Chapter Text
Jaskier doesn’t want to open his eyes because this, quite simply, cannot be happening. He’s clearly hit his head and is now in an elaborate fever dream, hallucination- something.
His imagination is active enough, he can fabricate the solid, thick, arms cradling him against an equally solid, thick, chest. He’s more than capable of making up the heat radiating off the other body and shielding him from the cold biting at his extremities, the way studs of the armor press into his skin that certainly will not leave imprints on his skin because this is not happening.
“Jaskier.” The timbre rolls into Jaskier’s body and reverberates through his bones the way only one man’s voice can. “I’ve been looking for you.” It’s so familiar that it feels like a home he’s been longing for, and suddenly this is far too tortuous in its detail for Jaskier to dream up.
When he opens his eyes, he’s met with liquid gold. It’s like catching a glimpse of the sun in his eyes, so intense and filled with power that it’s hard for most people to look at. Of course, it’s of no surprise that Jaskier is the idiot that will happily go blind staring into them.
Now, though, his gaze is closer to the glow of warm lantern light. It’s something soft and sweet.
Most bewildering of all, which furthers Jaskier’s theory that he’s actually delirious, is that Geralt of Rivia is smiling. At him. With teeth and everything, and it doesn’t remotely look like it’s a twitch away from a snarl like 95% of his smiles are. If anything he looks relieved, and Jaskier tries to remember when he’s ever made such an expression on his face, if ever, or if his imagination really is just that good.
There is one time that comes to mind, after he’d been cured of his Djinn-induced curse. Geralt had been so relieved that Jaskier hadn’t choked on his own blood, he looked similar to now. Then he-
Then he immediately ran into the arms of a certain sorceress who shall not be named. Then he made a choice that he blamed the bard for, last they spoke.
Jaskier scowls.
“A terrible hardship on your part, I’m sure, now put me down.” Jaskier effectively squirms out of the Witcher’s arms. He doesn’t spare the brute a second glance as he stomps back into the building. He has better things to concern himself over than the swell of emotions building in his chest.
Like confronting a certain weasel-faced disgrace to bardom, now that was well within his wheel house at the moment, a far easier task.
“Did you just push me out of a fucking window!?” Jaskier all but screeches when he enters the room, his arrival announced by the bang of his door slamming open. Valdo, who, apparently, was looking through the student papers strewn about Jaskier’s desk, jumps. “Do you actually have fucking worms in your brain, you maggot of a man, what in the fuck is wrong with you!?”
Valdo, for his part, manages to look a little sheepish but clearly not apologetic enough for Jaskier’s tastes. He opens his mouth to speak but Jaskier cuts him off.
“Oh I do not want to hear whatever pitiful excuse you manage to come up with! It’ll probably be pathetic and trite, like every other word that shits itself out of your slimy excuse for a mouth!” Jaskier is aware that his voice has taken a shrill tone, but he’s absolutely seething and the man deserves it. “Have you stooped so low that you need to attempt to kill me? Over what, a stupid competition that happens every gods damned year? What, did you get tired of the people barely tolerating your paltry excuse for music?
“You know, normally, I’d be rubbing it in that you find me such a threat that you need to resort to physical violence but right now I am not in the mood to suffer through your waste of an existence, you horse’s ass. Get out of my room, I can’t look at your sniveling face anymore.”
Jaskier is panting, a small part of him surprised by his own outburst- but it is warranted, he thinks. Valdo had been looking increasingly chastised and tries opening his mouth to say something again, but now he pales considerably. For a moment Jaskier feels a bit smug, feeling a bit vindicated, before he realizes that Valdo is looking past him, over his shoulder.
Jaskier scowls again as Valdo skitters out of the room like the rat he is. He is left with his back to a large presence. For a split second he wonders if he should’ve wished Valdo dead after all, in that dream of his a year ago. Certainly could’ve avoided whatever the hell this is.
Silence stretches over the room and he wonders if it’s possible to suffocate on it.
“What do you want?” Jaskier asks with a flat voice. His back is still turned.
“Jask, I-” Geralt seems to hesitate, perhaps he notices that the familiarity of the nickname causes Jaskier to bristle ever so slightly. “Jaskier, please look at me?”
It might be the pleading tint to his voice, or the emotional storm he’s unwittingly stepped himself into, but Jaskier is suddenly tired. Stiffly, he turns around and faces the larger man, face as hardened as he can make it. He refuses to show weakness, not now and not here.
Geralt looks haggard, and tired, and sad. Jaskier forces the lump in his throat down, violently, not wanting to bend to the Witcher’s slightest whims, to try his hardest to put some semblance of a smile on the grump’s face. Again. He has more respect for himself than that, he tells himself.
He crosses his arms. “Well, out with it, then. Don’t want to drag this out any longer than necessary, what could you possibly need from me?”
Geralt furrows his eyebrows, and looks a bit lost. Jaskier feels the corner of his lip twitch up into a bitter smile. “Life’s one blessing, right? I’m doing you a favor as I’m sure this interaction must pain you so. So. Whatever brought you here, spit it out, so I can once again take myself off your hands.”
Geralt looks stricken, like Jaskier’s words themself have landed a devastating blow and- and good. Serves the bastard right, Jaskier’s allowed some pettiness after everything.
Geralt turns his head to look down at his side, a desperate look on his face. It’s then that Jaskier notices that the two of them aren’t alone in the room.
There’s a child standing next to Geralt, dressed like a common boy barely in their teenage years. The cap hides the fair hair rather well and if the child didn’t look up at Geralt, like they do at the moment, Jaskier wouldn’t have recognized them. As it stands, Jaskier knows those emerald eyes rather well, and years of preforming for the lion cub’s birthdays every year grants him recognition of the princess’s delicate features.
She still stands proud, and looks at Geralt with an insistent look that brokers no negotiation. She places a hand on his arm, one that reads of reassurance.
Geralt takes a steadying breath and nods to her- or himself maybe, it isn’t really clear- before looking back at Jaskier. “Jaskier, I’ve come to- to apologize.”
Jaskier doesn’t really comprehend what Geralt is saying. He’s looking at the point of contact and in his staring, he huffs out a quiet- if hysterical- laugh. “So you’ve finally found her,” he says quietly to himself. You’ve found your happiness, he thinks to himself. He can’t quite name the emotion he’s feeling now.
It’s then that Jaskier blinks, Geralt’s words finally registering with him. “Apologize?”
Geralt nods with a familiar hum. “It’s- Ciri says- I’m-” He tries to start, tripping over his tongue. Ciri squeezes his arm and Geralt takes another breath. “Yes. Apologize. After... After finding Ciri, and ensuring that Yennefer was alright, we decided to look for you. Because I need to apologize to you.”
“Glad to see where I rank on that list,” Jaskier mutters to himself and he watches Geralt wince, his Witcher hearing catching it loud and clear.
He looks between the two of them, and he can imagine Cirilla berating Geralt after hearing about what happened on the mountain. He wonders how she learned about it in the first place, though, he doubts the Witcher was particularly eager to recount that story. Geralt, for his part, looks every bit the chided puppy with his tail between his legs. It soothes Jaskier, just a touch.
Jaskier moves to his desk chair and turns it out. He sits in it, crosses his legs, and folds his arms against his chest once more. He looks every bit the professor who caught his student causing trouble in his class. “Well. Go on, then.”
Geralt looks shocked. “What?”
“Apologize. Let’s hear it.” Jaskier waves his hand at him, motioning for him to continue. “I’m listening.”
Geralt throws a tentative glance at Ciri, who nods at him, and Geralt takes cautious steps out of the doorway. He stops in front of Jaskier and, to the surprise of the bard, kneels in front of him. His head is bowed and it keeps him from seeing the expression on Jaskier’s face.
“Two summers ago, I acted on my anger. I was stubborn, refusing to examine my part in the incident with the Djinn, to own up to my responsibility with my Child Surprise. I was heartbroken, and in pain, and I took it out on you. I hurt you to make myself feel better and that’s-” Geralt clenches his jaw and forces an exhale out his nose. He closes his eyes. “You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve that. In that moment, I didn’t see you. I saw Destiny trying to force itself down my throat using your shape, again, and I let my fury take over. I am sorry. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness but-”
Geralt finally looks up at Jaskier, his face etched with remorse and pleading. “I have never truly thought of myself as your friend, but you always have been mine. I need to right that.”
Jaskier can’t look at him anymore, this is simply too much to bear. He stands abruptly, and starts to pace. “I think that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say in one sitting in twenty years. Twenty!” Jaskier exhales and shakes his hands, trying to release the feelings that are creeping into his chest against his better judgement. He looks out the window, down to the spot where he would have met the cobblestone had Geralt not caught him. Jaskier closes the window.
He twirls back around to face the other man, studies his face for a moment, then continues to pace. “Well, I’m happy you got that off your conscience then. Fatherhood really does change a man, doesn’t it?” He looks over at Ciri without missing a beat. “You’re a wonderful influence on the brute, really, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him acknowledge an emotion before in my life. You’re going to make a poet out of the man in a years time, you should be proud!” His hands are flitting about and he really needs to take a breath.
He pauses and does just that, his eyes on the ceiling. He flicks his tongue out, his lips are really dry all of a sudden. “Right,” He looks back down at them, hands on his hips. Geralt is still on his knee, looking at him with wide eyes. “How long are you planning on staying at Oxenfurt? I can arrange for you two to have private rooms so you’re not accosted by rude tavern keeps until you leave.”
Geralt furrows his eyebrows, confused. Slowly, he stands again. He raises a hand, as though Jaskier is spooked horse or something. “Does this mean... Do you forgive me, then?” He asks carefully.
Jaskier looks at Geralt, then, searching it. He can read the caution on it, he can read the soft hope in his eyes. His face is so gentle it threatens to break Jaskier’s heart all over again. He closes his eyes and deflates with a sigh, turning away. His arms come up to hold himself, and for a moment he curls into himself and lets the silence drag on.
“What do you want me to say?” He says finally, his voice soft. “That everything’s okay again? Lets act like nothing happened?” Jaskier shakes his head. “It’s been over a year and a half, and you come out of nowhere with this. You left me on top of a mountain, Geralt. You threw me aside because someone else left you. You bro-” He instantly clamps his mouth shut. That’s far too much of himself to reveal.
He takes a deep breath and looks up at him again. “You’re right, you did hurt me. I don’t hate you for it, though. I knew that the things you said weren’t what you really felt, but you still said them. I am genuinely glad you found Ciri, and that you seem better for it now, and that apology was beautiful but I don’t- I can’t forgive you, yet.”
He watches the resignation settle into Geralt’s features, watches him nod with his usual silence. Jaskier casts his gaze down to the stack of papers on his desk, a far less complicated sight. He clears his throat. “Now, if that’s all-”
“Come with us,” Geralt interrupts suddenly and Jaskier whips his head up at that.
“What?”
“To Kaer Morhen.”
“I just said-“
“If- If not for me, then,” Geralt says, downright beseeching. “Then for Ciri. She needs a proper education, a contemporary one that she can’t get from just a couple of Witchers, and you’re the only person I can trust with that. Please.”
Jaskier can smell the excuse from a mile away, but- he thinks, as he looks over the girl in question- he does have a point. He gives Geralt a bit of a pinched look then fully turns to address Cirilla. “Well?” Her eyebrows raise. “Don’t let the old man make all your decisions for you, what say you?”
Her expression is perfectly neutral, the picture of innocence, but Jaskier can see the mischievous glint in her eye. She hums in contemplation for exactly two seconds before beaming at him. “I think it’s a great idea, actually. If the other Witchers are just as quiet as Geralt, I think I might go mad, so it would be nice to have you around.”
Jaskier scoffs and Geralt throws her a vaguely annoyed look, but the fondness it betrays is obvious. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Well, that just isn’t fair. I’ll be leaving the poor girl to the wolves, she’ll lose every single ounce of manners she’s ever known and turn into a feral thing that can only communicate in coordinated hums and grunts.“
Ciri giggles and he tries and hold his composure for a good, long, six seconds. He sighs in exasperation and throws his hands up in defeat. “Fine! Fine, I’ll go. For Ciri.” He says pointedly, but Geralt just smiles at him with that soft expression again and Jaskier might be able to trick himself into thinking it fondness.
He finally excuses himself as if needing to prepare himself for the journey. As if he could possibly prepare himself for being at Geralt’s side again. Surely, the Witcher would be the death of him.