Work Text:
Jaskier’s coat has a hole in it.
After everything, it should be trivial. The bodies of half the remaining witchers—Geralt’s brothers, his family—are laid across the tables in the main hall. The grey stone is stained with black streaks where they fell, like the veined marble of a mausoleum floor. Beyond the doors, he can see Ciri sitting on the broken rampart, Yennefer leaning close, their heads bent together. Exhaustion and grief press close and heavy around them all.
It shouldn’t matter that his jacket has a hole in it. He’s not hurt. He’s alive, and so is Yen, and Ciri, and—and he’s fine. Compared to what everyone else has been through, no hurts or discomforts of his should even register.
But. This is his only coat. The only thing he owns, really. Geralt plucked him out of that cell and he’s only got what’s on his back: one pair of trousers, a couple of shit boots not meant for the road, one shirt with a badly patched ax hole in it, a tattered vest, and one coat with a massive tear running from the small of his back and halfway up to his right armpit, bursting the seam. He’s lucky that whatever tore the heavy leather open didn’t tear him open with it.
He makes his way back to his room that evening with heavy feet. He knows he should have stayed, probably, to help everyone clean up longer and maybe sing to lift their spirits. But he doesn’t have a lute anymore, and he’s so tired.
The room he found for himself is small, and on the outside wall of the keep. There’s a crack in the ceiling to the right of the bed, and when he looks directly up he can see three pinpricks of light against the blackness of the northern sky. The mountain chill seeps into the room insidiously; he’s only glad it isn’t snowing. Still, the moth eaten blanket he’d rustled up does little against the cold, and his thrice damned fucking coat has a fucking hole in it. He can feel the chill against his back when he curls his feet up under the blanket. He doesn’t have any socks. They’d worn out on the way to Kaer Morhen and he’d finally had to throw them out.
Gods above, it’s fucking cold.
After tossing and shivering for an hour, Jaskier finally pulls himself out of the bed with a groan, dragging the blanket with him. Maybe if he can find a lit hearth somewhere he can get warm enough to pass out. After a moment of hesitation he grabs the bottle on the nightstand. There isn’t enough left in it to knock him out—thanks for nothing, Jaskier of yesterday—but maybe it will at least warm him up. His bones ache with the cold, and his bare feet burn where they touch the icy stone.
There’s still a fire burning in the main hall, but that’s not happening. People might still be there, and the room smells like iron and ozone. He stands in the hallway for a moment, chewing his lip in thought. Maybe the lab, though he isn’t sure it would be that much warmer. Maybe he could just find another room? He wishes, for a fervent moment, that he could just go find Geralt. His fingers are stiff where they hold the thin blanket around his shoulders, and the barely healed burns along his index and middle finger ache along his joints. If he could just find Geralt and curl up next to him with the excuse of warmth, maybe this would all be alright. He knows he shouldn’t want that anymore, because Geralt left him and he’s barely apologized and Yen is back and he told himself he wouldn’t do this anymore, but—
He’s so cold.
The kitchens. There’s an idea.
He makes his way quietly through the halls, though he has no doubt that if any witchers are awake they’ll hear him moving about. The kitchens are tucked off of the main hall, far enough away that he can’t hear whether people are still moving about in there. He doesn’t want to know, entering through the old servants’ entrance in the hall instead. The kitchens of Kaer Morhen are large, as they would be in any keep, but clearly under-utilised. Several work tables line the long room, but only the one at the far end has cooking utensils left on it. Various herbs and spices hang from the ceiling, alongside dark pots and pans worn lopsided with age. On the far end of the room, the hearth emits a gentle glow that has Jaskier sighing in relief.
The fire is banked; only glowing embers remain. A small pile of wood sits next to the fireplace, and Jaskier eyes them warily. He should add a few to the embers, get a real fire going to warm himself up. But his fingers burn, and the memory of a flame licking up the side of his palm and the thick smell of his skin bubbling makes him hesitate. It’s warmer here already. Instead, he sits against the warm stone of the hearth and digs his teeth into the cork of his bottle.
The wine goes too quickly, but it does leave him feeling slightly warmer, fuzzy around the edges. The stone against his back isn’t too cold, but the floor is freezing. He tries to arrange his worthless coat underneath himself, wishing he still had his traveling gear. A bedroll would do him wonders right now. He’s still shivering a bit, and he can’t feel his toes. He should add another log to the fire, but he’s just… tired. He wants to sleep, and forget how heavy and empty he feels for a moment.
He dozes fitfully, for a time. He can’t say why he wakes, but when he does it’s with a racing pulse. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is or what woke him—a flame dancing on the tip of a finger fills his mind—and he flails. A hand catches around his wrist, and it’s so warm he shudders almost violently. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier stills.
He blinks a few times to orient himself, and finds Geralt crouched on the floor in front of him. “Geralt,” he says, adrenalin flashing through his veins and chasing away some of his exhaustion. “What’s wrong?”
“Why are you in here?” Geralt asks, eyebrows pulled low over his unsettling eyes. Jaskier’s stomach turns over nervously.
“Sorry,” he says, swallowing. “I—If you need me to leave—”
Geralt is still holding his wrist. It’s unbearably distracting, burning against his cold skin. Geralt shakes his head. “It’s fine, Jaskier. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. I was in the hall, I heard someone come in here. Thought it might be Ciri.”
Of course he didn’t come just to check on Jaskier. He forces down his disappointment with age old practice. “Of course,” he says, finally pulling his wrist from Geralt’s grasp. Geralt lets him go easily, and it hurts as much as it ever did. “Well, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Why are you in the kitchens?” Geralt asks, and eyes the empty bottle to Jaskier’s side. “Raiding the wine stores?”
“I did that yesterday. Most of it’s poison,” he grumbles. “I was cold. If you must know.” He wants to snap it, feels irritated enough, but instead it just comes out hoarse and tired. He leans his head back against the wall behind him and wishes the fire was warmer. “My room has a hole in the ceiling.”
“Most of them do,” Geralt points out. “You should wear something warmer to bed.”
Jaskier raises a hand to press his palm to the center of his forehead. “I’ll keep that in mind next time,” he says dryly. “Point me in the direction of the nearest seamstress and I’ll be sure to ask for a pair of her thickest woollen socks. In the meantime, I’m afraid I’m making do with what I’ve got.”
Geralt is quiet for a moment. Jaskier has his eyes closed, but he can feel the witcher’s heavy gaze on him. He refuses to meet it. “You should have said something.”
Now Jaskier does open his eyes, if only to glare. Geralt is soft in the low light of the flickering embers, his eyes dark honey. A cloying feeling rises in Jaskier’s chest, and he wants it to be hate but he fears it’s something else entirely. “And when was I supposed to do that?” he asks sharply. “Before or after your Child Surprise got possessed and murdered half the people who live here? Somewhere on the road between Cintra and Kaedwin? Should I have asked my jailer before we left Oxenfurt? Or maybe I should have thought to pack a bag before I was—” He stops, biting his tongue.
Geralt’s mouth twists. So beautiful, Jaskier thinks with despair, and he hates himself. He hates all of this. He hates that he’s in this stupid drafty dead keep in a coat that has a hole in it. He hates that Ciri hasn’t said more than two words to him since they met. He hates that his lute is gone, even though he couldn’t play it anyways right now with his hands as they are. He hates that Yennefer is easy to get along with, that her hands fit so nicely in his, that he can’t dislike her easily anymore. He hates that Geralt speaks in kind, soft words to Ciri and speaks so plainly to Yen, because why, why couldn’t he ever do that with Jaskier? And he hates that he’s so weak, that he’s here again after he told himself he’d never fall back into all this bullshit, because Geralt said I need your help and Jaskier is weak and wanting. He always has been.
For a moment Geralt looks like he’s going to say something, and then he stands. Jaskier feels something like relief, and also much like grief, leaving him cold and exhausted. But then a hand is thrust down into his face. Jaskier blinks at it and then looks up at Geralt. He wonders if the wine was stronger than he thought, because Geralt is looking at him expectantly and Jaskier can’t for the life of him imagine what he wants from him. He never could figure out what Geralt fucking wants. “Come on,” Geralt says, wiggling his fingers. Jaskier reaches up and takes them on automatic, his head buzzing with empty static.
Geralt’s hand is so warm, almost painfully so, and as he pulls Jaskier to his feet the burns on his fingers drag against old callouses. He hisses, and Geralt reaches for his elbow as Jaskier pulls his hand away to shake it out. “You’re hurt,” Geralt says, all soft eyes and concern. Jaskier wants to scream.
“It’s nothing,” he says, unable to stop himself from holding his injured hand to his chest. It’s not serious. It’s been weeks since the mage, even though at times Jaskier still feels like he’s back in that room, pinned down like an ant under a magnifying glass. His fingers have mostly healed. The blisters broke and scabbed over while he was in the little cell in Oxenfurt, and he was lucky they didn’t get infected. His pointer finger especially is still red and raw around the tip, the underside right where he would pluck the strings of his lute, if he had one. Yennefer has her magic back, so he might even be able to ask her to remove the tender, shiny skin so he can play easily again. He just… hasn’t had a chance to ask.
Geralt pulls his hand towards him, and Jaskier is powerless to resist him. His palm falls open, bare for Geralt’s inspection. “These are old,” Geralt says, surprised. He runs a finger across the burns, gentle. Jaskier resists a shiver.
“Two weeks,” Jaskier admits, not pulling his hand back. There’s no point. “I thought Yennefer told you.”
Geralt’s face is blank for a moment, and then shifts subtly—just a tension in his jaw, around his eyes. Jaskier doesn’t think anyone else would recognize it. Or maybe that’s not true, and he only wishes it were. “She told me you ran into trouble in Oxenfurt. With the firefucker. Damn it Jaskier.”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Jaskier says, peevishly. “Not that I had much to tell.”
“That’s not what I—” Geralt shakes his head. His shoulders are squared off as if for a fight, but he’s careful as he cradles Jaskier’s fragile fingers. “Come on,” he says again, his other hand pulling to guide Jaskier along by his elbow.
He doesn’t know where they’re going. Geralt leads him from the kitchen and down several halls, up a flight of stairs, beyond the little niche where Jaskier’s derelict room is located. He’s only been in the keep for less than seventy two hours, and it truly is a maze. The wine probably doesn’t help. By the time Geralt has led them down the third hall, Jaskier is well and truly lost.
They finally stop in front of a heavy door, which Geralt promptly pushes open. This part of the keep is in better repair; most of the sconces are lit, and a few dusty tapestries cover the stone walls to keep out the cold that seeps relentlessly from them. The room that Geralt drags him into is dark, but a moment later it springs into shape around them as Geralt twists his fingers into a quick igni. Jaskier does his best not to flinch.
The room is only barely bigger than the one Jaskier left, but it’s better outfitted. A soft fur rug covers the floor, another spread out on the four poster bed. A high wooden table sits against the back wall, the pool of melted wax around its unlit candle threatening its other occupants—loose papers, several quills, an old tome, some empty bottles. Geralt’s armor rests on a stand in the corner, his swords resting in their scabbards against the wall nearby. A tall armoire sits against the closest wall, but Jaskier can see several articles of clothing strewn carelessly about the room—a shirt on the back of the desk chair, a pair of boots next to the foot of the bed, one knocked on its side. This, Jaskier realizes suddenly, is Geralt’s room. The realization wakes him up more than anything else that has thus far transpired, chasing the last of the wine from his blood.
“What—” he starts, not even sure what he’s about to ask. Geralt doesn’t wait, pushing him to sit on the bed while he goes over to the armoire. “Geralt,” Jaskier says, almost distracted by the relief of the warm rug under his freezing toes. “What are you doing?”
Geralt doesn’t respond, only humming softly as he digs through the wardrobe. Jaskier huffs, pulling his knees up to his chest so he can dig his numb toes into the warm furs covering the bed. The room is already warming up with the fire going, and despite his curiosity he can feel himself growing drowsy. His eyes flutter shut of their own accord, only to snap open when something hits him full in the face. He splutters as it drops into his hands, and Geralt’s warm, grovely laugh fills the small space.
“What’s this?” Jaskier asks, spreading the fabric.
Geralt is already turning back to the wardrobe, pulling out a few more items. “It’s a shirt,” he says, voice still loose with amusement. “One that hasn’t been used for target practice.”
“Hilarious,” Jaskier deadpans as Geralt dumps another bundle of cloth into his lap. He tosses the pants aside in favor of the shirt, laying it out so he can start shucking his coat and vest. As he does so, he glances over the proffered loans, expecting to see worn out shirts patched from old fights. Instead he sees a neat cotton undershirt with a high collar and embroidery across the shoulders. The pattern is familiar, a floral motif—
Jaskier stops halfway out of his vest. “Hold on. Is this… mine?”
Geralt also freezes where he’s still digging through the wardrobe, holding one sock in hand like he’s been caught stealing it. He winces. “Erm. Got left behind in my things a while ago.”
“Several years ago,” Jaskier corrects. “These trousers are mine too! Why do you have these? Have you been stealing my good clothes all these years?”
Geralt turns away, head ducked low as he apparently becomes invested in his search for the other sock. “Not my fault you left them in my bags,” he mutters.
“Why do you still have them?” Jaskier wonders aloud. They would never fit Geralt, not with his broad shoulders. He strips his own shirt off, and immediately grimaces. He’d love to burn it, but he can’t afford to, unless Geralt is hiding a few more of his lost wardrobe pieces in there. He quickly changes into the new shirt, sighing in relief at the feel of clean, warm cotton against his skin. He stands to quickly change into the pants, which are worn soft with age. He remembers using them to sleep on the Path, what feels like a lifetime ago.
Geralt finally steps back to the bed as Jaskier sits down again. The fire has warmed the air of the room significantly, but without his coat, patchy though it may be, Jaskier finds himself suppressing shivers again. “It didn’t feel right to get rid of them,” Geralt says, shifting slightly from foot to foot. “I liked…”
“Liked what?” Jaskier asks. Geralt huffs, as if frustrated, and drops to his knees before the bed. Jaskier has a truly terrible moment where he nearly spreads his thighs open on instinct, a frankly implausible wave of arousal rising in him. He presses his knees together tightly, but Geralt isn’t even looking. He’s reaching down to cup Jaskier’s ankle in one hand, pulling his foot forward. Jaskier watches, aghast, as Geralt gently slides first one, and then the other sock onto his feet. They’re warm, and surprisingly soft. Once he’s done, Geralt smooths his hands up behind Jaskier’s calves. He leans his forehead against Jaskier’s knees, like a worshiper coming to prayer. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do; he feels as frozen and immovable as a statue in a temple.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, hushed. Jaskier swallows, and the sound is embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. “I know I said it before, but… I’m sorry, Jask. Not just for the mountain. For everything.” He lifts his head, looking up to meet Jaskier’s stunned gaze. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you. I’m sorry I’m still not.” One of his hands pulled away from Jaskier’s calf to hover over his burnt fingers where they’re clenched tightly in the bedsheets. “I missed you.”
Mortifyingly, Jaskier feels his eyes burning. His vision blurs, obscuring the image of Geralt’s open, pleading face. He turns his face up towards the ceiling, trying to keep any tears from falling. “You know,” he says thickly, “when that fire fucker had me tied up to a chair, he kept asking me where you were. And I was relieved, because you never cared enough to show me your home. I wanted you to ask me to come here with you, for years. But you never did, and I was glad because if you had I would have known where you were, where Ciri was. And I thought, isn’t that pathetic, that I’m so happy you cared about me so little, because I still didn’t want to be the reason you got hurt.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, hoarse, but now that he’s speaking Jaskier can’t stop. It’s like it’s cracked him open, and his mouth is moving so quickly he barely knows what he’s saying.
“You left me on a mountaintop. You told me you never wanted to see me again. And you were always—You were always so closed off, and I thought, that’s just how Geralt is, he’s reserved, that’s fine, but it’s not even like that. You talk to Yen, I’ve seen you with Ciri and Vesemir. You just didn’t like talking to me, is that it? We’ve known each other for twenty years. I spent half my life following you around, and you never even told me that you thought I was your friend. I’m sorry I’m always the one getting you into shit situations, I’m sorry I asked you to come with me to the ball and I’m sorry I fucked up with the djinn and I’m sorry I elbowed my way into your life and didn’t leave you alone and that you hated me there so much. But you’re the one who came to find me, alright, so don’t go blaming it on me this time. I don’t even want to be here. I don’t.” He pants, chest heaving. He looks down at Geralt, whose face is carefully blank aside from the slight wrinkle between his eyes. He looks gutted.
“Then why did you come?” Geralt asks, soft. He’s still kneeling before Jaskier, hands on either side of Jaskier’s thighs. The contact is warm through his new pants—his old pants, which Geralt kept.
Jaskier’s throat constricts, and against his will a tear slips free. He can feel the hot trail of it down his cheek. “You fucking know why.”
“You haven’t forgiven me,” Geralt counters, and it doesn’t sound accusing, it’s just a fact. And he’s right. Jaskier feels like an open wound of anger and hurt, and he can’t imagine allowing Geralt close enough to try to apply a salve yet.
“No,” he agrees, mouth twisting. “I can’t. Not yet. But I still—” He sucks in a breath. “I want to help.”
“I don't want to keep you here if it’s not where you want to be,” Geralt says. He’s looking at Jaskier with a deeply familiar expression. Guilt. Always guilt.
“It is,” Jaskier says, even though he knows he said the opposite not half a minute ago. “I don’t want to leave. I just. I want… I don’t want to feel like you think I’m a nuisance to have around. I don’t even know why you want me here anyways. I’m not a fighter, Geralt. I can’t do magic. I don’t even have a damn lute anymore, and my hands—” He has to stop, the tears cutting him off. He feels more slide down his cheeks, but he refuses to let the sob caught in his chest escape.
Geralt lifts his hands, his palms coming up on either side of Jaskier’s face. His thumbs skim over the skin beneath Jaskier’s eyes, collecting the dampness there. His expression is unreadable and enormous. Jaskier takes two shuddering breaths, the force of them racking his frame. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, quiet and demanding and earnest. “I didn’t come find you because I needed someone to fight for me. I needed someone I could trust.” He pauses, staring into Jaskier’s face. It’s probably a mess, splotchy and red from anger and tears. Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. “I missed you,” he says again, not a trace of embarrassment in his face or tone. “I just wanted you with me. If you don’t want to be here, if you can’t forgive me, I understand. But I want you here. I do.”
Jaskier crumples. There’s nowhere to go but further into Geralt—as always, as always—so he ends up falling forward until his face is pressed into Geralt’s neck. Heavy arms come up around him, two huge palms sliding along his back. The tears come in earnest, and the sob he was keeping trapped in his rib cage falls from his mouth in heaving gasps. He’s been cold for so long, and Geralt is so warm, holding him close. He makes soothing sounds into Jaskier’s hair, mouth pressing softly just behind his ear, and if anything that just makes Jaskier cry harder. He can’t remember the last time he felt cared for, wanted.
Geralt holds him until the sobs wind down, until Jaskier is slumped bonelessly against him, exhausted. He’s never felt so tired in his life, he thinks. Not even after walking all the way down that damn mountain. Geralt doesn’t pull away. He just shifts his arms down until they’re under Jaskier’s thighs and lifts. Jaskier clings to Geralt, his fingers clutching at his back, though he doesn’t remember putting them there. The world tilts, and a moment later Geralt is drawing the furs up around them, still holding Jaskier close.
It’s dreamlike. Jaskier feels empty and clean in the wake of his outburst, and the warmth of the furs and Geralt’s body are bliss. He thinks he’s been cold since he turned away from Geralt on that mountain. Sinking into the warmth, he presses a muddled apology into Geralt’s shirt.
“Don't,” Geralt admonishes, and Jaskier can feel the rumble of his voice where they’re pressed together. “I hurt you. You deserve to be upset about it.”
“You didn’t mean to,” Jaskier says, because he knows this. Geralt may be an idiot and he may let his emotions get the best of him, but he didn’t want to hurt Jaskier, not like this. He knows that. It should matter, that Geralt didn’t mean to, didn’t know that he had that kind of power over Jaskier’s heart.
“It doesn't matter,” Geralt says, and that’s true too. “I did it anyways. And I’m sorry. But I’m not going anywhere. Not without you, if you still want to join me.”
Jaskier pushes his face further into Geralt’s chest, breathing him in. He still smells the same. Like horse and iron, campfire, a hint of lilac. Heroics and heartbreak. Just a bit of onion. “I always want to be with you,” Jaskier admits, a bit hopelessly. “I can’t seem to stop.”
“Can’t say I mind,” Geralt says, and he sounds like he’s smiling. “I’ll try not to make it such a chore from now on.”
Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Fat chance,” he says, muffled by Geralt’s shirt. He’s so warm, drowsy and content. It shouldn’t be this easy, but here he is. He’s always been weak when it comes to Geralt. “You’re always going to be a pain,” he slurs.
“Takes one,” Geralt retorts, and his hands come up and smooth over Jaskier’s shoulder blades. One lifts to card through Jaskier’s hair. “Go to sleep, Jaskier. I’ll apologize again in the morning, and you can see if you forgive me then.”
Jaskier shivers awake at that, pulling back a bit. He finds Geralt’s face in the dim light, his eyes bright in the dark. “What if I don't?” he asks, defiant.
“Then I’ll say it again,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s breath rushes out of him as Geralt leans forward. His lips brush along Jaskier’s cheek. “And again,” skim along his nose, press to his other cheek. Chasing away the tear streaks there. “And again.” A chaste press to his lips, barely a breath. Jaskier feels it in his toes. Geralt pulls back, just enough to look at him. “Until you do,” he finishes. “Or until we die, I guess, or you decide it’s not worth it. I wouldn’t blame you.”
Jaskier laughs wetly. He’s not entirely sure that he’s not dreaming. Maybe he froze to death in his broken little room, or fell into a feverous delirium from his infected wounds in that cell in Oxenfurt. Maybe he tripped down the mountain and broke his neck, and this has all just been the last fleeting imaginations of a dying man. It feels real, though. Geralt’s breath is hot against his face, and he feels so tired it seems unlikely that he could be dreaming. “I guess we’ll find out in the morning,” he says, and lies back down to curl into Geralt’s chest. It feels like a challenge, and he holds his breath as he waits.
Geralt settles back down next to him, with a sigh that sounds fond instead of exasperated. Jaskier wonders if he could find a way to fit the sound into a song. “In the morning,” Geralt agrees, and Jaskier smiles.
It doesn’t feel like healing, not quite. But it feels like the start.