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Jaskier hadn’t actually intended on staying at Kaer Morhen.
A teeming fortress filled with trained killers and dangerous magic aside, which Jaskier thinks he might adjust too after some heavy drinking and a fair few meaningful conversations, it all comes down to one simple reason.
He’s still utterly furious at Geralt.
He can see why the assumption has been made though. It’s not like Jaskier really held his ground after Geralt opened that sodding door to his cell. All he had to do was bat his eyelashes and say please and Jaskier was practically falling over himself just to be helpful.
Yes Geralt, of course Geralt, no need to factor in forgiveness or trust, Geralt.
It’d only been made worse when Yennefer had arrived. Granted, Jaskier doesn’t despise her as much as he used to. He doesn’t like her, he never will if he’s honest, but there is something rather akin to fondness that sits in his chest when he’s around her. She’s puts up with him, he puts up with her, it all works out fine and dandy and no one has to admit to anything they don’t want to admit.
Of course, then Geralt tosses Jaskier aside for Yennfer as soon as they lock eyes on one another and suddenly Jaskier is taken right back to that blasted mountain top, feeling like his heart has been ripped out and stomped on all over again.
There is a bit more to Burn Butcher Burn than he’s willing to confess, but anyone can read between those lines.
So staying at Kaer Morhen after everything has settled wasn’t ever really an option, especially after the absolute debacle of the whole witch in the woods problem. Jaskier had tried to help, he really had, but he’s not practically superhuman, he doesn’t have any magic, and he certainly isn’t brave enough to stand with a bunch of people who are and take on some witch that had even Vesemir looking ready to run for the hills.
In saying that, he’d tried, and all he’d gotten in return was utter distain.
It hadn’t taken long for the celebrations in the great hall to get big enough and bold enough that Jaskier is able to slip out and make his way to his room for his things. He’s honestly thankful for once that he’s managed to go completely undetected, even more so that no one had seemed to think to ask him to play some tunes even after Lambert had started crowing something at the top of his lungs.
He wouldn’t have been able to any how. Even if someone had managed to rustle up a lute from somewhere, his fingers don’t work like they used to. His hands have started to heal, the pain ebbing away finally, but even so… Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll be playing any music for a long time to come.
Just another thing taken from him. He’ll add it to the list.
His meagre belongings fit easily into one pack that he filchers from a cupboard in one of the store rooms lining the halls. In fact, he nearly doesn’t need it at all. He’d only really arrived at Kaer Morhen with the clothes on his back, but he still manages to add some clothes and food he’s pilfered to at least keep him going until he reaches the first town. There’s plenty of coin sewn into the linings and pockets of his clothing to get him further from there.
He’s just tying the strings up of the pack when he hears a gentle knock on the door. He’s not expecting it, and he leaps nearly a foot in the air as he whirls around fully prepared to scream at the top of his lungs.
It might not be heard in the great hall, but once again, at least he’ll have tried.
The noise dies in his throat though when he sees its just Geralt.
He definitely wasn’t expecting him, and Jaskier’s eyes narrow as Geralt remains standing in the doorway, all solemn and imposing, and it doesn’t escape his notice that Geralt seems more focused on the packed bag than on Jaskier himself.
“You’re leaving.”
Geralt tone is flat, void of much emotion, and Jaskier bristles as he crosses his arms and glowers at the man with all the anger he can muster.
“Impressive of you to notice,” he snarks back. “I honestly thought it would’ve taken a day or two at least before you realised.”
Geralt’s eyes snap to his, and Jaskier feels a little uneasy under the coolness in them. “You’re angry.”
Jaskier has to force back a bitter laugh. “Your witcher senses are really carrying you tonight, Geralt.”
Geralt lurks in the doorway for a moment longer before he sighs and steps into the room. Jaskier isn’t sure what to do, the room much too small for him to move away. Even that one step has Geralt closer than arms length and as far as Jaskier is concerned? That’s much too close right now.
“Why?” Geralt asks, and he genuinely sounds confused. It makes Jaskier’s blood boil. “We defeated Voleth Meir. Ciri is fine. Yennefer…” He trails off for a moment. “She got her magic back. Everything has worked out.”
Yet nowhere, nowhere, in that sentence did he say anything about what Jaskier has endured nor what he wants.
“Of course,” Jaskier mutters bitterly. “Everyone gets what they want. Why care about the little people when all the important people are quite content.”
Geralt frowns. “I don’t-”
“Understand?” Jaskier huffs. “Why would you? I don’t recall you ever really caring about people’s feelings, let alone my own.”
“You’re angry,” Geralt pauses and shakes his head, “at me.”
Jaskier’s laugh is sudden and hollow. “Brilliant deduction there, Geralt. Truly quite outstanding”
Geralt crosses his arms, his frown remaining in place. “I thought things were okay now.”
The way he says it, as if he’s a child trying to work out some new emotion? It’s gut-wrenching, and Jaskier grits his teeth as he tries to push back some of the seething fury but finds that he just can’t.
“This isn’t about what you think,” he snaps, and Geralt frowns at him at him. “Or about you. This is about me. About what you’ve done to me.”
Geralt doesn’t say anything back, just looks lost and confused and if anything? It just adds more burning to the rage in Jaskier.
“You hurt me.” He practically hisses the words, feels contempt starting to leak into them. “Words can’t even begin to describe how much, and believe me, I’ve tried.” He hears the lyrics of Burn Butcher Burn play in the back of his mind and he forces them away to instead keep glaring at Geralt’s stony face. “Rescuing me from some shitty prison and dragging me on this hell quest doesn’t suddenly change things, and it sure as hell doesn’t fix anything that’s broken between us.”
“Jaskier-”
“No!” Jaskier yells. “No, you don’t get to ‘Jaskier’ me again! I talk and you listen. This is how this works.” He thumps a hand against Geralt’s chest, but the witcher doesn’t move an inch. “You fucked up on that mountain top, you completely ruined everything. Not once have I heard an apology from you, or any sort of admission of guilt because I know you still think you were in the right.” Jaskier sneers. “Well heres an update, asshole! You weren’t and you still aren’t!”
The silence is deafening.
Jaskier breathes deep haggard breaths, shoulders moving up and down dramatically as he hears the blood rushing in his ears and feels his heart thumping in his throat. To his credit, Geralt doesn’t even look flustered, maybe just a little shocked if anything, and Jaskier hates that. He wants Geralt to be ashamed, or even bitterly defensive. He doesn’t want nothing.
The moment drags on long enough that Jaskier feels all the fight bleed from his body, and he sighs as he slumps his shoulders and stares at the ground.
“You devastated me, Geralt,” he murmurs, voice painfully fragile. “And I’m not too sure there is anything that can fix that.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns around to start tugging at the leather cords of his bag, determined to finish tying them up. He’ll find Coen on the way out tomorrow, negotiate for a horse to travel on, sure that he won’t be turned down. He can get out of here, far far away where he won’t have to look at another witcher for a long time to come.
His shoulders stiffen though when he hears Geralt finally speak up, but he doesn’t turn around.
“You can’t leave,” Geralt says, and his voice is stone cold. Jaskier is about to turn around to demand just why not, but Geralt continues before he can. “There’s a storm coming in and Vesemir expects it to last a few days. It’s not safe to leave the keep until it’s past.”
Jaskier can’t help it. He laughs, drops his head into his hands and tries to pretend his eyes aren’t growing wet. “Of course,” he mutters.
He can hear Geralt shifting behind him, and Jaskier turns around to see he’s moved back to the doorway, his back to Jaskier now.
“If you can tolerate my presence for a while longer,” Geralt mutters darkly, and Jaskier flinches at his tone, “you are welcome to ride out the storm here.”
Jaskier doesn’t have time to open his mouth before Geralt leaves, closing the door behind him with an impossibly gentle click, and Jaskier’s teeth are on edge as he sinks down onto his bed, his packed bag tilting over and landing on his lap with the movement. He can hear it now, the wind howling outside his window, the pattering of rain that will no doubt grow stronger, the swell of a growing storm. It will be too dangerous to leave Kaer Morhen.
So he’s stuck here.
Of course he is.
When it comes to Geralt, Jaskier doesn’t believe he ever has a choice.
…
It takes a long time for the storm to pass.
Vesemir’s guess at a couple of days drags out into longer. Jaskier isn’t overly surprised, part of him even wonders if the storm arrived on purpose just to keep him here. Not that it matters, he doesn’t choose to spend those days with company.
He admittedly avoids everyone, with perhaps only Yennefer being the exception. Even then, he steers clear from her as much as possible, only engaging when he joins everyone in the Great Hall for meals that has him sitting at a table with her. The outcast table, he’d called it, and it had gotten a twitch of a smile out of Yennefer as they’d sat watching the raucous group of witcher’s nearby. They don’t ignore them, Lambert especially prone to calling out to them despite Coen’s attempts to stop him, but Jaskier is thankful the witcher’s seem to respect their decision to remain distant.
During the days, he spends his time in an abandoned spire of the keep. It’s up a phenomenal amount of stairs that has Jaskier gasping when he gets to the top, but the room is well sheltered from the storm outside and there’s just enough furniture to make it reasonably comfortable. He thinks it used to be a library with the amount of old books lining the walls and he picks a couple to read, even one or two to pass onto Yennefer when he sees her at dinner.
It’s peaceful and calm, the only noise the sound of thundering rain on the glass doors leading to the balcony outside, and Jaskier grits his teeth before forcing himself to light the fire in the room. It takes some time, some courage that his scarred burnt hands tremble through, but then there’s the sudden roar of flames and Jaskier is reminded of its warmth as he curls up next to it.
But then, and he should’ve expected not to be left alone at this stage really, Ciri arrives.
At first just the once. She looks surprised to see him there, and Jaskier wonders if maybe Ciri had claimed this spot first and he’s intruding, but she doesn’t seem like she knows the lay of the room well so perhaps not. She gives him an awkward smile and little wave before disappearing, and Jaskier thinks nothing of it.
Until the next day, when she arrives again and this time lurks near the staircase, eyes flitting about the room with curiosity but shoulders slumped with something Jaskier recognises as defeat.
“You know,” he pipes up from where he’s slouching against a few pillows on the ground in front of the fire, a half-read book propped on his chest, “it’s much warmer over here than on that draughty staircase.”
She joins him then, shuffling over and curling up on the pillows Jaskier has laid out beside him. He’d had a sneaky suspicion she’d come back, seen something in her he recognised himself, and he’d prepared for her arrival.
Because he gets it. He too used to long for the sound of parties in halls himself, used to cherish the singing and music, used to delight in the chaos of dance and join the chorus of laughter.
Now? He seeks out the solemn quietness of an empty room, somewhere he can sit alone, where he doesn’t have to think about the bandages still wrapped around fresh pink scarred skin that tugs and pulls in ways he’s not used to, where he doesn’t have to listen to the jeers and laughter he knows he can never truly be part of here.
He wonders if that’s also what Ciri seeks, but he doesn’t ask. They sit in silence that first time, watching the flames flickering in the fireplace and listening to the pattering of the rain, and when she keeps coming back day after day… well, Jaskier finds a gentle solace in their moments.
Sometimes Ciri will bring a game. They don’t talk through them much, just play quietly together. Ciri loves knuckle bones, doesn’t tell Jaskier why, but each time he loses to her, he sees her bright smile and thinks it’s worth the extra pain he brings to his hands just to see her eyes warm even just for a moment.
However, he doesn’t see Geralt.
Geralt doesn’t seek him out and in fairness, Jaskier doesn’t try to find him either. He’s too hurt, and he doesn’t know how to put it into words that aren’t angry and accusing.
He wants to though. He wants to stand and yell and scream more, to keep telling Geralt how furious he is, how he’s hurt and angry and everything in between. But he won’t and he can’t. He truly doesn’t believe Geralt cares anymore.
If he did, he wouldn’t have left this to fester as long as he has… right?
So Jaskier spends time alone and time with Ciri and tries not to think about the White Wolf at all.
Just over a week goes by before the storm finally dissipates. Jaskier can’t say he isn’t chaffing at the bit waiting for the moment it does. His bag remains packed, his determination to leave remains strong, and he’s already planned what he will do next. His operations in Oxenfurt might’ve been completely tarnished, but there are other places he can go to continue his work as the Sandpiper. This whole interlude at Kaer Morhen will be nothing more than a hitch in his step.
He tells Ciri he’s leaving the next morning the day after the storm subsides. Her eyes are wide and she looks sad, but she gives him a tense smile and a nod nonetheless.
“I understand,” she says quietly, and Jaskier can’t help but reach across the board game between them to rest a hand on her clasped hands.
“I would take you with me if I could, my darling,” he murmurs, and Ciri’s eyes widen just a fraction. “If I knew I could keep you safe.”
“This is where I belong.” She sounds as convinced as Jaskier feels.
He doesn’t press the point though, just returns to their game with heavy shoulders. He wonders about lightening the mood, telling some jokes or maybe hitching out a song… but that’s not why Ciri is here and, in all honesty, neither is he.
That evening, he manages to negotiate with Coen one of the horses in the stable for the trek through the mountains. He looks unsure as Jaskier explains he’s leaving, tries to refuse to coin Jaskier hands him from his hidden stash, and he even offers to escort Jaskier to the town himself. It’s not safe to travel the paths alone, he’d said, but Jaskier had gently brushed him off.
It’s not that Jaskier doesn’t like Coen. Quite the opposite, really. He finds him the most delightful of the bunch… but he’s not interested in the company of witcher’s at the moment.
Coen gives him a horse, although Jaskier isn’t blind to the way he stores the offered coin in one of the saddlebags on the saddle he gives him, and she’s a beautiful mare. Pure white all over, much like the snow Jaskier misses seeing. She hasn’t got a name, and Jaskier thinks he might change that when they leave the following morning.
That night, after they’ve all eaten and retired to their rooms, Jaskier takes a lit torch and climbs the stairs to the abandoned tower one last time. There’s no Ciri this time, just him and the wind and the stars as he opens the rickety doors and steps out to lean on the balcony, tilting his head back to watch them glint above him.
He could write a song about this moment, he thinks.
Somehow, it’s not surprising when he hears footsteps on the stairwell behind him. Part of him expected this, another part dreaded it, but he doesn’t jump this time when Geralt appears beside him.
“You’re leaving.”
Jaskier can’t help his laugh, pleasantly surprised by the genuineness behind it. “If we’re going to start every conversation with that, Geralt, I think we’ll both grow bored and sad very quickly.”
Geralt doesn’t respond, but when Jaskier looks over its to see him moving up to lean on the balustrade beside him.
“Why?”
Jaskier narrows his eyes. “We’ve been over this.”
“Things have changed since then.”
“No,” Jaskier says firmly, ripping his eyes away from Geralt. “No, Geralt, nothing has changed. You haven’t changed.”
Geralt harrumphs. “I thought this wasn’t about me.”
Jaskier clenches his jaw so tightly he fears it might snap. “Don’t take my words out of context. You know that’s not what I meant.” Jaskier flicks his gaze to Geralt and stops when he sees Geralt is looking back. “Don’t play games with me.”
Geralt shrugs. “It’s not me who you’re playing games with.”
Jaskier’s mouth drops open for a moment before he shakes his head. He knows what Geralt is saying, knows what he’s implying. He can read that tone, he’s seen it too many times before.
“You can’t be serious.” Jaskier pushes off the balustrade and faces Geralt completely. “You’re not actually bringing Ciri into all this.”
Geralt turns his body completely to face Jaskier in turn. “I’m not the one about to walk away from her.”
“I’m not walking away from her,” Jaskier spits. “I’m walking away from you!”
Geralt shrugs. “And yet you’ll be doing it all the same. You can’t offer her a safe space and a shoulder, Jaskier, and then take it away from her.”
Furious doesn’t even begin to cover how Jaskier feels, and he has to bite down hard on the need to reach over and just punch Geralt.
“Then tell her why I left, Geralt,” he snarls. “Tell her that while I would love to stay and be there for her as much as I can, I just can’t bring myself to stay another moment with an arrogant asshole determined to hurt me every chance he gets!”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns to storm away to his room. He wonders if leaving in the middle of the night is a smart idea but the sheer anger coursing through his veins is enough to overcome any rational thought.
But Geralt’s hand reaches out to grab his elbow, dragging him back around to face the witcher, and Jaskier is suddenly face to face with the man… much closer than they have been in a long time, embrace at the jail excluded.
It doesn’t escape his notice that Geralt’s strong arms and intoxicating gaze still had the same weakening effect on his knees even now.
“She needs you.”
“Well, I’ll send word when I settle and she can always come visit whenever she wants,” Jaskier snaps, but Geralt shakes his head.
“You know it’s not safe out there for her.” Geralt’s grip slackens just the slightest. Jaskier can see the concern in Geralt’s eyes, and part of him wishes these words were meant for him instead. “Not with all that’s after her. You know she has to stay here.”
“But I can’t.”
“You won’t.”
Jaskier shakes Geralt off, taking a step back to put some space between them. It gives him some more clarity, and he crosses his arms firmly across his chest.
“You want me to stay then?” he asks, and he winces at how desperate he actually sounds. He knows what he wants to hear, and he’s well aware he probably won’t ever get to hear it.
Geralt shifts awkwardly, his eyes unable to meet Jaskier’s. “Ciri wants you to stay.”
It’s a cheap shot. Jaskier nearly wants to laugh and ignore it. Ciri would’ve said something herself were that the case… although he’s not stupid enough to think that she didn’t earlier in the day. Ciri isn’t selfish enough to ask him to stay though, knowing what she does about Jaskier and Geralt, about this chasm between them. It’s not everything, it’s not even all truthful, but she’s more observant than others give her credit for.
Jaskier glances away, shivers when a gust of cold wind comes over the balustrade and ruffles under his clothes.
He’s suddenly so very tired.
“Fine,” he mutters, and Geralt’s eyes snap to him. “I’ll stay. But only for a week or so more. After that…”
He doesn’t finish, but the implication is enough.
Geralt doesn’t say anything though, and Jaskier takes that as his cue. Without another word, he turns on his heel and heads down the stairs, trying to ignore how fast he’s running away.
He doesn’t quite make it to his room, instead turning into some small cupboard halfway there. He crams into it, closing the door behind him, shutting out the light and the keep and Geralt.
He waits until his door is solidly shut behind him before he sinks to the floor, head in his hands, and he lets out a body-shuddering sob.
…
Another week goes by quickly.
Jaskier is thankful that it does. Things were bad before, but the tense atmosphere in the keep has just grown bigger since his and Geralt’s last fight. He meets some animosity from a couple of the witcher’s in the keep, nothing too drastic or obvious, but definitely enough to make him uncomfortable.
Coen and Lambert seem to be on opposite sides. It’s not a pairing that Jaskier expected to split up, but Lambert’s glare is lethal and Coen’s attitude towards his closest friend sometimes borders on open hostility when Jaskier is nearby. It’s reassuring to have most of the witchers on his side, along with Ciri and even Yennefer, to his surprise, but it’s not something Jaskier wants to encourage.
He’s not here to cause conflict or problems. He doesn’t want to open rifts between friends and brothers. He just wants to go home.
Where home is though, he’s not sure, but it’s not here where Geralt avoids him and everyone else assumes he’s a battlefield to take sides on.
Yennefer has begun to join Ciri and himself in the abandoned tower though. He knows she feels just as out of place as he does, even if she has more of a purpose. Ciri is doing well under her teachings, more so than she was under the witcher’s. It’s nice to see Ciri without growing bruises on her face or nursing sore ribs, although Jaskier knows that more often than not, it’s Ciri doing it to herself.
He saw her once on that giant obstacle course and had to walk away. He can’t quite cope with watching her nearly killing herself in her attempts to be like all the other mutants around them.
But it’s peaceful and quiet with the three of them. Yennefer reads in the corner, Jaskier on and off, and Ciri dozes when she’s not pestering them to play some games. Even Yennefer deigned to play knuckle bones the other day and had been most put out when she’d lost. It’s good though, it’s calm, and Jaskier is sure that this will continue with the two women even after he’s gone. Ciri has a rock now, more support than she did before, and it’s good.
Although, it’s the day before Jaskier is considering leaving again, when there is an explosion outside that rocks the walls of the keep.
Jaskier’s eyes snap to Yennefer’s, sees the mirrored shock there, and without hesitation they both drop their books and make way for the stairwell, Ciri hot on their heels.
“What’s going on?” she asks as she follows them down, but neither Jaskier or Yennefer respond.
Jaskier isn’t even too sure if he’s honest. Explosions aren’t uncommon around here, Lambert especially is prone to making Kaer Morhen rock and fall apart when left unattended for too long, but this time it’s different. Much different.
It’s bigger, even the foundations are shaking and as they race for the front courtyard, there are a few more that make the floorboards roll.
Cascaden, a fellow wolf, is standing at the top of the front steps when they manage to make it outside. He has his steel sword gripped tightly in hand, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight, and when he spots them coming out the giant front door, he scowls.
“Get back inside,” he growls at them, and Yennefer huffs as she pushes past him to head down the steps, ignoring the witcher with an upturned nose. Jaskier admittedly admires her confidence, but he doesn’t think he’d be willing to walk blindly into whatever is going on simply to spite someone.
“What’s happening, Cascaden?” Ciri asks though, certainly a lot more diplomatic than Yennefer. Cascaden glances at her, turning his glare from Yennefer, before his gaze settles on Jaskier.
“We’re under attack.”
“By who?” Yennefer calls up the stairs, and Jaskier shakes his head as Cascaden turns a filthy glare her way.
Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been left behind to protect Ciri and Yennefer, although with the way Yennefer is storming forward and Ciri’s grip on her own sword, well, he doesn’t think they really need it.
Him, on the other hand? He’s terrified. He can’t swing a sword to save himself and magic is not in his skillset.
“Humans from a nearby village,” Cascaden explains as he makes to follow Yennefer, and Jaskier begins to hear the sound of clanging swords and yelling drifting up from the front gate “They don’t take too kindly to us being here during the winter. This happens every so often.”
He’s so nonchalant about it, and that makes Jaskier’s skin crawl. Being so blasé about people trying to kill you is not something he will ever get used to.
Cascaden doesn’t lurk around for much longer, turning on his heel to follow Yennefer. Jaskier has half a mind to reach out for Ciri, try to stop her from inevitably following the other two, but even if he did he’s much too late as she draws her sword in a quick flourish and makes after them.
Begrudgingly, Jaskier follows suit.
He trails behind the others as they round the corners of the keep to the front courtyard where the noises are emanating from. Jaskier is floored as he sees how many humans there are at the front gate. He’s not quite seen a mob like this before, and he wonders where their pitchforks and torches are.
It doesn’t look good though. The humans do vastly outnumber the few witchers holding them at bay and the courtyard is a mess of broken walls and bodies. It’s practically a war zone, and Jaskier is painfully reminded of the Battle of Sodden, of the carnage that had wrought on the land and people. The witcher’s don’t deserve this, not after the whole shit with Voleth Meir.
Not that he should be thinking about that right now as Ciri lets out a battle cry and charges forward, Yennefer hot on her heels, and Cascaden gives Jaskier a brief glance before taking chase. It leaves Jaskier alone at the gate, very aware that he is not equipped for any of this, and filled with utter dread that this is going to end in complete disaster.
This isn’t a tavern fight and it certainly isn’t the battle of wits that happen in throne rooms. This is real life and death, and Jaskier has the urge to run right back to the keep and hide away.
Instead, he rolls his shoulders and starts forward, looking for a weapon of some kind. Years traveling with Geralt has taught him some tricks, and he has no doubt he’ll be murdered anyway if anything happens to Ciri.
Luckily, it doesn’t take long to find an abandoned sword, and Jaskier manages to dart around the duelling pairs and groups to follow Ciri. She’s caught in combat with a beast of a man, probably having managed to pick the biggest of the lot, and Jaskier doesn’t hesitate in sidling up beside her. He catches one of the man’s blows, feels the clash of their swords ringing down his arms and his hands hurts where they grip the hilt, but he holds fast as Ciri shoots him a thankful look before swinging out again with her own.
She doesn’t deny his help. He’d almost expected her to resist, to be utterly pig-headed, but she just leans into his basic sword play with her own slightly advanced moves and together they fight. The beastly man is strong though, and its hard work trying to keep him at bay long enough for either of them to grab a chance to finish him.
Then it happens, a momentary slip up, and Jaskier parries the man’s last swing as Ciri darts forward under his wing and slips her sword into his side.
The man freezes, eyes widening as they meet Jaskier’s, and Jaskier steps back as the man collapses to the ground in a heavy heap. Ciri stands behind him, breathing hard with her hands clenched around the hilt of her sword where it’s still buried in the man, and Jaskier lets out a heavy breath when he sees she’s okay.
He glances away, sees that the battle has started to end, smells the burning of Yennefer’s magic and notes the amount of witcher’s standing and the humans not, and he glances away as he turns back to see Ciri trying to tug her sword free. He steps forward and wraps his hand around hers, and with a solid pull, he helps her haul her sword out.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching up a hand to run over her hair. She nods, doesn’t pull away from his touch, and when her eyes meet his she looks quite shocked. It’s not the first time she’s killed a man, he’s overheard the tales from Geralt and some of the other witcher’s, but this might be the first time she’s done it in battle.
He pulls her close, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and tucking her into his side, and she lets out a shuddering breath. Jaskier just holds tight and looks around, feeling his own breathing turn easy when he spots Geralt standing not far from them, looking around wildly.
“Geralt!” he calls, knowing exactly who he’s looking for, and he waves his sword slightly in the air to get his attention. “She’s over here!”
Geralt’s eyes flit to his, and Jaskier notes the way his shoulders seem to sag in relief as he starts to walk towards them. Jaskier can’t help his own as he relaxes, waiting patiently for Geralt to get to them, but he frowns when he sees Geralt’s pace starting to pick up and begin waving his sword frantically.
“Jaskier,” he yells, voice booming out across the courtyard. “Jaskier! Behind-”
Jaskier doesn’t get to hear the end of that sentence as someone lets out a loud roar behind him, and he turns to see that beast of a man rearing up with his sword, wild eyes and snarl on his face. He only has time to push Ciri out of his path before the man’s sword comes lurching forward.
There’s silence for a second, the courtyard dead still, and as Geralt flies through the air and beheads the man, Jaskier’s eyes drop to his stomach.
He doesn’t feel it at first, the sword buried in him. It just hangs there, in one side and protruding out the other, and Jaskier reaches as if in some sort of trance to touch where the sharp blade disappears into his body.
Then suddenly the pain arrives and Jaskier can’t breathe as his knees hit the ground and his hands fall from the sword, slick with blood... his blood. He wants to pull it out, wants it gone gone gone, but then Geralt is suddenly beside him, catching him as he falls the rest of the way forward, and Jaskier can’t stop the panic as it crawls up his throat.
“Geralt,” he gasps as he’s turned around, as Geralt cradles him. “What the… what the fuck-”
“Fuck,” Geralt swears, eyes locked on his, “it’s okay, it’s going to be okay.” He looks away, out over the courtyard. “Vesemir! Lambert, get Vesemir!”
Jaskier isn’t too sure what Vesemir is going to do about the sword in him, but it’s not like he has any ideas of his own.
“Oh shit,” he realises. “Oh shit, Geralt. There’s a… there’s a sword-”
“I know,” Geralt hushes him, and Jaskier doesn’t actually think he does. He’s too calm. “You’re going to be okay, Jaskier. Vesemir is going to fix this.”
Jaskier snorts, feeling quite delirious all of sudden. “Do witcher skills include necromancy now?” he demands and he thinks he might just vomit in minute. “Because I am definitely going to die.”
There’s a small hand on his shoulder, and he lolls his head to see Ciri’s pale face looking down at him. “You not going to die, Jask,” she murmurs, touching his cheek. “You’re not-”
She’s cut off as Geralt shifts and it pulls at the sword. Jaskier lets out a cry, feels the tugging deep inside where it shouldn’t be, and his grip on Geralt’s arm tightens painfully. Everything aches, everything hurts, and Jaskier doesn’t think his eyesight should be flickering like it is.
There’s a commotion nearby, witcher’s yelling at each other, but Jaskier doesn’t care as he lifts a shaky hand and manages to wrap his fingers around a strand of Geralt’s white hair, staining it red. It’s quite nice being held by him. He’s always thought of this, on the odd occasion even dreamt of it. Being wrapped up in Geralt’s arms is something he’s well aware would never happen, and yet when it finally does, it’s not only when he’s dying but also when he’s absurdly pissed off at the man.
He should probably tell him that.
“For the record,” his voice sounds very distant to his own ears. “I’m still very mad at you.”
There’s something in Geralt’s eyes that Jaskier wishes he had time to understand, and when Geralt speaks there’s a certain hint of desperation to it.
“Okay, that’s okay,” Geralt says, and Jaskier thinks Geralt might be rocking him in his arms. The world isn’t staying still, that’s for sure. “Just tell me how mad you are. You need to tell me, Jaskier. Talk to me.”
Jaskier doesn’t think he does though. “You know,” he mutters, words slurring together, eyes slipping closed. “It’s not like I want to be angry but…”
Geralt shakes him, and Jaskier’s eyes snap open again. “But what?” Jaskier can’t find the words all of sudden. He’s not even too sure what he was saying. He frowns when he sees that Geralt is moving away from him, growing smaller in the distance… or is he falling away from Geralt?
He’s not sure, but as he closes his eyes this time, as he feels a lot of hands suddenly gripping him, shaking him, the pain a dull feeling, his name being called out over and over… he realises one thing.
It looks like he’s not leaving Kaer Morhen today after all.
…
At this point, he’s wondering what divine entity is interfering in his life.
It takes a while to begin healing from his wound. A sword going through him isn’t something he ever intended on experiencing, although Vesemir tells him that it’s relatively superficial. Jaskier had nearly laughed in his face, it sure as hell hadn’t felt superficial, and going by what he can remember from the looks on Ciri and Geralt’s faces, clearly they didn’t think it very superficial either.
It had bleed like all hell too, and Jaskier thinks if he sees anymore bloodied rags ever again, he might just vomit.
Surprisingly, Vesemir does seem to have some excellent skills in keeping people alive. Jaskier finds out from Ciri later that he’d stumbled over the whole Jaskier being only a human and not a witcher, which had proposed some obstacles to his usual way of healing, but then Yennefer had stepped forward with her newly returned magic and Jaskier had managed to survive the whole ordeal.
He’ll have to thank her someday.
Probably not.
He gets holed up in a new room for his recovery. It’s a lot bigger than the one he’d originally claimed, although he was under the impression that every room in the keep was shit. Turns out the Nordlings that constructed it in the first place did enjoy some of the finer things as the room boasts several well maintained bits of old art, numerous bookshelves, and plenty of comfortable furniture. He notes that there are some odd bits and pieces he doesn’t recognise, tools of some kind, and he thinks maybe the old wizards that had run the witcher mutations used to live in here. It would explain why none of the witchers have taken the room.
In any case, the bed has many layers of furs and blankets, and Jaskier feels much better rested after even just one night tucked in amongst them.
Ciri is there the first time he wakes, in the most immense pain he’s ever felt, but seeing her bright relieved face does alleviate some of that. She stays with him as he rests, often perched at the end of his bed. Sometimes Yennefer will join her. It doesn’t escape Jaskier’s notice that he always feels a bit better when she’s been there. He thinks it might be to do with her gentle touch, the warmth that spreads through his body after it. He doesn’t know how magic works, but he’d hazard a guess that it has something to do with it.
Coen and Lambert turn up a few times, sometimes accompanied by the other witchers. They’re skittish when they enter the room, making Jaskier think there’s some credit to his wizard theory. There’s even a couple of times that some of the ‘tools’ on the shelves either disappear or break, but Jaskier chooses not to buy into any of that. He’s not privy to the trauma these boys might’ve experienced at some point, and instead he takes great comfort in knowing that even though they clearly don’t want to be in this room, they still turn up to see him. It may just be gruff greetings and awkward stilted conversation, but at least they’re here.
Because out of all the people, who should be here? Geralt.
And out of all the people, who isn’t here? Geralt.
Jaskier doesn’t think he should be surprised. He thought for a brief time that he’d hallucinated all that had happened after he’d been stabbed. He thought he’d made up being cradled in Geralt’s arms, imagined the desperation and pain in his eyes. But then he thinks that no, the memories are too intense. Jaskier has plenty of imagination, yes, but even then this all feels so different.
Sometimes at night he thinks he can feel Geralt’s arms around him, even just for the briefest of moments, but that’s all in his dreams. He always has been a vivid dreamer. But even so, when he wakes up it feels like his bed is much too big and much too cold.
He guesses that maybe Geralt has had second thoughts about it all. It wouldn’t surprise him, not after how much Jaskier has continued to insinuate how mad he still is at Geralt. He is, absolutely, but being stabbed and nearly dying does start to put things in perspective, does start to make Jaskier rethink things.
Geralt leaving him on that mountain hurt, so damn much that Jaskier still feels his eyes burn when he thinks of it. He won’t ever be able to forget how devastated he’d felt seeing the hatred in Geralt’s eyes, as he’d watch the furious spittle Geralt had made as he’d roared at him.
He won’t be able to forget the words.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.
Jaskier thought he was right in giving Geralt his wish. He had thought of staying, of reminding Geralt that frankly? None of this was his fault. Geralt made the decisions. He was the one that invoked the law of surprise, not anyone else. He was the one that was searching for the Djinn in the first place and he was definitely the one that made all three of those awful wishes.
Geralt did this, not Jaskier.
It’s all that runs through his head as he lies in bed, looking out the windows at the blue sky and listening to Ciri hum quietly at the end of his bed. Days of thinking about the mountain over and over, of everything that has happened since over and over. It starts to drive him crazy by the end of the second week.
Its early morning when he finally decides he’s had enough of being confined to this bed, to this room. It’s only because of Yennefer’s magic and Vesemir’s concoctions that he’s even capable of standing, of walking short distances, but it’s been two weeks and Jaskier needs to see the outside world in person rather than through a small window.
Slowly but surely, he manages to make his way out the door of his room. Each step still hurts, but the pain is dull and deep and once he gets used to it, his gait turns strong. He’s got a large coat wrapped around him that someone left at the foot of his bed, he almost certainly recognises it as Geralt but then its not like the witcher has been present to leave it, but it keeps him warm enough that when he makes it outside, the early morning breeze only makes him shiver slightly.
The stone steps leading up to the keep are his limit though. He sinks down onto them, happy to just be outside to watch as the sky begins to turn from that sunrise orange to the blue of the day. It’s quiet and calm, and Jaskier thinks that when he finally leaves, he might actually miss this place.
If he leaves.
He’s having second thoughts now. It’s been well over a month since he initially chose to go, and yet somehow he’s not actually managed to leave the keep. At first it was bad luck, then it was Ciri, now it’s because of a stab wound. He’s wondering if this is some sign from that interfering deity that maybe going isn’t something he should do.
His thoughts are interrupted though as he hears the creak of the great oak doors behind him, quiet heeled footsteps on the stone heading towards him, and Jaskier doesn’t need to look up to know who it is that silently settles beside him on the steps.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Geralt grumbles, voice pleasantly low in the early morning air. “You’re still healing.”
Jaskier shifts his feet on the steps, his leather boots scuffing at the stone. “I couldn’t stand being stuck in that room for another minute.”
Geralt sighs. “Stuck in that room,” he pauses, and Jaskier glances over to see him staring unwaveringly ahead, “or stuck in this keep?”
“I don’t know.” Jaskier sighs. “Both, maybe?”
Geralt doesn’t respond and Jaskier doesn’t continue. The silence is heavy around them, weighs on Jaskier’s shoulders, but he just turns his gaze back to the sky and waits to see what will happen.
This could go so many ways, and Jaskier used to pride himself on knowing how Geralt would act, how he would talk and what actions he would take. Now? He’s like a distant stranger and it plays absolute havoc with his heart.
“You nearly died.”
Jaskier feels a lump in his throat, tight and suffocating. “I did.”
“You were bleeding out in my arms,” Geralt continues, and Jaskier hears the way his voice hitches on the words. “You were going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.”
Jaskier turns to Geralt properly, angling himself on the steps until his knees knock against Geralt’s. It’s the closest they’ve been in a long time, the touch so casual, and Geralt doesn’t move away from him.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt looks up at him with an expression Jaskier couldn’t hope to decipher. “Feeling so completely helpless. Feeling like the world is dropping out from beneath you and no matter what you do, you can’t change it.”
Geralt shakes his head, his fists tight in his lap. “Is that how you’ve felt?” he asks. “Since the mountain?”
Jaskier wasn’t expecting the conversation to turn to that so quickly, but maybe its for the best. “In a way,” he agrees. He’s not stupid enough to think it’s the complete same. “Although I think death is a lot more permanent than a fight that ends badly.”
“But it’s not been just a fight, has it.”
Jaskier’s lips twitch, and he’s surprised at Geralt’s depth of realisation. “Not really.” He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t point out that the betrayal runs so much deeper than just a fight.
Perhaps Geralt already knows that.
Geralt sighs again, his shoulders rising to his ears and Jaskier wishes he could lean over and smooth out the stress from them. The tension is palpable, but Jaskier holds firm in allowing Geralt to lead this conversation.
“I’m sorry.”
However, Jaskier wasn’t expecting him to lead with that.
He can’t say a word as he stares at Geralt, mouth half open, and the words just percolate in his mind. Geralt isn’t looking back at him though, continues to stare resolutely at the stables across from them with a jaw clenched so tight it might just snap.
“For what I’ve done,” Geralt continues as Jaskier struggles with his own words. “For what I’ve done to you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
Jaskier swallows thickly. “All I’ve ever wanted, Geralt,” he murmurs, “is for you to be at least somewhat… content with your life. Whether I’m in it or not.”
Geralt’s face does something funny, twists into a frown and a smile before settling on something somewhere in-between. “I see that now. I’m sorry I didn’t before.” He finally looks at Jaskier, and he tilts his head just slightly to the side. “Will you ever forgive me?”
Jaskier shrugs one shoulder helplessly at Geralt. It causes the coat around him to slip off, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat when Geralt reaches out and gently pulls it back up, his hand warm on Jaskier’s shoulder, his fingers just grazing the side of his neck where it lingers for a moment.
That’s the crux of it though, isn’t it? Can Jaskier forgive him for everything that’s happened?
He wants to laugh at the thought though, He forgave Geralt a long time ago. A long time ago. Maybe even the very second Geralt turned away from him on that fucking awful mountain because he gets it, he knows what it’s like to be so completely lost that the idea of being found is terrifying.
All this time, it’s not been forgiveness that Geralt has needed from Jaskier.
“Of course,” he says, voice so quiet in the air, and Geralt’s eyes widen just the slightest. “Of course I forgive you, Geralt.” He pauses and he grits his teeth. “But I don’t… I don’t think I can trust you again just yet,”
The look on Geralt’s face is devastating.
Jaskier can’t turn away, and he has to fight back the urge to reach across and pull Geralt into his arms. Part of him wishes he hadn’t said that, but the other part of him know that this is what Geralt needs to hear, has to hear.
“Jaskier…” Geralt trails off, and he flexes his hands into fists on his knees. “I don’t…”
Jaskier thinks maybe he should try extend the olive branch as Geralt had.
“I’m not saying I won’t again,” he continues, and this time he does reach out and rest a hand on Geralt’s wrist, letting his fingers find Geralt’s pulse. “I’m just saying that it might take some time.”
“What do you need from me?” Geralt sounds almost desperate, and it wrecks Jaskier’s heart.
He squeezes Geralt’s wrist, watches Geralt’s aborted movement at bringing his other hand up to cover Jaskier’s.
“I don’t know,” he admits painfully. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t know yet.” He looks up and meets Geralt’s gaze, offering a small smile. “Time, perhaps.”
Geralt looks torn, like he doesn’t know where to go from here and if Jaskier is honest then neither does he, but he slowly nods before he drops his head. Jaskier doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the ruin in Geralt’s eyes nor the defeat in his shoulders. It doesn’t sit right with him.
He takes a deep breath before he focuses on moving, just a slight shuffle on the steps, until his side is pressed up against Geralt’s. He feels Geralt stiffen beside him, clearly surprised, but Jaskier ignores it in favour of relaxing his grip on Geralt’s wrist and slumping against him, tilting his head to rest on Geralt’s shoulder.
For a long moment, Geralt remains tense, but then Jaskier feels him relax and he can’t help his small smile as Geralt slowly leans back against him, his arm coming around to support Jaskier’s waist.
Jaskier turns his gaze back to the sky and sighs. Maybe he should stay for a little longer. After all, it’s only fair to give Geralt a little bit more of a chance. Plus he needs more time to heal, especially since this short stint to the steps exhausted him so there’s no doubt in his mind he would’t make it half a mile through the mountains. Not to mention, he’s pretty sure the front gate is still damaged heavily from the attack so its not like he could get his horse through there either.
Of course, it has nothing to do with the way Geralt’s hair tickles his cheek, or the way his fingers curl into the softness of Jaskier’s shirt at his hips.
Nothing at all.
…
Things change after that.
It’s noticeable, so obviously so.
Jaskier doesn’t feel like an outsider now when he enters the great hall. He has a seat beside Geralt at every meal, a space perfectly carved out just for him. It’s strange at first, he feels like he’s betraying Yennefer but then he realises very quickly that Yennefer never sat with him because she didn’t have a place.
She does, right beside Ciri, who sits right in front of Jaskier and grins so hard that Jaskier thinks her cheeks must be on fire.
No, he was the one that didn’t belong, and yet somehow, now he does.
It takes a while for him to gather the strength to leave his room more often than the occasional shuffle outside to the front steps. Each time he does though, Geralt is there waiting for him, never too far as he walks beside Jaskier with an arm carefully poised behind him, not quite touching but still offering that quiet support. It’s what Jaskier needs, what he craves, and he finds more strength in those moments than he has in a long time.
It’s Yennefer who tells him about Geralt’s night time visits. Jaskier had thought he’d felt Geralt there at night, but had dismissed it as vivid dreams. He’d mentioned it one day offhandedly as Yennefer had sat across from him, his hands in hers as her magic had glowed through her fingers over his badly scarred palms, trying to mend the long since healed wounds.
“He comes every night, you know,” she’d said, lips twisted into a smug smile as he’d sat dumfounded. “Every night he lies beside you and for some reason, you never seem to notice.”
Jaskier had flushed red. “I didn’t realise it was…”
“Real?” she’d tutted and gripped his hands, her fingers strong around his. “Of course it’s all real, Jaskier. I think you’re the realest thing he has.”
That is saying something. Jaskier still can’t quite figure out the relationship between Yennefer and Geralt. The Djinn has done something to them, many somethings, but there’s also an irreparable damage that no magic can ever fix.
But the next time he finds himself half awake, slightly aware of the sleeping witcher beside him, Jaskier smiles and rolls closer, tucking himself into the corners of Geralt’s body and holding tight.
It’s all so different. Knowing that Geralt is there every moment makes something unfurl deep in Jaskier’s chest, something new he’s never felt before. They weren’t like this even before the mountain. This is a closeness that Jaskier thinks he can never give up, not with how much it warms him and makes him feel… well, whole.
He can feel the trust building between them again. It’s fragile, easily breakable perhaps, but it’s there and Jaskier finds it’s no longer and excuse to leave anymore that it had been.
Even so, there is still so many moments where he feels out of place.
It’s not that he’s made to feel that way. The cautious barrier between himself and the other witcher’s has long since been abolished. What resentment had been there when the battle lines had been drawn is gone now. Jaskier spends much of his time with the others when Geralt, Yennefer, or Ciri aren’t around, most often with Lambert and Coen who’ve continued to take him under their wings with great enthusiasm. However Jaskier finds himself reading quietly alongside Everard, mixing bizarre experimental concoctions with Gwain, and grooming the horses regularly with the stoic Merek.
They make him feel wanted when they seek him out… and yet?
He hasn’t much to offer anyone here.
Jaskier knows that they are all united in their choice to raise Ciri, to help her face her powers and take control over her life. Every person in this keep shares the same goal and Jaskier is no different. It’s created a certain camaraderie Jaskier hasn’t felt before, and at times there are moments where he thinks he truly fits in.
But the witcher’s are strong fighters and have history that goes back almost centuries with one another. Jaskier doesn’t fit in there. He can’t build deep bonds that have lasted life times in only a matter of months. He doesn’t have magic either like Yennefer. There’s a rather abundant lack of chaos that runs through his veins and he wouldn’t even know where to start were he to suddenly acquire it.
For a brief time, he’d thought maybe he could teach Ciri music. The others are teaching her how to survive life, not enjoy it, but Jaskier can’t hold any instrument with his damaged hands and he finds that the siren call of his music is too far away for him to even sing.
It’s a devastating moment when he opens his mouth and finds not a lyric comes out.
He knows he’s being silly about it all. Geralt hasn’t been subtle in letting him know he’s wanted here, and neither has Ciri or Yennefer. Even Coen and Lambert have made comments about Jaskier’s presence brightening up the keep, not that Jaskier really believes that, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.
It’s just… he’s not really needed.
Especially when he knows he might be needed elsewhere. Being the Sandpiper was a risky business to be in but Jaskier actually felt like he was making a difference. He hadn’t lied to Yennefer when he’d told her that he was worried about being next after what happened at Bleobheris, and he’d made it his mission to try and help those that were coming before him. Countless elves had made it to Cintra because of him, because of the risks he took and the chances he made. He’s not stupid enough to think he couldn’t have done it without Dijkstra’s intervention, but it was something he did.
Dijkstra chose him for a reason. Famous enough to be invisible and reputable enough to be underestimated, he’d said. He was right. Jaskier is known by everyone, and it gives him that strange ability to only be seen for his songs, not the horde of elves he’s smuggling onto ships behind him.
He’s was needed out there, and he might still be needed now. Frankly, the whole operation might have gone to shit after his capture and disappearance, but he won’t know until he leaves this keep.
Not that he wants to but… Jaskier just doesn’t know what to do anymore.
Although, thankfully, Geralt sheds some light one night.
They’re in the great hall, just the two of them in the cavernous room. The other witcher’s have long since retired while Yennefer and Ciri have gone to a nearby village for the night. Geralt had been on edge when Yennefer had opened the portal and ushered Ciri through, and Jaskier understands his fear. He’d simply rest his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and guided him away, giving him gentle reassurances that they will be fine.
It’s left them sitting in wooden chairs in front of the smouldering fire. It flickers just enough to turn Geralt’s hair a warm orange, and Jaskier finds himself captivated by it as they sit side by side. They’re covered in warm furs, Geralt’s insistence when Jaskier had found himself shivering and had refused to move closer to the flames, and its so… peaceful.
Geralt, however, looks slightly miserable, and Jaskier can’t help but reach across the distance between them to press his fingers to the back of Geralt’s hand.
“They’ll be fine, Geralt,” he says quietly, and when Geralt’s eyes meet his, he gives him a small affectionate smile. “Have a little faith.”
Geralt huffs and shakes his head, but his hand flips over to press Jaskier’s fingers against his palm. “I know,” he grumbles. “Yennefer will take care of her. She wouldn’t dare do otherwise.”
Jaskier wants to point out that Yennefer cares about Ciri so much by now that betraying her again isn’t even a thought she would have. It’s not the right thing to say though, especially as he’s sure Geralt already knows it, and instead he turns back to the fire, leaving his hand in Geralt’s.
The wood crackles and pops in front of them, and Jaskier lets himself just listen and watch as he gently rubs his thumb over the base of Geralt’s in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. The turmoil he’s feeling stays where it rests in his chest, just waiting for him to pick it up again, but it remains at bay for now.
He doesn’t really want to think about it at all, but it seems Geralt has other plans.
“Have you…” Geralt trails off, and Jaskier glances over to see he looks torn on what to say. Something so unusual for Geralt that it makes Jaskier sit that little bit straighter. “Have you thought more on where we… stand, with one another?”
Jaskier feels a lump form in his throat, and he pulls his hand away from Geralt’s. He doesn’t miss the way Geralt flinches at the sudden absence of touch and Jaskier pushes down the need to reconnect. This isn’t a conversation he can afford to be distracted during.
“Geralt,” he starts quietly, tucking his hands into his lap. “There have been so many things to think about recently that I…” Jaskier swallows and shakes his head. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“You still want to leave.”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and Jaskier gives Geralt a helpless look. “Yes,” he admits, because he can’t lie to Geralt, “but…. I also don’t want to leave.”
Geralt frowns, and Jaskier feels awful. He’s confused himself and it’s not fair to drag Geralt into that.
“I don’t understand,” Geralt says predictably, and Jaskier doesn’t think he mistakes the hurt in his voice.
He closes his eyes and hangs his head, unable to meet Geralt’s eyes for much longer. He curls his fingers into the blanket draped over his knees and tries to think past the emotions raging in his head and chest, tries to think of an answer he can give Geralt.
“I don’t want to go, Geralt,” he tries again. “Not now, not after things have started to change.” He opens his eyes and meets Geralt’s confused gaze. “I’m not wrong in thinking that… that something is between us, am I?”
It’s Geralt’s turn to avert his eyes. Jaskier grits his teeth and forces himself to wait, to give Geralt the time to work through whatever he’s feeling instead of jumping to conclusions. It’s gotten him into trouble before. He won’t do that again.
“You’re not wrong,” Geralt finally says, his voice so quiet that Jaskier nearly can’t hear it. “There is something.” He shrugs, and the movement is too casual for the usually stoic witcher. “I don’t know what, I’ll admit, but-”
“It’s something,” Jaskier finishes for him, and Geralt nods, glancing up to give Jaskier a relieved sort of look. Jaskier smiles at him, small and private, and Geralt’s eyes soften back at him.
Jaskier feels a warmth deep in his chest, steadily building as it blooms out, and he lets out a shaky breath. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to Geralt looking at him like that, as if Jaskier holds the moon in his hands, and he wonders if he looks at Geralt like that himself.
He certainly feels like he does.
But for now he turns back to the fire as he twists his fingers together, wringing his hands as he tries to sort everything churning through his mind and wonders just how he can voice it.
“I just…” he pauses, clenches his hands and braces himself for what he’s going to say. “I just don’t feel like I belong here, Geralt.” He glances out the corner of his eyes and sees Geralt frowning at him, leaning forward in his chair as if concerned. “I’m not a fighter, I haven’t got magic, I don’t know a thing about alchemy or healing.” Jaskier huffs a dark laugh, feels the scar tissue that’s built up on his burnt palms under the pads of his ruined fingers. “I’m not even a bloody bard anymore.”
“Jaskier-”
“So what on earth could I possibly offer any of you if I stay?”
Silence is all that meets him, painful loud silence.
There, though. It’s out now, and Jaskier feels woefully inadequate as he grits his teeth at the sudden weight on his shoulders. He grips his hands so tightly they’re shaking and white, keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the flickering flames and tries not to think about it swallowing him up completely.
There’s no response from Geralt, just that deafening silence, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting Geralt to say, if he’s honest. Platitudes? Geralt has never been one for those. He’s never been one for white lies or unnecessary comfort either, so Jaskier feels himself facing the cool reality that his fears of being utterly useless to everyone here are very much real.
Geralt’s chair creaks beside him, and there’s a cold lump sitting in Jaskier’s stomach as he squeezes his eyes shut to hear rather than see Geralt get up from his seat and move about the room. He wouldn’t be able to meet his own gaze right now, and he’d rather not watch Geralt try and fail to do so.
But then there’s warm hands on his knees, thumbs brushing over the edges of them, and Jaskier can feel the heat of Geralt’s body against the front of his shins.
“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is so gentle, more so that it has ever been. “Jaskier, open your eyes.”
He does. Only one though, slowly and carefully, but when he sees that Geralt has knelt on the rug in front of him with warm eyes and a kind look, Jaskier opens both in a flash as his mouth opens in silent surprise.
“I did not realise you do not see how much you are wanted here,” Geralt continues, thumbs still moving in soothing circles. “I wish you had told me earlier so we could remind you.”
“Geralt-” Jaskier starts to say, but Geralt squeezes his knees and cuts him off.
“You are right. You cannot fight, you don’t know magic, and your ability to make potions is limited to gruel even Lambert struggles to eat.”
“That’s not making me feel better,” Jaskier grumbles, but stops when Geralt moves his hands up and gently takes his, fingers running over the scars burnt there.
“But to say you are not a bard is a lie.” Geralt raises their hands until Jaskier’s knuckles are pressed against his lips. “You will always be one, whether you can play a lute or not, and we will always remember the sacrifices you made that led to these scars.” Geralt lowers their hands back down and Jaskier finds himself struggling to catch his breath. “But even so, that is not why we want you… I want you to stay.”
Jaskier opens his mouth again but nothing comes out this time. His voice catches before it can form words, and he slowly shuts it to focus instead on waiting to hear what Geralt will say next.
“Jaskier,” Geralt pauses as if to catch his breath. “You are the gentleness and the acceptance that I didn’t know I needed. You bring me wonder and laughter when I have rarely had cause for either. You are both the quiet I seek to rest with and the joy I wish to celebrate.”
Jaskier shakes his head minutely, unable to speak past the lump in his throat as his eyes burn and prickle with unshed tears. Geralt doesn’t look away though, his voice firm but comforting, and Jaskier doesn’t question once the sincerity behind his words.
“I am sorry,” Geralt’s fingers tighten around Jaskier’s briefly, “for ever shedding any doubt on that. I wish I could go back and stop all the hateful things I said to you. That I could stop you ever feeling like you were never wanted.”
“Geralt…” Jaskier whispers, but Geralt shakes his head and leans forward, pressing his forehead to their gripped hands as if in prayer.
“So, stay, Jaskier.” Geralt murmurs. “Stay, because I need you.”
Jaskier feels one lone tear slip down his cheek before he lets go of Geralt’s hands, only to cup his cheeks and tilt his head back until their eyes meet, burning warmth between them.
“Yes,” he breathes, voice barely a whisper. “Yes, of course, Geralt. Of course I’ll stay.”
Geralt’s eyes widen for a brief moment before his lips split into a large smile. It lights up his face, his eyes filling with a joy Jaskier has never seen on him, and it makes his stomach swoop with something he’s never felt either.
“You-”
Their lips collide, Jaskier cutting off Geralt before his sentence can form, and he slides forward in his chair as he buries his fingers in Geralt’s long hair. Jaskier tugs on it gently as he kisses him, softening his lips around Geralt’s as he eases them into something gentle and chaste, and when he pulls back its to see Geralt watching him with wide eyes.
The witcher is silent for a brief moment, still under Jaskier’s hands, but then his arms come up to wrap around Jaskier’s waist and he lets out a yelp as Geralt pulls him forward off his chair and down onto Geralt’s lap.
“Fucking bard,” Geralt mutters before he arches Jaskier’s back and crashes their lips together again.
…
Winter ends all too soon.
Jaskier sits on Snowmare, the beautiful mare Coen had given him much earlier in the winter, just outside of the porticulus of the keep. His saddlebags hang with enough supplies to get him much further than the first town, all the way to Oxenfurt if he decides, and Snowmare stomps her hooves on the dirt path with impatience.
“They’ll be here soon,” Yennefer says from beside him, and Jaskier glances over to see her watching him with a smile from on top of her own stallion. It’s a good look on her. Jaskier thinks that this time away, time with Ciri especially, has been good for her.
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t need to, as he hears the sound of thundering hooves coming down from the keep behind them. Instead, he swivels in his saddle and his eyes widen to see the group that’s racing towards them.
Jaskier holds tight to his reins as Ciri goes flying past, startling Snowmare enough to stagger a few steps to the side. It’s good time as Coen and Lambert shoot past, hot on her heels as their horses gallop across the draw bridge, and Yennefer lets out a delighted laugh before she spurs her horse forward to join them.
“Come on, Jaskier!” she calls back over her shoulder, but Jaskier just shakes his head and doesn’t make movements to follow.
Instead, he waits, listening to the last set of hooves clop down the cobbled path as Geralt finally arrives. He’s going at a much slower pace, and he casually pulls Roach to a stop beside Jaskier.
“Took your time,” Jaskier says, and he looks over to see Geralt smiling.
“I knew you’d wait.”
Jaskier huffs but can’t help his own smile in return. He pulls Snowmare around a bit more until his leg brushes against Geralt’s, their horses side by side, and Geralt’s hand comes across to rest on Jaskier’s thigh.
“Are you sure you want to leave?” Jaskier can’t help but ask, and Geralt’s eyebrow raises. “I know its time to take The Path again but I thought, you know, with Ciri…”
He trails off, but Geralt just shakes his head fondly.
“I thought you couldn’t wait to leave.”
Jaskier shoots him a filthy look. “Yes,” he agrees, “but the place has grown on me, if I’m honest.”
“The place or the people?”
Jaskier rolls his eyes but his lips tug up at the corners. “Maybe both.”
Geralt lets go of his thigh and straights up on Roach, both hands moving to grip her reins. “Every Spring, when I leave, I always wonder if it will be the last time.” Geralt muses, glancing back up at the keep. “This is the first time I know that it won’t be.”
“It won’t?”
“No.” Geralt turns back to him, and his eyes are so warm that Jaskier feels it deep in chest. “This time I leave with reasons to come back.”
Jaskier’s heart skips a beat. “Yeah?” he asks, a little breathless.
Geralt just nods.
It’s a soft moment they share, and Jaskier can’t help but lean across the lack of distance between them to press a gentle kiss to Geralt’s cheek. He hears Geralt’s breath catch, and it makes his heart thump wildly in his chest.
He pulls back, settles himself properly back in the saddle, before a slow grin spreads over his face. “You’re getting soft, Geralt,” he can’t help but say.
Geralt’s eyes narrow in response, and Jaskier bites his lip to stop from laughing only for his eyes to widen as Geralt promptly reaches out to smack Snowmare’s behind, startling her.
Jaskier yelps as Snowmare flies forward, nearly throwing him off if it weren’t for his ridiculously tight grip on her reins, and he swears at being flung around in the saddle as she bolts down the hill and follows after the others.
“You ass!” he bellows, but he only hears Geralt’s loud laughter over the wind in response.
…