when the guards grabbed her and held her in the whorehouse. I found her, but then, of course, the guards see a dirty, blood-covered man peering in the window of a den of iniquity and think the absolute worse, so I got myself arrested, and that was… yesterday morning. I was there until you came along, and now… here we are. Happily ever after, the end, and all that." He waved the fingers of his uninjured hand with a flourish, and smiled tightly.
"But she got away somehow,” Geralt said, frowning. "If she came to the temple. And there's no way she could have made it there from Oxenfurt that quickly if she couldn't use a portal.” Jaskier shrugged.
"Like I said, they arrested me before I could see what happened. The last I saw of her, she had two guards grabbing her by the arms to drag her off somewhere, and I couldn’t exactly hear much. Oxenfurt is a lovely city, but, gods, it is loud. I could see her through the window, but she was sitting quite far away, so even if she had said something, I would never have been able to hear it unless she was… shouting it directly at me… so I have no idea how she managed to make it out. I am not surprised in the least, since that woman is like a… vicious scary… thing, even without her magic," he muttered, shuddering a little. His eyes lit up after a moment. "Oh! But, when I was in the jail, I saw a flyer pasted up on the wall with her on it. Or I mean I think it was her, either it was, or it was some other intimidating dark-haired woman with a Y name. They didn't exactly let me stop and check out all the paperwork… But I'm fairly certain I saw the crest of the Brotherhood on it."
Geralt frowned, feeling some pieces coming together in his mind. "Right, she did say something about hiding from them. It was why she said she’d come to the temple in the first place." Jaskier raised an eyebrow.
"Did she happen to mention why they were after he because it seems like that may be important… I mean, sure, she's not really great at rule-following, and after her stories about those pricks, they probably aren’t the biggest Yennefer fans, but I could say that about most people that she comes into contact with… and this is the first I can recall that she’s had some sort of bounty out on her from them."
Geralt shook his head. "I don't know. You know those people are all about politics. Could be some… complicated manipulative bullshit. Before I saw Yennefer, I did talk to another mage that knew her, Istredd-"
"Oh, really? That guy?" Jaskier said with a huffy grin. Geralt frowned, and glanced at him, confused. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"How do you know about him?"
"Yennefer's condescending on-and-off-again lover? The one that's all, 'oh Yenna, I just want to protect you from yourself and blah blah blah'. The… one that was always digging shit up? Literally, I mean. He was, fuck, what was it, an archeologist or something.” He paused, raising an eyebrow at Geralt’s confused frown. “Geralt, she complained about him every time she had more than five drinks in her." Jaskier shrugged, raising an eyebrow, and looking up into the distance. "Though I suppose she usually only came out to drink with me like that after you two had, uh... well, you know... done the deed," he said, making a vulgar motion with his hands. "She just really loved coming out and shoving it right in my face." He huffed. Geralt frowned, raising an eyebrow, his confusion shifting.
"Shoving what in your face?" Geralt asked, hearing Jaskier's heart rate pick up. Jaskier shook his head, sputtering slightly.
"What? Nothing. I don't know,” he said quickly, letting out a sharp breath, and ignored Geralt's suspicious look, immediately changing the subject. "So, what did he say? Istredd, I mean."
Geralt shook his head. "Just that she'd been at Sodden. I knew that she was there, but I thought she’d died. He said she was still alive, and that he thought she should have been seen as a hero, but there was some shit they did to her at Aretuza. I didn't get the details. We got interrupted right after, so there wasn’t really time to discuss."
"Hmm," Jaskier said, frowning quietly for a minute as he got a similar look on his face like when he was working through some tricky lyrics. Something darkened in his expression, and Geralt could hear his heart rate pick up. He licked across his lips before speaking again. “You don’t think,” he paused, rubbing his injured palm gently with his fingers. “You don’t think that she was working with that mage, do you?”
Geralt frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean?” Jaskier shrugged.
“I don’t know.” He shook his head with a sigh. “I just, I mean… she shows up here in Oxenfurt traveling with some… weird man, she’s wanted for some sort of magic crimes, presumably, and then some other… supposedly unrelated mage comes along and does, arguably, what I would call some magic crimes to me. She somehow gets away from the guards without her magic and makes it all the way to the temple… somehow? We didn’t see what happened to the mage after we ran, but then he shows up at the temple too. You said he got away, and then Yennefer left with the child… the child that the mage was there looking for. What if he saw that she had her already, made a portal for Yennefer to leave through before he poofed himself away to meet up with her somewhere. If they were working together, he could have been how Yennefer got away from those guards, how she got to the temple, right?” Jaskier looked hurt even bringing up this theory, unable to meet Geralt’s conflicted gaze. He swallowed thickly. “She saved my life, and we… I thought… it felt like there was some sort of… not really trust yet, but the foundations of it, I guess, so I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. But if we are discussing theories… I don’t know. It’s… something, right? She has to be working with somebody that has magic, if hers is actually gone?”
“She could have lied to you about her magic, too, Jaskier. It doesn’t have to be that she is working with the man that tortured you.” Geralt didn’t want to think that Yennefer could have been capable of that. He knew she wasn’t really fond of Jaskier, but to put him through what he went through, to lie to him and manipulate him just to get to Ciri… it just didn’t seem right.
He was starting to get a headache. There were too many possibilities, too many thoughts. And the lingering sticky conglomeration of scents from Oxenfurt hanging in his nostrils made it that much worse. The sun had dropped lower as they walked, and he knew they had maybe two hours of daylight left before it would be too dark to continue walking. He shook his head, overwhelmed and frustrated. He wanted answers, he wanted to have Ciri back, he wanted to know what the fuck Yennefer was thinking, but there was too much.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head again.
“Well, we at least need to figure out somewhere to go. We can’t just wander around in the wilderness hoping to come across-“
"I know!" Geralt shouted, immediately regretting the tone of his voice. His head was aching, the overstimulation consuming his focus and patience. Questions with no answers. Where to go, what to do, why this was happening, where Ciri was. He had nothing else rocking about in his head now and didn't know how he was going to fix it. Jaskier let out a soft breath. "Sorry. I just-"
"She’s really gotten to you,” Jaskier said after a moment, looking forward down the path.
Geralt grunted. “Seeing Yennefer again-“
“No,” Jaskier said, cutting him off. “Not Yennefer. The girl.” He cocked his head toward him, pressing his lips together in a tight line. “You’re really taking this destined fatherhood thing seriously, aren’t you? She isn’t just… some child to you.”
Geralt clenched his jaw, giving a noncommittal shrug. That was getting too far into emotions he didn’t want to touch right now. He took a cursory glance around the path. They'd made it a couple of miles out of the city, the threat of guards coming after them seeming less of a concern, and the growing scent of bitter pain coming from Jaskier was getting too hard to ignore, despite his stubborn insistence on pretending like his injuries weren't bothering him. Geralt heard the trickle of water coming from somewhere near by and let out a hum. Jaskier looked over, raising an eyebrow.
"We should stop," he said, flicking his eyes down at Jaskier's chest. “It’s getting dark and we need to set up camp for the night.” Jaskier frowned.
"You’re not just doing this because of me, right? I don’t want to slow us down, Geralt. I know you can travel at night. I can just keep close, and we can keep moving,” Jaskier said, trying to hide the way his arm clung around his chest tight as he struggled to keep up. Geralt frowned and shook his head.
"I need to think. Figure out where we need to go next. I’m going to be too distracted to focus on keeping us safe to keep moving in the dark. Plus, I don’t want you hurting yourself more than you already are," he said, honestly, feeling a flash of guilt that his words to Jaskier a year ago had left him feeling like a burden now because of his injuries.
“It’s really not that bad, I cou-“
"There’s water nearby. You need a bath, and I need to check your hand. It doesn’t smell infected, but it’ll lessen the pain if it’s cleaned and bandaged,” Geralt said, knowing the mention of bathing would convince Jaskier to stop more than anything else, and the flicker of a smile on Jaskier's lips told him that he'd already won him over. Jaskier cocked his head and shrugged casually.
"I guess I could do with a wash, if you really insist on stopping," Jaskier said with a grin. Geralt rolled his eyes, following the sound of water off the trail and through a thicket of bushes.
The source of the trickling sound of water was a cool mountain pool, surrounded by a tall rocky cave, quiet and secluded from the path with a thin stream of water falling into it from above. Jaskier gasped delighted, his heart pounding with excitement, before he let out a soft moan.
"Oh gods, Geralt. You have no idea how much I have been looking forward to this. I have not been able to bathe in so long I was starting to think I was born with a layer of grime on my skin.” He dropped his head towards his armpit, taking a deep sniff and groaned. “Fucking fuck, that is bad. I smell like the floor of the tavern... if the tavern floor was covered in unwashed, rotting corpses... skunk corpses...” He huffed and shook his head at the witcher, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. Geralt hummed, listening carefully as he made sure the area was safe, the stillness of his medallion giving him some reassurance that this pool wasn't full of dangerous monsters that were going to rip Jaskier apart the second he slipped his foot into the water.
He glanced back over, and the bard already whipping off his clothes, tossing them into a careful pile at his feet. He was shivering, the chill of the cold water ghosting into the air with every gentle puff of wind, but his heart was pounding with barely restrained anticipation. Geralt grunted, remembering something from earlier, and pulled his pack off his back, digging through it. Jaskier eyed him carefully, dropping onto the ground so he could tug the boots off his feet, his chest bare. Geralt decidedly kept his attention on the pack, knowing the sight of Jaskier's injuries would make him too upset to stay focused.
"What are you looking for?" Jaskier tossed his other boot aside, before twisting his arms around to try to deal with the laces on the back of his trousers. He winced, the stretch of muscles to get to the ties pulling at the aching bruises and sending a flash of pain through his nerves.
"Just wait. I’ll help you in a minute," Geralt chided, frowning over at him. Jaskier huffed and dropped his hands back into his lap, watching Geralt curiously. He continued looking through the pack until his hand touched the wood of the box he was looking for and pulled it out. Jaskier let out a soft gasp.
"Wait, is that- you grabbed my things?" He crawled forward, hissing when he leaned his weight on his injured hand, the burns forgotten in his excitement. Geralt nearly dropped the box, trying to reach out and push him back off his hand, but Jaskier had already shifted, the painful throbbing ignored in favor of the box he snatched out of Geralt's hand. The familiar scent of oils and scrubs and soaps seeped through the crack, bursting out when Jaskier flipped the lid open. He grinned brightly. "Oh, gods, you!” He said, jabbing his finger into Geralt’s chest, kneeling next to him. “You are incredible! The next ballad I write is going to be Geralt of Rivia, the Mighty Soap Snatcher!" He laughed, digging through the small vials and containers. Geralt rolled his eyes fondly, nudging Jaskier’s shoulder.
“Please don’t,” he grunted. Jaskier grinned, mostly ignoring him. "I couldn't grab everything. I had to leave most of your doublets behind, but there's most of your...essentials here." He narrowed his eyes at Jaskier who was breathing in the contents of the box, his eyelids fluttering with barely concealed pleasure. Geralt cleared his throat and continued. "There's some... cleaner clothes in here too, so you don't have to put-" he motioned to the pile Jaskier made on the ground. "-those back on. At least until they’re cleaned and dry." Jaskier's shoulders slumped, and he shook his head, his brows curving up on his forehead, eyes shining.
"Thank you, Geralt,” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, rubbing over his eyes. “You really… I mean I’m sure you don’t understand how much this means to me, but after the last few days… just… thank you. It’ll be good to feel… a bit human again,” He spoke sincerely, smiling softly, his eyes falling closed as he turned his head up to the sky.
He was quiet for a moment, and Geralt took the opportunity to watch him, the way the strands of hair shifted in the breeze, his lips parted just slightly as he drew steady breaths into his lungs. Alive, breathing, here. It was enough. For now.
Jaskier opened his eyes again and Geralt turned away quickly, pretending to busy himself with the pack. Jaskier clicked his tongue and twisted on the ground next to him, so that his back was just an inch away from the witcher’s hands.
"Can you-" Jaskier waved loosely towards the knotted ties, which were tucked so enticingly against the soft dip of his back… no, not enticingly, normally. That was where the ties went. Geralt drew in a long breath, stilling his hands in the pack where his fingers had clenched around some bundle of fabric. This wasn’t the first time he’d helped Jaskier out of his trousers. The flamboyant bard had a tendency towards purchasing clothes that he couldn’t manage to get himself easily in and out of. Geralt hoped this wouldn’t be the last. Because it was a sign of trust, that Jaskier trusted him to do this act between friends. And it meant that he hadn’t destroyed their friendship completely when he’d pushed him away. Not because he wanted to take Jaskier’s clothes off.
Geralt swallowed, nodding even though Jaskier's head was turned, and carefully worked his fingers through the strings, each brush against Jaskier's back, sending a searing shock through his fingertips. He was sure he was imagining the sharp intake of breath that Jaskier had every time their skin touched, that surely this wasn’t affecting him as much as it was Geralt. It took an eternity, but also not nearly long enough, before the ties separated and the trousers loosened around Jaskier's waist dropping down enough to revealing the sharp dip of his hip bones. Geralt clenched his teeth together, pulling his hands away like he’d been burned, fighting the urge to drag Jaskier down, lay him across the ground. To rip his trousers the rest of the way off, to run his hands over the bare expanse of his skin, pressing his lips over the dark bruises on his chest, to listen as Jaskier's heart raced and his breath stuttered, running his fingers over scalp, and digging his nose into the dark hairs that trailed down to-
Fuck. Oh, fucking fuck.
And then Jaskier was pushing up to his feet, gratefully moving out of reach, reluctantly snapping Geralt out of the unexpected thoughts. He gave a wiggle of his hips as he stood, letting his trousers drop down his legs to the ground, leaving him in just his smalls, which he quickly tugged down like it was nothing to be nude in front of Geralt, which it wasn't, shouldn't have been. Never had been before.
Geralt swallowed hard, trying to force himself to look away, but his eyes were frozen to the broad muscles of his back, the curve of his spine, and parts of the bard that he shouldn’t be looking at, not like this, not now. His chest felt tight, each breath coming hard and sharp out of his nostrils. It wasn’t like they hadn't seen each other undressed before, not like they hadn't shared a bath once or twice… or too many times to count over the years. They had spent hot summer evenings slumped bare and sweaty in the too small, itchy bed of an inn, stripped off cold wet clothes after being caught in a storm, had patched each other up in embarrassing locations on their bodies. He’d seen it all, and Jaskier had seen all of him.
And Jaskier had never been shy about his body, making teasing remarks when Geralt would politely avert his eyes, flirty invitations that Geralt never took him up on because it was just Jaskier being Jaskier. He never really meant it. It would have just been sex to him, nothing more. One more in the long line of partners that Jaskier bedded and forgot, the night of intimacy not meaning anything more than the release they got at each other's touch. Not that Geralt was judging, he'd had his fair share of bed partners that he had left behind, but it couldn’t be that between them. He knew crossing that line was a step too far, a step that he wouldn’t be able to step back from.
There was something different hanging in the space between them now. At least, he thought there was. Maybe it was just Geralt’s desperation to keep Jaskier close and safe, driven by the fear of losing him, the anger at himself for putting him into another situation that he could have died in, the joy of getting him back by his side after so long thinking he’d ruined things enough that he’d never have this again. Maybe Jaskier didn’t feel the vibration, the buzz that lingered under his fingertips where he’d brushed over Jaskier’s back. Or maybe he did feel it, that there was something hidden behind the words Jaskier had said, something deeper in the hurt that he’d caused him, something intimate in that moment in the alleyway before Jaskier had pulled away, their faces close, the tension unbearable.
It was a spark, crackling like lightning, feet on the edge of a cliff, the feeling of anticipation before leaping into the crashing waves below. If he let himself, if he let his resolve slip, even for a second, he knew there was no going back, that he’d lose himself in it. And he wanted to.
And yet.
It would ruin everything. He’d ruin everything. Again, like he always did.
So, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t say anything. Because it wasn’t… it couldn’t be… that. Jaskier deserved more, deserved better, and there was too much to deal with now anyways. Ciri and Yennefer, the mage, Roach and Eskel. And Jaskier. Jaskier was alive, injured, but alive, and he wanted to stay with him again, and that was enough. And maybe this wasn’t something more. Maybe he was just clinging to the one thing that was familiar, that the thoughts of holding Jaskier close, pressing into his hair, were just that. Thoughts, not true desires. And Jaskier didn’t deserve to be led on with something more if it wasn’t, if it was just... familiarity and safety, amongst the uncertainty of losing Yennefer and Ciri, the grief, and the fear.
Geralt winced at the comforting warmth that shivered through him as he collected Jaskier’s clothes off the ground, the scent of the bard filling his nose. His clothes were soaked in a litany of scents, fear-tinged sweat and blood, dried ale, and the barest remainder of that lavender and rosemary that he always seemed to smell of. He forced himself not to press the fabric to his face, there'd be no explaining that to Jaskier, and he would never hear the end of it. He was sure Jaskier could hear the racing of his heart, even without witcher-like senses, that his damned near mind-reading perceptiveness would make him aware how much of an effect he was having on him, but Jaskier appeared to be oblivious, humming softly as he fiddled with the bottles in the box and edged toward the closest pool of water. Geralt clenched his jaw, squeezing his hands around Jaskier’s clothes, tearing his eyes away from the bare skin of Jaskier’s back.
Focus. I need to focus, he chided himself sternly. He forced himself over to the edge of one of the other pools, several feet from where Jaskier was standing, still clinking the glass vials as he dug through the box, and dunked Jaskier's dirty clothes into the water, scrubbing at the blood and dirt coated fabric.
Focus. Ciri was missing, Yennefer had possibly betrayed him and was going to kill Ciri, Jaskier was still injured, the infuriating smattering of bruises across the expanse of his chest, his broad and muscular chest littered with hair and-
Fuck! Stop.
His teeth ground together so hard he could feel the throbbing of his pulse in his ears. He scrubbed harder at the deep red splotch of Jaskier's blood, tasting iron in his mouth.
They needed to make camp, to eat something, and he needs to think, and plan, and to not be here leering over his injured friend when there are more important things to be concentrating on. He should go, should scout a place to sleep, but Jaskier-
He was running a chunk of soap over his skin with his uninjured hand, barely even up to his ankles in the cold water, shivering stiffly, his teeth clacking together. Geralt could see the bumps covering his flesh, lifting up his body hair like a startled cat as another cold breeze passed through the cavern.
Geralt huffed, rolling his eyes. He'd managed to get as much of the grime out of Jaskier's clothes as he was going to, so he quickly wrung them out and slopped them across one of the large dry rocks before turning back to Jaskier. He walked over, stepping lightly across the rocks, coming up to stand beside him, perhaps a little closer than he needed to be. Jaskier glanced behind him, suddenly realizing the witcher was in the space that had been empty just a second before. He jumped, a wave of fear crossing over his face, and nearly fell forward into the water, would have if Geralt hadn’t reached out, grabbing him tight by the arm, and steadied him.
"Fucking… dammit, Geralt! Don't-!" He huffed, clenching his jaw and shaking his head. "Don't do that." The racing of his heart made Geralt feel slightly guilty for startling him. Jaskier rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What are you doing?”
Geralt frowned, releasing his grip, and stepping aside, kneeling at the edge of the pool. "Sorry, been around my brothers too much recently. They can hear me a little better than you can,” he said, sending a small smirk back up to Jaskier before dipping his hands into the water. Jaskier rolled his eyes, giving a shivery huff that sent a cloud of his breath into the air. To a witcher, the temperature of the water wouldn’t be too bad; cold baths were good for shocking the ache out of their muscles and the heat his body produced from his mutations would keep him warm enough. He was used to discomfort worse than a little chill anyways. It was just what you had to do sometimes, but for a human, let alone an injured one, and one as particular about his baths as Jaskier, it was a recipe for hypothermia and endless complaining. "You're going to freeze in this." Jaskier shrugged, cocking his head and rolling his eyes.
"Well, aren't you the most perceptive man on the fucking Continent, Geralt?” He said, being very blatantly sarcastic between the bouts of teeth clattering. Geralt hid a smirk as he looked over the water. Jaskier was never great at tolerating being cold, even a little bit, and his instant irritation was a familiar and welcome reappearance. “I really hadn’t noticed!" He looked pointedly down at his chest, waving his hands at his stiff nipples. “Oh, no, wait, I definitely did notice! Look at these things! I could put an eye out with these nipples!” He continued shivering, clenching his jaw tight to keep his teeth from chattering, and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. His bruised chest. His lungs wheezed slightly as he inhaled.
Geralt ground his teeth together, forcing himself to stay present, to not get lost in the surge of anger at the sight of Jaskier’s injuries, injuries that he never would have gotten if he hadn’t been left behind if Geralt had never let him creep into his life in the first place.
Jaskier gave another violent shiver, raising his eyebrow expectantly.
“Were you just coming over to stare at me, or was there a reason for this? It’s freezing, and I’m not really in the best shape to be leered at right now,” he said, a teasing edge to his voice, not bothered enough to move his arms from his chest to cover the dark tuft of hair resting at the edge of Geralt’s eyeline, trailing down towards much more dangerous territory.
Geralt frowned, swallowing hard and giving a shake of his head. “You could have asked me to heat it.” Jaskier huffed and made a show of rolling his eyes.
“I’m a grown man, I can handle a little cold water,” he said giving a violent shiver, his lips starting to turn purple. Geralt rolled his eyes, but the breeze caught behind Jaskier, blowing air tinged with fear from him, faint and subtle, but peaking enough that it raised a flag in his mind.
“Do you not want me to heat it?”
Jaskier glared down at him, pressing his lips together in a line, his arms tightening around his chest. Geralt saw his fist clenching under his arm, suddenly realizing the reason for Jaskier’s hesitancy.
"I won’t hurt you,” he said, careful and sincere. Jaskier turned his head away, blinking away the shine collecting in his eyes, his expression tense.
“I know that.” Jaskier’s voice shook when he spoke, and Geralt couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the growing apprehension. “I just, I haven’t seen… fire-” his mouth stuck on the word like it seared his tongue as he spoke it. “-since… all that. Just... I trust you, it's just....”
“You don’t have to look.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I realize that… I don’t know if that’s worse, though. Knowing it’s there, but not being able to see it.” He swallowed tightly, giving another shiver. “I’m sorry, it’s stupid.”
Geralt frowned and shook his head. “It’s not stupid. It’s survival.”
Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath, catching the intense expression on his face, and then nodded. “Right.” He let out a shaky sigh and shrugged, the shivering getting worse as they stood in the breezy edge of the cave. “Just do it then.”
He darted his eyes down to Geralt’s hand before stepping slightly up the rocks and turning around, letting his bare leg press up against the side of Geralt’s arm. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, and there was still fear clinging on his skin, but not enough that Geralt was overly concerned. Geralt subtly eased his arm against Jaskier’s leg, widening the area that their skin was touching together, hoping the contact would provide some sense of comfort. He refocused his attention on the water, shaping his hand into the familiar sign and carefully aimed the controlled waves of fire down under the surface. Jaskier tensed next to him, one of his hands coming down to brush over Geralt’s shoulder, the scent of fear staying steady. Geralt let the heat seep into the depths of the water, waiting until he could see a cloud of steam coming off the surface, before he relaxed his hand and gave a soft hum. Jaskier turned around, his heart calming again, breaking the contact between them. Geralt watched him carefully, as he took a tentative step forward into the water, and held out his hand. Jaskier looked at him hesitantly before taking it, letting Geralt help him sink the rest of the way into the pool. He let out a pleased sigh as the warmth surrounded him, working into his tight muscles and goosebump-covered skin.
"Good?" Geralt asked, though he could smell the earthy contentment, the soothed thump of his heart, and knew the answer. Jaskier hummed and nodded, sliding slowly into the deeper center of the pool where he could stretch out his legs, and sank his head under, giving a quick scrub through his dirty hair before re-emerging with a contented grin. He nudged himself back to the edge, leaning back against the rocky bank, leaving his head resting just in front of Geralt's boots. Geralt shuffled back slightly, clearing his throat.
"Okay, if I hadn't forgiven you before, this definitely would have done it. Thank you." Jaskier's eyes fluttered closed, and Geralt grunted, pleased that he’d been able to bring Jaskier some comfort.
He clenched his jaw, considered going back to what his previous plans had been, which were… something… food or camp, but he was reluctant to leave Jaskier’s side. The water wasn’t going to stay warm long, and it was going to be hard for him to bathe one-handed, especially with the amount of grime stuck in his hair.
In the past, they’d only very rarely switch roles with bathing. The bard would insist loudly and frequently and with obnoxious eye rolls to help Geralt bathe, giving excuses that Geralt would never get rid of all the rancid scent of monster guts, and if he was going to be sharing a tiny inn bed with him, he needed an extra set of hands. Geralt would play along, gruffly relenting to his argument, and Jaskier would spend the entirety of the bath humming and digging his fingers into the knotted muscles and massaging the very lightly scented oils, that he’d casually started buying after they began traveling together, into his skin and hair. He’d work out the tangles and get rid of every last spot of dirt and blood and whatever else was clinging to the white strands as carefully as he tended to the fragile strings of his lute. And he’d enjoy it. For whatever reason Geralt could never figure out, Jaskier would reek of contentment the entire time he spent tending to Geralt in the bath.
But Jaskier was less enthusiastic about allowing Geralt the chance to return the favor. At first, Geralt hadn’t offered. But after they’d been traveling a while, and Jaskier presence grew from the tolerated annoyance to an actual pleasant friend, he’d started asking. But it usually sent the bard into panicked stammered refusals, and Geralt had taken the hint, whatever it meant. For some reason, Jaskier didn’t want him bathing him, so he’d only bother to insist that he let him help during the rare moments when Jaskier was so exhausted that he was swaying on his feet or injured enough that he couldn’t possibly manage it himself. Jaskier would give in with a resigned sigh, flopping back limply in the tub and waving Geralt over. Half the bath, he’d spend stiff as a board, tensing whenever Geralt’s hands touched him, and the other half, he’d spend sighing and smiling, emitting smells that Geralt was kind, or at least embarrassed, enough not to bring up, sure that it was just a reaction to the feeling of the touch and not who was touching him. The only thing that brought him some reassurance that Jaskier didn’t loath the entire experience was the soft way he’d thank him after, the looseness of muscles that were so tight and stiff before, the gentle smile that he’d have on his face when he’d inevitably pass out minutes after he finished getting dressed.
But now, he wasn’t sure if he had enough of Jaskier’s trust back to win that argument this time, if he would even want Geralt’s hands on him after what he’d been through, after Geralt had pushed him away. He was frowning down at the box of Jaskier's soaps when he looked up to see Jaskier watching him curiously, his lips in a tight line.
"Are you going to join me? I could imagine you could probably use a wash too," Jaskier asked innocently, his voice shaking. Geralt couldn’t tell if it was nerves or if he was still working off the shivering of the cold, but it got his heart squeezing again. The temptation was there, that want to soothe away that quiver in his words, but he couldn’t. He needed to prioritize, make sure they were safe, find them a place to sleep, collect firewood, find something for them to eat, figure out how he was going to find Ciri, where Yennefer would go, why she would take Ciri, but then Jaskier was looking at him through those heavy lids, his pupils wide, the soothing warmth of the pool easing the tension of his broad shoulders. Jaskier shifted, reaching out with one hand, a soft smile on his face. Inviting. Trusting. “Come on. Just for a few minutes.”
And Geralt wanted. Gods, did he. He yearned. Ached.
Jaskier was reaching out to him, tempting him into the pool like a siren, the danger held in the shifting blue gray of his bright eyes, the warmth of his skin, the red flush spread over his nose and cheeks. He wanted to dive in, to drown in it, to swallow it whole. To hold him and devour him until he was entwined with him so closely that he didn’t know where he began and Jaskier ended. He didn't want to question it, didn't want to think twice about the intensity of these feelings, to ask himself if they were present before, if it had been so overwhelming to be in the bard's presence all those years, to think about how he had managed not to throw him into bed and eat him alive every time their skin brushed together. He found his own hand reaching forward, inches away from Jaskier, so painfully close, and he looked down at Jaskier's hand as he nearly made contact and stopped, the spell shattering, burning into ashes.
The sight of his hand pulled Geralt back from the fantasy, from the imagined dream that this was something he could have, that he deserved to have, that Jaskier would ever want to give him. Jaskier's right hand, small droplets of water dripping from the red angry edges of the burns blistered over his skin. His body, his fragile human body, built for performing and music, was injured and beaten, holding the scars and pain that he was given because of Geralt, because of what Geralt is to him, what he was.
That was how. How he had kept himself from going too far. That constant echoing voice taunting him in the back of his mind that letting Jaskier in too close would kill him, and he cared too much about the bard to let that happen. The cruelty was necessary, the boundaries, the separation. It was all there to keep Jaskier safe, even when it never really seemed to work all that well. Geralt clenched his fist, grinding his teeth in his mouth. Jaskier seemed to notice the flickers of anger and shame in his eyes because he lowered his hand back down, dipping it into the water, dropping his own eyes to the ground.
"Geralt," Jaskier said quietly. "I really don't blame you." Geralt huffed, shaking his head and Jaskier looked back up at him.
"You should."
Jaskier glared, rolling his eyes. "Well, I don’t, and I don't think that you should blame yourself either,” he said, and then let out a sigh, the glare softening. He cocked his head, turning to the box of soaps. “If you really feel that bad, you can at least make yourself useful and give me a hand…” He laughed softly, wiggling his fingers stiffly. “And I mean that literally.”
Geralt frowned, raising an eyebrow. “What do you need?”
"Could you help me wash my hair? I think I can manage alright with the rest of me, but even the thought of trying to lift my arms up is making me achy, and it’s just going to take ages trying to get this mess sorted one handed." He motioned to his hair, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier reached out and grabbed a chunk of soap from the box and held it out to Geralt, as Geralt felt his breath catch in his chest, freezing in place. He could hear Jaskier heart pounding again, a nervousness in his expression.
Geralt swallowed hard and nodded, taking the soap from his hand gently. Jaskier smiled and turned back around in the water, presenting the back of his head to Geralt. Offering something, a precious piece of their life from before Geralt tossed it aside. It was more than enough, and Geralt would take the offering, and savor it as much as he was allowed.
"It's longer," Geralt said, feeling stupid the moment the words left his mouth, staring down at the damp dripping strands. Jaskier hummed and nodded.
"It tends to do that when you leave it alone for over a year… haven’t really bothered with trimming it," he responded, the tone of his voice neutral. Geralt swallowed, fiddling with the soap in his hand. Jaskier drew a long breath before speaking again. "It's not that bad, though, right? I thought it made me look a bit... older." There was a note of insecurity there now, and it pulled Geralt back to the hundreds of times that Jaskier would, for some strange reason, ask the dirty witcher that wore nearly the same clothes every day and barely washed his hair, his opinion on his latest piece of clothing, or the slight change to his hair style. Geralt hadn’t taken him seriously at first, teasing him or responding with a grunt, and Jaskier would huff and pout dramatically, sighing with wistful emphasis as he caught glances of himself in whatever reflective surface was around him for the next few days. He would twist at his hair and pick at the hems of his new doublet, until Geralt finally gave in and offered a single complimentary word and then finally the tragic performance would end, replaced with a radiant grin that sent a tender warmth through his chest at the sight of it. After a few times, Geralt stopped with the teasing, never going too far with his compliments, but still sincere, if only to draw out that look sooner, quietly basking in it.
"I think it'll look better when it's clean," Geralt said softly. He pressed his fingers into the bulk of his hair, dragging them down and feeling the pull of the oil and grit coating the strands. "It's not bad though, no."
Jaskier hummed quietly in agreement or gratitude or just general acknowledgement, Geralt couldn't really tell, but didn't say anything else.
Geralt lathered the soap through Jaskier's hair and worked it into his scalp, feeling the grit of dirt and blood and oil built up on his head mixing in with the suds. Jaskier's shoulders relaxed, and Geralt found his mind slipping slowly into a companionable silence, his racing thoughts fading into the background. Jaskier started to hum, shifting as he reached to grab another piece of soap from his box and started to wash his body, focusing intently first on the layer of filth sticking to his hands. Geralt drew into a concentrated focus, the motion of his fingers over Jaskier’s scalp meditative and soothing, threading through knots and tangles in the fine hair, rinsing out the grime and letting the remnants of his painful past few days wash away into the water. Geralt ran his fingers through the damp clean hair when he finished, his hands trailing down to Jaskier’s neck and brushing across his shoulders. Jaskier shivered, drawing in a sharp breath before mumbling something that sounded contented and leaning into the touch. He brushed his hand past Geralt’s as he lifted it up to run his fingers through the results of Geralt’s work and then twisted his head back to offer a soft smile.
"Thank you. I can do the rest myself,” he said quietly.
“Are you sure? I could at least clean your back for you.” Geralt could still smell the sticky scent of ale and sweat clinging on his skin, glancing down at the top of his firm shoulders coming up out of the water.
Jaskier’s cheeks flushed, and Geralt could hear his heart rate pick up. “I, uh, you don’t have to do that,” he said, swallowing loud enough Geralt could hear it.
“I’d like to,” he breathed out. “And you’re not going to be able to reach it yourself anyways.”
Jaskier shivered again, drawing in a shaky breath through his nose before nodding. Geralt frowned, dipping his fingers into the water, testing the temperature. It was still warm, even to his hand.
“Are you getting cold? You’re shaking.” Geralt reached out and rubbed his hands over Jaskier’s shoulders, eliciting a surprised gasp from his mouth.
“Fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier flinched, twisted around to glare at him. “The water’s fine, just… hurry up and wash my back, please. And keep your husky man voice to a minimum. I really don’t want to completely embarrass myself right now,” he huffed, shoving out the soap towards his hands.
Geralt frowned, raising an eyebrow. “Husky man voice?” He fought to keep a smirk from curling up his lips.
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’d like to,” he said in an exaggerated low growl, trying to imitate Geralt, letting his eyelids droop heavily over his eyes. “You fucking know what you’re doing, you shameless bastard,” he huffed, no real heat to his voice, giving a frustrated shake of his head.
Geralt grabbed the soap from Jaskier’s hand, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, ignoring Jaskier’s implications. “Just lean forward and shut up,” he huffed.
Jaskier pursed his lips, eyeing him suspiciously. “Alright, well, no funny business. I’ve got my eyes on you.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side, indicating for Jaskier to turn back around. He shook his head with a huff before turning back, giving a slight wince as he leaned forward, the delicate bumps of his spine pressing through the pale skin. This close, Geralt could see that Jaskier had lost weight during their separation, what used to be covered in a healthy layer of soft flesh, now was covered just by skin and muscle, bones sticking out in places that they didn’t before. He made a mental note to make sure he had thick enough clothes once he finished bathing, and to find something with meat to add to their dinner.
Geralt shuffled forward, kneeling beside the edge of the pool, grabbing a cloth from Jaskier’s bath box, and started to scrub the layer of grime off his skin. As he worked, he could feel the tight pressure of knotted muscles up and down Jaskier’s back and gave a sympathetic frown. With most of the dirt washed away, he took the opportunity to return the favor Jaskier had given him many times over the years and started to work his hands over the tight spots, tentative at first, waiting to see if Jaskier would object to the touch, and firmer when he seemed to relax into it. Jaskier let out a quiet whimper as Geralt worked his fingers over a particularly sore area.
“Sorry,” he said, backing off the spot. Jaskier winced, shaking his head.
“No, no. Please, it’s… it’s good.” He spoke with his face only inches from the water, shifting his back towards Geralt again. “The… the uh, oil… with the yellow label. You can use that one.”
Geralt turned back to the box, leaving one hand resting across Jaskier’s shoulder, and using the other to grab the vial, smelling the sweet aroma through the cork. He hummed softly as he pulled it open.
“Honey?”
“Hmm? What?” Jaskier said, sounding almost dazed. Geralt swallowed, clearing his throat.
“The oil. It’s honey?”
Jaskier’s heart beat picked up again, and his back tensed up under Geralt’s hand. “Oh! Uh, yes, it’s honey… cloves… rosemary, uh, lavender, I think…” He swallowed thickly, giving a soft huff of a laugh, shaking his head.
Geralt hummed, letting the slick oil slip over his fingers before he pressed his hands back over Jaskier’s shoulders. The bard shuddered under his touch, letting out a shaky breath. Geralt matched him, letting out his own shaky breath, moving his fingers slowly and letting Jaskier guide his movement, listening carefully to his sounds, the quiet moans and huffs, the gentle shifting and subtle release of tension as he made his way down from his firm shoulders to the tangled squirming of his lower back. It sent sparks of satisfaction through Geralt, knowing that he was making Jaskier feel better, made him want to give more, to press his hands further, to get closer, to breathe in the scent of his contentment. It was sweet, tickling his nostrils, and he found himself leaning closer, his breath shifting the damp hair on the top of Jaskier’s head. He let his hands drift lower, pressing into the sensitive muscles resting along his hip, and Jaskier shivered, biting down a throaty groan.
“Fuck,” he choked out before jumping away, kneeling on one of the rocks under the water with his heart pounding and his eyes wide and panicked. Geralt frowned, taking in his expression. He was concerned and also slightly anxious that Jaskier would see the want on his face that he was straining to keep hidden.
“Are you alright?” He said, breathlessly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Jaskier shook his head quickly and swallowed hard, his hands wavering around his thighs in the water. Geralt scented the air subtly, trying to see if Jaskier’s pain or fear was picking up. His eyes travelled downwards as he smelled, noticing the tight way Jaskier was kneeling, his thighs pressed together like he was trying to hide-
Oh. There was a heady sweet musk filling the air now, tangling with the smell of Jaskier’s soap and oils. A familiar musk that made Jaskier’s sudden anxiousness make a lot more sense. Geralt cleared his throat, shifting his eyes away politely.
“Okay!” Jaskier said, a bit too loud, breathing shakily. He lowered himself further into the water, shifting awkwardly. “So, I’m… good, I can finish this… we should… uh, you… can… go? We need to make camp for the night, right?"
Geralt nodded. “I was going to wait for you to finish, so we can go walk somewhere together. I don’t really want to leave you alone.”
Jaskier shook his head, rubbing his hand over his neck. “Uh, no, I can finish on my own,” he spat out, his eyes immediately widening. “I mean… washing. I can finish washing up on my own. I’m good. Fully grown adult man, capable of bathing himself… and I’ll, uh, take care of… that. So, you can just… you go, and I’ll finish up and get dressed and I’m sure you’ll be heading back by the time I’m done. But, no rush…”
Geralt raised an eyebrow. He didn’t really want to leave Jaskier alone, but he knew sticking around with him reeking of… arousal… like he did, and the tingling ache where his hands had been pressing his skin, wanting for more, was a recipe for disaster for them both. It was better to leave him to deal with what he needed to and give him privacy and space to do so, and then come back later once they’d both had a chance to clear their heads. He nodded stiffly, the scent of honey and cloves still sticking to his nose. “Alright. Well, I won’t go far, so if you need something… just yell. I’ll hear you.”
Jaskier groaned under his breath, giving him a tight smile. “Right. Okay. Well, don’t listen too much…” He waved his hand, motioning for Geralt to leave.
Geralt took a moment to pull the set of Jaskier's clean clothes from the pack, sitting them on top of a dry rock next to the water, and then added his thick cloak on top of the pile and one of his own tunics that was thicker than all of Jaskier’s frilly lace chemises that weren’t built for cold weather by any means. He looked back over at Jaskier, who had settled back in the water and was scrubbing carefully across his skin.
"There’s clothes here for you. Don’t wait too long to get out, the water isn’t going to be warm forever. When we get settled, I'll look over those injuries. I've got a little salve left in my bag, it should help a little with the pain, hopefully keep infection from setting in.” Jaskier nodded with a quiet impatient hum.
“Thank you, Geralt,” he said tightly.
Geralt watched him for another moment, feeling reluctant to let him out of his sight, but Jaskier turned back to the pool, stiffly resuming his bathing, and he forced himself to walk away before he could talk himself into staying.
Notes:
Hope that you enjoyed. Leave comments and kudos to fuel my author validation tank
Next chapter coming in a week. :) :) :)
Chapter 3: Panic
Summary:
Jaskier was left a little “worked up” after Geralt helped him bathe, and now that he’s alone for a few minutes, he tries to deal with the problem, but his trauma comes back to interrupt.
Trigger warnings in the A/N!
Notes:
A/N: Jaskier POV.
Trigger warnings: Description of a flashback/panic attack/trauma getting triggered. Negative thoughts. Mild sexual content (mildly explicit description). Near-death experience. Question asked about suicidal intent.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jaskier let out a shaky irritated breath as Geralt’s presence faded away.
“You fucking little traitorous bastard,” he whispered harshly at the growing hardness between his legs that he hoped desperately that Geralt hadn’t noticed. He was sure he did. Jaskier knew from shameful experience how sensitive those witcher senses were, and with the way Geralt practically ran out of here, there was no way he hadn’t noticed. His face heated as the crush of embarrassment squeezed in his chest. “Not the fucking time. Get it together, Jask, come on.”
His breaths shivered from his parted lips as his memory replayed the sensation of Geralt’s searing touch, the way his fingers tingled as the pressed over his back, pressure and strong muscles against his skin, the relaxing warmth of the water, the scent of sweet honey and cloves, and fucking fuck, thinking about this was not helping… at all. He glared down at his crotch huffing as he dropped down onto the small ledge of rock at the edge of the pool.
Just think unsexy thoughts.
He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to not to focus on the uncomfortable throbbing.
Unsexy thoughts. Unsexy thoughts. What the fuck even are unsexy thoughts?
He conjured up disgusting monsters, but his mind, unhelpfully, thrust a leather-clad witcher in, the bright shine of his sword glinting in the moonlight as he penetrated the beasts, grunting heroically as he swiped sweat and blood from his brow.
Nope. No. Not that. Definitely not that. Sweet Melitele.
He needed something else, something not Geralt-related, but, fuck, if his brain wasn’t out to kill him, right here and now. His head was just filled with images of Geralt. Like some mage had cursed him to only be able to think of that stupid white-haired bastard. Of Geralt walking into that jail cell, of his muscular arms, of them wrapping around him, the smell of him, gods, the fucking musky, leather-clad, horsehair and tallow soap smell of him, even thinking of that stupid gods-awful ab armor he was wearing. What he wouldn’t give to rip that absolute travesty of defensive equipment off his chest and just burn it and throw it in the ocean. Just rip it right off, leaving Geralt in his undershirt that clung to the frame of his muscles, running his hands under the hem, fingers brushing across the firm expanse of his skin and-
He pressed his hands over his face with a frustrated groan, another taunting twitch drawing his attention back between his legs.
“Fucking- stop. Stop thinking about him, you stupid goddamn idiot,” he muttered under his breath, grinding his teeth and clenching his thighs, trying to will the swell of blood out of the troublesome appendage.
He had hoped that absence would make the heart grow… not fonder. Or perhaps not the heart, but a certain other body part at least. He’d certainly shoved as much anger and resentment into his songs as he could, in a desperate attempt to break the two-decade long festival of pathetic yearning that he tried to deem a friendship. He promised himself before that he wouldn’t just immediately let him back in, that he wouldn’t desperately fall to his knees the second that he saw Geralt’s face again, but gods, if he was still here right now, if Geralt hadn’t walked away, he was sure he’d be making an absolute fool of himself trying not to put his hands all over him.
And with that embarrassingly pathetic thought, Jaskier decided that the overwhelming pulse of hormones pumping through his veins was not going to gently release him from its grip, unable to get his mind to focus long enough to pull away from the swirling visions of a certain leather-clad witcher. He’d have to take the alternative method of… taking care of this problem. It was just going to take too long for it to go away on its own, and Geralt would surely be back any minute, and the thought of still being so uncomfortably hard when he came back made his stomach turn with anticipatory embarrassment.
Part of him felt like it was a bit inappropriate… whilst Geralt was surely stressed and conflicted, dealing with his kidnapped child and Yennefer’s potential betrayal, Roach dying, not to mention, he himself had also just been tortured and nearly murdered, but he didn’t really want to think about that again, especially not right now. Realistically, all that should probably put a bit of a damper on his… needs, but he couldn’t deny that fucking witcher bastard was too attractive for his own good, all muscles, the strong, sensual hands, his stupidly handsome face and hair and voice, and fuck, all those kind and thoughtful things he'd said… apologizing, saying he needs him? After everything that had happened? To come back like he walked right out of one of the many, many alcohol-fueled dreams that Jaskier had been plagued by since stumbling away from Caingorn? Just, fuck that godsdamned prick for acting like he actually cared about his well-being. How in the hell was he supposed to deal with being around him again without completely losing his mind and constantly being on the edge of launching himself onto Geralt and doing some unspeakable acts with his gorgeous body? How was he supposed to focus on… whatever the fuck it was they were actually supposed to be doing out here in the wilderness?
Jaskier twisted his head around quickly, checking to make sure that Geralt hadn’t wandered his way back over while he was berating his own stupid bodily functions. He let out a resigned sigh, darting his tongue out across his lips as he drifted his uninjured hand down in the water, hesitantly easing his fingers over the soft taut skin, letting out a strangled gasp at his touch. He circled his fingers, squeezing firmly, and worked over the sensitive nerves, biting his lip as a moan worked up his throat.
It had been a while, too long since he’d been sober enough to do anything more than rut into some nameless tavern goer for a few minutes after they’d given him a sly wink and they’d stumbled up to his small room together, always coming too quickly to feel satisfied, their touch never enough to ease the aching in his chest.
Now, the sensations were sharper, buzzing in his head, without the haze of alcohol dulling his nerves. It made his breath catch in his lungs, a lightness touching his head, feeling slightly dizzy. He let his eyes flutter closed, playing into the heat and the touch, the memory of Geralt’s hands on his skin, brushing down to his lower back. He could almost smell him now, letting himself imagine how it would feel to have Geralt’s chest pressed up against his back, his arms wrapping around his waist, his muscular hands replacing his own around as they stroked up his-
“F-fuck,” he gasped out, shuddering at the image in his head as his touch made his heart race. He was grateful for his lifetime of musical training, the careful finger work used on the array of instruments he could play keeping the muscles in both of his hands nimble and strong, which meant the injury to his dominant hand left him no less able to satisfy himself. As his movements quickened, he could feel the build of pressure throbbing in his abdomen, his heart pounding in his ears, a gasping shake in his breath. He was close, fingers slick and gliding under the water, squeezing and stroking, his pace picking up as the tight curl twisted tighter and tighter inside him. The sound of his own strained breaths echoed in his ears, despite trying to stay quiet to keep Geralt from overhearing and coming back too soon.
He was right on the edge, just a few more quick strokes and he’d be spilling into the water, or he would have been, if it wasn’t for a sudden noise behind him that sent him jumping in fear. He turned around with a wince, panting, his legs shaking, the build of his climax fizzling out, leaving his head spinning.
It had sounded like… a crack or… maybe it was a rock falling onto another rock… or a branch snapping… no, probably a rock. He was out here, around rocks. It was… probably a rock. He swallowed hard, his heart racing still, head light, but the arousal was quickly draining, replaced with a growing chill of fear creeping up his spine. He took another long look around, waiting tensely for the repetition of the noise, but nothing came.
“Fucking… rocks,” he whispered under his breath before settling back down into the water. Geralt was right about one thing, the warmth from the blasts of Igni was fading quickly now, and the cold was seeping its way into his skin. He glanced down at his crotch, his cock bobbing half-heartedly, the throbbing still twitching insistently, but he couldn’t find it in him to take it back into his hand with the flash of fear still caught in his throat. He shook his head, leaning back against the edge of the pool, closing his eyes, and breathing slow, letting his mind go blank while he waited for the adrenaline to seep away and the hardness to settle.
“Relax. Get yourself together,” he told himself.
It was quiet for a beat. Two beats. Then, there was another sound behind him, similar to the first, a sharp clack, loud and resounding in his ears.
He immediately whipped back around, his eyes wide, but there was nothing there. Just silence. Jaskier swallowed, trying to steady his panicked breaths.
“G-Geralt?”
He heard the sound again, but from the other direction, and flipped his head back, staring wildly into the wall of stone surrounding the pools. The noise, that was starting to feel horrifically familiar, sent a wave of panic through his body that he was desperately fighting to hold back.
“Geralt, if that’s you… I am entirely unamused… so just… come out, okay?” He swallowed tightly, his voice shaking as he spoke.
Another sound, and yes, he was sure now. It was a snap. There was no question in his head that was what it was. He whipped his head around again, finding nothing.
“Uh, h-hello?” He stuttered, hating the sound of the words coming out of his mouth. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening again. “Someone there?”
Fingers snapped to the left of his head, much closer now. Too close. He ground his teeth together looking to the source, or where the source should have been. There was nothing there. He knew there should have been something there in that empty space that taunted him, but nothing. No fingers, no fire. It wasn’t real. It’s not real. It can’t be real. He shook his head, ignoring the shaking of his hands, the chatter of his nervous teeth, his breaths coming quick and shallow now.
“Please,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes closed, grinding his teeth together, willing his mind to pull back to reality.
This isn’t happening. You’re safe. He’s not here. You’re out. You’re alive. The thoughts came quick, ghosting across the panicked blaze surging in his mind, doing little to dampen the waves of fear.
His hands kept shaking, tense under the water at his sides, the burn on his palm heating, stinging. It burned. Hotter and hotter despite the cooling water.
No. No. No. It’s not real. I’m out. It’s not real, Jask. Come on.
His hand was on fire, something gripping it painfully tight, immovable. He could feel the heat, the pain. He ground his teeth against the scream of agony that threatened to work its way out of his throat, could taste the blood in his teeth. Long fingers wrapped around his wrist, smoothing over the skin, a voice as searing as the fire melting into the pain.
“Hello Jaskier.”
Jaskier let out a strangled sob, his entire body stiff and shaking, thrashing against the hold on his hand. The mage laughed in his face. Jaskier could see him coming forth out of the dark shadows behind his eyelids, the mad grin on his lips, teeth sharp like fangs, his arms blazing, consumed in fire. Jaskier shook his head, shouting, crying, screaming, but no sound escaped his mouth.
There was so much pain now, the fire that had wrapped around his hand, eating its way up his arm. He squeezed his hand tight, trying desperately to smother the flames, to crush the pain, digging into his with his fingernails, but it kept growing, eating and clawing closer to his face. The ropes wrapped around his wrists dug tighter into his tortured flesh as the cool chill of the water fell away, suffocating him in the darkness and heat.
You’re not real. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. His thoughts cried out, though his mouth refused to move, refused to let the words escape. The mage cackled again, his flaming hand surging forward, wrapping around his throat.
“I told you. I told you I would take everything.”
Jaskier tried to scream, his throat consumed in fire, unable to breathe through the hand squeezed so tight around his neck.
“Shame you couldn’t be more useful.” The mage brought a second hand around his throat, the flames joining together, blocking his vision, meltingly hot against his skin. He thrashed against his grip, but his muscles didn’t respond, frozen in the place the mage held him.
“Useless sing-songy twit.”
This voice was different, so horribly familiar, the soft concern that he’d previously heard in it replaced by cold harshness, biting into his tender flesh, tearing pieces away. She’d saved him before, but what if she had been lying? What if it had all been a complicated performance, the witch using him to get to the child surprise, to Geralt, letting him get tortured so she could pretend to save the day.
The mage’s twisted snarling grin pulled his face around, disfiguring his skin in a horrifying swirl of flesh and flame until it had morphed completely, another face taking his place. Yennefer’s piercing purple eyes stared him down through the wall of flames. Her lips curled into a condescending smile, the hands around his throat loosening, stroking over the sensitive wounded flesh with sharp nails, digging painful tracks into his neck.
Jaskier shook, crying silently, unable to tear his eyes away from her face. His entire body was consumed with fire, the scent of burning flesh stinging his nostrils.
Yennefer laughed, that cruel smile sharpening the pain digging into his body. She looked at him, an expression that he knew well, that look of pity and derision that made him feel worth less than shit under her heels.
“You thought I would really come back for you? That I would risk my life for yours? The only value you have ever had was because of him. You’re nothing without him. A nobody. Easily forgotten.”
Jaskier winced, shaking his head, gasping and choking on the flames pouring into his mouth. Yennefer leaned in closer, breathing hot fire as she spoke.
“Look at you? So pathetic. He doesn’t need you. He’s just waiting for the right moment to get rid of you again. You’re weak. You’re broken. Useless. What purpose could you ever have in his life?” She gripped his chin in her hands, tearing into his skin with her nails. Jaskier tried to pull away, tried to close his eyes, tried to scream, but his body was solid, unyielding like a statue. “He will never need you. He told you it would be a blessing for life to take you off his hands, and you still wanted to die for him. You think he would ever do the same, give his life for yours, that he would have shed a single tear had that mage ripped you apart, left you a burnt corpse on the floor? Do you really think he would ever love you like you love him?”
Her face twisted, her skin hardening and crackling with fire, burning into charred pieces before exploding, sending sparks flying out at Jaskier. If he’d been able, he would have flinched, ducked out of the way, but they sank into the soft flesh of his face, burning and digging in.
His breaths caught in his lungs, the pain all-consuming now, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. The fire pressed into his body, filling his throat, drowning him in the heat, losing himself in the darkness.
“Fuck!”
A distant voice. Outside, separate from the blackness around him. It felt so far away, fading as the fire pulled him deeper and deeper.
And then he felt something, hard gripping claws digging into his shoulders. He wanted to scream, to cry out, but he couldn’t force the sound out, couldn’t draw in a breath. The claws dragged him back, the distant voice growing louder, but the words tangled together in unintelligible clumps, his mind unable to separate them to understand the meaning.
The pain swelled, the fire burning in his chest, and then he was spewing it out of his mouth, choking and coughing and flailing. The heat flashed away in an instant, leaving him shaking and shivering violently, freezing and gasping for air.
“Jaskier! Breathe!”
Jaskier coughed again, the claws digging into his arms, pounding against his back. His vision was coming back, blearily watching as he retched water onto the rocks. He gasped, his lungs surging painfully back to life. He faintly recognized Geralt’s boots beside his trembling hands, the concerned voice, the claws, no, the hands that held him, Geralt’s as well.
It wasn’t real. I’m out. It wasn’t real.
He coughed a few more times, shaking as the aftershocks of the episode faded from his body, his breaths turning into gasping choked sobs. Pain burned in his hand, raging and violent in his nerves where it was pressed onto the rocks. He could hear Geralt talking again, the words muffled through the high-pitched ringing in his ears and the pounding of his heart. He shook his head, trying to sink down and drop his face against the wet rocks and cry until the searing ache faded from his skin and the fear ebbed out of mind, but Geralt grabbed him, his hands almost agonizingly gentle, dragging him up until his head was tucked carefully against Geralt’s chest. Strong arms wrapped around his back, holding him securely in place. He couldn’t focus, didn’t have the awareness to recognize where he was apart from the sense of safety and warmth that surrounded him. His sobs faded slowly into panting breaths, his lungs intent on getting the air his body desperately needed and fought to ignore the agony in his hand. He folded his arm tight against his own chest, hiding what he was sure were the mangled remains of his palm.
Geralt rubbed his hands slowly over his bare back, sliding over the wet skin, and his breaths were coming nearly as hard as Jaskier’s. His voice curled across Jaskier’s ears, soft mumbles he couldn’t process, but felt reassuring, nonetheless. After what seemed like hours, but was probably just a few minutes, Geralt’s voice whispered behind him again, low and rumbling.
“Are you with me?”
Jaskier flinched, the feeling of Geralt’s words breathing over his ear too familiar to the nightmare vision he’d just had. Geralt must have felt his reaction because he tensed, his arms loosening a bit around him. Jaskier panicked, grabbing for his arm, keeping him from moving away.
“Don’t,” he gasped, his throat scratching and sore. “Stay. Just… another minute. Please.”
Geralt hummed affirmatively, sending a comforting buzz up his back. He relaxed his hands back across Jaskier’s skin, his fingers stroking gently, methodically. Jaskier slowly became aware of the fact that he was still completely nude, a wave of embarrassment and vulnerability surging thought him. Another shiver shook through his muscles, the air around the cold mountain pool too cold to just sit out in the cold in. Geralt’s hands seemed to create small pockets of warmth over the chill of his skin and he arched up into it, longing for more.
“Jask,” Geralt said, his voice soft, but a firmness that meant he really needed Jaskier to answer. Jaskier hummed, nodding his head slightly. “What happened? Did something… I didn’t see anything dragging you underwater…” Jaskier could hear the concerned frown in his voice, and shook his head, staying quiet, unsure how to answer without worrying Geralt more, clenching his jaw against the radiating pain spreading down his wrist.
Geralt let out a long breath, twisting Jaskier off his chest so that he was facing him, his hands holding him steady around his shoulders. He looked firmly into his eyes, and Jaskier couldn’t help but turn away, the burning intensity of his yellow eyes too much in the face of the fading flames that flashed behind his eyes with every blink. He stared at the ground and gave a shrug. Geralt pressed his lips into a tight line, taking a moment to think over his words before he spoke again.
“Don’t move,” he said firmly, starting to stand up and turn away. The frantic thumping started in his chest again and Jaskier shook his head, his eyes widening with panic. He didn’t want to be left alone again, even with the shame and embarrassment curling in his chest now, the fear was desperate and gripping tightly around his throat. Geralt hesitated, keeping his hand steady on Jaskier’s shoulder, kneeling in front of him. His expression was unwavering, his eyes softening with reassurance. “I’m not leaving. I’m just going to grab my cloak. You’re going to freeze.”
Jaskier swallowed, giving a stiff nod. Geralt stood, turning and walking swiftly back to the pile of clothes that he’d left out however long ago, snatching the thick cloak off the top and returning again, wrapping it carefully around Jaskier’s shoulders, avoiding the puddles on the rocks next to him. Jaskier shivered, tugging the cloak tighter around his neck, wanting to hide, to pretend like none of what happened had happened. Geralt sat down across from him again, his piercing gaze tearing into him like a predator watching its prey. Jaskier turned his eyes away, swallowing hard before he let out a loud huff and pasted on a very fake smile.
“Well-“ he said, his voice still scratching in his throat. “That was fun.” Geralt frowned, his brows lowering over his eyes in a way that Jaskier knew meant trouble.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said firmly. He looked more worried than Jaskier remembered seeing him in a long time, his expression creased with unrestrained panic and concern. It was hard to look at, knowing that he had been the one to put that on his face, that it was his fault putting more stress on Geralt, that he couldn’t leave for five minutes without-
Geralt’s eyes landed on his hand that had snuck out of the front of the cloak and his frown deepened. “What happened to your hand?”
Jaskier shook his head, letting out a shaky huff of what was meant to be a laugh, but the sound of it came out wrong, bitter and sad and tired. “You already saw it. The mage burned it.”
Geralt’s frown deepened as Jaskier pulled his hand in tighter. “No. It smells like blood.” He frowned, thrusting out his hand and reaching for Jaskier’s too quickly. Jaskier flinched back, giving a tight shake of his head, and Geralt hesitated, giving an apologetic look, holding his hand out in front of him, far enough away that the surge of fear subsided. “Can you show me?”
Jaskier shivered again. The panic and fear were still creeping over his skin, and every instinct was telling him to keep his hand close, to protect himself. Logically, he knew Geralt wouldn’t hurt him. He could feel his hand was hurt, worse than it already had been. He knew that it would be smart to make sure the skin of his palm wasn’t completely flayed away, that it made sense to just let the fucking bastard see his stupid hand, but he couldn’t get his muscles to listen to the berating thoughts of his head. Even the thought of putting his hand out, of letting Geralt’s fingers brush against it, now, with the phantom sensations of bindings around his wrists still aching, made him want to vomit. He pressed his lips together tightly and gave a stiff shake of his head.
“I… No.” He let out a heavy breath. “Not now. I can’t.”
Geralt drew his hand back, his expression neutral and nodded. He waited a moment, quiet. Jaskier could feel his eyes on him, studious and perceptive, and wondered what he was thinking. His mind worked quickly, without him wanting it to, supplying Geralt’s voice echoing the words the mage and Yennefer had used.
Weak. Cowardly. Useless. Pathetic.
If life could give me one blessing-
He bit back the welling emotions bubbling up his throat, cutting off that stinging memory and trying to focus on breathing through the pain that was throbbing in his hand.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that this is when Geralt decided to make his way back into his life. He had been doing fine… Well, fine-ish. He’d at least been making his own way, for once, making a difference, one elf at a time. It was good. Well, not good, but it was… tolerable. It was terrifying and lonely, at times, but he managed. Alone. Independent. A bard that no longer needed his White Wolf.
But then that fucking mage had to come along and ruin everything. Knocked him off the fragile pedestal he’d cobbled together for himself, making him feel so weak and small and alone. He hadn’t expected to be rescued. The realization had sent a cold chill up his spine. He was sure he was going to die there, tied to that chair in the tavern, burnt and bloodied, or if not there, in some secondary location that the mage dragged him to for more horrible agonizing torture before eventually killing him. He remembered staring blankly at the fire in front of his face, resolving to make the last thing he did during his entirely too-short time on this earth to protect Geralt, to keep the few secrets Geralt had confided in him over the years, his home, his brothers, to keep them safe. Even if Geralt would never return that favor, even if he wouldn’t cry over his death, Jaskier had wanted to do that, wanted it to mean something. Those twenty years had to mean something.
But he hadn’t died. In a set of circumstances that he was still reeling from, that black-haired witch had shambled in the door and dragged him out, a broken mass of bruises and scars, dumped aside just in time for Geralt to stalk in to gawk at the sad sight leaning against the jail cell wall.
The poor, sad, broken bard. All alone. All ready and waiting for the big strong witcher to come along and rescue him, yet again.
Because that was all he was. The damsel in distress.
He wasn’t bitter about it. He wasn’t… it was fine. It was perfectly, completely, and absolutely fine…
Okay, he was a little bitter about it.
Geralt let out a soft breath after several silent minutes. Jaskier flinched out of his thoughts, flicking his eyes up hesitantly and watching his throat bob as Geralt swallowed and cleared his throat.
“Jaskier,” he said gently, so quiet that Jaskier barely heard him speak. “I need you to tell me what happened.”
Jaskier frowned, glancing back at the water behind him. He drew in a shaky breath, trying to hold back the shivers as the cold worked into his body. He pulled the cloak tighter still around him like it could rid himself of the chill going up his spine. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “It was… it was nothing. I shouldn’t have… you don’t have to worry. I’m fine.”
Geralt’s lips pressed together tighter, his brows furrowing together, restrained anger flashing in his eyes. “That wasn’t nothing.” His voice didn’t leave room for arguing. Jaskier let out a huff and shrugged.
“I know… I just… it’s nothing… for you. Nothing you have to worry about.” Jaskier looked away, unable to keep his eyes on Geralt’s serious expression. It was a tension he desperately wanted to break with a joke, to push away the attention, to make it seem less real, but even that made him feel panicky, remembering the other time he had tried to lighten the mood, and Geralt had responded by lashing out at him. He didn’t like this uncharted territory of their relationship, not knowing how to step forward, not knowing if he even could, or if Geralt even wanted that.
“I am worried.”
Jaskier flinched at the sincerity in his voice. It made his chest ache painfully, and he bit the inside of his cheek, giving a slight shake of his head.
Geralt let out a heavy breath. “It wasn’t… you didn’t do that...intentionally? You weren’t trying to drown yourself, right?” He clenched his jaw, dipping his head down, seeking out Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier’s slow thoughts picked up on his meaning and his eyes widened, looking up at him with barely concealed shock.
“What? Fuck, gods, no! I wasn’t… I’m not… trying to kill myself. I just… I don’t know, there was a noise, and it just… startled me. I thought it was… it sounded like…” He let out a huff, unable to keep speaking. He wanted to reach out towards Geralt, but moving his hand sent another wave of pain, the slight shift of his skin, agonizing. Geralt frowned, flinching at his wince, but didn’t move, staying still and watching him carefully.
“Jask,” he said hesitantly. Jaskier swallowed tightly, shaking his head. “I won’t touch it, just… can you let me look at your hand? Please?”
His hand was shaking where he held it against his chest, the fingers clenched tightly, the pain intense and shooting through his nerves. Jaskier ground his teeth hard in his mouth, squeezing his eyes closed, and thrust his hand out, tearing his fingers open with a hiss of pain.
“Careful,” Geralt chided gently.
Jaskier held his breath, his mind anticipating a grab, fingers wrapping around his hand, burning pain. He kept his eyes closed. He didn’t want to look, was scared to see what his panic had done to the fragile scabs that had formed over the burns. Geralt made a soft noise, but Jaskier’s heart was pounding too loud to be able to focus on it.
“Is it bad?” Jaskier choked out after a moment. He could feel his arm shaking as he held out his hand. Geralt hummed.
“It looks like you scraped it up a bit on the rocks. I was expecting worse.” Geralt spoke plainly, and it gave Jaskier enough courage to peek out one of his eyes, peering over at the pale flesh of his palm. The jagged red edges of the burns met his gaze, the brownish bits of scab peeling up and scraped away in the center, leaving bright pink shiny skin with bits of dirt and rock pressed into the wound, blood smeared over his fingers, oozing lazily from the scrapes. He instinctively tightened his grip, the movement making him hiss in pain.
“We’ll need to clean it out, get it bandaged up. Do you want to do that now? Or I could bring you back to the clearing I found for us to sleep the night in first?”
Jaskier shrugged. He didn’t really want anyone touching his hand, not even Geralt, not right now, but he didn’t want to say that out loud. He was sure Geralt would get that constipated look on his face, like he was taking it personally, and then insist that he wasn’t, even though he really actually was. Plus, he didn’t really have the energy to explain himself and reassure Geralt that it wasn’t his witcher-y hands that he wasn’t wanting on him right now, though given his reaction to Geralt’s hands before all this… nonsense, it was probably better for both of them if they kept their hands to themselves in general. And now, all the complicated thoughts buzzing in his head were making him even more tired. What he really wanted was a glass of really strong wine… maybe a full bottle. Just something to numb his aching nerves, to round out all those sharp jagged edges.
“Later,” Jaskier said after a minute.
“We still need to talk about what happened.”
Jaskier huffed as Geralt got up and walked back to the pile of clean clothes. “There’s really nothing more to discuss. I got a bit scared for a moment, I’m fine now. End of story. We should just focus on finding the girl. She’s more important, and anyway, she’s the whole reason you came to find me in the first place, right?” Jaskier stared down at his hand, pressing on the tender skin lightly, wincing at the sparks of pain. Geralt tutted at him, picking up a cloth from on top of the pile and walking back.
“Stop touching it.” He knelt back down, gently nudging Jaskier’s other hand away. Jaskier noticed he kept his hand carefully away from even brushing against the injured one. “And Ciri isn’t the only person that’s important to me right now. Whatever just happened, it can’t happen again. At least not when I’m not around to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.” He started to work the cloth across the remaining dampness on his skin and ruffling through his hair. Jaskier grumbled under his breath, feeling like a child as Geralt dried him off, but the air was cold, and Geralt’s steady hand worked some warmth back into his body, loosening the tense shake of his muscles, so he allowed the brief imposition, sending forceful threats in his mind to his crotch to be on its best behavior.
After a minute, with most of the water dried, Geralt stood up, holding his hand out, which Jaskier took with a dramatic sigh, letting himself be pulled up, standing on shaky legs. Geralt wrapped his arm around his shoulder, tugging the cloak closed around his chest and holding him up as he guided him back over the rocks to the dirt where his clothes were still sitting on the ground. Geralt let him go, leaving him standing as he bent down and grabbed the pair of smalls, holding them out by Jaskier’s legs.
“Geralt, please, I can dress myself,” Jaskier huffed. Geralt glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.
“It’ll be faster if you don’t argue.”
Jaskier let out another huff of indignation, his lips parting, another argument on his tongue, and an irritated flare itching up the back of his neck. But Geralt’s eyes were sincere, warm in a way he’d desperately missed, and he felt the anger deflating, tired resignation taking hold of his muscles. He let the cloak drop to the ground, giving a brief shiver as the breeze caught his bare skin before obediently grabbing Geralt’s shoulder to steady himself. He stepped into the smalls and Geralt tugged them up his legs. His fingers brushed over the skin of his thighs, lingering on his waist as he pulled the ties tight, and even with his exhaustion, Jaskier had to bite back the shiver of yearning.
You saw what happened last time, you fucking bastard, control yourself, he scolded himself. Geralt met his eyes as he finished knotting the ties, giving him a strange look that Jaskier hoped meant something like, ‘I can see right up your nose from this angle,’ as opposed to ‘stop being a dirty horny bastard when I’m just trying to help you.’ Geralt didn’t say anything, leaning down to grab his trousers, following the same routine as the smalls, dragging them up over Jaskier’s legs, letting his fucking cursed warm fingers linger on his waist like he knew what it was doing to him.
Jaskier swallowed hard, feeling his muscles tense as Geralt paused to look at his chest, his eyes drawn to the bruises.
“Geralt?” he asked softly. Geralt’s eyes didn’t shift, giving a small shake of his head, a frown pulling down his lips. Jaskier let out a soft huff when Geralt stayed quiet. “Bruises heal. I’m okay.”
Those piercing eyes darted back up to his face, his temples pulsing as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. Jaskier could tell there was more he wanted to say, but he just grunted, turning back to the ground, picking up a familiar shirt, that was definitely not part of his bardic attire.
“Uh, Geralt, I don’t think that’s one of mine,” he said as Geralt lifted the thick dark fabric.
“I know. Everything I grabbed of yours was too thin and frilly.” Geralt slipped the collar over his head being careful of the bruise and scrape on his cheek. Jaskier swallowed thickly, giving a small nod as he was wrapped in Geralt’s heady scent. His heart started to pound harder as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, already feeling the warmth working its way into the wool. Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Is it alright?”
Jaskier nodded, giving him a small smile. “Yeah. Warm,” he said sniffling. His feet were still sticking on the cold ground, but he could feel the shaking of his body fading, the remnants of his panic drifting away as Geralt held his gaze. “Thanks,” he added softly.
Geralt kneeled down again, quickly helping Jaskier into his stockings and boots before standing back up, wrapping the large cloak around his shoulders again. He rubbed over Jaskier’s arms until he bit out mumbled protests and waved his hands away. Geralt glanced down at his hand, the unsaid question in his eyes. Jaskier swallowed tightly and shook his head.
He gave a nod, gratefully not insisting again on treating his injuries right now. “The clearing’s not too far. Can you walk?” Geralt looked him over and Jaskier felt a wave of irritation course across his body.
“Yes,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course, Geralt. I’m not completely useless, you know?” He felt the dark shadows of the voices crawling on his tongue, speaking the insecurity aloud. He turned his eyes away from Geralt after the words left his mouth, praying to the gods that he’d take the comment as a stupid joke.
Geralt hummed, not saying anything, and Jaskier heard him shuffle away, collecting the remaining supplies around the area and shoving them into his pack, including Jaskier’s precious soap box, and his still damp, but now cleaner clothes. Jaskier clenched his jaw, focusing on staying standing, his knees shaking with the effort, his fingers fiddling at his sides, longing for something to work the restless energy out with. Something to hold, to strum, to grab… to drink.
He looked back at Geralt, cocking his head. “Can I help you carry anything?” Geralt seemed to have to fight not to roll his eyes, giving a shake of his head and shooing Jaskier away. Jaskier huffed and wrapped his arms around his chest.
Geralt motioned with his hand leading away from the pools and down the hill, waiting to walk until Jaskier was stumbling off in front of him. Jaskier pressed his lips together tight, taking a deep breath, and wincing as his legs were already shivering with exhaustion as he walked. He steeled himself, forcing his feet forward, hoping Geralt wouldn’t notice the amount of effort he was using just trying to move. He wasn’t sure where the sudden fatigue had come from, only a few minutes ago, he would have sworn he could have run for miles just to get away from that pool, from the voices in his head, but now, he was about ready to collapse. If he had been in more of a reasonable state of mind, he could have admitted that it was the draining adrenaline making him tired now, and it wasn’t some flaw of his own person, that he was lazy or weak or… some other horrible thing that his brain was coming up with to make him feel small and useless, but he wasn’t in a more reasonable state of mind, so all those bitter words were whispering through his head.
The sound of his pulse pounded in his ears, his head starting to grow lighter as they kept walking, and then suddenly Geralt was standing by his side, holding him up by his arm as his knees thudded into the hard ground.
“Ow,” Jaskier huffed, nearly breathless, still determined to hold up his crumbling façade of strength and will, even whilst struggling to stand back up. “Sorry, give me a moment.” Geralt rolled his eyes, hoisting him back to his feet, making sure he was standing mostly steadily before shifting the pack around to his front. He turned and crouched down in front of Jaskier, cocking his head towards his back. “Uhh-“
“Get on. It’s a ten-minute walk, and there’s no way you’re going to make it like this.”
“Geralt, this is ridiculous. I’m not going to ride on your back like some… back-riding… thing.” Jaskier heaved a tired breath, exhausted just trying to think up the words.
Geralt raised a smug eyebrow at him like he knew that Jaskier wasn’t in the shape to win this argument. It was more irritating because he knew Geralt was right. The prospect of trying to walk anywhere for ten minutes and keeping up the act that he wasn’t actually tired and in a lot of pain, made his entire body quiver. He frowned, giving a resigned glance up at the dimming sky and then shuffled forward, hopping up onto Geralt’s back and wrapping his arms around his neck. He felt Geralt’s arms shift around, wrapping tight around his thighs, holding him steady as he stood back up. Jaskier stiffened at the closeness, his muscles awkwardly tense against the back of Geralt’s armor. Geralt gave a soft grunt as he started to walk down the slope, stepping carefully and smoothly despite the unevenness of the path.
“Just relax, Jask. I’ve got you.”
Jaskier fought against the heavy exhaustion, trying to keep himself alert, berating himself for… literally… adding the weight of his problems back onto Geralt’s shoulders, but the slow rock of Geralt’s strides was too soothing, almost meditative. His body loosened despite himself, his head falling limply against Geralt’s back, nose nuzzling into the tangles of his silver hair. Geralt’s hands held firm around his thighs, holding him still and safe, and he didn’t even realize when consciousness slipped out of his grasp, sending him into a hazy darkness.
Notes:
Little bit shorter this chapter (lol oh no, 7k instead of 10k, how dare I? Haha) because this was originally going to be combined with the chapter coming next week, but it just got too long to post altogether and the second half still needed some additional revising anyways.
Hope that you enjoyed! Leave comments of things that you’re liking or think is interesting or lines you liked or an emoji or idk something lol. The comments fuel the writer tank. :)
Chapter 4: Night
Summary:
After Jaskier’s panic attack in the pool and passing out on Geralt’s back as they walked to their camp for the night, Jaskier wakes up and he and Geralt talk about what happened, and what they’re going to do next.
Notes:
Jaskier POV.
Warnings: Use of Axii (mind manipulation) without prior consent, nightmare, discussion of panic attack/triggers, negative thoughts, mentions of mild alcohol withdrawals.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He had dreams as he slept.
Some of them, unsurprisingly, were his recent memories. Frightening images, painful sensations. The mage, the flames, the heat, the blood, the burns.
Some of them, old memories. Not necessarily good, just normal. His gorgeous lute, the sound of strummed strings, echoed applause. Geralt. Yennefer. Laughing. Crying. Monster fights and parties, parents and friends and rivals and school.
They were moments. Disconnected. Quick flashes of his life restlessly flickering through his unconscious mind.
Then something held for more than a few seconds, something more solid, tangible. Present.
It was dark.
The glow of fire radiated in the distance. A shadowy figure was wrapping strong fingers tightly around his hand, whispering, his voice low and soft.
So soft.
Too soft.
He could smell honey mixed with something that made his nostrils sting and his eyes tear up.
And then there was pain. Stinging, scraping, cold and burning across his skin. He had to get away. He tried desperately, screamed and thrashed, snarling and biting and shouting. The figure jumped back like Jaskier had turned his fire against him. It sent a wave of satisfaction through his chest. He wasn’t weak now. He could fight back. He’d save himself this time from that fucking fire fucker bastard.
The mage was speaking, that voice, that soft voice, raising his hands up. Jaskier flinched back, steeling himself for the blows, for the fire. The fear was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe, his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. His eyes landed back on the fire behind the figure, intensifying the fear surging through his veins.
Jaskier scrambled, his hands whipping away from the armrests of the chair… the ropes… where were the ropes? He could feel the ground biting at his palm, was he outside? It dug painfully into the tender wounded flesh of his hand.
The figure moved closer again, the softness of his voice hardening, more forceful. The hands surged forward quickly grabbing him tightly by the arms, forcing him to still. The voice kept talking, kept asking, kept demanding, but Jaskier wouldn’t break. He wouldn’t betray Geralt. The figure raised a hand in front of his face, the fingers folding in strange ways, yet vaguely familiar. Jaskier flinched back, waiting for the fire to sear across his skin, but no heat followed. Only a heavy darkness, a wash of thick calm dragging him forcefully down, pushing a comforting warmth through his body and smothering the trembling fear.
He didn’t dream anymore.
The next time he woke, he felt warm. Not hot, not burning. Just warm.
He drew in a deep breath, his nose filling with the scent of musk and horsehair and dirt, and the slightest whiff of something sweet. It was comforting, safe, familiar.
He shifted, moving his hand from where it was curled over… curled over something… something that moved under his hand.
Jaskier’s eyes shot open, immediately finding himself with his face stuck right next to Geralt’s trouser-covered thigh, and realized his hand was currently wrapped around it, hugging it like a warm and firm, manly tree trunk. His heart skipped a beat and he glanced cautiously upwards, meeting Geralt’s eyes as he glanced down at him.
“Uh, sorry,” Jaskier said sheepishly, snatching his hand away, and started struggling to sit up. Geralt shook his head, slipping a hand under his arm to help him.
“Careful,” he said, frowning. There was something in his expression that made Jaskier’s stomach curl uncomfortably. Something hidden in the way Geralt’s eyes shifted away quickly, a hard furrow of his brow, and tight curve of his lips. “I lit a fire. You were shivering in your sleep, and I didn’t want you to get cold.”
He cocked his head towards the orange glow on the other side of him, blocked from Jaskier’s vision by Geralt’s chest. He could still feel the radiating warmth of it despite the wall of witcher between him and the flames, but without the stark spike of fear he was sure he’d feel looking directly into the flickering flames. Jaskier nodded with a soft hum, appreciative of the warning.
“Here, drink some water,” Geralt said, holding out a waterskin. Jaskier took it, taking a couple of tentative swallows, trying to reorient himself as he felt the cool liquid soothe his dry throat. “How are you feeling?” Geralt asked carefully.
Jaskier shrugged. He didn’t feel bad. In fact, he felt much better than he had felt before he’d fallen asleep, his hand wasn’t even- He glanced down at his hand, gasping softly when he found it wrapped neatly in a bandage. He looked back up at Geralt with a confused frown.
“Did you do this?” His voice was hoarse coming out of his mouth.
Jaskier expected an eye roll or an irritated huff because who else would have done it, given that he didn’t think he had been sleep-bandaging somehow, which would be an interesting talent to have, but Geralt just nodded, keeping that strange, conflicted look on his face.
“Oh,” he said softly, giving a small smile and taking another sip of water to clear his throat. “Well, thank you. It actually feels a lot better.” He brought his hand up to his face, finding the sweet scent coming stronger, immediately drawing the memories of when he’d encountered it before. Geralt huffily rubbing the salve into his wounds, the careful mixture of honey and liquified silver and various other herbs ground into a stingingly sweet salve that worked the best out of most things to heal wounds quickly and ease pain. It was expensive and a bit excessive for most common folk, so it wasn’t easy to get a hold of, but years ago, Geralt had grunted something about Jaskier getting himself hurt enough trailing along after him that it had found a permanent place in their shared belongings. It wasn’t something that was much help for witchers, their mutations working better than the salve to heal their wounds, so Jaskier felt a bit surprised that Geralt still had it after all this time, though if he supposed Ciri certainly could have gotten use out of it too, given he was fairly sure she was mostly human.
Jaskier picked at the edge of the bandage, absently occupying his fingers, while he tried to get his mind straight.
“I used Axii on you.”
Jaskier’s fingers stilled. “What?” He looked back up at Geralt, who had twisted slightly, staring back into the fire, his jaw clenched. He’d moved enough, unintentionally, that Jaskier could see the edge of the flames, just barely. He clenched his hand tighter, teeth pressing together hard in his mouth, but he didn’t flinch, or cry out, or do anything embarrassingly pathetic, which gave him a brief triumphant feeling before a slither of doubt crept under his skin. “Are you still-?”
“No,” Geralt replied immediately, turning back to him, looking into his eyes fiercely. “No. I dropped it when you went back to sleep. I… I needed to deal with your hand. I tried not to wake you, but you did, and-” He let out a long breath. “-and you thought I was that fucking mage. I couldn’t calm you down.” Geralt glanced down at his bandaged hand, his expression tight. “You would have hurt yourself more if I hadn’t used it.”
Jaskier nodded, his mind drifting back to the nightmare he’d had, the memory of the slim dark figure shifting subtly as he thought back, growing broader, the glow of silver hair lit by the fire behind him, reassuring words whispered low, nearly drowned out by his own terrified cries. Jaskier swallowed tightly, clenching his jaw as it caught on the lump in his throat and running his fingers across the bandage on his hand again. “Thank you.”
Geralt frowned and shook his head, still not meeting his eyes. “Don’t thank me. I shouldn’t have-“
“Geralt, it’s okay,” he said, resting his hand tentatively on Geralt’s thigh. “I trust you.” He shook his head. “I’m just… I’m sorry that you had to do that in the first place.” He let out a frustrated huff, his lip pressed into a tight line. There was more that he wanted to say, those echoing taunts about how pathetic and weak and cowardly he was that Geralt had to Axii him just to get him not to stupidly hurt himself again, that he didn’t belong here, that he was weighing Geralt down, that he was just going to ruin everything, but he kept his mouth closed. If he didn’t say it out loud, then he could still pretend like Geralt didn’t agree with those voices, that they were just cruel lies his mind was throwing at him.
The conflicted expression was still distorting Geralt’s face as he turned back to the fire again. Jaskier could see his temple pulsing as he clenched his jaw. There was something else. His stomach twisted uncomfortably in anticipation.
“Geralt?”
Geralt shook his head minutely, staying silent.
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I know you have something you want to say, so just say it.”
Geralt huffed, giving another small shake of his head before speaking. “I’m bringing you back to Oxenfurt in the morning.”
Jaskier felt his breath catch in his throat, a wave of nausea twisting in his stomach.
“He doesn’t need you. He’s just waiting for the right moment to get rid of you again. You’re weak. You’re broken. Useless.”
The nightmare Yennefer voice echoed in his head as he felt his chest squeeze tighter, heart racing like it had back all that time ago on that stupid mountain. He shook his head, mentally cursing that stupid voice and those gut-wrenching words.
"No."
“Jask-“
“No, Geralt.” He bit the insides of his cheeks, frustrated, anger and fear and helplessness roiling in his stomach, his neck itching as the emotions worked up through his spine.
"If life could give me one blessing-"
He cut off Geralt's voice in his head before the memory could finish playing out.
“I'm not going back there," he added sharply, the anger souring, the bitter notes of desperation seeping through the words. “Not right now. I’ll keep up. I just need a little bit of time to get my feet under me again.”
“I know you do. You need time somewhere safe. Not out on the road. Not with me. This,” Geralt waved his hand towards the flames. “-Is not going to help you.” Jaskier felt a small flash of fear seeing Geralt’s hand move so close to the fire, and forced it back down, berating his heart to calm so Geralt wouldn’t hear it racing, though he was sure he already had. “Dragging you right back into danger is not going to help you.”
Jaskier frowned and rolled his eyes. “I don't need you trying to tell me what's going to help me, Geralt," he huffed. "I’m not safe back there. I told you, that mage knows where I am. What if he comes back? If people saw us leaving together, he could have found out, and I’ll be in even more danger now. I feel safer here... with you." Jaskier let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Besides, you never complained about me getting a little scared on the path before, so why start now?”
Geralt's eyebrows raised up his forehead, eyes widening slightly and his lips curving into a frown. “This is not complaining, Jaskier. I'm trying to be realistic. You weren't just scared back there. You could have fucking died! If I hadn't come back when I did, you would have drowned!” Geralt snapped back, his voice coming out in a growl.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Geralt. Don’t be so dramatic... I wasn't going to drown. I just happened to realize it's been quite some time since I tested how long I could hold my breath. Almost broke my record,” he said, cocking up his eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood and draw his thoughts away from that soft-voiced mage. Geralt let out another frustrated growl, cocking his head in that angry intimidating witcher look that Jaskier always had to bite back a laugh at. He didn’t feel much like laughing now.
“This isn't some fucking joke!"
Jaskier pressed his lips together, scrunching his nose angrily, feeling the back of his neck heat up as his irritation flared. “Do you really think I don’t realize that?! I am well aware of the fact that I could have died! I can’t stop fucking thinking about it! Every time I close my eyes, I can hear his voice in my ears, can feel the fire burning my fingers-“ he said, his voice cracking, squeezing his eyes shut for emphasis. Just as he said, he could feel the phantom flames curling on his skin. “I had nothing but myself left, my lute, my voice, my hands, my name.” He swallowed tightly. “He was going to take all of it. Broke my lute. Burned my hands. He would have taken everything if Yennefer hadn’t shown up, and then even if he’d left me alive… I would have… would have been dead… in every way that matters.” He heaved an exhausted breath. “Not that I’m much better off now.”
Geralt had been quiet as he spoke, and Jaskier didn’t dare look up at him now, keeping his eyes focused on his hands settled in his lap, fidgeting with the bandage. One of the large, scarred hands came into view, hesitantly resting on Jaskier’s leg. Jaskier still didn’t look up, tensing slightly, his heartbeat skipping nervously in his chest.
“You’re alive.”
Jaskier laughed, wet and bitter and choked, his eyes blurring with hot tears he couldn’t keep from coming.
“Hardly.” He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at the tears and heaving a long breath before finally looking back up at Geralt who was watching him with a concerned expression. He shook his head. “Sorry. Look, you’re… you’re probably right anyways.” Geralt frowned and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll go back to Oxenfurt in the morning. I’d only slow you down.”
Jaskier’s fidgeting caught a tender spot under the bandage, and he let out a soft hiss. Geralt shifted the hand he had resting over Jaskier’s leg, nudging it against the tip of his fingers gently. Jaskier couldn’t help flinching away, tucking his hands against his chest. Geralt reluctantly pulled back, surely able to hear the rabbiting beat of his scared little heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said, letting the words fall from his lips with a breath, so quiet Jaskier almost missed them.
Jaskier shook his head. The disappointment swelled in his chest, not that he expected Geralt to disagree, but he hoped at least for something. “For what? Not like you expected to find me… like this.” He started mentally planning where he would go when he returned. The tavern wasn’t an option. He didn’t want to risk the mage coming across him again, and the Sandpiper operation was too important to put in more danger. He had colleagues near the university, so perhaps he could-
“I don’t want to keep pushing you away.”
Jaskier cocked his head, looking at him curiously. “Then, don’t.”
Geralt huffed, giving a sharp roll of his eyes. “It’s not that simple. If you come with me, I don’t know if I can keep you safe. You’re already hurt because of me-“
“Oh, stop!” Jaskier snapped, snatching Geralt’s hand in his uninjured one. “Just stop blaming yourself for every single thing that other people choose to do! I could have told that bastard everything about you, and maybe he would have let me go… probably not, but who knows? But I didn’t. I chose to do that. Not because you told me to, but because I wanted to. And he hurt me, yes. Geralt, he tied me to a chair and beat me and burned me, but he did that. Not you.” Jaskier shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Gods, it is so annoying how you always fucking do this. You do realize that every bad thing that happens isn’t your fault, right? You’re just a… man. A monster-fighting, destiny-riddled, muscly, swordy man, but still just a man.” Geralt frowned at him, his brows pushing together in the center of his face. Jaskier huffed, half-amused, half-irritated. “Fucking hell, I would bet if you kicked a rock and someone came along days later and tripped over it and broke their neck, you’d blame yourself for that too.”
Geralt caught his eyes, staying quiet a moment before a small curl of a smile appeared at the edge of his lip. He gave a soft snort and sighed.
“Probably.”
The flare of anger and irritation faded. Geralt slowly shifted his hand, turning it to squeeze around Jaskier’s fingers, loose enough that he could pull easily away if he wanted to. He didn’t though. The flare of fear he expected having someone holding his hand didn’t come, and Jaskier smiled, the beating of his heart slowing. He stayed quiet, watching Geralt’s expression out of the corner of his eye, the subtle shift of his face showing the contemplation in his mind. Geralt glanced up at him after a few minutes, narrowing his eyes.
“You really want to come with me?”
Jaskier rolled his eyes and cocked his head. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Jask. I mean it. I don’t want you to come with me just because you feel like you have to. You do have a choice here.”
“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”
Geralt turned back to him, his eyes softer now. He pressed his lips into a tight line before opening his mouth, still saying nothing, his brows furrowing with the conflict in his emotions. Jaskier held his breath, waiting for the dismissal, to be pushed away again, or pitied or something, but Geralt just closed his mouth again, shaking his head with a resigned sigh before nodding.
“Okay.”
Jaskier grinned, brightly, squeezing Geralt’s hand tighter.
“But-“ Geralt started and Jaskier’s relief slipped, looking back at him apprehensively. “I do need to know what happened earlier.” Jaskier huffed, rolling his eyes. Geralt pressed on, ignoring his reaction. “If you’re coming with me, that cannot happen again.”
Jaskier frowned, his chest clenching with embarrassment and shame. Just thinking about how weak he must have looked, having to be dragged out of that stupid pool, nearly drowning in water barely deeper than the height of him, made his stomach turn. “I know. I’m sorry,” he huffed, staring down at his legs.
Geralt shook his head. “Jaskier,” he said gently. Jaskier kept his eyes down. “Don’t apologize. I know you said you don’t blame me for what happened, but you need to know that it’s not your fault either.”
Jaskier felt his chest tighten, the burn at the edges of his eyes returning again. He ground his teeth together in his mouth.
“I can handle it myself. You have enough to worry about. I just need to-“
“Let me help you,” Geralt said, tipping his head down, so he could finally find his face. Jaskier winced, blinking back tears, biting against the frustration at his own reaction. “I want to help you.”
“You already agreed to let me come with, I’m not going to burden you with this too.”
Geralt growled in his throat, moving his hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck, gripping him firmly, but in a way that made him feel safe instead of confined. “It’s not a burden when it’s a friend. Right? Isn’t that what you were always saying to me, cleaning guts out of my hair and stitching up claw marks on my back?“ He huffed a pained breath. “I know I haven’t earned your trust back yet-” Jaskier’s eyes flashed to him, startled by his words. “-but please, believe that I will do whatever I can to keep you safe, which means I need to know what I can do to help you with this.”
Jaskier heard the sincerity in his voice, felt the concern pressing into him through Geralt’s hand. His lips curled into a small smile, and he quirked up an eyebrow.
“This kid must be something special,” Jaskier said softly, his smile widening slightly at Geralt’s confusion. “I traveled with you twenty years, and I could barely get you to say more than three sentences and you have her for a few months and now look at you. Practically drafting up heartfelt novels.” He was too tired to hide the note of bitterness in his voice. It was petty and childish, he supposed, to be jealous, but it had become an unfortunately normal part of his relationship with Geralt over the years. Wanting more than he could have, wanting to be special, important, wanting his presence in the witcher’s life to have meant something to him. To feel like he wasn’t the only one to have been changed by the twenty years they had spent together.
Geralt frowned and shook his head. “I’m trying. I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner.”
Jaskier sighed and let his head drop to the side, the smile softening on his face until it was almost gone. It wouldn’t be fair to hold his own unfulfilled desires against Geralt. It’s not like he knew, it’s not like Jaskier had ever worked up the courage to outright tell him what he wanted. What pleased him…
“No, it’s… fine. She’s lucky to have you,” he said pausing and raising an eyebrow. “Well, you know… one you find her again,” he added on quickly.
Geralt eyed him carefully, the edges of his eyes softening, his lips parting with words Jaskier could only imagine were resting on the tip of his tongue when the fire gave a sharp crack behind Geralt’s back. Jaskier felt his heart jump in his chest, flinching away with a strangled yelp. Geralt pulled his hand away, his expression concerned.
“Jaskier-“ Geralt started again, softly, his voice leading to questions Jaskier didn’t really feel like answering at the moment. Jaskier cut him off with a hum, shaking his head and holding up his hand.
“I know. I know. You still want to know about the whole… thing. I just… give me a moment.”
“Take your time.” Geralt shifted, blocking more of the fire’s glow behind his back, which Jaskier was grateful for, apart from it also blocking some of the warmth. He shivered and tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
The air around them smelled of smoke, which made working up his resolve that much more difficult. Jaskier swallowed, his throat dry and angry, and he dropped his hand to the waterskin, fiddling with the spout. His eyes flicked from the orange glow behind Geralt, to the dark shadows of the trees further back. He took a sip of the water, blinking hard and nodding, before turning his head back to Geralt who was still watching him quietly.
“I thought I heard a snap,” he said, almost whispering.
Geralt’s eyes met his, the intensity of his gaze soft, patient, undemanding. There was a comfort in it, a reassurance he’d always found in those yellow eyes, eyes that had seen scores of monsters over their existence, that they wouldn’t falter when presented with something that Jaskier feared. They knew, had seen it all and were confident and determined and wouldn’t stop until the danger had been dealt with.
But the reassurance didn’t sink in now. The danger wasn’t some monster. It had been birthed by the mage, burned into his body by his fire. It had taken on its own life inside his head, writhing in the dark shadows of his mind. Even if the mage had been killed, even if Geralt tracked the bastard down now and slashed him to pieces, the one in his head would remain, the scars, the pain, the memories. Steel and silver were no match for them.
Jaskier took another swallow of water, knowing he was just doing it to stall the conversation. Geralt didn’t push, his expression unchanged, eyes soft and wide and waiting. “Earlier, when I was in the pool, there was a noise, I think… I don’t know, it might have been a rock falling or an animal, but… it… it just sounded like… like a snap, like fingers snapping.” His eyes caught the edge of the fire again, sending a shiver through his body. Geralt shifted, blocking the sight of it from his vision, wordlessly, and reached down, placing a hand over his leg again. “He snapped, the mage, when he summoned the fire.” He swallowed hard, letting his voice choke away. “So when I heard it… I just… I mean, I don’t know if the noise even happened again after the first time. I thought it did, honestly. I would have sworn that there were more snaps, getting closer, moving around me… but I… I don’t know. I think my mind just… made them up, and I panicked. I heard him. I thought he was there. I could feel it, the fire, on my hand and when I closed my eyes, I could see him, and I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t… I couldn’t get out-“ Geralt pulled him into his chest, and he realized he’d started shaking, his breaths coming quick as he relived the memory.
“You’re safe,” Geralt’s voice was low, rumbling against him. “He’s not here now. And the next time I see him, he’s as good as dead.”
It should have been enough, hearing Geralt say that. It should have reassured him. He knew Geralt would find that asshole eventually, and he’d be dead, and that would be it, so it should have been enough. It always had been before, but now, the fear still remained, cold and spiky in his chest. The helplessness, knowing that he’d been that close to death, had accepted that nobody was going to come save him, that he would keep his mouth closed until his last breath. That feeling, weighed down on his body, heavy and suffocating, too much.
He squeezed his eyes closed tight, digging his face into Geralt’s chest, as Geralt stroked a hand over his back. Jaskier drew in a long shaking breath, shivering.
“When I touched your hand, while you were sleeping, did the same thing happen?” Geralt asked after a minute. Jaskier shrugged against him before giving a small nod and sighing.
Geralt grunted, stroking over his shoulder. “No hand touching, no snapping, no fire. Anything else?”
“I… I don’t know,” Jaskier muttered, squeezing his eyes closed and pressing closer against Geralt, breathing in the scent of him. Geralt tightened his embrace, the leather armor digging awkwardly into his side, but Jaskier couldn’t find it in him to care.
“Alright. Can you make sure to tell me if you think of something else?”
Jaskier huffed, giving a stiff nod. He didn’t really want to tell Geralt more of what happened, to reveal more of the tender weak spots of his damaged psyche and give him more reason to leave him behind. He’d have to just be stronger, force himself not to panic so that there just wouldn’t be anything for Geralt to notice and worry about. Just pretend like he was someone that hadn’t just been kidnapped and tortured, and was just the normal, happy bard he was before all of this happened.
On the other hand, though, it was kind of nice to be held like this, and if letting Geralt try to help with his emotional trauma meant getting big strong witcher hugs, then maybe he should just have a nice little breakdown every now and then. Not that he expected this closeness to last. He was sure this was partially guilt fueled; Geralt pushing through his prickly, grumpy nature for a day or two as an apology for everything that had happened. Soon, he’d be back to normal; stiffening up when Jaskier would pull him into a hug, barely tolerating when he would crawl up beside him to siphon the tiniest bit of warmth from him when the weather got colder, and jerking away if they ended up waking up too close together in the mornings. It’d be nice while it lasted, but… it wasn’t going to last. Especially once they finally came across Yennefer again.
Geralt relaxed against him, loosening his hold enough to pull the blanket around his shoulders. Jaskier hummed contentedly, lying against him for another few minutes, just listening to the slow beat of Geralt’s heart and trying to match his breaths, until his stomach gave an uncomfortable growl, making Geralt’s hands still where they had been rubbing across his back.
“Hungry?” He said, his voice soft. Jaskier groaned, shrugging into his chest.
“Not really,” he mumbled, earning an irritated growl from the witcher. Despite the grumble in his belly, the thought of eating made his stomach turn, too many emotions roiling around that he was sure would be better soothed by a strong drink than a meal. But he knew Geralt, and he knew Geralt’s obnoxiously endearing insistence on making sure he stayed alive and fed, so there was no way he was going to get away with not eating anything. “I guess I should eat though. I don’t suppose you have any wine to pair with whatever you’ve had rolling around in your pack?”
Geralt huffed, shifting enough that Jaskier pulled his head up from his chest, looking blearily towards where his arm was reaching back towards the fire. He calmed the twinge of panic seeing Geralt’s hand so close to the flames as it picked up the lid of a small pot sitting by the edge, steaming slightly.
“No. No wine,” Geralt said, glancing down at him, cocking his head to the side. “Sit up. I’ll fix a bowl for you.”
Jaskier pushed himself up from Geralt’s chest, rewrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He was glad for Geralt’s shirt and cloak given the chill biting at the skin that was only briefly exposed to the cooling air. His thin chemises definitely would have not been warm enough for him out here, especially since he was about as close to the fire as he was comfortable being, and that was with Geralt in the way, blocking him from the panic-inducing flames.
He kept his eyes on Geralt as he fixed a bowl of the savory smelling something that steamed out of the pot. Jaskier pursed his lips, grinding his teeth together and cursing the bastard for being so goddamned accommodating. If this were another time, before their argument, before being away from each other for so long, before the war had really started and Geralt had Cirilla to worry about, he could have enjoyed this, could have taken pleasure in Geralt showing such consideration and care for his needs. But now, it felt selfish, to take up Geralt’s energy, a luxury that he shouldn’t allow himself to indulge in. There were more important things to worry about than a slightly charred and banged up bard.
He hated that part of him wanted nothing more than to give Geralt what he had asked for up on that mountain, to take his life off his hands. He didn’t want the pity-driven care, the furrowed looks of guilty concern as Geralt’s eyes glanced over his injuries. They could just go back to how things were before, when Jaskier wasn’t so weighted down, when it was enough to just be allowed again to be in Geralt’s presence, to trail alongside him playing his silly songs, washing his hair, sneaking treats to the horse he seemed to like more than he did Jaskier. He hated that he wanted to just shove it all aside, the hurt and heartbreak and anger, to forget it, so he could swallow those carefully doled out scraps of affection, that were never quite enough to satisfy, without choking on them like he felt like doing now.
He wondered if Geralt had known before. Did he know that there were so many words that Jaskier had bit back, blood he swallowed so to not bother the witcher with his mortal aches? That while he could talk and talk and talk for hours without end that there could possibly be things that he didn’t say, that he couldn’t say without fear of being pushed away, scorned, abandoned. Did he even know the meaning of the words Jaskier had shared with him up on the rock on the side of the mountain, trying to work out what pleased him? That it broke something in him when Geralt had walked away from that conversation without another word, going to find comfort in Yennefer’s bed. Would he care if he realized how small Jaskier made himself to fit into the meager space Geralt had set aside for him?
It was terrifying, shamefully pathetic, that he was willing to let Geralt consume him like this, that he wanted so desperately now to talk and scream and cry, to yell and rant about everything he had been through since they parted, the pain, fear, exhaustion, helplessness, to make Geralt understand, but he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Even with Geralt here, listening, caring, feeding him, giving him his clothes, and wrapping his wounds, he couldn’t let him see what he’d become, the cracks forming under the careful mask he tried to keep over his tear-streaked and bloody face.
Geralt was supposed to grunt and ignore him. He wasn’t supposed to wash his hair and tell him he was sorry and hold him in his arms, looking at him like he was some sort of lost treasure he finally found. And painfully, he knew that part of this was his heartbreak talking, bitter seeds sown in his chest that had grown, oh so, beautifully over the past year apart, sharp and thorny flowers that whispered into the broken parts of his heart saying that Geralt would turn him away again, that his presence would, always and forever, just be an annoyance that Geralt forced himself to tolerate, that he’d returned to him only because there was more that he wanted to take, that he didn’t care now, and he never did before.
But another part of him knew that wasn’t true, that Geralt wasn’t the deliberately cruel and monstrous man he’d formed him into in his mind. The one that he’d written that fucking song about. He wasn’t a butcher. Geralt had cared before, had cared often, had cared quietly and subtly in his own Geralt-y ways, dragging him out of danger, feeding him the last bites of their shared supper, shuffling closer as they slept outside on a cold night, and those soft fond smiles; he had shown Jaskier that he was his friend despite rarely admitting to it out loud. It was part of why Jaskier had forgiven him so quickly, and it was part of why all of this was so hard to bear now after so long without it, without anyone looking at him as Geralt had, as he was now.
Like someone worth caring about, someone he didn’t mind carrying a little extra weight for, someone he was afraid to lose.
Geralt finished fixing the bowl, turning back to Jaskier, his expression growing tight with concern seeing his face, which Jaskier was sure was just wrinkled with the conflicted emotions he was fighting to keep hidden.
“What?” Jaskier prompted, forcing a casual smile, when Geralt didn’t move. He held out his uninjured hand for the bowl. Geralt watched him carefully, the unasked questions resting on his lips. Jaskier huffed, pushing his hand out further, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Geralt, I actually need to have the food to be able to eat it.”
Geralt narrowed his eyes for a moment before grunting, giving a shake of his head as he finally moved the bowl close enough for Jaskier to reach it. It wasn’t much, bits of meat and some sort of herbs floating in a thin broth, but it was warm, and smelled nice enough. He brought the bowl to his lips, the broth filling his mouth, giving a tentative chew of the slightly tough chunks of who-knows-what, and let the heat seep into his stomach.
“This isn’t rat, is it?” Jaskier said after swallowing the first mouthful, digging his tongue between his teeth to try to dislodge a stringy thread of meat. He grimaced when it didn’t budge and sat the bowl down so he could pick at it with his nail. Geralt shook his head, raising an eyebrow.
“Squirrel,” he said with a smirk, already anticipating Jaskier’s reaction.
“Ugh, wonderful,” he said sarcastically, scrunching his nose. “Practically the same thing. Same stringy meat, just a fluffier package.” He grinned when he finally freed the chunk from between his teeth, carefully swallowing it with another gulp of warm broth. Geralt hummed in agreement, going quiet as Jaskier continued to eat.
“You’ll tell me, won’t you? If you’re not alright?” He finally said, as Jaskier was slurping the remaining bits of broth from the bowl. Jaskier raised his eyebrow, giving an emphatic nod.
“Of course. Have I ever passed up a chance to complain?” Jaskier let out a sigh, rolling his neck and wincing as it cracked at the movement. “I feel like we’ve talked my problems to death at this point, though, Geralt. Don’t you think we should discuss the whole… kidnapped child thing?” He picked at the edge of the bowl, keeping his eyes locked onto Geralt’s face, hoping his casual tone would convince him to finally move onto another subject.
Geralt stared quietly at him for another moment before sighing and giving a small shrug. “I’ve been thinking over everything while you were sleeping. I don’t think Yennefer was working with that fire mage.”
Jaskier cocked his head and frowned. “Why? You seemed all convinced she had some horrible evil plans, so why wouldn’t she team up with that fire fucker?”
“Their reactions to seeing each other in the temple seemed to be… genuine, from what I could tell. They both seemed surprised to see each other there. What happened between the two of you, I just don’t see any reason to doubt that what she did for you was… well, that it was what you thought it was. Her saving your life.” Geralt huffed, gesturing with his hands. “Besides, Yennefer isn’t really one to ‘team up’ with other mages in general.”
Jaskier snorted, giving a sharp nod. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” He hadn’t wanted to think that Yennefer was using him, manipulating that situation, not after the sincere connection he’d felt with her on that ship, but given her past behavior towards him, it was easy enough to slip into those doubts. Geralt knew her… somewhat well, though Jaskier definitely thought he had some biases given their coital involvement, but him saying that he trusted her to have genuinely saved his life, eased some of his misgivings. “What about Cirilla though? She still left with her.”
“I don’t have the luxury of assuming Yennefer’s intentions are anything but nefarious. If I’m wrong when we find them, then I’m wrong. But Ciri is too important to take a chance otherwise. If Yennefer’s magic is gone, and she really is wanted by the Brotherhood, after Sodden, and what Istredd said happened at Aretuza, maybe she believes Ciri will be able to help with that. Use her as payment or… reparations,” he said, shaking his head.
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “You know she hates those assholes, Geralt. With how much she wanted to be a mother, do you really think that she would just sacrifice a child, any child to get back into those pricks’ good graces? Don’t you remember that time we ran into her in that mud-covered shithole of a village in Northern Temeria, when she’d barricaded herself in the alderman’s house with that girl?”
Geralt huffed, rolling his eyes. “She was threatening to burn the whole village down, Jaskier. I don’t think that’s as good of an example as you think it is.”
“No, shut up and listen.” Jaskier glared back at him. “It wasn’t like Yennefer was threatening to burn the village down for fun… she was doing it because those bastards were just going to hand that girl over to her uncle, remember?” Geralt clenched his jaw. “That kid had just been orphaned after having watched her parents get ripped to pieces by that drowner swarm, and Yennefer knew what that depraved monster of a man had already done to that poor girl. She wasn’t just going to let them turn a blind eye and leave her in his home.” Geralt turned his eyes away, and Jaskier reached out, grabbing his shoulder, pulling his attention back. “Even I had to admit that there was some semblance of a heart faintly beating in her chest somewhere… I mean, deep down, really deep deep down, but there was something there.” Jaskier said sternly, not sure why he was so intent on defending Yennefer to Geralt, trying to blink away the image the lost look of her eyes when they’d spoken just a few nights ago. “So, why are you so sure now that she’s going to just… turn Ciri over?”
“If she’s really lost her magic… I don’t think there’s anything she’s not capable of to get it back,” Geralt said firmly, cocking his head at Jaskier, his eyes curious. “Why are you so sure she wouldn’t?”
Jaskier rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not. I’ve lived long enough to know that people can surprise you with the things they’re capable of. Good and bad. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Yennefer did use Ciri, but… I just… I don’t think she would. I mean she risked her own life to save me… Me, Geralt. You do remember she left me locked in a wardrobe for nearly two days after I wrote that one song about her, right? And surely Ciri is much less annoying than I am. I just… I don’t think she’d hurt her.”
Geralt frowned, furrowing his brows, and giving a resigned shake of his head. “Even if you are right, Ciri is still in danger. They both are. Yennefer could be trying to protect her, but there are still too many people going after them.”
“Yes. Obviously,” Jaskier huffed, realizing he was still holding the empty bowl, scratching notches into the side of it with his nails. He set it down on the bed roll between them, tugging the blanket tight around his shoulders to block out the creep of the cold. His injured hand ached with the growing chill; the salve only able to do so much to hold off the pressure of the pain. “So, then what? Where would they go? They could be literally anywhere. Aretuza, Nilfgaard, Sodden, Cintra, Oxenfurt… We need to narrow the list down somehow.”
Geralt’s jaw clenched as he sent a frustrated glare his way. Jaskier sighed, rolling his eyes in defeat. The exhaustion was taking hold of him again, the weight of the soup settling heavily in his stomach, a tingling buzz in his veins making him long to have the bottle-covered shelves of that blessed tavern back within reach. He flopped back onto the bed roll, the chill seeping through the layers of fabric around him. He let out a shiver, wishing he could bear even the thought of moving within sight of the fire without his heart surging in panic like he was a scared child.
“What about the portal?” Jaskier asked after a minute of letting his thoughts settle, poring over Geralt’s words from earlier. Geralt hummed in a tone that meant he needed a little more context to the question before answering. “You said Yennefer left through a portal at the temple, right? So, if Yennefer couldn’t use her magic, and we’re assuming that she probably wasn’t working with the mage, then how did she portal out?”
Geralt was quiet for a moment. “It must have been Ciri.”
Jaskier picked up his head, looking towards Geralt with a frown. He remembered Geralt saying she was like her mother, that terrifying tornado of unimaginable power, but he hadn’t mentioned more than that. “Was she trained?”
Geralt shook his head. “No. It was why I’d brought her to the temple in the first place. Ciri is powerful. You saw what her mother was capable of back in Cintra. And Ciri… she’s as much, or probably more powerful than that, and she can’t control it. She was scared of it, of hurting people.” He huffed, looking back over at Jaskier with a frown. “But… chaos can react on instinct, and if she feared being caught by that mage, if she really wanted to get out of there, I don’t doubt that she could have created a portal, especially if Yennefer told her how.”
Jaskier nodded, sitting the rest of the way up again, rubbing his hand over his arm to try to force some warmth back into his body. “So… if we’re saying that is what happened,” he said, working through the proposed events in his head. “Ciri would have portaled somewhere… in a moment of panic… on instinct. And… it couldn’t be anywhere, right? It had to be somewhere she’d been before?”
Geralt shrugged and gave a noncommital shake of his head. “For someone that’s never portaled before, probably. I doubt Yennefer would push their luck by having her portal somewhere blindly. Even with trained mages, there’s still a major risk of having your entire body ripped apart if you make the portal wrong.”
Jaskier winced at the image, his stomach giving a nauseating turn. “Lovely.” Geralt hummed in agreement. “So… where has she been before then? Somewhere she’d feel safe?”
Geralt shrugged again, staying quiet.
Jaskier rolled his eyes. Sometimes conversations with Geralt were exhausting. “Let’s go through the list then. We know she’s been to Cintra, obviously.”
“Yes, and the last she saw of it, it was in flames with people being murdered in the streets, the last of her family dying in front of her,” Geralt said bluntly. “So, probably not.”
“I mean it was her home, Geralt. It would have been familiar enough that she could have gone there out of pure instinct. And it was where I was trying to send Yennefer and that man she was with. Maybe Yennefer told her to go there.”
Geralt frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“What, are you getting some witcher-y messages from the gods or something? Please, feel free to share with the rest of the group, Geralt,” Jaskier huffed impatiently. “I do actually need you to work a little with me here.”
Geralt pressed his lips together, his expression turning to that strained constipated look he got when he thought really hard about something. Jaskier had written a song about it years ago that Geralt had banned him from singing in public. Geralt stayed quiet long enough that Jaskier started humming the chorus of it, earning a pointed glare from the witcher, before he let out a huffy breath.
“It’s not... a message. Just a feeling.” He shifted rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think she’d go back to Cintra. Not now, not if she was trying to go somewhere safe. When I found her, it was weeks after Cintra was sacked, and she was… terrified. She’d only just stopped having nightmares about that night. The only other places she’d gone since were the keep and the temple. And I doubt Calanthe had let her travel much before I found her, knowing how protective she was since Pavetta died.”
There was a dull ache forming behind Jaskier’s eyes, the throb of a headache pulling his attention from their conversation.
“So, not Cintra, and obviously not the temple, so that just leaves Kaer Morhen. That’s the only other place she would know to go, and I’d assume she felt somewhat safe there.”
Geralt narrowed his eyes, giving a shrug. Jaskier huffed, pressing his lips together tightly, feeling the frustration growing with the pain in his head. What he wouldn’t give for a flagon of anything right now. His fingers twitched under the blanket, the shivering growing with the passing minutes despite it not getting much colder. Somehow, they were now meant to track down some kid that can theoretically teleport wherever she wants basically instantly, and, for some stupid reason, Geralt thought that he of all people would be able to help with finding her. The ache in his head throbbed again, more forcefully.
“How did you find Ciri anyways? You said you didn’t find her until weeks after Cintra was sacked.”
Geralt shook his head. “Destiny, I suppose…”
Jaskier frowned, furrowing his brows with an irritated huff. He did not have the energy, nor the mental capacity for Geralt’s stunted witcher metaphors. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Geralt rolled his eyes. “When we found each other, it was like we were just brought to the right place. Some woman found her and brought her to her house to keep her safe, and I got injured saving that woman’s husband, and he carted me back to that same house. The moment that I woke there, I could feel she was close,” he paused, lowering his voice, his gaze unfocusing as though falling into a memory. “She was the girl in the woods.” Jaskier glanced up, narrowing his eyes, the words cutting through the haze of his headache.
“You’ve said that before,” Jaskier said, hesitantly. He remembered how closed off Geralt would get if he dared to mention it or ask him what it meant, several times, it ended up with him getting left behind when they made it to the next town, either waking up to find Geralt had slipped away in the night or grumbling some excuse and racing out with Roach before Jaskier could argue otherwise.
Geralt nodded. “It’s been following me since… before we met. Even before calling for the law of surprise. It seems Ciri has been destined to be… mine.” He let out a long breath. Jaskier could see the lines of exhaustion on his face, the worry inlaid between the scars, the heaviness of his brow over his eyes.
“Yours?” Jaskier huffed a breath from his nose. “You were barely with her for more than a few months. Did you really get attached to her that quickly?”
Geralt hummed softly, cocking his head. “It feels like… we needed each other.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier said, rubbing over the back of his hand. “This coming from the same man that once told me the last thing he wanted was someone needing him.”
Geralt blinked up at him, his eyelids heavy, the orange glow from the fire making his yellow irises shine like sunlight. “And yet, here we are.”
Jaskier’s breath caught in his chest, his heart thudding hard against his rib cage. He swallowed, feeling the stretch of his throat, too dry again.
“Yes,” he said breathily, his voice shaky and low, his eyes frozen on Geralt’s face. “Here we are.”
It could have been a trick of the light, shadows playing with the hazy exhaustion of his mind, but Geralt seemed to shift, leaning closer, the broad expanse of his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Jaskier didn’t dare move, not wanting to break whatever spell had fallen over them. He felt the weight of a hand on his leg, a soft stroke of something over his ankle, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from Geralt’s to confirm.
Then, one of the logs in the fire cracked, cutting the moment short as Jaskier jumped and Geralt’s hand was suddenly gone from his leg. His heart raced, breath catching sharply in his lungs and Geralt started to reach out, concerned, but Jaskier flinched back, swallowing hard and forcing a placating smile on his face.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m fine. Just… startled me,” he said with a breathy laugh. Geralt watched him carefully, but moved back, giving him space. The tensely intimate glow was gone now, and Jaskier had to wonder if he had imagined it all in the first place, that warmth in Geralt’s eyes, the way he seemed to lean forward, the stroke of his hand. He was reading into things again, like always, stupid lovesick idiot just like he was before. Gods, would he ever learn?
He shook his head, trying to refocus. “Uh, so we were talking about Ciri,” Jaskier muttered, his heart rate slowing again as he rubbed absently across the back of his hand. Geralt’s expression seemed to stiffen as he gave a small nod. Jaskier furrowed his brows, straining his tired brain. “What exactly were we saying about her?”
Geralt raised an eyebrow, his lip curling up slightly. “Destiny?”
Jaskier gave a small groan. This conversation was going absolutely nowhere. He was never going to be able to sleep. Maybe he had died in that pool. And now he was going to be forced to talk in circles about some precocious child for all the rest of time. His head gave a timely throb. At least if they had something to drink, he might be able to actually enjoy himself a little.
“Jaskier?” Geralt said, giving him a strange look.
“What?”
“I said, I think I know where to look for her.”
Jaskier felt his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “What? Really?”
Geralt pressed his lips together, and gave a not-very-convincing nod. “That house by the woods where I found her the first time.”
“You think that she’ll be there?” He couldn’t really see the reasoning, but he also was starting to not be able to see much of anything at all, the edges of his vision were growing shakier and foggier by the minute.
Geralt frowned, contemplative before sighing and shaking his head. “It’s the only place I can think to go, which I think if this is connected to our destiny-” he spat the word out like it was a disgusting swear. “-I should probably take as some sort of sign.”
Jaskier cocked an eyebrow up, giving an amused smiled. “Imagine that. You actually going along with destiny for once. Never thought I would see the day…” he said and then immediately yawned, blinking blearily. “I hope those people at that house have something other than squirrel to eat. I’m going to be digging this fluffy bastard out of my teeth for weeks.”
“Get some rest, Jaskier,” Geralt said softly, a fond smile playing at the edges of his lips.
Jaskier shook his head, holding back another yawn. “I’m really not that tired.” He kept his eyes on Geralt, a lingering nervousness settling into his stomach, doubt that Geralt will still be here when he wakes, that this won’t have been some dream, that he won’t wake up back in that tavern, tied to that chair. Geralt’s scent was still coming off the cloak around his shoulders, not helping with the keeping Geralt at a distance thing. “Honestly, I could just stay up, and you can tell me what else you’ve been-“ He yawned, his eyes watering. “-doing.”
Geralt cocked his head, his eyes crinkling at the edges, that fond curve of his lips that drove Jaskier crazy. He reached out, squeezing Jaskier’s shoulder and letting a long breath pass out of his nostrils.
“Just sleep, bard. I’ll be here. You’ll be safe.”
Jaskier felt his chest warm at the familiar endearment. He let out a sigh, dropping back to lay down on the bed roll. He shivered, tucking his face into the blanket wrapped around him, keeping his eyes cracked just a little, so he could still see the side of Geralt’s leg, making sure he was still there. Geralt shifted and the warm side of his leg pressed up against the length of his body, comfort seeming to seep through the layers of cloth between them. Geralt’s arm rested over his back, a gentle hand smoothing over his shoulders, slow and rhythmic strokes that guided the beat of his heart as the exhaustion started to take hold of him again, eyes growing heavier, breaths drawing out.
He could have sworn, as the last of his consciousness faded away, that Geralt started talking… or humming… some low rumble of his voice drowning out the crackle of the fire and the whistle of the cold wind blowing through the trees around them. But before he could think about it too much, his mind sank into the darkness once again.
Notes:
Thanks for reading, and please leave comments if you’re liking it! I appreciate seeing all the kudos and subs and everything, but as any of you fellow writers know, nothing hits like a sexy little comment, and man, writing is so hard, and sometimes getting that Ao3 email notification is just the nice hit of dopamine that you need.
This is kind of the end of the chapters that I had prewritten before I started posting, so there may potentially be a little longer waits/shorter chapters for the next ones, so just a warning on that! I’m hoping to still stick to posting weekly, but I’ll just have to see how well the motivation sticks around….
Anyways, hope you liked this chapter.
Chapter 5: Loss
Summary:
Jaskier can’t sleep and asks Geralt to help. In the morning, they start off towards the house by the woods, and Geralt tells Jaskier about his time with Ciri at Kaer Morhen before they run into some familiar faces on the road.
Notes:
Geralt POV.
Trigger warning: Mild depiction of alcohol withdrawals, some discussion of alcoholism, alcohol consumption. Discussion of previous character death.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jaskier was a notoriously heavy sleeper.
Geralt could recall countless early mornings where he’d had to dump the contents of a waterskin over his face just to merely get him to open his eyes, to the point where he’d started trying to hide them before he went to sleep. It didn’t work, obviously. He was horrible at hiding things, either Geralt sniffed the damn things out in two seconds, or he hid them so well that even he forgot where he’d put them and they’d have to make their way into town to purchase replacements. And, that wasn’t even mentioning the several instances he’d slept through some attack during the night, snoring soundly in his bedroll as though Geralt wasn’t growling at him to ‘get the fuck up now’ and some creature wasn’t wailing and screaming in pain as the irritated witcher slashed its unlucky throat open. And then, the fucking bleary-eyed, half-awake bastard had the gall to complain about missing all the excitement while Geralt cleaned the blood off his sword.
It appeared that too had changed since they parted ways.
Jaskier did not sleep. Not for long anyways.
He’d passed out, drooling over the bedroll, snoring and mumbling softly for about ten minutes before a sharp crack in the fire had his eyes shooting open and his heart racing, searching the clearing frantically before meeting Geralt’s confused expression.
He waved off the concern with a sheepish laugh before laying back down, facing the other way, his back facing Geralt and the fire, leaving the comforting press of his body achingly absent from the side of Geralt’s leg. Jaskier slowly fell back asleep again, heartbeat returning to normal, his breaths steadying out, the sour scent of fear fading away. Geralt thought perhaps that would be the end of it.
Then, an owl hooted somewhere in the dark, out past the trees, and a branch snapped. Geralt could hear well enough that it was obviously an animal, a rat or something skittering up a tree, nothing to be concerned over, but Jaskier woke again, the same frantic pounding of his heart and that scent of sour panic. He gathered the blanket tightly around him. Geralt could see the tension of his muscles, practically shaking with effort to stay completely still. He breathed shallow and quick, and the faint smell of salt tinged the air.
Geralt frowned. He didn’t want to startle Jaskier more by speaking, or trying to somehow comfort him with a touch. He was still unsettled by the way he had reacted earlier when he’d been trying to work on his hand, thrashing and shouting with panic. He wasn’t sure if Jaskier would even want his help, if he’d feel like it was just being given out of pity or guilt. Geralt glanced at Jaskier from out of the corner of his eye. He was still huddled in the blanket. Maybe he should just pretend he hadn’t noticed that he’d woken up again. Surely, he would ask if he needed something, wouldn’t he? Geralt’s frown deepened.
While he was overthinking, Jaskier turned onto his back, heaving out a heavy breath, and glared up at the sky. Geralt glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow, but stayed quiet, still unsure of what Jaskier wanted of him. After another moment, Jaskier heaved an even more dramatically heavy breath, and Geralt decided that probably meant he was open to some sort of conversation.
“Are you alright?”
Jaskier cocked his head sideways, narrowing his heavy eyes at him. Geralt could smell… something. Something off lingering under the scent of soap, not quite sickly, but not well either.
“I can’t sleep.”
Geralt huffed, his other eyebrow raising minutely. “I noticed.”
Jaskier groaned again, bringing both of his hands up and dropping them unceremoniously over his face. “I’m so fucking tired, Geralt. I just want to sleep.”
Geralt hummed, gently nudging Jaskier’s hands away from his forehead and pressing the back of his hand to his skin. It was warm, maybe a little more than it should be, but Geralt had spent a while away from humans, other than Ciri, and it was difficult to recall exactly how warm they were supposed to be. He leaned slightly closer and inhaled, trying to check for the scent of infection, but only caught the sweet honey and soap, and the faint bitter scent of pain. Jaskier shifted, the movement of his head reminding Geralt he still had his hand pressed against his forehead and he quickly moved his hand back. Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him, cocking his head to the side.
“And, what do your witcher senses tell you? Am I dying? Perhaps some vicious curse keeping me from sleeping? Alas, I fear I shall waste away, dear witcher.” He pretended to swoon, dropping a hand back over his forehead and letting his eyes flutter closed.
“Are you in pain?”
Jaskier looked back at him, his brows furrowing. “A little? Why?”
“Is that why you can’t sleep?”
Jaskier’s eyes widened in understanding before he sighed and shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. His voice was breathy and quiet, strained with the tiredness that was weighing his body into the ground. He turned his eyes back up to the sky as he continued talking. “Honestly, I haven’t been able to sleep well for over a year.” The implication hung heavily between them. Geralt felt his stomach twist painfully as though punishing him out of sympathy towards Jaskier’s plight. “If I was back in the city, I would be through several glasses of wine by now and sleep would eventually just… happen… usually not in an actual bed.” He cocked his head at Geralt. “You didn’t happen to pick up that blue doublet with the silver embroidery, did you? I’m pretty sure I still had a flask stashed away in that one.”
Geralt shook his head, half grateful that he didn’t pick up that obnoxiously ostentatious thing because he didn’t like the idea of Jaskier… needing to drink to sleep. The thought of Jaskier becoming one of the drunkards that wasted away, drinking the last of their coin, their dignity, and their life, losing themselves to their drink, made him feel sick.
Jaskier huffed, disappointed, grinding his teeth together in his mouth. The beat of his heart quickened again, an anxious sourness tainting his scent.
“You didn’t used to drink like that,” Geralt said cautiously, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier turned his head, his eyes narrowing into a glare.
“I didn’t,” Jaskier said with a finality that made Geralt think he probably didn’t want to expand on the topic.
“What changed?” Geralt asked, curious concern outweighing Jaskier’s warning tone.
“What changed is that now, I do drink like that, Geralt,” he said sharply, his lips pressing together in a tight line.
“Jask-“ he said, stupidly pressing on.
“What? Geralt, what do you want me to say?! I-” Jaskier jerked up in the bedroll, bringing his knees up and moving too quickly, eliciting a strangled wince of pain as it jostled his bruised ribs. “Fuck,” he said, breathlessly, dropping his head into his knees. Geralt laid a hand tentatively over his back, as he sucked in a few strained breaths. Jaskier shook his head after a minute, heart pounding. “I’m too tired to talk about this right now.” His words were muffled into the layers of fabric he’d shoved his face against.
“Alright,” Geralt whispered next to his head, rubbing gently over his back as the smell of sharp pain faded. “Alright.”
Jaskier huffed and groaned. “Can you-“ he sucked in a sharp breath. “Would you… help me? Like you did before?” His voice was quiet and careful.
Geralt felt his stomach twist. He wasn’t completely sure what Jaskier was asking, but he had an idea and he didn’t like it. He swallowed tightly. “Like what before?”
Jaskier took a quiet breath, blinking slowly. “When you were bandaging my hand… the Axii.”
“Jask, Axii’s not… it’s not real sleep. You won’t feel anymore rested than you do now.”
Jaskier frowned and shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. I already know I’m not going to get any sleep tonight anyways. I just want it to sto-” he paused, swallowing hard. “For it to be quiet. In my head. Just for tonight.” He turned his face back towards Geralt, and he could see the dark shadows, the red rim of his eyes, the quiver of his lips. “Please, Geralt. Just tonight.”
There was no way that Geralt could say no, looking into those blue-gray eyes, the glow of the fire shining on the pooling tears, the desperate shake of his whispered voice. If this was the comfort that Jaskier wanted, if this is what he was asking for then, he’d give it. He’d give anything to take the pain away, even just for a few hours. Geralt’s expression softened as his resolve faded, and he stroked his hand up Jaskier’s back, brushing his fingers into the edge of his hair. Jaskier shuddered, his lips parting with the shaky breath.
“Please,” he breathed out, leaning closer, blinking slow and heavy. Geralt swallowed hard, his lungs feeling tight in his chest. “I don’t want… I don’t want to dream about anything.”
“Lay down,” Geralt said, keeping a gentle hand on Jaskier’s back. Jaskier let out a relieved sigh and leaned back, letting Geralt guide him back down to the bedroll before pulling his hand free. He smiled sadly, keeping his eyes locked onto Geralt’s face.
“Thank you,” he breathed.
Geralt shook his head quickly, tearing his eyes away from the innocent sincerity of Jaskier’s expression. “Don’t.” He couldn’t take his gratitude, not for this. Not for having to manipulate his mind so he could sleep to cope with the shit that he’d gone through because of Geralt. It was his fault this had happened.
He brought his hand up, curling his fingers into the sign, his voice firm, but gentle. “Sleep,” Jaskier’s eyes dropped closed and he went limp, the tension evaporating out of his muscles as he sank into the bedroll. “You will not dream, you will not feel the pain of your wounds. You will feel safe.”
Jaskier was quiet, his breaths coming in slow and steady puffs. Geralt clenched his jaw, shaking his head at himself as he wrapped Jaskier tighter in the blanket, checking to make sure he was positioned comfortably so at least he wouldn’t wake too sore. He had to fight the urge to pull him close, like how’d they been earlier, his arms around Jaskier, trying to provide some meager amount of comfort.
That would be too much.
It was already too much.
His mind shifted back to earlier that night, a moment, he’d said something… something he couldn’t remember thinking back to it now. He could only summon the image of Jaskier’s face, his eyes wide with hesitant surprise, and remember the tight feeling of anticipation curling in his gut. There had been a pull, dragging him forward, urging him closer, and it was only the crack of the fire that pulled them out of the trance. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if the fire hadn’t interrupted them.
He shook his head at himself again, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes, trying to slip into his meditative state. He wouldn't sleep tonight. Couldn't.
He'd woken this morning, feeling faintly comforted by being back in the temple. He knew they wouldn’t be able to stay there long, but he had felt he and Ciri would be somewhat safer within its walls, and Yennefer was there and alive, seemingly forgiving of what had happened between them on the mountain.
Things still weren’t perfect. Roach had been killed on the road there, and he was still mourning the loss of Eskel and ignoring the bard-shaped hole that lingered next to him. Danger was waiting for them, for Ciri, but being there, it had been something. Enough for a breath, a moment, to rest and hope for something else, something better, something easier.
But it hadn't lasted. Nothing good ever lasts.
Now, Ciri and Yennefer were gone, and he’d left the temple’s sanctuary tainted with blood and violence and bodies.
And then there was Jaskier.
He’d been deliberately keeping the bard away from his mind, that morning, the same as he'd done for the past year. Reminding himself that Jaskier was better off without him, that he had Ciri now, and she had to be everything, the motivation, the drive, the something that kept him alive, kept him wanting to be alive. When he'd thought Yennefer was dead, when he’d hoped Jaskier had forgotten about him and moved on, when Eskel had died, and Roach was killed, Ciri was that thing. She was the reason he could take another step forward, that kept him from falling apart and turning back into the cynical loner he'd become after Blaviken, before Jaskier had started to draw him back out again all those years ago.
Geralt peeked out of one eye, looking down at the sleeping man wrapped up in his blanket. He was eerily quiet, the weight of Axii keeping him from doing anything other than sleeping soundly. Not even a snore. Just one steady breath after another.
He watched, a nauseating ache of guilt slithering in his stomach.
He shouldn't be here.
He could still see the image of Jaskier slipped under the water in his mind, his hands limply reaching towards the surface, the stench of his panic and terror hanging in the air. Geralt had broken into a determined sprint the instant he had picked up the muffled sounds of distress coming from the pools, terrified that in his absence, someone or something had found Jaskier. He’d left him alone and defenseless, thinking he'd be alright there for a few minutes, only for him to immediately be attacked. When he didn’t see Jaskier sitting up in the water, he had nearly run off to look for him or whoever or whatever could have taken him, except he'd, thankfully, heard the faint sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat gradually slowing under the water.
Ignoring Jaskier over the past year made it easier not to think about the reality of losing him. Of really losing him, not just the preferable version of Jaskier choosing to leave because he could no longer tolerate being around an emotionally stunted asshole, or because Geralt had pushed him away. But Jaskier being in the world one day... and then gone the next.
And it could be anything. He was human. He could have drowned, been killed by the mage or Yennefer, fallen off the side of a mountain, stabbed by some random asshole deciding to take out his frustrations on a noisy bard, or just drank too much. He was mortal. Jaskier was mortal, and it made him exhausted just thinking about how thin that line between being alive and being dead really was.
He wasn’t safe here. He wasn’t safe there. He wasn’t safe anywhere.
But he wanted to stay. For some fucking reason he still couldn’t understand, Jaskier wanted to stay with him. And if he was honest with himself, for once in his long pitiful life, he wanted Jaskier to stay with him, too. There was danger waiting, and the only way to know, for sure, that Jaskier was alive, was to keep him close and never leave him alone, ever again, and once he tracked down Ciri again, he’d always keep her in sight, too, and then nothing bad would ever happen to them again. He’d keep them safe and alive even if it killed him.
He didn’t know how Jaskier would feel about that. He didn’t really know how to feel about it himself, the protective feelings. They were nothing new, now just renewed with an overwhelming intensity. He wondered if it was partially his bond with Ciri, developing this relationship that made him accept the importance of the people that he’d let into his life, which included the bard sleeping quietly against the side of his leg.
Geralt found his hand slipping down over Jaskier’s forehead, brushing aside the hair that had fallen over his face. He still felt warm, a light sheen of sweat sticking to his skin, but Geralt still didn’t smell any sign of infection that would be the most likely cause of a fever. He pulled a small cloth from the pack and wet it, laying it carefully across Jaskier’s forehead.
Geralt never wanted him to feel like he had to be more than what he was; a human, a bard, a friend, a man with a heart that was too big for his brain. He liked those things about him, that Jaskier was soft and caring and emotional, and also strong and passionate and angry, even if it often got him into trouble. He liked that Jaskier had felt comfortable being himself, that he could be happy traveling by the side of a witcher who was hard and repressed and stoic, and that he somehow always had a belief that Geralt could grow to be more than that, and that maybe he already was.
But then...he didn’t even know if Jaskier had been happy by his side. Because even if he had thought Jaskier was enough, and appreciated his company, he certainly hadn’t made that clear over the years. And it seemed that the only words that had stuck were the ones he’d said lashing out at him in anger and frustration back on that mountain. That he was a burden, that he was too much, that Geralt had resented him for the impact he’d made on his life.
Because even now, despite apologizing, despite Jaskier insisting his forgiveness, there was a desperation, a fear that hadn’t been there before. That if Geralt left him behind, he’d never come back for him again, that he had to be useful, to prove himself, to bite down the wounds so that he wouldn’t be pushed away again, and that Geralt didn’t really want him here in the first place.
He didn’t know how to fix it, all the cracks and shattered pieces that Jaskier had been left in from everything that had happened. But he knew he had to try, while they traveled together to find Ciri, he had to try to make things right, and to make sure that once this was over, once Yennefer had been dealt with however that turned out, and Ciri was with him again, that Jaskier knew and trusted that Geralt had a place for him, if he wanted to take it. That he wouldn’t need to drown himself in alcohol or beg to be Axii’d just to get some sleep, and that he’d feel safe resting by his side.
Jaskier huffed softly in his sleep, a faint sound just enough out of the pattern of breaths the Axii had created that it drew his attention away from his thoughts. Geralt glanced down, watching and waiting quietly, trying to make sure that Jaskier wasn’t going to start fighting the sign and wake again. But his breaths remained steady, the smooth expression on his face making him look years younger, closer to the round-faced boy that had first trailed along after him in Posada. Geralt let out a soft breath, shaking his head before he shifted and laid down alongside Jaskier, folding his hands together on his chest and shutting his eyes.
The thoughts racing through his head started to quiet as he forced himself to meditate and he let out a shaky breath, listening to the sound of Jaskier sleeping.
“-wasn’t really that interested in going back to the university to teach again that soon, so I just had to find some different things to fill the time. Mostly kept me pretty busy. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have-“
They’d been walking for about an hour since leaving the clearing that morning. It was early, the sky still gray and dull as dawn rose. The woods around them were still quiet, and not even the few birds around had started singing yet. Geralt had a vague direction of where they needed to go, but their pace was slow, intentionally by his own part, trying to keep Jaskier from pushing himself too hard, and trying to keep him from noticing that he was trying to keep him from pushing himself too hard. With how he’d acted last night when he’d reasonably expressed concern for his well-being, Geralt didn’t think that he’d appreciate that they were slowing down on his behalf.
Even if Geralt was slowing them down on purpose and didn’t blame Jaskier for being injured and needing to go slower, he was still impatient to get to that house and find Ciri. If Jaskier had been anyone else, he would have run off without him, making use of his mutation-granted speed and pushing his body to the limit until he made it back to his child surprise, ripping Yennefer apart if she'd done anything to hurt her.
“-that’s mostly what I’ve been up to,” Jaskier said, finally taking a breath. He stumbled over a dip in the road and gave a small wince, wrapping his arm around his chest and waving Geralt off before he could even say anything. He’d been talking basically nonstop since they’d gotten on the road, and Geralt couldn’t help but notice the precisely avoidant topics, never straying towards the mage or Yennefer or the drinking or his work as the Sandpiper. His voice held a strained and almost frantic edge to it, like if he stopped speaking, he’d risk falling apart. Jaskier cocked his head towards Geralt and raised an eyebrow. “Well, you obviously had some time with your new little daughter... child… person, which is quite an interesting thought… just imagining you as a father…,” he smirked. “I’m quite curious about what she’s like. From what I recall about Pavetta, she was beautiful and terrifying… and obviously, her father was a hedgehog man, so Ciri… must be a prickly and pretty little thing… Though you’ve probably tainted her with your grumpy witcher demeanor by now.”
Geralt rolled his eyes and shook his head. “She’s not… a hedgehog. Duny wasn’t even a hedgehog, Jaskier. He was cursed.” The bard huffed and waved his hand.
“Oh, sure. Fine. Not a hedgehog, then. Would certainly have made for much more interesting gossip though. All I could manage to find out is that she was blonde and Calanthe was obsessively protective over her. I did try to go back once, you know… or twice. But you-“ he jabbed a finger towards Geralt, raising an eyebrow. “Got me banned from even merely paying my humble respects in those halls again, let alone giving another riveting performance. I mean, honestly, I don’t know what she expected me to do… it’s not like I could have smuggled a child out in my lute case.”
“Not with that attitude.” Geralt said, slightly amused.
Jaskier scrunched his nose and narrowed his eyes before a smile broke across his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”
Geralt shook his head and smiled softly, enjoying the familiar-feeling banter. Jaskier nudged his arm, giving him a pointed look when he glanced over.
“So,” Jaskier prompted. “What is the little princess like?”
Geralt shrugged. “She’s… she’s something,” he said, pausing with a frown as he thought back on the fair-haired troublemaker he’d spent the last four months with. “You’d like her. She’s smart. Incredibly frustrating, at times, and stubborn. She wanted to learn to protect herself, and I finally gave in and got out the wooden swords and dummies. I was trying to start her off slow so she wouldn’t hurt herself.” He cocked his head towards Jaskier who gave an understanding nod. “And by the next week, she’d snuck out to the training grounds with Lamb and Coën. Even covered in bruises and scrapes, getting the shit knocked out of her, she insisted on going on for more.” He heaved a breath at the memory of Ciri popping back up from the snow and wiping a streak of blood from under her nose, the determined glint in her eye as she dared him to tell her to stop.
Jaskier snorted. “Hmm, now… who does that remind me of?” He said slyly, a smirk crawling over his lips. Geralt rolled his eyes. “She really is turning out to be your daughter.” He let out a soft sigh, looking forward at the path and rolling out his neck. “Speaking of Lambert and Coën, how are your brothers doing? Fuck, I would have loved to have heard the shit they gave you about bringing that girl up to the keep.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I'm sure Vesemir gave you an earful, too.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow and nodded, his stomach twisting at the mention of his brothers, remembering the unfortunate beginning to their winter. The brother that ended up missing in those memories of Ciri’s training. He hoped that Jaskier would drop it, but-
“Oh, did Eskel ever make it up there?”
Of course. Geralt frowned, his jaw clenching and chest aching with the fresh loss, the guilt from the part he played in that loss, from missing the signs until it had been too late to save his brother's life and driving the blade into his heart.
He nodded stiffly.
Jaskier and Eskel had grown close over the years since they’d first met. Their friendship had come about naturally. Eskel’s gentler and more sociable nature, compared to Geralt’s, at least, mixed nearly too well with Jaskier, the confident tolerance and his inability to be swayed by the gruesome reality of witcher’s lives, the danger, the scars, the blood and gore and guts. It hadn’t hurt that Eskel happened to be the most well-read out of all of his brothers and even took genuine interest in enabling Jaskier’s long conversations about poetry and literature and all of the finest of the arts.
Geralt had never been jealous of their friendship. Eskel spent so much of his life being looked at with disgust and fear due to the scars that disfigured his face, and it really made him glad to see his brother bonding with someone who didn’t pity or run from him, that saw him as he was, an intelligent, kind, and well-spoken man despite what people expected when they saw him. Plus, Jaskier liked to talk, and sometimes, he just needed a living, breathing body there to ramble at for a few hours. Usually, that ended up being Geralt due to the fact that they spent so much time on the road together, but whenever they ran into Eskel, he’d always manage to get a brief reprieve, letting his brother sit and listen to the songs lyrics he’d been muddling over or the court gossip or drunken complaints about that Valdo Marx bastard. Jaskier didn’t mind, Eskel didn’t mind, and Geralt got to rest his ears for a few hours.
They’d become real friends, Jaskier and Eskel, and now Geralt didn’t know how to tell Jaskier that he was dead and that he’d been the one that had killed him.
“Oh, good,” Jaskier continued, not seeming to notice the solemn mood Geralt had slipped into. “He stopped in Oxenfurt at the beginning of winter, and he hadn’t seemed to think he'd be finished with the contract he was working in time to make it up the mountain.” Geralt felt his chest tighten, his eyes shooting over to stare at Jaskier, who continued casually speaking as he was half-focused on not tripping over the rocks strewn over this section of the path. “I do wonder if he happened to mention anything about it… the contract, I mean? You know how curious I get about the witcher-y stuff you lot do. Honestly, if I hadn’t been occupied with my Sandpiper duties, I probably would have tried to sneak off after him. I think he’d said he thought that it was a doppler, but… a doppler? I mean, really? Every single time you thought you’d caught the trail of one of those, it turned out to be something completely different. I’m starting to think they just don’t even exist.”
Geralt frowned, trying to process the litany of words Jaskier just spat out at him, shaking his head. “What are you talking about?”
Jaskier paused, raising an eyebrow and frowning. “Uhh, to what part are you referring, dear? I just said… well, a fair number of different things, so you’re going to have to be a little more specific.” Geralt didn’t respond, still trying to process. “I mean, you know Eskel, your brother, big fella that looks a bit like you except for the hair and the scars and not having a permanent frown stuck on his face.” Jaskier cocked his head and sighed. “Or maybe you mean him visiting me? I suppose he probably didn’t mention that, given, you know, everything that had happened between the two of us,” he paused, sucking in a breath and shaking his head. “I did happen to tell him… the whole… mountain tale, but to be fair to myself, it wasn’t entirely intentional. I was just slightly drunk when he ran into me… or rather I ran into him. And I mean that literally. Nearly broke my fucking nose on his chest,” he said, rubbing his nose with a wince for emphasis. “You witchers and your bloody rock-hard muscles,” he mumbled, shaking his head.
"You’re sure it was him though?”
Jaskier furrowed his brow and nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean I was drunk, Geralt, but not that drunk. I do know what Eskel looks like.”
“What did he say when you saw him? Exactly?” Geralt asked, desperately.
Jaskier pursed his lips, cocking his head to the side. "Fuck, Geralt. I don't know. We talked for a couple hours... months ago… and as I said, I was drunk. I can’t remember that."
"What did he tell you about the contract?"
Jaskier huffed, narrowing his eyes at him, seeming to pick up on Geralt’s change in demeanor. "People reporting strange things and dead bodies. The usual.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re acting strangely suspicious, even for you. What’s going on?”
Geralt lowered his eyes, shaking his head as his frown deepened.
"Geralt," Jaskier said firmly. "Did something happen? Is Eskel alright?”
Jaskier's breath caught in his throat when Geralt gave a stiff shake of his head.
"No. He's not." Geralt swallowed thickly. "He's dead."
The silence was deafening. Even Jaskier's footsteps on the ground quieted. Geralt slowed, listening to the racing heartbeat that grew more distant as Geralt walked and Jaskier didn’t. Jaskier swallowed hard, ground his teeth together in his mouth, holding his breath. It seemed everything went still, and even his own steps felt too loud, the crunch of the rocks under his boots like thunder. Geralt shook his head and stopped walking, still not able to turn around, too scared to meet the expression on Jaskier’s face.
"What?" Jaskier said, hoarsely. "Geralt, what are you talking about? He's not... what... why didn't...." He took a step forward, breathing hard. "What happened?"
How could he explain? He still hadn't been able to process what had happened himself, to truly grieve his brother. He didn’t deserve that, to feel the sadness over his death when it has been his fault. And now, confessing that was the last thing he wanted to do, to see the grief and pity on Jaskier's face turn into disgust and horror. To say out loud that he'd murdered his own brother.
He flinched when Jaskier's hand brushed over his wrist, light and feathery before wrapping tighter, holding him still. Geralt could feel his hand shaking, the skin clammy. He looked like shit. Geralt knew Axii wasn’t a sufficient replacement for actual sleep, and he could tell that Jaskier was exhausted already. Air shivered in his lungs as he drew each breath in, sweat clung to his forehead, and his eyelids hung heavy over his eyes like he was close to swooning. He clenched his jaw, squeezing his hand tighter around Geralt's wrist.
"Are you feeling alright?" Geralt asked, frowning.
Jaskier scowled, heaving an irritated breath. "I'm fine," he said sternly. "Don't change the subject. What happened to Eskel?"
Geralt shook his head. "We can talk about this later. You need to sit down. You look like you're about to fall over."
"Geralt, just... leave it. I promise, if I need to stop, I will tell you." His teeth ground audibly in his mouth again. His breaths were coming harder, and that same strange scent that he’d picked up last night lingered around him. He squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head. "Why aren’t you telling me what happened?" He opened his eyes again, staring him down with a surprising amount of intensity.
"Jask," he said, shaking his head. He could feel the swell of emotions building in his gut, pushed down for so long he'd hoped they'd rotted and fermented into something else, but they were there, waiting for him to let them back into the light of day. He swallowed tightly. "I killed him.”
Jaskier frowned, his brows lowering over his eyes. He stayed quiet, knowing Geralt well enough to give space to work through his words when he needed to. He usually appreciated that, but now he wished that Jaskier would interrupt him with some unrelated bullshit and keep him from having to talk about this.
"He was infected. Some mutated leshy caught him in the chest, and when he came back to the keep... he didn’t say anything. He didn’t bother to tell us, and by the time we found out what had happened, it was too late. The infection changed him, turned him into one of them." Geralt swallowed thickly. "And I killed him."
Jaskier's grip loosened for a moment on his wrist before it tightened again. He shook his head firmly. "You did what you had to.”
Geralt tugged his arm away, starting to walk down the path again, shaking his head. "You weren't there. You don't know what happened."
Jaskier huffed, chasing after him. "No, I wasn't there, but I know you well enough to know that if there was another way, with the time you had, you would have found it. You said yourself that he hid it from you. How the hell were you supposed to know?"
Geralt growled under his breath, stalking forward quicker. "He was infected, Jaskier, and he was my brother. I should have noticed… something. Should have smelled it on him or seen how he wasn’t acting like himself. It should have never gotten to that point. And now he's dead, and it's my fucking fault!! Don’t you fucking tell me I did all I could when you weren’t fucking there!" He shouted, whipping back around, and feeling like he'd been punched in the gut when Jaskier flinched back, the stricken expression on his face the same as he’d looked when Geralt had shouted at him on the mountain. He knew somewhere deep down that he shouldn’t be taking his emotions out on Jaskier like this, not again, but he couldn't stop it. The anger flared up in his chest like wildfire and his breaths came hard and fast, hands clenched into tight fists at his side. He moved to turn away again, but Jaskier surged forward, snatching his arm in his hand. Geralt's muscles twitched under his grasp, and he fought the instinct to shove him off.
"He wouldn't blame you. You know that, right? Eskel wouldn't blame you."
"Don't." Geralt warned him, squeezing his eyes closed. He shook his head again, biting into his cheeks as he clenched his jaw tighter and tighter. There was a silence in the air, apart from their heavy breaths and heart beats, like the birds knew what he had confessed. Jaskier stepped closer. Geralt held back a feral snarl, feeling like a cornered animal.
“Geralt-“
Something moved in the brush beyond the trees. Geralt's eyes snapped open, darting to the side of the path where the sound had come from.
“-just-“
Heartbeats. Boots. The metallic twang of a weapon. The tight click of a crossbow.
“-talk to me-“
Geralt grabbed the collar of Jaskier’s coat and dragged him to the ground just as an arrow whizzed past the place his head had been. Jaskier yelped, clinging to Geralt's arm as he fell.
The boots moved closer, low and heavy, huffing breaths. More weapons.
Geralt snatched the sword from his back, turning towards the sound and standing over Jaskier protectively. He narrowed his focus to the sound of the oncoming attack, giving an intimidating snarl. He readied his sword, his eyes fixed on the area of trees the noises were coming from.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, hushed and panicked, behind his legs. His heart pounded louder, drawing Geralt’s attention.
“Be quiet.”
“Who is it?” He asked, barely whispering.
“Jaskier, shut up,” Geralt growled, his patience thin from their conversation and the distraction having let some assholes sneak up on them. Jaskier huffed again, but kept his mouth closed, which Geralt was grateful for, at least, as he concentrated on the sounds again.
The boots were still shuffling through the brush, just enough out of sight, hidden behind the trees, that he couldn’t get enough details on who was stalking them.
“Come out!” Geralt demanded impatiently. If Jaskier hadn’t been here, he would have been running into the bushes to slash apart the cowards that decided to ambush them and hide away.
The shuffling paused for a moment.
“Is that the fuckin’ White Wolf!?”
A vaguely familiar voice shouted out through the trees near where one of the sets of boots stopped. Geralt narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on his sword. He couldn’t place the voice, not with the distracting sounds all around him, and he wasn’t prone to making friends, so people that knew that moniker were more likely to want to kill him than not.
“Come out and find out,” Geralt replied steadily, keeping his eyes on the place the voice had come from.
The shuffling started again, and Geralt could see the tips of fingers peeking up from behind the bushes, and a bald head poked out behind a tree. Geralt kept his sword held out in front of him and cocked his head, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
“Yarpen Zigrin?” he huffed. He eyed the arrow behind them that had nearly pierced into Jaskier’s skull. “Any reason for the… welcoming gift?”
Yarpen waved his hand back at the trees as he walked out into the path. “‘S alright, boys. Weapons down!” He shrugged, nodding his head towards the trail they’d been walking down. “Can’t be too careful. There’s lots of dangerous types out here, witcher. Present company included,” he said with a laugh before raising an eyebrow down at Jaskier, whose heart was still rabbiting with panic in his chest. “Well, mostly. Sorry ‘bout that, bard. Nothin’ personal.”
Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes, poking at the muscular leg that was blocking him from getting back up from the ground. Geralt finally relaxed enough to lower his sword, stepping aside so Jaskier could get free and reaching a hand down to help him back to his feet.
“No, of course not,” Jaskier said tightly, his heart still racing, sweat clinging to his brow. He brushed the dirt off his coat, eyeing the rest of the dwarves that were emerging from the bushes, their weapons lowered, but still drawn. “What are you lot doing out here anyways? Weren’t you supposed to be dukes or something like that after the whole dragon business?”
Yarpen rolled his eyes as the rest of the dwarves let out a collective groan. “Turns out we’re not built for the whole lording shite. We’ll leave that to bloody stuffed coat bastards. C’mon,” he waved a hand and started walking back into the trees, and Geralt waited until Jaskier started stumbling forward before he followed. “We’ve been runnin’ convoys for one of the kingdoms, gets us much more excitement than collecting dust on some bloody patch of land in the middle of nowhere. Right, boys?!” He shouted and received a bellowing cheer in response.
The trees opened up, revealing a cart loaded with crates and canvas sacks, another two weapon-wielding dwarves standing protectively in front of it, relaxing when Yarpen gave them a wave. It looked like the mostly cleaned up remains of a camp, a small dying fire in the center, half-folded bed rolls and a few soiled pots, the scent of breakfast, already eaten. There were three horses grazing in the small patch of grass near the back of the clearing. Yarpen turned back towards him as they arrived in the camp.
“Now, what are the two of you doin’ out here? You’ve had quite a bit of talk going ‘round about you, wolf, and not so much good things. Though, I see you’ve managed to find this one-“ he jabbed his finger towards Jaskier, who gave a slight flinch. “We weren’t sure he’d make it down that mountain after he told us to leave him up there all alone.”
Jaskier tensed, turning his head away, his lips pressed into a tight line. Geralt swallowed, giving a stiff nod.
“Right,” Geralt said, ignoring the comment about the mountain. “What kind of talk?”
“Ah, most of its been the usual witcher crap. Monsters and killin’, that shite.” He cocked his head and continued. “But, we have been hearing whispers. Some bastards out there looking for a white-haired witcher travelin’ with a young girl. Nasty soundin’ people with some deep, deep pockets. They’re apparently payin’ quite a bit of coin for information.” Geralt tensed, glancing suspiciously around the group. None of the other dwarves seemed to be paying much attention, busy cleaning up the rest of the camp and packing up their cart. Yarpen shook his head and laughed. “Don’t you worry, though, witcher. By the time talk like that reaches the likes of us, it’s been passed around so much it’s useless shite. Even if we’d wanted to turn you in, none of those folks doin’ the talkin’ would even know where the hell to point us.” Geralt narrowed his eyes at him. “Not that we’d want to anyway. I’d prefer to keep my head on my body!” A few of the other dwarves joined his laughter, chuckling around the clearing.
“That couldn’t be Geralt they’re looking for anyways,” Jaskier added, waving a hand around them. “There’s no young girl I can see traveling with this white-haired witcher…”
Yarpen cocked his head. “I suppose. Though maybe they meant you, eh, bard?!” He jabbed a finger towards Jaskier’s face. “You’re not lookin’ as young as you did last time we saw ya, but the hair’s certainly gettin’ long enough!” He jabbed his fist into Jaskier’s arm, earning a strained wince and a forced smile, his expression stiffening even more.
“Funny,” he mumbled, giving an obviously fake laugh, peeking out of the corner of his eye at Geralt.
Geralt hummed, looking around the camp, eyeing the three large horses lingering at the edge of the clearing. “We’re heading south, near Riverdell. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare horse?”
Yarpen scoffed loudly, shaking his head. “Ahh, wish I could help you there, but no. No spare horse. This load’s almost too heavy for the three we’ve got. You’re welcome to come along though. We could at least give you a ride most of the way. We’ll be heading pretty close to Riverdell. Probably passing about a day’s walk from there,” he said, raising a sharp eyebrow.
Geralt nodded gratefully, flicking his eyes towards Jaskier, who raised an eyebrow at him curiously.
“What do you think?”
Jaskier’s eyes widened, slightly surprised by the question. “Er, what? Me?”
“Ah! Come on then, bard! We could use a bit a’ song on the trail!” Yarpen reached out again, smacking Jaskier on the arm. Jaskier huffed indignantly, eyeing Yarpen with narrowed eyes.
“Ay! I’ll drink to that!” One of the other dwarves raised up a worn-looking wineskin laughing before taking a large swallow, and then broke out into a loud and boisterous rendition of some dwarven ballad. Geralt barely heard it over the immediate pounding of Jaskier’s heart and the way his eyes latched onto the wineskin like a predator tracking its prey.
“Oh, ho ho.” He grinned. “Now, why didn’t you mention that there were libations? Of course, I would be delighted to scrounge up a few songs on the way, as long as you’re sharing!” Jaskier said, a cheery lilt to his voice that Geralt hadn’t heard since they’d reunited. “Now, what say you toss that over my way, my dear sweet generous compatriots?”
Before Geralt could protest, Jaskier had a wineskin thrust into his hands and was drinking greedily. He heaved a heavy breath when he finally pulled it away from his lips, his tongue darkening with the stain of the wine already. He grimaced and coughed into his sleeve before holding the wineskin back out. Yarpen grabbed it, turning to join in the rowdy singing with the rest of the company.
“That is… something.” Jaskier coughed again, smacking his lips. He jabbed Geralt in the side with his elbow, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Pass me the waterskin, that tasted like rancid piss.”
Geralt rolled his eyes, tugging the waterskin off the side of the pack and handing it over.
"Alright," Geralt said, ignoring Jaskier’s theatrics as he washed the taste out of his mouth. He turned back to Yarpen and cleared his throat. “When are you leaving?”
Yarpen glanced around the clearing before turning back. “Well, we were close to headin’ out when we heard you two shoutin’ down the road. Ten minutes?”
Geralt nodded, and Yarpen turned back to the dwarves, loudly discussing their travel plans and getting back to work packing the cart and hooking up the horses.
Jaskier caught his eye as he lowered the waterskin, the looseness of his expression gone, replaced by a tight concerned glare. He leaned over, speaking in a hushed tone. “Don’t think we’re finished discussing… what we were discussing before,” he said, leaving no room for argument. Geralt clenched his jaw. He knew Jaskier wasn't going to drop it, and he did want to know more about this doppler Eskel had supposedly been tracking before coming up to the keep. If there was a possibility it had something to do with Eskel’s injury, his strange behavior, it was worth the discomfort that talking about his… feelings… would bring.
Geralt nodded, lowering his voice. “Later.”
Jaskier eyed him for a moment before giving a stiff nod and wandering into the group of dwarves. Geralt could hear him asking them if they had anything other than the ‘delightfully fragrant wine’ to drink, a fake cheeriness coloring his voice as he gave them friendly pats on the shoulders. Geralt held his tongue as one of them pulled out a flask and shoved it into his hand. Jaskier smiled, uncorking the spout and took a drink. He looked relieved pulling away his lips, his expression loosening, and shoulders slumping. He muttered something about it being much better than the other stuff and tried to pass it back, but the dwarf rolled his eyes and pushed it back into his hand. Jaskier thanked him and wandered over to sit on the trunk of a fallen tree, tucking the flask into his trouser pocket.
Even from across the clearing, Geralt could see how tired he was, wanted to go over to check on him again, but he didn’t want to push. He busied himself helping the dwarves pack up camp, and left Jaskier to sit quietly, occasionally bringing the flask up to his mouth and taking another drink.
Jaskier insisted on walking, at least at first. His breath stank of alcohol as he spouted off some nonsense about not wanting to weigh down the poor tired horses, shuffling in beside Geralt as they made their way down the road. His skin didn’t look as pale and clammy as it had before, and though he still looked tired, the sharp edge he’d woken with seemed to have smoothed out. Fortunately, for the next mile or so, the road was rough enough that they had to go fairly slow anyways, so he was able to keep up easily, chatting and humming, and taking sips out of the gifted flask.
His endurance faltered once the road smoothed out and the horses were able to pick up some speed. Geralt could hear the strain in each of his breaths, his arms fluttering around his chest and holding his aching ribs, and his sweat stank of alcohol and pain. Geralt knew how uncomfortable chest injuries could be. Even though his ribs weren’t broken, just bruised, they made even breathing painful. But Jaskier continually refused to take a place on the cart, cheerily claiming he was fine. It took him tripping and nearly falling under the wheel of the cart for Geralt to finally shove him into the back, silencing any argument he attempted, and blocking him from getting back down until he settled in, giving Geralt a sharp and irritated glare.
Jaskier was already too exhausted and in too much pain to put up much of a fight, and resigned himself to pouting for a while, shifting and fidgeting between the sacks and crates until he’d gotten somewhat comfortable. Geralt glanced back over a few minutes later and his breaths had evened out and he’d slumped over, asleep. Geralt let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding in, finally relaxing at the sound of his snores. He was grateful, at least, that he’d hadn’t needed to Axii him this time.
Yarpen swung his legs over the side of the cart, glancing from Jaskier’s unconscious form back over to Geralt, quirking up one of his eyebrows.
“Your bard’s lookin’ like shit.”
Geralt glanced back at Jaskier for a moment. He looked a bit better than he did when he’d dragged him out of that cell yesterday, or at least cleaner. But the dark circles under his eyes and the protective way he kept his arm wrapped around his chest, holding himself as he slept, worried him. He’d already pushed himself more than he probably should have walking this morning, and Geralt knew they were running low on supplies to help manage the pain. And that wasn't even touching on the alcohol issue. He'd been around enough taverns to know the signs, the sickness that overtook people when they stopped drinking too quickly. Men had died from it before, gruesomely, their bodies convulsing, choking on their own sick, sweat soaking their clothes. He wasn't going to let that happen to Jaskier.
Geralt looked back at Yarpen and nodded quietly, knowing Jaskier wouldn’t appreciate him sharing specifics. He drew in a long breath. “He got hurt a few days ago. He’s still recovering.” Geralt turned his eyes back to the road, his jaw tense.
“Hmm,” Yarpen said, cocking his head. “One of your monsters get to ‘im?”
Geralt ground his teeth, breathing out tightly through his nose. “Something like that.” He could see the bastard’s face in his mind, practically hearing Jaskier’s agonized screams as the flames had eaten away at his hand. He could taste blood as his teeth bit into the insides of his cheeks, fighting back against the guilty anger that he had no outlet for right now.
Yarpen grunted. “Well, it’s good he’s got you then. I’ve not known of many travelin’ bards that have lasted this long on the road without getting themselves hurt worse than him… or killed. Honestly, we didn’t even think he’d make it back down that mountain. Figured you’d left the chatty bastard behind to fend for himself.”
“Right,” Geralt grunted, not really wanting to delve any further into this topic. Jaskier had already nearly died more times than he was comfortable thinking about, and the mountain touched on feelings that he really didn’t want to focus on at the moment. “Well, he’s here now.”
Yarpen eyed him curiously for a moment. One of the other dwarves started mumbling something barely intelligible at behind him and he turned back around, thankfully leaving Geralt to his thoughts before he could prod at any other tender emotional wounds.
Geralt kept his eyes from lingering back towards Jaskier, mentally reassuring himself that he was there, and he was fine. He could hear his breaths, the steady beat of his heart. He wasn’t going anywhere. Geralt just needed to stay focused. Find Ciri. Get to the house, find Ciri, and get somewhere safe, and then figure out what to do about… everything else.
He just had to keep walking. One step, and then the next, and the next until he found his child again.
Notes:
Thanks for reading. I hope that you’re enjoying. I’ve appreciated all the sweet comments you’ve left and all the kudos and subscriptions and bookmarks! It makes me happy to see people that are liking my version and characterizations and everything! It’s been a really fun project working on this and while it’s a bit overwhelming to look at the outline and see how much I still have left to go, it’s also satisfying looking back and seeing where I’ve gotten to so far! Hoping I’ll be able to keep up with the weekly updates (as I mentioned last chapter, I’ve reached the end of the chapters I had prewritten before I started posting, so now I’m having to write over the course of the week)! Comments are adored and fuel my writer brain, so thank you in advance if you write anything at all, even if it’s a nonsensical keysmash lol!
Chapter 6: Help
Summary:
In the evening at the dwarves’ camp, Jaskier spends some time talking and thinking about what has happened to him, and how he’s dealing with all of that.
Notes:
Jaskier POV
Warnings: Some mentions of alcoholism/drinking, negative self-talk, anxiety.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He couldn’t stop himself from staring, his eyes frozen in place.
Stuck. Still. Wide.
Faintly, he could recognize that his heart was racing, adrenaline constricting his throat, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was watching.
He just had to watch it.
And it was easy. It was mesmerizing. Hypnotic.
Fucking terrifying.
His eyes started to water again from going too long without blinking and his breath caught for the split second his eyelids blocked his vision.
It’s a fucking campfire, Jaskier.
And it was. Sitting there, practically miles away across the camp that they’d set up, the light barely even reaching his bedroll. Just a normal, everyday campfire.
But that didn’t mean it made him any less afraid, his eyes burning just looking at it. It didn’t change the way it flickered and danced, menacingly seductive like sirens dragging you to your death. The flames were just as bright and hot licking up through the plumes of smoke as the ones that the mage had held in his hand, the ones that had eaten into his palm, had ripped screams out of his throat only days ago.
And the dwarves ignored it for the most part, treating it like part of the background, same as he used to, same as he knew he should be able to now. Occasionally, one of them would toss a meager offering of wood into the flames or hold their hands up to it, trying to siphon off some of the heat. That heat. He could feel it, the intense memory sending the signals to his nerves, searing and throbbing, his throat tightening, suffocating.
Jaskier ground his teeth together. He wanted to look away. He knew he needed to. Turn his focus to something else, think about anything at all other than the fear and the pain and the heat, because if he didn’t, he’d fall into another panic, showing Geralt that he wasn’t capable of being out here again. That he was just one wrong step from completely falling apart, and he had made the wrong choice in dragging him out of that fucking cell in Oxenfurt.
But he couldn’t look away.
He knew it didn’t make sense. He was sure that this was real. The dwarves, the ground, the horses. He was out of that tavern, his wrists were free, and the fire was just a fire.
But if he looked away…
If he gave it a chance, it could change. His mind could change it for him, like it had before. If he closed his eyes, if he looked away, those phantom binds could wrap around his wrists again, his mind could make it feel like the campfire was being held in those long fingers, a cruel grin illuminated behind it, getting closer and closer. He’d believe it, like he had back in the pool, unable to escape from the visions, the voices, and Geralt would send him away.
So he wouldn’t give it the chance. He wouldn’t let his mind slip. Not for one second.
Just watch. Don’t blink. Don’t look away. You’re stronger than this, Jask. You’re stronger than some stupid fucking fi-
“Ya hungry?”
He flinched halfway across his bedroll, flinging the flask, that he’d apparently just been drinking from, several feet away. His heart was racing as he whipped his head to the side, suddenly aware that there was a whole entire person that had managed to sneak up right in front of his face.
“F-fuck!” he stammered, trying to get the thudding of his pulse to calm, blinking wildly as the afterimages of the fire flashed in his eyes, making it incredibly difficult to be able to tell which of their bearded companions this was. Or rather it would have, had it not been for the soft tone of her voice, and the skirt that added to the shadow around her legs. Jaskier huffed and shook his head, forcing a smile. “Ahh, goodness, my apologies, I didn’t even see you walk up. Agda, was it? What did you say, love?”
She laughed, the sound of it light and teasing in a way that Jaskier wasn’t sure how to feel about, his body still half-convinced that he was moments away from being murdered by the fire coming to life all on its own. She knelt down in front of him, the sight of her figure, looming and silhouetted by the light of the orange flickering glow behind her making his chest squeeze tighter. He felt trapped, cornered, the urge to shove himself away and bolt off into the woods thrumming under his skin. He shoved it down, scolding himself and clenching his uninjured hand tightly around the wrist of his other arm, focusing on the pressure to try to stay grounded.
Safe. You’re safe.
“Sorry, dear. Didn’t mean to startle ya,” she said breathily with a smile. “Just bringin’ you some stew. I can imagine you’re quite hungry, since you’ve not eaten much all day with all that sleepin’ you did. And there’s enough left that the witcher is welcome to it as well… once he’s come back from trampin’ about in the woods, that is.”
The smell of meat and herbs caught in his nostrils, and he tore his eyes away from where her dark edges met the orange glow of the fire, adjusting enough to the change in the light to be able to make out the outline of a bowl in her hands, held out between them. His eyebrows jerked up on his face and he shook his head, waving his hands out and pushing the bowl back towards her gently.
“Oh! No, no. Your gracious hospitality is appreciated, but I couldn’t possibly accept. You’ve already allowed me to take up space on your cart the entire day. I won’t burden you with feeding me as well.”
She frowned, a sharpness settling in her gaze now. “There somethin’ wrong with it?” She narrowed her eyes at the bowl of stew, her lips pressing into a tight line. “It may not be as fancy as what you’re used to, being such a famous bard, n’ all, but it is fillin’. Really, I insist. Might keep ya from keelin’ over tomorrow.”
Jaskier could hear the slightly offended tone of her voice now and gave an internal groan at having to maneuver culturally-defined expectations and dwarvish customs while he’s trying to keep from losing the last marbles he has knocking around in his skull.
He shook his head firmly, reaching out carefully to take the bowl with as bright of a smile as he could muster. “No, nothing wrong at all! It looks incredibly delicious, and it pains me greatly that all I can offer, at the moment, are my humblest thanks. I wish I was able to repay you for the food… and the ride.” He reached out and plucked up the nearly empty flask that he’d flung into the dirt when Agda surprised him. “Ah, and the drink.” He let out a soft laugh, starting to recognize the familiar hazy buzz in his mind, evidence of the drinking he must have been doing whilst distracted by the fire. “Definitely, the drink.”
She eyed him carefully before the smile returned to her face. She ran her fingers over the braid in her beard and nodded back towards the other dwarves still chatting and laughing around the fire, hands full with their own bowls and cups.
“You’re welcome to join us. I know your witcher is supposed to be back soon, but you don’t have to sit over here all by yourself. It’s warmer by the fire.”
Jaskier flinched when she shifted aside and the fire popped back into view, the sight of it seemingly worse after the few moments in the shadow of the dwarf. He shook his head firmly and swallowed against the lump in his throat, trying to push down the flash of fear.
“Er, thank you. I… appreciate the offer, but I’m alright over here, dear. Thank you…uh… for the stew.”
His eyes didn’t leave the flames as he spoke, only realizing that fact when when she stepped to the side, blocking it from his view again. She watched him, the sharpness of her gaze reminding him of Geralt, his perceptiveness that bordered on creepy at times. He usually didn’t mind it from Geralt, at least before all of this had happened, before they had parted, but seeing it on Agda, a stranger he barely knew, made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
“Are you alright?” She nodded down at his bandaged hand. “The witcher said you’d gotten hurt.”
Jaskier clenched his jaw, a flare of irritation itching up the back of his neck.
“Did he?”
She nodded and cocked her head. “He said one of his monsters caught you.”
Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes. One of his monsters… fairly accurate, actually. He sat the bowl down on the ground in front of him and picked nervously at the edge of the bandage on his hand. “That makes it sound much more exciting than it actually was,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and casual. He shook his head, glancing up at her with a small grin. “It’s just… a little burn, couple bruises.” He curled the tips of his fingers on his injured hand carefully, stopping when the sting of pain was too much. “Nothing that bad, honestly.”
She looked back at him sadly, pressing her lips together in a line before taking a shallow breath. “Forgive me if I’m oversteppin’. It’s only… I noticed you haven’t taken your eyes off the fire all night… and… you were… talkin’ in your sleep earlier.”
He clenched his jaw, scolding his traitorous mouth, feeling incredibly exposed. He tucked his hand under his other arm, keeping his eyes down.
“Oh.” His breath caught in his throat.
She dropped to the ground, sitting cross-legged in front of him. He swallowed tightly, hoping that she would change her mind and leave. She didn’t.
Agda settled, smoothing out her skirt over her legs. She didn’t reach out for him, didn’t say anything, only the quietly determined look on her face showing that she was thinking about something. It made him nervous, his mouth going dry. He watched her, keeping his eyes locked on the slow movements of her hand, how she moved it over the cuff of her sleeve, the fingers working over the button until it slipped through the fabric, then pushed the sleeve carefully up over her forearm. The dim light of the fire hung over her skin, the glow catching on the pinched and shiny surface. She ran her hand over it, sighing softly. Jaskier looked up at her, the suspicion turning to sympathy. She kept her eyes on her arm, her expression softening like she was lost in a memory.
“I just… it may not be the same as what you’ve gone through, but I understand that fear.” She flicked her eyes up to his face, and he could see the sincerity in her eyes. “You don’t ever forget it. Once you’ve been burned. The heat, that pain. It’s like the memory melts into your skin, get trapped in the scars.” She ran a finger over the rough edges near the crease of her elbow. “It’s been years, but my heart still gives a little skip when I get close to fire, even just lighting a candle.” She looked up, giving Jaskier a soft smile. “But it does get easier. A little less scary, each time.”
Jaskier could feel the wound throb on his hand. He took a deep breath, watching the ministrations of her fingers.
“Can I ask… what happened?”
Her expression grew slightly sad, a heaviness that pulled down her youthful appearance, making her seem like someone who had seen much more tragedy and pain than he would have previously thought. She let out a soft sigh, holding his gaze. “The world has no shortage of cruelty. I earned this doin’ what I could to keep someone I love from havin’ to experience more of it. And believe me, I would take on that pain again and again if it meant keepin’ my daughter from harm.”
His chest squeezed, looking at this woman in a new light, seeing the determination, the strength, the passion in her eyes. It sparked something, something in his heart that he was worried had been burnt to nothing, that precious little flame that his creativity pulled from; fuel for his songs, his lyrics, his stories.
Living the life that he had, out on the roads, going from town to town, village to village, and interacting with people from so many walks of life; it had given him perspective. He had met some of the kindest and most honest people carrying unbearable pain, witnessed acts of bravery from the unlikeliest places, heard tales that made him cry tears of laughter, and shouted off abuses hurled by ignorant bastards. It was why he had become a bard, to immortalize people being people, to tell the stories that would have gone untold, lost to time, if it weren’t for his voice carrying them through the years. He wanted that still, to sing across the continent, to proclaim to the droves of listening ears what he had heard, what he’s learned, what he has seen, but his hands ached, and even with the spark hissing in his heart, scratching in his ribs, he wasn’t sure he could ever possibly get back to that again.
It made him afraid that he’d gotten too close, that being a part of the stories that he’d been singing to the world was going to be the thing that ended his life as Jaskier the bard.
“I wouldn’t change what I did either. I don’t regret it… but-“ he shook his head- “I feel as though… I’m afraid that I might be losing myself.” He let out a shaky breath, the wave of emotion that came out with the words leaving him feeling light-headed… or perhaps that was the wine…
“Why’s that?” She asked, her voice gentle. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that loosened his lips, made speaking about this less terrifying than talking to Geralt about it. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t worried about driving her away, that she would think less of him for showing his weakness. She was kind and beautiful, but she was a stranger, and she was going to leave his life in a few days, possibly never to cross his path again. What she thought of him was not as important, wasn’t the fragile nail that he was hanging the last of his sanity on like with Geralt.
He huffed softly and shook his head. “I’ve been hurt before… many times… many, many times.” He held up his hand. “This isn’t even close to the worst injury I’ve gotten, but it’s… it’s in my head. It’s worse in my head than my body… I’m sure that my hand will heal… with time, but…” He squeezed his eyes closed. The idea of this fear staying with him forever, following him the remainder of his days, making his stomach twist.
“That’ll heal too. Ya may not be able to be the same as who you were before, but you’ll find a way to live again, to laugh genuinely, to sleep through the night. Just, do me a favor, dear, and be gentle with yourself.” She rested a hand on his shoulder, drawing his eyes open again and giving him a kind smile.
His eyes burned again, a different burn, prickling as a tear slipped down his face. His jaw quivered and he swallowed tightly, nodding again and reaching out slowly before resting his bandaged hand over her scarred forearm. She laid her other hand lightly over the top of his, smiling back.
“You know, you’re quite wise to be traveling with a group of rowdy stinking men,” he choked out, still fighting to maintain some of his composure.
She laughed brightly, shaking her head. “Oh, come now, don’t underestimate me. I may know a few things, but I can get just as rowdy and stinkin’ as the rest of ‘em.” She gave his hand another pat before she stood up again, picking up the flask off the bedroll and walking back over to their cart. Jaskier let out a heavy breath, rolling out his shoulders to shake off the shiver of emotion. He glanced around the clearing, wondering how long it was going to take Geralt to return, hoping that he was safe on his walk around the woods, checking for any lurking danger. Agda stepped in front of him again after a few minutes, holding out the flask in one hand and a small tin and what looked to be clean bandages in the other. Jaskier frowned, looking up at her, confused.
“What’s this?”
“Got you a little more wine, and this-“ she wiggled the tin- “is for your hand. I always keep some of this salve with. It’s the best that I’ve found for treating burns. Ya might already have somethin’ you’re using, but I can guarantee it’s not as good as this.” She dropped them onto the bedroll next to him before he could argue. “And don’t you dare try to give them back. I want you to have them, and I’ll be insulted I see them anywhere near our supplies.” She looked at him, a warning in her eyes.
Jaskier opened his mouth, the argument already on his tongue, the nasty voices in his mind screaming at him.
Taking up space, taking supplies, taking food. Take, take, take. That’s all you ever do.
He let out a breath instead, pressing his lips together tightly, and nodded.
“Thank you.”
Agda smiled, seemingly satisfied, and walked away, taking a seat by the fire between two of the dwarves, glancing back towards him before turning to talk with Yarpen.
The air was cold. The blanket on the bedroll was thin, and even tugging it tight around his shoulder, he could still feel the sting of the breeze cutting through the layers of fabric. He knew Geralt had his cloak tucked in the pack he’d left sitting next to their bedrolls a few feet away. The sight of the fire still held that same burning menace that was hard to look away from, but he managed, turning to the pack and huffing a heavy breath as he tried to work up the energy to crawl the short distance to get to the pack. He felt exhausted, the conversation prodding at emotions that he had wanted to ignore, and even the thought of moving to get the cloak out made him want to curl up and fall asleep… again. And the thought of that, made him let out a frustrated groan. He decided to ignore the chill and the shivers that periodically wracked his body, and turned on his bedroll to face the gap in the trees Geralt had disappeared through about an hour ago. He started picking at the stew with his spoon, scooping up the warm broth to try to help with the cold.
He still didn’t feel very hungry; his appetite had only slightly returned after waking up, which he wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact that he had actually slept instead of being Axii’d for several hours, or that getting some alcohol into his system had helped to settle his stomach somehow, but it still wasn’t enough to be ready for a heavy meal like this.
But, he wasn’t just not going to eat it. He felt guilty enough taking a place on their cart the entire day because he couldn’t manage to walk for a few hours, and now they’d given him their food, asking nothing in return, so the least he could do was make sure it didn’t go to waste.
He spooned scoop after scoop into his mouth, wondering how long it was going to take Geralt to come back. He was off doing his usual scamper through the woods, making sure there wasn’t anything hanging around waiting to murder them during the night, and while Jaskier had assured him, multiple times, that he was okay staying with the dwarves before Geralt finally agreed to actually go, he was still anxious for him to return. Not that he would admit to that. He wasn’t being needy. He was just… concerned. For Geralt’s safety. He was sure that once Geralt made sure that they were safe, he’d come back again, because he always came back.
His mouth went dry. The stew tasted ashy in his mouth. He tried to wash the taste of it away with a swig of wine. It didn’t help. His stomach turned, full and heavy and nauseous.
Because Geralt didn’t. He didn’t always come back.
His heart raced, thudding hard in his chest.
Flashes of the mountain ran through his head. Of sitting in the near darkness, poking at the pathetic remains of his tiny, dying campfire, his ears straining for the sound of boots on the rocky ground, hope choking on its last breath in his heart.
He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
The dwarves laughed by the fire, here and now in this clearing, but he could see them in his head, the memories of them on the mountain. It was the same background noise of his heartbreak over a year ago. When Geralt had left… when he… made him think he’d left.
Because he hadn’t… apparently.
It was almost worse… maybe it was worse. The fact that he’d lingered out of sight, bearing witness to his pathetic emotional breakdowns as he’d stumbled his way down the mountain, believing that his very best friend in the whole wide world had abandoned him, that he didn’t care about him at all and that he’d be better off if he had died.
The fucking bastard.
Jaskier clenched his fist, the pain drawing back the waves of panic. He ground his teeth together, staring into the dark trees, desperation digging into his heart.
This wasn’t the same as that time though. Things were different now. Geralt was going to come back because he said he would.
There wasn’t any reason for him to be angry with him now… to try to push him away again…
A chill slid up his spine.
Nothing, other than the fact that he was slowing him down and keeping him from finding Ciri… or that he was hurt and emotional and a constant reminder of Geralt’s misplaced guilt, and he already tried multiple times to get him to go back to Oxenfurt because he couldn’t handle being on the road again… or that Jaskier had made him angry earlier pushing him to talk about Eskel, so much that he’d shouted at him… shouted just like…
Fuck.
He knew that expression had looked horribly familiar. Geralt had looked at him just like he had the last time he saw him in Caingorn.
What if he did leave? What if he saw that Jaskier was somewhat safe with the dwarves now, and just decided that he was better off with them instead? Maybe he remembered how annoying he could be…
Fucking fuck, Jaskier. Don’t you ever learn? Geralt definitely ran off and left you… again, you stupid idiot. You really believed this was going to last? You’re too much, you’re always too much. Annoying and pushy and slow and useless.
He glared down at the food, the bowl barely half-empty now. He couldn’t stomach eating anymore, the nausea building, roiling against the heavy pit in his gut. He took another long drink from the flask, biting back a wave of emotions and blinking away the blur covering his vision.
What was he even going to do now? Go back to Oxenfurt, tail tucked between his legs? Drink and forget that all of this even happened? He supposed that had worked before… worked being a very, very loose term.
He let out a long sigh, dropping back onto his bedroll, staring up at the dark sky, starless from the blanket of clouds, before closing his eyes.
Maybe he could just pretend it had been a dream. It’d make more sense that way anyways. How many times had he spent the night dreaming about Geralt coming to save him, spouting off heartfelt apologies and sweeping him off his feet? Honestly, the last two days seemed more like some of his drunken scribbles he’d ripped out of his journal once he’d gotten sober enough to hate himself for them, than actual reality.
“Stop thinking so loud.”
The low rumble came from almost directly above him.
Jaskier popped his eyes open, and Geralt was standing over him, one of his eyebrows raised, as though he could actually hear the thoughts that had been swirling through his mind.
There was a moment of excited surprise before bitter shame took its place and a groan worked its way out of his throat. He brought his hands up and unceremoniously slapped them over his face, hoping in vain that Geralt wouldn’t ask.
Of course, he came back, you idiot. You stupid, overthinking, insecure idiot.
Geralt sat down next to him, nudging his side with the back of his hand. Jaskier flinched despite knowing he was there, huffing softly.
“You’re back.”
Geralt grunted. “I am. I told you I wouldn’t be long.” There was a hesitance in his voice that Jaskier knew meant he was trying to figure something out. “What are you doing?”
Jaskier shook his head, giving his face a rub to try to steady his nerves before dropping his hands back down. “Nothing.” He peeked out of one eye. “What are you doing? Find anything interesting on your lovely evening stroll?”
Geralt narrowed his eyes, shifting slightly so that his leg pressed up against his side, warming him like he was laying in the sun. He hated how nice it felt and wanted partly to move away, but couldn’t manage to get his body to cooperate.
“No. Collected some herbs, spooked some animals. Nothing more dangerous than a few startled foxes though.”
Jaskier hummed, desperately trying to calm the frantic racing of his heart. Geralt started smoothing out his blanket that had gotten tucked awkwardly around him when he’d laid down. Jaskier fought to keep his breath steady as his hand brushed across his chest. None of what was happening helped with the task of calming down and he folded his hands together over his stomach with a huff, narrowing his eyes at Geralt and trying to work out what the hell he was doing.
“Did you eat?” Geralt asked after a minute, finally returning his hands to himself.
“Mm-hm.” Jaskier nodded, waving his hand towards the half-full bowl. Geralt frowned, huffing at him. “Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that. I was being polite and leaving some for you,” Jaskier said, raising his eyebrows innocently.
Geralt’s frown didn’t change. His eyebrows dropped lower on his face. “Yarpen already offered me some. Said they had plenty left to share. You don’t need to worry about me.” He picked up the bowl, holding it next to Jaskier.
Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes. “Come now, Geralt, I always worry about you.” He pushed the bowl back towards the witcher and gave another dramatic heave of air. “And where is yours then? Unless you didn’t take any?” Jaskier gasped dramatically, patting his hands against his chest. “So rude. What a rude, rude witcher, you are, refusing those lovely folks’ hospitality. Absolutely no manners, you lot.”
“You’re changing the subject,” Geralt said, looking very unimpressed.
“Can you blame me? I mean, goodness, there are just… so many subjects, Geralt. How can you possibly expect us to cover them all if we just keep talking about one all the time?”
“Are you feeling ill?”
Jaskier could strangle him.
“I am fine,” he said sharply through his teeth, trying to maintain some of the happy facade he was putting on.
“Then finish the food.”
“I ate enough. Not hungry now, so thank you. You eat it. You’re the one that’s been walking and running and fighting the past… well, probably forever… You need it more than I do.” Jaskier felt his stomach curl uncomfortably, still not completely settled after the bout of anxious energy that had been buzzing through him.
“We’re not talking about me. You need to keep your strength up. You’re still healing, and I know you barely ate all day. There’s still a lot left in the bowl, and I doubt this is a second serving.” He inhaled, his frown deepening even more. He noticed the flask resting next to his leg on the bedroll, and frowned. “You’ve been drinking since I left.”
Jaskier shook his head, pushing himself up, so he was face-to-face with Geralt.
“What the fuck does it matter, Geralt?” he hissed, keeping his voice low, so that the dwarves would keep their eyes to themselves. Geralt frowned, his brows furrowing in confusion.
“It matters because I’m worried about you.” Geralt rested his hand over his thigh and it burned almost as bad as the mage’s fire had. Jaskier ground his teeth together, keeping his eyes far from Geralt’s piercing gaze. “You can talk to me.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Just… forget it. I’m just being ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head. He reached for the bowl still in Geralt’s hand. “Hand it over. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll finish the stupid stew.”
Geralt moved the bowl back and shook his head. Jaskier huffed, glaring at him.
“Geralt, do you want me to eat it or not?”
“I want you to tell me what’s going on. You said you were alright before I left. If you weren’t going to be okay, I wouldn’t have gone.” His eyes flashed over towards the dwarves, as though trying to determine if one of them did something. “Did something happen? Did they say something to you?” The concern was intensifying in his expression. Jaskier shook his head, laying his hands over the shin of Geralt’s boot.
“Nothing happened, Geralt,” he said, emphatically. “Nothing… bad, at least. You left, I sat here. I had a, well, honestly, a nice talk with Agda, and then, I sat more. No big horrible problem to fix.” He let out a heavy breath, fiddling with his fingers over the straps on Geralt’s boot, just for something to distract from the anxious energy in his stomach. Geralt was worried… about him… again, still. He didn’t want Geralt worrying about him when he should be worrying about Ciri, and he was fucking this all up… again. “Just…relax. I was fine. I am fine… or… I mean I will be. I’m just…” He sighed and shook his head. “I’m just… trying to… adjust… to this. To you… again.”
Geralt swallowed, staring down at his hands quietly for a moment. He narrowed his eyes, looking back up at Jaskier. “To me?”
Jaskier huffed in frustration, immediately noting the guilt taking over Geralt’s expression, and shook his head.
“No. No, no, you stop that. It’s not… you’re not the problem. I’m-”
“You’re not the problem either, Jaskier,” Geralt said softly.
“I know!” Jaskier heaved, his volume raising enough that the background noise of the dwarves seemed to go quiet for a moment. Jaskier took a breath, reining in his rising emotions, and shook his head. “I know,” he repeated, quieter now. The voices near the fire started again, hesitant and slightly more muted than before.
“Then help me understand. Please.” Geralt swallowed tightly. “If there’s something, if I can help you, anything… I’ll do it. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
Jaskier looked up at the vulnerable tone of Geralt’s voice. It made his heart ache, the sight of his expression, tight with desperation and fear. It made Jaskier recall what Geralt told him about Eskel, that he’d left Geralt and their family in the dark on what he was going through until it was too late.
He felt the wall of self-preservation crumbling at the realization that he was doing the same thing to him.
Jaskier choked as a sob caught in his throat.
“Fuck,” he said, his voice shaking and cracked. “I’m sorry.” Geralt’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him tight against his side. “I know you’re just trying to help, but…” He felt the heat of the tears running down his cheeks, but didn’t move to wipe them away, wrapping his arms around his chest as the emotions wracked through his body. “I’m terrified.”
Geralt hummed, the sound vibrating through where their bodies were pressed together. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Jaskier. Not again. That mage won’t hurt you again. He will never get the chance, I swear.”
Another wave of emotion crashed into him, punching out a breath from his lungs, a half-whimper, half-gasp, that had Geralt’s arm tightening around his shoulders, and he couldn’t bear it, turning and crushing his face into Geralt’s chest, wanting to hide away as the truth trembled from his lips.
“I’m not even scared of that. The mage.” He huffed, giving a small shake of his head. “I mean I am, but… it’s not… it’s different. I’m just… I’m terrified that I’ll never… that this is just… what I’m going to be now. That I’ll just be this whimpering broken mess.” He sniffled, shaking as another sob caught in his lungs. “And, fuck, I’m terrified of getting used to this. You… being here, helping me. I’ll get used to you, and then you’ll tire of me, you’ll realize that I’m not worth all of the trouble, and you’ll leave again, and I’ll still just be… I’ll be this.”
Geralt stilled next to him. The fear writhed in his stomach, the voices woke in his mind, scathing and hostile.
Of course, he’s going to leave. You’re falling apart… again. It’s pathetic, honestly. Who would ever put up with this? He left you for daring to speak to him when he was a little upset, and now his daughter is missing and in danger and you’re slobbering and crying all over him like a useless infant, whining about your little hand, your childish little nightmares. There are bigger things to deal with than your silly pointless feelings.
He pushed himself away from Geralt’s chest, his hands darting up to scrub at the tears on his cheeks. He tried wriggling out of Geralt’s arms, but his hold was too strong.
“Geralt-“ he choked out, shaking. “Please, just…” He pushed again half-heartedly against Geralt’s chest, twisting in his grip, still not able to move away. “Let me go. Just…” Another heaving and shaky breath fell from his mouth.
Geralt shifted against him, quick as lightning, adjusting his hold so that he had one arm around his shoulder, and the other on the back of his head, pulling him gently face-first back against his chest. Jaskier whimpered softly as Geralt’s fingers dug into his hair, holding him so tight.
“Never,” Geralt breathed out, pressing his face into the side of his neck, the warmth of the words wafting across his cool skin. “Never again, Jask.”
Jaskier let out a heavy breath and shook his head. “You don’t mean that.”
Geralt smoothed a hand through his hair. The gentle touch made him shiver, breathing out shakily.
“I do,” Geralt said, like it was just that simple. Like it wasn’t turning his entire life upside down, like there weren’t a thousand voices screaming in his head telling him that Geralt was lying.
Jaskier couldn’t help it, pushing, asking, needing the answers to the questions prodding at him like needles. He pulled his head back, Geralt loosening his hold so that he could move and meet his eyes. The sight of his face, the open and soft expression, the bright yellow of his irises smoothed into a golden honey glow by the light of the fire, it nearly took his breath away, almost enough to distract him from what he was going to say.
Almost.
He shook his head, frowning. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Geralt. It’s not always just going to be me and you, like this. We’re going to find Ciri, your destiny… Yennefer. Once you find them and work out your shit again, you won’t-“ Jaskier paused, letting the implication about his role in their group hang in the air. “If you’re going to send me away, I’d rather you do it sooner than later… before I get my hopes up. Don’t tell me that you’ll keep me around because you feel guilty or you feel like I can’t handle being left behind right now if you’re just going to do it later. I’ll survive. I did the last time you left. I can do it again.” He clenched his fist, the pain radiating up his arm from his hand.
Geralt let out a soft sigh, frowning and glancing down at his hand. He looked back up to his face the frown curling into small smile. He shifted back, releasing Jaskier from his arms. The chill at their separation ached physically through his body, anxiety spiking as Geralt twisted away. He reached across the bedroll and picked up the small tin Agda had brought him earlier, twisting the cap between his fingers, and then glanced back up at Jaskier, eyeing him carefully.
“I need you to listen to me,” he said, his voice still quiet, a reassuring sternness solidifying the words as they hit the air. Jaskier frowned, but nodded, curious as to what Geralt was getting at. “I am not lying to you, and I won’t lie to you. You will always have a place with me, if you choose to stay. What happened between us before, I broke your trust. I know that I made you believe that you were a burden on me, and that that was the reason I left.” He shook his head, furrowing his brows. “You were not a burden then, and you aren’t now.”
Jaskier felt his breath catching in his lungs. He opened his mouth to say… something… he wasn’t exactly sure what, but he needed to say something, but Geralt shook his head once, and the expression on his face made the words die on his tongue, his jaw closing with a snap.
Geralt swallowed tightly before drawing in a long breath and continuing to speak. “Jaskier, I am not… you were the first person that truly trusted me to care for them. When you were injured, to provide you with food, to stop to rest when you needed it. It is easy to think that means nothing, but it meant everything. You, a human… trusting a witcher to care for you.” He shook his head, shooting his eyes up at the sky for a moment, incredulous. “Gods, it was irritating at first, mostly because I thought that you must have been afflicted with some sort of mental deficiency,” he said, huffing a laugh at Jaskier’s flash of an offended expression. “It was the only reason I could think of to explain why you would think that a witcher, like me, would capable of that, how you could have seen me as a safe person to let yourself be vulnerable around when every other person saw me as just a monster.”
Jaskier swallowed, his throat catching on the lump of emotions. Geralt dropped his eyes back down to the ground between them.
“It is a privilege to be allowed to care for you, Jaskier, to be trusted with such an important task.” He looked back up, meeting Jaskier’s eyes with a breath-taking sincerity. “I would like the chance to earn that back… if you would allow it.” He held out one of his hands, far enough away that it didn’t send a spike of panic up his spine, his other hand holding the small tin of salve.
His eyes caught on Geralt’s hand, usually still and steady in every situation, now a slight tremble, barely noticeable, as he waited for his response. And it was that that punched a breath out of his lungs, shaking as it left his slightly parted lips.
Geralt was nervous too. The White Wolf, the mighty witcher. He was nervous.
Jaskier was sure it wasn’t quite to the level of anxiety that was roiling through his own chest at the moment, the biting voices only momentarily silenced by the comforting weight of Geralt’s words hanging over them; Geralt was always much more capable of reining in his emotions than he was, but the tension in his posture gave away the trepidation lingering under the surface.
Jaskier had been running off the belief that he had been the only one affected by their parting, that it had merely been a slight inconvenience to Geralt, one of their winter partings gone on slightly longer than usual, if even that, so taking this step, putting his trust back into this fragile partnership again, would only put his own heart at risk of shattering again. If it fell apart, if Geralt left, it would only be Jaskier that took the fatal blow. But, here Geralt was, sitting a foot away, his shaking hand held out, nervous to be pushed away, to be treated like the monster everyone else had thought he was.
A watery smile curled over Jaskier’s lips as he let out a soft gasp, tears rolling out over his cheeks. “Fucking hell, Geralt,” he huffed with a breathy laugh. “You’re such a soft-hearted fool.”
Geralt’s eyes widened as Jaskier’s bandaged hand rested gently in his, both of them trembling. Jaskier’s heart was racing wildly at the feeling of a hand on his again, but he kept his eyes on Geralt’s face, the gentle steadiness of his gaze keeping him grounded and present.
“Thank you,” Geralt said, barely more than a whisper.
Jaskier could feel the responses on his tongue, fueled by that insecurity, wanting to push away the gratitude, to argue that he should be the one thanking Geralt, to discount the step that he had made, but he bit them down, the taste of it like iron stinging as they scratched down his throat. He smiled, small, but sincere.
“You’re welcome.”
Geralt nodded, turning his attention down to his hand. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, but he could have sworn there was a shine at the edge of his eyes for a brief moment before he looked away. Even if it was the light, Jaskier blinked, trying to save the image in his mind, something to push the memories of the mage away, something to draw on in the midst of long, sleepless nights.
Geralt’s fingers were gentle, the movements light as the touch of a feather, as he applied Agda’s salve over the broken and blistered skin, and wrapped a fresh bandage around his hand. Jaskier barely breathed, his eyes frozen on the sight of Geralt working. Careful, dexterous, precise. He couldn’t stop himself from staring.
That golden honey gaze fell on him again after tying off the bandage, and Jaskier felt like something lightened inside of him.
It wasn’t a resolution. It hadn’t fixed the broken parts of him, hadn’t quieted the scolding voices in his head. But it was something. Hope that perhaps in time, things could be okay again. He could be okay again.
Jaskier drifted to sleep that night, the pain in his hand soothed, the anxiety quieted for the moment, a warm presence by his side, hoping for just that. For okay.
Notes:
Hey lovely readers! Thank for waiting until the end of the weekend for this week’s chapter! I had a heck of a time writing this one and I don’t know that I’m totally happy with how it came out, but overall, it’s fine I think, haha. Eagle-eyed readers might notice the total chapter count it 14 now instead of 13, and originally this one was supposed to cover a lot more, but it was just going to be way too long (and I would not have gotten it posted in time for this week), so it’s split into two now.
Also! Just as a warning, I may not be able to stick to my weekly weekend posting schedule for the next few chapters due to life stuff getting busier for the moment. Thank you for being patient if I need to take a little longer to get chapters out! This story has been so fun to write, and has become such a work of love for me, and I am not going to rush to get chapters out just to stick with the schedule if it means that I’m going to have to sacrifice the quality of the work I’m putting out!
Thank you again for your comments and interactions with the story! It really means a lot that people are enjoying what I’m creating here!
Chapter 7: Morning
Summary:
Geralt has some realizations about Jaskier. Jaskier finds his journal in the belongings Geralt picked up and it prompts some discussion about a certain song and a certain deceased brother.
Notes:
Yeah, it’s 12k, sorry or you’re welcome. Read my second A/N at the end for my hiatus apology lol. Enjoy the chapter.
Geralt POV
Warnings: Minor discussion of past side character death.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sight of Jaskier sleeping eased something in his chest, the echoes of their conversation humming in his mind. It made him feel even better that he hadn’t had to use Axii to force him to sleep. It had been unsettling last night to be the one taking that control away from him, even though Jaskier had asked for him to use the sign, at least the second time Geralt used it on him yesterday.
Tonight, his breaths came in an unsteady rhythm, broken up by occasional snores, his heart rate picking up for brief moments before settling again, a welcome change from the unnaturally quiet and even breaths that had accompanied his sleep last night.
Geralt sat, vigilant and silent, keeping one eye on Jaskier, and the other on the fire across the camp. It was burning low, dimly flickering as it consumed the last bits of wood until one of the dwarves tossed in another couple branches and it would blaze up brighter again. He strained to focus on the sounds outside of the clearing in the dark of the woods. He had scouted out far enough earlier that he would have heard or smelled if there was something more dangerous than the regular non-monstrous wildlife nearby, and now, the only sounds were the soft shuffling of nocturnal animals and the breeze scratching through the trees. Nothing that peaked his concern, for the moment, at least. He couldn’t be too careful. Not now.
The dwarf that was still awake, sitting by the fire, Regan or Rogan or something, pushed himself up off the log he was sitting on with a grunt and wandered over quietly. He cocked his head back towards the fire and explained in a hushed tone that they’d be taking turns keeping watch through the night, so Geralt was welcome to get some rest. Geralt responded with a grunt and a nod, something in between gratitude and dismissal and Rogan eyed him before returning to sit by the fire, glancing over the rest of his company huddled up together to keep themselves warm.
Geralt ran his eyes over the group of them, hearing the steady beating of their hearts, all of them seemingly sound asleep, snoring and grumbling periodically. Yarpen seemed trustworthy… to an extent. His group had been better company than those damned Reavers on the trail up the mountain in Caingorn, and Geralt was grateful to him for allowing Jaskier and him travel with them now, but not all of them had been on that job with Yarpen, strangers added to Yarpen’s group in the time since the dragon hunt. Geralt didn’t know them, and didn’t know what they had heard of him, of witchers, of Jaskier, or Ciri, what stories Yarpen had shared about him. Yarpen had already explained that they were aware of a potential reward for information on him and Ciri, even if Yarpen insisted he wasn’t planning on turning him in, there was no way to know if the rest of his party agreed with that decision, or if they would be willing to turn on him if they wanted the money enough.
Geralt ground his teeth together, fighting against the growing heaviness in his mind. Witchers were accustomed to going without sleep, the mutations allowing them to stay alive under extreme circumstances, so while he was starting to feel the strain of over a week without a real rest, he knew he’d be able last at least another few days without dropping dead. However, it would be putting them at risk if he pushed himself for too long. He didn’t know what was awaiting them at the end of this current path, and he felt slightly more confident that he could take on a group of dwarves if they decided to turn on him while he was sleeping, than he did about trying to fight to get Ciri back while sleep-deprived.
He let out a sigh, his breath puffing out of his lips like a cloud of smoke.
It was colder than it had been the night before, the gradual change of winter to spring leaving their days feeling more comfortable, the sun warming the air and waking the earth up again, but the nights still held a bitter winter chill. It had cooled again to the point that he could feel the wind blowing through the clearing like the blade of a knife cutting through his shirt. It helped at least to keep him away, and the cold hadn’t bothered him much since the trials. He’d spent many nights in Kaer Morhen, and on the trail, dealing with conditions much, much worse than this. But it wasn’t his own body he was concerned about in this weather.
Like he’d been cued, Jaskier suddenly let out a shivery breath, tugging his blanket and cloak tighter around his chest before turning over on his bedroll, his face poking out from within the hood of the cloak. His nose was red from the cold, his features scrunched up like if he tensed his muscles hard enough, he could force the cold away out of his body. Geralt couldn’t help letting out a fond huff and shook his head.
It reminded him of so many nights during their travels, nights like these where even he couldn’t ignore the biting chill in the air. In the beginning of their friendship, Jaskier would pretend to be asleep, putting his bardic skills to use as he huffed and pouted and shivered dramatically, making a big obnoxious scene so that there was no way Geralt could ignore how obviously miserable he was. It usually only took ten minutes of the whining before Geralt’s patience would snap and he’d growl for him to get his ass over to share his blanket, so he could finally get some fucking sleep. And Jaskier would leap up, practically diving onto him, wriggling into his side until the shivering stopped. Back in the days when he’d been willing to seek out a witcher’s touch, his touch, his presence, had welcomed it, wanted it. Even if it was just for warmth, to spare the discomfort of a cold night’s sleep out on the ground. Jaskier had wanted him close. And that meant something.
A witcher’s life was one of isolation, most touching was from violence. It meant even intimacy was spent with reluctant bodies stinking of apprehension, only the coin on the dresser or dehumanizing curiosity keeping them in bed with him for brief moments. It meant spending months without feeling another person’s skin against his and recoiling in the rare moments that he did, unused to the foreign sensation so much that it tended to always feel like a searing brand on his skin.
Jaskier had somehow become an exception to that rule, had unceremoniously forced his casual touches upon him, the kind and soft ones, the insistently grabby ones, pats of hands on his arm to get his attention, strong fingers scratching over his scalp, and careful ministration as he patched up Geralt’s wounds.
Geralt grew accustomed to that, the unspoken intimacy of their friendship. Like it was normal, expected. His skin stopped burning at each touch, he no longer anticipated the bitter scent of fear, or a recoil of disgust whenever he felt Jaskier brushing against him. It was even better when Jaskier finally dropped his evening performances on those cold nights and got comfortable with just tossing out his bedroll next to his and tucking in close like it was where he belonged. He’d fall asleep and seep out the sweet, heady scent of contentment that made something inside Geralt rumble with satisfaction in a way that felt strange to acknowledge.
Knowing Jaskier was taken care of, that he was taking care of him. His friend. Warm and safe and close because of him.
He liked it.
Had liked it.
When he still had it, before he ruined things, ruined what they had.
Now, it was cold and Jaskier hadn’t asked, hadn’t insistently shoved his way over, wriggling icy hands under Geralt’s shirt, not even a grumble or miserable-sounding moan to guilt Geralt into warming him up. He’d fallen asleep, shivering and cold and alone. Geralt thought about how he’d made Jaskier think he’d been a burden, how he’d tried to reassure him that wasn’t the case earlier, and obviously the message still hadn’t sunken in.
Geralt was trying, trying to be patient, to understand, to let him move things forward at his own pace, but now Jaskier was laying there in front of him, freezing half to death because… because Geralt had been stupid and cruel enough to push him away.
That part of him that had been so satisfied having Jaskier warm and content on those cold nights before, was growling in frustration inside his chest now.
It was his fault, and he needed to fix this, but Jaskier was struggling, and he knew he couldn’t push this.
He wanted to. Desperately. He wanted to just reach out and grab the stubborn idiot and pull him into his arms until he was warm enough to ease the growling frustration inside him. To just shake him into accepting that he was wanted here, that Geralt wanted to help him, to make him comfortable, to make him feel safe… because… because he just wanted to.
He couldn’t do that though.
Jaskier didn’t trust him yet, didn’t trust this. Not after everything that had happened.
He had seen the effort that it had taken Jaskier to simply hold out his injured hand to let Geralt treat it. He had spent hours being tortured by that mage, kidnapped and tied up and terrified. Geralt wouldn’t be cruel enough to force Jaskier to do something that he didn’t want to do. He knew that wasn’t the way to repair the broken trust between them, even if it would keep him from freezing. He had to show Jaskier that the effort he was making to trust Geralt would be returned with continued patience and respect for whatever boundaries he needed to put up to feel okay being here.
Jaskier shivered again, tucking his face further into the pile of fabric around him, and Geralt huffed, swallowing another growl deep in his throat.
The problem was that fucking patience and respect weren’t going to prevent him from getting hypothermia. Jaskier was already dressed in Geralt’s thickest shirt and wrapped in his cloak, and the single somewhat thin blanket he’d had in his pack. He could try moving him closer to the fire, keeping himself between them like he had last night, but he wasn’t sure if that was part of why Jaskier had needed the Axii to sleep last night, and he really didn’t want to do that to him again. It seemed the least uncomfortable option was body warmth, and the options were either him or the pile of dwarves laying around the fire.
Geralt heaved another breath before reluctantly nudging Jaskier’s shoulder, his hesitant touch barely pressing through the layers of fabric. Jaskier didn’t stir, the only movement the steady shivering he’d been doing for the past hour. Geralt clenched his jaw and shook his head, steeling his resolve. He nudged Jaskier’s shoulder again, harder. Jaskier yelped, jerking back and struggling to raise his hands up in front of him from where they were tangled in the blanket around him. His eyes shined in the dim light of the fire, a flash of fear in his expression that made Geralt almost regretful about waking him up.
“No, don’t!” He jerked back, squinting and taking stock of his surroundings. “Wha- fuck, Geralt?” He let out a heavy breath and shook his head with a frown. “I-is s-s-something… what’s… wh-where?” His voice was heavy with sleep, and tremoring with the chattering of his teeth. His eyes flicked around, heart pounding, and he kept fighting with the blankets to get free. Geralt held up his hands placatingly and shook his head.
“Relax. No danger. Everything is okay.”
Jaskier stopped moving, eyeing him with a tired glare. “Wha-“ He squinted, his nose scrunching up with confusion and sleep. “Why… awake?” He asked sleepily.
“You were going to freeze to death. You kept shivering.”
Jaskier’s brows furrowed together, and he twisted and glanced around again, hesitating for a long moment before speaking again. “I, uh, may not be thinking c-c-clearly because I’m running off very little sleep and I think I s-still may be slightly inebriated, but I f-feel like I’m missing something. You wok-ke me up to t-tell me that I was… sh-shivering…?” He readjusted himself in the blanket, curling up again on the bedroll, the scent of fear dissipating. “It was a miracle that I was actually able to f-fall asleep without your witcher’s little helper, so well, thank you for the update on something I was already very aware of, but honestly, I’d prefer you save these things to t-t-tell me when I’m already awake, dear.”
He sounded annoyed, which Geralt didn’t blame him for, considering that everything he’d said was true. Jaskier turned over so that his back was facing Geralt now, his heartbeat slowing back down as the adrenaline from being woken up faded. Geralt couldn’t help feeling like he was fucking this up. Probably because he was.
“You… you shouldn’t be cold,” Geralt said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but what he wanted to say was tangled up in a mess of thoughts and feelings that he couldn’t begin to put words to. He just knew that there was something in him that was feeling very angry and frustrated by Jaskier being cold and that it needed to stop.
Jaskier snorted and shook his head, his back tensing. “Well, unless you have some witcher weather magic I didn’t know about, I think I’ll just have to settle with being a little chilly tonight.”
Geralt huffed. “You don’t have to.” He shifted a little closer, watching carefully as Jaskier’s muscles tightened, his breaths growing quieter like he was waiting for something. “I didn’t want to push you… and you didn’t ask. But I want to help, like I used to.” Geralt leaned over, his head hovering above Jaskier’s shoulder. His voice came out in a breathy whisper, the last of his words puffing out in loose clouds in the cold air. “After what happened… I didn’t know if you’d want that. From me.”
Another swallow, Jaskier’s heartbeat picked up again.
“You… you don’t have t-t-to,” Jaskier choked out, his voice strained. “R-really, I-I’m…f-fine, Geralt. It’s not even that c-cold.”
“It’s cold enough, and I’m right here, Jaskier. If it’s too much… I won’t. I’m sure you’d be welcome to pile in with Yarpen’s gang if you’d be more comfortable with them.” Jaskier let out a soft snort and shook his head. Geralt laid a hand over his shoulder, light at first, and then firmer when Jaskier didn’t move away. He could feel Jaskier’s shaky breaths, the tension of his muscles as he tried to keep himself from shivering. Geralt swallowed tightly, shifting so he was laying behind Jaskier on the bedroll, just a few inches between them, still only connected by the palm of Geralt’s hand. “You’re allowed to need help. I don’t want to put you through more discomfort just because I’m dragging you out here with me.”
“You didn’t. I told you, I want to be here,” Jaskier said, his voice like a sigh, something softening in his resolve as he spoke.
Geralt felt the shift even before Jaskier started to move, the wall that was slowly crumbling. Maybe it was because it was late, that Jaskier was tired and cold and didn’t want to argue. Maybe he actually trusted what Geralt was saying, maybe he too wanted the closeness they used to have again, because, after a moment, a quiet and still moment with Geralt’s thumb stroking slowly over the hard curve of his shoulder, Jaskier shuffled, leaning his back up against Geralt’s chest, wriggling until the blanket came free from under his side so that Geralt could pull it around the both of them.
Geralt kept his arm off of Jaskier, laying it straight down on top of his side, and the other awkwardly trapped between Jaskier’s back and his chest. It was uncomfortable, but that didn’t matter because he could already feel Jaskier’s body warming up against him. Usually, he’d have settled his arm over Jaskier’s waist, the position less awkward and it served to keep them closer to maximize the warmth they shared, and not for any other unrelated reasons. But Geralt knew it felt more… intimate, and he still didn’t want to overstep.
Jaskier let out an annoyed huff after the minute Geralt spent overthinking, and darted his hand back and snatched Geralt’s wrist, guiding his hand until it was resting much more comfortably over his stomach.
That growling, irritated part of him quickly settled, rumbling with satisfaction as Jaskier’s scent shifted to that sweet honey of contentment, tension seeping out of his body. It made something shift inside him. Like stones knocked out of a dammed river, the stagnant water suddenly flowing, pouring through the dry bed, soaking into the cracks of the dirt. He felt like he was on the ground of that riverbed as the warm water crashed over him, pooling into his lungs, threatening to drown him, to drag him down to wherever the river was leading.
It was something that had Geralt curling closer, tucking his head into the back of Jaskier’s hair. Something that had his hand stroking up Jaskier’s stomach and fingers splaying across his chest, basking in the steady beat of his heart and each breath that was drawn into his lungs. Something that had a small smile curling on his lips when Jaskier let out a contented sigh and relaxed against him, letting his hand cover Geralt’s where it laid over his heart.
He didn’t know what that something was, still couldn’t put a word to it, that warm creeping sensation that slid through his chest, squeezing his heart, tightening his lungs, settling in his stomach. The way that it felt foreign and strange, but also entirely normal, like it was supposed to be there his whole life.
Jaskier let out a sigh and breathed out a quiet, “thank you, Geralt,” and it surged in his veins like the all-consuming burn of his potions, overwhelming and intense.
He swallowed tightly, hanging onto Jaskier as the earth slid out from underneath him.
He needed Jaskier. Needed him to be here, even with the danger and the pain and the hurt, with everything that they’d gone through, he needed Jaskier.
But it was more than that, wasn’t it? This feeling, intense and hot and squeezing tighter and tighter. It wasn’t just need, it was want, it was emotional and devouring and human. It was…
Fuck.
It was love.
I love him.
His arms tightened as the realization surged inside of him.
It wasn’t… that. It couldn’t be… that.
He breathed in another lungful of Jaskier-tinged air, and fuck, it was, wasn’t it?
He loved the stupid, stubborn, loud-mouthed, caring, passionate, intelligent bastard. He loved him.
“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, quiet and strained.
A flash of panic crossed over him. Jaskier knew, he must have felt it, or sensed it, all those years traveling by his side giving him that creepy ability to read him better than anyone else. He knew and this was when it was all going to fall apart because Geralt couldn’t love, shouldn’t, it made witchers weak and stupid and slow, and Jaskier deserved better than that, than him, than this.
“I do appreciate you warming me up, but I do actually still need to be able to breathe, if you wouldn’t mind,” he croaked, patting at Geralt’s arm that was wrapped tight around his chest. Geralt loosened his grip, feeling a wave of shame when Jaskier immediately drew in a deep breath.
“Sorry,” Geralt murmured into his hair.
He was already holding him too close, too tight, desperate to hold onto this before Jaskier realized that he was better off without him. Jaskier was here, in his arms, warm and alive, but he couldn’t help feeling like he was already mourning his loss, like what he was holding onto was a ghost, a dream, floating out of reach with each steadying breath. He didn’t deserve this, the patience, the forgiveness, the loyalty. He didn’t deserve Jaskier, and it was only a matter of time before the universe rectified its mistake and took this away again.
Jaskier shook his head, humming softly and relaxing back against him again. “Just go to sleep.” His voice was fond, gentle, teasing. Geralt’s chest ached at the sound of it.
He tucked himself tighter against Jaskier’s back, forcing himself to keep his grip around his injured chest loose so that he didn’t suffocate the man and breathed deeply before he let his consciousness slip away to the rhythmic heartbeats under his fingers.
Geralt!
Trees. Thick, creeping vines. Fog that settled so heavily on the moist stinking ground that he could almost cut through it.
Ciri’s voice rang out again. Calling out to him. Desperate, distant, echoing. Somewhere in the fog, hiding in the trees. She was in danger. He needed to find her. He needed to find her now.
She screamed and the dark woods shattered in a bright burst of light, plummeting him into darkness.
Silence surrounded him. The trees were gone. Ciri’s voice was nothing more than an echoed memory ringing in his ears.
He slept.
He felt unsettled when he finally snapped back into consciousness. There was a cold sensation creeping through his veins, a heaviness that settled in his muscles, and the fading image of trees that stuck in his mind.
It took a moment for him to realize that his arms were empty, devoid of the warm presence that he had fallen asleep with, and another for his brain to catch up to the fact that that was a problem.
Jaskier.
Panic surged in his chest. Jaskier had been stolen away while they’d been asleep, perhaps the dwarves had turned on them, taking the bard as a hostage to ensure that Geralt would comply until they could turn him in for the reward money just as he’d feared would happen, or maybe Jaskier had just decided to leave, rethinking his forgiveness or tolerance of life on the road or Geralt in general, or maybe he’d just dreamed the entire ordeal and he’d never even gotten to Oxenfurt to find Jaskier. His mind reeled out of control for the brief seconds between waking and hearing the soft tones of Jaskier’s voice mumbling in frustration nearby. He immediately whipped his head towards the sound, finding Jaskier kneeling, wide-eyed, and staring back at him sheepishly about a foot away.
“Fuck, sorry,” Jaskier breathed quietly. He shook his head fumbling with something in his hands. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Geralt frowned, narrowing his eyes. It was still dark, the sky that deep cool gray that lingers just before the sun crawls its way above the horizon, which meant that it was several hours too early for Jaskier to be voluntarily awake. He turned his focus to the dwarves, all of them still snoring soundly, apart from the one on watch sitting by the small fire, different from the one that had been awake when he’d fallen asleep last night. The fire was casting the only light in the clearing, but it was dim enough that it didn’t seem like it would be much use for normal human eyes. Geralt turned back to Jaskier.
“Are you alright? It’s before sunrise. You’re never awake this early,” Geralt whispered, fighting the urge to reach out and drag him back under the blanket, if only to satiate the sudden snarling desire to hold him close. Jaskier’s face was softened by the glow of the fire, his eyes bright and alive, and Geralt felt that aching squeeze in his chest again, warmth of the love he realized he had for the bard and curling fear of the pain it will cause when he inevitably left.
The edges of Jaskier’s eyes crinkled with a soft, tired smile and he waved Geralt off gently, shaking his head. “No need to worry yourself. I’m perfectly fine. Well, not exactly perfectly, but fine… as fine as I could be under the present circumstances. I suppose that’s a more accurate description, since fine and perfectly fine would imply that certain things have gotten much better during the night than they have, and I am, unfortunately, still as wounded as I was when I fell asleep.” He huffed, obviously frustrated with his own rambling, and shook his head. “I think I just slept too much during the day yesterday. I woke up a bit ago and just couldn’t seem to fall asleep again. Got a bit restless and I didn’t want to wake you with my fidgeting, but, well, as we can both see, that went just as well as anything else I do.”
The frown lingered on Geralt’s face as he subtly inhaled. He didn’t scent any fear, so it seemed unlikely that Jaskier had a nightmare or another one of those episodes like he’d had the first day. His heart remained steady as he spoke, so he was probably telling the truth, though Jaskier had always had a talent of lying… when he really wanted to. Geralt caught sight of Jaskier’s flask next to his leg, and recognized the slightest hint of alcohol in the air that seemed to have grown stronger as Jaskier had spoken. With Jaskier’s reaction to bringing it up last night, he decided to leave that conversation for another time, when things were less… how they were right now, though that could possibly be never. At least not when it was so early.
“Hmm.”
Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes. “Eloquent as usual, Geralt.” He tugged the cloak around his shoulders and let out a sigh. “You’re welcome to go back to sleep. I’m sure you need it. Looking at the sky, I’d say we probably have at least another hour or so before it’s light enough to get back on the road.”
“What were you muttering about?” Geralt asked, ignoring Jaskier’s suggestion. There was no way he was going back to sleep, especially not when his arms were so aggravatingly empty again and he had the echoing sounds of Ciri’s screams in his head.
Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “What was I…? Oh, that.” He huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, jabbing a finger towards Geralt’s pack that was sitting near his feet. Geralt could see that the buckles holding it closed were tighter closed than they had been when he’d gone to sleep. “I was trying to get in there… One handed unbuckling appears to be a skill that I’m a bit less than proficient at.”
Geralt frowned. “What did you need?” He glanced down at Jaskier’s hand. “We shouldn’t need to change you bandages yet. Is it bothering you?”
“Oh, no, sorry,” Jaskier said, shaking his head and waving a hand. “I didn’t really need anything in particular. I just got thinking about what you said about grabbing things from my room in Oxenfurt, what else you might have picked up, if there was anything else. The soaps and the couple pieces of clothes were very nice, and appreciated, by the way.”
Geralt hummed. He reached up, still laying down, and quickly unbuckled the straps and nudged the pack closer to Jaskier, motioning for him to have his way with the thing. “I wouldn’t get too excited,” Geralt grumbled, voice still hoarse with sleep. “The soaps were probably the most interesting thing, and none of the fancy doublets made it in, just the ones I figured you’d complain less about getting ruined.”
Jaskier flipped the top of the bag open, digging his hand inside and letting out a soft chuckle, before frowning and shaking his head emphatically. “Wasn’t that short-sighted of you? Now, how are we meant to sneak into all the fancy parties out here in the middle of nowhere?” He waved his hand towards the shadowy trees. “I’m afraid we’ll both be tragically underdressed for the badger ball.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly and laughed.
Geralt groaned and rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t pay me to go to something called a badger ball.”
Jaskier flicked his eyes towards him, a mischievous smirk curling on his lips. “Oh no? I’ve heard that they’re quite the exclusive event. You’d be really missing out, Geralt.”
“I think I’ll survive,” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head. Jaskier huffed and turned back to digging through the pack.
“On a more serious note, you probably made the right choice. I wouldn’t have wanted to wear any of those nice doublets out here anyways. There are a few that if I got even a small speck of blood on, I have a strong suspicion that they would kill me. As in the doublets would literally come to life and strangle the absolute shit out of me for having the audacity of tainting their expensive embroidery. And you may think I’m jesting, but honestly, I am nearly certain that one I was presented at that one court… the one with that woman with the bird, the big black eagle thing that looked like it had human eyes, I’m pretty sure it had some sort of a curse on it. And-“ Jaskier frowned, taking a breath. “Don’t give me that look, I’m serious. It was fucking gorgeous, but every time I put it on, you ended up having to save me from an entire drove of jealous husbands because every woman in my vicinity wanted me in their bodice immediately or they would die… not literally die, but… well, I mean you remember what happened. You were there.” He waved his hand and shook his head. “Plus the embroidery on the inside looked suspiciously like some sort of demon writing, so I would guess if any of them would kill me it would definitely be that one. And I know what you’re going to say, why don’t you just get rid of it, Jaskier? Why would you wear it if you think it has a curse on it? That seems like a very stupid thing to do. Well, I will tell you why. It’s because-”
Jaskier continued prattling on as he dug into the pack. Geralt shook his head and continued to watch him, resting on his stomach on the bedroll. He could see the edge of Jaskier’s tongue flick out, running across his lips in the split seconds between sentences, the crease between his brows that always appeared when he was focusing on a task, and it was like nothing had changed, like they were just on the trail again together, sharing an early morning in camp, preparing to get back on the road, and everything that had happened was just a fading dream.
It was simpler then. The witcher and the bard. The occasional addition of a drama-causing witch, or the rotating cast of his witcher brothers and Jaskier’s eccentric friends (and not friends) from across the Continent. It had been too easy to take it for granted. That while there had been complications and trials, wounds and pain and loss, it had been them. The Path. Contracts and songs, Roach and dirt and blood. Not easy, but… grounded. Real. Manageable.
Ciri coming into his life, her steps guided by that meddling bitch destiny, made the contrast from then to now all that clearer. He wasn’t just the simple witcher killing monsters anymore. He couldn’t be that anymore. He didn’t have the luxury of trying to ignore the rest of the world, the war, the elves, the fucking spheres and destiny and things bigger than anything he ever wanted to deal with. She came to him, fresh from losing her home, her family, her kingdom, chased and wanted and in danger, and was depending on him to be her new foundation, to be a compass, a mentor, a teacher, a protector… a father. And he had to. There was no question for him, not anymore. He would do everything to keep her safe, and if that meant leaving behind the hope of returning to a simpler life, then so be it. He would do it in a heartbeat.
He just didn’t know where that left Jaskier.
Jaskier let out a groan as he tugged his white chemise out of the pack, the one that Geralt had spent several minutes trying to scrub the blood stain out of back at the pools. He clicked his tongue, running his fingers over the light pink splotch on the collar.
“Fucking bastard,” he muttered, shaking his head. “This was one of my favorites. This stain is never going to come out.”
“I did try to get as much out as I could,” Geralt grumbled, glaring at the stain under Jaskier’s hand, a swell of anger pooling in his gut at the sight of it.
Jaskier shook his head, his lips curled up at the edges, not quite smiling, but close. “Thank you, Geralt. I do appreciate the effort… especially considering I’d be a bit shit at washing up currently.” He held up his bandaged hand for emphasis. He let out a heavy sigh. “It’s alright. Just yet another chemise fallen victim to the trials of this epic and dangerous life I lead. I’ll just have to make sure to wear something black next time I get myself covered in blood. Seems to work out much better for you, at least,” he said with a wry smirk. His voice didn’t hold any of the usual humor, a slight crackle of fear slipping into his tone.
Where that left Jaskier.
Where that left Jaskier was in that pinkish stain on his shirt. It was in that stained wood on the floor of the tavern in Oxenfurt. At the bottom of that freezing cold pool he’d nearly drowned in.
Jaskier quickly tossed the chemise aside and it landed on the ground in front of where Geralt was laying. He could still smell the scent of blood and fear sticking to the fabric. It had his muscles tightening, his jaw clenched, and he felt the overwhelming urge to launch the damn thing into the fire, to have one less piece of evidence hanging around of what Jaskier had gone through because of him. He tentatively reached out, digging his fingers into the thin cloth, drawing it closer. Jaskier dropped his red waistcoat onto the ground, humming distractedly, as Geralt brought the chemise up to his face, inhaling and focusing on the scent behind the blood and alcohol and fear, trying to find something that would give him more reason than his own selfishness to keep Jaskier in this life with him when the danger was only growing closer and closer.
Jaskier let out a sharp gasp. Geralt’s fingers tensed in the fabric. Jaskier hadn’t minded his odd habit of scenting before, but it had been a while since they’d been together, and he couldn’t help feeling like he was doing something wrong.
“Geralt,” he said in an excited whisper. “You grabbed my journal!”
The tension released, just slightly, and he picked his face back up, glancing over as Jaskier held up the leather book in front of him, a bright grin on his face. The sight of it eased the rest of the tension and he lowered the shirt back down to the ground, keeping it safely gripped in his hands. He nodded and gave an affirmative grunt.
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “The grunting, again,” he huffed, shaking his head and flipping the pages open. “And to think, I thought you were turning over a new leaf with all that talking you’ve been doing, though, to be honest, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you became the chatty one out of the two of us. It’s sort of a defining feature of who I am.”
He shifted around, so that he could use the dim light of the campfire to see and started flipping the pages, continuing to prattle on quietly, muttering something about waking up one morning and finding Geralt strumming a lute next, which had Geralt giving him an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Jaskier was careful to keep his voice low as he spoke, surprisingly considerate of the dwarves still sleeping nearby.
After a few minutes, his heart rate spiked and his voice trailed off, and Geralt looked up to see his hand hovering over one of the pages, his expression tightened into a frown. Geralt could see words on the page, harsh and sharply scribbled blots of ink, the word Butcher scrawled dark and bold catching his eye in multiple places. Jaskier frowned, his brows curling up together in the middle of his forehead.
“New song?” Geralt asked quietly, keeping his tone even. He didn’t have to be a genius to know who that Butcher was referring to.
Jaskier let out a strangled gasp and quickly smacked the cover closed. He swallowed nervously before turning to Geralt, eyes wide, fear seeping from his pores. The scent made his own stomach twist. Was Jaskier afraid of him?
Geralt remembered the couple pages that he had glanced over when he’d picked up the journal in Jaskier’s room. The anger-laden lyrics, the reeking odor of alcohol soaked into the pages. He’d already been aching with guilt and the scent of Jaskier’s blood and burnt flesh sticking in his nostrils from downstairs in the tavern and the sight of those angry words had only solidified the feeling.
Butcher.
He’d earned that title. He loathed that that he did. He hated that he’d let himself get caught in a situation where he was forced into being the monster people saw him as, and even the knowledge that he’d acted to keep the least amount people from getting hurt couldn’t take away the stain of blood on his hands. Not just the dark pools that he’d left behind in Blaviken, but the current that flowed behind each of his steps, a trail of bodies and blood and violence he could never wash himself of.
And Jaskier’s blood was added to that stream.
The blood he’d shed for Geralt’s sake. The blood that was soaked and stained in the fucking chemise sitting on the ground between them. Because he’d pushed him away. Because he’d been cruel and stupid. Because he’d allowed Jaskier to get involved with him in the first place.
Jaskier had worked year after year to relieve him of the weight of that name, only to be repaid with being abandoned on a dangerous mountaintop, left for dead like he meant nothing, less than nothing. It only made sense that Jaskier would be the one to revive it. After putting in all that time, after spending the length of their friendship treating Geralt like he was no more than a somewhat flawed man, rather than some horrible beastly monster, he deserved to be able to use that name now. And Geralt had expected that. He’d expected to be turned away with words dripping with acidic vitriol when he found Jaskier in that jail cell, to have that name thrown back in his face with cruel satisfaction, but that wasn’t what had happened. Instead, Jaskier offered his forgiveness, presented him the chance to return to something that he didn’t know if he deserved to have again. Something familiar and safe.
Jaskier cleared his throat, drawing Geralt’s attention back to him as he rubbed the back of his neck and looked back down at the journal, running his thumb across the leather cover. Geralt could hear the racing of his heart and steeled himself for whatever was going to come next.
“I, um, I should probably warn you… or rather… I suppose I should apologize… since… well, it’s… I don’t know if you’ve heard it already... it did get quite popular, but I haven’t been out of Oxenfurt much to know how far it’s gone, and if you’ve been up in the keep most of the winter, well, maybe you haven’t heard it… I just… well, I should like to explain.” He shook his head, cutting off the rambling words with a puff of air streaming from his mouth.
Geralt frowned. He reached forward, attempting to rest a comforting hand over Jaskier’s which were still gripped tightly around the journal, but Jaskier jerked back, tucking the journal against his chest, and staring back towards the campfire as he continued to ramble on, the tone of his voice growing more frantic.
“See, Geralt, you see, well, you hurt me… badly… when you left, when I thought you wanted me dead, and I just… well, I wanted to hurt you… back … before. When I wrote the song. Not now, obviously, it’s in the past, you apologized and I’m fine. Everything is good and fine, and just, see, I thought, before, I felt like you didn’t care what I did or what I said. That coming from me… nothing I did or said would bother you because you didn’t care whether I lived or died when you left me on that mountain, so you obviously you wouldn’t care about anything I said about you.”
Geralt opened his mouth to argue, but Jaskier held up a hand, continuing his speech.
“No, no, I know, I know that’s not true now... I just… I need to… just let me say this.” He swallowed tightly, turning his eyes down, keeping them away from Geralt’s gaze still. “I called you Butcher… in the song.” He paused, drawing in a shaky breath. “I had to use… I had to take the name, that name, because I know what it means to you, Geralt, because I felt like nothing I could say would hurt you enough, and I was angry and… well, I thought calling you that, you’d hear it and you’d understand, you’d realize how hurt I was, and you’d… I don’t know. I don’t really know what I wanted you to do.” He shook his head and sighed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that… well, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to hear the song without having said that… unless you’ve already heard it, which I suppose the sorry still stands, just… it’s a little late now.”
Jaskier drew in a deep breath after the rambling apology, staring at Geralt expectantly.
Geralt blinked, trying to process the number of words Jaskier had just vomited out. He nodded to the journal still clutched in Jaskier’s hands.
“Could I read it?”
Jaskier’s heart stuttered. His fingers tightened around the leather cover, and the edges of his eyes tightened, a wrinkle of worry between his brows.
“You… I mean it’s…” he paused, taking in a deep breath, steadying himself. “Why?”
“I haven’t heard the song before.”
Jaskier frowned. “Yes, well… that seems like the preferable option, doesn’t it? You said mean things, I said mean things, we both apologized, so now we can move on and just forget about it. No need for you to read it now…”
“How am I supposed to accept your apology if I don’t even know what it’s for in the first place?” Geralt said with a roll of his eyes and a raise of his eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather sing it for me?”
Jaskier huffed, his frown deepening. “No. I don’t want to sing-“ he swallowed tightly and shook his head, his words trailing off. He looked across the camp again. Geralt could see the light of the fire reflecting in his eyes, making the light color of his irises glow brightly. He let out a tired sigh and loosened his grip on the journal, holding it out to Geralt. “Fine, just… here.”
“You sure? It seems like you don’t want me to read it.”
“You’re going to hear it eventually, I’m sure. Might as well be when I’m within punching distance, just to get it over with.” He raised an eyebrow. There was a lilt of humor in his voice, but something anxiously sincere that made the skin on Geralt’s neck tighten.
“I’m not going to punch you, Jaskier.”
“Just shut up and read the damn thing, would you?”
Geralt huffed and took the journal, feeling the weight of the words inside the pages. Jaskier reached over and flipped open the cover, finding the page with the lyrics to the song quickly. He pulled his hands away slowly like the paper had turned to sticky tar and he was struggling to free them, and then settled them in his lap.
I hear you’re alive… The words curled up off the page, almost as though Jaskier was singing to him here in the silent clearing. Each letter was scrawled with rough edges, the paper coated in blots of ink, the scent of stale wine, dried tears soaked into the paper. He could hear the pain written into the lyrics, Jaskier’s dramatic flair, his flailing attempts at an insulting jab (“stupid hair”? Really?), and then the crescendo leading to the soft and emotional ending.
Watch me burn all the memories of you.
Jaskier was still watching him, his expression flat, when he looked up from the page. He knew what he was waiting for, the bard, the artist, ever-starving for feedback, since the first moment they had met, always aching for approval.
This was different, though. Something about this felt more important than giving a few words on a song Jaskier had scribbled out about a hunt, most of the time vastly differing from actual reality, something to get the masses to toss the coins and welcome a witcher into their village, and not much more than that.
This was… for lack of a better term, a pie with some filling, some bitter and angry and volatile filling. He wasn’t sure what sort of reaction Jaskier wanted from him, what he was expecting Geralt to feel reading those words.
They had moved past this, right? Or at least, Jaskier expected that they had. This hurt, this pain. They’d spoken about the mountain, the torture. Apologies had been shared and accepted, so he shouldn’t need to feel guilty anymore. He did. Of course, he fucking did. But this song didn’t change that, wasn’t going to add to that guilt. It was there already, twisting and scratching in his gut. He knew he’d fucked things up with Jaskier, and Jaskier had been hurt because of him. He had been sure Jaskier wouldn’t want anything to do with him ever again, and reading through this song, it made sense. What didn’t make sense was how upset and apologetic Jaskier was for writing it when it was the least of what he deserved for what he did.
Jaskier cleared his throat after a few moments of silence. Geralt heard him swallow, the beat of his heart picking up again. “I told you there wasn’t any need to read it… just… don’t be angry with me, okay?”
Geralt frowned, his brows furrowing together. “I’m not. Why would I be angry with you?”
There was a loud huff of air as Jaskier breathed out in disbelief and shook his head. “Why would you… why wouldn’t you? I was singing this song for months… to a lot of people… like a lot of people, Geralt. And every time I’d even bring up the… B-word before… you did punch me in the gut the first time we met when I called you that, remember? It’s… I mean it’s… that name, so I-“
“It’s not like I don’t deserve this,” Geralt said, his tone casual.
Jaskier’s confusion turned to anger, the narrowed eyes sharpening to a glare.
“Don’t fucking say that,” he hissed. “You don’t. Writing this… it was petty… and cruel… and, and-“ he shook his head, letting his eyes fall shut. “Short-sighted. I spent so much time trying to repair your reputation, all those years, the songs, the fucking fights I got into… and then… here I go, getting the whole Continent singing about burning the butcher, reminding people about what happened to give you that name, all because I got a little bit sore about being left behind. You’re doing… things out there. Helping people. You don’t need to deal with… this.”
Geralt huffed, shaking his head. “It was a little more than leaving you behind, Jaskier. For all you knew, I left you on that mountain to die.”
“You didn’t though,” Jaskier added in quickly. “You followed me, so it doesn’t really-“
“You had no way to know that though. You didn’t deserve being left there, or what I said. I’m honestly still surprised that you even wanted to come with me again after all that. This song is the least of what I deserve.”
Jaskier frowned, his expression showing his disagreement, but didn’t open his mouth to argue. Geralt cocked his head, giving a soft smile and raising up an eyebrow.
“And it’s not like you never wrote a rude song about me before either. Do you remember when I ate the last of the figs you’d bought at that festival? You wrote an entire song and sang it almost nonstop for over a month, enough that there were still children chanting ‘figgy piggy witcher’ at me three years later.” Jaskier’s frown curled up just slightly at the memory, and Geralt took that as a sign he was going in the right direction. “I’m honestly more surprised that you didn’t create an entire theatre production detailing the whole unpleasant ordeal.”
Jaskier huffed a soft laugh, and shook his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the hesitant smile. “Well, as far as you know…”
Geralt rolled his eyes, shifting so that he was sitting beside Jaskier now, giving his thigh a light shove, relieved that he had calmed down enough to play along. The smile dropped from Jaskier’s face, and he sighed again, staring down at the journal.
“I do mean it, Geralt. You saw how things changed after I started writing songs about you. Not just for you, for the other witchers, too. You have Ciri now. There are people coming after both of you. The last thing you need is people being less willing to help you. If something happens, if you get caught or hurt or chased out of whatever villages we end up in, then it’s… it’s my fault.”
Geralt shook his head and huffed. “Humble as usual, aren’t you?” He said, keeping the teasing tone light. Jaskier frowned at him, opening his mouth to argue, but Geralt cut him off. “I appreciate the concern, Jaskier, but there are a few other reasons people could be coming after me rather than your song. And if they do start raising pitchforks in defense of your honor, then so be it. I hurt you, and you deserve to have people on your side.”
“I don’t want them to be on my side. Not when it’s against yours. That’s the whole point, the whole point of… all of this.” Jaskier shook his head, gazing down at his hands. “We were supposed to be on the same side.”
“I know. That’s not your fault though. It’s mine, and I’m sorry for that.”
Jaskier heaved a breath, glancing hesitantly back at Geralt. “I’m sorry too. And don’t you dare try to tell me I don’t need to be. I know what I did, you know what I did, and you’re just going to have sit there and accept my apology.” He leveled Geralt with a determined glare that didn’t leave room for arguing.
Geralt felt the edge of his lips curl up. He still didn’t agree with Jaskier, didn’t think that the wounds his song dealt could match the ones he’d given the bard back in Caingorn, but Jaskier wasn’t going to stop until he’d won this battle. It felt odd to have this back, like pulling on new boots, the soles stiff and unfamiliar. Jaskier fighting him… for his own sake.
He gave a short nod. “Fine. I forgive you,” he said with a sigh. “Happy?”
Jaskier eyed him and hummed noncommittally. He shrugged and pressed his lips together before speaking. “Are you really not going to tell me what you thought of it?”
Geralt huffed. He should have known he wasn’t getting out of this conversation easily. “What do you want me to say, Jaskier?”
“Something more than a grunt would be nice. I did work on that song for ages… You said you’re not angry, but you have to be… something?”
Geralt furrowed his brows and cocked his head. “I don’t think I can exactly say that I like it, Jaskier. Besides, reading your songs is never as good as listening to the real thing.”
He heard the tell-tale sound of a skipped heartbeat and glanced up to see Jaskier hiding the flush rising on his cheeks. Geralt snorted softly.
“You’re too easy,” he said, his tone fond.
Jaskier rolled his eyes and shoved at his shoulder before snatching his journal back from Geralt’s hands. “Shut up… bastard,” he muttered, no heat to his voice. “I’m not used to you being… nice.” He kept his eyes pointed down at the journal, starting to flip through the pages again.
Geralt hummed low. “Well, don’t start writing songs about that. I do have a reputation to keep up. I don’t need any more stray bards thinking that I’m handing out free compliments and deciding to follow along after me too. The one I have is more than enough.”
Jaskier chuckled softly and shook his head. “Oh, they wouldn’t even get close. All the other bards know you’re mine.” Jaskier wasn’t looking up as he said it, running his finger over the ink as he read, and his tone was joking, but it still sent a spark through Geralt’s chest hearing Jaskier call him his.
They fell into a comfortable silence, just the sound of Jaskier’s fingers brushing over the pages of the journal as he looked through the pages. Geralt shifted after a few minutes, pulling his pack closer and refolding the clothes that Jaskier had pulled out and doing an inventory on the supplies that he had left.
“Geralt?” Jaskier said after a while longer. The sun had started to creep up over the horizon, lightening the dark gray of the sky to a dull orange, and it was easier now for Jaskier to read without having to rely on the flicker of the firelight. Geralt glanced over to see him holding open the pages and pointing at a passage on the paper, so he leaned over to look closer. The passage was written in small, cramped writing, letters that he could recognize as from the common language but written in sequences that was either a language he’d never heard of, or some sort of code, of which the latter seemed more likely.
“What is it?”
Jaskier looked up with momentary surprise, and then glanced back down at the page seeming to realize the issue. “Fuck, sorry. I spent so much time writing in that code that it looks normal to me.” He shook his head with a breathy laugh. “It’s a passage I wrote after Eskel came to visit. I didn’t really remember that I’d written anything, but… well, with what happened, I thought you might want to read it. I don’t know if it’ll help, but it’s… something, I suppose.”
Eskel. The heavy pit of guilt shifted in his stomach again, remembering the sight of his brother as he plunged his sword through his infected chest. It shouldn’t have ended like that. Not for him. Not like that.
Geralt turned his head away, grinding his teeth together in his mouth, trying to push down the emotions swelling up.
Jaskier swallowed and laid his hand over Geralt’s knee hesitantly. “You don’t… we don’t have to talk about it… I know yesterday… I didn’t mean to push you to talk about it, but you always… you just bottle everything up and Eskel… he just… he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. I know he wouldn’t.”
Geralt shook his head. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you yesterday.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I know you were just trying to help.”
Jaskier took in a shallow breath, nodding stiffly. He was holding the journal open in his lap like it was an unwanted growth, awkwardly latched to his hands.
“What does it say?” Geralt asked, the words feeling like they dragged on his tongue as they left his mouth.
It was a strange moment. Heavy.
Eskel’s life had ended. He’d watched it end, caused it. So that should be it. No more Eskel. But here, on the pages in Jaskier’s lap, there was a piece, a small moment of Eskel preserved that Geralt had yet to know, and in a way… a way that Jaskier would probably call poetic, it kept Eskel from truly being dead. He could still be alive, sharing a drink one night in Oxenfurt with Jaskier, here in this journal.
Until he heard the words.
Which he had to.
He still needed to know what it said, he needed to let Eskel rest. That was what witchers did. Their brother’s medallions hung upon the tree in the keep, and they didn’t look back. Dead is dead, and that’s the end.
So, it would be stupid not to read it.
“Geralt?”
Jaskier’s voice cut through his thoughts. He was watching him, thinly veiled concern in his expression. Geralt frowned and hummed in acknowledgment.
“Are you sure you want me to read it? I don’t have to… if you don’t want to.” His voice was soft, low, sweet. Amongst the quiet silence of the early morning, it whispered like a summer breeze into his ears, warm and languid, itching in a way that made him want to scratch and run and hide, too gentle for a man like him. Geralt ground his teeth together.
“No, it’s fine. I need to.”
There was a pause.
“But do you want to?” Jaskier asked, genuine confusion in his voice. Geralt could feel the gentle press of his hand again, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm over his kneecap.
And that was it, wasn’t it? Want. What he wanted.
When had that ever mattered? Jaskier had asked him that same question again and again over the years, and there had never been an answer. Couldn’t be an answer. Because wanting was for children, for the weak, for witchers that lost their way. If you couldn’t accept the life you had, you usually didn’t have much life left to live.
Eskel was dead. Geralt wanted him to be alive, but he wasn’t, he wouldn’t ever be again, and he knew that reading this passage out of Jaskier’s journal wouldn’t make Eskel any more or any less dead, but it felt like giving up. It felt like accepting that what happened at the keep did actually happen, that he had killed his brother, that Eskel was gone, and that he was just going through these final pieces of his life that remained so that he could just be done with him and let him go.
Eskel deserved more than that though. He’d always thought his brother had been the best of them. After everything, he’d somehow been able to keep a hold onto life, to the piece of his humanity that they tried to burn out of their younger selves. He didn’t deserve to be tossed aside, his medallion strung up on a tree, to remain the rest of the time as a silver trinket on a branch.
A low groan worked its way up his throat, and he clenched his jaw tighter, trying to keep it inside, trying to keep it all inside.
The touch of Jaskier’s hand left his knee and, for a moment, a clench of panic wrapped around his stomach that Jaskier was leaving, that this was enough, and he was done, until he felt fingers wrapping around his hand, warmth stroking over his palm, the sensation pulling him back to the ground. A choked gasp punched from his lips, and he held the hand back, tight, but not too tight.
“You know this isn’t the last of him, right?” Jaskier whispered, his breath huffing warmly over the side of his neck. “He’s not going to be forgotten. Not by me. Not by you, or your brothers, or Vesemir. He’s not going to be left behind."
Geralt could almost laugh, somehow still surprised by Jaskier’s ability to see straight through him. He shook his head, huffing softly, finally turning to open his eyes and meet Jaskier’s concerned expression. He was relieved to find no pity there, just grief, drawing the sides of his eyes down.
“I’m still not convinced you don’t have a little chaos in you. Mind-reader.” Geralt said huffily, cocking his head. Jaskier smiled and rolled his eyes, and the sight of it made his heart thump hard.
“Oh, pish-posh. I’ve told you, I’m perfectly human, and happy to stay that way. The only magic I need is the kind I make with my beautiful voice. Besides, I’ve been around loss and death enough to be familiar with the feelings that come up. People want their lives to matter. They want the people they care about to be remembered and recognized for who they were. It’s part of why I do what I do. To tell people’s stories and help them live on past their time. The dead can only continue on through us, the living people, well, through that and also horribly unnatural magic shit that turns them into gross monsters that want to eat you and tear your insides to the outsides… but, well, that’s beside my point... I think? What was I saying?” Jaskier’s brows furrowed on his forehead, glancing up at the sky as he mentally tracked back through his sentences.
Geralt snorted and shook his head fondly. “Something about dead living on through stories?”
“Oh, yes, right, right.” Jaskier nodded, tapping at the journal. “You reading this… it won’t change what happened with Eskel, but it won’t take anything away from him either.” Jaskier’s hand tightened around his and Jaskier glanced back down at the journal in his lap. “We don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. And honestly, now I feel like this has made it into something bigger than it actually is. From the bit I skimmed over, you’ll probably just be disappointed that I didn’t write down anything more interesting.”
Geralt pressed his lips together, drawing in a breath before he nodded stiffly.
“Whatever it says… I just, I need to know,” Geralt started, his chest tight. “I need to know something. When he came up to the keep… he was already acting different. By the time I realized something was really wrong, it was too late. I barely got to speak to him, and we hadn’t seen each other since last winter... None of us knew what he had been doing, so if there is anything that can tell us why this happened, then maybe it can help give me, us, some… closure.”
Jaskier nodded quietly, gently pulling his hand back from Geralt’s and returning to the journal. He cocked his head, asking without words. Geralt nodded, and he began reading, stumbling over the words a bit as he translated them from the code it was written in.
The entry wasn’t long, and surprisingly, for something that the bard himself scribed, it was very to the point. No flowery and poetic prose pulling off into unrelated tangents, or bits of lyrics. It was very unlike Jaskier, and Geralt tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. The man that wrote this wasn’t the bard, but the Sandpiper, the spy, the man he had molded himself into, something harder, those soft lacy edges he used to have sliced away, so he could fit into the dangerous world he had become a part of.
The first few sentences were unrelated to Eskel, Jaskier mumbling as he skimmed through reports about the elves he had brought to the docks the night before, details about a contact he had made, things that Geralt would be interested to know more about when he wasn't so focused on the current pressing issues at hand. Jaskier’s tone shifted as the passage transitioned to the details about Eskel's visit and he glanced up briefly at Geralt before he continued reading.
Eskel had stopped in Oxenfurt, picking up supplies and gathering information as he worked on a contract, and heard that Jaskier was in the city, so he sought him out to check how he was doing. Geralt had brushed him off when he’d asked about Jaskier when they were at the keep together the previous winter, his mood more sour than usual, so he’d known that something had happened between them, even if Geralt wouldn’t give him the details. He told Jaskier he was heading south, following what he thought could be the trail of a doppler. Jaskier explained that he had some doubts about Eskel's assessment considering the rarity of dopplers, but Eskel had insisted he knew what he was talking about, and that Eskel had said he was going to hit a few more of the southern villages trying to hunt the thing down before he gave up and headed up to the keep before the pass closed off.
Jaskier stopped talked, his lips curling into a frown.
“What?” Geralt asked.
His brows furrowed together as he looked back up at him. “That village we are going to, what was it called again?”
“Where we are going?”
“Yes. Right now, for Ciri. You said that house was close to Riverdell, right?”
Geralt nodded, unsure of where Jaskier’s line of questioning was going. “Yes, why?”
Jaskier shook his head. “It was one of the villages that Eskel said he was going to. One of the last ones, I think.”
Geralt hummed in response, trying to put together the information Jaskier had shared with what had happened with Eskel at the keep. There had to be something. Something that could give him an answer.
“Do you think it means something?”
“What?” Geralt asked, still half-distracted.
Jaskier frowned. “We’re going to a place you said you feel drawn to in a weird witchery destiny way, the same place that could possibly be the last place your brother went before he came back to the keep, mysteriously infected, and then died? Don’t you think that seems a bit… odd?”
Geralt shrugged. “We don’t even know if he made it there. We can ask around when we get into the village if there’s time, but there’s no use getting yourself worked up over what could be nothing.”
Jaskier gave a frustrated huff. “I’m not getting worked up over nothing. It could be… something. What if he was being drawn there, like how you feel drawn there to find Ciri? It could be a trap. What if whatever infected Eskel is drawing you there too?” Jaskier paused and his eyes sharpened on Geralt’s face.
“I’m already expecting to find danger when we get there, Jaskier. Are you suggesting that I should just… not go?” He asked sincerely.
“What? No. That’s not what I’m saying. We’re going. I just… I don’t know. It just… it feels odd.” Jaskier let out another huff and shook his head. “Never mind, I suppose. That was everything in the passage. Just the list of villages at the end, and nothing else.”
Geralt could tell there was more that Jaskier wanted to say, but it seemed he was moving on from the subject, which was fine. He wasn’t sure what to tell Jaskier. There was no way he wasn’t going to that house, that village. He didn’t know why, wasn’t sure why he trusted the pull in his gut that told him that his child surprise was waiting at the end of this trail, but he did, and he could still hear the echoed call of her voice in his head, could see the image of those haunting trees waiting for him at the end of this path. And even if there was some trap waiting at the end, that usually meant finding whatever shithead who was at fault for a lot of crap going wrong, and those were usually the kind of people he was hired to get rid of anyways.
“Thank you,” Geralt said. Jaskier looked up at him in surprise from where he was fiddling with the edge of the pages of the journal.
“For what?”
“Reading that… sharing that about Eskel. About your song… for-“ he paused, taking a breath- “being concerned about me.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’m always concerned about you. And… you’re welcome. Thank you for listening.”
Geralt gave a short nod, taking another deep breath, watching Jaskier carefully. The bard raised an eyebrow at him and shook his head.
“What?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t come with me,” Geralt said hesitantly.
“Oh, fuck off.” Jaskier glared at him.
“Jask-“
“Don’t start this again. We had this same conversation how many fucking times over the years? And probably twenty more in the past two days? If you don’t want me here, just tell me and get it over with, but the self-deprecating, ‘I’m a danger to everyone’, ‘you should leave me’ bullshit is getting a bit old, if I’m being completely honest.” Jaskier cocked his head. “Plus, it feels a bit weak saying all this now after you insisted on cuddling with me last night, Geralt.”
The mention of that sent a sharp stab through his chest, especially when he considered what the… warmth-sharing, not cuddling, had made him realize, and then to hear Jaskier mention it so casually, like it hadn’t meant anything to him, other than sharing the warmth…. that was better. And he didn’t have any right to feel… anything about that. Jaskier didn’t feel anything more than friendship for him and that was fine. More than fine.
“Next time, I’ll just let you freeze then,” he said, his voice gruff.
Jaskier eyed him sharply. “I am serious. Are you going to keep trying to push me away? Because it’s honestly feeling like you don’t want me here, and… if that’s true, then… I mean, I will deal with that like I dealt with it the past year, but I need to know.”
Complicated feelings and thoughts bubbled up inside Geralt. Loss and grief, fear and betrayal, thoughts of Eskel and Yennefer and Ciri and Jaskier, of the changes in the Continent, war and the elves and the Sandpiper, the mage, the monoliths and the Conjuction and it was too much.
“Everything is changing,” Geralt spat out after a minute. Jaskier frowned, cocking his head to the side, but waiting quietly as Geralt tried to wrangle his thoughts. “I wanted you here. I wanted to have this be the same, like we had before, but nothing is going to be the same again. I’m going to end up getting you killed. Everything is more dangerous. You won’t be able to be a bard, to sing the songs you wrote about me. When I find Ciri, we’re going to have to run, and hide. If you come with me, it’s going to take everything from you, and I don’t want to make you give your life up to come with me.”
“Things have changed for me too, Geralt. I haven’t spent the past year just lounging around doing nothing. I know things are more dangerous, and I finally decided to try to use my life to try to do something about it. I put myself at risk on purpose to try to help the elves, and now I’m… well, I don’t know that I’m helping you right now, really, but I’m here, at least. I want to be here for you and Ciri.”
There was a shuffling across the clearing and they both looked over to see that the dwarves had started to wake and pack up the camp. Jaskier pulled his attention back towards him again.
“I don’t expect that things are going to go back to how they were before. But there has been so much that has changed, so much loss. Can you just let this, us, be one thing that we can keep?”
Geralt swallowed hard.
And nodded.
He knew he was going to regret this, but it was worth it for the soft smile on Jaskier’s face that sent a shock of warmth through his entire body. Gods, this man was going to kill him.
Notes:
Hello lovely readers!
Number one, forgive me for any mistakes or whatever, I finished editing/writing this at 1am while dealing with a headache, so if it’s like weird in bits then that’s why lol.
ALSO,
Thank you so much for your patience with this chapter and the coming chapters! As I mentioned (so long ago, sorry ☹) in the last chapter’s A/N, I have had a bit of life stuff come up recently that has been keeping me from writing as much as I would like to, and it appears that after writing 56,000 words of this, I ALSO ended up smacking straight into a big wall of writer’s block for several weeks, and it took a while to kick that dang thing down again.
I did a couple of art pieces based on this fic during the unplanned hiatus. My brain tends to get funky if I go too long without drawing and I think focusing on writing this for so long made me need to do a lot of arting before I could pull back into writer brain mode, lol, the links are below (I also do other arts not based on my fic, random Geraskier and some Amazing Devil arts also recently too).Jaskier in the pool (Chapter 2) https://h3rmitsunited-art.tumblr.com/post/683101868159811584/are-you-going-to-join-me-i-could-imagine-you
Geralt and Jaskier talking about his hand/trust (Chapter 6) https://h3rmitsunited-art.tumblr.com/post/685511126152249344/little-angsty-sketchy-piece-based-on-my-recent
Hope you’re still enjoying! I’m definitely still enjoying the journey of writing this thing, and as always, your comments and support make me smile like a big dumb idiot. It’s made me really excited seeing how much people have been liking this fic so far! Hopefully the update hiatus hasn’t made a bunch of you drop off! This started as just a self-indulgent attempt to fix what I wasn’t happy with in season 2, and like… apparently it takes a lot of work and words to do that, and it’s sometimes annoying trying to wrangle these characters to where I need them to go, and even this chapter started to go in a direction I didn’t expect, but I think I’m excited about it, so I hope you are too!
So thank you!
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