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Geralt’s face is numb from the cold wind, but after who knows how long he can finally breathe again. His mind is empty, and he carefully resolves to keep it that way lest anger overwhelms him again. Like a raging beast that you are, supplies a nasty voice in his head, the voice of a depraved mage who once forced his hand, but Geralt has long learned to ignore it.
He turns his back to the edge of the precipice only to see that not everyone has left yet. The old dragon is still here, and he looks at Geralt with knowing eyes. But he doesn’t know shit about Geralt, and Geralt walks straight past him.
“How lucky you must be, Witcher,” the old man says, and Geralt doesn’t want to strangle him. Witchers don’t have emotions, and right now Geralt is leaning into that particular lie with all his might. Borch continues speaking, not noticing or, more likely, ignoring Geralt’s internal struggle. “To have someone willing to give you anything you want, should you only ask.”
Geralt doesn’t stop. Borch is not deterred and falls into step beside him, throwing the witcher curious glances.
Geralt sighs. “What are you even talking about?” His voice is more gruff than usual. That’s probably from all the shouting, another voice in his head jumps in cheerfully, and… No. Just no. Geralt is not going there.
Borch, however, seems intent to. “Your bard, of course.”
“Most days, Jaskier isn’t even willing to give me a moment of silence, so you are wrong in your judgement.”
The thought brings Geralt some dark satisfaction. Borch is wrong. Borch knows nothing about Geralt, so it doesn't matter what he says about him, or Yennefer, or his Child Surprise.
“And yet, you ask him to climb a mountain with you—”
“I didn’t ask.”
“—and he does just that. You tell him to take himself off your hands, and he is willing to give you that blessing.”
The reminder runs down Geralt’s spine like a cold and deadly claw.
He frowns at the dragon. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Why are you telling me that?” Borch asks without missing a beat.
“Jaskier knows.”
“Does he?”
And Geralt can’t bring himself to talk to the old man any longer, so he starts walking faster.
Of course, Jaskier knows he didn’t mean it. Geralt’s words were ugly, Geralt was ugly, but Jaskier knows him down to his core. He’s seen Geralt kill, seen him covered in blood, guts, and despair, seen him shaky with potions, destruction throbbing in black veins. Geralt honestly expected Jaskier to leave for the first seven years or so because who in their right mind would trail after a grumpy witcher through bogs and marshes just to run away from drowners, and wraiths, and all manner of other monsters?
But Jaskier, in his fancy doublets and with a lute in his hands, never stayed in courts for long. He never stayed in Oxenfurt either, even though the Academy provided him with living quarters and eager students should he ever deign to grace them with his musical genius and lyrical talents (Jaskier’s words, not Geralt’s).
After the first decade of their companionship, Geralt stopped asking himself why that could be and came to the only reasonable conclusion: Jaskier was not in his right mind and he wouldn’t be leaving Geralt’s side any time soon.
Surely, that stupid spat would not be the thing that finally made Jaskier leave? Surely, that wasn’t worse than that nekker’s bite when Geralt hadn’t been fast enough, wasn’t worse than having to camp out because yet another inn was too hostile to host them, wasn’t worse than stitching Geralt’s wounds with steady hands and shaky heartbeat?
Geralt shakes his head. The dragon was wrong. He didn’t know the first thing about Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, or Destiny. Geralt refuses to believe his bullshit.
But when he gets to their camp, Jaskier or his things are nowhere to be found.
*
It doesn’t take Geralt long to track Jaskier, but it’s longer than he would have liked. Geralt watches him sit against a tree trunk from behind the tree line. Jaskier doesn’t seem to be looking anywhere in particular. He is completely motionless bar breathing and slow blinking, and that kind of stillness doesn’t feel right. Geralt thinks, maybe he should leave him be. If Jaskier wants to leave, Geralt doesn’t have any right to hold him back. The bard would be better off without a spiteful ungrateful—
“If you have something to say, come out here,” Jaskier says evenly. Geralt shuffles his feet and does just that.
“How did you know it was me?”
Jaskier slowly looks at him. “Yarpen and his men curse at the top of their lungs, not sneak around.”
“How did you know it wasn’t bandits?”
“You took care of the Reavers this morning. Doubt there are any other bandits up here.”
Jaskier’s reasoning is sound, but his voice is devoid of any emotion, and that throws Geralt off kilter.
“Could have been a monster,” he frowns nonetheless.
“Would’ve been dead already,” Jaskier shrugs minutely. And he must be saying it so nonchalantly just to spite Geralt, but his voice is so level that Geralt doesn’t know what to do with it, what to make of this version of Jaskier. He is still standing in the middle of the small clearing, and he feels too tall, too awkward in his own body, all wrong. Geralt never feels this way with Jaskier.
“You shouldn’t have left,” he says gruffly. Jaskier snorts and gives him a filthy look.
“Alone,” Geralt adds.
Jaskier sighs. “Are you here to mother-hen me, Geralt?”
And that’s not what Jaskier is asking, so Geralt doesn’t bother answering. “Are you angry with me?” he asks instead.
“Deep down. Not now.”
“And now?”
“’m just tired,” Jaskier says. The words are quiet and slightly slurred, as if he couldn’t be bothered to move his mouth properly, and Geralt realises that he would prefer Jaskier’s anger to this. Angry Jaskier is familiar. Jaskier is often angry. At tavern drunks and tricky aldermen, at powerful sorceresses and nobles who dare imply that he could do better than travel with a witcher. Sometimes at Geralt but never truly at Geralt.
This is a new brand of tired, and Geralt doesn’t know what to say. So he stays quiet and starts setting up camp, feeling Jaskier’s eyes on him from time to time. As he collects firewood and rolls out their bedrolls, he tries to think of what to say, but his mind is empty and unhelpful. He considers hunting, but he doesn’t want to leave Jaskier, so he gets out some rations and goes back to Jaskier to push some bread and jerky into his hands.
“Not hungry.”
Okay then. Geralt sits next to him, leaning against the same tree. Their shoulders brush.
Jaskier sighs and lets his head hit the tree trunk.
“Gods, Geralt, why the fuck did you have to go and say it?”
Geralt can’t bring himself to look at him, glaring at his own knees instead.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I know. But you said it all the same.”
“Hmm.”
He hears Jaskier’s head hit the tree trunk again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Jaskier lets out a sigh. “Okay. Give me that food.”
He takes a bread roll from Geralt and splits it in half, pushing a half back in Geralt’s hand. “It’s okay, Geralt. Don’t worry about it.”
But Jaskier could never really lie to him, and now it’s like he isn’t even trying to sound convincing. And Geralt doesn’t know how to fix this hollow feeling between them. He knows they need to talk about it, but he has no words for it. He needs help, he needs…
“Jaskier.”
“Mm?”
“Help me talk to you about it. Please.”
Jaskier turns to him with wide eyes and a slack jaw. He seems to realise that his mouth is open and bites off a bit of the bread roll he’s holding. Geralt looks away to hide his smile. They may end up alright if he’s managed to get an emotion out of Jaskier after all.
Jaskier chews on his bread with a considering look. He swallows and clears his throat.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll help you. What do you want out of this conversation?”
And that’s a good question. What does Geralt want from him? Borch’s words surface in his mind. Willing to give you anything you want, should you only ask. Geralt shakes his head.
“I want you to know I didn’t mean it.”
“I know it.”
“I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”
“You said that already.”
Somehow, this doesn’t clear the air between them. A helpless sound escapes Geralt’s throat, and he gives Jaskier a frustrated look. Jaskier lets out a chuckle.
“How can I help you if I don’t know what you want?”
But you always do, Geralt thinks. He doesn’t know how to put it into words though. He doesn’t know what it would say about him, about Jaskier, about their friendship. About how he’s come to rely on Jaskier to interpret his grunts and eyerolls.
Jaskier sighs at his silence, looking at him with knowing eyes. “If only you were as eloquent saying what you mean as saying what you don’t.”
“You know what I want to ask.”
“You’ll have to say it, Geralt. I need to hear it.”
“I want you to stay.”
Geralt keeps his secrets close to his heart, and parting with this one makes him feel like something monumental must happen. An earthquake or a thunderstorm, at the very least. Or, at the very worst, Jaskier telling him, Tough luck, Witcher, should I maybe also blow you right here and now? and disappearing into thin air.
What happens instead is Jaskier giving him a small smile. “Wasn’t that difficult, was it?”
Geralt grunts noncommittally.
“You still want my help with this conversation?”
Jaskier asks it as if Geralt has any choice. Like if someone had an infected wound, and the healer asked in the middle of cleaning it, Do you want me to continue? Of course, not. Because it hurts. Of course, yes. Because that’s how you survive it. So Geralt nods.
“Why do you want me to stay?”
Geralt hopes his look conveys the depth of the bard’s betrayal. He can’t be asking him to say what he surely, surely knows. But Geralt was just as certain that he’d find Jaskier waiting for him at the camp earlier. So maybe he should say it after all.
Geralt takes a big breath.
“I like you. I like travelling with you. You make my days brighter. I like your singing—”
With every word, Jaskier’s eyes grow wider, his face blushing a deeper shade of red. So Geralt continues.
“—I feel lonely without you. You’re sometimes funny. You’re kind to me. You smell like home. You’re smart even though you’re an idiot most of the time—”
Jaskier flips him off halfheartedly, looking genuinely shocked by Geralt’s flood of words.
“—you have nice hands. You’re always happy to see me like no one ever is. You’re brave. Annoying. Loud. Really fucking impractical—”
“I think you’re getting a bit off topic here—”
“And you’re my best friend.”
Jaskier looks like he’s about to cry.
“In the whole wide world,” Geralt adds, and that does it. Jaskier pinches his nose bridge and looks away, blinking very fast.
“For fuck’s sake, Geralt.”
“You asked to hear it,” Geralt shrugs innocently. Somehow, he said all those things, and the world didn’t turn upside down, and Jaskier didn’t stop existing like a cruel mage’s illusion, and the space between them doesn’t feel brittle and poisonous anymore.
“I’m not just your best friend, I’m your only friend, you nincompoop,” Jaskier huffs, which is brave words from someone aggressively rubbing at their eyes.
“No, you’re not,” Geralt smiles at him. Jaskier smiles back. Geralt thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen this horrible day.
“You do realise that I won’t ever let you live it down, right?” Jaskier asks with mischief in his voice. “Every time you’re mean to me, I’ll be like ohh, should life maybe take me off your hands?”
Geralt frowns. “Jask, I promise I didn’t—”
Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand in his and gives it a squeeze.
“And every time you fuck up, I’ll be like oh no, Geralt, that was my fault!”
“Jaskier.”
“And every time we see a fucking shovel, Geralt, oh-ho—”
“Please shut up, Jask, I’m begging you.”
They grin at each other some more, and then Geralt sobers.
“Does it mean we’re okay? You’re staying?”
Jaskier squeezes his hand again. “Of course.”
“That’s… You’re… nice to me.” He swallows. “Thank you.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You’re such a fucking idiot sometimes, Geralt.” His words are harsh, but his voice is soft. “I’m not being nice to you. I… You know what, no. You’ll get there some day.”
And maybe Geralt understands what Jaskier doesn’t want to say, but this is a dangerous thought and he isn’t ready to think it. Not tonight.
“So we’re back to normal? Like before?” Geralt asks instead.
Jaskier looks away. “Depends. Do you want things to be like before?”
And maybe good things can happen without hard conversations, but the very idea feels like a trap. He squints at Jaskier and carefully replies, “Depends. What are the other options?”
Jaskier’s laughter is bright and incredulous. “Fuck you, Geralt. You’ll have to ask first.” He stands up and stretches his back, then offers his hand to Geralt to help him up. As if the witcher can’t do it himself. Geralt takes it, and Jaskier tugs him up.
“I am asking though. What are the options?” Why he thinks he can ever outsmart Jaskier at these word games, he doesn’t know.
“Unlimited,” Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows. “The options are unlimited.”
They are both standing now, but his hand is still in Jaskier’s, so he tugs the bard closer and hugs him. Jaskier hugs him back.
Yeah, Geralt thinks, we’re going to be just fine.