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Jaskier can be very patient when he needs to be.
But Gods is he tired of Geralt’s shit.
They’ve been on the road for two days, which is bad, since they should have reached the nearest village from the last in one. Geralt’s moving slowly, which means he’s hurt – physically or mentally, Jaskier doesn’t know, though either is likely, considering the absolute clusterfuck that was Geralt’s last contract. Between a stingy alderman and drunken bigots, Jaskier’s dagger had gotten plenty of use, and that wasn’t even considering the actual archespore Geralt had killed.
However, Geralt is, as usual, refusing acknowledge his injury.
Which, now that Jaskier thinks of it plainly, probably means it’s physical, actually. Geralt is a taciturn, stoic man, but he usually lashes out when his feelings are meddled with. There’s been no angry outbursts or particularly nasty insults (Jaskier is still slightly bitter about fillingless pie, if he’s honest), and if anything, Geralt has been even more reserved than usual.
Jaskier finally snaps when Geralt mutters something about camping for the night and veers off into the wilderness.
“For Melitele’s sake, Geralt,” he shouts after the Witcher, following the path Roach has trampled into the underbrush. “Will you just tell me what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” The Witcher gives him a blank look. “We’ll camp here.”
“Nothing, yes, I’m sure,” Jaskier hisses. He starts unpacking their things, but he’s not happy about it. “Nothing’s wrong, when we’ve taken two – now three – days to travel one day’s distance and you’ve barely said a dozen words since the alderman in Brenna paid you. Absolutely nothing wrong.”
“Jaskier.” Geralt has the audacity to sound exasperated, and oh, that’s the end of that.
Jaskier rounds on him with his dagger out – Geralt doesn’t flinch, but what else is new – and keeps talking. “You’re hurt, Witcher, and I know you are,” he says. “You never move this slowly unless you are, and as much as you may want to play the strong, silent type, you’re not like that with me, not anymore. Less than a dozen words in nearly three days, after that fucking archespore, and then those assholes at the tavern – do you think I’m an idiot?”
The look on Geralt’s face says yes, but Jaskier ignores that.
“Now, if we’re going to camp – again, unnecessarily, when we both know we could be in godsdamned Maribor if we were moving at a usual pace – you’re going to stick your pride where it belongs and tell me what the hell is wrong.”
Jaskier brandishes his dagger pointedly, and Geralt sighs. He turns away and runs a hand through his tangled hair, grey with dirt at the moment.
“It’s just bruising,” he says, quietly, and Jaskier finally relaxes.
“Was that so fucking hard,” he mutters to himself, sliding his dagger back into his doublet. He abandons their bedrolls and rations and grabs the medicine bag, digging through it for the arnica. “Where?”
Geralt looks at him again, frowning, and opens his mouth – probably to protest – but Jaskier isn’t having it.
“Don’t even try,” he said, pulling out the salve and advancing on the Witcher. “I’m going to take care of you whether you like it or not, and we both know it. How many years of travelling, now? You haven’t won a single time, Witcher, and I’m not in the mood to argue with you, so as I said before: put your pride where it belongs.”
Jaskier is nearly nose-to-nose with him now, the difference in their height negligible when he’s got his chest out like this and Geralt is slumping just slightly. This close, Jaskier can see he’s favoring his left side.
“Jaskier.” Geralt sounds frustrated, but he’s not arguing. Jaskier will take it, but just in case –
“I can see you’re favoring your left side. Don’t make me jab you to prove a point.”
He’s not above it. And from the way Geralt sucks in a breath and leans back, just a bit, he knows it.
“Fine,” he mutters, finally. “It’s mostly my ribs, some on my back.”
Jaskier nods. “Off with it,” he says, reaching out to tug lightly at Geralt’s armor. “Or do you need help?”
“I’ll be fine,” Geralt mumbles, already pulling at the straps and buckles in practiced, efficient moves. Jaskier leaves him to it and sets to building up some stones and wood for a fire. He doesn’t even have to ask before Geralt is directing a small blast of Igni at the kindling.
“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs, because unlike his companion, he has manners. He makes sure the fire has properly caught and then moves to setting up their bedrolls, putting his between Geralt’s and the fire. Once that’s done, he looks back up to Geralt, who has stripped down to nothing but his breeches and his boots and is standing like a statue on the other side of the fire.
“Well, come on,” Jaskier prods, gesturing to the bedroll he’s knelt on. “Let me see.”
Geralt comes, if slowly, and Jaskier can hear the way his breathing hitches when he crouches to sit on the bedroll. This close to the fire, Jaskier can finally see his side, and fuck. It's dark, darker than Jaskier has ever seen Geralt bruise, which is a testament to something considering that Geralt's so godsdamned pale white that bruising always looks bloody awful on him.
“That’s hardly just bruising,” he mutters. “Lie down – no, like this,” he directs Geralt where to lay, “yes, good. Alright.”
He grabs the salve and opens the jar, scooping a generous amount onto his palm. “Tell me if anything hurts too much,” he says. “With that much bruising, you could have a fractured rib.”
“I don’t,” Geralt says, and Jaskier gives him a very pointed look. The Witcher backs down first and closes his eyes.
“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier grumbles. He takes some of the salve from his palm and spreads it across the worst of the bruising that he can see, a mottled stripe of black and purple that follows the line of muscle along Geralt’s chest. “The archespore did this?”
Silence. Well, that certainly answers that question. He should have known that something happened after he went back to the inn. And of course, Geralt didn’t fight back.
He never fights back, not since Blaviken. Jaskier hates it.
“I should have killed them,” he asserts, and Geralt looks at him again, sharply. Jaskier looks back, until he’s done rubbing the salve into the deepest part of the bruise and has to look back down to what he’s doing.
“Jaskier, don’t,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier snorts.
“I’m not going to go back for them,” he says. “As much as I’d like to, you obviously can’t be trusted by yourself, and frankly, I’m rather fucking tired of unnecessary walking. I make no promises for if they cross my path again in the future, though.”
A decently unknown fact about Jaskier: he never forgets a face. Decently unknown, but Geralt certainly knows by now. He frowns, clearly not liking that, but doesn’t argue. Good. He finishes rubbing the salve into the bruising he can see, stretched from Geralt’s armpit to his hip along the left side of his ribs. “Let me see your back.”
Geralt huffs, but rolls over, bracing himself on his elbow. Jaskier takes a moment to admire the way the firelight plays on all of his angles, highlighting the muscles and making the scars look even more mysterious. Geralt really is a very pretty man. Then again, so are the rest of the Witchers Jaskier has met. He bites back a snort and goes back to tending to Geralt’s bruises.
“Are you done?” Geralt asks, when Jaskier has rubbed the last of the salve into the bruises over his side and near his spine. Jaskier rolls his eyes, heedless of the fact that Geralt can’t see it, and digs his thumb into one of the bruises sharply.
Geralt doesn’t flinch, but he does hiss. Jaskier pets over the bruise in apology. He’s made his point.
“Yes,” he finally answers. “Now, dinner.”
Dinner consists of hard bread and cheese, and some bruised fruit, but it’s hardly the worst Jaskier has ever had. Plus, Geralt doesn’t move away while they eat. Instead, he sits next to Jaskier on the bedrolls, their thighs pressed together.
Jaskier hides his smug grin in his wineskin.
The morning dawns bright and cold, and Jaskier groans when Geralt yanks his blankets away.
“I’m up, you brute,” he mutters, though he doesn’t make it any further than sitting on his knees. “Are you in some kind of hurry now?”
Geralt gives him a small grin, something that barely looks like a smile but Jaskier can easily read as shit-eating. “I feel much better,” he says, and its half admission and half-goading. Jaskier makes an indignant noise and reaches for a rock to throw but can’t find any. Geralt laughs.
Jaskier can’t keep up the charade of anger when he’s faced with that. He huffs and rolls his eyes, then gets up and starts packing up the bedrolls while Geralt gets everything else. All in all, it takes them maybe twenty minutes before they’re headed back toward the road, eating a small breakfast of more bruised fruit as they go. Geralt’s quiet the whole time, but not like he had been before, so Jaskier leaves it be.
It isn’t until they reach the road that Geralt speaks, and all of the teasing has left his tone. When Jaskier meets his eyes, he looks earnest. “You can ride,” he says. It’s both an apology and a thank you, and Jaskier bites back all of the sarcasm and flowery praise that wants to come out of him – for Geralt’s sake, entirely – and just smiles, instead.
“Thank you,” he says, and lets Geralt help him onto Roach. She huffs but settles when Jaskier leans a little forward to pet between her ears. Geralt clucks, hands on her reins, and she settles into an easy walk at his side. Jaskier lets himself relax a little in the saddle. It’s not exactly rare that he gets to ride Roach, but it’s still not commonplace, either.
He thinks, while they travel. He keeps up his usual chatter, singing and humming, but it’s mostly automatic. Autumn has nearly breathed its last breath; the nights are still just chilly instead of bitterly cold, but that won’t last more than a week longer. Most of the leaves have fallen, and most everything has gone to ground to wait the cold months out.
Usually, he and Geralt would separate around this time, when they travel together in the fall. He knows they’re headed more-or-less in the direction of Murivel, their usual stop before they split up for the season. He goes to Oxenfurt, to winter and to teach; Geralt goes to Kaer Morhen, to winter and to rest.
More and more, over the years, he finds he doesn’t really want to split up. He’s thought about inviting Geralt to Oxenfurt before, to spend the winter in Jaskier’s little cottage at the Academy, but every time he does, it feels…wrong. Asking Geralt to stay with him, to forgo Kaer Morhen and seeing his brothers for the winter feels demanding, like he sees himself as more important than Geralt. Kaer Morhen is Geralt’s only real home; Jaskier, in counterpoint, has a place he considers home in nearly every city on the Continent.
But the other option, asking to go to Kaer Morhen with Geralt, comes with its own issues.
The biggest, of course, is that Jaskier doesn’t know for sure how Geralt feels about separating each season. The longer they travel together, the more they travel together; it’s been a running theme, now, for the past several years. Where at the beginning, Jaskier would travel with Geralt for maybe one season or less, usually just a few weeks at a time scattered over the year, he now spends nearly two or more crossing the Continent with him. For all Jaskier knows, Geralt could cherish the time they do spend apart.
He knows, of course, that Geralt cares for him, sees him as a close friend. He also knows that he’s annoying, and dramatic, and a liability. He can accept the reality of the fact that not everyone he loves wants to spend all of their time with him; he’s a grown man, for Melitele’s sake.
But aside from that, really, the issue is getting Jaskier to Kaer Morhen. Geralt is generally tight-lipped about his upbringing, his training as a Witcher, but he’s told Jaskier enough. He knows the path around the keep is called the killer, and he knows that dozens of young Witchers have been lost on it. Worse, he knows that a few not-so-young Witchers have succumbed to it, too.
Which means that getting him, a mere human bard, up the mountain could prove difficult.
Despite these – and a few other reasons – Jaskier still thinks about it. And thinks about it, and thinks about it, until finally, he makes a decision.
“Geralt,” he says. They’ve finally reached the nearest town to Brenna, and they’ve settled in for dinner at the dingy tavern. “I want to ask you something.”
Geralt grunts and waves a hand, a dismissive-looking gesture that Jaskier knows means continue.
“I want to go to Kaer Morhen with you.”
That seems to give the Witcher pause. He doesn’t look up, at first, instead just freezing and staring into his stew, but when he does look up, he looks…confused.
“It’s dangerous,” he says, and Jaskier should have known that would be his first thought.
“Well, yes,” Jaskier agrees, because he has no knowledge that says it isn’t. “But I’ll be with you, right?”
“It’s cold,” Geralt tries next.
Jaskier snorts. “Of course it’s cold,” he says. “It’s a crumbling castle in the high mountains.”
Geralt blinks at him, a whole wealth of bewilderment expressed in just that simple movement, and Jaskier sighs.
“If you don’t want me to come with you, that’s alright,” he says, and even though it aches, somewhere deep in his chest, it’s sincere. “We’ll split up in Murivel, as always. I can send word to the Academy that I’ll be returning for the winter season in the morning.”
Geralt hums, neither an agreement or a refusal, and Jaskier bites back another sigh.
Stupid Witcher, he thinks. Stupid me, for loving you so much all the same.
When Jaskier wakes, he finds Geralt staring at him rather intently.
It’s not a terribly unusual way for him to wake, really, so he just stretches and yawns, then sits up to stare right back. After several long minutes of nothing but silence and an impromptu staring contest, Jaskier surrenders.
“What?” he asks. “Is there something on my face? Or is my hair terrible?” He runs a hand over his face and through his hair to check; nothing feels unusual.
Geralt shakes his head, and still doesn’t speak. Jaskier barely resists throwing his hands up in frustration.
Instead, he stands, stretching again, and starts getting dressed. Geralt watches him the whole time, and he pointedly ignores it, shaking off the feeling of his hair standing on end. It isn’t until he’s dressed and holding his letter to Oxenfurt that Geralt finally says something.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, grabbing Jaskier’s wrist. The one attached to the hand holding his letter.
Jaskier blinks down at the grip. “Don’t what?” he asks, looking back up. Geralt’s gaze is intense, all molten gold and surprisingly open. Jaskier thinks he can see something like desperation there, but he has no idea what could be causing it.
“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt says, after a beat too long. “I…. I thought about it, last night. I don’t want to split up. I want you to winter with me.”
Jaskier’s grip on the letter slackens until it flutters to the ground, entirely forgotten. “Geralt,” he says, and to his horror, his voice cracks. He doesn’t focus on it, though, too taken by the vulnerable look on Geralt’s face.
This is an admission, he knows. He can feel it. Geralt is trying to tell him something, and though Jaskier can’t be sure what he’s being told, not yet, he understands that it’s important. Vitally so, to have Geralt looking at him like that.
As a rule, Jaskier tries to tone down his affection around Geralt. They’re decently tactile with one another, and for the most part he’s open about his love for the Witcher, but he knows that affection – especially physical affection – can make Geralt uncomfortable. But sometimes, he can’t help it.
Now is one of those times. He shifts, turns to face Geralt, and wraps him in a tight hug. For the space of a few breaths, Geralt doesn’t do anything, his arms just hanging limply at his sides, but then he finally hugs back. It’s a little tentative, but Jaskier doesn’t mind.
He doesn’t mind at all.