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It starts on a clear, chilly evening as he and Geralt are making their way toward the town of Hyrille, where, according to a passing merchant, they’re having troubles with a giant bug-monster. (“Kikimora,” Geralt had deadpanned as the man tried fruitlessly to stutter out the name of the beast. “Sure, that,” the merchant had said. “Wouldna buy none o’ me wares, they wouldna. Too scare’t o’ the key-more what-have-ye teh list’na what I had teh say.”)
Geralt is none too thrilled about the challenge—or, rather, the lack thereof—but had grudgingly turned in the direction the merchant pointed when Jaskier had hinted at the promise of a warm meal and a real bed. They have enough coin for a night or two at an inn, and if what the man had said is true then the townsfolk will pay a pretty penny for the kikimora’s head.
So here they are. Jaskier strums tunelessly on his lute, putting words together and not even trying to pretend that what is coming out of his mouth has the promise of a real song, while Geralt walks broodingly behind him with Roach at his side. The sun is just beginning to set when they catch sight of the town in the distance, and Jaskier thinks he might actually be onto something now (“So go pick a flower, try not to look dour, and maybe your true love you’ll find!”) and then—and then—
His fingers slip over the fingerboard, curdling the next chord like old cream. No. No. Not this. Not again. Not now, not here, not with Geralt.
He feels the sudden weight of the witcher’s gaze on his back and tries to tamp down on his panic, the scent of which is undoubtedly what has caught Geralt’s attention.
“Like what you see, Witcher?” he says loudly, strumming again on his instrument and quickening his pace to try to get some distance between them so he can gain some control of his emotions.
He tells himself that it doesn’t feel like there’s a lead weight in his stomach. It doesn’t matter that he’s felt the lethargy trickling through his bloodstream for days now, waiting to solidify in his gut and drag him down. He’s just hungry. He just needs food, real food.
He tells himself that the scenery before him isn’t duller, isn’t lacking the beauty and vibrancy it should hold. It doesn’t matter that the sun has gotten less and less bright with each daybreak lately. It’s just the coming nightfall, just the shadows being cast over the path they’re following.
He tells himself that this hopelessness, this feeling of you’ll always be a terrible musician, a useless bard, a worthless person isn’t his mind turning on him again. That this isn’t the beginning of a downward spiral into the darkness he’d sworn he’d escaped for good last time. It doesn’t matter that the shadows have been flitting around his brain ever since the last town they stopped in, over a fortnight ago. He’s just tired. He’s just tired. And, if he’s being honest with himself, the song was shite anyway.
Damn.
Okay, so. Maybe it didn’t start on this clear, chilly evening. Maybe it started nearly a month ago and Jaskier ignored it until the moment it became too big to be ignored anymore and crashed down on him all at once. And maybe that moment just so happens to be this moment, right now.
Worthless, the voice in Jaskier’s head whispers. He closes his eyes and sings louder, trying to drown it out.
“Hm.”
Geralt watches Jaskier marching along in front of him, singing increasingly loudly and out of tune. He allows the extra space that Jaskier has put between them. It doesn’t keep the bard’s sudden rise of panic out of his notice.
There’s something else there, too. Fear? Anger? Regret? Geralt doesn’t think so. It’s fainter, and the added distance doesn’t allow him to say for sure what it is. It’s not unfamiliar, though, a scent he noticed on Jaskier maybe years ago. It’s tugging at a memory, something he had seen, a mark somewhere on Jaskier’s body. An odd scar near the base of his wrist. Geralt had thought of Yennefer then, but dismissed it. Not Jaskier, with his music and annoying cheerfulness and inability to shut up.
Now, he frowns. There’s something wrong. Jaskier hasn’t been his usual obnoxious self these past few weeks. Obnoxious, yes, but it’s been different somehow. Like an act the bard is trying too hard to sell. All with an undercurrent of anxiousness and a dash of that faint something he’s picking up now. Grief? Maybe. Sorrow?
Hm. Maybe.
And then this. Geralt resolves to keep an eye on Jaskier for now. He has a feeling that eventually this will require a confrontation on his part, but he doesn’t even know what this is. He sighs. If he’s lucky, Jaskier will tell him what’s wrong before it gets completely out of hand. He sighs again.
He’s never that lucky.
They don’t even have to say anything when they get into town. The innkeep comes out to meet them with a stable boy who takes Roach away to be fed and groomed, and then they’re being shuffled into the inn with exclamations of, “Oh, thank the gods, the Witcher’s come!” Geralt hasn’t even settled in with his lager to hear the story before Jaskier is snatching up the key to their room.
“Well, it’s been a long day and all—Geralt can catch me up on all the commotion tomorrow, can’t you, Geralt—” Jaskier rambles, backing toward the staircase. Geralt frowns at him.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks.
“Eat? Oh, well I—” Jaskier lets out a short, almost hysterical laugh. “Not really hungry, you know, I’m just—tired. I’m just tired, not hungry, so I’ll just be heading up to bed then. Geralt, I’ll leave the door unlocked, of course, so I’ll just—” And then he’s practically dashing up the stairs, leaving Geralt and the innkeep staring after him.
“What’s wrong wid ‘im?” the innkeep asks.
“Hm.” Geralt had considered making Jaskier stay downstairs with them, but by now he’s so thoroughly permeated with the reek of panic that it’s making it hard for the witcher to concentrate. Better to give the bard some time to calm down, Geralt thinks. He turns back to the innkeep. “So what’s the problem here?”
When he gets up to the room, Jaskier is lying still in a mound of blankets on the floor in front of the dwindling fire. The smell of panic is muted, nearly gone, but the other emotion—Geralt is almost certain now that it’s sorrow—is sharper and the air is tinged with the scent of fresh blood.
“Jaskier,” he calls, alarmed. It’s not very strong, but still. How the hell had Jaskier managed to hurt himself already?
The bard doesn’t stir. Geralt moves to wake him, but pauses. Closer now, he can see Jaskier’s face slackened with sleep. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes. His body is relaxed in a way that it hasn’t been in a long time, not even in his slumber. The dim smell of his sorrow is muddled with relief.
“Fuck.”
Geralt sighs. He won’t wake Jaskier, not now. He’s not seriously injured anyway. It can wait until morning.
When Jaskier blinks awake, there’s a moment of complete, blissful calm within him. It’s the edge of daybreak, and he can almost fool himself into believing that he doesn’t remember the previous night.
But then he shifts. His arm aches lightly, sending a flare of shame through him.
How has it come back to this? he thinks to himself, grimacing. It’s been years since the last time, and yet the dagger had been sharp as ever, fitted perfectly into his hand and dragged neatly across his skin. No hesitation. As though the time since he’d last spilled his own blood had never passed.
And then—all of that panic, gone.
Tension drains out of his body as he watches red trails roll slowly down his forearm.
Addictingly cathartic.
How has he managed to go without this for so long?
Jaskier shakes himself out of the memory as echoes of pathetic ricochet around his head. He feels Geralt’s eyes on him.
“Sleep well?” the witcher asks when he turns. His face is unreadable as he laces up his tunic on the edge of the bed.
“Well good morning to you too, sunshine!” he replies enthusiastically (probably too enthusiastically but by the gods he doesn’t know how to act out his own personality). “Sweet of you to ask—as a matter of fact I did sleep well. And yourself?”
Geralt raises an eyebrow at him and doesn’t say anything for a moment. Jaskier wills his heartbeat not to speed up as the silence grows, but why is Geralt looking at him like that, what does he know—
You really think you’re going to fool him? his traitorous brain taunts. The Witcher? He can literally smell your fear. You can’t keep this miserable act up forever. He’s going to find out, and then what will happen? You’re already a liability. Jaskier feels the flush rising to his cheeks. He looks away from his friend, clearing his throat.
“Hurt yourself?” Geralt asks finally.
Jaskier swears his heart stops. (It doesn’t, but now it’s pounding against his ribcage like a blacksmith’s hammer on steel.) He feels all the extra blood drain from his face as he turns to stare wide-eyed at the witcher, his breath caught. How could he have known…?
He can smell the blood, you simpleton. Still think you’re going to keep this to yourself?
Geralt narrows his eyes. “Jaskier. What happened?”
Jaskier swallows. “Oh, that, yes. Well. Just—tripped and smacked my face against the wall, nose bled a bit, you see. You know me, Geralt.” He sounds almost desperate, he knows he does, nearly pleading now. He wishes he were a better liar. “Always clumsy.”
“Hm.” Geralt keeps him pinned with that unnerving stare, searching his face for what Jaskier knows Geralt knows is a lie. He shifts uncomfortably in the blankets and averts his gaze.
After what feels like an eternity, Geralt sighs. “Try to be more careful, would you, Jaskier,” he says. Jaskier hears him stand, and then the door opens and closes and Jaskier is alone.
He tries to calm his racing heart. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply and digs his nails sharply into his palm, but it’s not enough, it’s not—
Pathetic, his brain whispers again as he pulls his dagger out of his bag.
Jaskier is lying to him.
Geralt sits with a tankard of mead, spinning a crown in his fingers and mulling over the past weeks. Jaskier never lies to him. Probably because he knows that it’s hopeless to even try and because he’s terrible at it anyway. So why now? What could the bard possibly be hiding?
He remembers Jaskier’s face when Geralt asked if he had hurt himself the first time he’d smelled the blood. Eye’s wide as a frightened doe, looking as though he’d been caught committing some sort of crime. The way his heart had skipped a beat, the way his cheeks had gone stark white.
You know me, Geralt. Always clumsy. Which, yes, that’s true, and faceplanting into the wall on the way to bed is such a Jaskier thing to do. But that’s not what happened. He knows it’s not.
It’s been well over a month since Hyrille, nearing on two. Seldom a day has gone by without traces of fresh blood lingering on the bard. There’s always some excuse: tripped over a rock, walked into a branch, bit his tongue in his sleep. All very plausible explanations, and all lies. Geralt stopped asking about the injuries when he realized that he was making a better liar out of Jaskier. It’s not a skill he wants to cultivate in his friend.
Geralt’s mouth twists with frustration. What could Jaskier be hiding that’s hurting him?
He’s been acting strangely, too. For the first week or so he had been a mess of panic and sorrow and shame, all mixing together into a bitter cloud that hung on him like a noxious perfume, only cut with relief when the scent of fresh blood was the strongest. And then, suddenly, all of those emotions had been replaced with a scent that Geralt doesn’t recognize. Something cold, empty somehow. Almost as though it’s not really an emotion but rather the lack of one.
He doesn’t perform anymore. He rarely even picks up his lute. Doesn’t sing. Doesn’t talk. He walks silently by Geralt’s side with a hollow look in his eyes, retreats early when they have a room at the inn, doesn’t ask to accompany the witcher when he goes to kill things. But when Geralt gets back to where Jaskier is, the bard always, always smells like a fresh wound. It’s…unsettling. Quite frankly, it’s starting to scare him.
He lets out a low growl and throws the crown onto the table with probably more force than is necessary. They’re in a town about a ghoul, and Geralt had been waiting for Jaskier to insist on coming with him to get rid of it, because it’s easy and Jaskier knows that Geralt can handle and ghoul and keep an eye on him with no trouble.
That hadn’t happened. Instead, Jaskier had given him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and said, “I’m just going to slip out for a bit. I’ll be here when you get back. Do try not to come back completely covered in monster guts, won’t you? I’ll order a bath for when you return.”
So here he sits, alone, frustrated, with no idea how to handle this and Jaskier out gods know where doing gods know what. He takes a long drink from his mead.
“Saw your bard in the apothecary,” a voice rings out from behind him. “He’s looking rather…duller than normal, wouldn’t you say so?”
“Yennefer.”
The sorceress comes to sit on his left side, lips quirked up in a smirk. Her amethyst eyes are serious, though. “So, what? Are you two in the middle of a lover’s quarrel?”
Geralt scowls at her. “No. He’s been acting strange for months, now.”
Something passes over her expression that he can’t identify. “I see. What did you send him in there for, anyway?”
“I didn’t send him anywhere.” Geralt takes another drink. “He said he was going out. I didn’t ask where.”
Yennefer’s lips press together and this time Geralt can recognize what passes through her eyes as concern. His heartbeat quickens.
“What?” he demands, turning to face her fully. “Has something happened?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, her features relax into a thoughtful expression and she takes the coin Geralt has just dropped onto the table to twirl in her own hands. “What are you here for again?” she asks. “I can never keep track of all these small-town problems.”
“A ghoul,” he snaps. “Stop fucking around, Yen. Is something wrong with Jaskier?”
“You said he’s been acting strangely. Strangely, how?”
Geralt sighs harshly, considering telling the sorceress to fuck off. But he hasn’t had any luck with Jaskier in weeks. Maybe she can help him.
He tells her about the anxiousness that built into panic, about the undertone of sorrow. He tells her about the swirl of emotions that overtook Jaskier for days, and the sudden disintegration of those emotions into a strange nothingness. He tells her about the lack of annoying chatter and inane singing, the lack of enthusiasm for performing or hunting monsters. He tells her about the blood smell that’s been lingering on the bard for nearly two months. He tells her about the relief he notices on Jaskier when it’s strongest.
By the time he’s finished, Yennefer’s expression is unreadable.
“Well,” she says finally. “That makes sense, then.”
“What does?” Geralt presses. What sense could Yennefer possibly make out of this situation?
“I thought he was buying something to help you with your latest hunt,” Yen continues, ignoring Geralt, “but if it’s just a ghoul, well, then. You obviously don’t need that sort of help.”
“Yennefer,” Geralt growls. “What the fuck did Jaskier buy?”
“I would say that it’s none of your business—”
“He is my business—”
“—and normally I wouldn’t want to get involved, really, Jaskier hates me—”
“Yennefer, enough,” Geralt barks, tired of dancing around the truth. “What did he buy?”
She gives him a hard look, lips twisting into a pretty scowl. Her eyes soften, though, as she searches his face, and she continues, “—but, given the circumstances, I think it’s better that he’s not left to his own devices any longer.” She leans closer to him, suddenly urgent. “Find that potion as soon as you can, Geralt. The dagger, too. Keep them with you, and watch over Jaskier. Don’t let him alone. Not now.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he demands as she leans in to kiss his cheek.
She doesn’t answer, just murmurs into his ear, “Watch him close, Witcher,” and disappears.
“Damn you, Yen,” he growls into the empty space beside him. Where does she get off being so fucking cryptic all the time?
What she’s said hadn’t even made sense, but Geralt feels wound tight with apprehension. Find that potion as soon as you can, Geralt. The dagger too. He wasn’t even aware that Jaskier owns a dagger. What would he need it for, anyway? It’s not like he’s the one going out and nearly getting torn to shreds by giant bugs every other night. Sure, Jaskier’s been in a few human scuffles here and there, but the bard is too soft-hearted to use a weapon on anyone.
Still, Yennefer’s words tug at his mind, that same memory he recalled when he first noticed the scent of sorrow haunting Jaskier’s footsteps. The mark on Jaskier’s wrist. The scars on Yen’s. The coppery tang of blood that Jaskier carries with him everywhere now. And suddenly, he understands.
Jaskier’s been using the dagger on himself.
“Fuck.”
"Yennefer said she saw you at the apothecary."
The low sound of Geralt's voice stops Jaskier dead in his tracks as he closes the door to their room at the inn. He looks up to find the witcher on the bed, leaning back against the headboard with his arms crossed and staring at him with an inscrutable expression.
"D-did she?" Jaskier practically squeaks. He fumbles with his coin purse, nearly dropping it in his surprise. "I—she—I—" Jaskier curses himself in his head. Damn his nerves! What the fuck is Geralt doing here anyway? "I was expecting you to be—out. With the ghoul. Or is it over already? How did it go?"
Gods. It sounds like he's asking Geralt about an awkward first date. He forces himself to stop talking and walks over to put his coin purse in his bag, trying to will his hands to stop shaking. Trying to act normal. The bag is open, and he frowns. Is this how he'd left it? He hadn't brought it with him because—well. His purchase is barely larger than his thumb. No need to bring the whole bag. Thinking about it sends a shiver down his spine, and he swallows hard. ("I need a vial of the fastest-acting poison you carry." Breathed out like a confession, his lungs shaking so violently he's afraid he won't be able to speak at all.) He bends and inspects the contents of the sack, a tendril of dread growing in his stomach.
"The ghoul can wait." Jaskier doesn't hear Geralt speak, and he doesn't hear him stand up from the bed and start toward him, because his heart is roaring in his ears and his breath is ragged in his throat because his dagger, it's not in the bag, it's not in here, where the fuck—
"Jaskier."
The bard jerks upright at the sound of Geralt's voice so close, clutching the bag to his chest and near-panting in his panic. Geralt is looking at him intensely and—oh, no—there's the beginnings of anger in those molten gold eyes. A movement at the witcher's hip draws Jaskier's attention. He glances down to find Geralt fingering a small dagger, Jaskier's dagger, which has been tied fast to his belt.
"Geralt." Jaskier's knees are as weak as his voice and he's afraid he may keel over at any second, he's breathing so shallowly. "Where did—why did you—Geralt, why—" His hands shake too hard as Geralt comes even closer, crowding into his personal space, and the sack lands with a soft thump at his feet.
"I didn't even know you owned a dagger," Geralt says lowly, ignoring Jaskier's stuttering. He kicks the bag out of his way and keeps walking, forcing Jaskier to take one step back for every one of his steps forward until the bard hits the wall, trapped. "So imagine my surprise when I find this—" he strokes his fingers across the weapon "—half-buried in your bag and stained with your blood."
Geralt is practically growling at him now, and Jaskier is too lightheaded to say anything, can't even protest when in one swift movement Geralt has him pinned to the wall with his wrists above his head as he leans down and hisses into his ear, "You've been lying to me, Jaskier."
Jaskier's knees buckle and for a second the only thing keeping him upright is Geralt's hand around his wrists. Geralt reaches into the opening of Jaskier's tunic with the hand that's not holding the bard against the wall, extracts the tiny vial held in the fold of fabric that's sewn there. He glances at it and scowls before tucking it into his own tunic, out of sight, and then he releases Jaskier's wrists and paces away from him, leaving the bard to slide down the wall and try to catch his breath.
For a few minutes it's deathly quiet, save the ragged sound of Jaskier's panting. When Jaskier gathers the courage to look at Geralt, he finds his friend leaning against the wall a few feet away from him, once again staring at him with that unfathomable expression on his face.
"How did you know?" he finally manages to ask through numb lips.
"You're a terrible liar."
"Not about that. About—" Jaskier gestures vaguely to Geralt's tunic. Now that his panic has abated Jaskier feels empty, completely drained. He lets his head fall back against the wall behind him.
"Yennefer saw you at the apothecary," Geralt repeats. "She was...concerned about the purchase you had made." He glares at Jaskier. "So what was the plan, bard? I would come back from killing the ghoul to find your lifeless body on the floor? Or would you have crept away while I was gone, leaving me to wonder what had become of you when I never heard from you again?"
He straightens and takes a step toward Jaskier, his gold eyes burning. "What if the apothecary hadn't carried such a rapid poison? Would I have come in to see you choking on your own breath? What if there hadn't been an apothecary? Would I have returned to you dying in a pool of your own blood? Just in time to see the light go out of your eyes as I tried in vain to keep you alive?"
Jaskier closes his eyes as his insides swirl sickeningly with Geralt's harsh words. He had never meant for this to happen. He had never meant for things to get this far. He feels a warm wetness on his cheeks and realizes that he's crying.
"Jaskier."
Geralt's voice is soft and close. Jaskier opens his eyes to find the witcher knelt across from him. There's no anger in Geralt's expression now, only concern, and when he speaks again it's more gentle than Jaskier has ever heard him.
"I won't lose you, Jaskier. Not like this." He reaches forward and brushes at the bard's cheek with his thumb, smearing the wetness there. Then he settles his hands over Jaskier's forearms. "And I'm not going to let you continue to hurt yourself. For months I've smelled the blood on you."
"I'm sorry," Jaskier mumbles. He want to make this right, somehow, but he finds he doesn't have the words. He is so tired.
"You don't have to be sorry for what you feel," Geralt says firmly. "But you will come to me if you feel this way. This will not happen again."
Jaskier just nods, too worn out to argue. Geralt stands, pulling the bard up with him, and leads Jaskier to the bed. He gives him a sleep-shirt and turns so that he can undress, then pushes the bard into the pillows and settles himself against the headboard. "Sleep, Jaskier. We'll talk more in the morning."
Geralt watches Jaskier's slow, even breaths for a long time.
He lets the tension in his body slowly release as Jaskier continues to sleep. He's lucky that the bard had not decided to take the poison before coming back to the room, and he can feel just how close he's come to losing his friend in the tight ache of his muscles.
He pulls the little vial out of his tunic pocket, spins it on the tips of his fingers, reminds himself to thank Yen as soon as he gets the chance. He'd recognized the poison immediately, the distinctive sea-green colour giving it away. A deceptively pretty concoction. Jaskier would have been dead before he hit the floor.
The witcher takes a deep breath of his own and slips the vial back into the fabric of his tunic. Sometime very soon, he's going to destroy it. But for now, he doesn't trust Jaskier to be out of his sight. The scent of copper clings to the bard even as he lay next to him, and Geralt wonders when he'd managed to find the time to hurt himself since this morning. Geralt slips his shirtsleeves up to see the fresh wounds beneath, mindful not to wake him.
"Fuck."
There are so many. How could he have missed this? He slips Jaskier's dagger out of its sheath to examine, the steel blade glinting in the firelight. It's small. Another deception, Geralt thinks, brushing his thumb over the edge and drawing a tiny bead of blood. Small but very sharp. Jaskier has kept it in good condition. The witcher grimaces at the implication, replacing it on his belt. Jaskier has kept it in good condition, and Geralt will continue to keep it in good condition, until the time comes when he feels it's safe to return it to the bard.
He looks back at Jaskier. His cheeks glitter with dried tears as the fire flickers. Geralt reaches over and strokes the back of his hand down Jaskier's face, just once. He sighs. The man has been a bug on his shoulder for years, and over time he's grown incredibly fond of him. If this were another time, another place, Geralt might lie next to him and pull him close, press a kiss behind his ear. But this is here and now, and Jaskier needs the kind of love that means being cared for, not the kind of love that's give-and-take.
Maybe some day they’ll be able to lie together, Geralt thinks, settling back against the wood. And if he reaches out to take Jaskier’s hand, to feel him warm and soft and alive—well.
That’s his business.