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i.
It’s nights like this, when the walls of the inn are trembling with the force of the storm, that Jaskier wishes he was a little bit less in love with Geralt.
If he could just feel a little fucking less, maybe he wouldn’t be so hesitant to curl closer to the witcher’s heat. Maybe he wouldn’t be lying awake, shivering, wincing at every crash of thunder. They’re leaving early the next morning, and it’s a few days to the next village - he needs his sleep tonight, but it’s too cold and too loud and he can’t stop fucking thinking.
He’d dozed off for about an hour before the storm started in earnest, not long enough to feel rested but somehow long enough to have a nightmare that left him breathless with anxiety when he woke.
It’s been at least another hour since then, and the storm is only getting worse. Jaskier just wishes he could sleep .
Geralt twitches slightly in his sleep, his face scrunching for only an instant before smoothing again. Jaskier’s on his side, a good ten inches between the two of them, staring at Geralt as if studying the features he’s already committed to memory will make it any easier for his eyes to shut with exhaustion.
He knows that if he was asleep, he’d have no trouble shuffling closer and closer to Geralt’s warmth until he ended up sprawled on top of him, something they’d both say pointedly nothing about when the sun came up.
But Jaskier’s not asleep, annoyingly, which means every time he tries to creep across the bed anxiety spikes in his stomach because he’s so fucking gone on Geralt.
That logic doesn’t even fucking track.
His body is telling him to move closer; he’s done it before, he knows it’ll make him warm enough to go the fuck to sleep, and Geralt has never told him not to do it. But his mind is telling him that, maybe, it’s all been a ruse. Maybe it makes Geralt really uncomfortable, and he’s just never said anything because he doesn’t know how to approach the subject. Or because he’s worried what Jaskier might say in response.
(Both of these are bullshit, as Jaskier very well knows. Geralt has never before had a problem barrelling into discussions with very little decorum, especially when they’re about things he disagrees with. And there’s literally nothing Jaskier could say that Geralt would ever be so worried about.)
And that’s the most frustrating thing - Jaskier knows he’s worrying over nothing. He knows he’s sending himself spiraling when he could be cuddled up against warm, solid witcher, well on his way to a good night’s sleep. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to make his mind shut the fuck up .
Another crack of thunder rattles the window on the other side of the room. Jaskier shoves his face into his pillow to muffle his groan.
Geralt stirs then, rolling around onto his back until he finds an apparently comfortable position. Still soundly asleep, he reaches one hand out towards Jaskier, patting around at the mattress as his brow furrows.
Jaskier barely breathes. Geralt’s hand finally latches onto his wrist, and his face smoothes once more as he tries to tug the bard closer.
“Geralt,” he whispers before he can think better of it. “Are you awake?”
There’s no response. Geralt’s breathing is still just as even as it had been before he moved. His hand is warm on Jaskier’s arm, gentle in a way he so rarely lets himself be, and Jaskier fucking melts.
He curls closer, not all the way into Geralt’s space, but close enough that he can feel Geralt’s breaths against his own face. The hand moves from his wrist and settles across Jaskier’s shoulders as Geralt lets out a little happy hum.
In the warmth of the witcher’s arms, Jaskier’s worries start to fade and the thunder seems quieter. He rests his own hand at Geralt’s waist, the other curled loosely between their chests, and lets his eyes finally fall shut.
ii.
Okay, so maybe he could’ve stayed at their makeshift camp over a mile away. Maybe , just maybe, this is Jaskier’s fault for not listening when Geralt said many, many times to stay away. But he’s a very curious person by nature, and after six years of traveling together Geralt should know that the only sure way to make Jaskier go somewhere is by telling him not to. Repeatedly. In a vaguely desperate tone.
Yeah, it’s on him. He fucked up.
Geralt’s behind him on Roach’s saddle, pressed so close that Jaskier can feel his nearly ragged breathing. He isn’t sure how long it’s been since the monster - an absolute fucker, really - swiped him aside and sent him directly into a tree, but it has to have been long enough for all the adrenaline to get out of Geralt’s system, so his still-elevated heart rate and breathing is most likely not a good sign.
Jaskier’s grip on Geralt’s arm tightens, the only warning he can give before he’s doubled over as best he can to retch over Roach’s neck. She whinnies, either disgusted or concerned, and Jaskier mumbles an apology.
“Fuck,” Geralt says. He keeps one hand on the reigns and pulls Jaskier back to his chest with the other, running gentle fingers over the wound at the back of his head. “ Fuck ,” he repeats, with feeling.
“‘m fine ,” Jaskier tries to insist, but the effect is probably ruined by the way he immediately tilts and almost drops off the horse entirely. “Or. Well. I’ve been worse.”
Geralt doesn’t laugh, which Jaskier finds rather insulting, but he doesn’t really have the ability to dwell on it when every inch of his body is aching and/or bleeding. He whimpers when Roach jumps over something and lands heavily, jostling her riders. Jaskier leans further into Geralt, trying to keep his gaze forward and focused.
It doesn’t really work, and his perception of time apparently decides to fuck off, because one moment, they’re in the middle of the forest, and the next, Roach is standing patiently in the street of a town Jaskier vaguely recognizes and Geralt is practically leaping off the saddle before turning to pull the bard down.
“How,” Jaskier mutters even as he lets Geralt sweep him up into his arms. “the fuck did we get here?”
Geralt’s chest vibrates a bit as he makes a displeased noise. “Did you pass out?”
Jaskier tries to focus on the witcher’s face, but it stays blurry. “Maybe. Can you make your face clear again?”
“My face is clear, Jask. You’re concussed.”
The nickname startles him into a grin, which Geralt looks concerned about, but before either of them can say anything else, a woman’s voice comes from somewhere behind Jaskier’s head.
“Everything alright, witcher?”
Geralt’s attention immediately shifts away from Jaskier, his body stiffening as he determines whether or not the woman is a threat. Jaskier lets himself drift a bit, catching only bits and pieces of the conversation, but he jolts back to his body when Geralt suddenly sets him down on what feels like a table.
“Don’t worry,” the witcher murmurs at Jaskier’s alarmed look. “The healer just needs to look you over. I’ll be just outside.”
“ No ,” he protests, latching onto Geralt’s arm before he can walk away. “Don’t go. Please, Geralt.”
The same woman as before speaks, appearing just at the corner of Jaskier’s vision. “You can stay in the room if you’d like. As long as you’re not in my way, it’ll be better if you can keep him comfortable.”
Geralt nods once, never looking away from the bard. “Alright. I’m not going anywhere, Jask.”
Jaskier relaxes immediately, smiling once again at the nickname and at the soft expression Geralt’s making. He’s sure it’s not one the witcher is aware of, given both the smile on his lips and the fondness in his eyes.
The healer bustles around, giving him potions and tonics and opening tins of salve and unrolling bandages, and it hurts , even with the potion that’s meant to dull the pain, but Jaskier feels safe the whole time. His hand is clasped between both of Geralt’s, and every time he winces at anything that hurts too much, the witcher squeezes gently and whispers reassurances into his ear.
The wounds heal nicely, leaving only the faintest hint of a scar, but Jaskier cherishes the memories of Geralt’s careful attention for a long, long time.
iii.
It’s been an entire week since they’ve been accepted at an inn, and while Jaskier is certainly not going to blame Geralt for it, he’s starting to feel ridiculously cross about sleeping in a forest. He’s doing his best not to say anything about it out loud, knowing Geralt would only feel guilty, but seriously . A week without a warm bath, bed, or place to fucking sit - at this point, he’s ready to kick the next bigoted innkeeper out of their own fucking home.
The one thing he hasn’t been missing is warm food. It’s not of the highest quality, of course, but the two of them have managed to put together a stew or a roasted rabbit every night, which is better than nothing. The same cannot be said for their sleeping arrangements, much to Jaskier’s dismay.
“ Jaskier ,” Geralt says, exasperated. “If you move your bedroll one more time, I fucking swear--”
“I’m sorry there is not a single spot in this forest that doesn’t drive a root or a rock directly into my spine, Geralt, but I’m trying to sleep comfortably .”
He sets his bedroll on yet another patch of promising ground and lies down, shuffling until he’s curled up the way he likes. It’s quiet for a long moment, and Jaskier hears Geralt let out a long breath, but then there’s another fucking stick and Jaskier has to stand back up.
Geralt all but growls and sits up suddenly, his eyes flashing with annoyance. “Come here,” he says.
Jaskier stares. “What?”
“Come here ,” Geralt repeats, beckoning. “I’m fucking tired, and if you don’t stop moving I can’t sleep.”
“Um,” Jaskier doesn’t really see the connection between those statements, but he walks slowly around the remnants of the fire until he’s right in front of Geralt. “Why?”
As soon as he stands still, Geralt reaches up and grabs Jaskier’s hand, dragging him down into his own bedroll. Jaskier squawks in a very undignified way, but doesn’t resist as the witcher shifts them both around until he’s content.
“There,” he says, once the furs are pulled up over their shoulders and Jaskier’s head is pillowed on Geralt’s arm. “Now sleep , Jask.”
The bard is quiet for a long time, his mind racing and his face furiously red. He’s certain Geralt can hear his heart, and has to assume the witcher is just ignoring his obvious embarrassment.
Eventually, Geralt sighs. “You were being loud,” he says. “We already do this in inns. I needed a quick solution.”
“Right,” Jaskier nods as best he can, trying to ignore the warmth in his chest at the proximity. “No, yeah, it makes sense. Good thinking. This is. Good.”
Geralt cracks one eye open and studies his face. Jaskier tries to school his features into indifference, but he can still feel his ears burning.
“If you’re uncomfortable…” Geralt starts, looking almost worried.
“No!” Jaskier sits up. “ No , Geralt, of course not. You know I’m not scared of you, right? Because if you don’t know that, I’ve been doing something wrong.” He tries to grin, maybe to play it off as a joke, but he knows it falls flat.
Geralt swallows and looks away. “I do know that,” he whispers. “Even if it makes no sense.”
His jaw is locked and tense, as if he’s expecting some kind of fight. Jaskier wants to push back, to argue, to insist that Geralt is inherently deserving of love and kindness, no matter what the rest of the world thinks, but he knows it’s not the time for that.
Instead, he drops back down and presses closer. He closes his eyes.
“Maybe not to you,” he says after a moment, unable to resist. “But to me, nothing in the world makes more sense.”
Geralt sucks in a breath at that, but he doesn’t answer. When Jaskier’s own breathing grows steady as he nears sleep, Geralt’s arm moves to rest, gently, over the bard’s waist.
When Jaskier wakes up in the morning, still wrapped in the witcher’s arms, he presses a soft kiss to Geralt’s forehead and watches him smile in his sleep.
iv.
“Not to be dramatic,” Jaskier says, his voice rasping and nasally. “But I think that I am quite literally dying.”
Geralt snorts derisively. “You’re always dramatic,” he says as he pokes at the fire in the hearth. “And you’re fine. It’s just a cold.”
“I am actively perishing , Geralt. You’ll be lucky if I last the night, frankly.”
“I’m not calling another bath for you, Jaskier. Eat your soup and go to sleep. We’re leaving as soon as you can breathe properly.”
Jaskier groans, wincing as it makes his throat twinge, and slumps further onto the small table in the corner of their room. He feels miserable, but he does know Geralt’s right. It’s not even close to the sickest he’s been, no matter how shit it makes him feel.
“This is your fault,” he mumbles into his broth. “You’re the one who made us walk in the rain.”
He can practically hear Geralt’s eyeroll. “That was you, Jask. And you refused to ride Roach so you’d stay warm.”
“I wasn’t going to disrupt tradition for a measly drizzle!”
“It was fucking pouring.”
Jaskier pouts, turning pointedly back to his broth and obnoxiously slurping up a few spoonfuls. It takes a moment, but Geralt eventually sighs and gets to his feet.
“Just get better,” he says softly, resting a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “And don’t dance during any more rainstorms, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier waves at him, hoping Geralt doesn’t notice his blush. He drops his voice into his imitation of the witcher. “I’m Geralt, I love sucking the fun out of everyday activities.”
Geralt flicks his ear lightly and leaves him to finish his soup.
By the time the bowl is empty, Jaskier’s fucking exhausted, which is annoying. Even if he can’t sing in his current condition, he’d been hoping to at least get some writing in, but apparently that wouldn’t be an option, either.
A couple of girls come in to take his dishes and lug out the dirty bathwater. When they’re gone, Geralt pulls back the furs on the bed and ushers Jaskier under them. He slips in after, pulling the bard close without hesitation. It isn’t exactly new for them, obviously, but it is a bit less subtle than Jaskier is used to.
His back is to Geralt’s front, warmth soaking through him, and Geralt’s arms are tucked protectively around Jaskier’s waist.
“Sleep well, Jask,” the witcher murmurs into his hair, their chests both rumbling softly with the vibration of the words.
Jaskier smiles softly, to himself, and takes Geralt’s hands in his own. “Goodnight, darling,” he whispers, delighting in the soft hum he gets in response.
He falls asleep faster than he has in years.
v.
Jaskier hasn’t left the room for nearly three days. Geralt’s been hovering, calling up meals and baths only to have them sent away when Jaskier doesn’t make any move for them. He’s clearly at his wit’s end, and Jaskier wishes he could just fucking force a smile, if only to keep his witcher from losing his mind, but he barely has the energy to get out of bed to piss. Any kind of enthusiasm is out of the question.
On the third night, Geralt practically drags Jaskier out of bed and into a waiting bath. He doesn’t have it in him to protest.
“So,” Geralt says with his hands scrubbing softly at Jaskier’s scalp. He’s somewhere between concern and annoyance. “When, exactly, are you planning on telling me what the fuck is going on?”
Jaskier hums.
It isn’t until he’s climbing out of the bath, taking a towel and his clothes from Geralt’s hands, that he points to his pack. “In there,” he says softly. “There’s a letter.”
Geralt moves slowly, seeming hesitant to leave Jaskier’s side for even a moment, but his curiosity wins out and he turns to pull the parchment out of the bag. Jaskier climbs back into bed as the witcher begins to read.
He shuts his eyes, hoping to slip back into sleep, but it doesn’t come. After a long, long moment, the bed dips slightly with Geralt’s weight as he settles next to Jaskier. One hand comes to rest on the bard’s shoulder, the other taking his hand gently.
“I’m sorry, Jask,” he whispers. It shouldn’t be enough to make tears well up in Jaskier’s eyes, but it’s been a long fucking time since he let himself cry, and suddenly he’s curled tightly into himself and gasping in between heaving, world-shaking sobs.
Geralt makes a noise just on this side of distressed and tightens his grip, leaning closer as if to check Jaskier for injuries. “Oh, lark,” he says, letting one hand dance up to stroke gently across Jaskier’s forehead.
He turns so he’s lying on his side and pulls the bard into his chest, letting him nestle his face into Geralt and just fucking weep.
It takes a while for Jaskier to calm down, but Geralt sits patiently with him the whole time, rubbing occasionally at his back and even humming one of Jaskier’s own songs for a few minutes.
“Fuck,” Jaskier says finally, trying to laugh it off, but he still feels too raw. “Sorry about, ah. That.”
Geralt shakes his head and smoothes Jaskier’s hair out of his face. “You don’t need to be. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Another couple of tears slip down his face, and Jaskier wipes them away angrily. “It’s not-- we weren’t even that close. I mean, we argued until I was seventeen, and then I left. I shouldn’t be-- it shouldn’t be this bad. I don’t know why I’m so fucking upset.”
“She was your sister,” Geralt says, logically, tracing up and down Jaskier’s back with one hand. “Even if you never loved her, which I doubt, she still had to be important to you.”
He nods absently, trying to steady his breathing. “We used to sneak into the kitchen together,” he tells Geralt a few moments later. “When we were really young. I’d heat up jam on the stove and we’d dip leftover bread in it. Mother lost her metaphorical shit when she found out, though, and had locks put on the kitchen door.”
Geralt hums lightly and pulls him just a bit closer.
“I never really regretted leaving,” Jaskier continues. “But I wish I’d at least told her I was going. She wrote to me, for a while, but the letters stopped a few years ago. I guess she… got tired of not getting any answers.”
“I remember those,” Geralt says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You used to hide them in your pillow. I never read them,” he adds quickly when he sees Jaskier’s face. “But you weren’t exactly subtle about it.”
Jaskier laughs, a small, broken thing that leaves his throat stinging. “I don’t think that’s ever been my strong suit.”
They’re both quiet for a while. Geralt keeps his arms around Jaskier, somehow putting so much comfort and warmth into the embrace that the bard finds himself feeling better than he has since he got the letter about his sister’s death.
“I think you would have liked her,” he says finally, tilting his head up just enough to lock eyes with Geralt. “Emmy always loved the strong and silent types. She’s a lot less chatty than me, too.” Pain flickers through him once more. “I mean. She was.”
Geralt moves forward but hesitates, not doing anything else. “I’m sure I’d have loved her,” he agrees. His voice is quiet.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so useless.”
“Don’t be.”
“We can go tomorrow, if you’d like. I know you’re probably itching to be back on the Path.”
Geralt’s smile is soft, but it’s there, and it fills Jaskier with a glowing kind of warmth that almost makes him want to cry again. In a good way, though, this time. “I’m alright waiting here for a bit longer.”
Jaskier nods, then lets his head drop to Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m fucking tired,” he whines, reveling in the soft huff of laughter he gets in response.
“Then go to sleep, Jask. We don’t have anywhere we need to be.”
The words are accompanied by a barely-there kiss to his temple, so soft Jaskier almost thinks he imagined it.
“Okay,” he breathes, curling his fingers into the front of Geralt’s shirt and letting his eyes slip closed. The last thing he registers before he drops into sleep is Geralt’s throat rumbling softly as he starts to hum once more.
1
Jaskier wakes up in a cold sweat. The room is empty, as it always is when he wakes in the keep, and there’s a stifling silence settled over him that drives him instantly to his feet. He needs something vibrant, something loud, something unerringly alive.
He ends up outside Geralt’s door.
They have yet to really, actually talk about the mountain. Which makes sense, given their combined track record of carefully ignoring things that were deemed too difficult, but it also means that their every interaction has been tense, to say the least.
Jaskier knows that Geralt didn’t really mean the things he said. He’s always known that, since the second the words left the witcher’s lips, but he’s also known that they still hurt . True or not, the intention was to wound him, and Geralt’s always been good at accomplishing whatever he sets his mind to.
The door opens. Geralt peers out into the hallway, his hair mussed from sleep but otherwise looking remarkably put together for the time.
“I think we should talk,” Jaskier says before he can talk himself out of it.
Geralt’s mouth thins into a line, but he nods and steps aside to let Jaskier enter.
The room is more cluttered than Jaskier would have expected, but it’s still mostly bare. There’s a collection of carvings and other knick-knacks perched on a shelf above the head of the bed, which is tucked into the corner, and some paper left on top of a dresser on the opposite wall.
“ Fuck , it’s cold in here,” Jaskier hisses, rubbing at his arms and wishing he’d put socks on.
“You’re barefoot in a stone keep in the middle of winter,” Geralt points out, and it’s a fair hit, so Jaskier sticks his tongue out and hops from foot to foot until Geralt rolls his eyes and gestures for him to sit on the bed.
Jaskier does, grinning at his victory, and then he takes a deep breath. “So,” he says, and instantly Geralt drops his own fond smile. “You left me on a mountain.”
He winces a bit at the delivery, but it got his point across. Short and… well, maybe not sweet, but whatever.
“Jask,” Geralt says. There’s something in his voice, not unlike desperation, that pulls Jaskier’s attention unfailingly to him. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I could never expect anything from you, not after what I said. What I did. But I am sorry. For all of it.”
“I know,” Jaskier reaches out, and Geralt tentatively holds out his own hand. Jaskier entwines their fingers and rests their hands on the soft fur covers. “And, not to assume, but I also know you didn’t mean what you said. Even if it did hurt me.”
“Of course I didn’t mean it,” Geralt agrees as if the alternative is repulsive. “I don’t-- Jaskier, you’re one of the best things to ever happen to me. I’m sorry I’ve never told you that.”
Jaskier bites back a grin. “Not that it’s a competition,” he jokes, “but you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”
Geralt rolls his eyes. “I have a daughter now, Jask, I don’t think you’re allowed to have first place all to yourself. But I do mean it. All of it. I hope, if nothing else, that you know that.”
He looks more vulnerable than Jaskier can remember ever seeing him before, open and soft and with his entire heart seemingly splayed out and at Jaskier’s mercy.
“I do,” Jaskier reassures him, squeezing his fingers gently. “Fuck, I’m trying to get through all the important bits here, but I do forgive you.”
Geralt’s gaze snaps up from the floor at that. “You do? Even after everything?”
Jaskier smiles softly. “Of course I do, love. I was more sad than angry, honestly.”
The witcher’s grip tightens enough that Jaskier wrinkles his nose in discomfort, making Geralt loosen it immediately, but his eyes never leave the bard’s face. “You’re sure?” he asks, his voice gentle and small. He’s worried, but Jaskier can hear the note of hope in the words.
Jaskier shuffles forward until he can rest his other hand on Geralt’s cheek, smiling when he leans into the touch. “Geralt,” he says, trying to pour every emotion he’s ever had for the man into his voice. “I have loved you for a hundred years. Since I first laid eyes on you, since our first adventure, since the first time you tried and failed to get rid of me.”
“That’s not a hundred,” Geralt protests, but his eyes are fond and he’s smiling.
“Close enough,” Jaskier shrugs. “And it certainly fucking feels like it. But, darling, my point is that I’ve never in my life been as sure about anything as I am about you.”
Geralt ducks his head, trying to hide what looks like an actual grin . “Fuck,” he murmurs. “That’s a hard speech to beat.”
Jaskier laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear for him. “Well, that’s kind of my job. And,” he waits for Geralt to look at him. “We still have more to talk about. Probably a lot more. But, if it’s alright, I’m fucking exhausted and I’d love to just come back to this in the morning.”
He nods, scooting backwards until he can pull the furs down far enough to slip under them and then hesitantly patting the mattress next to him. Jaskier beams and joins him, wrapping both arms around Geralt’s waist and holding him tightly.
“I missed this,” he whispers. Geralt hums softly and tilts his head until he can bump their noses together. “I missed you ,” Jaskier continues, breathless.
“Jask,” Geralt says, and it sounds like a prayer and a promise. “I love you, too,” he whispers.
Jaskier thinks of the countless times he’s been held by this man, through happiness and despair. He tightens his grip, promises to himself that he’ll return the favor, and presses the oath to Geralt’s own lips with a kiss.