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It comes to a head in a tiny town Geralt isn’t even sure he caught the name of. The witcher trudges back across the field, running on fumes, only his own stubbornness keeping one foot in front of the other. Geralt has the vaguest sense that he might be bleeding, but he’s also racing against the last vestiges of the potion currently keeping him upright, and if he stops to investigate, there’s no telling if he’ll be able to get moving again. So, ignoring the pain that crowds in more by the moment, Geralt keeps his eyes on the dim light of the inn at the edge of the village.
By the time he reaches it, Geralt can feel his knees wobbling, ever so slightly, under the strain of holding himself up. It’s late enough that most of the villagers still here are either three sheets to the wind or gathered around where Jaskier is playing, so at the very least, the audience Geralt is subjected to is minimal.
Unfortunately, part of that audience is Jaskier, whose attention shifts to the witcher almost the moment he comes through the door. Geralt must look as bad as he feels because Jaskier usually laughs and shrugs off whatever mess Geralt drags in with him. Not this time. This time, the cheeky smile drops from Jaskier’s lips almost immediately.
Of course, Jaskier being concerned means Jaskier doing something about said concern. Before Geralt gets much of a chance to protest that he just wants to sit down, have a drink, and forget the whole ordeal, he’s being herded upstairs instead. Maybe it looks worse than he feels even, because Jaskier rests a hand against his back as they go, heedless of the gore he must find there. Geralt means to jerk away because it’s not as if he needs the bard to ground him. He’s just too tired to bother.
Jaskier is uncharacteristically quiet the whole way, only the soft, even cadence of his breathing punctuating the echo of their steps on the stairs. Much to Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier holds his tongue the whole way, until they’re ensconced in their rented room with the door closed behind at their backs. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.” It’s the only answer Geralt allows himself. Whatever he’s feeling, there’s no room for weakness or weariness in the life of a witcher.
Jaskier frowns, giving Geralt a look he’s come to recognize as ‘I don’t believe a word of that and would very much like you to know’. Funny, as much as Jaskier talks, which things he decides he doesn’t need words for. Instead of pressing the issue, he clarifies. “What happened?”
“Nightwraiths,” Geralt offers up a terse reply, instinctively moving to sit down. He just needs to sleep this off, probably. It’ll be better in the morning.
“Those are the… the energy sucky ones, yeah?” The question is punctuated by a vague hand gesture that would probably be comical if Geralt weren’t too tired to follow it. Jaskier drops it though, in favor of grabbing Geralt’s arm when he absently tries to sit down. “Oh no you don’t. I spend enough time picking monster… bits out of your hair. I’m drawing the line at the bedding.”
“There’s no monster bits,” Geralt points out. Somehow, the horrified expression pulling at Jaskier’s features isn’t the outcome Geralt had anticipated.
“That’s not better!” As if to prove his point, Jaskier holds out the hand he’d had on Geralt’s back. The blood drying on the bard’s palm is unmistakable, for the brief moment Geralt sees it before Jaskier reaches for him, specifically for one of the buckles holding his armor in place. “You’re hurt.”
Geralt knows that, of course. Without anything left to bouey him, the places that claws tore through his skin burn like alcohol on an open wound. There’s some tiny part of him that wants to be grateful for Jaskier’s deft fingers freeing him from his armor, but there’s no room for anything like weakness or vulnerability or need. He glowers at Jaskier. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, well you’ve got a funny definition of it.” There’s no scent of fear or intimidation clinging to Jaskier, and he keeps right on as if Geralt’s simmering displeasure is no more than an inconvenience.
“I don’t need your help.”
“No,” Jaskier agrees, unfastening the last buckle. “But you’ve got it.”
For the space of a single breath Geralt concedes. He almost melts into Jaskier’s painstakingly careful touch, the soothing way the bard invites him to take refuge in someone else for a little while, but then Geralt’s mind catches up with the rest of him. He pulls away from Jaskier, a growl hiding the hiss of pain the movement nearly wrenches from him. He cannot need this. He cannot need anything from anyone, but least of all someone so fragile and human.
“Go do something useful,” he snarls, an outburst to shield his shaking heart behind. Whatever perfectly logical reason he has to run Jaskier off, Geralt hates himself for it even as the words escape his lips.
Jaskier’s eyes widen a fraction in surprise maybe, but still not fear. It’s never fear. There’s hurt though, briefly, before it’s smoothed over again. “Fine, alright. I’ll just, eh, leave you to it, I guess.”
Before Geralt can say another word, Jaskier is out the door. It’s what he demanded, isn’t it? It leaves him in peace to shed his loosened armor. He can peel away the shirt that’s stuck to his wounds without anyone around to see him grimace at the way it pulls. It’s exactly as things should be, but somehow, it doesn’t feel like getting what he wants at all.
He plunks himself down in a chair to patch up the worst of it, and he’ll never, ever admit that it would have been easier with help. He keeps expecting to hear music floating up from the tavern, but whatever Jaskier has decided to do with his time, it isn’t that. It leaves little to distract himself with as he stitches himself back together, thinking entirely unwillingly of his blood on Jaskier’s hands.
The knock at the door tells Geralt immediately that it’s someone other than Jaskier would wouldn’t have bothered. He’s exhausted, his every move sluggish, and Geralt thinks briefly about pretending to be asleep until they go away so that maybe then he can actually be asleep. They knock again though, and reluctantly, Geralt pushes himself back to his feet, bracing against the wall until balance stops eluding him.
“What?” he demands as he pulls the door open, but there’s just a young woman Geralt vaguely remembers as the innkeeper’s daughter. She holds out a towel, already glancing at the stairs like he’s something to escape. “There’s a bath for you.”
He hadn’t ordered one, which only leaves Jaskier, refusing to repay Geralt’s behavior in kind. Geralt pauses with his forehead leaning against the door frame. “Fuck.”
---
It’s not long before Jaskier invites himself in to keep Geralt company or whatever it is he’s decided this is.
“I will not pretend to have any experience being on the wrong end of a nightwraith, and… let’s face it, I couldn’t guess either because you never tell me anything-” Jaskier pauses in the middle of answering a question Geralt didn’t ask. As if he’s entirely forgotten their last interaction, he comes close enough to push the mug he’s holding into Geralt’s hand. “But you looked like you might want this.”
Geralt meets Jaskier’s gaze with a noncommittal hum, trying to work out the bard’s angle, knowing he will find none. Jaskier is simply kind to him because… just because he wishes to be, Geralt supposes, with no real idea why. He has a very good idea about why the whole thing twists warmly behind his breastbone though, and so Geralt scowls at the mug and waits for the sense of longing to pass. He cannot need this.
Oblivious to Geralt’s unease, Jaskier tugs a chair over, the legs screeching across the floor as he does. He sounds light, untroubled as ever, and far too familiar as he reaches for Geralt. “Come on. Tilt your head back.”
He knows what’s next and most times it’s fine. It’s just that most times are not this time. This time, Geralt is tired and hurting and rattled right down to his bones. The sensation of Jaskier’s fingers dragging through his hair are quickly careening from a thing he tolerates to a thing he yearns for, and he cannot need this.
“Leave off,” he growls like some sort of injured creature, hiding its fear behind sharp teeth. Jaskier’s fingers still against Geralt’s scalp, but they don’t leave, so Geralt ducks away. “I don’t need help.”
Geralt very carefully does not look as Jaskier finally withdraws his hands, not wanting to see the look on the bard’s face. It’s mostly so as not to see the hurt that’s likely lurking there. It also means he doesn’t catch the moment where Jaskier opts not to be cowed by Geralt’s bad mood. “Do you really think so little of me?”
“What?” It’s not the question Geralt would have expected, and that is enough to make him crane his neck to look at Jaskier over his shoulder.
“Don’t you “what” me.” There’s a chastising note to Jaskier’s voice, but he hasn’t moved from the chair.
Geralt shuffles in the tub to more effectively glower at Jaskier, but it doesn’t have the intended effect. Jaskier keeps staring back, and eventually Geralt gaves with an irritated sigh. “Then just say what you mean.”
It doesn’t feel like an answer at all, but apparently it’s the right thing to say, because the set of Jaskier’s mouth softens, and the indignant crinkle between his brows smoothes out. “Of course you don’t need it. Surely, you don’t think I’m such a fool that I don’t know that.”
Geralt opens his mouth, meaning to point out that that wasn’t what he’d said, but the words fizzle before he gets them out. He’s caught between making peace and that yowling thing at the back of his mind that accepts no suggestion of weakness or want.
“What you need and what you deserve are rarely the same thing,” Jaskier ventures when Geralt doesn’t speak. “There’s nothing wrong with letting someone be good to you every now and again.”
If only it were so easy. If only he wasn’t teetering on the edge of some manner of fragility he has no name for. If he caves in, here on this precipice, he may never find his way out again. “I-”
It doesn’t seem to matter much that Geralt doesn’t finish. Jaskier gets up, and for a moment the witcher thinks he’s going to leave. The feet scrape against the wood floor once more, but then Jaskier comes back, sinking down on his knees just outside the tub. “If you can’t for your own benefit then just… let me be selfish for a little while.”
There’s an implication there that leaves Geralt reeling. It's another thing not meant for him, but Jaskier's fingers find their way back to his hair and all Geralt's resolve just crumbles. He cannot say yes, but he cannot turn Jaskier away either. Breathing out, Geralt closes his eyes and if Jaskier takes that as an invitation, the witcher doesn’t say otherwise.
For a little while, the world narrows to nothing more than Jaskier’s fingertips rubbing careful circles at Geralt’s temples until he begins to unwind in spite of himself. There are no monsters here, only warm water up to his chest and nails scritching gently against his scalp and Jaskier lingering close enough that Geralt can feel the bard’s breath, soft and steady against his shoulder.
He cannot need this, and he doesn’t. He swears he doesn’t. Geralt’s heart is a traitorous thing though, longing for this refuge. If Jaskier has any idea of the tumult he causes with his continued insistence on twining his life around Geralt’s, he gives no indication. For once, Jaskier doesn’t speak at all. He only hums something quiet and unfamiliar, patiently working the dirt and tangles from Geralt’s hair.
“There were three,” Geralt murmurs, like the details Jaskier always asks for are some sort of confession.
Jaskier stops humming, but his fingers continue. “Three… what?”
“Nightwraiths.” They’ve traveled together long enough that Geralt knows he doesn’t have to explain what that means. One is bad enough, but three of them, wailing mournfully in a field on the far end of town, all tethered to the same object… Geralt is not vindictive, and human heartache is not his purview, but some tiny, vicious thing in him hopes the man responsible for these creatures died as terribly as they must have.
“Gods,” Jaskier whispers, sympathy creeping in. It’s there and gone, couched in teasing. “It’s no wonder you’re so unbearably cross.”
No so unbearably cross as to make him leave, Geralt notes as Jaskier continues to do battle with the knots in his hair. He doesn’t realize he’s almost dropped the mug he’d been holding until one of Jaskier’s hands grasps the mouth of it, gently dragging the thing from Geralt’s fingers and setting it on the floor.
“Hey. I was-” Geralt starts.
“About to drop that,” Jaskier cheerfully finishes. Geralt can hear the smile that creases Jaskier’s lips, even if he can’t see it. Before he can decide if a retort is worth the effort, Jaskier’s hands are in his hair again.
And so it goes. Geralt’s mind quiets, the thing that gnaws at him chased off by a comfort that is not his to keep. Jaskier strays from Geralt’s hair entirely, thumbs sliding down the nape of his neck and back up again. It pulls a soft, stuttering sound from Geralt, and though Jaskier doesn’t pause, doesn’t so much as flinch, the witcher can hear the way his heartbeat picks up.
There’s an implication in that too, one Geralt is hesitant to look at too closely, but Jaskier squeezes his shoulder and abruptly withdraws. “There you are. Good as new. Well, more or less.”
Geralt hums, not so much an assent as an acknowledgment that he heard. There’s no need to fill the silence when Jaskier is more than capable of doing so anyway. He smiles at Geralt, a funny, lopsided little thing, his hand already on the door. “I’m just gonna go… back downstairs for a bit. Don’t wait up.”
Geralt does not need this. Something in him refuses to get the message though, nameless and aching as he watches Jaskier go.
---
Their room is still empty when Geralt falls into bed. Music drifts up from downstairs, the same song, Geralt thinks, as the one Jaskier had been humming. It’s not so much like the other things Jaskier plays, and if there are words, Geralt doesn’t catch them. There’s only a melody plucked out on lute strings. It’s more lullaby than ballad, leaving Geralt to wonder if he’s meant to make something of it.
It’s a foolish thought, because it’s just a song. It doesn’t mean anything, and even if it did, Geralt doesn’t need it any more than all the rest. He has no use for hands lifting his armor away or fingers in his hair, and certainly not for music when he means to be sleeping. The music lulls him anyway, an unexpected safe harbor as he drifts.
Geralt is awake when Jaskier finally comes back, but only barely, just enough to register the intrusion as something other than a threat. The bed is plenty big, so it’s not unexpected when Jaskier slides under the covers at his back. It’s not even that strange when Jaskier’s palm comes to rest on his flank, his splayed fingers warm even through the fabric of Geralt’s shirt.
What is unexpected is the way this weary, shaky thing in him finally settles. He cannot need this, decades of training insists. He should not want this, but the world is too much today, even for him. His resolve collapsed in the face of care he’s done nothing to earn, and there’s no piecing it back together tonight. There is only the absent way Jaskier’s hand drifts. There is only the ghost of a kiss to his shoulder under the cover of darkness. There is only the comforting press of Jaskier’s chest against his back.
It’s not at all what Geralt demanded, but it feels almost exactly like getting what he wants. Finally, finally, he sleeps.