Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the wake of the fucking everything that came after his reunion with Geralt, Jaskier has enjoyed taking time to himself, a few minutes snatched here or there to gather his thoughts. It’s in one of these stolen thinking moments that he’s come to his current resolution: he has to stop hoping for more with Geralt. 

It’s only hurting him, Jaskier decides, to hold on to the stupid hope that Geralt will apologize properly, thus allowing Jaskier to feel comfortable trying for more again. If he tries to push forward now, they’d be building on sharp edges and broken things, and Jaskier can only provide so many setups for the apology he needs to hear only to have Geralt to completely miss them. It’s no good. He needs to aim for what he had before and give up his stupid wishes for anything else. 

He’d been content with what he had before, after all. Even in his lowest moments after the mountain, Jaskier hadn’t truly regretted giving so much of his life away, even when he knew he should.

He knew then, as he knows now, that people didn’t fully understand why Jaskier stayed. He gets the impression that Geralt asked himself the same question. How can Jaskier explain, though, the freedom of being by Geralt? The joy of traveling with him? The rightness that Jaskier only felt when he was by the witcher’s side, singing his praises to all and sundry? 

How can he capture in words the feeling on cold nights when Geralt gave into his shivering and let him huddle close against his warm bulk, allowing Jaskier to leech his heat without complaint? How can he explain the relief of someone who lets him talk as much as he wants, and who listens, no matter how much he might pretend he doesn’t? He can’t, is the answer. No one sees Geralt the way Jaskier sees Geralt, no matter how much the bard attempts to make them. 

Other people haven’t gotten to see Geralt telling his horse stupid jokes. Other people haven’t seen the soft, confused look on the witcher’s face when a little girl gives him a flower instead of running away screaming. Other people haven’t patched Geralt up from injuries gotten from doing a dangerous and largely thankless job that saves people’s lives every single day. 

Jaskier has, though, and he wants it all back. It’s worth it to have what he lost, even if it means he never gains more. 

Now if other people would stop trying to ruin his resolution. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Yennefer says without preamble as she joins him on the window seat he’s camped out on to write. The witch had healed his hand for him almost immediately after the recovery of her magic, but he still lacks a lute. Even thinking about music makes him ache anew with missing it, so he tries to avoid it when he can. His creativity still needs some outlet, however, so poetry it is. They're in the room she's claimed as her own for working her magic and potions and whatever else she's up to. It's a not infrequent haven for him these days. 

“Wrong, dear witch? Nothing! I’m better than ever. I’ve finally made it to the special secret witcher fort, I’m back in the action for inspiration, I’m sexier than ever in case you haven’t noti-” 

“Jaskier.” Yennefer slaps his arm gently as she settles down beside him. “You are making Geralt disgusting right now. Please think about the other people who have to put up with those yearning glances and kicked puppy eyes.” 

“I dispute the yearning glances, and you should know by now that his only facial expressions are stoic grump and kicked puppy. Nothing I can do about that.” Yennefer laughs. 

“Fair enough. But he is yearning,” she presses against him and wriggles slightly, her eyebrows raised suggestively. 

“He isn’t,” Jaskier says, pulling away and dropping any joking. “Please don’t do this, Yennefer.” She leans back. 

“Do what?” 

Jaskier swallows hard, bringing one knee up and pressing his forehead to it, his arms wrapped loosely around his leg. His voice, when he finally speaks, is soft, pain clear in his tone. 

“Don’t give me hope.” He tells her, swallowing hard after he says it. “I can’t do it again.” He turns his head to look at her from beneath his fringe. “I spent decades hoping. And it got me fuck all besides the dressing down of my life on top of that fucking mountain and a fun little session of torture later.” 

“I would argue it also got you a lovely little musical ‘fuck you,’” Yennefer points out. Jaskier doesn’t even crack a smile. 

“It hurt, you know, to sing that song,” he tells her, closing his eyes. This isn’t the sort of confession he can look at her during. “Every fucking time. I thought it would feel good, tearing it all to the ground. I built him up, after all. I did that. Every song, every performance. But it just ached like a fucking gut punch every time I sang it. I wrote it to hurt him and ended up hurting myself. Isn’t that some irony? He probably wouldn’t even care if he heard it.”

“Have you sung it for him?” 

“Absolutely not. Despite all appearances, I don’t actually have a death wish. Geralt and I have made peace for now. I have absolutely no desire to give him another reason to yell at me over something.”

“Yelling would at least be a change. You two are walking on eggshells around each other. It’s making me nervous just watching.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Jaskier asks, genuinely curious as to whether she has a suggestion. 

“You could try talking to him.” 

“I talk all the time.” The statement makes Yennefer roll her eyes. 

“You could talk to him about things of substance, maybe. His apology was shit, make him give you a better one.”

“I was lucky to get what I did,” Jaskier scoffs. “He wasn’t going to say anything. I had to goad him into what I did get.”

“So make him-”

“It’s not like it is with you,” Jaskier snaps. “I can’t make him do things, Yennefer. That’s not how it works with us. He decides what I get, and I make my peace with it. That’s how it is.”

“He’s changed,” she tells him, gentle despite Jaskier's efforts to pick a fight. “You’ve seen him with Ciri. He might surprise you.” Jaskier huffs out a dismissive laugh. 

“That’s not change. That’s him with a person who isn’t me. He resisted finding her for so long, but for all I know, those Papa Wolf tendencies were always there below the surface.” Jaskier considers confessing that he was jealous of Ciri for the briefest second when he first saw Geralt interacting with her when they’d all made it back to Kaer Morhen. 

He had watched Geralt embrace her, pulling back enough to duck down and tilt her chin up with a gentle hand as he’d asked if she was alright. The soft look and affectionate smile on Geralt’s face had made Jaskier want to grind his teeth and put his fist through something with the knowledge that he’d never see that softness directed his way. Jaskier feels sick now, remembering that horrible little flicker of want in him, watching Geralt grant a solicitousness to another person that Jaskier had craved the entire time he’d known him. The feeling has faded as he’s gotten to know Ciri and seen how much the girl needs that sort of care, how much she deserves to feel important and treasured. Fuck, Jaskier himself feels the urge to wrap her in blankets and tell her it’ll all be okay. 

The jealousy was a similar shade to the same angry hurt he’d felt each time he watched Geralt interact with the witch beside him now. Jaskier flatters himself, in his angrier, pettier moments, that Yennefer had reaped the benefits of Jaskier’s hard work. He had chipped away at Geralt for years before Yennefer entered the picture, teasing him loose of that tough witcher shell to let the softer parts of him peek through. He had rejoiced at the smallest things, then. Geralt tossing him a pastry he had bought because he knew Jaskier enjoyed them had been enough to make the bard smile for a full day, secure in the knowledge that he was making progress. Then Yennefer had arrived, and Jaskier had seen what Geralt was actually capable of giving. Knowing that someone else got the soft touches and sweet words that Jaskier had been working for for decades had made him want to smash something, even as he was ashamed of his presumption. He knew, he knows, that he can’t make demands of Geralt, that it isn’t fair to demand affection or devotion. Geralt doesn’t owe him just because Jaskier was stupid enough to fall in love with him.

It still aches enough to make him almost breathless with pain, though. 

Yennefer is looking at him with soft, pitying eyes, and Jaskier realizes she’s read his thoughts even without him speaking aloud. He scrubs an arm angrily across his eyes, ridding himself of tears starting to form. He’s angry, suddenly, and he wants to snap at someone. He doesn’t want the hurt. He wants it to be anger, which is easier to carry. 

“It’s rude to loot through people’s heads,” he snaps at her. He curses internally at the warble in his voice. Yennefer doesn’t rise to the bait, and it makes him feel even shittier. She rests a gentle hand on his arm, squeezing affectionately.

“He loves you, Jaskier. He-”

“ NO!” He roars from a place deep in his chest, ripping his arm from her grip and launching himself to his feet. “Don’t! I already fucking told you!” His breath is coming quicker now, hurt and anger tightening his chest in even measure. He can feel the sobs that want to emerge, and he fights them down. No, he’s cried enough over Geralt. He will not keep doing it. He will not keep being this pathetic. It's why he made his resolution in the first place. Yennefer remains where she is, blinking at him in mild surprise at his volume and aggression. Annoyingly, it takes the wind out of his sails, and he eventually plops back down beside her. He dares to lean over and rest his head on her shoulder, and she allows it. “I’m sorry,” he tells her quietly. 

“It’s alright,” she says easily, bringing one hand up to thread her fingers in his hair. “Don’t do it again,” she says with a small tug of reprimand before she resumes soft stroking. 

“I can’t hope anymore. It will kill me this time, it really will. I want what I had before, that’s all. I can live on that.” 

“You can’t live on scraps forever.” Jaskier hums in response, an ambivalent noise. 

“I did it for twenty years.” Yennefer considers his answer for a moment. 

“You shouldn’t have to live on scraps forever,” she corrects.

“If scraps are all I can get, I’ll take them. Something is more than nothing, and I’ll take whatever something I can get. It’s pathetic, and if a friend of mine ever did the same thing, I’d throttle some sense into them, but here we are.”

“I could toss you off a tower and see if that would knock some sense into that thick skull of yours,” she offers. Jaskier smiles slightly, still resting against her. 

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” In response, Yennefer leans her head against his, and they sit for a while in companionable silence. 

They shift into a discussion of new potions Yennefer is developing, and Jaskier pokes through her ingredients until he wears out his welcome and is summarily evicted after making a game of seeing how many bottles Yennefer could catch from varying distances. He accepts his ejection with grace, deciding that it’s fair enough this time. 

Denied the chance to needle at the witch more to fill the space until he has something else to do, he decides to explore. Jaskier has taken to wandering the keep in his down time. He still finds it damnably easy to get lost, and he’s determined to become familiar enough with the layout to find his way without having to ask for directions, if only for how much Lambert in particular delights in giving him instructions designed to get him lost further. A man can only find himself locked out of a keep in winter so many times before the fun wears thin. 

As a result of these meanderings, he’s managed to find a few spots where no one else congregates, mostly out of the way spots in the least maintained parts of Kaer Morhen. A particular favorite is an old turret lookout with a firm foundation even though its outer walls have crumbled enough in certain places to give it a spectacular view even when sitting down. It’s this bolthole he heads for now, wanting a quiet place to compose for a while to get his head on straight. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he opens the door and finds a person where he expects empty space right next to him. Geralt smiles slightly at the bard’s clear alarm. 

“Alright?” He asks, amused, and Jaskier has the split second thought that it’s unfair for someone to look so beautiful when Jaskier is trying so hard not to think about that sort of thing. Since when does Geralt smile like that? So damned inconvenient. Jaskier contemplates retreating immediately, but he doesn’t see a way to accomplish it without setting off alarms even Geralt would hear. Oh well, he decides at last. Better get some practice in anyway. He sits down next to the witcher, almost as close as he would have before.

“Wasn’t expecting lurkers out here. I usually have it to myself.” 

Geralt hums in response. Jaskier expects him to leave it at that and is surprised when he actually speaks. “It’s a good place to think. I used to come out here when I was younger and needed a moment of quiet.” Jaskier is itching to pick more at that thread, to jump on the unexpected offer of a glimpse into Geralt’s past. He resists. If he has to imagine a tiny, round-cheeked Geralt working on perfecting his brooding, it’s going to blow a giant hole in Jaskier’s resolution to not push past established boundaries. 

“Should I leave?” Jaskier offers, unsure whether he wants Geralt to take him up on the offer or not. Geralt looks mildly surprised. 

“No. I don’t mind when it’s you.” And if that isn’t a grand mindfuck for Jaskier to puzzle through later. 

“That’s a first.” Jaskier tries for a joke, but Geralt frowns slightly. 

“What do you mean?” Jaskier looks at him blankly at the question. He’d like to point out the many times he’s been snapped at for being noisy, but he doesn’t particularly feel like picking a fight, especially a fight in a high place with structurally unsound walls all around. He shrugs. 

“Nevermind.” From the corner of his eye he sees Geralt open his mouth to ask more. “So, you have any other good hiding spots around this place I should know about?” Geralt just looks at him for a moment, weighing whether or not he should push, but he’s still cautious about pushing Jaskier these days and decides to let it go. 

“Could you find them if I told you?” Geralt knows Jaskier knows him well enough to see it as the joke it is, which means he’s surprised when a flicker of hurt flits across the bard’s expression. He’s about to investigate when Jaskier jumps in, as bright as ever, and Geralt decides to let it go, too. 

“I think you’d be surprised, dear witcher. I managed to find the dining hall last night.” 

“After Ciri found you wandering near the library.” Jaskier gives him a betrayed look. 

“She told you that? Little traitor. I told her I wanted the credit for finding my own way.”

“Should have bribed her for her silence,” Geralt informs him. Jaskier raises an eyebrow, a smile Geralt doesn’t trust at all lighting up the bard’s face. 

“Oh? You say that with a great deal of confidence. What’s she got on you, then?” 

“Nothing,” Geralt says, and he knows he said it too quickly even before it makes Jaskier’s eyes light up. He resists the urge to curse. On the nights when the nightmares kept her up late, Geralt had scrambled for stories to tell her that wouldn’t make things worse. Almost all of them had involved or been about Jaskier, who had been the single brightest point in his life before Ciri came along. Geralt’s tied up in several hard-won negotiations to ensure that she never, ever speaks about how much she’s deduced about Geralt’s fondness for Jaskier as a result. Jaskier still waits, and Geralt braces himself to be goaded more, but the bard just sighs dramatically. 

“Fine then, keep your secrets. I’m sure I can invent far more embarrassing stories anyway.” Geralt very highly doubts that. Ciri’s teased him too many times for it to be true. 

“I could show you some of the more important ways to get around,” Geralt offers, an olive branch that also serves to swing the conversation back around to territory less prone to embarrass him. 

“No, I’ll figure it out eventually. Don’t bother yourself on my account.” Geralt resists the urge to frown again at this. Before the disaster of the mountain, Jaskier would have thought nothing of pestering Geralt into helping him figure out his way around. 

“It’s not a bother,” Geralt offers. “This place can be confusing. Boys always got lost when they first came here.” 

“And would you have been one of those unfortunate boys?” Jaskier guesses and knows he’s right by the way Geralt immediately moves his hair to obscure his face, a tell he’s not sure Geralt knows he has and one that Jaskier will absolutely not be telling him about. It comes in far too useful to let Geralt catch on and stop. 

“Did I ever tell you about the time Eskel convinced me to sneak out to steal food from the kitchens, and we ended up in the instructor’s wing instead?” The question is a lead-in; Geralt knows he hasn’t. He’d always been reticent about sharing too much of Kaer Morhen, even with Jaskier, who arguably holds more knowledge of him than anyone else. It seems almost foolish now, safe in this hiding place with Jaskier content beside him, where he should be. What are a few more stories in Jaskier’s possession in the grand scheme of things? He already holds more of Geralt than the witcher has ever allowed of anyone else. 

“Do tell,” Jaskier says, and settles back with a grin that Geralt returns before he obliges. 

It’s nice, Jaskier muses as Geralt talks, sitting like this. Jaskier responds to Geralt’s story with one of his own, and they play narrative catch that way for a while. Jaskier relaxes soon enough, happy to be having a conversation with Geralt unadulterated by the fragile tension that always seems to spring up between them these days. It feels like old times, and Jaskier is reassured that they can reach that place again, a place where Jaskier knows how to be happy. 

Geralt is lighter here at Kaer Morhen, but he’s still Geralt. His bulk and steady presence and sarcasm soothe Jaskier’s nerves like a favored childhood blanket. Jaskier catches himself listing to the side slightly and straightens. He had wanted to rest his head against Geralt the same way he’d done with Yennefer earlier. He had done it with the witcher before and been allowed, but that was Before. Before he gave up hoping, Before he resolved to be content with what he can get, Before he realized that Geralt will never love him the way Jaskier wants to be loved.

The thought kills his contentment immediately, and he resolutely leans slightly away. It makes Geralt turn to him, frowning, and Jaskier sees him inhale, clearly scenting the air. Jaskier resists the urge to flee. Fucking witcher senses. Can’t a man have privacy to have a quiet spiral in his own head? Honestly. 

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, as forthright as ever. He can smell Jaskier’s sadness and hurt, and it makes him twitchy in response, needing to fix it, especially because he has no idea where it’s coming from. He had been telling Jaskier about the time he and Eskel had managed to move an entire swarm of bees into the clothing chest of a particularly vicious trainer. It had been a funny story, and he had thought Jaskier had been enjoying it. 

“Nothing, dear witcher,” Jaskier responds with a vague, lazy hand motion. He taps his temple. “Just a lot of thoughts swirling around up here. You know how it is. An artist’s mind is never quiet.”

“You’re sad,” Geralt states plainly, unsure how to get the answer he wants and feeling wrongfooted as a result. He’s had some practice with Ciri by now, at least, but he’s never actually had to ask Jaskier about his feelings before. The bard had always offered them freely, a gift Geralt hadn’t appreciated until it was suddenly taken back. 

“Mmm, more thoughtful,” Jaskier muses. He looks to Geralt without moving his head and musters a smile for the witcher’s benefit. “Don’t worry yourself, Geralt, truly. You know me. I can run through the entire range of human emotion in the blink of an eye. It’s the calling card of a musician.” This response is not satisfactory. In the past, Geralt would have let it go at that, would’ve moved forward with the knowledge that Jaskier would be alright eventually. His eyes move briefly to Jaskier’s hand, newly healed by Yennefer’s intervention before Geralt even knew intervention was needed. It’s a sharp reminder that Geralt has been lax in regards to Jaskier. He’s tried to address it by sharing things he hadn’t before, but he knows he can’t rest on that alone. 

“Talk to me,” Geralt offers, leaning his weight back, trying to look open and receptive and patient. 

“I have been, in case you didn’t notice,” Jaskier teases. “I know you tune me out, but I’ve been chattering away when I haven’t been listening to you.”

“About why you’re sad.” For all he’s teased about being obtuse, Geralt doesn’t miss the way Jaskier’s smile slips for just a split second before the bard recovers it. 

“Well, look at all of this,” Jaskier gestures grandly to the views in front of them. “It’s hard to look at so much beauty and not feel something, isn’t it?”

“You’re sad because of the view?”

“Not sad,” Jaskier corrects brightly. “Thoughtful. Don’t you feel small in the face of all of this?” 

Geralt turns away from Jaskier to look, and Jaskier resists the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. He’s not used to Geralt trying to see him so clearly. It’s unsettling, frankly, a far departure from the Geralt he’s used to dealing with, the one he knows how to handle easily. 

Geralt studies the view, trying to see it how he knows Jaskier must. Not for the first time, he wishes that he could see through the bard’s eyes, even if just for a moment. The world sounds so beautiful, the way he describes it. It always has. Geralt feels a sudden swell of affection for the other man at that thought. His bard who can see the same monsters as Geralt and still smile because he found a pretty leaf. Silly, impossible man. Giving into the urge for once, he begins to lean his weight companionably against Jaskier and freezes when the bard immediately leans away, maintaining distance between them. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat elevate, his scent coloring with…panic? Geralt resists the urge to frown. Jaskier has never shrunk from him. He’s always been the first to reach out, to touch Geralt like he’s any other man. Hell, Jaskier was the one to go for a hug first in that cell the second he saw Geralt again. 

“I should go help with dinner,” Jaskier says suddenly, rising quickly to his feet and brushing off his trousers. “Should pull my weight around here.” Geralt looks up at him, puzzled. The bard has more than pulled his weight, and he’d thought he’d been enjoying sitting here together.

“Jask-” Geralt begins, but the bard cuts him off. 

“See you later,” he says, retreating quickly. 

Once he judges he’s fled a distance effective to limit witcher senses, he presses his back to the stone wall and slides to the floor, leaning forward until his head rests against his knees. 

“Fuck,” he says, with feeling. So absurdly stupid to forget that witchers have noses to put bloodhounds to shame, and so absurdly annoying that this particular witcher would suddenly use his nose right when Jaskier wants him to be as blind as he always has been. And leaning towards Jaskier? To initiate touch? Since when in the fuck has Geralt been the one to touch first?

Jaskier isn’t prepared for touches. He’s prepared for making himself content with the usual lack of touches, and he’s just settled himself into it. He’s annoyed, he finds, that Geralt isn’t playing by his own rules anymore. Jaskier touches and flirts, and Geralt acts like a grumpy rock troll with snarky one-liners. That’s their dynamic. It’s always been their dynamic. 

Geralt’s soft and squishy center is supposed to be a secret that Jaskier knows but doesn’t actually encounter. Jaskier has resigned himself to a distinct lack of squish, and if Geralt just goes off and starts squishing all over the place, Jaskier’s resolution is fucked. He can’t live like that, waiting for soft looks and touches. He can’t do it again. 

After a satisfying amount of sulking, he picks himself up and makes his way to the kitchen. It won’t do him any favors if Geralt finds out that he’s shirking his duties to throw pity parties. Finding Eskel half-hidden behind a pile of potatoes is a pleasant surprise, and the smile he greets the witcher with is genuine, as is the one he gets in response. 

“Want some help?” Jaskier says, sitting down beside him and picking up a paring knife even before Eskel responds. The witcher tosses a potato to him in answer, his grin widening when Jaskier fumbles it. 

“If your songs ever get boring, maybe you should go into juggling,” he offers, nudging Jaskier companionably. 

“Ha ha,” Jaskier responds dryly. “I’d like to see you do better.” He regrets the challenge when Eskel immediately picks up three potatoes and starts deftly juggling them. “I hate you,” Jaskier tells him. Eskel just smiles. Jaskier lobs another potato at him, and the damned witcher just catches it and adds it to the ones in the air. Inspired, Jaskier tosses another one. They manage to get to eight before Eskel finally drops one. Jaskier still magnanimously applauds, Eskel sketching a teasing sort of bow when he gets up to retrieve the rogue spud. “So is juggling part of the witcher curriculum, then?”

“Nah,” Eskel says, returning to his seat. “Just part of growing up with a lot of boys who’ll make a contest out of anything.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t know,” Jaskier says, picking up a potato and beginning to peel. “All sisters, me.” 

“How many?”

“ Four,” Jaskier says gravely, with a shudder that makes Eskel laugh. “And I don’t care how many brawls you may have ended up in with other baby witchers, nobody can do vicious like a sister.” 

“I’ll take your word for it.” Eskel is quiet a moment before he says carefully, “You don’t talk about them much, I notice. Your family. And you can’t see them often with how much you travel with Geralt.” There isn’t a question there, but Jaskier still sees that Eskel is leaving him an opening to answer if he wishes. He tosses a peeled potato into the pot of water at their feet before picking up another. 

“Not much to talk about,” he says carefully. “I didn’t fit, so I left to find somewhere I did.” 

“And have you?” Jaskier suddenly becomes very invested in the contours of his potato. Eskel pauses in his own peeling for a moment, studying him. “You can fit here, if you want.” Jaskier wishes suddenly that they were peeling onions so he’d have a reason to tear up. Joke it away it is. 

“You might want to take a vote on that,” he advises the witcher. “I can be a handful, just ask Geralt.”

“He’s talked about you, you know,” Eskel offers, returning to his peeling. Jaskier is surprised by this and ceases his. 

“What?”

“Over the years. You know Geralt, he can make two words out of twenty, so it’s not like he’s expounded about you at length, but he’s told us about you over the years.” Eskel considers a moment. “Little things, stories and such. A lot of escaping from angry spouses, I gather.” Jaskier snorts. 

“Indeed. I’m a deft hand at spousal evasion at this point. Barely even need Geralt to look brooding and vaguely threatening anymore.”

“He broods less since he’s known you. You’ve been good for him, I think.”

“I think he’d disagree,” Jaskier says immediately. He might amuse Geralt occasionally, and Jaskier would argue he’s done a great job of rehabilitating the man’s reputation, recent songs notwithstanding, but Geralt would never own up to any of that. 

“Maybe,” Eskel allows. “But he wouldn’t mean it.” This conversation is getting dangerously close to threatening Jaskier’s contentment with his lot, but he has to know. 

“Why?” 

Eskel rests his hands on the table, his potato and knife still in hand, as he considers his answer. 

“You didn’t know him before Blaviken.” 

“I wasn’t yet a twinkle in my parents’ eyes for most of pre-Blaviken, so no.” Eskel rolls his eyes and bumps Jaskier lightly with his shoulder. 

“He’s always been Geralt, but before Blaviken, he was a different Geralt. A better one, I’d say. He’s never been a chatterbox like some people I could name,” Eskel gives Jaskier a significant look, to which the bard harumphs primly. “But he spoke more. He laughed more. He was…lighter, I guess I’d say. The Path still weighed on him the way it would anyone, but he believed in it in a way the rest of us never quite could.” Eskel starts peeling again, but he’s slower now, more occupied with his thoughts than in deskinning vegetables. “Blaviken…broke him, I think is the best way I could say it. He’s never talked about it, and of course you can’t get an honest tale out of anyone else involved, but he came back that winter, and he was just…wrong. He’s always been obnoxious in training, showing the rest of us up and training longer and harder than anyone, but after whatever happened in that damn village, it’s like he was driven by a demon. He trained like he was trying to kill something with each swing. Vesemir had to call off a few of our practice bouts, Geralt was so in his head. I don’t think I heard him laugh a single time that entire winter.”

Jaskier is quiet. None of this is new to him, per se. He knows Geralt enough that it all makes sense. He remembers the Geralt of their earliest acquaintance, so determined to be ambivalent and uncaring. It hadn’t suited him at all. Jaskier had known that even then. Geralt isn’t a man meant to not care, no matter how much he might wish or pretend otherwise. Jaskier would argue that Geralt’s problem is that he cares entirely too much. 

“That started changing,” Eskel continues, “the winters he came back after meeting you. We’re brothers, so of course we had to tease him for coming back smelling of a human, but it was a relief, to see him smile again.” Eskel turns to him then. “I always meant to thank you for that, for helping him smile again.” Jaskier is overwhelmed and embarrassed by this gratitude, which he’s certain has little enough to do with him. 

“I assure you it wasn’t me,” he deflects. “My songs, maybe, decreasing the number of rotten vegetables he had to dodge.”

“No,” Eskel disagrees easily. “It was you, traveling the Path with him, giving him things to smile at. Don’t discredit yourself so easily, bard, it doesn’t suit you.” Jaskier is regretting engaging in this conversation. It would be all too easy to use these words to feed hopeful flames, and he can’t do that. He knows he can’t. He needs this conversation to end. 

“I am spectacular,” Jaskier agrees hastily. “I mean I’ve peeled at least twice as many potatoes as you, you great muscley moocher.” His words prompt a playful potato peel-off, and Eskel’s musings on Jaskier’s benefits to Geralt’s happiness blessedly end. 

Other residents trickle in as the smells of supper waft out, and the kitchen is soon enough a bustle of jostling bodies and boisterous voices. Jaskier finds himself drawn under more than one arm and into more than one playful bout of bickering, and he thinks all the while on Eskel’s offer. You can fit here, if you want. Jaskier begins to believe it could be true. If he can’t hope for more with Geralt, then he can hope for more here. He can hope to finally have a place to fit. 

After dinner, the group retreats to a smaller room with soft rugs piled on the floor and padded benches against the walls. It’s a rare source of comfort in a rather spartan keep, and Jaskier relishes the softness, splaying out contently on a soft fur close enough to feel the delicious heat of the fire without being close enough for the flames to remind him of things best forgotten. Ciri darts out of the room, returning quickly with a comb and a leather tie that she tosses to Geralt, pressing him down on a bench and dropping cross-legged before him on the floor. Jaskier watches with interest, curious about what she’s doing. 

“Time to try again,” she tells the witcher briskly. Geralt groans. 

“Did you not get enough ripped out last time?” Geralt asks. 

“Mastery requires consistent practice,” Ciri growls out in a clear attempt at mimicking Geralt. He taps her gently on the head with the comb in reprimand. She cranes her head back to grin up at him, utterly unrepentant, and the soft smile she gets in return from Geralt makes Jaskier’s traitorous little heart flutter. The other witchers put in some good-natured teasing, but a threat from Ciri to make them try next makes their conversation turn to each other instead of ribbing her and Geralt. Jaskier, however, remains entranced by the pair. 

Fatherhood suits Geralt, Jaskier muses, as he watches them bicker with insults that carry no sting with the amount of affection that’s clear between them. It’s not the first time he’s thought it. He feels his lips quirk in a smile despite himself when Geralt manages to completely tangle the comb in Ciri’s long hair after only a few strokes, the girl dropping her head against Geralt’s knee and groaning dramatically as she tugs at the mess ineffectually. 

“You can mix potions, but you can’t comb hair?” She asks with a severity of judgment only a teenaged girl could achieve. 

“ So sorry,” Geralt snarks back. “Must’ve forgotten all of those hairdressing lessons I grew up with.”

“You have long hair!” Ciri exclaims, gesturing at Geralt’s head to illustrate her point. “How can you be so bad at hair when you have so much?”

“Mine’s a reasonable length,” he says, tugging lightly at a strand of Ciri’s. “If you let me cut yours, I could handle it.” He’s clearly teasing, but Ciri pulls the hair from his hand anyway. 

“Over my dead body,” Ciri tells him with great feeling. Jaskier resists the urge to look away in embarrassed reflex when Ciri suddenly turns to him. “Jaskier, can you please come fix this?” She says, plaintive. 

“I don’t get another chance to practice?” Geralt teases. 

“No,” Ciri tells him firmly. “You tangle the comb in my hair, your turn is over.” She looks back to Jaskier. “You take care of Geralt’s, right? He said you used to help him with it.” Jaskier flicks his eyes briefly to Geralt, who is resolutely not looking at Jaskier now. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says and raises himself to his elbows. “I used to.” If she catches the slight emphasis on “used,” Ciri doesn’t comment on it, reaching back to slap lightly at Geralt’s leg. 

“Move over,” she orders with all of the cool authority of a princess. “Watch a professional do it. Maybe then you’ll stop being so terrible.” Geralt rolls his eyes but complies easily enough, shifting over to make space for Jaskier behind Ciri. Jaskier hesitates a moment longer, hesitant to interject himself and even more hesitant to sit so close to the witcher, but he can’t very well leave poor Ciri with a comb stuck in her hair. He rises to his feet and crosses to them, pausing only briefly before he sits down. This close, he can feel heat radiating from Geralt’s body, and the wry smile Geralt gives him makes Jaskier smile back entirely on impulse before he gets ahold of himself and turns back to the problem at hand. 

“How did you do this?” He asks Geralt in wonder, turning the comb with all of the slack he has on it, which is not much. He attempts to tease the knots out, but it’s a hopeless mess of tangles. “Ciri, do not let him touch your hair again, dear heart. You’ll be bald if you let him do much more of this.” Geralt knocks his shoulder against Jaskier’s, and Jaskier can feel his skin tingle where they’ve touched, even through their clothes. He needs a break from this proximity, and he’ll need help to get these tangles out besides. He rises to his feet in what he hopes isn’t a clear rush. 

“I’ll be right back, I need to see if I can track down some hair oil.” He says, moving to the door immediately after before he can be called back. He hears Ciri complaining with great feeling as he leaves. 

“He has to go get hair oil now, Geralt!” 

Jaskier makes his way to Yennefer’s room, where she’d retreated earlier with a book of spells. He knocks briefly and enters when she calls that the door is unlocked. She’s on her bed, the book propped open on her chest. 

“Do you have any oil?” He asks, and she raises a wicked eyebrow. 

“So I take it things are working out with Geralt after all.” She catches the shoe Jaskier lobs at her in response. 

“ Hair oil,” Jaskier says. “Geralt got a comb stuck in Ciri’s hair, and that poor girl is going to have a rather unfortunate haircut in her future if I can’t get it out.” 

“And you’re helping them fix it? That’s rather domestic.” 

“Don’t.” Jaskier says, clenching his jaw. “Ciri asked me to help.” Yennefer heeds the warning in his tone and gestures to her makeshift vanity. 

“There’s a few over there. I’ve progressed to flowers, so there’s some jasmine. Take some for yourself, too, if you want.” 

Jaskier examines the bottles on display and plucks one up, confirming with a sniff that it’s what he wants. He grabs a comb as well, waving it at Yennefer as he exits. 

“I’m borrowing this, too,” he tells her. 

“It’s more stealing than borrowing if you don’t ask before you take it.”

“I’ll bring it back. Probably.”

“How reassuring.” 

He’s smiling when he leaves and holds onto the levity, resting against a wall for a brief moment before he returns to Geralt and Ciri to make sure he’s centered and settled. Confident that he’s got his emotions under control, he enters again. 

“I’ve excellent news, your highness. I return victorious from my quest.” He tells her, displaying the hair oil and comb proudly. Ciri presses her hands over her heart and bats her eyes playfully. 

“My hero,” she sighs dreamily, ignoring the gentle tug of her hair from Geralt, still behind her. 

Jaskier very carefully doesn’t look at Geralt when he retakes his seat, but he swears the witcher has moved closer in his absence, their thighs now touching. The contact sends goosebumps along Jaskier’s skin, and he tells himself to knock it off. He’s not some green virgin to thrill at such an innocuous touch, especially through clothes. 

Refocusing, he pours a small amount of the hair oil into his hand, Geralt reaching out for the bottle when Jaskier looks for a place to set it down. Jaskier is careful not to let their fingers touch when he hands it over for him to hold. Jaskier rubs the oil briefly between his hands before he begins smoothing it over the tangles around the comb, working it in until he’s got even coverage. He reaches for the bottle once more, but Geralt just tips more oil into his palm instead of handing it over. 

“Trying to make up for causing this in the first place?” Jaskier asks. Geralt shrugs. 

“Better than the bottle getting dropped because your hands are slippery.” Jaskier concedes the point and returns to his work. 

Geralt watches him at it, partially to learn and partially because it makes him feel warm to watch Jaskier interact so naturally with Ciri. The bard is careful and gentle when he begins picking knots free. Geralt is entranced by those nimble, dextrous fingers at work, well equipped for such a delicate task after so many years of music. He uses the comb he brought, Yen’s to judge from the smell clinging to it, to pick at the tangles now and then, once he’s gotten them loose enough with his fingers to work at them with the comb. He talks only to Ciri while he works, but Geralt doesn’t mind being excluded. He’s used enough to Jaskier to be comfortable being an audience. Ciri laughs when Jaskier points out that if this doesn’t work, they could always shave her head into a tonsure like a holy man, and Geralt smiles at their shared happiness as much as at the joke itself. 

After a good ten minutes of work, Jaskier finally manages to free the comb. Ciri raises her hands in victory and cheers. Jaskier makes a show of putting the comb well out of Geralt’s reach, and Geralt makes a half-hearted grab for it just to make Ciri grin when Jaskier bats him away. 

“You can have this back when you learn to use it responsibly,” Jaskier informs him with the same tone as a disapproving parent. 

“Yeah, Geralt,” Ciri echoes. 

“Whose child surprise are you again?” Geralt asks her dryly. 

“I propose a shared custody arrangement until you learn how to not get things stuck in my hair.” The proposal, delivered with the authority of a monarch, makes Jaskier smile and snort a laugh as he starts to work at the rest of Ciri’s hair, applying a bit more oil through the ends before he begins working the comb through, starting at the bottom and holding the hair above to prevent it from pulling. 

“I could be convinced,” Geralt says, more fondly than he means to, catching Jaskier’s eye. The bard looks away immediately and returns to only addressing Ciri. 

“You’re going to need someone to intervene on your behalf, darling,” he tells her. “We got lucky this time. It would be a shame to lose such beautiful hair.” Ciri flushes with pleasure at the compliment. 

Jaskier finally manages to work the comb from Ciri’s scalp to the ends of her hair in a smooth glide all the way through, and he sets the comb aside, resting his hands on her shoulders and prompting her to tip her head back to look at him. 

“Alright, Cirilla. We have an important decision on our hands here. Do we trust him with a braid or not?” Ciri’s expression is very carefully serious, although Geralt can detect the smile threatening to ruin the act. 

“I don’t know, Master Bard. Can he be trusted with such power after such a glaring failure so recently?”

“He’s currently contemplating locking both of you out of the keep if you don’t knock this off,” Geralt informs them. Jaskier and Ciri heave matching put-upon sighs. 

“I think we have no other choice, your highness. We’ll have to let him try if we don’t want to freeze our asses off tonight.”

“Well if it’s my hair or our asses, I suppose I’ve no other choice.” She hands the leather tie to Geralt with the gravity of a queen bestowing a title. She looks back to Jaskier. “Do tell me you’ll watch him, though, please.” 

“On my life,” Jaskier responds with a seated bow. Geralt ignores them and leans in closer to pull all of Ciri’s hair back behind her shoulders before separating it into three even sections. 

Jaskier fights to keep his breathing normal and non-suspicious as Geralt leans dramatically into his personal space, his arm brushing the bard’s stomach as he gathers Ciri’s hair back. He watches as Geralt starts to braid, and for all of his lack of ability with a comb, he seems skilled enough at this. 

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Jaskier accuses. “Why am I the only one who’s braided Roach’s mane all of these years? She deserves to be a beautiful lady all the time!”

“Roach is always beautiful,” Geralt grumbles under his breath. “She doesn’t need braids.” Jaskier laughs. 

“Whose hair is more beautiful, Ciri or Roach?” Jaskier says, teasing. 

“Think about your answer carefully, Geralt!” Ciri warns him. 

“I’m not answering that,” Geralt says firmly. “It’s a trap.” 

“Damn,” Jaskier sighs dramatically. “And here I thought I was going to get to watch a dramatic fallout. You’ve gotten smarter since we traveled together.” Ciri giggles. 

“Thanks,” Geralt says flatly, reaching the end of the braid and securing it with the leather tie. He tugs the plait gently when he’s finished. “There. Done.” 

Ciri swings the braid over her shoulder and makes a great fuss over examining it, handing it to Jaskier for his opinion. 

“What do you think? Is his work acceptable?” 

Jaskier pretends to consider carefully, running his fingers over the braid and taking fake measurements, weighing the plait in his hands. Geralt’s expression remains nonplussed. 

“A solid beginning,” Jaskier judges at last before he grins. “Now we make him do a five strand!” He declares, reaching for the tie as if to undo it. Geralt’s hand snaps out before he even touches the leather, catching Jaskier’s forearm, and Jaskier feels himself flush immediately. Geralt gives Jaskier a soft squeeze in warning, and Jaskier begins reciting musical theory in his head to keep from embarrassing himself horrifically at the casual show of all of that witcher strength, tamed so carefully. 

“Do. Not.” Geralt says, with one more squeeze before he releases Jaskier, rising to his feet and moving out from behind Ciri. He extends his hands to her and hauls her up. “Time for bed,” he tells her and allows it when she groans and slumps against him. 

“Ten more minutes,” she counters, her face muffled slightly against his chest. 

“Now.”

“Five,” she offers. 

“Now,” Geralt says again, and Ciri shrieks when he bends and tosses her over his shoulder. She laughs, slapping at his back and kicking her legs before he secures her with a hand behind her knees. 

“Put me down!” She demands, trying to wriggle to freedom. Geralt jostles her slightly, making her shriek again. Jaskier watches the playful roughhousing with a pang. It makes him feel horrifically soft, watching Geralt parent so naturally, so lovingly. 

“Goodnight,” Geralt tells him, thankfully snapping Jaskier out of his thoughts. Ciri has given up her bid for escape and accepts her position gracefully, propping her chin on her hand with her elbow against Geralt’s back. 

“Goodnight,” Jaskier says in return. Geralt smiles at him slightly before he turns towards the door. “Sweet dreams,” Jaskier tells Ciri when she’s facing him over Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Goodnight, Jaskier!” She calls as they turn the corner. Jaskier stares after them for a while longer, safe to fully feel fond now that Geralt isn’t here to see it. Lost in his own moony thoughts, he jumps when Lambert speaks. He’d almost completely forgotten the witcher was there, he was so quiet in the corner where he’d been scratching away in a book of alchemy notes after Eskel had retired earlier. 

“You two are disgusting,” he tells Jaskier, resting his head in his hand. 

“Pardon?” Jaskier says. 

“You and Geralt. If you’re going to make lovey eyes at each other, please do it elsewhere. I barely kept my supper down.” He fake gags before he goes back to scribbling. 

“I wasn’t making lovey eyes,” Jaskier says hotly. What is it with the people in this keep trying to insert themselves in his lovelife? A lovelife he is actively trying to avoid having, no less?

“You were,” Lambert responds. “And so was he. And it was all gross.” 

Jaskier tosses a pillow at him, peevish, and then ends up flat on the floor when Lambert catches it without even looking up and throws it back with more force than a pillow should be able to carry. 

“Prick,” Jaskier says once he’s recovered his breath. Lambert gives him a little salute before he returns to his writing. “I’m going to bed,” he says and picks himself up, dusting himself off in a show that goes entirely unobserved. “I wish you bad dreams,” he says as he leaves, hearing Lambert laugh before he shuts the door. 

He means to make his way back to his room, but he gets turned around almost immediately. He’s beginning to form a theory that Kaer Morhen possesses a special hex to make it impossible to navigate if you’re not a witcher. Yennefer’s ability to find her way with apparent ease puts a crimp in his hypothesis, but he’ll work around it. It has to be the fault of the keep. 

“Lost?” Calls a familiar voice behind him after Jaskier’s ninth turn has failed to get him anywhere he recognizes. He resists the urge to swear, pasting on a bright smile and swinging around, his arms out in a gesture of welcome. 

“Geralt! Fancy meeting you here.” Geralt’s tied his hair back since Jaskier last saw him, and the bard feels the immediate need to bolt so he can catch his breath. There are still little wisps of silvery white framing that handsome face, but all Jaskier can focus on is the curve of his throat, unobstructed. He feels a sudden, gut-deep compulsion to put his mouth to that soft skin, which he’s only touched before with a rag or sponge in hand while cleaning some sort of monster goop away. Jaskier attempts to distract himself and cool his stupid libido, but Geralt reaches up and tucks back a loose strand, and Jaskier’s eyes track the movement of those sure, strong hands, hands that can rip a monster apart with no effort but which are also gentle enough to braid his child’s hair with no tugging. Jaskier is losing his battle with his libido and tries to redirect his attention, but one-on-one, he can only look at Geralt, and his defenses are too shattered for him to succeed in pulling his walls back up. 

Geralt is loose-limbed and content, Ciri tucked safely away in bed after a minimum of complaining. He hadn’t expected to find Jaskier again, but he’s pleased he’s done so. He wants to hang onto the momentum developed when Jaskier helped with Ciri’s hair. 

Geralt catches the smell of lust and almost trips in surprise as a result. He’s not sure exactly what he’s done to make Jaskier smell of it so suddenly and so strongly, but he’s not…opposed. He’s resisted for so long, but having Jaskier here, with him, tending to Ciri with him and making jokes and bonding with his family, it makes the lines Geralt’s drawn look fuzzy. They’re safe here, in Kaer Morhen. He has Jaskier back by his side, and the people most important to him all gathered under the same roof. The security makes Jaskier’s lust seem so much more tempting than it has before. 

He’s smelled it on Jaskier before throughout the years, directed at himself or at others. He’d always ignored it before, refused to allow himself the indulgence of having Jaskier in that way. Having Jaskier at his side felt precarious enough without introducing the complication of sex. Even though he’d largely succeeded with his conscious mind, however, his unconscious self had taken more liberties with Jaskier’s person than Geralt would ever care to confess. He’d dreamt about Jaskier more than a few times throughout the years, visions of soft, creamy skin, that beautiful face twisted with pleasure, gorgeous new noises Geralt’s only ever heard through walls when shoving a pillow over his ears wasn’t enough to fully drown them out. His mouth feels dry, suddenly. 

The mad thought occurs to him that he could accept that now, if he chose. It would be so easy to give in, to stop resisting what he wants so much. His life is more hazardous than ever, but they’re safe here. Jaskier, for his part, has shown that it’s going to take more than even Geralt’s worst temper to manage to keep him away. Why shouldn’t Geralt indulge, then? What could he possibly be waiting for? Why shouldn’t they do what they’ve both wanted for years?

Jaskier has begun to look slightly nervous at the witcher’s lack of response, and Geralt realizes he’s completely missed what else Jaskier has said, too involved in his own thoughts. 

“Geralt? Hello? Anyone in there?” Jaskier steps closer, waving his hand as if to catch Geralt’s attention and missing a loose stone in the floor. Geralt catches him automatically when the bard falls towards him, steadying him with one hand on his arm and one on his back. He picks up the slightest shiver of Jaskier’s muscles, the scent of arousal peaking enough that Geralt can almost taste it this close to the source. He resists the urge to close his eyes to focus on it even more. 

“Sorry,” Geralt says, and even he can pick up that his voice is suddenly rougher, deeper. Jaskier licks his lips, a nervous habit, Geralt knows. Now it makes Geralt focus on the bard’s lips, soft and pink and temptingly plush. He has to kiss him. The urge comes from nowhere, but Geralt is hard-pressed to fend it off. So many years spent wanting, and now he has Jaskier here, quite literally in his arms, in a dark corner of the keep with no one else around after an evening of sitting together and laughing with Ciri. Geralt’s tired of the weird energy between them. Something has to give. Maybe this will be what does it. 

He leans forward slowly, tilting his head and pressing his lips to Jaskier’s. The contact sends little explosions through him, and he closes his eyes, savoring it. The bard takes a short, shuddering breath before he’s kissing back, his lips as soft and welcoming as Geralt had ever dreamed. Moaning slightly, Geralt moves to deepen the kiss, tracing his tongue softly against Jaskier’s lower lip in a tease. 

Jaskier snaps back to himself. 

“No!” He says, planting his hands against Geralt’s chest and shoving with as much force as he can manage. The move, utterly unexpected, is enough to send Geralt back a couple of steps before he recovers his balance. His pupils are blown wide, only a thin line of gold showing around the edges, and he looks at the bard with so much want that Jaskier feels almost naked before him. Jaskier wraps his arms protectively around himself and steps back to put more space between them. He feels cornered, trapped, and it makes him angry, all the contentment he’d managed to gather this evening evaporating in a horrible, furious haze. “You don’t get to do this,” he snarls. “You don’t get to play with me like this.”

“Play with you?” Geralt’s brow furrows. “I’m not. Didn’t you want-”

“It doesn’t matter, Geralt!” Jaskier interrupts. He needs to end this quickly. He can already feel the need to cry making his throat tight, and he sure as fuck will not do it in front of Geralt. Once upon a time, he had dreamed of a situation like this, Geralt taking him into his arms in a quiet, dark corner and kissing him like that, like he loves him. “That’s not what we are. It’s not what we were.” Geralt makes to step closer again, and Jaskier retreats. If he feels the heat radiating off of Geralt, if he’s within touching distance, it’s over. Jaskier and his stupid, romantic heart are done for. Geralt studies him, confusion written plainly over his face. 

“We could be,” Geralt tries. “I’m sorry I spent so long resisting. I thought I was keeping you safe.” He shakes his head slightly at himself and tries again. “I thought I was keeping me and you safe. But I’m willing to try, if you are. I want to try, Jaskier.”

He can’t listen to Geralt tell him these things. Fuck you, Jaskier thinks viciously in Geralt’s direction, damn you for trying this with me now.  

“I don’t,” he spits out before he flees. 

Geralt remains standing in the exact same spot for a long while after. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier is currently hurtling towards a total meltdown. His chest feels like he’s been set in a carpenter’s clamp, and he chokes on each breath he takes, exhaling in shaky little pants as he fights back the tears that are beginning to cloud his vision. He presses his hand against his stomach like it can help hold back the pain threatening to rip him in two as he fights to control his breathing. He’s getting lightheaded with his shallow little pants of air, and the panic is making his vision tunnel, and he can’t even just let it go and ride the wave of his emotion in private because he can’t find his own godsdamned fucking room.

He leans back against a wall after his sixth wrong turn, trying to resettle himself with the sensation of cold, solid stone against him. He grits his teeth to keep back a wail of pain that wants to escape and slams his fist back against the wall four times in quick succession. It feels good, that pain, that release, feeling something other than the rising tide of confusion and love and hate, so he does it again until he feels the hot slickness of blood where he’s broken skin against the rough stone. 

Finally, he can’t hold back the swelling hurt anymore, and he crumples to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, folding into a tight ball, his face tucked against his knees. Without his permission, a pathetic, keening cry escapes him, and he stuffs part of his shirt in his mouth as a way to muffle any other sounds that seek to follow. He presses his hands over his mouth as well for good measure and rocks as he finally gives up on trying to keep the tears back. He can feel blood from his hand smearing over his cheek, but it mixes with the tears that fall in a torrent until he can’t distinguish the two from each other. 

He loses track of time, caught in his little bubble of agony. He begins to feel fuzzy and detached after a while, his body apparently reaching its limit for the pain it will allow at one time and shutting off the flow of anything more. It’s not an unfamiliar sensation. He’s been prone to this distant spaciness since his childhood in times of high emotion, a survival mechanism developed in a homelife that tolerated no show of weakness. 

After his escape into the world, it had happened less often, although it remained a concern, especially when he’d begun traveling with Geralt. At the back of his mind had been the worry that he would check out one day and come back to awareness only to find himself left behind, Geralt’s thin patience finally snapping at the prospect of dealing with an essentially insensate bard set off by something foolish. Jaskier had been lucky in this regard for the first few years of traveling, riding high on the thrill of adventure and knowing himself safe so long as he was in Geralt’s presence. For all that the witcher grumbled, Jaskier knew that Geralt would never actually allow him to be hurt. It was something he knew as innately as he knew that a dropped object will fall down and the sky will be blue. It was simply a fact. 

His luck had run out in their seventh year of traveling together. It hadn’t even been something dramatic that had set him off. After several days of sleeping rough in shitty weather and being accordingly sleep deprived, a fight had broken out in the pub he and Geralt had been eating at. He had at first been more annoyed than anything, but a waft of cologne from another patron had hit him then, a scent nearly identical to what his father had always worn. It was suddenly all he could focus on, the shouts and violence suddenly rising into a crescendo that was all encompassing until he began to feel the creeping fog slipping into his head like a thief, robbing him of any connection to the larger world. He had drifted then, swaying without realizing it and divorced from anything around him until a large hand had fallen to his shoulder, drawing his attention. He had blinked at it for a while, confused by its presence until a matching hand had touched his chin, moving his face up. Jaskier had registered Geralt’s mouth moving and the scrunch of the witcher’s face that meant Jaskier was doing something concerning. He thought idly that perhaps he should listen, but his ears felt stuffed with cotton, and the thought had drifted away soon enough, leaving him back in an empty, muted place. 

Geralt had apparently given up on trying to reach him by talking and had moved from the bench he’d been on, kneeling down next to Jaskier and looking at him intently. Guided by the witcher’s hand again, Jaskier had tilted his face to meet his eyes, but there was no thought or response in the action, just that same distant fuzziness. 

Eventually, the witcher guided Jaskier up. He had gone easily, yielding to Geralt’s movement of him. Jaskier had distantly registered a warm, solid arm around his shoulders as Geralt led them out. The cool night air had served to rouse him slightly, and he leaned more into the witcher beside him once he recovered the ability to think enough to do so. 

“Sorry,” he’d whispered, his voice coming out flat. Geralt had turned to him, his face serious but blessedly not angry. 

“It’s alright,” Geralt had said, and Jaskier thought that perhaps he should find it funny that Geralt’s voice sounded like it did when he spoke to Roach. “You’re alright.” 

He’d gotten Jaskier back to their inn for the night and settled him in the bed, removing his doublet and pulling his boots from his feet before wrapping him in a blanket and sliding him to his side of the bed, bundled tight as a babe. Geralt had hesitated, then, unsure. Jaskier, rousing slightly, had spoken up then, his voice regaining a little emotion. 

“With me?” He’d asked, hoping Geralt would understand him. Words were still abstract and hard to catch, and he hadn’t been sure he’d be able to grasp them. 

“Alright,” Geralt had said, still in his Roach-voice. 

“Weight, please?” Jaskier had said then. He’d had a nursemaid when he was young who would hold him tight under a heavy blanket during one of these episodes, and it had helped center him, guide him back to his body. 

“Wait for what?” Geralt had said, confused. Jaskier had shaken his head. 

“Mm, no. Weight. Body weight. Helps.” Had he not been floating, Jaskier imagined he might have been embarrassed at what he had been trying to ask for. Geralt had sat up then, watching him for a long moment. Jaskier had blinked back at him, placidly distant. Eventually, the witcher had released a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it before he nodded. 

“Alright.” He’d moved closer then, careful, gently laying out against Jaskier until he was half on top of him. The bard had sighed then in relief, the fuzziness starting to abate already. 

Eventually, Jaskier floated back into full awareness, flushing with embarrassment at his weakness, his neediness. Geralt, still patiently laying against him, had hummed, an inquiring noise. 

“Back?” He’d asked, voice still gentle as though Jaskier hadn’t just derailed their entire evening with his pathetic little show. 

“Yes,” Jaskier had whispered in response, his voice soft in the half-baked thought that perhaps if he just stayed quiet, Geralt would ignore what had just happened. 

“Should I stay like this?” Geralt had asked, and Jaskier had swallowed hard. 

“No, sorry. You can get up. I’m alright, now.” 

Geralt had risen, then, though he remained on the bed. His gaze was searching, and Jaskier looked away immediately, faking a yawn and closing his eyes. Geralt had allowed him the deflection and laid down beside him once more on his back, his hands folded across his stomach. 

Eventually, haltingly, as the fire had faded and left them in soft, dim light, Jaskier had confessed. He could feel his lower lip wobbling slightly and had pressed both of them firmly together, hoping that Geralt hadn’t noticed. He spoke without interruption before he finally tapered off. 

“Sorry,” he had finished, his voice so soft that Geralt likely wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t had a witcher’s hearing. He had turned to Jaskier then, studying him. 

“You don’t have to be,” he’d said at last, and the frank sincerity in his voice had almost made Jaskier lose control and weep. “Let me know the next time it starts to happen, if you can. We can leave earlier then.” Jaskier had nodded quickly, swallowing hard to keep back the relieved tears he had felt starting. 

It had happened again, a few times over the years. With time, they developed their own very specific routine, mostly without any discussion of it at all. Geralt learned to recognize the signs of Jaskier drifting, even without Jaskier having to tell him. There wasn’t always the time or space for Geralt to help squish the fuzz out of Jaskier in a bed, but firm touch and pressure remained a solid way of guiding the bard back into his own body. Although the embarrassment never fully faded, Jaskier began to feel relief that he could count on Geralt when his mind decided to go on holiday for a while, trusting the witcher to guide him where he needed to be and help him come back to himself. 

Then came that fucking mountain. 

It had been the first time Geralt had been the spark to push Jaskier into that fuzzy, distant space. He had been annoyed with the bard before, sure, and he could be snappy, but never in twenty years had he ever spoken to Jaskier like that, looked at him like that. Like he hated him. 

Jaskier had wandered away in a haze and found a place to sit, drifting until after the sun had set, shivering as the temperature dropped but unable to focus enough to rise and seek shelter. Eventually, he had managed to drift off. He had woken the next morning cold and stiff but with a blessedly clear head. He felt the first stirring of panic in his chest when it dawned on him that Geralt had left him out there alone all night. It was uncharacteristic of the witcher, even when he was angry. 

Trepidation growing, he had made his way back to camp and stopped short when he found only his own belongings left behind. Alone. 

He had sat and waited a long time after that. His head was clear, but the dawning realization that he was living one of his greatest fears paralyzed him: Geralt had left him behind. 

He’d had to adjust after that, grow accustomed to dragging himself back from the haze, which happened more often than it ever had in his adult life. His days became a constant set of traps designed to drag him below, each reminder of what he lost enough to send him spinning. Even “Burn Butcher Burn” had been tricky. If he focused too long on the lyrics and not the performance, the haze stood ready to pounce, to drag him down into that fuzzy, distant place where he wouldn't have to feel abandoned because he wouldn't feel anything. 

Alcohol helped, some, numbing the emotions enough that they wouldn’t overwhelm him so often. Even then, it wasn’t a perfect system, and Jaskier lost long tracks of time, chunks of memory utterly empty when he finally floated back into himself. He never quite perfected a technique to replicate Geralt. 

He doubts he ever will. 

Drifting freely now, Jaskier raises his hand to examine it with abstract interest. It’s trembling, he observes coolly, as if he’s seeing it on someone else. It’s trembling and dripping slow drops of blood to the floor. It seems like it hurts, probably. The pain is a distant throb. It would probably hurt pretty badly if he could feel it. 

“Bard?” The word registers as noise, but it seems distant enough until there’s suddenly a face in front of him. Lambert. Jaskier thinks Lambert looks concerned, and it’s enough of a change from normal that it drags him a bit out of the fog. He hums slightly. Maybe that will make that facial expression stop. 

“Jaskier, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Lambert has Jaskier’s hand in his now, examining it, and even that simple touch pulls him closer to awareness. There’s a slight flare of panic of someone with control over his hand after that fire fuck, but the touch is also reassuring, a touchstone to build on. 

“Jaskier!” Lambert says it sharply, and the bard’s continuing utter lack of reaction ratches his growing fear several notches upwards. His instinct is to run and get someone, but he also knows he can’t leave the bard here, crumpled and bleeding and whatever the fuck else he is that’s making him act like this. He looks fucking gruesome, blood smeared across his cheek and running down his throat in streams where it mixed with his tears. There’s a residual scent of panic and pain and anger, but it’s faded slightly, as if felt a while ago. When the bard’s head lists slightly to the side, Lambert huffs out a breath, raising a hand to slap him on his non-bloodied cheek, his strength carefully measured to not actually cause harm. “Hey, I need you to focus and stop acting weird. Now, preferably.”

“Mm, fuzzy. Sorry.” Lambert feels a disorienting wave of relief when the bard finally speaks to him, although his voice is still eerily flat. 

“Fuzzy?” Lambert repeats. Jaskier hums again, and Lambert wonders distantly if it’s the result of Geralt’s influence or just a lack of energy in the bard. 

“Too much feeling. Now it’s fuzzy,” Jaskier says, raising a hand to tap at his head. 

“Alright,” Lambert says slowly, thinking. The lack of emotion in the bard’s voice makes it hard to judge for sure, but he doesn’t seem alarmed. Lambert has vague memories of a few boys in training who would check out occasionally, floating in their heads. They had been the ones who had found it the hardest to adjust to life in the keep, the training and the trials. Few had made it very far, so Lambert’s experience with someone in this state is limited, but the bard at least behaves like he’s been through this before. “Should I…get Geralt?” His brother’s name gets a reaction from the bard at last. 

“No!” He says sharply. His eyes are still largely unfocused, but there’s a tension in his face that wasn’t there before. “Wouldn’t care, anyway.” Lambert narrows his eyes. 

“I think he would.” Lambert knows his brother. He knows Geralt cares about the bard. Even without the gross lovelorn glances he’s been making recently, they traveled together for decades. He would definitely care that the bard apparently decided to punch a wall and then collapse before drifting off in his own head. Jaskier exhales once, hard. When he finally meets Lambert’s eyes, the witcher is alarmed to see the start of tears in the bard’s. 

“Please don’t tell him.”

Well fuck. Lambert bites the inside of his cheek, sitting back on his heels. He’d like to hand off whatever is happening here to someone else, but Jaskier’s eyes look so miserable, Lambert would feel like a total prick if he ignored his wishes. 

“Fine,” he says at last. “But you can’t stay here. You’re already shivering, and that hand should get wrapped.” 

Jaskier is starting to come back to himself in truth, and he’s aware enough to register and think about what Lambert is saying. He closes his eyes and tilts his face down, clenching his hands tightly. Where the emptiness is receding, shame is making itself known. How fucking pathetic, to downward spiral in a public hallway over a kiss of all things. And then to be found doing it. By Lambert, who Jaskier has apparently worried into intervening in the bard’s meltdown. 

“If you show me where my room is, I’ll get out of your hair,” he says, trying to will away the embarassed flush he can feel heating his cheeks and ears. Lambert sighs. 

“Do you have anything to treat that hand?” Jaskier clenches his jaw. 

“No,” he admits. He has alcohol aplenty but really nothing that should be poured over wounds and certainly nothing clean to wrap them up with. 

“Alright, we’ll stop by mine, then.” Lambert says, standing and holding his hands out. After a moment of blank staring, Jaskier registers that it’s an offer to help pull him up. He’s hesitant to let Lambert grab his hands once more, afraid it’ll spark him back into fuzzing away, but he can feel his legs prickling after being compressed for so long. Finally he decides to risk it, extending his hands. Lambert is careful to grasp his wrist instead of his injured hand, and the solicitousness makes Jaskier want to curl back up into a ball and hide. So much care for such a stupid reason. “Okay, what’s with the shame? You reek of it.” Lambert says bluntly once he has the bard on his feet, holding onto him for a second while Jaskier finds his legs. It makes Jaskier want to bolt. 

“I, uh,” Jaskier withdraws his hands and brings one up to ruffle through his hair, avoiding looking right at Lambert. “I’m sorry. About this.” He tries for a laugh and almost grimaces when it sounds blatantly hollow. “You’ve got better things to do than deal with my sorry ass, I’m sure.” Lambert considers him a moment before he shrugs, turning away and slinging an arm around the bard’s shoulders to guide him forward. 

“Not particularly,” he says. “Everyone else pretended they were going to bed, but I know the truth. You cheat at Gwent a measly three times in one night and suddenly no one wants to play against you anymore.” Lambert smiles when Jaskier huffs a weak laugh.

“Only three?” Jaskier asks, testingly leaning his weight further into Lambert’s warmth, now feeling the chill that results from sitting against stone for an indeterminate amount of time. When Lambert’s response is simply to tighten his arm a bit more, Jaskier feels some tension ease in his shoulders. The witcher leans in, looking around as if to check for listeners. 

“That they know of,” he whispers conspiratorially. Jaskier huffs a laugh and then yawns, exhaustion hitting him full force now. 

They reach a door Jaskier doesn’t recognize and Lambert ushers him in. The room within is cozy enough, a pile of furs and blankets on the bed and a small fire crackling in the fireplace, enough to produce heat but without much risk of escaping its confines and risking setting things on fire. There are a variety of trinkets spread about the room, mostly interesting-looking daggers and small weapons. There’s a pile of books stacked haphazardly by the bed, and Jaskier turns his head on reflex to read the spines. 

“Adventure stories?” He turns to look at Lambert, surprised. The witcher shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. 

“Gotta have something to do over winter besides train. We’re not all Geralt.” Lambert observes the flicker of hurt that crosses the bard’s face when he says his brother’s name. Huh. He shoves Jaskier gently towards the bed, and the bard goes, sitting down carefully as if he’ll break the bed if he’s too rough. 

Lambert begins digging through his wardrobe, emerging with the small medical kit he usually carries with him on the road. He doesn’t have the full array of supplies that he knows Geralt keeps to account for a non-witcher companion, but he does have a disinfectant and a salve that should be safe for Jaskier. Supplies retrieved, he also dips a cloth in a basin of water on his sidetable. 

He returns to sit next to the bard, setting down his supplies and taking the bard's injured hand, noting immediately how the man tenses slightly. 

“If you don’t want me to do this, I can go get someone else,” Lambert offers. He’d figured after years with Geralt, the bard wouldn’t be so averse to being touched by a witcher, especially after Jaskier leaned against him in the hallway, but he doesn’t know how else to read the discomfort written plainly in the bard’s body language. 

“No,” Jaskier says, swallowing hard. His eyes are resolutely on anything but Lambert. “Uh, fell into some trouble, a while back. Had my hand burned by a fucker interested in some information I wasn’t willing to part with.” Ah. 

Lambert changes his approach, offering his hand for Jaskier to place his in without grabbing it. The bard’s eyes flick briefly up to Lambert’s before shifting back to his hand. Slowly, he places his own hand on top. 

“Alright?” Lambert asks, and on a nod from the bard, he begins dabbing at the broken skin with a bit of bandage soaked in antiseptic. Jaskier hisses slightly at the sting but remains still. 

“What did the fucker want?” Lambert asks as he continues to clean the wound, examining it carefully to make sure no debris remains. Jaskier’s jaw goes tight. 

“He was very curious about your brother and niece of surprise. I’m afraid I wasn’t feeling too helpful, unfortunately.” 

“I’m sure Geralt appreciates that,” Lambert ventures and is confused when Jaskier snorts derisively. 

“I don’t think he really knows enough about it to be appreciative.” Jaskier’s tone is bitter. 

“Why’s that?” Lambert asks, gathering some salve on his fingers and smoothing it over the broken skin carefully. 

“He’s not exactly one for conversation, your brother,” Jaskier says with a raised brow. Lambert tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement. 

“Fair enough,” Lambert allows. “But from what I hear, you’ve never been shy about talking anyway.” 

“Sometimes I would liked to be asked,” Jaskier says, and Lambert catches the small wobble of his lip before the bard presses them together tightly. “I can only hand him so many conversation starters for him to toss away before it starts to feel like an absurd comedy routine.” He looks at Lambert from the corner of his eye while the witcher winds the bandages carefully around his hand. 

“Maybe you should start coming to the training field with us, then,” Lambert says, turning Jaskier's head gently to wipe at the blood drying on his skin with the damp cloth he grabbed earlier. The bard looks confused after the suggestion and Lambert grins. “Way easier to get his attention if you’re hitting him with a stick, trust me.” Jaskier laughs, and it feels like Lambert’s won something. He releases the bard's face once the blood is gone. 

“Thanks for the advice, but I don’t think swinging sticks around with Geralt would end very well for me.” Jaskier gives him a lascivious look, unable to resist. “I’m much better skilled with stick handling of another nature.” Lambert snorts, and Jaskier looks scandalized. “Whatever you could be laughing at, you deviant? I’m very clearly referring to drumsticks. I’m one hell of a musician, you know.” Lambert rolls his eyes and gently shoves the bard’s shoulder as he rises. 

“You’ve certainly got a talent for creating an earworm. That coin song has spread like a plague.” He pauses after he returns his medical kit to its place. “I suppose I should thank you for it, though. That one and the others.” He turns to face the bard again and rests against the table behind him, his face suddenly serious. “I’ve meant to before. Kept waiting for Geralt to bring you here so I could do it.”

“Thank me?” Jaskier asks, puzzled and ignoring the latter part of the statement. “For what?”

“Your songs,” Lambert says before he stops, trying to collect his thoughts. “They made things…better, for us. All of us. There are still assholes everywhere, of course, but fewer are bold enough to act like shitheads now, with your songs out there making us sound like heroes. It’s been ages since I’ve last been run out of a town. I’m almost nostalgic.” Jaskier snorts. “What? There’s nothing like running from a mob with pitchforks to make you feel alive.” 

“I’ll take your word for it. Single spouses with kitchen cleavers has been quite enough for me.” His face looks ashamed suddenly. “I haven’t been quite so complimentary with my songs recently. I hope that hasn’t…changed things, for you.” He’s refusing to look at Lambert again. 

“Nah. Not so many free pints when people see the wolf medallion anymore without fresh material making our school sound special, but no angry mobs forming either. Thanks for keeping the ‘fuck you’ to one specific witcher and not all of us. Might be a different story otherwise.” Jaskier shrugs. 

“I shouldn’t have written it at all,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t have. I was just…angry. So fucking angry. I thought if I could just get it out of my system with a couple of performances I could move on, but people loved it and without a fresh well of inspiration riding alongside me, I was a bit pressed for fresh stories.”

“From what I hear, you had a right to be angry.” Lambert raises his eyebrows when Jaskier looks up, surprised. “What? You forget, I grew up with him. If I had your talents, there’d be more than a few ‘fuck off, you white-haired dick’ ballads floating about. He’s my brother, and I’d kill or die for him, but he’s not perfect. It’s good for him to get a reminder now and then.” He notes the bard’s fingers moving, rubbing together against his thumb. It has the thoughtlessness of a long-term nervous habit. 

“It still wasn’t fair,” Jaskier says. “I called him ‘Butcher,’ when I know how much he hates it. I did it because I knew it would hurt him, and I wanted him to hurt.” He pauses, bites his lip. “He can’t have heard it. He wouldn’t have let me come here if he had.” 

“I think you’d be surprised.” Lambert pushes off of the table and crosses back to his bed, hopping up and flopping back against the pillows. If he’s going to be forced to discuss his brother’s emotional state and lovelife, he should at least get to be comfortable while doing it. “Look, it’s not like we come back here and gossip like fishwives, but from what I gather, I think there’s very little Geralt wouldn’t forgive from you.”

“You don’t know that,” Jaskier says, and the tightness of his voice would be enough for Lambert to know he’s on the verge of crying even without the salt he can taste on the air. “What if he can’t forgive this? What if he leaves again?” He’s still rubbing his fingers together, and Lambert stretches out his leg to nudge at the bard's hip in an attempt to distract him from it. 

“Then you can travel with me. Or Eskel, I guess, but I’m telling you now that you’d have a way better time with me.” He smiles and winks when Jaskier turns to him, clearly confused. 

“You’d…want that? Me traveling with you?” His voice is disbelieving. Lambert shrugs easily. 

“I thought you two would work it out soon enough after I heard that "Sweet Kiss" song, or I would have gone looking for you myself.” Jaskier’s brow furrows. “What? I’ve gotten some great perks from your songs over the years. It’s a miracle another school didn’t try to poach you after Geralt fucked up. Blessing, too. Would’ve hated to have to knock some heads together to maintain wolf school rights.” 

“What am I then, a mascot?” Jaskier asks sardonically. 

“Nah, you’re one of us.” Lambert sits up quickly, alarmed, when the bard’s face crumples as he starts to cry. “Fuck. Stop it. Stop doing that.” Jaskier laughs at the witcher’s clear panic, wiping at the tears with his sleeve. 

“Sorry,” he says, his voice thick. “Didn’t expect that, is all. Sorry, I’ll get myself together. Just give me a second.” Lambert watches him for a moment, still alarmed and discomfited at having made him cry. Acting on a leap of faith, he shifts forward onto his knees, slowly reaching his arms around until he’s embracing the bard. Jaskier freezes for a moment and Lambert almost withdraws, but the bard takes a shuddering little breath and returns the embrace tightly. 

They remain that way for a while, Lambert shifting them back eventually to lay down, still embracing. The bard’s tears fade with time, encouraged when Lambert strokes gently up and down Jaskier’s back. As the crying fades, the scent of the man’s exhaustion grows, his blinks growing longer. Eventually, he shuts his eyes and doesn’t open them again, and Lambert realizes he’s fallen asleep. 

Gently, careful not to wake him up because asleep means blessedly not crying, Lambert slips his arms from around the bard and stands, his hands on his hips, studying the conundrum he’s found himself in. He could easily carry the bard back to his own room. The man is well-muscled, certainly, which Lambert now knows from having held him so close, but he’d still be barely anything against a witcher’s strength. However, Lambert isn’t confident that he could do it without waking him and potentially starting a new wave of tears. 

Exhaling heavily, he decides his best course of action is to simply let the bard remain for the night. Carefully, freezing each time the bard so much as twitches, he slips the bard’s boots off and sets them by the bed before he rejoins him on the mattress, covering them both to trap them in a shared cocoon of body heat. Jaskier sighs and shifts, and Lambert worries briefly that he’s managed to rouse him after all, but the bard simply turns, pressing against the witcher tightly before settling. 

Lambert remains rigid for a few minutes, adjusting to the weight and warmth of a body against his own. By increments, he relaxes, Jaskier seeming to respond by pressing impossibly closer. It’s a foreign experience, and Lambert tries to decide what he thinks about it. Whenever Lambert has had cause to share a bed before, he’d either been sharing with another witcher on a rare occasion their Paths overlapped for a night or paying for the privilege with a human who hid their discomfort at being with him with varying levels of success. Jaskier pressed against him head to toe, his breath coming in soft puffs across Lambert’s collarbone where his shirt is tugged down, is a sharp departure from any of those experiences. 

It’s…nice, Lambert decides eventually, even daring to shift enough to rest an arm over Jaskier, having a person trusting and affectionate in bed. As he falls asleep, he thinks he’s beginning to understand more about exactly why Geralt had grown so fond of the bard. 

He wonders if Geralt understands, too.

Chapter Text

I don’t. 

Those two damning words run on repeat through Geralt’s mind, tipping his world off center. 

Numb and confused, he steps closer to the wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, his legs bent in front of him and his arms resting on his knees. 

Why does Jaskier mean, he doesn’t want to try? 

Geralt’s not completely blind, he knows that the bard is interested in him, has been since he was a fresh-faced new graduate running his mouth in a pub and pursuing flirtations with a frankly terrible sense of taste in potential partners. It hasn’t changed, Geralt thinks, it can’t have. Jaskier wanted him tonight, Geralt knows he did. He smelled it. 

Geralt runs back over the day in his mind, trying to find where he had managed to make Jaskier feel like he needed to run. He comes up completely blank. Jaskier had been skittish, he supposes, but Geralt can’t recall doing anything to make him upset. He had smelled briefly of sadness when they'd had their conversation up in the turret, but Jaskier had said it was because he was overwhelmed by the view, which is entirely in character for him. 

Geralt tips his head back, resting it against the wall and closing his eyes. Eventually, his ass begins to go numb from sitting on the floor, and he forces himself to get up and head to his room. He pauses, briefly, outside of Jaskier’s door when he passes it. He desperately wants to talk to the bard, to hash out whatever the fuck happened between them. He goes so far as to raise his fist but stops before he actually knocks. No, he decides. Jaskier was far too upset to allow for any meaningful conversation at present. Geralt can wait. 

Back in his room, he tosses and turns, only managing to drift off for around half an hour before sunrise, and he wakes already in a mood to snap, frustrated at still not understanding what Jaskier meant and pushed further into a bad mood after a restless night. He rises and dresses, making his way to training. Fighting has always helped him focus. Maybe it will help him now. 

He goes for a quick run to warm up his muscles before he returns to the yard, putting in some time in the obstacle course before he sees Lambert return from his own run. He greets him with a nod of his head and calls out to him. 

“Up for a fight?” He asks, and Lambert grins, as Geralt expected he would. Lambert only ever has one answer to that question. Geralt’s relieved. None of his physical activity has helped him clear his head yet, but maybe a sparring match will do it. 

Geralt picks up the training swords he’d already brought out, tossing one to Lambert, who catches it easily. Geralt brings his blade up just as Lambert attacks, always one to throw the first blow in a fight. Geralt grins. Perhaps this will be just what he needs. 

Geralt falters, however, when he catches a familiar scent wafting off of Lambert. Jaskier’s scent. He gets a blow to his ribs for the hestitation and snarls, inhaling deeper even as he steps back to gain some space. Lambert smells overwhelmingly of Jaskier, to a degree only possible after hours of contact. Geralt circles his brother, eyes narrowed as he tries to make sense of this. He had wanted to clear his mind, pare down his thoughts with the exertion of a fight. If anything, this makes his head feel even more stuffed. 

His mind is horribly absent from the fight as he trades blows and parries purely on muscle memory. 

“What?” Lambert says, scowling. Geralt knows he isn’t up to his usual standard, and it's making Lambert suspicious. “Something on my face?” 

Geralt doesn’t respond, launching into a series of blows with perhaps more strength behind them than he would normally deploy in a practice fight as he develops a narrative on what must have happened for Lambert to smell like this. Jaskier isn’t an early riser, he never has been, and there aren’t enough hours in the morning anyway for him to have sought out Lambert and pressed against him to work his scent onto Lambert this much. That leaves only one possibility. 

Jaskier spent the night with Lambert. 

Geralt tenses his jaw and launches into the fight with even more savagery, confused and thus angry. When Jaskier had left him, he had been upset. Geralt, accordingly, had given him time to cool down.

Time that the bard apparently chose to spend with Lambert. 

Lambert begins returning the force Geralt’s been employing, his always nebulous patience snapping. 

“What the fuck is your problem today?” Lambert says once they’ve locked blades, leaving them in a shoving contest. Geralt just grunts, driving his shoulder into Lambert’s to knock him off balance. Instead of falling, Lambert moves with the force, bracing his feet and tossing Geralt over his hip. Before Geralt has the chance to move from where he’s been thrown to the ground, Lambert’s practice sword is at his throat. 

“Yield,” Lambert tells him, pressing with the blade more than he normally would, angry at having been treated like a punching bag for no reason. Geralt attempts to bring his own blade up to knock away Lambert’s, but his brother anticipates it, planting a foot on Geralt’s wrist to hold it to the ground. “Fucking yield already,” Lambert says. Geralt scowls but finally nods, ignoring the hand Lambert extends, rising to his feet without the help. 

“I’m done for the day,” Geralt says, ignoring the surprised look on Lambert’s face. Geralt’s always been the last one to leave the practice field, ever since he was a trainee. He knows this behavior, wildly out of character for him, is going to garner attention he’d rather avoid, but his head is too full puzzling through what the fuck Jaskier could have wanted with Lambert to get anything out of more practice. 

He pauses on his way back into the keep to watch Eskel training Ciri. Although he’s slowed his movements and is certainly carefully aware of the strength he’s employing, his brother doesn’t take it easy on Geralt’s child surprise, and Ciri is soaked with sweat, panting slightly. Despite her clear exhaustion, her smile is bright, challenging. Geralt leans against the stone wall to watch, unobserved by either. 

“Watch your feet,” Eskel says, and Ciri rebalances her stance, more equally dividing her weight. Eskel gives her a nod of approval before swinging his sword in a blow to her right. Ciri catches and deflects it with her blade, taking advantage of the opening Eskel’s left to try for a jab at his throat. He brings his practice sword up and blocks it, but he smiles at her, clearly pleased. “Good, Ciri!” He says, and the girl beams even brighter. 

Geralt watches them for a while longer, his temper cooling and even a small smile growing on his face. Ciri’s a fast learner, and he’s proud every day of her dedication and determination to improve her skills. A flash of color in his peripheral vision catches his eye, and he looks up to see Jaskier at a window, the pane swung open. The bard settles himself in the seat offered by the ledge of the window and cheers when Ciri deflects a blow again. Eskel and Ciri look up at the noise and laugh when Jaskier flutters a handkerchief at them like a maiden in a fairytale. Ciri bows, her blade planted on the ground in front of her like a knight, and Jaskier blows her a kiss. 

Eskel and Ciri return to their practice, and Geralt watches as Jaskier crosses his arms across his chest, sitting back more comfortably to continue observing. With the position the witcher has occupied, Jaskier doesn’t appear to see him, and Geralt takes advantage of the opportunity to observe the bard. 

Jaskier looks well-rested, and Geralt realizes suddenly that he hadn’t before. It makes a sick little swell of discomfort swirl in Geralt’s gut when he realizes it, and even colored by his own disgruntlement with the situation, he’s thankful at least that staying with Lambert allowed the bard to get some much-needed sleep. 

But you wish he’d chosen to stay with you, whispers a little voice in his head. Jealous, he realizes with a start. What he’s been feeling since he caught Jaskier’s scent on Lambert is jealous. 

Jaskier boos vociferously when Eskel manages to land a (gentle) hit to Ciri’s side, and then immediately cheers when Ciri takes advantage of Eskel’s resulting brief distraction to return a blow to the witcher’s arm. 

“That’s cheating!” Eskel calls up to Jaskier. Ciri props her hand not holding her sword on her hip and tosses her braid back arrogantly. 

“That’s pressing your advantage,” she says, very clearly repeating a lesson from Vesemir. Eskel gives her an unimpressed look. 

“Don’t sass your elders,” he tells her, and Ciri just grins. 

“Don’t worry, Eskel,” she says with fake solicitude. “Age robs us all in time. It’s not your fault you’re fading.” Eskel scoffs. 

“Fading, am I?” He tosses his blade down, and Ciri barely has time to start to run before Eskel has picked her up, swinging her upside down. Ciri shrieks with laughter, trying to swing herself around to bat at Eskel’s legs with her practice sword, still clutched tightly in her hand. 

“Put me down!” Ciri laughs. When Eskel swings her once more, she catches sight of Geralt. “Geralt! Save me!” She calls through her laughter. Geralt raises an eyebrow and remains where he is.

“I don’t know. I think you had it coming,” he observes, and Ciri gasps. 

“Traitor!” She accuses and apparently resolves to free herself given Geralt's failure to intercede on her behalf. She reaches a hand up to grab at the side of Eskel’s belt and uses it to haul herself up enough to bat at the witcher's face. 

Geralt, smiling, looks up to the window where Jaskier’s been sitting, hoping to share a moment of amusement, but his smile fades when he does. 

The window is empty. 

He leaves Ciri and Eskel to their wrestling, the girl making up for what she lacks in size and strength with wriggliness and a willingness to fight dirty. As he enters the keep, he hears Eskel complaining about a handful of snow stuffed down his shirt, and it makes Geralt smile, slightly, smoothing the edge of his frustration with Jaskier. 

Convinced he can now remain calm, he goes looking for the bard, eventually tracking him to Yen’s workroom. He pauses before the door and hears her and Jaskier’s voices, engaged in a quiet conversation. He’s tempted to eavesdrop, but he doesn’t trust Yen not to have put up a hex to prevent such a thing. He knocks as he pushes the door fully open, and both occupants of the room look up at him. Yen’s face reveals nothing, but Geralt catches a flicker of frustration flash across Jaskier’s before he pastes on a smile. Geralt’s eyes move briefly to Yen before he looks back to the bard. 

“Jaskier, can we talk?” His question prompts Jaskier into motion, but the bard just shakes his head, attempting to look apologetic. 

“Sorry, dear witcher, I really can’t. I’ve been promising Vesemir I would reorganize the bestiaries in the library, and I really can’t put it off anymore.” He nods his head at Yennefer. “I was just stopping by to ask a question of our resident witch on how to classify vampires. If anyone knows all about being a blood sucking-” He cuts off with an offended cry when the witch in question hurls a book at him. 

“Leave already,” she tells him flatly. “You’re using up all of the air in the room. I’m going to suffocate in here.” 

“I am rather breathtaking,” Jaskier agrees. His wink at Yennefer is met with rolled eyes and another book in her hand, poised to be thrown. “Alright, alright! Such violence on this one,” he says to Geralt. “We really ought to look into getting a less fighty version.” Ready for it this time, he dodges the second book thrown at him. 

“I’ll come with you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier trips, catching himself on a table. The last thing he wants is to invite Geralt to be alone with him. He scrambles for a way to deflect, afraid of a repeat of last night if Geralt gets him one-on-one. Jaskier is perfectly happy to ignore what happened and never address it again, but his nerves are frayed still, and he needs some time and distance to smother them into submission again. 

“No need!” He’s proud that he sounds as bright as he intends to, and he hopes that Geralt is far enough away not to pick up the panic he knows he’s starting to smell of. 

“It’ll go faster with help,” Geralt says and begins to walk to Jaskier’s side by the door. 

“I need your help first, Geralt.” Yennefer’s voice draws both pairs of eyes, Geralt’s confused and Jaskier’s grateful. 

“With what?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier mouths a thank you at Yennefer with the witcher distracted. He takes his chance and slips out of the room, walking down the hall with a stride he hopes reads as ‘purposeful’ and not ‘desperately trying to get away from a witcher he wants to reconnect with but not in whatever way the witcher in question thinks they should be connecting now for some fucking reason.’

Mostly he thinks it just reads as fleeing. 

He pauses outside of the library, realizing a flaw in his escape plan: Geralt now knows where he is. He’s just about to retreat and find another place to hide out when a voice makes him jump about half a foot in the air, coming unexpectedly from behind him. 

“Jaskier,” Vesemir says, and his tone is pleased. “Have you come about the bestiaries?” Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck. There goes his escape plan. Jaskier has been on a mission from day one to get in good with Vesemir, the closest thing to a father figure the other witchers have. Making up an excuse and begging off of a chore he signed up for the in the first place certainly won’t curry him any favor. There’s nothing for it. He’ll just have to try and get as much done as quickly as he can and hope that Yennefer will distract Geralt. With any luck, there will be a lab accident that will induce amnesia. He thinks about that possibility particularly hard and hopes that Yennefer is listening. 

“Indeed!” Jaskier says, turning to Vesemir and putting on his best ‘trust me’ smile. “I’ll have them in pristine order in no time, believe you me.” Vesemir nods and moves past the bard but pauses, and Jaskier curses when he sees the man inhale. Vesemir turns to him, his face concerned, and Jaskier briefly ponders just making a break for it. 

“Are you alright?” Vesemir asks. “You smell frightened. Has something happened?” The urge to just run away is stronger, but Jaskier knows that he would never stand a chance at outrunning a witcher. Joke and deflect it is. 

“Just had a bit of fright with the princess. She’s apparently taking her stealth lessons seriously, and her favorite prey appears to be innocent bards.” He raises his hands in a gesture of helpless surrender and prays that Vesemir will just move on. The witcher smiles, but Jaskier gets the feeling that it’s a ‘I don’t believe you, but your attempt at deflection is amusing enough that I’ll let it pass for now’ sort of smile. 

“Would you like me to speak with her? I certainly wouldn’t want her to torment our guests.” Damn it. Jaskier’s almost impressed with Vesemir calling his lie so easily. 

“Ah, no, that’s alright!” He tries for a laugh and hopes it sells. “I wouldn’t want to impede her baby witcher training, lots of lessons to get in, I’m sure. I wouldn’t want to put a kink in the curriculum.” 

“It’s really no worry. It’s rude to attack our guests. She can’t be allowed to continue.” The bastard is good, Jaskier will give him that. “In fact, I’ll go speak with her now.” Vesemir turns back the other direction and begins walking. 

“Wait!” Jaskier calls, and Vesemir turns, his face perfectly placid. “Uh, that was a lie, I’m sorry.” Vesemir’s face remains neutral, and Jaskier feels a surge of pity for every boy who tried to pull one over on the witcher. He feels like a naughty child being called on a transgression, and he’s a grown man. 

“Well then,” Vesemir says, folding his arms across his chest. “Perhaps the truth this time: are you alright?” Jaskier looks away and resists the urge to scuff his boot against the floor. He’s having flashbacks to being brought before one of his tutors for some mischief carried out during lessons. 

“Just…a lot of things to think about. Some of them less pleasant than others. Hard to…move past them.” He glances up briefly when he registers motion and sees Vesemir tilt his head thoughtfully. 

“Sometimes to move past a problem, we must face it first,” Vesemir says evenly. Jaskier bites his lip. 

“What if facing it would just make it worse?” 

“How do you know it would make it worse? Have you tried?” 

“I…” Jaskier trails off. He thinks he’s tried. He’s given Geralt openings, opportunities to say what Jaskier wants to hear. Geralt’s the one who didn’t take them. But he’s also been running recently, now afraid of what Geralt will say, afraid that the witcher will upset the equilibrium Jaskier is trying to achieve. Things feel worse now, but is that from trying to fix it, or from failing to try? Jaskier’s head is beginning to hurt like he’s back in a philosophy class. 

Vesemir gives him a gentle smile, apparently reading Jaskier’s inner debate. 

“Sometimes facing a problem is easier when you’re able to plan a path for attack with someone else. My door is open if you ever want to strategize.” Offer made, he continues on his previous path, and Jaskier reaches out and snags his sleeve when the witcher passes.

“Thank you, Vesemir,” he says. The witcher gives him a hearty pat on the shoulder. 

“You’re quite welcome.” His face turns stern. “But in the future, do not try lying to me. I’ve raised far too many boys for you to succeed.” Jaskier resists the urge to respond with a ‘yes, sir’ and instead nods. Vesemir pats him on the shoulder once more and departs. 

Jaskier, still feeling rather like a chastened school boy, skulks into the library and sets to work, losing himself soon enough in his organizing. He quite enjoys it once he gets into it, fascinated with the entries he thumbs through while he sorts them into piles. Some of them are more witcher journals than proper books, and Jaskier loses himself for a while reading over the entries, wondering about these men he’ll never know, men who risked their lives despite the hatred and bigotry Jaskier knows they faced. He sets each book down in its proper place with an affectionate pat, an acknowledgement of its author that Jaskier hopes they sense somehow, whatever plane of existence they may be on now. 

He’s fallen into a rhythm when he hears the door open, and he ignores whoever is entering, too focused on deciding where a journal of a witcher who apparently had a special interest in both water and mountain creatures should go. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice hits like a slap, entirely dissipating the contentment Jaskier had managed to find in his task. Jaskier doesn’t respond, but he hears Geralt moving closer anyway. He looks about for hiding spots, but although the stacks of books are certainly impressive, he doubts they’ll be enough to actually conceal him. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, unable to help it, right before Geralt turns onto the aisle he’s been working in.

“Jaskier, can we ta-” Geralt begins before Jaskier jumps his feet. 

“Sorry, dear witcher! I was just about to leave. I told Lambert I’d help him with his turn at dinner, so…” Jaskier gives him a smile that comes nowhere near reaching his eyes as he begins to edge past him. Geralt resists the surge of possessiveness that swells in his chest at having his company shirked in favor of his brother. Again. It’s absurd and childish, to feel hurt that Jaskier appears to be choosing someone else over him, unfair in the extreme. 

It still makes him feel prickly and unsettled. 

He reaches out and grabs the bard’s wrist to prevent him from leaving, his eyes widening when Jaskier immediately attempts to jerk away. He releases him at once and then resists the urge to reach out again when Jaskier overbalances, falling back heavily against the shelf behind him. Geralt hears the crack of the bard’s head hitting the wood and winces in sympathy. Jaskier immediately drops to one knee, pressing his hand to his skull where it connected. Geralt kneels beside him, reaching out a hand on instinct before he freezes, no longer sure if his touch will be welcome. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, withdrawing his hand and clenching it into a fist against his thigh. Jaskier makes a low, pained sound. 

“Been better,” he says, focusing on breathing through the ache he can feel piercing his skull like an icepick. 

“Can I...can I look?” Geralt asks. He's never been good at inaction when the bard is in pain. Jaskier squints up at him. 

“I can manage,” he says. “Don’t concern yourself on my account.” Jaskier gives him another fake smile. Geralt grits his teeth. The bard rises to his feet, one hand still held to his head. “See you around,” he says and begins to walk off. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls, and he can see the bard deciding whether to answer or pretend he doesn’t hear. “Please talk to me,” Geralt says, and it sounds like a plea. Jaskier inhales deeply, releasing it slowly. He still doesn’t turn around when he speaks. 

“What is there to talk about, Geralt? I’m back, we’re friends, happy ending. I don’t know what’s suddenly gotten into you, but there’s really no need for it. I know where we stand.”

“Do you?” Geralt asks. “Care to let me in on it? Because I have no idea anymore.” He sees Jaskier go tense, but at least the bard finally turns at last, looking at Geralt over his shoulder as he drops his hand from his head. 

“We’re friends, Geralt. You asked me to come back, I did. We’re back to normal. Tah dah.” He punctuates the statement with a little waggle of his fingers like a magician’s flourish. 

“We’re not back to normal, though,” Geralt says, rising at last to his feet. “It’s…weird, between us now. I’d thought we were getting somewhere, but now you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not-” 

“You are,” Geralt cuts him off. 

“I thought you’d like that, me taking myself off your hands,” Jaskier regrets it as soon as he says it, but there’s no taking it back once it’s out. Geralt’s brow furrows. 

“I thought we’d moved past that. I said that I was sorry for the mountain.” Geralt’s face is earnest, open. 

Jaskier resists the urge to slap him. 

He inhales deeply. He doesn’t want to fight. He’s too tired. He just wants the witcher to stop bringing things up that Jaskier doesn’t want to acknowledge. Vesemir is wrong. Sometimes things hurt too much to face. Sometimes it’s just a matter of survival to ignore them and keep going. 

“My head hurts, Geralt, can we not do this right now?” Jaskier says, looking away to avoid the hurt puppy look he knows Geralt’s wearing. 

“Then when can we do this?” Geralt asks, and he knows his irritation is coming through even as he tries to control it. He doesn’t want to push, but he wants whatever it is between him and Jaskier these days to be over. Jaskier throws his hands up in frustration. 

“Never, hopefully! Is that what you want to hear?” Jaskier’s snapping, and he knows he’s snapping, but he can’t seem to help himself. “I thought you were all about letting bygones be bygones.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Geralt asks, and the defensiveness in his tone just fans the flames of Jaskier’s temper higher. 

“Nothing,” Jaskier bites out and turns to leave, annoyed and angry and wanting to make an escape before he says something he regrets.

Or Geralt says something Jaskier will regret. 

Geralt is up and beside him dizzyingly fast, uncaring for once at making a display of his ability to move faster than a human ever could. He crowds Jaskier against the end of a bookshelf and entirely against his will, Jaskier feels a little thrill of arousal, Geralt’s scent and strength and warmth surrounding him. The witcher ducks his head, and Jaskier can read his frustration in the set of Geralt’s jaw, even as the man attempts to keep his tone even. 

“It’s obviously something,” Geralt presses. “You barely even talk to me anymore, you’re never alone with me if you can help it. Please, Jask, what did I do?” His cajoling tone works on Jaskier, softening him. 

Until that last bit. 

“You really can’t fucking guess?” Jaskier says, his tone biting. He shoves at Geralt but for once, the witcher doesn’t allow himself to be moved. Jaskier attempts to duck below one of the massive arms bracketing him on either side, but the witcher moves too quickly, a hand at Jaskier’s waist keeping him in place. Jaskier resists the childish urge to duck down and bite the witcher, frustrated at the hindrance of his escape. 

“Why do I need to guess when you could tell me,” Geralt says, and that’s it. That’s what snaps Jaskier’s patience entirely. 

“Yes, why do any fucking work when I could do it for you?” Jaskier grinds out and shoves at Geralt again. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever been this frustrated before. The witcher is still utterly implacable, but it feels good to hit him, to give up on words and be the one to rely on physical action for once. He does it again, pushing his body into this time. It does little more than make his injured hand ache where it hits solid muscle, but Jaskier is petty enough to admit that it still feels fucking incredible. He moves for a third hit and Geralt huffs, impatient and confused, and catches both of Jaskier's wrists in one hand. 

Geralt looks at him incredulously, and Jaskier was wrong. He’s even more frustrated now. Embarrassingly, he can feel his body responding to it by making his eyes water with frustrated tears, and he clenches his jaw until it aches. 

Geralt notes the tears in his eyes and releases his wrists immediately, afraid that he’s hurting the bard despite how careful he’d been to measure his strength. He takes a deep breath, trying to exhale his temper. He doesn’t want to hurt Jaskier, in any sense, and he can smell that he’s managed to make the bard hurt and annoyed. He tilts his head slightly, trying to figure out how to ask what he wants to know. He’s frustrated, too, he realizes, that the one person who has always been able to read him easily appears to have suddenly become illiterate. He realizes with a cold little flush of shame that he’s come to rely on Jaskier’s ability to understand him without words. Geralt is struggling now because he’s used to being complacent with Jaskier, safe and comfortable in silence, secure in the knowledge that Jaskier will fill in the blanks. He doesn’t know what words he needs because Jaskier has never made him need them before. 

“I’ve made you angry,” he tries at last. It’s a guess, but he thinks it might be a good starting point if he can just establish exactly what Jaskier is feeling so Geralt can work backwards and figure out why the bard is feeling it. Jaskier snorts, derisive, but he looks away and swallows hard. 

“No shit,” the bard says, but the anger falls flat. 

“Will you tell me why?” Geralt ventures. He knows he’s asking for a handout, for Jaskier to spell it out for him, but this is all new, and Geralt could use an assist. Jaskier inhales deeply, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. When he opens them again, he looks so tired and pained that Geralt’s body aches in sympathy. 

“Why, Geralt? What difference does it make?” Jaskier sounds resigned, and that more than anything makes alarms of wrong! wrong! wrong! shoot through Geralt’s body. Jaskier is never resigned to anything. He’s equal parts stubborn and optimistic. When he’s displeased, he does something about it. He’s never been one to surrender and accept things as they are. He always believes that things can change, that people can grow, that something can be done.

It’s one of the things Geralt admires most about him, and its sudden absence makes Geralt’s chest hurt. 

“So I won’t make you angry in the future,” Geralt says and resists the urge to wince at such a proposal. He knows himself and he knows Jaskier. They’re going to make each other angry in the future. He tries again. “So I can fix what I did,” he tries again, hoping it’s clearer and more achievable, but Jaskier just huffs out a humorless laugh. 

“There’s nothing to fix, Geralt.” Jaskier says, and his voice is still so fucking resigned it makes Geralt grit his teeth. There needs to be something to fix so Geralt can fix it. Geralt is a man of action, of tasks. He needs the security of a clear goal. “I’m the one who just needs to work on getting my mind together, alright?” Jaskier continues, wrapping his arms across his chest. “I’m just getting used to us again. There’s some learning curves, that’s all. You know me, I’m always dramatic. Just let me get it out of my system and we can go back to the way things used to be.” 

“Do we have to?” Geralt asks. Jaskier raises his brows in question. “Do we have to go back to that? To what we were?” 

“What else would we be, Geralt? Or is this your way of telling me that you want a turn being the bard? I’m game to try, but I have to say, I’m not looking forward to doing my time getting covered in monster goop."

“No,” Geralt says, refusing to let Jaskier deflect with a joke. “I want to be us, but…” He trails off, annoyed with himself. He wants to say but more, but the words won’t come, tangling in his mouth before he can get them out. This is usually where Jaskier would jump in and provide what Geralt means with no need for Geralt to actually communicate it, but the bard remains still and quiet, watching Geralt with an expression the witcher can’t read, a carefully neutral look on his face that Geralt has never seen directed his way before. He tries to find the words he wants, desperately scrambling, but they just won’t come. They won’t match up to what he feels inside and let him explain. Eventually, Jaskier sighs. 

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he says at last, edging around Geralt and leaving the witcher to flounder in everything he feels but can’t say. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier avoids Geralt like the plague for the next few days. It’s impossible to avoid crossing paths with him entirely, but Jaskier realizes quickly that Geralt won’t keep trying to push and have conversations Jaskier wants to avoid if Jaskier is just never alone. Jaskier fills up every available moment of his day in the company of the rest of the residents of Kaer Morhen, flitting from person to person like the world’s chattiest butterfly. 

He wakes later than everyone else in the keep aside from Yennefer, and immediately grabs some breakfast and settles in at a window above the training grounds, eating while he watches before he starts writing, poems and sonnets and stories. From his vantage point, he’s in the perfect place to observe Geralt and make himself scarce the second he sees the witcher move back into the keep. Ciri usually stops her training for the day around the same time, so Jaskier immediately makes his way to her room to wait while she gets back from bathing quickly and changing into clean clothes to braid her hair for her. 

It’s a bright spot in his day, doing Ciri’s hair. The girl makes him laugh every morning, her wit and sass and personality blooming with each day she grows more confident in her skills and place here. It’s nice, also, to have such a fun head of hair to work with, and he challenges himself each day to accomplish more and more complicated styles. Occasionally, Ciri pushes him down onto the chair and does little braids on him, too. He desperately needs a trim, but it makes the princess so happy to braid and twist and pin his hair that he keeps putting it off. 

His next stop after playing coiffeur with Ciri is generally Yennefer’s room, where he can pass a bit of time bothering the witch while picking up things he’s been told multiple times not to pick up. When Yennefer’s patience with him finally reaches its end, he takes his resultant exile in grace and wanders to the kitchen to help whoever’s turn it is to make lunch, so long as it isn’t Geralt. He eats quickly and makes his escape again, retreating to the library to continue working on his bestiary project. On the basis of asking for clarification on some of it, he’s usually able to convince Vesemir to sit with him while he works, the witcher doing research or writing of his own. Jaskier quickly begins to enjoy this time, usually the quietest point in his day, as much as he enjoys his mornings with Ciri. 

Vesemir’s steady, solid presence reminds Jaskier reassuringly of Geralt, although the older witcher is more willing to engage in conversations that involve more than one person talking. Vesemir is also a goldmine of knowledge and stories, and Jaskier begins taking a notebook with him to jot down notes. He’s still without an instrument, but he can no more abstain from creating music than he could abstain from breathing. 

The days when Vesemir is too busy to play Monster Encyclopedia make Jaskier a bit edgy, all too aware of the risk he runs of Geralt finding him and cornering him into a conversation he doesn’t want to have, but the witcher blessedly stays away. Jaskier even begins to look forward to these days, left only with books and journals for company, free to leaf through pages and pages of knowledge to his heart's content. The journals also begin to feel like their own sort of companions, and Jaskier changes his plan for organizing to award them their own special spot, a place of honor in the library. 

Today is one of the days Vesemir can’t join him, and so Jaskier attempts to lose himself totally in his work, focusing in on the journals. It feels like spending time getting to know new friends, in a way, reading the thoughts and experiences of these men he’ll never know. 

Unfortunately for Jaskier today, however, Geralt had sat across the table from him at lunch, and Jaskier kept catching the kicked puppy look on Geralt’s face when the bard avoided looking to him as much as possible. He feels so rotten about the whole thing that he knows he won’t be able to give the journals the attention they deserve, and he eventually gives up, tidying the piles before he goes in search of something else to do instead. He needs to talk things out with someone, to get all of the feelings he’s been pushing down into the air where they can breathe and hopefully leave him alone. 

He immediately begins heading to Yennefer’s workroom. 

Either she’ll give him some advice or he can bicker back and forth with her, and he imagines he’ll feel better either way. When he reaches the room, he bursts through the door, shoving it open grandly. Yennefer, used to this particular entrance by now, doesn’t even bother to look up from her work where she’s bent over a book, a piece of parchment beside her to take notes. Jaskier glances around and makes sure she’s alone before he crosses to her workstation, leaning across her to flop facedown across the book and obscure her view. 

“Can I help you with something?” She asks, unimpressed. 

“I can’t talk to Geralt,” he tells her, his voice muffled with his face pressed against the pages. 

“Your voice appears to be working just fine to me.” Yennefer shoves at him in an attempt to remove him from her book. 

“He wants to talk about changing things,” Jaskier tells her, refusing to move and turning his head to look at her. “I don’t want things to change.” 

“Would it be so bad for things to change? They seem pretty fucking miserable right now from where I’m standing.” She gives up on the gentle approach and pokes viciously at his side until he finally surrenders and strands straight. 

“It’s his fault!” Jaskier says, peevish. “He just keeps pushing, and he won’t take a fucking hint to knock it off.”

“Why don’t you just have it out with him? Get it over with and put us all out of our misery.” 

“That’s easy for you to say,” Jaskier says, fidgeting with a couple of bottles on the worktable in front of him. Yennefer crosses her arms, leaning her hip against the table. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks. Jaskier starts sliding one of the bottles between his hands on the table until Yennefer snatches it away. “Talk, bard. You love doing that. Do it.” 

“You had him right away, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, his voice low. He knows she’s about to jump in and heads her off, “And I know it was its own sort of fucked up with that damn djinn, but…” He trails off and reaches for another thing to fidget with for something to do, giving Yennefer a resentful look when she slaps his hand away. “Ow,” he grouses, shaking the sting out. Yennefer rolls her eyes.

“But?” She prompts. 

“But you got what I wanted,” he admits, feeling very small and very pathetic. “The way he looked at you, the way he talked to you, the way he wanted you… I thought-” He cuts himself off, biting his lip and brushing at some imaginary crumbs on the table in front of him. “I thought if I just waited…I thought I could have that, all of it. I thought if I just was patient, he could get there. I thought he just wasn’t ready.” He huffs out an attempt at laughter, and looks up at Yennefer, tossing his hair back. “But he was. It was never a matter of time. It was a matter of taste. He was capable of it all along. He just didn’t want me.” His voice breaks on the last word, and he coughs, looking down again. Yennefer steps closer until they’re standing side by side, nudging him with her hip. 

“Maybe it’s worth hearing him out,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier scoffs. 

“And hearing what? I’m foolish, Yennefer, but I’m not stupid. I’ve spent the better part of my life hoping things would change, and they never did.” 

“You’ve said yourself that he’s acting differently than he did before. Why not see where it goes?” 

“Because I can’t!” Jaskier says, pushing off from against the table and crossing to the window, looking out over the snow. “He’s acting differently all of the sudden, and I don’t know why, and I can’t ask why, because he’s going to do the same thing he always does and give me hope and then take it away and go off and fuck the nearest comely, psychotic witch available.” He pauses, tosses a look over his shoulder. “...no offense.”

“Some taken,” Yennefer says. “So what’s your solution here, then? If you can’t talk to him and you can’t not talk to him?”

“I don’t know!” Jaskier says, beginning to pace. “I can’t stay here, Yennefer. I can’t do this. I need more time or-or something! Some time to think. I just don’t know what he wants. He’s acting so weird.” 

“What do you mean, weird?” Yennefer’s voice is patient, but Jaskier tosses his hands up, still pacing. 

“Just…weird! I don’t know what he wants, and he’s acting like he never has with me before. The cornering me and the looking and the trying to talk, and the touching, you wouldn’t fucking believe the touching suddenly. It’s like-” He cuts himself off, ceasing his pacing as some clues slot into place. “It’s like he wants to fuck,” he says, his voice hoarse. 

“No shit he wants to fuck,” Yennefer tells him plainly. “You should see how he watches you when you’re helping out with some of the manual labor around here. I’ve seen starving dogs stare at steaks with less hunger.” Jaskier knows that he should respond to the ribbing, but he’s a little preoccupied with his entire fucking world falling to pieces, so he’s hoping the witch will forgive him. Yennefer frowns. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? This cannot be news to you.”

“It-” Jaskier begins but is cut off by the door opening. 

“Yen! I’m here for…” Ciri trails off, her smile fading as she takes in the energy of the room she’s walked into. “I’m sorry, should I come back? I thought it was time for my lesson, but I can-”

“Not at all, darling!” Jaskier tells her. “I’m trying to get our resident hex artist to teach me how to turn people into toads, but she insists on holding out on me.” He leans in and stage whispers to Ciri. “I think she knows I’d use it on her.” It makes Ciri laugh, which was Jaskier’s goal, and he makes to take his leave. 

“Jaskier!” Yennefer calls and he turns back to her, raising an eyebrow. Yennefer looks briefly to Ciri, and he knows she’s thinking about what she can say in front of the girl without prompting too many questions.

“Look, just don’t do anything drastic until we can talk it over, alright?”

“Me? Be drastic? Think about who you’re talking to."

“I am,” she says, pinning him with a judgemental look. “So: don’t do anything drastic until we can actually talk this through.”

Jaskier assures her that he’ll be perfectly well behaved and then leaves her to tutor Ciri, tugging at the girl’s braid affectionately before he exits. 

He makes his way back to the library and hunkers down among his stacks. He opens a few of the journals and stares at the pages without absorbing anything. 

He’s been miserable, keeping himself away from Geralt these past few days. For all that Geralt is being frustrating, he’s still Jaskier’s favorite person, the person Jaskier feels right around. It’s been that way since Jaskier was a perky eighteen-year-old trailing along after a grumpy stranger he desperately wanted to get to know better. 

He feels steadier around Geralt, more solid. His muscles and prowess with a sword aside, Geralt makes Jaskier feel safe in a way no one else does, the witcher’s steadiness a reassurance, a touchstone in the world that never shifts. The sun rises, Valdo Marx deserves to be executed, and Geralt is Geralt, sturdy and patient and reliable. It’s a truth Jaskier relies on to keep his world steady.

He feels like he’s been holding his breath for too long when he’s not with Geralt, the tightness in his chest the same as when he’s been underwater, the ache of needing something. 

It hurts, and Jaskier is tired of hurting. He’s tired of resisting. He wants things to go back, but Geralt seems determined to press forward. The physicality the witcher’s displayed leaves little doubt as to Geralt’s angle now that Jaskier has had time to think it over: after years of resisting Jaskier’s clumsy advances, the witcher has decided he wants to have the option of a good fuck between friends on occasion. 

Why Geralt has decided this now of all fucking times is a mystery, but the more Jaskier thinks about it, the more he supposes it makes sense. 

With Ciri in tow, Geralt will have to be more careful than ever about the company he keeps, including hired company. It makes sense that he’d prefer to chase a release with Jaskier, who Geralt knows won’t betray him, than bed a stranger who might sell him out for coin, who might take advantage of Geralt in a vulnerable state. Jaskier should probably be flattered, he thinks, by this trust. It speaks to the same faith Geralt had shown when he trusted Jaskier to accompany Ciri back to Kaer Morhen. 

It’s also not as if Jaskier hasn’t wanted to make the beast with two backs with tall, dark, and scowly. He’s wanted to have Geralt between the sheets for fucking decades at this point. 

With the possibility presented to him at last, however, he finds himself dreading it. 

For all of the jokes made at his expense, Jaskier’s never actually slept without someone he didn’t love at least a little bit. He gives his heart freely and immediately, finding something to love in every partner he’s ever taken to bed. 

And he loves Geralt more than he’s ever loved any other person in the world. 

Can he do this? Can he make love with Geralt while knowing that for Geralt, it’s just a fuck? Can Jaskier let himself be shattered like that and still find the strength to piece himself back together and content himself with what else Geralt will give him, those little snippets of affection and attention that Jaskier has hoarded like a beggar throughout the years? 

He’ll have to, he realizes with increasing despair. Geralt is hellbent and determined on this course, apparently, and Jaskier is weak. He’s never stood up against Geralt and Geralt’s wants in his life, and his likelihood for succeeding now, especially after they leave Kaer Morhen and all of its convenient hiding spots, looks pretty fucking grim. In addition to that, if he loses Geralt, he loses this little family he’s slowly starting to gain. He loses Ciri for sure, and Yennefer has already agreed to help train the princess, so it’s not as if she can leave to journey around with him instead. And the other Wolves? For all that they’ve accepted and welcomed him, it’s unlikely that they’d take his part in the squabble if Geralt decided to cast him aside again. Jaskier isn’t a fool. If they have to pick between loyalty to a brother they’ve known and trained and fought beside for decades and a plucky bard they’ve known for scarcely a few weeks, Jaskier knows how that choice is going to go. 

If he loses Geralt, he loses everything. Again.

Jaskier swallows hard, taking a deep, fortifying breath. He’ll just have to suck it up. He can do this, he tells himself. He can take Geralt to bed and content himself with nothing more than that. 

He resolutely ignores the little voice in his head that whispers that he’s lying to himself and stands. Tonight, he decides. Better to get things underway than wait and worry. 

His resolution does not do anything to keep his spirits buoyant throughout the rest of the day. He’s managed to sort a grand total of three additional books when the door opens. He feels a cold rush of dread. For all of his decisiveness, he’s barely had any time to come to terms with giving Geralt what he wants. He desperately doesn’t want to have to put his plan into practice so soon. To his relief, it’s not Geralt who peeks around the shelves. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” Eskel says, smiling. Jaskier smiles back in relief as much as happiness to see Eskel. 

“Slaving away among these dusty tomes as ever.” His dramatic tone makes Eskel snort as the witcher sits down beside him. Jaskier tilts his head. 

“Was there…something you needed?” He ventures. In the time he’s been doing this, Eskel has yet to seek him out. Eskel shrugs. 

“You’ve seemed down these past few days. Thought you might like some company.” The sincerity in the witcher's tone warms Jaskier all the way through. 

“Well, if you’re planning to hang around here and enjoy my lovely company, I’m going to put you to work,” Jaskier says with mock-severity. 

“I’m yours to order away,” Eskel responds with equal gravity. 

“I warn you, I will abuse this authority immediately,” Jaskier tells him, tone still severe. “I can already feel myself going mad with power.” Eskel snorts. 

“I’ll take my chances.”

Jaskier passes a rather pleasant hour bossing Eskel around. The witcher accepts his servitude with grace and obligingly moves entire shelves around per Jaskier’s instructions. 

“You know,” Jaskier muses aloud as he watches Eskel hauling ten feet of solid wood shelving around with the same ease other men carry books, “perhaps you witchers should branch out into moving services.” 

“If I hear a song about a witcher battling poorly packed boxes, there’s going to be hell to pay,” Eskel warns him. Jaskier grins. 

“Well now you’ve gone and put ideas in my head…”

As they begin putting away books Jaskier has already sorted, the bard takes great delight in tormenting Eskel with increasingly terrible potential rhymes about witcher moving ballads until the witcher threatens to lock him in the keep and leave him there come spring. For all of the bluster, though, he slings his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders easily to lead him into supper.

Jaskier’s newfound peace evaporates as soon as he steps foot in the kitchen. 

Geralt’s already there. 

Looking at the witcher brings Jaskier’s new understanding of what Geralt wants in their relationship to the forefront of his mind, and he feels tense, suddenly. He’s going to go ahead with it tonight, he is, but it seems like it will all be a lot easier if he just doesn’t think about it too hard beforehand. Eskel feels the tension in his body and shakes him gently with the arm he still has around the bard, giving him an inquiring look. Jaskier gives him a smile he hopes is reassuring and ducks out from the hold. He hesitates for barely a moment by the open seat next to Geralt, but he thinks he’ll lose his appetite if he’s pressed up against the man for the entire meal, a constant reminder of what’s going to happen later. He decides to let himself have this out, plopping down next to Lambert on the other side of the table. 

He sees the witcher inhale and resists the urge to grimace. He imagines he smells as nervous as he feels. To distract Lambert before he can do or say anything Jaskier doesn’t want him to, the bard starts a friendly shoving contest by trying to steal Lambert’s ale. 

“Fuck off!” Lambert says, refusing to let go of the hold he has on the cup. “Go get your own!” For all of his attempt at scowling, however, Jaskier can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Jaskier continues to pull, both of his hands against one of Lambert’s still laughably insufficient. Eventually Lambert gives up with a roll of his eyes, and Jaskier gives him a pleased little smirk before he takes a sip. 

Geralt, across the table, grips his own tankard so hard he feels the metal begin to give. He forces himself to let go and looks down to his food, trying to ignore Lambert and Jaskier playfighting and flirting right in front of him. He’s sure he didn’t imagine Jaskier choosing Lambert over him when he came in, and this little show rubs yet more salt into the wound. 

Against his will, his eyes move up and catch on Jaskier again. The bard is smiling now, a teasing look that Geralt loves. 

A look directed at fucking Lambert.  

It was enough when Lambert and Jaskier smelled of each other. Now Jaskier is avoiding Geralt like he’s diseased while he seeks out his brothers instead. And now they’re fondly bickering right in front of him. 

Bickering like he and Jaskier used to. 

Envy swells sick and hot within him throughout the meal, made worse when Eskel sits down on the other side of Jaskier, the bard ordering him about imperiously in a joke that Geralt isn’t in on. Geralt does his best to smile at and talk to Ciri beside him, but he knows the girl picks up on his bad mood, and his sense of failure as a parent as he worries his child just serves to push him closer to a snapping point.

He downs his food as fast as he can and leaves the table, motioning Ciri to stay when she moves to follow him. There’s no reason for her not to eat her fill because Geralt’s in a mood. He pushes down against the top of her head with a teasing amount of pressure to make her sit down and smiles when she slaps his hand away and sticks her tongue out at him. 

His smile drops the second he’s out of view, and he stalks through the halls with no particular destination in mind. He spends some time training in the yard, but if anything, the exertion just makes him more riled up. He’s spoiling for a fight, and he wants a fight with an opponent who will hit back. 

He takes to pacing the halls again and without thought ends up outside of Lambert’s laboratory. 

He shouldn’t go inside. Nothing good can come of talking to his brother in the mood he’s in right now. 

He opens the door. 

Lambert looks up at him, surprised. 

“Have you head of fucking knocking?” He asks, setting aside the beaker in his hand and untying his leather apron. 

“What are your intentions with Jaskier?” Geralt throws the words down like a gauntlet. If he has to watch Lambert stealing the bard away right in front of him, he damn well wants his brother to own up to it. Lambert, however, just scowls, responding to Geralt's tone with irritation. 

“I don’t think it’s any of your fucking business,” he says and knocks his shoulder against Geralt’s as he passes. Lambert’s trying to get a rise out of him, and it works. He grabs Lambert by his upper arm and hauls him back, knocking him into the table. Lambert glares at him. 

“What the fuck, Geralt?” He says. Geralt crowds him. 

“If you’re going to flirt with him, you have to be serious,” Geralt tells him. “When he falls in love, he means it.” 

“Again, what the fuck, Geralt?” Lambert tries to push past him again, and Geralt shoves him back once more. This snaps Lambert’s patience, never long to begin with, and he lunges forward. Geralt responds, grappling with him in the start of a wrestling match. It’s stupid and pointless and Geralt knows it, but there’s a small, petty part of him that’s relishing the chance to have an outlet for everything inside of him that’s confused and hurting right now. “Why the fuck would Jaskier be in love with me?” Lambert says between his teeth as he shoves at Geralt, trying to wrap his arms around in a lock. Geralt tries to do the same with him. 

“I know you slept together,” Geralt snaps. “You smelled like him. And now you’re all over each other all the time. You want him, and he obviously wants you.”

“He wants you, you fucking moron,” Lambert snarls, trying to hook his foot around Geralt’s ankle so he can get his leg out from underneath him. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Geralt grunts, avoiding Lambert’s footwork and shoving harder. His mutations have made him strong even by witcher standards, and he manages to knock Lambert back several paces, although the hold his brother still has on him means that Geralt is dragged right along with him. 

“I found him the hallway, bawling his fucking eyes out about you, asshole. He was all spacey and bleeding. I couldn’t just leave him. I took him back to my room, and he fell asleep there. That’s all.” Lambert catches his heel against a rug flipped up in the fight and goes down hard onto his back. Geralt, struck dumb by what Lambert’s said goes with him, unable to haul himself back upright in time. He manages to shift slightly so he won’t completely crush his brother beneath him, but Lambert still gets a solid part of Geralt’s weight on top of him. Lambert begins shoving immediately when they’re on the floor. “Get the fuck off of me,” he snarls, giving up on any sort of finesse or grappling technique and instead trying to bring his legs up to kick like a rabbit, trying to aim his feet for Geralt’s stomach.

Geralt shoves himself off and back, dodging the blows. Lambert immediately rolls to crouch on his feet, ready for another attack, but Geralt remains still, catching his breath and processing Lambert’s words. He feels torn in multiple directions, ripped into pieces by how many things are now swirling in his head, beating in his chest. 

The possibility that Jaskier still wants him after all sends a swell of hope through his chest that makes him feel like he can finally breathe easier. It hasn’t come straight from Jaskier himself, of course, but there’s no reason that Lambert would lie about it. The fact that he made Jaskier cry makes guilt swirl through his stomach, and the knowledge that he pushed Jaskier into that distant, empty headspace makes him ache. 

He wonders now how many episodes Jaskier’s had to suffer alone without Geralt there to pull him back, to protect him while his mind wanders and help guide him back to his body when he’s ready. It was a thought he’d steadfastly avoided contemplating in the time they’d been apart because he knows the answer is too fucking many. Had Jaskier found someone to help him? Someone who understood like Geralt? Someone who could protect him, keep him safe, and help him when he desperately needed it? 

Geralt has a horrible suspicion that the answer is no, and it stabs at his conscience, this reminder of yet another way he’s failed. 

He looks up to see Lambert watching him warily, still clearly pissed at being attacked for no reason, and Geralt bows his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. 

“For being a total dick for no reason?” Lambert clarifies snidely. Geralt nods. 

“Pretty much. I had no right to attack you like that. I was just…” He looks for a word that can properly encapsulate everything he’s been recently. “...frustrated,” he decides at last. He looks back up. “And thank you, for looking after Jaskier.” Lambert still regards him with suspicion, but he stands from his crouch. 

“Don’t need thanks from you for that.” 

“Thank you for caring for him when I didn’t,” Geralt clarifies. “I know those episodes are…rough, on him.” Lambert regards him for a long moment. 

“You pushed him into that one from what I could tell,” he states bluntly, and Geralt winces. “You must have done something real fucking dramatic to get that kind of reaction.”

“I pushed him when I shouldn’t have,” Geralt offers. “It won’t happen again. I won’t let it.” He looks up when Lambert offers him a hand, accepting it and letting his brother help haul him to his feet. 

“You’d better not,” he says, giving Geralt a measured shove against his shoulder. “Feet like icicles, that man, barely slept at all for fear of getting frostbite on my calves.” Geralt snorts. Lambert smiles before shoving at Geralt again, this time towards the door. “Now go talk to him. You’re both insufferable, and I’d rather not get attacked again because you’re feeling bitchy.” 

Geralt complies, albeit with an impolite hand gesture to Lambert on his way out of the door. 

“You’re fucking rude!” Lambert calls after him. 

Deciding to give talking with Jaskier another shot, Geralt begins to make his way to the bard’s room. In the process, however, he has to walk by his own, and he stops short when he sees the bard waiting at his door. 

“Jaskier?” He says, surprised beyond measure. The bard smiles, but it looks off, nervous. 

“Hello, dear witcher!” His tone is slightly strained, but Geralt is so relieved to have Jaskier choosing to speak to him again that he lets it go. 

“Were you waiting for me?” Geralt asks, moving closer and feeling a weight lifting from his shoulders when Jaskier not only doesn’t retreat but steps even closer. 

“Indeed,” Jaskier says, and his voice is lower now, his head tilted, and a smile on his lips. “I’m sorry I’ve been running away,” he says, and he loops his arms loosely around Geralt’s neck, leaning into the witcher’s body. On reflex, Geralt brings his hands up to Jaskier’s waist, and the bard draws a shaky little inhale. Geralt can smell arousal on him and without conscious thought, he squeezes gently at the muscle beneath his hands, enjoying the warmth of Jaskier’s body beneath the material. He feels the muscles of Jaskier’s stomach tighten under the touch, and he does it again, his mind providing memories of what lies beneath those clothes with perfect, flawless clarity. Jaskier gives him a significant look, and then he leans in, pressing his lips to Geralt’s. 

It’s a filthy sort of kiss, heat and promise and teasing. Forcing himself to move before he forgets himself entirely, he uses his grip on Jaskier to push the bard back, having to harden his will when he actually gets a look at the man. Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide, his face flushed, his lips tantalizingly wet and red. His collar is as undone as ever, and Geralt is hard-pressed to maintain eye contact when there’s much more enticing real estate so easily available. 

“Wait,” Geralt breathes when Jaskier goes to lean in again. “What are you doing?” Jaskier presses close, bringing one hand up to gently stroke back a piece of hair from Geralt’s face. 

“Giving in,” he purrs, his voice an unbearably attractive velvet timber. “I’m tired of fighting, Geralt. I want you, and you want me. It took me a while to get my head on straight and come to terms with things, but I’ve decided. I want this.” With a sly little look, he wraps his hand around Geralt’s belt and tugs the witcher after him when he backs into Geralt’s room, opening the door with one hand without turning around. 

“Jask,” Geralt breathes once he’s been towed inside, but Jaskier leans in before he gets to the rest of what he wants to say, pressing close to shut the door behind Geralt. 

“Enough talking,” Jaskier says, kissing him again, and Geralt’s mind goes blank, lost to anything that isn’t Jaskier, pressed against him like a second skin and kissing him like Geralt’s only dreamed of. 

Without quite knowing how he got there, Geralt finds himself on his bed, guided onto his back while Jaskier straddles him, the bard pressing his hips down against Geralt’s in a slow, rocking grind that has the witcher tossing his head back with a moan, his mind blank and the only reality in his life the firm, sure press of Jaskier against him, a fantasy come to life. The bard leans in, his mouth hot against Geralt’s neck as he presses wet, lingering kisses to the skin there before he drags his tongue up to Geralt’s pulse point. The bard moves upwards from there and nips a lovebite right beside where his tongue was just pressed, and the total vulnerability of it makes Geralt’s breath stutter as much as the spark of pleasure from the pain does. The fact that he can trust Jaskier to bite at such a vulnerable place is its own sort of aphrodisiac. Jaskier rocks his hips with decadent, inexorable movement, and without thought, Geralt feels himself pressing upwards in response, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of anything and everything that Jaskier chooses to offer. 

He attempts to get hold of Jaskier’s hips, whether to gain control over the movement or simply to have something to tether himself with against the pleasure seeking to drown him he isn’t entirely sure, but Jaskier captures the witcher’s hands with his own, slotting their fingers together and pressing Geralt’s hands back down to the bed on either side of his head. He applies some pressure and gives Geralt a teasing look. 

“Stay,” Jaskier tells him, and the authority in the command raises goosebumps across Geralt’s skin as it sends a shudder of white-hot want through him. Geralt nods more than a little frantically and then lifts his head to capture Jaskier’s lips with his once more. Jaskier pulls away to yank at Geralt's shirt until he's gotten it off, shucking his own in short order. When he leans in again, Geralt feels the skin to skin contact like tiny pinpricks of static electricity, every nerve firing in every single place he's pressed against the bard. 

Geralt tries to obey the order to remain as he is, he really does, desperate to give Jaskier whatever he wants, but eventually the building pleasure is too much. He presses one hand to the center of Jaskier’s back and one to his hip and with a quick roll, pins the bard beneath him. He captures Jaskier’s mouth with his once more and then moves down and returns the favor from earlier, lavishing the bard’s soft throat with attention, shifting down to press kisses to Jaskier's chest while he caresses one hand down the hard planes of Jaskier's body, tracing the contours of his muscles, a pleased hum rumbling from deep in his chest when Jaskier's hips stutter as Geralt strokes his fingers over the warm, velvet-soft skin just above the waistband of the bard's trousers. Smiling, Geralt moves back up, returning his attention to Jaskier's neck, idly toying with the tempting thought of leaving a mark on such a smooth, pale canvas. 

Jaskier draws a shaky breath once Geralt shifts back to his throat. Moving entirely without thought, he lifts his chin to give Geralt better access and moans when he feels the slightest scrape of teeth, the witcher immediately soothing the same patch of skin with his tongue. He whimpers when Geralt shifts to bring his thigh between Jaskier's, a new, exquisite pleasure to rock against. With one giant hand at the bard's hip, Geralt holds him there, pressed tight as Jaskier grinds against the thick, firm muscle. Jaskier plants his foot against the bed until he can press his thigh against Geralt in return, the witcher's breath stuttering in the most delicious, intoxicating way. Jaskier feels drunk with pleasure and power, almost lightheaded with the give and take between them. 

It’s been easier than Jaskier thought it would be, to lose himself in the pleasure and forget what will come after, once Geralt is sated and has no further use for Jaskier for the night. Soon enough, he feels Geralt’s hand at the fastening of his trousers, the witcher pausing, his thumb moving in soothing little circles against the sensitive skin right above the material. 

“May I?” He breathes, his mouth close to Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier shivers, overwhelmed with sensation, and nods. 

“Please,” he says, his voice breathy. He feels the curve of Geralt’s smile as the witcher presses a kiss to his cheek, and then Geralt is shoving Jaskier’s trousers down to his knees and getting his hand on Jaskier properly, and then it gets very hard to register anything beyond that specific stimulus. 

This can be enough, Jaskier thinks. This will be enough. He’s certainly getting all of the attention and touch he could ever have asked for right now, that’s for sure. His hips jerk when Geralt does something particularly clever with a twist of his wrist, and the witcher laughs softly at the low noise it punches out of Jaskier, moving his head up briefly for a sweet, gentle kiss before he moves once more, kissing along the line of Jaskier's jaw. Geralt shifts the hand not currently occupied with pleasuring his partner to one of Jaskier’s, linking their hands like the bard had done earlier, squeezing gently, affectionately. 

And that’s. Well. 

Jaskier takes a stuttering breath that has nothing to do with pleasure. 

It hits him, suddenly, that this will be the only time he’s allowed to hold Geralt’s hand like this. Geralt will never reach for him with this easy confidence outside of when he’s taking his pleasure. Jaskier will never know what it feels like to do something as simple as hold Geralt’s hand while they’re walking down a road together. It will only ever be this. Sweet touches given and received only in the dark, only in the pursuit of sexual release.

He can’t do it, Jaskier realizes with a horrible surety, his throat going tight. He can’t live like this. He can't survive on this cheap substitute of what he really wants. He feels dirty, suddenly, in a way he never has before, exchanging sex for scraps of affection. 

“Stop,” Jaskier chokes out and when Geralt doesn’t appear to hear him, lost still in pursuing the bard’s pleasure, Jaskier repeats it, moving one hand up to Geralt’s hair and using it for leverage to pull his head back. “Stop,” he says again, louder, and this time Geralt freezes immediately, pulling away at once. 

“What’s wrong?” Geralt says, his voice alert immediately. He removes himself from Jaskier at once, remaining on the bed but giving the bard distance, no part of them touching anymore. Jaskier shakes his head, and he feels the tears that have started to form finally begin to fall, rolling down his temples. He can’t stop the soft, hurt noise he makes, and he registers Geralt start to reach for him immediately.

“No! I can’t-this-” Jaskier sniffles, trying to choke back the tears that are threatening to drown him suddenly. He sits up and reaches for his trousers, yanking them back up around his hips and almost tripping himself as he tries to do up the fastenings at the same time he tries to get off the bed. He secures his laces as best he can with his hands shaking so badly. “I’m sorry, Geralt,” he chokes, breathless. “I thought I could-but I can’t-” His sentence ends in a breathless gasp that feels like it was punched out of him. 

“Jask, talk to me,” Geralt says, and the distress and confusion in his voice is clear. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jaskier chokes. He stumbles on his way to the door, the light too low for him to properly see by, and he hears Geralt rise from the bed to follow him. “Don’t!” He says when he can make out Geralt’s form moving closer. “I can’t-just- don’t!” Geralt obediently freezes in place, but Jaskier can feel the tension coming off of him. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice achingly soft. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.” Jaskier sobs once, a harsh, choking sound, and Geralt’s voice is tight with panic when he speaks again. “Please, Jask.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jaskier reaches the door and fumbles for the handle, finally managing to get his hand around it. Geralt does move forward at that, pressing one hand against the wood to hold it in place. 

“Jaskier, please don’t run. Please tell me what I did wrong, what happened.” Jaskier can’t help but bark a laugh that comes out wet and strangled. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jaskier says, tugging at the door. Geralt lets up on the pressure he has against it immediately, and Jaskier wrenches it open. “It’s me, Geralt. I just can’t do this.” With the light from the hallway, Jaskier can finally see the witcher’s face properly. Geralt looks so lost, more than Jaskier has ever seen him, and it only serves to make Jaskier even more miserable. Even having Geralt’s concern, Jaskier wants more. He’s greedy, and he wants more. Geralt reaches for him, and Jaskier dodges. “Let me go, Geralt, and don’t follow me, please. I just-I can’t.”

With that, he turns and bolts, barely able to navigate the hallway around him with his vision blurred by tears and his breath coming in harsh, angry shudders. 

For once, he thinks, he wants the fuzziness and distance to take him, to yank him out of his body. If his only other option is to feel this, then for the sake of his own survival, he wants to feel nothing. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier, somehow, makes it to his room and immediately begins packing, throwing things at random into a bag. He has little enough of his own here, mainly clothes too small for most of the witchers taken from storage closets around Kaer Morhen, but he tosses whatever he touches into a bag until he realizes he’s packed a pillow, and then he forces himself to pull everything out and start again. 

He has to leave. 

The idea of sitting across from Geralt at breakfast tomorrow morning after what’s happened between them tightens his chest in a vice, and even the prospect has his head going fuzzy. He focuses on action to try and hold onto reality and stave off the drifting. As much as he wants to be numb, he wants to escape more. 

He pauses, gripping his arm and digging in with his nails as hard as he can. The pain refocuses him, brings him back sharply to sensation. He shifts so he can do it to both arms at the same time. He holds it a moment more until he’s sure his head will stay clear. 

He pauses only to catch his breath, his hands braced on the bed as he draws in air like a runner in a marathon. He lets himself have one moment of weakness, crumpling down and tucking himself into a tight crouch. 

He’s fucked it up. He’s fucked it all up. 

There’s no way Geralt will tolerate this, Jaskier playing cocktease and then bolting. This will be the final straw, Jaskier is sure. 

He wants, desperately, to find one of the others. Yennefer is his first choice, but she’ll want to know what happened after she told him not to do anything, and he can’t admit it, can’t face it. He aches to make his way to Lambert’s room and negotiate his way back into the witcher's bed, to lay beside someone again and just breathe until the world isn’t crushing him as much. He wants to seek out Eskel, to lean against him and let Eskel joke with him in his gentle, kind way, not pushing Jaskier to speak but leaving the possibility open. He even wants to sit in the library with Vesemir, sharing a glass of wine and debating some minute detail of some monster lore. He would never, ever put his burdens on Ciri, but he wants even to tease the girl, to joke and see her face light up, to know that even if he’s a fuck up in every other area of his life, he can at least make her smile.

But he can’t.

He never will again. 

Jaskier tried to save what he’s found here and instead fucked it up so grandly that he will never be able to have it again. 

There’s no way Geralt will tolerate him here after this, and Jaskier can’t blame him. At least when Jaskier was avoiding him, he wasn’t leading Geralt on. Now he’s gone and seduced him and then run once more. The others will side with Geralt, Jaskier’s sure. He knows his behavior has been unacceptable. If he didn’t want to fuck Geralt, he shouldn’t have tried to initiate. Geralt’s well within his rights to be angry and frustrated, especially given how many people Geralt’s watched Jaskier bed over the years. It should have been nothing for Jaskier to give Geralt what he wanted, too. And Geralt’s told stories about him here at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier now knows. The others will know about Jaskier’s reputation and will share in Geralt’s insult at Jaskier rejecting him. 

The idea of the others finding out what he’s done makes Jaskier rise to his feet again immediately, packing with even more determination. He can’t do it. He can’t see their faces after they find out what he tried to do and failed at. He needs to leave now when his last memory of each of them is happy, warm. He thought often during their time apart that the worst part of Geralt leaving was that Jaskier’s last interaction with him was so fucking devastating, spoiling so much of the good that came before. If he leaves now, at least, he won’t have that with the others. 

Anything good with Geralt is gone forever at this point, but Jaskier can cling onto the rest of what he’d managed to weasel his way into and learn to live with it. 

He’s had a lifetime of experience at surviving on the scantest hint of love, after all. 

He has other things, after all. He’ll make do. He’ll throw himself into being the Sandpiper. That will be his new life, he’ll make it everything until there isn’t space for anything else. It was his lifeline before, after all, a handhold up out of the darkness of Geralt’s absence, Jaskier saving lives all on his own, making a difference, causing change. He’ll just give himself over to it even more now. He exhales a wavering breath. It’s not like his music is going to distract him this time, after all, not when he no longer has the instrument he used to build his career. 

He has no idea if he’s managed to pack anything of value by the time the satchel is full, but he’ll just have to hope it is. Food. He curses when he thinks of it. He’s certainly going to have to grab food before he leaves, which means venturing into the kitchen. He’s managed at least to learn enough to not get completely lost each time, but it’s still risky. It’s late, at least, so Jaskier will just have to hope that everyone else is in bed. In a moment of brilliant inspiration, he liberally applies some of the scented hair oil Yennefer gave him as a countermeasure to witcher noses picking up on his emotional state by smelling the despair he knows he must reek of. 

Chemical warfare applied, he pokes his head out and checks that the hallway is clear before he steps into it. He knows where a side entrance is, and he makes his way there. It’s risky, to add extra time in the keep if he wants to get out before word of what he’s done gets out, but Jaskier knows that lugging a satchel around is going to get more questions asked than he’s ready to answer. 

Apparently all he needed to navigate was proper motivation, and he finds the side door on his first try. He stuffs his satchel behind a hanging on the wall nearby and then makes his way to the kitchen, freezing like a mouse every single time he hears a noise. 

He makes it to the kitchen without being caught and begins tossing things onto a cloth. He breathes a sigh of relief when he ties it up, ready to retreat and make his escape. 

“Jaskier?” Eskel’s voice makes Jaskier jump, before he hauls a smile firmly into place and spins. 

“Eskel, what a surprise!” His tone is too bright, too contrived, and he sees Eskel’s eyes narrow immediately. 

“Are you…alright?” Eskel steps closer, his movements slow as they would be around a skittish horse. Jaskier has an energy at present that Eskel doesn’t know how to read. Beneath a floral smell that hits him like a fucking punch, Eskel can faintly detect that the bard smells of adrenaline and fright and sorrow and anxiety, and the combination of so much smell makes Eskel nearly sneeze. He wants to search more through the scent as a clue to what’s going on, but it’s already giving him a headache. The bard’s eyes look frenetic, over-bright, and he’s practically vibrating in place. 

“Perfectly well! Just in search of a midnight snack!” Jaskier’s tone is still too chirpy. Eskel glances down at the bundle of food Jaskier has manged to gather and looks up again, raising a dubious brow. 

“That’s an awful lot of food for a midnight snack,” Eskel observes and then notes the flicker of frustration that flits across Jaskier’s expression before he smooths it back into manic cheerfulness. 

“Well, I’m a growing lad,” he responds, teasingly, and then makes to skirt around Eskel. The witcher rests a gentle hand against his shoulder to halt his movement. 

“Jaskier, you’re very clearly not okay.” Eskel leaves it at that for the moment. He wants to know what’s wrong, but he also doesn’t want to pry and push Jaskier into fleeing before he gets the chance to share. The bard seems very much like a flight risk at present, and Eskel doesn’t want to test his luck. Jaskier bites his lip. 

“I had, ah, a nightmare. Pretty bad one. About the worst I could imagine,” he huffs a self-conscious laugh, looking briefly to Eskel before he turns away again. “Left me…fairly shaken, which I imagine that nose of yours is picking up on.” Eskel makes a sympathetic noise and squeezes the bard’s shoulder gently before he directs a pointed look to the bundle of food in the bard’s hand. 

“And you’ve decided to drown your sorrows in a feast for one? After taking a bath in flowers, apparently?” The questions are meant as a gentle joke, but Jaskier flushes, shifting his weight. 

“Ah, I wasn’t…the most coordinated when I woke up. Knocked over my bottles of hair oil from our lovely resident witch with my flailing.” He licks his lips nervously before he continues. “And as for the provisions,I don’t think I’ll be sleeping again tonight, might do some composing instead. Didn’t want to be running back and forth for more, you know? I’ll bring back whatever I don’t finish, I promise.” The words sound…off, but Eskel simply hasn’t known Jaskier long enough to know exactly what they do sound like. He supposes it’s logical enough, Jaskier grabbing enough provisions that he won’t have to venture out again. Eskel knows Jaskier still has trouble navigating the keep on his own, and it makes sense that the bard wouldn’t want to have to keep venturing out and getting lost. 

“Do you want some company?” He offers, but the bard is shaking his head before he even finishes the question, giving Eskel a bright smile without quite meeting his eyes. 

“No, dear witcher. I thank you for the offer, but there’s no reason for us to both suffer just because my mind is prone to fits of dramatics.” 

“Alright,” Eskel says slowly. He doesn’t really want to leave Jaskier alone when he’s in such a weird mood, but he doubts forcing the bard to entertain company when he doesn’t want to would help things. “Well, I’m around, if you need me. Even if it’s later.” He nudges Jaskier gently with a smile. “Trust me, I’ve grown up with plenty of brothers. I’m used to getting woken up for much dumber things.” Jaskier gives him a look Eskel doesn’t understand then, something aching and fond and hurt, and then Eskel finds himself with an armful of bard as the man flings himself into a hug. Eskel returns the embrace tightly and feels Jaskier take a breath that expands his entire chest. 

“Thank you, Eskel,” Jaskier says, his voice soft from where he’s speaking with his head tucked into the witcher’s neck. “For everything.” It seems a bit dramatic, to Eskel, but the bard seems shaky, his nerves raw, so he’ll let his misgivings go for now. He holds on until the bard chooses to let go, and then he gently nudges Jaskier’s chin with a fist. 

“I mean it, Jaskier, anything.” 

Jaskier gives him another smile that looks off and makes his exit. Eskel retrieves the water he had come to the kitchen for and returns to his room, trying to focus on adding notes to his journal, but his mind won’t focus, too concerned by Jaskier’s behavior. He wants to go seek out the bard, coax him into talking until Eskel can figure out what’s going on, but the bard hadn’t seemed to be in a sharing mood. 

Eventually, Eskel stands and shuts his book. He won’t be able to focus on anything while he’s too busy worrying about Jaskier. He doesn’t know enough about the bard to make a judgment of his behavior, but Eskel knows who does: Geralt. 

He makes his way to his brother’s room and knocks, frowning when he gets no response. 

“Geralt?” He calls, knocking again. He can hear Geralt inside and knows from his heart rate and breathing that he’s awake. As he focuses, he smells confusion and panic and sorrow, and not just Geralt’s. Jaskier was here. That ends his patience with the silent treatment. “I’m coming in,” Eskel warns before opening the door. Geralt scowls at him from where he’s sitting on the bed, bowed forward with his forearms resting against his knees. 

“Go away,” he growls. Eskel crosses his arms. He may not know Jaskier well enough yet to push, but Eskel grew up with Geralt. He knows exactly when and how to shove with Geralt. 

“Enough, Geralt, of whatever is going on between you and Jaskier. It’s weird, and it’s making everyone else miserable, too. Out with it. What’s going on?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, scowling down at the floor. Eskel rolls his eyes. 

“I know Jaskier was here,” he says. Geralt twitches at that. 

“He left,” Geralt says flatly. 

“I gathered. Why?”

Silence again. 

“He said he had a nightmare,” Eskel offers at last, and Geralt looks up at that, his brow furrowed. 

“What?” 

“I found him in the kitchen, packing up a whole bundle of food. He said he’d had a nightmare and would be up a while and didn’t want to have to get more.” Eskel doesn’t understand why Geralt goes pale and is left only to follow when his brother bolts from the room, tearing down the hallway on his way to the bard’s room. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts, pounding at the door. When he doesn’t get an answer, he tries the door and finds it unlocked, slamming it open with so much force that Eskel hears wood cracking when it hits the wall on its swing inwards. “Fuck,” Geralt says, the word punched out of him. Eskel looks over his shoulder. The room is a mess, things thrown around. It looks like someone had a temper tantrum. 

Or, he realizes with a cold swell of dread, like someone packed with a great deal of hurry. 

Geralt is in motion before Eskel can say anything. 

“Where are you going?” He calls and runs to catch up with Geralt, who is striding back to his room, throwing on a cloak and strapping a dagger to his belt before he’s off again. Eskel attempts to pull him to a stop but Geralt’s always been stronger, and Eskel ends up stumbling along in his wake until he falls into step with him. 

“He’s running,” Geralt says, his voice tight. “The pass is already snowed in, and he’s trying to run. I have to get him. He’s going to die out there trying to get away.” Eskel shakes his head. 

“Why would he run?” Eskel asks, and Geralt’s face goes impossibly tenser. “Geralt, why would he do that?”

“I don’t fucking know,” his brother says, and Eskel can clearly read the frustration in his voice. “He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He talks to the rest of you.” He expels an angry huff of breath. “Then tonight he tried to come onto me, and something I did just…set him off. I don’t know what, but he just-” He cuts himself off, his jaw tight. “Something is wrong with him, Eskel, with him and me, and I don’t know what, and he won’t tell me.”

“We’ll get him back, Geralt.” Eskel assures him. “And then I’m going to lock you both in a fucking closet until you work this out.”

Geralt huffs a laugh that has no humor in it. Eskel makes him stop by Lambert’s room to collect him for the search. He doesn’t think that Jaskier will manage to get far, but it’s better to have more hands in the search right away. Geralt barely pauses long enough for his brothers to don their own cloaks before he’s leading them out. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts the second they’re out of the courtyard, catching sight of a trail. He curses when he sees that it’s snowing again, already covering tracks. Jaskier has never been subtle in his entire life, but that means fuck all if snow covers his tracks and dampens his scent. 

Jaskier, ahead, hears his name called and freezes like a fox hearing the first baying of hounds in a hunt. He hopes, wildly, that he’s imagined it until it's called again, other voices joining in now. Jaskier’s managed to get some distance from the keep, but he knows all too well how fast witchers move. He has to get away. He has to try and lose them. 

His mind is spinning, trying to remember the lessons Geralt had given him on tracking so he can work backwards and use them for evasion. Water, he remembers, water makes scent hard to follow. He thinks he remembers a river up ahead. It’ll be frozen now, but perhaps it will still work? Can ice hold scent? 

Jaskier will have to hope it doesn’t. 

He begins running, struggling through the snow and cursing that he’ll be leaving such an obvious trail that way. He’ll have to figure something out when he gets to the river. Maybe a deer will have left tracks he can follow or something. He only has the space for the immediate future. He feels a new kinship, suddenly, with the way a rabbit must feel in a snare, that wild, heart-pounding knowledge of being in danger while being helpless to get away. 

He pushes himself harder as he hears the voices get closer. Finally, he gets to the river. As he thought, it’s frozen, and he desperately wishes a prayer that somehow the ice will help him. Movement, at least, gets easier without the snow holding him back, and he makes it midway across before he hears a call of his name from behind, the tone telling him that he’s been spotted. It’s Geralt’s voice. Jaskier turns, then, and has one brief second of looking at that handsome, familiar face before there’s a groaning crack beneath his feet as the ice gives way, and he drops like a stone into the dark, freezing water.

Jaskier's world gets very small after that, water all around him from where he’s trapped below the surface. He’s blind in the darkness, no sense of up or down until the current slams him against the ice, pinning him between it and what feels like a log, stuck fast in the river bottom and tilting upwards. He yelps at the surprise and the pain and then immediately panics at just how much air that wasted, clamping his hands tight over his mouth. Miracle of miracles, he manages to not inhale any water when he does, but he knows he just shortened his own time limit on figuring out how to get out of here. 

The water is so cold it stabs, cold shocks of pain all over his body. He can already feel his fingers and toes going numb. He struggles his way into facing upwards and scrabbles at the ice he’s been slammed against, trying to find an edge, a hold, some weakness to exploit. He tries punching it, but the weight of the water drags him back, giving him so much resistance that he barely gets any force behind the blow. His lungs burn, and the terror of it is all-encompassing. He slams both hands against the ice, desperate and so, so afraid. 

He feels his head getting fuzzy and has a horrible moment of thinking he’s having an episode, but no, this fuzziness is different. This is a fuzziness he won’t be coming out of, he knows. This sort of fuzziness fades to blackness and then Jaskier will be gone. 

Jaskier heard a boy describe drowning once, when he was young. The boy had been fished out of the pond he’d fallen into just in time, resuscitated, the water forced from his lungs. He’d said it was peaceful, Jaskier recalls. It sort of stops when you give up fighting, he’d said, in a whisper specific to children talking about topics they know they shouldn’t be. 

Jaskier remembers the boy now. I’m going to die, Jaskier thinks with surprise. I’m going to die like that boy, but no one will be here to pull me out and bring me back.

He contemplates, then, inhaling. His lungs are a shrieking agony, burning to be filled. If he just stops fighting, inhales, lets the water fill him, will the pain stop? 

His thoughts are disjointed now, fragmented. His brain is running out of oxygen, he thinks in a vague sort of way. How long has it been? It could be seconds or days, and it’s funny, he thinks, the idea of hiding beneath the ice for days and popping out later. Surprise! He would yell. It’s a funny thought, and funny is better than thinking about how he’s going to die down here, alone and cold and drowned. It’s a shame he’s about to choose to give up and die, Jaskier thinks, now that he wants to do his ice prank. 

Before he even gets a chance to choose to open his mouth, however, something beneath the water strikes him hard, and the fright of it, something heavy hitting him out of the darkness, makes him open his mouth automatically in a shout. Before he has time to register it, water is pouring into his mouth, cold and sharp. He chokes, tries to stop, tries to spit it out. He doesn’t want to die, he realizes with immediate clarity. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live. He wants desperately to live. There’s so much still left unsaid, undone. He wants more time. He wants more songs to sing, more sights to enjoy, he wants to tell Geralt-

He wants to tell Geralt “I love you.” He doesn’t care if Geralt doesn’t say it back or even if he feels it back. He just wants Geralt to know. He wants Geralt to hear that someone loves him. He wants Geralt to hear that Jaskier loves him, has loved him almost since the very start and has only ever loved him more, no matter how much the witcher grumbles or scowls or smells of horse. For all of his flaws and annoying habits and frustrating reticence to speak more than a few words at a time, Jaskier loves him, and he wants more than anything in the entire fucking world to tell him.

It’s too late, though. 

The choice has been snatched from him right when he was finally ready to make it, and isn’t that some comic fucking joke. Joke. Jokes. He can feel his consciousness fading, adrenaline giving way to drowning. He thought of a joke, didn’t he? His thoughts are slower now, his mind fading out in slow spirals into nothing. The only reality around him is water, around and inside him, and Jaskier is going to die down here, cold and hurting and desperately, horribly alone.

There’s a sudden snapping, cracking noise near him, and Jaskier thinks he’s maybe heard it before. He might have wanted it to happen? The sound? He doesn’t want much of anything right now. He’s too hazy even to find the strength to be alarmed when something like solid iron clamps around his arm and hauls him up, up, up. 

Geralt thinks his heart must have stopped for how hard it begins pounding once he’s gotten hold of Jaskier, tugging him up from beneath the ice. It has to be making up for missed beats now because it’s the only thing Geralt can hear in the world. It must have stopped in that moment of wordless horror when he watched the ice break beneath Jaskier, and he only had the time to register the terror on the bard’s face before the man was below the ice, pulled away by the current immediately. Geralt had run faster than he ever had, tracing the faint shadow beneath the ice that was Jaskier until finally, thank all of the gods Geralt has given up on but may worship once more depending on how this night ends, the bard snagged against something, left trapped right against the ice but blessedly not dragged away further. Geralt’s fist aches from punching through the ice, frantic to get to Jaskier, but it’s a distant thought, barely registering as a concern. 

Geralt has absolutely no concern in this moment other than the fact that Jaskier isn’t fucking breathing.

Geralt feels his own breath coming in short, haggard bursts as panic threatens to overwhelm him. He forces himself to focus. Tasks. There are no emotions here, only tasks. His first task is to get Jaskier breathing again so Geralt can finally inhale properly, too. 

He hauls Jaskier further away from the hole in the ice, laying him out on his back. The bard's lips are tinting towards blue and his skin is as pale and lifeless as the snow all around them, and Geralt is losing hold on his focus for his tasks. He needs to act quickly before the only thing he can do is lay down beside Jaskier and wait for whatever comes next when the brightest part of his life for twenty years has been extinguished. If Jaskier doesn’t rise from this ice tonight, Geralt sees no future in which he could manage to do so, either.

He tilts Jaskier’s chin up and seals his mouth over, breathing for him, trying to fill the bard's lungs with air. Geralt draws back and immediately begins pumping at Jaskier’s chest. He knows that doing this properly will likely mean breaking ribs, but he also knows that he could do far more damage than even that with his strength. He is walking a tightrope as fine as a hair: too weak and Jaskier dies, too strong and Jaskier dies. Geralt has never been more aware of his strength in his life than he is as he pumps at Jaskier’s chest. He feels a rib snap and it hits like a slap even as he forces himself to keep going before he switches to breathing for Jaskier again. 

“Please,” he begs, the word barely more than a whisper. “Please, Jaskier, please don’t do this.” He returns to pumping at Jaskier’s chest. “Please don’t leave me,” the words are a prayer, a plea, the words are whatever it takes for Jaskier to heed them, to return, to not leave Geralt behind. 

It’s an eternity and no time at all as Geralt continues. He could keep doing this forever, he thinks wildly, madly, his mind spinning out in circles even as his body continues in its steady, regulated movements. If Jaskier doesn’t wake up, that’s fine. Geralt will breathe for him. Geralt will pump his heart. So long as he doesn’t stop, Jaskier is alive. So long as Geralt doesn’t quit, Jaskier isn’t gone. To keep Jaskier, Geralt will do this forever. 

He’s so tangled in his own head that he almost misses the first weak, burbling gasp until Jaskier jackknifes wildly, choking as he expels water, gagging and retching. 

Geralt has never seen anything more beautiful in his life. 

“You’re alright,” Geralt says, turning Jaskier onto his side and rubbing a hand up and down his back, desperate to touch, to soothe, to rest his hand on Jaskier and feel his heart, his beautiful, loving heart, beat once more. “You’re alright. It’s alright. It’s going to be alright.” Geralt is saying nonsense, he thinks. He might as well be making noises for all that Jaskier is responding, but Geralt can’t stop. 

“Geralt!” Eskel’s voice calls, but Geralt can’t respond, can’t make himself move, can’t do anything but watch Jaskier, as if the bard will stop breathing again without Geralt’s supervision. He hears the shout when Eskel catches sight of him, Lambert following behind soon after. 

“We have to get him back to the keep,” Eskel says, worried, as he shucks his cloak. Lambert does the same, and the movement jolts Geralt into motion at last, a reminder that the fight isn’t over yet. Avoiding drowning won’t mean anything if Jaskier now freezes to death. Aided by his brothers, Geralt strips the soaked outer layers off of Jaskier before bundling him up in all three of their cloaks. He vaguely registers Eskel picking up the discarded clothing, but Geralt is already in motion, moving as fast as he can through the snow. His speed is hampered by maneuvering with Jaskier in his arms, and the other Wolves keep pace. 

Geralt thinks distantly that maybe one day he’ll have the space and time to be impressed by how far the bard managed to get on his own through the snow with his complete and utter lack of any sense of direction, but at present, Geralt just grits his teeth and presses on, cursing every foot of distance between Jaskier and a warm place for Jaskier to recover. Which he will. Geralt will not accept any other option. 

“I’ll get Yennefer,” Lambert says as soon as they enter the keep, peeling away and bolting up the stairs. Vesemir is waiting for them and meets them immediately. He places the back of his hand against Jaskier’s face, the only part of him peeking out of the material, and makes a low, displeased noise. 

“I’ll see what we have in the way of tinctures to increase blood flow. You get him to the hot springs and keep him close, share body heat,” Vesemir says, and Geralt immediately begins walking. “Not in the water right away!” Vesemir orders, and Geralt has never been more glad for that steady, sure voice giving him orders to obey. Please, someone else take control. Please, someone just give Geralt things to do. He has no space for thought or decision. There is only Jaskier in his arms, limp and cold as a corpse. There is only counting his breaths, listening to his heartbeats. “Keep him to the side first,” Vesemir continues as he walks briskly away. “Too much at once and you’ll stop his heart,” he calls over his shoulder, which serves to calm Geralt down not at fucking all. 

Eskel follows Geralt down to the hot springs, the air growing warm and balmy. Once there, Eskel helps Geralt unwrap Jaskier and strip him down completely. Geralt hands Jaskier off to Eskel to hold briefly so he can strip his own shirt off. He grabs for Jaskier again the second he’s done, and Eskel helps wrap them together in the two outer cloaks, the inner one too soaked to still be useful. Geralt knows that whatever Eskel is reading on his face has his brother worried, but Geralt only has the energy for monitoring Jaskier, as if Geralt can keep the bard's heart beating by listening for it. Being less concerning will have to wait. Eskel apparently decides Geralt can be trusted alone for a moment because he stands. 

“I’ll go get some blankets and dry clothes,” he tells him and waits. Geralt fails to respond, so Eskel presses a hand against his shoulder briefly in support and then departs.

Lambert and Yennefer arrive before Eskel returns, the witch crossing to them immediately while Lambert waits at the doorway. 

“Fucker,” Yen hisses like an angry cat, dropping to her knees beside them. “I said wait, you fucking drama queen.” The words are very clearly not directed to Geralt, and he doesn’t bother responding to them. She snarls angry insults under her breath even as her hands move gently over Jaskier, checking for damage and healing what she finds. “One fucking night, and you couldn’t wait? You are dead, bard. You’re going to live and then you are dead.” She pales as she works, and Geralt is torn between wanting to look out for her and the desperation that she does whatever it takes to make sure Jaskier lives. Eventually she leans forward, shaking and bracing her hands on the floor. 

“Yen?” Geralt asks, and his voice is gruff. She speaks slowly without raising her head, exhaustion clearly weighing on her. 

“That’s all I’ve got for now. I’m still not back to full strength,” she says, tipping her head up only briefly to look at Jaskier’s face before she drops it again. “He’ll live,” she says, and Geralt nearly goes lightheaded with the sudden return of his ability to breathe properly. “He’ll feel like shit, which he deserves after this, but he’ll live.”

Vesemir enters then and confers with Yennefer before settling on one of the mixtures. He uses a hollow glass tube to dribble a bit of the medicine into Jaskier’s mouth, massaging over his throat to ensure he swallows. The older witcher then helps pull Yennefer to her feet, steading her when she stumbles and calling Lambert over to help her back upstairs. 

Geralt, meanwhile, remains hunched over Jaskier. It feels like embracing a snowman, and it’s doing nothing for his temper. He wants everyone else gone, suddenly, an irrational protectiveness surging in his chest now that he’s ensconced somewhere safe. He feels like a wounded thing. He wants privacy to curl up against Jaskier, to tend him and heal him and hold him close without an audience, without the expectation that Geralt attends to or registers anything that isn’t the bard in his arms. Lambert and Yennefer make their way back up the stairs together, and Vesemir kneels down, resting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“He’ll heal,” Vesemir tells him, and even the gentle tone of his voice makes Geralt want to growl, the suggestion that there’s any other option. Of course Jaskier will heal. Anything else is impossible. Vesemir gives him a look, and Geralt knows he’s been read. Vesemir gives him one more firm pat on his shoulder before he rises. “Give him another half hour or so and then into the water. Call for me if you need anything.”

“Vesemir,” Geralt says once the man is almost out the door. Vesemir turns back. “Thank you,” Geralt says, his voice low. Vesemir gives him a steady, understanding smile and nods before he continues on his way. 

Eskel arrives, his arms full of blankets and clothes. He sets down an improvised pallet on the ground and helps settle them on it, Jaskier pressed close against Geralt, his back to the witcher’s chest. Geralt gives Eskel a nod of thanks, and his brother departs with the promise that he’ll be close if he’s needed. 

Left alone at last, Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s hair. It’s damp instead of wet now, toweled as dry as it can get. His face hidden from the world, Geralt just breathes. His arms are tight around Jaskier, one wrapped under his head to pillow his head on Geralt’s bicep and one wrapped around the bard's stomach, rising and falling with each inhale and exhale from Jaskier. Secure deep in the heart of Kaer Morhen, Geralt focuses on nothing other than Jaskier. Eventually, the bard begins to shiver, and Geralt is relieved at the sign of progress, a sign that Jaskier is safe, that he will recover from tonight. 

When he judges half an hour has passed, Geralt sits up. Leaving Jaskier laying down, Geralt strips off his trousers and braies before he picks the bard up, stepping into the water and slowly working his way deeper. When Jaskier’s feet first hit the water, he whimpers, a low, pained sound, and Geralt shushes him. He knows it probably hurts, the temperature difference, but as much as he hates the idea of causing Jaskier pain, the water will ultimately benefit him. He holds the bard tighter to secure him while he twitches fretfully, uncomfortable, as Geralt slowly sinks deeper. 

“Sh,” Geralt says, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “You’re alright, Jask. You’ll feel better soon, I promise. I’m sorry it hurts. It’ll stop soon.” 

Geralt keeps speaking even as he finally settles on the ledge carved into the side of the pool. He can’t stop now. He’s held too many words in for them to be kept back any longer, especially right after he almost lost the chance to ever say them to the bard at all. Even without Jaskier conscious, Geralt has to say them or he will burst with the pressure of keeping them back. 

“I think Yen is going to beat you up,” he tells Jaskier, resettling the bard against himself so he has one hand free. He gently brushes hair from Jaskier’s face. “I don’t know what agreement you had with her, but I don’t envy you the consequences of breaking it.”

Geralt continues speaking as he holds Jaskier in the water, savoring the chance to have Jaskier close, skin-to-skin, calm and quiet and alive. The bard eventually, blessedly, stops shivering. He stirs, slightly, but he’s still far from conscious. Geralt waits a while longer after that before he finally gets out, not wanting Jaskier to swing in the opposite direction and get too hot. He sets the bard down on the pallet once more, gently drying him and dressing him again. They’re Geralt’s clothes, and the witcher feels a little thrill of possession shoot through him despite himself. He dresses as well before bundling Jaskier up once more. 

Geralt carries the bard upstairs and returns to his own room. He passes Lambert on the way, and his brother moves closer, resting a hand against Jaskier’s face and nodding in satisfaction when he finds it warm. 

“Don’t let him make a break for it again, alright? I don’t feel like another round of bard hunting tonight.” Lambert’s tone is warning, but Geralt sees the relief in his brother’s eyes. 

“I’ll do my best,” Geralt says, and continues to his room. He stops at the door, eyebrows raised, when he finds Ciri spread across his bed, fast asleep. He sits on the mattress by her knees, shifting his hold on Jaskier to free a hand. He shakes Ciri gently. 

“Mrm?” Ciri says, and Geralt smiles slightly, waiting until the girl realizes where she is, sitting up straight. “Is he okay?” She says, rising to her knees and shuffling closer to press her hand to Jaskier’s cheek. “Yen said he got cold and he was in water, and Lambert said he’d run? But why would he-”

“He’s okay, Ciri,” Geralt soothes, interrupting her before she gets herself too worked up. “He needs to rest now, but he’ll be okay.”

“You’re sure?” Ciri looks at him, her face serious, searching Geralt for any sign of a lie. “You promise he’ll be okay?” Geralt looks back at her fondly, this child of his who has lost so much and yet refuses to grow hard, who still cares. He rests a hand against her hair, pulls her in slightly. 

“I promise you, Cirilla. He’ll be okay.” 

Ciri gives him a small, relieved smile. 

“And now you’re going to bed.” The smile drops, and she scowls at him. 

“But I-”

“Bed, Ciri,” Geralt tells her firmly. There’s a brief struggle of wills fought entirely with eye contact, but eventually she folds, climbing off of the bed. 

“Goodnight, Geralt.” She leans in, kisses Jaskier’s cheek. “Good night, Jaskier. Feel better.” 

She leaves then, and Geralt settles on the bed with Jaskier, keeping him close to share body heat. Jaskier will be free to push him away if he wants once he's awake, but for now Geralt keeps him close, making sure the bard remains warm and soothing the himself in the process. Geralt looks up when Yennefer knocks and enters. She still smells of exhaustion, but she’s moving under her own power. 

“How is he?” She asks, sitting on the bed. 

“Better.”

“Good,” Yen says, touching her hand briefly to Jaskier’s face before she withdraws it. “I’m going to kill him.” Geralt snorts. 

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I’ll bring him back, but first I’m going to kill him.” Yen looks up to Geralt. “I imagine he did something suitably dramatic before deciding to go do something even more dramatic.”

“Has he…talked to you recently?” Geralt asks. Yen nods. 

“Yes, he never leaves me alone. Pest,” the last is directed at Jaskier, who remains asleep. Geralt hesitates then, reluctant to share such a personal story but needing to have some context, needing to understand. 

“He tried to seduce me, and then he ran. Do you know why?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Yen says. “You’ve got him twitchy these days, and he’s fucking awful at making decisions under pressure.”

“What pressure?” The question prompts Yen to just look at him for a long moment. 

“You’re both idiots,” she declares at last. Geralt frowns at her, and she rolls her eyes. She rises, then. “Talk to him. He’s got his feelings about you all tangled up inside, and it’s making him stupid about how to handle them.” She looks at Geralt again. “You’re just naturally bad at feelings,” she says sweetly. 

“Goodbye, Yen,” Geralt says flatly. She gives him a smirk. 

“Don’t let him leave before you talk things out. No matter how he might protest, he wants to talk things through with you.” She crosses to the door, pauses. “Also, I’m one more invasion of my workroom away from locking you both in a tower to talk it out.”

With that, she leaves, and Geralt settles down once more to wait for Jaskier, puzzling over Yen's words. He doesn’t manage to reach a conclusion by the time Jaskier starts moving fretfully, his limbs clumsy. When he finally opens his eyes, he’s very clearly confused. 

“G’ralt, I-” Jaskier’s voice is croaky. Geralt shushes him. For all that he’s awake now, he’s still clearly not in a place to be having a conversation. Geralt will just have to wait longer. With Jaskier still pressed against him, safe and warm, Geralt finds he’s feeling quite patient. “I-” Jaskier tries again, but Geralt gently brushes hair from Jaskier’s face and leans in, resting his forehead against the bard’s. When he speaks, his voice is soft, a caress. 

“Sh,” he soothes, moving his hand down to rest gently against Jaskier’s face. “Just rest now. Everything else can wait.”

Jaskier swallows around the knot suddenly in his throat. The witcher’s patience in light of everything Jaskier’s done is enough to make him tear up. He feels unworthy of this sort of tenderness when he’s now given Geralt the runaround, seduced him, lost his shit, run away, and now required rescue. He can’t even give Geralt what he wants. Jaskier swallows hard, and his breath stutters under the weight of everything between them, everything that’s gone rotten, pressed deep inside. 

“It can’t wait,” Jaskier insists, shaking his head even as he can feel exhaustion trying to pull him back under. “What you wanted, Geralt-I couldn’t…” He can’t say it. His brain won’t give him the words. Geralt sits up and looks directly at Jaskier, who has the horrible sense of dread that comes before someone witnesses a cart crash, a growing trepidation of impending doom, a-

“I want you,” Geralt says, even and honest and delivered as if he didn’t just crack Jaskier’s world. “I want you in whatever way I can have you.” Jaskier bites his lip, inhales. He can’t let Geralt have him, is the issue, as proven by his fleeing mid-fuck. 

“But I can't,” Jaskier tells him, his voice wavering under the fear that this is when he’ll be left again. And this time he’ll have to watch Geralt walk away. “It can’t just be sex and banter. You know me, Geralt. And I’m sorry, I tried, I just-” He’s cut off when Geralt rests his hand so, so gently over Jaskier’s lips. The witcher looks sad, but he also looks so fond it makes Jaskier’s chest ache. 

“I do know you,” Geralt confirms. “For all that you hop beds more than a flea-”

“Hey,” Jaskier objects weakly, muffled from behind the hand Geralt still has over his mouth. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take someone for the night without also having to hear you wax poetic about your love for them.” Geralt removes his hand and moves it upwards, stroking gently over Jaskier’s hair before sinking his fingers into the strands, massaging at Jaskier’s scalp. The bard, entirely against his will, shuts his eyes, savoring the touch, goosebumps of enjoyment springing up across his skin.

“But you…” Jaskier tries again, but the combination of exhaustion and Geralt’s gentle touch is a powerful sedative, dragging him rapidly down. 

“Now isn’t the time to talk,” Geralt tells him. “You need rest. We can talk afterwards, and Jaskier?” The bard peeks open one eye, barely managing it. Geralt has a wry little half-smile softening his face. “Please, no more running away.”

“We’ll see,” Jaskier murmurs, his head tipping to press against the pillow without him deciding to do it. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and the exasperation when the witcher says his name is so familiar it feels like an embrace. Jaskier smiles, slightly. 

“Okay,” he agrees. “No running.”

He fades, then, falling into sleep once more, surrounded by the security of Geralt. If Geralt is going to send him away, Jaskier decides he should savor this. He sighs, deeply, and drifts off. 

When he wakes again, it’s mid-morning, to judge from the sun slanting in through the window. He’s confused, for a moment, at finding himself not in his bed. He then registers that there’s warmth behind him, a heavy arm across his waist. He freezes when he looks at it. 

He knows that arm. 

He sits up so fast his head spins, and he feels familiar hands steadying him as he sways. 

“Easy,” Geralt’s voice is calm. “Just take a moment.”

“Why aren’t you mad?” Jaskier says. There are better lead-ins at his disposal, but he needs to know sooner rather than later if he’s going to need to make himself scarce. He opens his eyes, and finds Geralt frowning but clearly not angry. 

“At you for running away? Trust me, Yen is plenty mad for everyone.” Geralt’s tone is light, but Jaskier winces. Oh, the witch is going to skin him. For now, however, he has other concerns. 

“At what…happened before,” Jaskier hedges. 

“I was confused, Jask, and I still am, but I would never be mad at you for that.” Geralt’s voice holds no hint of a lie, but Jaskier still can’t quite believe him. 

“I led you on, lost my shit, and left you with blueballs. You’d be entitled to a bit of grouching,” Jaskier says bluntly. 

“If you didn’t want it, Jaskier, I’m glad you stopped me.” Geralt pauses, considers. “I still don’t know why you started it in the first place if you didn’t really want to. Or why you didn’t talk to me, at least, when you no longer wanted it.”

“Words aren’t exactly where you shine,” Jaskier says, and then immediately grimaces. He’s supposed to be apologizing here. 

“They aren’t,” Geralt agrees easily, unoffended. “But you also haven’t been using them very much with me recently.” A pause. “Will you tell me why that is, please? And not try to make a break for it, preferably?” 

Jaskier wants to escape, still. He doesn’t see how talking about this is going to help, but his legs also feel like a newborn deer's, so he doesn’t think his chances of success are very high. 

“I thought it would be easier to go back to what we were if we just didn’t talk about anything else.”

“Why?” Geralt’s tone is neutral, but Jaskier gives him a nervous glance. He tries to think of a way to phase what he wants to say without sounding like an accusation. 

“Because you didn’t apologize,” he says at last. He’s spent enough time evading. Maybe it’s time he faces it head-on. “In the jail cell, or-or, later. You didn’t apologize, not really, not until I backed you into it, and even then…” He shrugs, trailing off. “It didn’t seem to matter as much to you, what happened on the mountain. Not as much as it did to me. What was the point in talking after that, when you weren’t going to say what I wanted to hear anyway? And it’s not like you seemed to care much about how I was doing then, either.” The last bit comes out snippy, but there’s no taking it back once it’s out. Jaskier feels twitchy as Geralt stares at him when he’s done. 

Geralt studies him for a long moment before he speaks. 

“You’ve always filled in words for me,” Geralt says slowly. Words aren’t easy for him, and he needs to be careful to pick the right ones now. “I’ve never had to search for the right ones when I speak to you because you understand them even without me saying them.” 

“I have made a careful study of your silences over the years. We could probably do a puppet act at this point.” Jaskier’s joke is weak, very clearly trying to deflect from the conversation. Geralt refuses to be lured away. This is too important. 

“I got lazy with you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier looks at him then, surprised. “And that wasn’t fair. I should have tried. You deserved to have me try.” Geralt extends his hand to the one Rience burned and waits, palm upwards, until Jaskier slowly places it in Geralt’s hold. “You deserved, too, for me to make sure you were alright, not for me to expect that you would be fine as you always are. I thought you would tell me, but I should have asked. I’ll remember that,” Geralt promises, stroking his thumb lightly against Jaskier’s fingers. 

“I think this is the most consecutive words I’ve ever heard from you,” Jaskier says, his voice tight. 

“I still have more,” Geralt tells him, gently squeezing Jaskier’s hand before releasing it. “I’m sorry, Jaskier, for the pain I’ve caused you, on that mountain and afterwards. You don’t owe me your forgiveness, but I apologize, nonetheless. You deserved more than I gave you.” Jaskier inhales, shakily, before he responds. 

“I forgive you,” he says. “And I’m sorry, too, for avoiding you.” His face twists wryly. “And then not avoiding you in the worst sort of way. I was…afraid.” Geralt remains quiet, and that familiar patience gives Jaskier the courage to continue. “I thought I could only go back to what we were if I gave up on everything that’s happened since then. If I gave up hope of anything being resolved, I thought it would be easier…” he stops, looks away. He could stop here. He could stop while they’ve made peace. They could be friends once more without Jaskier ever having to say more of how he feels. He thinks back to being beneath the water, to how much he wanted to say when he thought he’d never get the chance to. He has to admit it, he realizes. He needs to say it, to put it out there. He doesn’t want to face death again whenever it comes for him and still have kept these feelings inside. “I thought it would be easier to make peace with having less if I gave up hope of having more.” Geralt tilts his head, and his confused puppy expression makes Jaskier almost want to smile, even as his stomach swirls anxiously. 

“Why would you need to give up hope of having more?”

“Because…I need more than sex,” Jaskier says, his voice almost a whisper. Geralt looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head. 

“When did I ever say I just wanted sex?” This time it’s Jaskier’s turn to look puzzled. 

“But…what you said, about wanting more and trying, and then you kissed me, and then you were suddenly so touchy! And with Ciri along, you won’t be able to hire partners anymore…” Jaskier grows more unsure while he speaks as Geralt’s face grows more perplexed. Jaskier has the building suspicion that there was a flaw in his logic somewhere. Geralt takes a deep breath and then shifts, cupping Jaskier’s face between his hands and looking him directly in the eye. Jaskier, stunned by the contact and the intensity of Geralt’s gaze, can do nothing but blink back, surprised. 

“Apparently you’ve been hard at work creating a story in your head, and like always, you’ve taken some liberties.” Jaskier clicks his tongue, offended, but the slight is softened by the feel of Geralt’s thumb brushing gently across his cheekbone, those beautiful gold eyes soft and fond, even as Jaskier reads a hint of exasperation in Geralt’s face. “I need you to listen, and pay attention. Can you do that?” Jaskier nods as best he can with his head still captured. “I was afraid to love you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier stops breathing for a moment. “At first, I thought you would leave. I’ve never had someone who stays, and I thought you would be the same. That you would get your stories and your fame and then you would leave. I thought, if I didn’t care for you, then it would be easy to watch you leave.” Jaskier swallows. 

“I would never choose to leave you,” Jaskier says, and Geralt gives him a pointed look. Jaskier flushes slightly. “Recent events should be disregarded as outliers.”

“It had better stay an outlier,” Geralt says firmly before he continues. “After that, after I knew you should stay, I was afraid that I would lose you some other way. There’s a…story, we’re told, when we’re young, about a witcher who fell in love with a human. Her village killed her, burned her cottage to the ground, for loving a monster, for choosing a witcher.” Geralt pauses, inhales, clearly fighting through emotion. “You’re so fragile, Jaskier. I don’t think you know that,” Geralt's expression turns chiding briefly, “but you are. You stole a part of me, a part of my heart, and I was afraid that if I let you have more, I’d have nothing left if someone took you from me, if someone killed you for loving me.” He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Jaskier’s, clearly shaken from even thinking about it. He pulls back after a moment. 

“I still loved you though,” Jaskier says. He pauses, thinking of what he wanted to say when he was beneath that ice. Fuck it. “I love you. I have loved you since I was a charming, enchanting, gorgeous 18-year-old–stop making that face, you're ruining it!–since I was 18.” He smiles then, tilting his cheek into Geralt’s palm more fully as he brings his own hand up to caress Geralt’s face in return. “You are the best choice I’ve ever made. I would do it all again, every bit of it, even knowing everything I do now. I would still always choose you.”

“You have horrible taste.” The comment, given as a matter of fact, makes Jaskier laugh. Geralt finally removes his hands from Jaskier’s head, and the bard grabs them, linking them together. 

“Incurably, I’m afraid.” Jaskier looks at their joined hands. He has to know. He has to ask. “And you? What of your taste in partners?” Geralt tilts his head, considering, and there’s the slightest shade of mischief to his expression. 

“Hm,” he says, pretending to consider. “I like brunettes.” The words are followed with the lightest brush of lips to Jaskier’s hairline.

“Obviously.” The bard’s voice is breathy, overwhelmed.

“I like striking eyes.” A kiss to Jaskier’s cheekbone. 

“Who wouldn’t?”

“I like courage.” A kiss between Jaskier’s eyes. 

“Good, in your line of work.”

“I like intelligence.” A kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. 

“Excellent for a conversation.”

“I like kindness.” A kiss beside Jaskier’s mouth. 

“A warm heart is indeed admirable.” Jaskier closes his eyes and tilts his face, ready for a proper kiss. 

“Unfortunately, I’m not Roach’s type.” 

Jaskier sits up straight at once, retrieving one of his hands to punch Geralt on the arm. The witcher accepts it and then grasps the bard's wrist before he can withdraw it, keeping Jaskier pulled close. 

“You are the worst,” Jaskier tells him. Geralt smiles and reaches up to grasp Jaskier’s chin. 

“You are what pleases me,” Geralt tells him, and that tears it. Jaskier leans in, pressing his lips to Geralt’s for a long moment before pulling away. 

“I would like that in writing,” Jaskier says. Geralt snorts. 

“Whatever you want.” 

“Oh, I like that. Say it again!” Geralt rolls his eyes at the order but complies. 

“Whatever you want, Jaskier. Whatever I can give you is yours.” 

“And what if I want you?” Jaskier challenges. 

“I’m already yours,” Geralt promises, and Jasier has to give him another kiss for that. He simply has to. 

“For more than sex?” Jaskier says. Geralt gives him a look. “What? Too soon to joke?”

“Yes.”

“But, to be clear, to have it out in the open before I have time to mindfuck it all again: you want more of us, and more than just sex?”

“I want you, Jaskier. For anything and everything.”

“Well, that’s alright, then.” He kisses Geralt’s cheek. “Now, will you get me something to write with, please?” 

“For what?”

“For writing down all of these lovely words, Geralt!” The witcher shakes his head and instead pulls Jaskier to him, leaning back against the pillows and bringing the bard closer. “What?" Jaskier persists. "It’s not like you’re one for sweet words. I need to record what I’ve gotten while they’re fresh,” Jaskier says, nudging Geralt with his elbow but not resisting being held. They’re quiet after that, simply existing together with an ease borne of two decades of practice. 

“I said your eyes look like the ocean,” Geralt says after the quiet stretches long enough that Jaskier thought the conversation was over. The bard blinks at him. 

“What?” Geralt looks at Jaskier briefly at the question and then away, and the witcher's head is ducked slightly in the way that Jaskier knows means he’d be blushing if he was capable of it. 

“When I first found Ciri, I told her stories when she couldn’t sleep. Most of them were about you. Eventually she asked me to describe what you looked like. Among the rest, I said your eyes looked like the ocean, deep and blue and shifting with the light.” Geralt huffs a laugh. “It’s one of the things I’ve bribed her into not telling anyone.” Well that’s. So much. Still…

“But she…already knew what I looked like,” Jaskier says carefully. “I went back to Cintra later without you. More than once, in fact.” Geralt turns to him fully, his brows furrowed. Jaskier shrugs. “What? The pay was good, and I was nosy. Figured she should at least know one of us in case you ever did claim her. We weren’t the very best of friends, but we still spoke occasionally when I visited. Did she not tell you?”

“No,” Geralt says, looking away, frowning. He thinks back to the other things Ciri has been handsomely rewarded to keep to herself. How Geralt finds Jaskier’s voice soothing, how Geralt can’t stand to listen to other lutists because they can’t measure up to his bard, how he likes Jaskier’s clothing, if only for how easy the bright colors make it to keep an eye on him in crowds. Looking through for a connecting thread, Geralt begins to see the pattern: Ciri picking at stories and details until she manages to get Geralt to confess something he regrets immediately afterwards, followed by Ciri’s pleased little smile when she can negotiate with her new leverage. “She conned me,” he says, realizing. Jaskier laughs. 

“Ah, that girl. She makes me prouder every day.”

Geralt laughs, once, and then pulls Jaskier in against his chest again, settling him close. The bard goes easily, curling against Geralt like it’s second nature. Exhaustion still weighs at him, growing heavier now that he’s warm and cuddled up against a witcher who feels like a furnace. A nap beckons to Jaskier with an invitation the bard simply can’t resist, and he closes his eyes, wiggling slightly until he’s settled, head pressed against Geralt’s shoulder. 

There will be more conversations to be had, Jaskier knows. There will be fights and squabbles and wrestling over who gets the last honeycake at breakfast, but now, Jaskier thinks, there will also be kisses and held hands and singing horrifically romantic love ballads just to see his witcher squirm. Jaskier smiles. 

He has time and chances and possibilities now, and most importantly, he has Geralt.