Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun was setting by the time Geralt even realized that Jaskier had gone.

For the better part of two hours, he’d stood on the top of that mountain, seething, meditating. Trying to calm down from what he was quickly realizing was a djinn-induced temper tantrum.

Shaking his head, Geralt turned away from the cave entrance and looked back to where Jaskier had been standing. With how far down the sun was, it made sense that the bard hadn’t bothered lingering while Geralt worked through the pain of ripping away the last few shreds of magic that clung like cobwebs to his mind.

Even as he began to list out what he needed to do next, began planning which towns he and Jaskier would stop at on the way to Cintra, he felt another twinge of pain in his chest.

He’d lost her. Despite his wish, he’d managed to lose Yen in a very important way.

He snorted.

Only Yennifer of Vengerberg would be strong enough to break the hold of a djinn’s version of what their fate should be. She’d snapped through the cocoon of magic like the vessel of chaos she was and now they were both free to be whoever they wanted to be.

To be with whomever they wanted to be with.

As much as he hated to admit it, Yennifer was right. If there was anything between them, if there ever had been anything real to begin with, the fact of his poorly worded wish had ruined any chance of knowing it. The fulfillment of a djinn’s wish was never anything more than poison disguised as honey in your-

Ugh, the melancholy of losing one of the only people he cared about was pushing Geralt towards uncharacteristic poetry. Metaphors were more Jaskier’s territory. There was no doubt he’d have a beautiful way to describe how wishing for things from a djinn only left the wisher worse off than they’d started. The fulfillment of a djinn wish was like a cheap imitation of destiny, like finding sweet fruit hanging within reach, only to open it up and find rot and maggots writhing within.

He was doing it again.

Geralt turned to the left, making his way down the path from the entrance to the dragon’s cave. Towards where he could see the campfires. The dwarves might have been crude and annoying, but at least they were smart enough to know not to descend the mountain this close to dark.

As he reached the edges of the camp Geralt listened closely, trying to pinpoint the telltale sound of a lute string, or a muttered lyric, or the irregular heartbeat speeding up in excitement at finding the exact right rhyme.

Those were the sounds Geralt had come to expect after fighting monsters. They soothed him, reminded him that there was something to come back to. Someone to keep living for. Now that Yennifer had broken their counterfeit bond it was so easy to see who that someone was.

However, the music had vanished. There was not a twang or a twitter to be heard, and not a scrap of silk or whiff of sunshine anywhere to be found.

The only living things in the dwarf camp were the dwarves.

“Where is he?” Geralt demanded, even as he thought back to their last conversation. Jaskier had said he was going to get the story from the others. His voice was so distant in Geralt’s memory, but the witcher was certain that’s what Jaskier’d said. Right after he’d tried to make light of Geralt’s situation and Geralt had-

He’d shouted. Filled with anguish and confusion and regret, he’d roared cruel words in Jaskier’s direction. Words that he didn’t deserve and that certainly weren’t true. Something about Jaskier being the one shoveling shit into his life. Something about destiny taking Jaskier off his hands.

Nothing he’d meant, of course. Geralt had never been good with words to begin with. Trying to use them while he was still reeling from the breakdown of what he’d once thought of as his future was bound to end up coming out wrong.

None of the dwarves answered him.

“Where is he?” Geralt repeated, even though he already had an inkling of the answer. He grabbed one of the passing dwarves who had been ignoring him. Pulling it up to eye level he asked again. “The bard, where’d he go?”

“Down the mountain,” the dwarf replied, confirming what Geralt had feared.

Jaskier wasn’t in the camp. He hadn’t waited for Geralt or taken the time to ask the dwarves for every single detail of the battle. He’d packed up his bedroll and wandered away with sunset approaching and any number of beasts prowling about. It wasn’t just the danger of traveling alone or navigating the path in the dark that bothered Geralt, though.

It was the fact that Jaskier had felt the need to leave at all.

Geralt dropped the dwarf and grabbed his bedroll and the other meager supplies he’d carried up the mountain. After a moment of hesitation, Geralt grabbed a potion from his bag and downed it.

Jaskier was at least two hours ahead of him and there was no telling what sort of monsters Geralt would need to save him from. He wasn’t going to risk Jaskier getting hurt because he’d wasted precious time moving at a normal pace. The potion would take its toll on him, but not until much later, after he was sure Jaskier was safe.

Hiking his bag onto his shoulder, Geralt ignored the disgruntled dwarf still shouting at his feet and spun around. Finding the path down, he barreled headfirst in the direction of his bard.

Chapter Text

The moon was only starting to rise when he heard it.

Jaskier’s voice, clear as a bell, ringing out through the night. A sad melody that beckoned any monster that might want a late-night snack.

“Fuck,” Geralt said, and ran faster. The potion allowed his stamina and speed to carry him like an avalanche down the mountain. His hearing was so strong that the sound of

Jaskier came long before the sight of him. When a pinpoint of firelight flickered ahead, showing Geralt his destination, his lungs burned at the sight of it. Jaskier was still singing, which was a good sign. A sign that he was okay. That he was alive.

Geralt slowed, trying to push through the pain in his chest as he stalked towards the spot Jaskier had chosen to camp for the night. As he walked, he listened to the words Jaskier was singing. Without the input of the dwarves, it was anyone’s guess what heroic battle Jaskier’s mind had made up.

Except, whatever he was singing about, it didn’t involve fighting dragons.

Well, I've been 'fraid of changin'

'Cause I've built my life around you

But time makes you bolder

Even children get older

And I'm gettin' older, too

I'm gettin' older, too

Geralt’s chest was aching now, strongly enough that he understood what this was. His emotions might have been muted by the trials, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t name them. Guilt, heartache, regret. Geralt was all too familiar with those words and the song Jaskier had written about their sojourn on the mountain wasn’t helping.

The music continued and Geralt hesitated to step into the firelight as his eyes came to rest on Jaskier for what felt like the first time in years.

Ah, take my love, take it down

Oh, climb a mountain and turn around

And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills

Well, the landslide will bring it down

And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills

Well, the landslide will bring it down

Oh, the landslide will bring me down

When was the last time Geralt had looked at Jaskier and actually seen him? He couldn’t recall, but from the haunted look in the bard’s eyes and the haunting tone of the song, Geralt was starting to think that it was longer than a few hours. Years, maybe. Since that damned day he’d tried to save Yennifer from herself and managed to wreck all of their lives instead.

Jaskier’s fingers picked up the pace, though the chords remained in a rang preserved for the more melancholy songs. He was humming and muttering as he played, sounds that Geralt associated with a half finished song at the end of every battle. Geralt leaned against a tree, just out of sight. Content to see Jaskier was safe for the moment. Soothed by the bard’s voice.

"You fool." Jaskier muttered as he struck a particularly sad chord.

As Geralt watched Jaskier play, he thought back to the moment that had started all of this. It had all been such bad timing.

For weeks he’d struggled to find sleep, his campsites too quiet and his bard caught up in the whirlwind of romancing the Countess de Stael. With all that silence he thought that finally he’d be able to rest, but that wasn’t what had happened. Instead, the absence of Jaskier’s voice had allowed his own to float back in. That little voice that reminded him of all the terrible things in the world.

All Geralt had wanted was some damn peace from it.

Of course, that’s when Jaskier came along and turned everything on its head. If he hadn’t tried to take the djinn, Geralt and Yennifer never would have met. Geralt wouldn’t have stupidly wished to save her. The djinn never would have tried to warp their destinies the way it had. Yennifer wouldn’t have asked who Jaskier was and Geralt never would have realized-

"I’m weak my love, and I am wanting." Jaskier’s voice was aching, an echo of everything Geralt had felt when he’d placed the bard into the hands of a sorceress.

The memories of that day were faded, tattered things. The edges of them were held in a fog, like frost on a mirror. The more Geralt rubbed at the edges of it, the more clearly he could see.

There hadn’t been anything between him and Yennifer before he’d rushed into that house to save her. He’d even told Jaskier the only reason he was doing it was because he owed her for saving the bard. She’d never been his destiny to begin with.

His destiny was meant to be filled with a different sort of pain. The heartache of watching Jaskier live and breathe and revel in his own mortality was Geralt’s destiny. To know that the man he loved was going to die hundreds of years before Geralt slowed down enough to get killed.

That was the thought that kept him up for weeks. That was the thought that had driven Geralt to the djinn. That djinn was supposed to bring Geralt’s own mortality back. Only a djinn could undo what a djinn had done, after all, unless you had a sorceress powerful enough to break a djinn’s hold.

Geralt had that sorceress now, or he’d had her, and as soon as he could catch up with her long enough to apologize he would. He hadn’t taken only his own life off course. He’d dragged Yennifer and Jaskier down that same path. He owed both of them an apology. Jaskier would get his first, but Yennifer would not be forgotten. He owed her more than he could ever give and still he was going to ask more from her.

She’d been right when she said he could wish not to be a witcher. To never have been one. That wasn’t what he wanted though. Fighting monsters was a part of who he was now. The potions and the signs and the heightened senses and healing were all his. Magical mutations to be sure, but not a djinn cursed destiny.

It was the immortality that held him back. The knowing that everyone he loved would grow old. That his body would still be restless and seeking adventure long after Jaskier’s bones ached too much to travel and his skin wrinkled from years of experience.

Geralt had lived long enough, he’d walked the Path for centuries now. He just wanted some damned peace.

"If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence, Give to you my penance. Garrotter, jury and judge!" The vibrato of Jaskier’s song drew Geralt in, away from his thoughts and plans.

Now that he knew Yen was strong enough to break a djinn’s hold, the path was clear. It wasn’t something to trudge through anymore. With Jaskier at his side and Ciri in his future, Geralt could see the peace he so desperately craved.

He stepped into the firelight, ready to give his own penance and welcoming the destiny he'd pushed away for far too long.

Chapter Text

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, and his tone wasn’t surprised at all. He sounded resigned, like he’s expected Geralt to come after him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and like every other time he’s said the other man’s name it came out of him like a breath. He didn’t wait or hesitate on his next words. The last time he’d put off saying something important to Jaskier their entire lives were knocked off course. Yennifer could arrive beside them, on fire and screaming to be saved, and Geralt wouldn’t have waited another moment.  “I’m sorry.”

“Are you now?” Jaskier asked. His words were like a knife’s edge, sharp and dangerous and nothing to be played with. He set the lute aside and stared at Geralt like he could see straight through the witcher and into his very heart. From the sneer on his lips, it was evident that he didn’t like what he could see.

“I-” Geralt paused, and rethought what he was about to say.  He wanted to explain it all, to tell Jaskier that the djinn was the reason that Geralt had been so obsessed with Yennifer. That it was the djinn that had shoveled shit into their lives and Geralt’s own mistakes that had nearly - god, let it be nearly - ruined them.

“You?” Jaskier prompted, but the tone wasn’t right.  It was mocking and cruel. “You’re sorry, and you what ? You came halfway down the mountain in the dark, tracked me down when it was clear I wanted to be alone, and for what, Geralt?”

“To keep you safe,” Geralt answered, and already headed towards to keep you close.  To kee what’s important and prove to you that I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean anything I said. Words are so much easier when they’re meaningless . Jaskier snorted, interrupting the slurry of words that were threatening to fall from Geralt’s lips long before he could push them over the edge. 

“I’m perfectly safe on my own, thank you very much.” Jaskier said, “Come to think of it, the only time I’m really in danger is when you’re around. You were right, you know. We’re not good for each other. The two of us together, there’s always shit piling up and neither of us are happy.”

“That isn’t-” Geralt started, but Jaskier cut him off again.

“Isn’t it, though?” He asked, standing up. He looked like he wanted to storm off, but this was his campsite and his bedroll was already laid out. Geralt was the intruder here,  and Jaskier wasn’t leaving. He paced instead, his voice rising as he worked himself into a well-deserved frenzy. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? If life could give you one blessing- well, you’re getting your blessing here and now.  I’m not your problem anymore. Go race after your psychotic witch and don’t worry about me. Don’t even think about me. I’m done with you, with all of this. I’m done being your scapegoat and your punching bag and above all else, I’m done following you around. This is the last we’ll see of each other, Geralt of Rivia, I can promise you that.”

“No,” Geralt said, and then he sat down on the log Jaskier’d been sitting on. He dropped his bag at his feet and crossed his arms. Guilt was eating him up inside, twisting like a briar bush around the words in this throat. Around I’m sorry, and I know I fucked up and please let me make it right. Now was not the time to tell Jaskier anything important. He was too angry and he had every right to be, but the words that Geralt wanted to say weren’t the ones that would soothe Jaskier’s fury.

“No?” Jaskier whispered, but it sounded like a shout in the quiet of the camp. “No?”

“No,” Geralt agreed, staring into the fire as he tried to think of the shortest way to get at what he wanted to say. Jaskier was in no mood to allow important speeches from anyone but himself, and while Geralt had so many words filling him to the brim like a river at the end of a month’s long rain, he didn’t have the time or opportunity to say them now. Whatever he said next was going to have to be short and sweet and to the point. 

“You do not get to tell me where to go, or what to do, or how I spend my life.” Jaskier snarled, unaware of Geralt’s inner turmoil. Not that Geralt had ever given Jaskier a reason to believe that an inner turmoil could exist inside of him, and let alone over something like the forgiveness of his bard.

“I know,” Geralt said simply, and when it appeared that Jaskier was finally going to allow him to get out an entire sentence he looked up from the fire and into Jaskier’s eyes as he said, “It’s my turn to follow you.”

Chapter Text

When Jaskier went to bed that night Geralt knew that it was only a matter of time before the bard attempted to sneak off, to get ahead of him. 

To put some distance between them. 

He had every right to want that, and to have it, but Geralt stayed awake regardless. He couldn’t let the bard slip out of his grasp while he still had him. While there was still some small chance to make this right.

It was easy to hold vigil through the night with a stamina potion coursing through his veins and a thousand different apologies swirling around in his mind, but even after the potion wore off, Geralt’s own determination kept him awake until dawn. 

Much like when Geralt had entered the camp, Jaskier didn’t appear surprised to find the Witcher awake and ready to go the next morning. He also did not appear interested in talking about the issues between them. Instead he’d checked that the fire was really out before he turned his back on Geralt, heading down the trail without a word.

For most of the day he marched down the mountain, silent and seething.  He barely made a sound the whole way down, saving his breath for the grueling pace he set. Aside from the pace and the silence, Jaskier did nothing else to escape the Witcher. Following the bard down the path, Geralt decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed how much Jaskier wanted to be rid of him.

Instead, he followed behind Jaskier, keeping an eye out for any creatures that might try to take advantage of the bard’s apparent vulnerabilities. Destiny was on Jaskier’s side, however, and there were no monsters for Geralt to fight. They reached the tavern at the base of the mountain just as the sun was setting. Jaskier finally slowed as he approached the building. 

The bard’s shoulders were hunched as he reached the tavern. He stopped at the doors and glanced back at Geralt, who hovered like a badly formed shadow, existing just out of the corner of the eye and pointed in the wrong direction. His expression didn’t change upon actually seeing the wither, and Jaskier yanked the tavern door open with nothing but a grunt. It was a form of communication that Geralt was fluent in speaking and ill-equipped to translate. He couldn’t tell if the sound was acceptance, or irritation, or dismissal so he continued to follow Jaksier straight up to the room they’d rented out for the week to keep their things safe while they were up on the mountain.

Geralt paused in the doorway, watching the bard huff and grumble as he threw his things around the room. He didn’t look like he was packing, at least, but he certainly wasn’t settling in to work out their differences either. After nearly ten minutes of pulling clothing out of his pack and shoving them back in at random, Jaskier whirled on Geralt.

He pointed a finger at the Witcher, eyes narrowed.

“I am going to play for the nice, friendly crowd down there and make enough coin to get myself back to Oxenfurt.” He said, shoving his finger into Geralt’s chest as he stalked up to the man hovering in the doorway. “You are not allowed down there. You are not allowed to listen to my music or show your stupid Witcher face where I have to see it while I’m performing. Understood?”

“Am I allowed in the room?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier blinked, taking a step back.

“You paid for it, didn’t you?” He snapped, waving a path for Geralt to enter. Geralt stayed at the door.

“We both paid for it, with our combined coin.” Geralt reminded him. “Like we’ve always done.”

The look that crossed Jaskier’s face at those words was like a mirror of how he’d looked when Geralt shouted at him on the mountain top, except this time there was an unmistakable anger brewing beneath it.

“Just,” he began, pinching the bridge of his nose as though Geralt were giving him a headache. He waved towards the room again. “Just, get in here. And don’t come down while I’m playing.”

“Okay,” Geralt said, stepping obediently into the room. Jaskier was in charge now, had to be in charge if Geralt was going to show him how much he mattered. How much Geralt needed him.

All the words in the world would do them no good if Geralt couldn’t prove to Jaskier that he meant them.

So Geralt waited until Jaskier had grabbed his lute and closed the door behind him before letting his own shoulders relax. There was a tension there that he hadn’t realized he was holding. It felt like letting out a breath after waiting to find out if the next tavern he entered was going to welcome him or drive him away. There had been every chance that once they reached the tavern Jaskier would send Geralt away for good, or take his own things and keep walking right out of Geralt’s reach.

Geralt wouldn’t have sat by and watched Jaskier walk out of his life without a fight, but this would be easier. Jaskier was furious at him, and hurting, but he was letting Geralt into the room and still felt safe enough to order the Witcher around like a wayward child rather than the ancient and dangerous creature that he was. Things between them might be broken, but they weren’t irreparable. 

Geralt sat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room, not certain what to do with himself. He couldn’t order a bath without going down to talk to someone, and the same was true for getting dinner. All of his things were tucked away like they always were, ready to go at a moment’s notice in case Jaskier changed his mind and Geralt had to chase after him.

Jaskier hadn’t packed up his things, though, despite his flurry of grabbing and shoving and folding. However, there was something different about how they were organized now. Everything that Jaskier owned was separated from Geralt’s things. Where once their clothing had been mixed up between their bags, now all of Jaskier’s clothing was folded and placed on the corner of the desk across the room. 

His notebook was straightened up as well, sitting next to the clothing. The pages were no longer spread around the room in a frantic whirlwind of creativity. Even his bag was fastened closed, tucked away beneath the desk, and Geralt didn’t doubt that the spare sewing kit and replacement quill nubs Jaskier had purchased a few weeks before were no longer in the front of Geralt’s own pack. He didn’t get up to check, didn’t want to see the signs of Jaskier pulling away. 

Instead he stared at Jaskier’s bag, trying to parse its meaning. The bag looked as closed off as Jaskier had when he left the room. The notebook was shuttered to Geralt the same way that Jaskier’s thoughts were. They no longer spilled out and drifted around as they pleased. Instead the bards words, his possessions, and the bard himself, were no longer within Geralt’s grasp. 

Yet, Jaskier had let him into the room. He’d told him to stay upstair, in the one place the bard would have to return to if he wanted to collect his possessions. If Jaskier really wanted to sneak off and make a break for it then leaving his bag and notebook up here wasn’t the way to go about it. He wanted Geralt up here, wanted him to see what it would look like if his cruel words became reality and Jaskier was taken off his hands.

Geralt sighed, running said hands down his face.

He’d fucked this up in so many ways. It was going to take a lot of work to set things to rights again and Jaskier wasn’t going to make it easy. Geralt rested his hands on his knees and stared around the room again, his determination redoubled now that he knew what he would be missing if he couldn’t repair what he’d broken. 

 Now that he had all of his faculties again, his destiny back in his own control and no djinn warping reality around him, he was more than capable of doing what needed to be done.

The first step would be to build up that trust that he’d stomped all over on that mountain top. Then, once he and Jaskier were back where they’d been before they headed up that mountain, he could move on to picking up the half formed plans he’d begun while staring down at the bard spread out on the sorceresses’ bed.

Tired from the hike up and down the mountain, Geralt stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders before getting off the bed and pulling his bedroll from his pack. Laying it out beside the bed, he wrapped himself in his camp blanket and closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the music drifting up from downstairs.

There was a melancholy to it that Geralt couldn’t ignore, however, and as he drifted off to sleep he promised himself that he was going to do everything in his power to turn the tone of Jaskier’s music back to its rightfully joyful nature.

Chapter Text

Geralt was a light sleeper at the best of times. When he was anticipating his travel companion might try to sneak off in the middle of the night it was impossible to expect him to stay asleep when the door opened. Said travel companion snuck back into the room at the wee hours of the morning and Geralt held very still, using his senses to tell him which direction their journey was about to go. His entire body was tense, waiting to see if Jaskier was going to steal away in the dark and leave Geralt to track him down in the dead of the night.

The bard closed the door behind himself, smelling of ale and sweat and a sour mood. He set his lute case down. Though Geralt could not see him, he could hear how gentle the bard was with his most prized possession. His shoes came next, the soft sound of boots slipping off and bare feet padding across the wooden floor. 

The Witcher to relaxed back into his bedroll. People intending to run away usually kept their shoes on, in Geralt’s experience.

Jaskier stumbled across the room then, standing on the side of the bed opposite from where Geralt was laying on the floor. Geralt kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, as he waited for Jaskier to make the next move. From the sounds of his breathing and the way his heart lurched as he reached the bed, Geralt was instantly worried that he was injured in some way.

He almost sat up to check on whatever injuries the bard had, but he clenched his fists and held still as he reminded himself that he couldn’t smell any blood. Just the sharp tang of misery that’d lingered around Jaskier all day.

As the bard crawled onto the bed he let out a wounded sound that ripped Geralt’s heart and his resolve to shreds. He might be the reason Jaskier was upset, but now that he was in complete control of his choices and emotions Geralt couldn’t turn his back and let the bard suffer in silence.

Geralt shifted a little and reached up, sliding his hand along the edge of the bed until he could find a piece of Jaskier to grasp onto and squeeze in what he hoped was a comforting way.

From the way Jaskier shrieked and jerked away, the Witcher supposed he hadn’t done as good a job as he was hoping for. He pulled his arm back, sighing heavy and sitting up, an apology already on his lips.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” He started, his words slowing as Jaskier stared at him with wild, frightened eyes. Even as they stared at each other, Jaskier’s jack-rabbiting heart slowed and the panic in his eyes eased away to reveal an incredulous expression.

“What the fuck are you doing down there?” He asked, the blanket bunched up around his chest as though that might protect him from whatever monster he’d thought was crawling out from under the bed to have its way with him. “Have you been here this whole time?”

“Of course,” Geralt said, eyebrows furrowed. His own heart rate was slowing now that he could see Jaskier, could see that he was fine. Startled, and still in a mood, but certainly not so disgusted by Geralt’s touch that he’d felt the need to imitate a beann'shie. “Where did you think I was?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier said with all the drama a drunken man could muster in the middle of the night, which was to say quite a bit, actually. “Not here, that’s for sure. Not laying on the ground when there’s a perfectly good bed. Figured you’d gone off to hack something up, or.” 

He cut himself off, as though whatever he’d imagined Geralt was off doing was too painful to put to words. Geralt followed his line of sight to see his own travel bag and armor tucked away beside him. He’d put it there to make sure Jaskier wouldn’t trip over it when he came in, and to make sure he had it within reach in case Jaskier decided to leave.

He hadn’t considered how empty it would make the room look, to have Geralt and all of his things hidden away on the wrong side of the bed.

“I’m not leaving,” Geralt said, shifting to his knees. He wanted to reach out and take Jaskier’s hand in his own, to reassure him. After what happened when Geralt only a few minutes ago he wasn’t sure another attempt at physical comfort would be welcome. Instead, he stayed where he was, willing Jaskier not to misunderstand. “I meant what I said before. Where you go, I follow. If you want to go to Oxenfurt then that’s where we’re going. If you want me to stay in the room all evening, that’s where I’ll be.”

“I’ve never heard so many words from you all at once,” Jaskier said, not acknowledging any of what Geralt was trying to say. He leaned forward, looking down at the bedroll Geralt was kneeling on, and frowned. “Why were you sleeping on the floor again?”

“So you could have the bed to yourself,” Geralt replied. His voice was soft, years of living under the djinn’s curse building up the walls Jaskier had spent a decade dismantling. Talking was hard enough when he wasn’t thinking about the importance of what he was saying, and three times as hard when what he wanted to say actually mattered. 

The bard stared at him for a long moment, as though waiting for the punchline or for an explanation that would make more sense. When Geralt said nothing and did nothing to indicate that he was lying, Jaskier huffed and laid back down, turning his back to Geralt without another word.

Geralt laid down too, staring up at the wooden beams and listening to Jaskier’s breathing begin to even out. The smell of the room shifted from distress and hurt to something more soothing. It wasn’t happy, per se, but it hinted at the borders of satisfaction and that was enough to keep Geralt hoping. As his eyes fluttered shut, Jaskier shifted a little. 

“Geralt?” He whispered. Geralt made a questioning noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t scare me like that again, yeah?” 

Geralt hummed his agreement, smiling at the implication that Jaskier expected him to be around long enough to startle him in the middle of the night again. 

As Jaskier finally succumbed to sleep Geralt reconsidered the other man’s words, the way he’d been so surprised to find Geralt still in the room, the melancholic smell of him when he’d returned to find Geralt gone. There was every chance Jaskier was talking about Geralt not startling him again, but the bard had come back expecting Geralt to still be there and instead he’d found himself alone. The sound he’d made when he thought Geralt had left was wretched and not something Geralt was ever willing to be the cause of again.

This wasn’t just about fixing what he’d broken or continuing with the plans he’d had before being sidetracked by the Yennifer debacle. This was about proving to Jaskier that they were partners and that Geralt respected the bard, would listen to him, and would put in the work even if things were difficult.

Becoming mortal and spending the rest of his shortened life with Jaskier wouldn’t mean anything unless he was capable of letting the other man in, letting them be equals in every sense of the word, including the emotional, conversational, and any other realm that Jaskier had more talent in than Geralt.

Closing his eyes, Geralt began mentally practicing all the changes he knew he would need to make. All of the apologies he needed to offer and the thanks he would demonstrate both verbally and in action. As he drifted in and out of sleep a vision came to him. It was the same one he’d held onto selfishly for years, hiding it away so that not even Jaskier knew it existed. It was an image of the future he wanted so badly that even when he was bound to Yennifer he still sometimes thought about it and wondered why he wasn’t working towards it.

It was what brought Geralt and Jaskier back together time and again despite the djinn curse attempting to drive them apart.

It was Jaskier, gray at the temples and laugh lines wrinkling his eyes. It was his sunspotted hand gripping Geralt’s as they both watched the horizon. It was an unspoken understanding between them, the bard shivering in the cold and Geralt moving to wrap a blanket around them both. It was the way Jaskier’s eyes would light up, blue as the first day they’d met, as he caught sight of what Geralt had noticed a few minutes before. A figure on the horizon, riding at breakneck speed towards them, blond hair flowing behind her.

From their spot in front of a simple cabin, Geralt could see the two swords sheathed on Ciri’s back and the wide grin as she returned home for the winter that would be arriving soon.

That was the future Geralt wanted, the future he’d never told a soul about in case it didn’t happen. That was the image he’d had in mind when he’d shouted that he wanted some damn peace and Jaskier’s throat had bulged in a sickening way and everything had gone to shit.

Rolling over, the verge of sleep beckoned even as the mix of his once-hoped-for future and the reality of Jaskier getting hurt because of it pushed him towards the waking world. Bleary-eyed, he sat up long enough to check that Jaskier was still on the bed before laying down again. His own heart slugging away in his chest faster than normal for a Witcher at rest.

Jaskier was okay. Not entirely happy, not content to sit beside Geralt as they waited for their child surprise to return home, but safe for now. All the rest would come with time.