Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier died near Blaviken. There seems to be some cruel twisting of fate with that.

A knife through the heart, blood blossoming like a rose, at least he got to die near the flowers, at least he can see the stars, Geralt always told him to be more careful but Geralt was meant to be there to save him and he swears the moon is laughing and isn’t dying meant to be faster, the grass is wet, his eyes are so wet, god that hurts, isn’t he meant to be dead by now - Geralt, he wants Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt -

Jaskier woke up about two minutes later, in Oxenfurt, and found himself about half an inch from the Witcher’s grim face. His golden eyes widened slightly in surprise, and Jaskier thought it would have been an almost comical expression, had he not just died.

Death is historically very detrimental for comedy.

Jaskier stares at him, and apparently the confusion must be evident on his face because Geralt looks vaguely amused in the ambiguous way he seems to express his feelings.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Geralt says, and he must be irritated because there’s a strange tone in his voice, not one that Jaskier has heard before, but at least not the anger Jaskier had expected.

“Geralt?” Jaskier checks, voice breaking a little and perhaps slightly squeakier than a masterful bard’s should be.

“Yes.” Geralt frowns, and Jaskier can see lines forming in his brow. “I didn’t see you come in.”

The low thrum of his voice sends Jaskier tumbling back through time, crashing back onto a rugged mountain and a dragon’s cave, if life could give me one blessing, shovelling shit, see you around Geralt, one blessing.

Jaskier swallows, throat suddenly dry. He thinks he should probably get back to dying, or whatever it is one does after they’ve been stabbed in the woods, or literally anything other than staring at the man he’s been pathetically obsessed with for twenty years. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to see me. I’ll just, um. Be off then. See you around, Geralt.”

He wonders where exactly around is, and if this is his personal heaven.

Or hell.

He’s definitely slept with enough people he definitely shouldn’t have slept with to wind up in hell.

They’re tucked into a table in the corner of a tavern, a slightly out of tune bard singing Her Sweet Kiss – really? Did it have to be that one? Does Geralt know he wrote it? Is he listening to the lyrics? – and the air is drenched with alcohol and sweat. He’s not sure where the door is, and briefly contemplates an eternal existence stuck with a Geralt who hates him and off-key singing.

Hell, definitely.

“You’re bleeding.”

Right, the knife.

The knife. He looks down. Where is the knife?

Aren’t I meant to be dead?

“I just ran into a little bit of trouble with bandits! A little scratch! No worries!” Geralt is frowning deeper now and Jaskier is still looking around for the door.

“I have bandages in my room.” Geralt stands up, abandoning his lukewarm ale, and walks towards some stairs. “Come.”

“Oh, that’s very – nice, of you Geralt, but I do have to go. I’m busy, I have this… thing…” I’m a bit busy trying to die, right now, and I’m still in love with you, and this is all very strange.

“Come.” He says it in the same stern tone he used when Jaskier wanted to watch him kill a monster. Stay here, he would say, and Jaskier would feel heat pooling inside of him, and would sometimes even do what he was told. Usually not, but today, he thinks it’s probably for the best, so he follows Geralt to a dusty room, and sits awkwardly on the bed.

“You’re not normally so calm when hurt.” Geralt comments, searching through his bags. Jaskier thinks that’s an entirely unfair judgement, if you ignore three or four cases incidents with getting a bit close to werewolves. And he’s not exactly calm, he’s just awfully confused about how he got there and why Geralt was being so nice. “Shirt off.”

It’s silly, but Jaskier blushes slightly at that. It’s not like they haven’t seen each-other sans clothing before, but it’s been a year, and usually it’s Jaskier lecturing Geralt about proper bandaging, not the other way around. He pulls off his doublet, noting the ripped and muddy, blood-stained fabric. He’d paid a lot for that fabric, those bastards. He can feel the blood beginning to form a dried crust, the cold air against the still oozing wound, but it’s painless.

Geralt kneels in front of him with bandages and healing salve, and stares. Jaskier would describe him as speechless, but Geralt says so little to begin with it's hardly different from his normal state. “This isn’t a scratch. This is very deep.” Geralt looks at him accusingly. “Is this some kind of trick? You should be dead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not so childish as to try to trick you. If you’re so bothered by it, I’ll do it myself.” He’s a little irritated the Geralt thinks he’d go to all this effort to trick him, but as he can’t seem to keep in stupid head, they’re not friends, Geralt doesn’t even like him.

“Jaskier. You should be dead.”

There’s a lump in his throat. “I think I’m going insane.”

“Explain.”

“I think I died.” He pauses. “Please don’t kill me?”

Geralt actually looks almost disturbed by that, but Jaskier assumes that’s the fact he should be dead, because he knows Geralt would probably welcome the opportunity to be rid of him. He didn’t even last twelve months before he became a burden again.

“Why would I kill you?”

“You kill monsters for a living. And, I just got stabbed, and died. And now I am here, with you, in this seedy tavern with a sub-par bard.” He looks out the window, and notes a familiar skyline in the dark. “A seedy tavern in Oxenfurt? What in god’s name are you doing in Oxenfurt?”

“I was looking for you,” Geralt says, softer than Jaskier would have thought he was capable. Then, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, his face hardens, and Geralt snarls. “Who hurt you? How'd you die?"

“It wasn’t very remarkable, honestly.” Jaskier sighs with a slightly musical tone, a cascading of notes. “Me, some bandits, a knife. You know how these things go. A rainy evening, men looking for trouble and strife. Someone recognised me as your friend, and I suppose you could say things went south from there.” He winces slightly, realised he'd referred to himself as Geralt's friend, but hopefully Geralt is distracted and didn't notice. “Oh, don’t look so grim, dear Witcher. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Why are you here, Jaskier?” Oh. Oh.. He doesn't know why he's so surprised. He knows Geralt doesn't want him, not as a friend or a companion and not even as a stranger in a tavern. Geralt had made his feelings perfectly clear on that.

It’s a good question, though. Why is he here? Even in death he’s still a burden, still more dead weight for Geralt to drag around out of some misplaced sense of duty. He tries to remember what he’d been thinking the moment he died, and it strikes him, in a humiliating and debasing rush, he’d thought about Geralt, he’d spent his last seconds thinking about how much he loved Geralt.

“It seems the fates still needed more from me.”

*

Geralt can tell he’s missing something, Jaskier’s not telling him something, but he’s never been able to read the complex emotions that flitter across faces, can’t understand people like Jaskier does.

“What aren’t you saying?”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything for a moment, and it’s odd, because Geralt’s never known Jaskier not take the chance to use his voice.

“Can I put my shirt back on now?” His voice is shaky, and Geralt realises he’s not as calm as he’s trying to be, salty water swelling behind his eyes.

Geralt reaches out to touch his chest, where blood is still blooming, and pointedly ignores the slight flinch. His fingers reach where Jaskier’s body should begin, where he should feel his warm skin and feel the delicate human bones and his rapid, quivering heartbeat.

Instead, his fingers pass through Jaskier’s flesh like he submerged them in cool water, nothing but chilling hollowness.

Jaskier starts to cry.

Chapter Text

“Why were you in Blaviken?”

Geralt knows Jaskier is next to him, lying on the misshaped mattress, but he can’t feel the warmth that he usually emits, can’t hear his flickering heartbeat, can’t smell his citrus scented perfumes or the oil he uses for his lute. He briefly wonders what happened to Jaskier’s lute. It seems an extra limb for the bard, never out of reach. The bed creaks under Jaskier’s weight, and the pillow crumples to accommodate his head, so Geralt knows he’s there, this isn’t his guilt haunting him.

He just can’t feel him.

“What do you think? Playing music, meeting lovely women.”

“In Blaviken?”

“Yes, in Blaviken.”

“And then you woke up here.” He feels guilt crashing over him in waves, because Jaskier, who wanted nothing to do with him, had died because Geralt fucked up and left a town of angry villagers.

“Hmm.” He hopes he doesn’t sound too accusing. “You said you went to Oxenfurt during Winter.”

“And you said you went to Kaer Morhen like a good witcher, but here you are.” Jaskier does sound accusing. “Looking for me? Why, are my songs about you too popular? Do they annoy you? Was yelling at me once not enough?”

Geralt hears the hurt in Jaskier’s tone, the slight hitch in his voice. He grits his teeth. “I was going to apologise.” And ask if you wanted to come back to Kaer Morhen with me. And probably drag you along even if you said no, because you do stupid shit when you’re alone, and now you’re dead.

Jaskier props himself up on an elbow and stars at Geralt. “Apologise?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” A pause. Jaskier looks hesistant, and adds, cautiously, “It’s… alright, you know. I know I annoyed you. I just didn’t understand how much until then, and then I suddenly realised what you’d been trying to tell me the entire time I was following you around, when you said to shut up or to stay behind or to stop sleeping with women at all the towns. I don’t want to be like that anymore, if we’re travelling together, so things can be better.”

This echoes around Geralt’s head. I suddenly realised what you’d been trying to tell me the entire time. He had known, of course, that Jaskier was young and human and would not want to be in a … relationship, with Geralt, who was a century old, and covered in scars. But he’d tried anyway, too awkward with words to tell him directly, and he had hoped Jaskier understood, and it looks like he did, and wasn’t interested. I don’t want to be like that anymore, if we’re travelling together, so things can be better. The rejection is soft, and quiet, but it burns inside, small and smouldering.

“You didn’t annoy me,” he says, eventually. “And I am sorry.”

Jaskier shrugs. “I’ll need some time, you understand, to figure out how to act.”

Geralt remembers the day on the mountain, the misplaced anger, the confused feelings. He understands Jaskier will need time to forgive, need time to process the unrequired feelings he knows Geralt has.

This is mortifying.

“I understand.”

“Well, alright then.”

Geralt tries to sleep, to pretend this is a night like any of the other hundreds they’ve shared, but he worries Jaskier will decide he can’t bear to be around Geralt’s pathetic feelings, Jaskier will get up and leave and slip through his fingers again and Geralt won’t be able to stop him.

When the sun rises, Jaskier is still there, so Geralt tries bandage his wound, despite Jaskier’s insistence there’s no pain. Applying the fabric and salve is like trying to dress the wind, until Jaskier takes the roll and does it himself, and that seems to hold.

They begin the walk North to Blaviken, because Jaskier says he needs to go get his lute – “if those bastards didn’t take it” – and because Geralt needs to find Jaskier’s body, convince himself he’s not going insane.

The air is cool in the morning, flickering on the edge of autumn and winter. Jaskier usually begins complaining about the cold before autumn has even begun, but he’s quiet now, trudging dutifully through the field. The long grass sways through his body like it’s not there. He’s faintly translucent under the sun, like a flickering mirage. The daisies on the ground ripple through the leather of his boots. It makes Geralt feel sick.

“Can you ride Roach?”

Jaskier hesitantly tries to touch the horse. His palm passes through her coat, and she snorts irritably.

“I don’t think so. I think I can’t touch anything that lives and breathes.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looks at Roach appraisingly. “You can sit on the saddle, can’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

Jaskier manages to pull himself onto the saddle behind Geralt. In another life, Geralt had used his arm to swing Jaskier on, but that’s apparently not an option anymore. Jaskier tries not to touch Geralt, but it’s hard sharing a horse, so Geralt tries not to shudder as the feeling of cold water sweeps against him.

Evening draws in, and Jaskier gradually begins to talk, telling Geralt about the new songs he’d learnt and how much he misses his lute already and begging for stories about what Geralt had done the year they’d been apart.

They make camp, and Geralt watches the fire reflected in Jaskier’s eyes. He catches a rabbit, but Jaskier shakes his head.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to heal.”

Jaskier hums a lilting melody. “I don’t think I will. I didn’t sleep last night, either. I think I’m permanently stuck exactly like I was when I died. I tried to wash my hair, but it’s stuck in the same shape. The mud came off my face though, so that’s good. Also, I’m not sure I can eat anyway.”

“Hmm.”

“You know, if this works the way I think it does, I could be a great Witcher.”

“No.” The idea of Jaskier as a Witcher makes him shudder, imaging Jaskier being mutilated in the trials.

“No, no, hear me out. No-one can touch me, right? But I touched your sword earlier, so I must be able to touch objects. And if I skewered something with a sword, it wouldn’t be me touching it, it would be the sword. But you couldn’t touch me with an object, because you couldn’t bandage me, so I’m practically immortal. Obviously, I’d have to learn how to use a sword and all that first, though.”

“Skewering isn’t how you use a sword.”

*

They don’t go through Blaviken when they arrive. Jaskier wasn’t there for Blaviken, but he knows the stories. He wonders how much is true. Instead, they walk to the path leading North, where Jaskier was stabbed.

It had been in the late evening. Jaskier had sung at the town, but had also flirted a little too much with someone who turned out to be the lord’s daughter and had been all but physically thrown out onto his ass. He wasn’t worried though, he’d become accustomed to sleeping outside since meeting Geralt, and had laid his bedroll behind a dip just off the path. Geralt always told him to be careful of thieves and bandits, but he was so close to town, and he didn’t have much to give but his lute anyway.

It was humiliatingly fast how quickly he was overpowered.

Geralt finds his body in the same grove, complete with the dagger and an identical head of tousled hair.

“God, do I really look like that?”

“There’s usually less blood.”

“I don’t know why I thought I looked good in red.” Jaskier sniffs. “It’s not at all flattering.”

He feels like he should be more panicked, screaming and crying. He’s looking at his dead body, for Christ’s sake. Instead, he feels hollow, barely recognising the corpse collapsed on the dirt.

“Hmm.”

“Hey, my lute!” He picks it up carefully and – thank god – his fingers strum it like they always could.

“I don’t understand why you came to Blaviken. You must know what I did here.”

“Yes, I know. That’s how I knew you wouldn’t be here.”

Chapter Text

“You wanted to avoid me that badly?” Geralt says. There’s an undercurrent of hurt in his voice, a tinge of indignation.

“You wanted me to!” Jaskier scowls. “I was trying to move on.” He regrets the words almost as soon as they leave his mouth. His dead body is on the ground. His dead body is on the ground and Geralt is staring at him and he doesn’t know what to say.

Geralt grimaces. “I was angry. I didn’t actually – I didn’t want you to go.” He clenches his jaw. He reaches out to touch Jaskier’s shoulder, before aborting the movement.

Jaskier doesn’t know what to make of that. Maybe this is Geralt trying to not disrespect the dead. He remembers the day on the mountain. Geralt can’t honestly mean it when he says he didn’t want him to leave. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. You don’t say those kinds of things without intent.

There’s an awkward pause. Jaskier searches for something to say.

“Oh.”

“Jaskier, I want to talk to you -”

“So, what are you thinking? About my body?” Jaskier cuts him off. He strums his lute quickly, an energetic bouncing of notes, trying to distract himself.

“Your body… the body is preserved. It should be rotting by now.”

“Right.” Jaskier smiles a little at that. “Like a Sleeping Beauty, from the fairy-tale.”

“If you want.”

“So, ah… Are we burying it?”

Geralt lets out a low sigh that Jaskier feels rumble down his spine. The breath catches in his throat.

Jaskier wants to hate him, but he knows with a terrible certainty, this is it for him. It’s so stereotypical for bards to fall into an unrequited love, and he’s always done his best to not be a stereotype, but here he is.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m going to try … join you back together.” Geralt kneels beside the body and crooks a finger, beckoning. “Come here.”

Jaskier edges closer to the body, holding his lute protectively against his chest. “Look, not that I don’t have a tremendous amount of faith in your little Witcher magics, but in case it’s escaped your brilliant notice, that body has a knife in it.” He shudders. “And I am rather fond of not dying.”

“Don’t you want to go back?”

“Of course, I want to go back! I just also don’t want to die!”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me!”

*

“I don’t have the magic to heal you, and I don’t know what my potions will do to you.” Geralt frowns, tapping his fingers against his knee. Jaskier’s right, he could try bind his body and spirit back together, but he runs the risk of Jaskier dying the moment he returns.

He breathes.

Jaskier’s standing there, or something like Jaskier anyway, vaguely transparent, hair catching the dappled sunlight, slender hands glancing across the lute strings. He loves him even if he shouldn’t, he loves him.

Jaskier’s lying there, a dried crimson rose on his chest, limbs askew in the long grass. There are clovers cradling his cheekbones, and his hair’s grown a bit since they last saw each other, curling around his ears. The trees are bare, spindly, and the fallen, dry leaves have started to encrust his body. His eyes are still open, glazed blue.

Geralt’s head is full of static.

Breath.

“Geralt?”

“Why are you here, Jaskier?”

There are so many memories. Witches and werewolves and drowners and ghouls and bruxa and Jaskier. Jaskier, who is human, and isn’t meant to be a ghost, Jaskier who’s meant to die of old age like humans do, with his delicate hands and warm skin and bright eyes, wide smiles. Jaskier who’s not meant to be intangible and cold and chilled.

“Where else would I go?” Jaskier says.

Breath.

He turns toward Jaskier, who is trying to lean against a tree, but keeps falling through.

“I’m going to take the body to Kaer Morhen.” He’s panicking, and it’s the only place he knows to go. Vesemir will fix things.

Jaskier pales slightly at the words. “I thought only witchers could go there.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive. You don’t even feel the cold anymore.”

He’s being harsh, but he knows what summons ghosts, and it’s not good magic. His friend – his real friend – might be dead. He wants to grieve. This other Jaskier looks so real Geralt almost forgets he isn’t. His eyes look like Jaskier’s eyes, his voice sounds like Jaskier’s voice. But Geralt has spoken with ghosts, Geralt’s killed the already dead, Geralt’s fought with dopplers. He knows appearance means little.

Geralt finds a blanket in his pack and gingerly removes the knife, but the body – like Jaskier’s ghost – seems frozen in time, so he carefully bundles it. It's still warm, like he died only a moment ago, like maybe he didn’t die at all. He drapes him over Roach and swings up behind him.

“Sorry, Roach.” He murmurs. “Let’s go.”

Jaskier shrugs and picks up his pack from the grass. “Alright.” His voice is a bit shaky.

*

Jaskier glances at him, and then turns his eyes away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt tighten his grip around the reigns and shift in his seat. He looks at him again, opening his mouth for a moment. The path is rough and frosted with ice. Jaskier slips, and he feels Geralt instinctively reaches out to steady him, but his hand passes through his shoulder, nothing but a slight vibration.

It’s beginning to snow, and the flakes settle on Jaskier’s eyelashes and hair, not melting.

There are two storms before they make it to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier strums his lute softly on the way up, internally composing a new song about the winter.

“Do you remember the faces of the attackers?” Geralt says, suddenly.

Jaskier tries, but it was dark, and it was over quickly. “I could probably recognise their voices.”

“Hmm.”

“You shouldn’t kill anyone else from Blaviken, Geralt. Do you know how many songs I had to sing to get people to forget about that?”

Geralt scowls. “I had to listen to them. And they shouldn’t have touched you.” His voice is a low rumble, edged with violence.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve all heard your opinions on my music,” Jaskier says. It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling, he hears. “I’m serious about this though, don’t go after them.”

Geralt sighs. “Fine.”

“Really? Just like that? I was expecting more resistance.” Though you’d probably be grateful to them, if I hadn’t come back to haunt you.

“You said no.”

The castle is beautiful, or so it was, once. It is crumbling now, rotting ruins, but the vastness of it takes his breath away. The wind whistles through the debris, and Jaskier already has a hundred songs he wants to sing.

He glances up at Geralt, his golden eyes burning. Jaskier could sing a thousand songs about his eyes. He wants to ask questions, but he bites his tongue on the way up, keeps himself quiet. He can’t bear to annoy Geralt anymore than he usually does.

An old witcher greets them at the door.

“Geralt.”

“Vesemir.”

“You’re the first to arrive. I see you’ve brought your bard.” He frowned. “You know he is a ghost? Are you being haunted?”

“Yes. On both counts.” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier scowls. “It’s hardly a haunting. I didn’t have much choice either, in case you forgot.”

The witcher – Vesemir - raises an eyebrow. “I think you both have some explaining to do.”

-

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Vesemir admits, swirling around his ale. “You both definitely have no idea how this happened?”

Jaskier shrugs, trying not to stare at the drink. He can’t drink or eat anymore, and although he doesn’t technically need to, it’s hard to not want the foggy oblivion of too much alcohol right now. “Um. No.” He shakes his head. “The ones who killed me seemed pretty human.”

Geralt hums in assent. “I was in Oxenfurt when it happened.”

Vesemir snorts and Geralt glares at him.

They’ve left Jaskier’s body in one of the bedrooms. Geralt’s carefully not looking at Jaskier, leaving him vaguely offended. Geralt doesn’t get to be upset about this. He’s the one who left him behind. If anything, Jaskier’s the one with a dead body, he should be in hysterics.

He’s not though, so he keeps staring at the ale.

“So, it must be some pre-existing magic, then. I thought one of Jaskier’s attackers might have been a mage, but the dagger you’ve shown me seems pretty standard.” Vesemir pauses, thoughtfully. “You haven’t met any witches recently?”

Geralt shifts in his seat. “Yennefer of Vengerberg. I haven’t seen her for months.”

“Probably not then.” Vesemir concedes. “Alright. I have some human healing potions. We’ll stitch up his body and then try using the Yrden sign.”

Jaskier looks up. “The what now?”

Geralt finally looks at him. “It’s a type of Witcher magic. It’s used with wraiths to force them into a corporeal form, but it might work with you as well.”

“Well. Alright then.” The sooner I can get off this mountain and not have to feel your disgust.

Chapter Text

Jaskier peers at the salt circle anxiously. “Isn’t salt a bit, you know, fairytale-ish? Is this actually going to do anything?” He’s trying not to look at his kind-of-not-really-dead body in the centre of the circle. It’s like seeing yourself in a painting, all wrong angles and odd shapes.

Geralt grunts. “It’s better than nothing.” He glances over at Vesemir. “Though I have my doubts.”

Vesemir shrugs. “It’s not going to hurt you, ghost.”

The sky is blue today, which must be rare during the winter. Jaskier has always liked the sky. The sun and moon are the bard’s bread and butter, after all.

He used to want to be a poet and not a man.

Be careful what you wish for indeed.

Geralt seems to have to some kind of decision. No doubt he’s writhing with inner turmoil. Can’t be much fun to bring back the man you hate.

“Ready?” Vesemir says. Jaskier isn’t sure if he’s asking Geralt or him. Neither of them answer.

They cast a spell simultaneously; a sudden burst of brilliant, glowing light.

Jaskier wishes he could do magic. Anything more than the generic humanity he’s been assigned. How boring, honestly.

He’s seen Yennefer’s magic before, powerful and intense and beautiful. She matches Geralt so well. Two souls, one fate. There was never any room for him.

The pain begins. It’s like he’s being inverted, twisted, broke open and bled dry, bones cracked and heart bursting, his entire body realigned and shattered as Geralt watches on, mute and apathetic. It’s dying all over again.

Why does he always think about Geralt?

He can see him in his periphrals, but his vision is fading, isn’t there supposed to be a fucking light he can go to, he didn’t sing in his local chapel all those years to be resigned to oblivion, fuck, where is Geralt?

It always comes back to Geralt.

*

Jaskier is dying. Geralt feels like the entire world is rushing past him, twice as fast, thrice, a dozen times over, and gone, it’ll be too late, Jaskier will be gone.

“Jaskier!” He tries to reach for him, but there’s an impenetrable barrier of grey wind and magic rushing the circle, he can’t see Jaskier’s body or spirit anymore.

He can’t leave like this. Not yet.

Vesemir’s voice breaks him from his stupor. “Geralt. Break your spell. Do it, now.”

Right, fuck. He breaks the sign, and the wind is slowing down, he can make out Jaskier now – two Jaskiers, one serene as the sky and the other a heaving, sobbing wreak.

“Jaskier!” Geralt calls out.

He looks up, and a faint, crumpled copy of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Hey, Geralt.”

Shit. Geralt tries to pick him up, but his stupid ghost body is just cold wind, and there’s nothing he can do.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I love you.”

What?

“I’m not … I’m – ”

Jaskier blacks out before Geralt can stutter out the rest.

Vesemir sighs. “That went poorly.” He strokes his chin. “Yennefer of Vengerberg, you said?”

Chapter Text

“He should be dead.” Yennefer frowns, peering at Jaskier’s slumbering ghost. For a second, her “brilliant, immortal goddess” act shifts and Geralt glimpses the worry in her temples, the weariness in her eyes. “And you’re entirely certain he’s not a sorcerer’s illusion? Or some kind of wraith?”

“Yes.” Geralt says. An image of snow settling on Jaskier’s eyelashes flickers through his mind. “It’s him, Yen.”

“The djinn.” She says, suddenly. “That’s it.”

“What?”

“What did you wish for? I know you made another wish.”

He clenches his jaw.

“Geralt.” She sighs, arching a perfectly curated eyebrow. “If you made a wish about Jaskier, you have to tell me. Do you want my help or not?”

Geralt tries to not look sheepish, which he suspects won’t work on her. It doesn’t. “I bound our fates.” Perhaps not the best choice, on reflection.

“Yours and mine?

“No. Yes. All three of us.”

“You bound my fate to your own, and to a childish human troubadour?” She scowls. “I hope you realise what you’ve done, Witcher.”

“I do.”

She glowers at him, violent eyes burning. “I like your bard – ”

“He’s not mine.” He doesn’t finish the rest, leaving it hanging in the air. He doesn’t want me that way.

“Be quiet. I like your bard, so I’m going to help you. But after this, Geralt? We’re done. Don’t ever try and find me again.”

“Yen …”

“Don’t call me that.” She snapped. “Your feelings mean nothing now. They’re not real, no matter what you think. And if I was Jaskier, I’d be feeling a lot less grateful.”

“Fix him, and I’ll pay you. Whatever the price.”

“This is your price. You do whatever it takes to stay out of my life.”

He winces, but nods. “I understand.”

“I’m going to my room. Stay here until Jaskier wakes up.” There’s no room for argument in her voice.

-

It’s been a little awkward since the “I love you” incident, but Jaskier is sure they can get past that. Probably. It’s not like Geralt didn’t know, Jaskier’s been chasing after him like a little puppy for decades and Geralt’s always been too polite to bring it up.

God, how humiliating though. His cheeks flush every time he thinks about it.

I’m getting kicked off this mountain the fucking moment I have my body back.

He almost wishes he hadn’t wound up at Geralt’s feet again, pitiful and fucking pathetic. If only he could have died in that field, died and bled out beneath the moon, wouldn’t that be so easy and poetic, the Witcher’s unrequited lover dying in a town full of his mistakes.

Real life is rarely poetic, though. Can’t even die right, honestly. Ridiculous. Pathetic.

Geralt knocks on the Jaskier’s bedroom door, two heavy taps as always. That’s a thing Geralt does now. Knock. It’s probably pity, but it doesn’t matter. It’s good to keep space between them.

The room is small, a crapped bedroom somewhere in one of the towers. He still can’t find his way around at all. Useless. .

Geralt’s presence seems to fill all of the space, leaving Jaskier with nothing. Literally nothing. He’s pretty sure he’s just wind at this point.

Vesemir said Jaskier blacked out earlier, but he doesn’t remember that. He remembers saying “I love you” and then suddenly he was waking up in a courtyard, with Geralt hunched over beside him, miserable.

Geralt is always miserable when Jaskier is involved, so it seems. Geralt didn’t say anything then. And so Vesemir took him here, to this cramped little room, and left him.

He didn't see Geralt after that. And now here he is. Such is life.

“I love you.”

“I’m not … “

What did he expect Geralt to say? “I love you too”?. Ridiculous. Geralt is probably itching to get back to Yennefer’s side, this conversation with Jaskier just another irritating moment.

Don’t worry, Geralt. I’m only human. Most of the time. I won’t be around for too long.

Geralt coughs. “Yennefer is here.”

Great. Brilliant. He called Yennefer. Now he can watch them fall in love right before his eyes, real time, folks, look at that.

“She’s going to try fix you,” Geralt says. “I’m sorry about what happened last time. About what you said – ”

“It’s fine. Really. I understand you completely. Let’s get this over with.” He doesn’t think he can bear Geralt’s stilted attempt at a let-down. He forces a grin onto his face, aiming for normalcy. “Gods, Geralt. I can’t wait to get back into a body. I’ve missed food so much; you have no idea.”

“I know, you’ve complained about it at every meal for weeks.” They walk together until they reach another bedroom, a small, dusty place. There’s light streaming in from a whole in the wall, illuminating the dust streams.

Yennefer is standing in the centre, his body on the bed. She’s beautiful. He understands why Geralt loves her.

He wishes he was someone powerful and beautiful. No matter. Not everyone can be glamorous and interesting like Geralt and his witch.

“Alright.” Yennefer stretches her hands. “This is going to take a while.”

“It can take all day and all night, as long as Jaskier gets better.” Geralt grumbles.

Always so polite, Geralt. Jaskier doesn’t know why he bothers with the act. Everyone here knows he’s faking.

Yennefer smirks. “Jaskier, sit next to the body and take his hand.”

Jaskier grimaces slightly but lowers himself onto the bed. His hand reaches for Geralt’s and Geralt instinctively grasps it.

Yennefer rolls her stormy eyes. “Not Geralt’s hand, you utter moron. Your own hand. The body’s hand.”

“Oh!” Jaskier flushes. This must have been the most humiliating week of his life. “Right. Apologies.”

Yennefer raises a carefully curated eyebrow. “If we do this, I’m making you two talk about your feelings for once, like the useless men you are.”

“What?” Jaskier blinks.

“Nothing.” Geralt says. “Let’s do this.”