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Jaskier and Geralt share a bed now.
They do nothing more than sleep, the rift between them still too raw for even Jaskier to pick at the threads of old desire for now, but it’s a comfort. It’s also nice, Jaskier finds, to curl close to someone without expectation of more needing to happen. He just wishes his fucking nightmares would stop wrecking his bliss.
He jerks awake tonight with a cry on his lips and the certainty that he’ll wake up to find himself still in the chair. Still tied. Still burning. Movement to his right makes him strike out instinctively, and he makes a choked howl of pain when his hand connects with the blow. He jerks it back curls around it, trying to breathe. Geralt’s balm and care have helped, but punching witchers is certainly still off the table.
His witcher sits up.
“Jaskier?” He says, and a distant part of the bard’s mind notes with envy that he doesn’t sound remotely groggy even though Jaskier knows he was just asleep.
“Fine,” Jaskier hisses between his teeth, panting softly and waiting for the throbbing to stop. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
“Not likely,” Geralt answers and gets out of bed.
“Please don’t leave!” He says, desperate and pathetic and still shaking from his nightmare. “I’m sorry, I’ll-just give me. Give me a moment. ” Geralt stops and returns to the bed, kneeling on the mattress with one knee to reach across and rest his hand on Jaskier’s face.
“Not leaving,” he tells him, voice low and soothing. “Getting more salve.” Jaskier feels his face heat. Fucking obviously. He’s being clingy. He’s being pathetic. He’s- “Stop thinking,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier looks up. “I can hear you thinking too hard.” Geralt knocks his knuckles lightly on Jaskier’s head with a small smile before he gets up again and retrieves the salve and some more bandages.
They both know this routine by now, and Jaskier grits his teeth, preparing himself. Geralt gently picks at the wrappings until they’re loose, and Jaskier tries not to jump out of his fucking skin every single time Geralt applies even a small amount of pressure to move Jaskier’s hand how he needs it. Geralt’s jaw tightens in response to the anxiety he picks up off of Jaskier that he’s helpless to fix, and Jaskier gets tenser and more anxious that this will be the time it’s too much, and Geralt will finally change his mind after all.
They’re already a miserable feedback loop of unhappy tension by the time Geralt smooths the salve on. He’s gentle as he works, but fresh off of the nightmare, Jaskier’s patience is worn too far. The balm is spread too thin on one section, making Geralt’s fingers lose their smooth glide, and the friction snaps Jaskier’s patience. He snatches his hand back and hops off of the bed in one smooth motion. He wants to run, to hide, from the fear within him as much as what he fears Geralt is thinking, but he’s also wearing nightclothes and is incapable of putting on more with the salve on his hand, uncovered.
He compromises by pacing at the farthest wall of the room as he attempts to calm down. Geralt watches him with sad, worried eyes, and it agitates him further. He’s pacing like a wild thing, he knows, but if he sits still he’ll scream so this is the best he can do.
“You can leave,” he tells Geralt, not looking. He means it to be a gesture of kindness. A way out for a man with a history of being afraid of feelings.
“Do you want me to leave?” Geralt asks, voice even. Jaskier considers as he turns once more to pace back the other direction. He could lie. He should lie. He should free Geralt from having to put up with this. With this broken wretch Jaskier has turned into.
“No,” he answers instead. From the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt nod and settle back. If there’s one thing Geralt has in spades, it’s patience. He can wait out Jaskier’s emotions. There’s very little he wouldn’t do to help Jaskier.
He watches the bard pace and hears him muttering under his breath, but it’s too low even for Geralt’s sensitive hearing without straining, and Jaskier clearly doesn’t want him to hear. He waits until Jaskier’s agitation has faded, the bard’s steps slowing. He still doesn’t return to the bed. Geralt can read the shame written plainly, Jaskier’s embarrassment at his outburst as if he has to justify or apologize for his emotions. Geralt wants to tell him that there’s nothing to be sorry for. That Geralt has put up with far worse for far less than the joy of having Jaskier at his side.
The bard wears himself out eventually and returns. He’s skittish, and Geralt knows it would be easy to set him off again.
“May I?” He asks, gesturing to the salve. Jaskier extends his hand and Geralt cups it gently in his once more. They both pretend it isn’t shaking hard enough to make Geralt’s tremble slightly as well from the contact. Geralt is even more careful this time, scooping up more of the balm to be sure that the glide will be smooth. The rest of the tending goes by blessedly without issue, and Geralt deftly wraps the hand with no small amount of relief at being done with the task for now.
Jaskier removes his hand once more the second Geralt’s done and looks away. Geralt can read the urge to flee clearly and responds by laying back down. The motion catches the bard’s eye and makes him turn towards the witcher. Geralt extends his arm in an offering, and Jaskier studies his face intently before he accepts, laying down and shifting until he’s achieved a comfortable position. He moves his arm slowly to rest it over Geralt’s stomach, and the witcher resists the urge to cover it with his hand on impulse.
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers at last. Geralt shifts so he can look at him. “I’m sorry I’m…like this, now.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
“So you’ve said.” Jaskier pauses. “I’m still sorry.” Geralt wishes he knew the right words to respond to that, but he doesn’t. Words have never been his gift. Instead he leans his head in enough to press his lips to Jaskier’s forehead. He hopes the physical affection will bridge the gaps where speaking fails him.
Jaskier drops off eventually and thankfully remains free of nightmares. Geralt lies awake until the early morning, thinking hard.
He’s tried to be as patient as possible with Jaskier, but the injury is still an ever-present issue, deep enough that Geralt fears it will cause permanent damage if Yen doesn’t take a proper look at it, and it only serves to feed into issues with Jaskier's hands being touched. It’s a stumbling block to Jaskier recovering, and Geralt’s tried to be patient about taking care of it. Perhaps, though, it’s time he tried pushing the issue.
“Will you let Yen try to heal it?” Geralt asks softly the next morning, touching a gentle finger to the back of Jaskier’s right hand where it rests against him to indicate what he means. Jaskier is groggy in the morning, his thoughts disjointed, and Geralt needs him to understand. Even this contact is too much, however, and Jaskier withdraws his hand, face burning with shame immediately. He hates this. He hates this weakness, this inability to touch when it’s always been so easy for him. He’s never been repulsed or afraid of touch before. Now he’s primed to fly across the room like a cat if someone so much as brushes his damn hand.
“I don’t know…if I…can.” Geralt makes a noise in response but doesn’t move or speak. He knows Jaskier. If he gives him enough space, the bard will fill it with words. “I can’t even let someone touch my hands. How can I let her hold it and use her magic on it?” The very thought of it sends a tremble through him.
“What if,” Geralt begins before stopping. He’s clearly thinking about something very hard. “What if we…practiced?” He manages, although the slight way his face is scrunched when Jaskier looks up tells him the witcher still isn’t happy with his word choice.
“Practiced?” Jaskier prompts, taking pity on him, giving him an opening to elaborate.
“People touching your hands now makes you startle. It’s like when a horse first trains with a saddle.” Jaskier snorts a laugh. He can’t help it. Trust Geralt to compare Jaskier’s trauma to something with horses. The sound of amusement makes Geralt’s face soften slightly. “It takes time to get used to it. What if we did the same? Maybe if you get used to having your hands touched again, it would make it easier for you. So Yen could heal you.”
Jaskier thinks about it. The idea of choosing to let someone touch his hands, even Geralt, who he trusts to the very core of his soul, makes his chest feel tight with panic, and he fights not to let his breath get faster. But. Well.
He wants to hold Geralt’s hand. He wants that affection, that physicality. He wants it so much it hurts because he can’t have it, not the way he is now. He didn’t give anything away during that fucker’s torture, but he had something stolen from him all the same.
He wants it back.
“Okay,” he says at last and rolls away from Geralt onto his back. He raises his left hand and waits for Geralt to take it.
“Now?” Geralt looks surprised. “Are you sure?”
“No time like the present,” Jaskier says, trying for cheerful and landing on only mildly nervous. He’ll take it. Geralt looks at him for a long moment before he lays back down, raising his hand next to Jaskier’s. He waits, then, for Jaskier to choose when to take hold. It’s a consideration that makes Jaskier melt inside, warmth fighting with the cold tension clenching his stomach.
He takes Geralt’s hand in his, and the witcher closes his fingers, holding it.
The panic sets in immediately. He had thought that looking away would spare him from being embarrassed as much as possible, but he can’t decide if not seeing Geralt is helping or not. His eyes are clenched shut now anyways, so he doesn’t know that it would do much of anything even if we was facing the witcher, but the sensation of a firm hold on his hand makes him shoot right back to that chair. To Rience’s cruel, implacable hold. To that fire, that pain, that fear that it wouldn’t stop. That Jaskier would never escape.
He senses motion next to him and realizes distantly that Geralt has shifted closer, turning towards him. Jaskier can feel the heat coming off of his body, and he can’t decide if the sensation makes things better or worse.
“You’re alright, Jask,” Geralt says, speaking against the bard’s temple before he presses a kiss to the soft skin there. “It’s you and me. You’re safe.”
Jaskier nods jerkily, but he still shakes like a leaf in a storm. He knows, rationally, that he’s safe. He fucking knows it. He’s in a keep full of witchers trained to battle all sort of spooky scary things. He’s in a room with a witcher who would never let anything get to him. He’s down the hall from a powerful sorceress who could blast any man or beast off the face of the earth. There’s quite literally nowhere in the world that he could be safer. Jaskier knows this. He knows it. He still can’t stop the fear.
Geralt can feel Jaskier’s muscles tense while he shakes and knows that the other man desperately wants to yank his hand back from the gentle hold the witcher has on it. The bard lasts another few minutes before he finally yanks his hand free, Geralt letting go easily. Jaskier rolls away immediately, his hands clutched to his chest as he shivers.
Geralt aches to hold him, but Jaskier’s needs come above Geralt’s wants. He will wait for Jaskier to decide when he can be touched again.
The bard’s shudders, at last, begin to taper off, and he rolls to his back once more. He moves his eyes to look at Geralt without moving his head, and the witcher opens his arms, inviting him to nestle close. Jaskier does, albeit it haltingly, tucking himself tightly against the witcher like a second skin. He trembles, still, and Geralt can smell the residual fear, but they both fade as he calms, pressed tight against Geralt.
“You’ll get there,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier nods. He’ll get there. He will. He will get himself there.
The repeat the exercise in the coming days. They stop doing it in the morning because it leaves Jaskier too wound up and edgy, but they try to manage some practice two or three times later on in the day.
Geralt lets Jaskier choose when he wants to try. He wants this to be Jaskier's decision as much as possible, and Geralt's also not sure he could pressure Jaskier into doing something that leaves him so distressed, even as Geralt knows it’s necessary. It’s a relief that Jaskier is so determined, then.
After a few days, Jaskier decides he’s ready to let Yennefer try her magic. He can hold Geralt’s hand for a few minutes now before the panic makes him shake and his breath come short. It’s a small enough achievement, but it should be enough. He hopes it’s enough.
As his hand has healed from Geralt’s diligent efforts, Jaskier has realized the true extent of the damage. His hand is always cold to the touch these days because of the damage to the circulation, and his fingertips turn blue occasionally, something that alarmed him and Geralt both the first time they noticed it. The skin has also gotten tighter as it’s healed, shiny and taut. The balm helps with some of it, keeping the skin moisturized, but it still limits Jaskier’s mobility more by the day. Waiting will only make it all worse. He needs it fixed.
They settle on doing it in a spare room in the keep. Geralt had wanted to give Jaskier the comfort of having it done in his, but Yennefer had pointed out that this would give him nowhere to retreat to if it went badly. Jaskier, for his part, is just relieved that they’re well out of the way of any other occupants of Kaer Morhen. For all of his practice with Geralt, he has no idea how he’s going to react. He’d like to have as small a potential audience as possible.
They settle on the bed, Jaskier and Geralt at the head of the mattress they freed from its dust cover, Yennefer perching by Jaskier’s legs midway down. Geralt offers his hand with no expectation of it being taken, a simple extension of comfort that Jaskier is free to take or leave. Jaskier takes it. His heart rate increases at first, but Geralt remains still, allowing Jaskier to grasp it without grasping back.
Yennefer waits for a nod from him to take his hand in both of hers, and Jaskier realizes there’s a new angle to this he hadn’t considered. He’s used enough, now, to one hand being held. Having both hands restrained, no matter how gently, is simultaneously and horrendously new and familiar, and he can feel his breath becoming strained already. Still, he wants it done. He wants this healed. He wants this over. There are no ropes, he tells himself. There are people with you. People you can trust. There are no ropes.
Jaskier’s teeth are clenched so tightly they ache already, and he knows his hold on Geralt’s hand is far too tight for all of the witcher’s stoic silence on the matter. If Geralt were anyone else, Jaskier suspects he would have broken something by now with the strength of his panicked grip. The witcher, to his credit, says nothing and remains totally still, his hand solid and unmoving, his grip loose enough that Jaskier can pull away the second he wants to.
“It’s alright, bard,” Yennefer says, her eyes closed, her brows furrowed in concentration, attempting to push past the building fear she can feel coming off of him in waves so she can focus on her task. The words are sweet, if absent-minded. Jaskier opens his mouth to pick a fight with her as a distraction, but the flare of chaos moving through his skin makes his mind go blank with terror. There isn’t pain, it isn’t pain, but it could so very easily become pain, and the thought reverberates in Jaskier’s head until he’s moaning, a low, terrified sound. His nerve breaks. He jerks away. He can’t help it. He snatches his hand back, baring his teeth in an almost animalistic display when she tries for a moment to restrain him.
He launches himself up from the bed, dodging the hands that reach for him, and bolts for the exit. His hand flares with horrific pain as he fumbles with the latch of the door, scraping the raw flesh against the metal as he fights to escape, terror making his fingers clumsy. The pain adds to his fear like alcohol poured on a fire, and he’s lightheaded, his breath coming in short pants. He has no clear direction or plan. He just knows that he wants out and he wants it now .
A moment later, he’s got the door open and is off.
Geralt moves to follow, his heart beating a pulse of protect protect protect, agitated by scent of terror and Jaskier’s pounding heart. The fact that there’s nothing to protect Jaskier from does nothing to fade the urge, written deep into his very marrow as it is. Yen shoots a hand out to grasp his wrist, and he tugs her completely off the bed with his momentum before it fully registers. She scowls at him from her new position on the floor until he extends a hand to help her up.
“Let him run, Geralt.” Geralt opens his mouth to protest. He can’t leave Jaskier alone like this. “Let him calm down. Hearing someone chasing him right now would only make things worse.”
Her logic is solid. Geralt still doesn’t like it. Yennefer reads the displeasure in his face and half smiles, cocking her head slightly.
“You’ve certainly turned a new leaf,” she says. “From driving him off to chasing him. Such progress.”
“He…deserves it. To have someone follow him.” Geralt says. He’s embarrassed to talk about what he feels with and for Jaskier, still, and he’s unsure about how to express his realizations, especially to Yen, who has fallen so naturally into whatever it is she has with the bard now. Unexpectedly, the statement makes the sorceress narrow her eyes.
“You can’t play with him, Geralt. Not anymore. You broke him too much for that.” Geralt resists the urge to snarl, provoked at the thought of hurting Jaskier again. She’s right, and Geralt knows it. He resents, however, that she’d feel the need to say it.
“I’ve never played with him , Yen.” The growl in his words does nothing to lessen the hardness in her eyes. She steps further into his space.
“He followed you for decades, Geralt. Decades. And did you ever even call him your friend? To anyone, but especially to him?” Geralt’s silence is damning. “That’s what I thought. He loves you, you know.” The words, said so casually, as if they’re simply a fact and not a miracle, send a mixture of joy and terror through Geralt. “Gods only know why. Horrible judge of character, that bard.” She doesn’t even try to hide the affection in her voice as she fixes Geralt with a direct, challenging stare. “He’s offered you his heart for decades. If you accept it now, you can’t put it back. Don’t take what you don’t intend to keep.” Geralt regards her for a moment.
“And you?” He has to know. “Do you accept what he’s offered you?” He’s not quite bold enough to ask what Jaskier has offered her, but he knows there’s something rather like the start of love between them these days. He hasn’t fully decided how he feels about that yet. Yennefer smiles as she pushes past him to the door.
“Obviously. I am not fool enough to reject a gift when it’s offered.”
With that, she leaves him to mull over her words, her warning. Let him stew for a while. Geralt is well-suited to broody stoicism. It seems to be his most natural state, frankly. Yennefer, however, is a woman of action: she has a bard to find.
It isn’t hard, in the end. She’s no trained tracker, but stealth had clearly been nowhere on the bard’s mind in his flight. There’s a small trail of destruction in his wake, overturned chairs too close to his path and books and trinkets shoved away by a hand reaching for balance on sharp turns. It’s the work of ten minutes to follow his trajectory up to a turret with its door flung open, where it still swings, banging slightly against the wall when the wind hits it. She pokes her head through the opening and sees the bard at once, huddled on the floor by the wall right by the door.
He’s a pathetic sight, it has to be said. His long limbs are curled up tightly, his head pressed to his knees. He doesn’t look up, but the tone of his voice tells her he knows who it is when he speaks.
“That went well.” Yennefer makes a neutral noise in response, crouching beside him. He turns his head slightly, one strikingly blue eye peeking out at her from beneath his fringe. She makes her motions slow and clear as she reaches out, giving him time to pull away or stop her if he wishes. He nods slightly at her, and she takes the permission to rest a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. She frowns when she feels how chilled he is already.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go to your room,” she informs him. “It’s fucking freezing out here. Terrible sulking location.”
“I’m not sulking,” he tells her. “And it’s a beautiful view from here. Just look.” He gestures to the wall in front of him, the only view he has while sitting down. Color rises to his cheeks. “I, uh. Couldn’t actually find…my room. This fucking keep is a maze, and I wasn’t in a great headspace for navigation to begin with.”
“Well then, budge up,” she tells him, pushing at him lightly to get herself between him and the wall, her legs stretched out on either side of his hips. She tosses the edges of her cloak forward, her face pressed tightly to his back when she reaches her arms around him. It makes him huff a laugh, turning slightly to look at her over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re cold, but you don’t look to be in a moving mood, and I certainly can’t carry your heavy ass.” He tries for a scowl he almost manages.
“My ass is not heavy. It’s perfect like the rest of my lovely self.” She snorts.
“If you say so.” The bickering has relaxed him slightly from his painful-looking compression, and she attempts to tug him looser. He allows it after a brief moment of resistance, and she guides him to lay back against her, his head on her shoulder and the cool skin of his forehead pressed to her neck. His breath tickles slightly where it blows over her collarbone with each exhale. She continues to maneuver him while he grumbles mildly until his legs are tossed over one of hers, and she can get her cloak mostly around him. His feet still stick out, but that’s alright, she figures. It’s what he gets for having long legs. Serves him right.
“I’m fucked, Yen,” he tells her after a while. The pain in his voice and his rare use of the diminutive of her name makes her feel disgustingly sorry for him. Unacceptable.
“I don’t know how sex usually goes for you, but I wouldn’t say we’re-” He cuts her off with a light slap to the arm she has across his chest. She accepts the blow without retribution and lowers her head to press her cheek to the top of his head.
“I’m fucked,” he says again, sounding slightly strangled. “Can’t do anything with my hand like this, can’t let you fix it so I can be useful again.” He barks a laugh that sounds more like a sob.
“You’re more than your utility to others,” she tells him. It’s something she wishes someone would tell her, so she imagines he’ll like hearing it. It also happens to be true, which is a bonus. “And as I’ve said before, and as I’ll tell you again until it sinks into that thick head of yours, you will come back from this.”
“I still can’t sleep,” he tells her. She knows this. They’ve invaded each other’s beds more than once after he’s woken her with his nightmares, sending them shooting into her head until she wakes with a heart pounding as hard as his. He’d snarled at her a bit the first time she’d tossed herself into his bed for the night, a wounded thing guarding his pain, but she’d ignored him and made herself comfortable, steadying her breathing for him to match until his feathers unruffled themselves, and he calmed enough to drop back into sleep. These occurrences have lessened in recent days as she’s regained control of her abilities and Geralt has begun sharing the bard’s bed. Still, she knows from the circles beneath his eyes and his caginess some mornings that he’s still plagued by visions of being tied in that chair, having answers demanded of him that he knows he’ll die before he gives up.
“All things end, bard. Good and bad and utterly fucked, it all ends eventually. Sometimes there’s nothing to do but wait for it to happen.”
“I hate waiting.” There’s the slightest hint of a whine to his voice, his impatience with his own perceived weaknesses.
“We could try something, if you’re so keen to take action.” He makes an inquiring noise but remains where he is against her. “You need to fix your hand,” she tells him and feels the shift of his body as his muscles tense again. “What if we tried axii?”
“Axii?” He repeats, testy already. He raises his head from its place against her to look at her directly. They’ve had this discussion before, late at night when he’d woken with a flail that had earned her an elbow to the nose, and her already negligible patience had snapped.
“You can’t stay calm on your own, that’s clear enough.” She sees a muscle tick in his jaw.
“And you think I’ll be calmer with someone else taking control of my mind? Puppeteering me?” That had been his argument before as well.
“It’s Geralt,” she tells him. They’d had their discussion about axii before the bard and the witcher had had their little reconciliation. She’s hoping it changes things enough that he’ll be amenable now where he had been hotly dismissive before. “Do you think he’d ever do anything to hurt you?” She winces and corrects herself before he can, anticipating an oncoming scoff. They’ve begun moving past the mountain, but some scars still ache when pressed. “Do you think he’d do anything to hurt you with axii?” She lets out a whumph of air when he drops himself back against her with little care to be gentle, taking a deep breath. She contemplates pinching him for it but decides to grant him some clemency while he thinks.
“It’s pathetic,” Jaskier says, voice quiet with shame, almost a whisper. “ I’m pathetic. He already has to help train me to hold hands like a fucking horse taking a bridle. ‘Hey Geralt, on top of that, can you just use some witcher magic while our dear friend Yennefer does something as simple as fixing my fucking hand because I can’t keep my shit together? Y’know, if you’re not too busy handling actual problems.’ Sounds great. Where is he? Let’s go tell him the new plan right away.” His voice is bitter enough that Yennefer can’t help but shake him slightly.
“He doesn’t pity you, bard. He worries about you. There’s a difference.”
“He shouldn’t. I don’t want him to worry.”
“Between you and me, I don’t think he’ll ever be able to help it. We always worry about people we love. It’s one of the worst parts of the whole thing.” Jaskier stiffens, and she’s not entirely sure why.
“Love?” He says, voice rough. Ah. Fuck. Well, she might as well continue now.
“He does love you, you know.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“Someone’s fishing for a compliment.” She feels Jaskier start to pull away and knows she needs to backtrack. She tightens her arms around him, and he exhales a frustrated little huff of air at the hindrance to his escape. There’s a small power struggle before he stops resisting as she pushes his head back against her shoulder. She knows he’s likely making his best kicked puppy face, and she’s not in the mood for a guilt trip. “He’s shit at saying how he feels, you know this.”
“Obviously. I’m the one who had to spin stories out of grunts and side eyes for decades.”
“And yet you’ve managed to miss how he feels for you entirely.” Peevish, he pokes at her ribs, and she lifts a hand to tug at his hair in reprimand. “Stop being rude when I’m confessing Geralt’s love.”
“Generous of you.”
“Someone’s got to do it, apparently, and this is probably easier than just knocking your heads together until he spits it out himself.” She releases his hair and strokes her fingers through the strands for a moment. “There’s nothing he won’t do for you, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Jaskier doesn’t respond. Yennefer waits, but he remains quiet. “If you’re going to keep brooding, can we at least move it inside? My ass is practically ice at this point.” It makes Jaskier laugh, shaky as it is, and he sits up before rising to his feet.
“Can’t have you getting a case of frostbutt,” he tells her. He hesitates briefly before extending an arm to her, and she grasps his wrist and lets him pull her up that way. She tucks her hand against his arm once she’s up and tugs him inside after her. “Thank you,” he says as they make their way down the stairs. He licks his lips nervously when they’re at the bottom, preparing to speak and pulling her to a halt. She turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s try it,” he says. “The axii-ing. If Geralt’s amenable.”
“I think there’s very little you could ask of him that he wouldn’t be amenable to.” She gives him a wicked look and laughs when she sees his ears redden, his gaze skittering away. “I’m starting to think you’re all talk and no trousers,” she tells him, tugging him back into motion. “One little joke and you’re blushing like a maiden.”
“I’ll have you know,” he begins, his tone offended, “that I am a delight between the sheets. I am experienced and generous! I am as much a master of pleasure as I am of the seven liberal arts. I am-Geralt!” He squeaks, when they turn a corner and almost run into the witcher, who has very clearly been listening to Jaskier list his qualifications as a lover to judge from the witcher’s raised eyebrows.
“You’re what?” Geralt prompts.
“I am regretting I haven’t put a bell on you, frankly.” Jaskier tells him. “Rude to sneak up on people, Geralt! Very rude! Terrible manners. Why I’ve never heard of such-”
“Ruder than proclaiming your prowess in bed loudly in a hallway?” Yennefer interrupts. Jaskier gives her a betrayed look.
“Because you’re a paragon of virtue. Give me my arm back,” he tells her, shaking out of her grip. “I don’t link arms with traitors.” Yennefer rolls her eyes but lets him go. She turns to Geralt. Better to strike while the iron is hot instead of letting the bard dance around the subject until he talks himself back out of it.
“We should try axii,” she tells him, and Jaskier immediately looks away from both of them, his face tight and unhappy.
“Axii?” Geralt says, looking between them before settling back on Yennefer.
“So I can fix his hand. Just to keep him calm enough to let me.” Geralt considers, looking back to Jaskier.
“Jask?” He prompts, trying to get the bard’s attention. The bard looks at him briefly before flicking his eyes away again.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, still not looking at the witcher or the witch.
“I don’t,” he says. “Now, or do you want to try later?”
“We should do it now,” Yennefer says before Jaskier can respond. The bard shoots her a look. “What? You’re only going to work yourself up more if we wait. Better to do it before you get the chance to mindfuck it too badly.”
“Alright,” he says at last and begins walking. Geralt and Yennefer exchange a look before they follow. They walk for around five minutes before Jaskier stops abruptly. He remains facing away, and his voice, when he speaks, is embarrassed. “Ah, could one of you? Perhaps take the lead?”
“You got lost and still led us around without admitting it?” Geralt asks. Jaskier turns to face them, moving his left hand to brush his hair back in a nervous tic.
“I haven’t been to this part of the keep,” he defends. “I thought if I just kept walking I’d get to somewhere I recognize.”
“Idiot,” Yennefer says fondly as Geralt walks ahead, giving Jaskier’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze as he passes.
Led by someone who actually knows where he’s going, Geralt gets them to Jaskier’s room in short order. Yennefer debates trying to find another room again, but apparently giving the bard the option of retreating to his room doesn’t mean anything when he won’t be able to find it in the first place.
They settle on Jaskier’s bed in the same arrangement they had before.
“Ready?” Geralt asks. He can already see a tremor beginning in the bard’s hands, but Jaskier takes a fortifying breath and nods. “Alright,” Geralt says softly, casting the sign. He sees Jaskier’s muscles untense immediately, his eyes going blank and distant. Yennefer moves to take his hand, but Jaskier flinches, the fear muted but still present. Geralt keeps his voice gentle when he gives words to the sign. “You’re safe, Jask. You’re relaxed, and you’re safe.” Jaskier obeys the command in the words, his body wobbling slightly as it relaxes even without his conscious will. Geralt moves to sit behind him, propping Jaskier against his chest to keep him upright. It has the added benefit of bringing his mouth close to the bard’s ear. He looks up briefly at Yen, nodding at her to indicate that she can try again. He feels a tremor run through Jaskier when his hand is taken once more. “You’re not afraid, Jaskier. You’re relaxed. You’re calm.”
“Calm,” Jaskier parrots drowsily. His head drops slowly to rest against Geralt.
“Good, Jask.” Geralt kisses his hairline, a quick brush of his lips before he resumes speaking. Yen looks at him and makes a motion to indicate that she’s going to begin. Geralt nods in assent. The tingle of magic in his hand makes Jaskier’s muscles jump, his body fighting against what he knows he fears even when his mind is too hazy to recognize it. “Shh,” Geralt soothes, rubbing one hand across the bard’s chest, hoping it conveys the comfort he wants it to. “You’re brave, Jaskier. You’re brave, and you’re safe. I’m here. We’re here.” Yen looks up briefly at her inclusion with the choice of words, her face surprised before she smiles slightly and returns to her work, closing her eyes as she works on repairing the damage at last. Geralt can tell from the furrow of her brow that it’s delicate work. He had expected that. He has little enough experience with magical healing, but he imagines nerves must be difficult to fix. Damage is always harder to heal than it is to inflict.
There’s apparently an increase in the intensity of magic flowing into his hand because Jaskier makes a low noise in his throat, a soft whine of discomfort. Geralt moves his hand up to the bard’s head, carding his fingers through his hair. “You’re safe here. Nothing will hurt you. You’re calm.” Geralt doesn’t want to send the bard to sleep without having asked him, but Jaskier is a heavy weight against him, his body boneless and his blinks long and slow. He remains awake because he hasn’t received an instruction to sleep, but Geralt suspects he’ll drift off once the sign is dropped.
Focused as he is on his task of keeping Jaskier calm and relaxed, he loses track of the time until Yennefer sits back. She strokes once over Jaskier’s hand, a gentle, soothing touch, before she releases him.
“Alright,” she says. She looks tired, but she smiles. “All done. I hope you’ve enjoyed the quiet. He’ll be back to twanging away at the nearest stringed noisemaker now.” It makes Geralt huff in amusement.
“Gods help us all,” he says. He turns his head towards Jaskier to give a final set of instructions before he drops the axii. “You’re safe. You’re going to stay relaxed tonight, even when I drop the sign, alright?” The question isn’t necessary because it’s a foregone conclusion that he will, but Jaskier makes a soft affirmative noise. Geralt lets the sign drop. Jaskier doesn’t stir at first, but he finally sleepily raises his right hand. He makes a loose fist and tightens it when there’s no pain. His body remains lax, but tears prick his eyes at the relief of finally being able to move it without pain.
“Thank you,” he tells Yennefer, giving her a grateful, sleepy smile. He means to say more, but his next blink keeps his eyes shut, and it takes him a moment to remember that he needs to open them again. He hears Yennefer laugh softly before she speaks, but Jaskier is pretty sure she's not talking to him. He’ll let Geralt handle it.
“Are you staying with him tonight?” Yennefer says, and Jaskier feels a vibration against him when Geralt hums. Good. She is speaking to Geralt. Jaskier can keep drifting. He was going to anyway, but it’s nice to know it won’t be a problem. He feels Geralt lay back, and he goes with him. His limbs are too heavy to do anything else, and Geralt probably knows what he’s doing.
He’s pleased when he finds himself horizontal after a bit of shifting and settling. He knew Geralt knew what he was doing. Such a smart witcher, his White Wolf. He feels a soft hand brush against his hair from an angle that is probably not Geralt, and he blinks his eyes open to see Yennefer leaning over. She smiles at him slightly.
“Goodnight, pest.” She tells him. He’s pretty sure pest is…not friendly? But she says it friendly. Eh, it’s fine. Not worth keeping his eyes open for.
“G’night,” he murmurs. He feels her move away and opens his eyes once more. “Yen’fer?” He calls softly. She pauses from where she’d made it to the foot of the bed.
“Yes?”
“Stay? Miss you. You’re good at…” he tries to find the word. She’s good to share a bed with, is what he wants to say, but his words are slippery and won’t stay still for him to sort them out. “Good at bedding,” he finally settles on. He thinks it’s what he means, so he doesn’t entirely understand why Geralt makes a choked sort of noise.
“You’ve got Geralt,” she points out, but she moves closer.
“Mm,” he agrees, turning his head slightly to nuzzle at the witcher before he looks back. “Want both. Wanna be…” What does he want? His words are gone again. He knows what he means, but how to ask? “Wanna be a sandwich.” He says and nods, satisfied that he’s made his point very clearly. He hears both Geralt and Yennefer laugh softly, but he also feels Yennefer’s weight on the other side of him as she finally joins them on the bed, so that’s alright. They can laugh if they want, so long as he’s a sandwich.
“Alright then, bardwich,” Yennefer says, curling against his back while he remains facing Geralt. Jaskier sighs softly, pleased. It’s nice to be a bardwich, he thinks, as he drifts off, surrounded by warmth. He should be a bardwich more often. He makes a note to tell his bed partners this important thought later. He shifts once more, mental note made and then immediately forgotten, and finally drops into sleep.
Geralt lifts his head up slightly to look at Yennefer over Jaskier’s head once the bard is well and truly asleep.
“Thank you,” he tells her, his volume low.
“Didn’t really do it for you,” she tells him, voice equally low. Geralt tilts his head in acknowledgement.
“Thank you anyway,” he says and lifts his hand from Jaskier’s back to slowly place it lightly on her waist, his elbow resting on Jaskier between them when he relaxes his arm. Yennefer stares at him for a moment, and he prepares to remove his hand, but she just smiles at him before yawning. She removes the arm she has around Jaskier’s belly to rest it atop Geralt’s arm. Her hand curls lightly around his bicep, where she squeezes gently before letting go, her hand remaining.
“You’re welcome,” she says, and then tucks her head closer to Jaskier’s, closing her eyes to join him in sleep. Geralt watches them for a while. There’s a discussion to be had, he thinks, if this is to go any further. Things to be talked out and decided.
But those things, he decides, will keep.
For now, he shuts his eyes and rests.