Work Text:
Jaskier was having a terrible evening.
For one, it was fucking freezing outside and he’d forgone a coat in preference of dramatically storming out of the apartment (slamming a door didn’t have quite the same ring to it after you’d started rummaging around in the closet for something).
For another, there was the reason he’d stormed out of the apartment without a coat: the stupid fight he’d had with Geralt. Which, hey, it wasn’t like they hadn’t fought before (they’d been friends for, gosh, almost a decade now) but it was the first time they’d had a spat this big since they got their shit together and admitted they had feelings (so many feelings, big, mushy, embarrassing, wonderful feelings) for each other.
So he’d left with a slammed door and no coat. He’d left because Geralt’s anger had progressed from glowering and grunting to yelling and snarling and Jaskier had given back as good as he got and it had just become a huge fucking mess.
Only in the brisk evening air, away from the agitation of Geralt telling him to sing quieter, could he admit that they’d maybe blown things out of proportion. They hadn’t lived together since Jaskier had put out an ad for a roommate back in college. Geralt moving in now had been an impromptu decision when his landlord had started hicking up the rent prices, and honestly? One of the best decisions they’d ever made, even if it was ‘too early’ in their relationship for most (Jaskier held it wasn’t too early in their friendship so it evened out). Jaskier liked waking up in Geralt’s arms, liked having Geralt’s stuff littering the place, liked using Geralt’s godsend of a coffee machine.
It was just that they were in their thirties now. They had habits. They had to get used to living with one another again.
For example, Geralt was used to quiet.
Jaskier was the opposite of quiet.
Jaskier sighed, scrubbed cold fingers over his face. Well. They’d had their first spat as a couple. It was over and out the way, and the last thing he wanted to do was wander the city all night feeling miserable and cold. He’d much rather swallow his pride, go home and get some post-fight cuddles (and maybe, even better, some post-fight sex) than stay out here and get hypothermia.
The trudge back to the apartment was surprisingly long (he must have walked further in his rage than he’d thought he had) but he managed it back within the hour, hoping that if he pretended his teeth weren’t chattering they’d stop by sheer force of will.
The lights in the living room were switched off, and the kitchen, but he could hear sounds coming from their bedroom. Jaskier hesitated for a while, procrastinated by fishing one of Geralt’s hoodies out of the wash to try and bring some life back to his chill bitten limbs before the urge to just get the apologies out of the way became too strong.
He stole himself another moment, counted to ten, made sure he was entirely calm and then pushed open the door.
He’d been expecting to find Geralt pacing, or meditating, or maybe reading one of those animal-fact-books that Jaskier teased him over. One of his usual post-stress-out habits.
So he was rather shocked – and suddenly, incredibly fucking anxious – when he noted that Geralt was not meditating. He was not in bed reading. He wasn’t even pacing the room. What he was doing instead was chucking clothes into a ratty green duffle bag on the bed. What he was doing instead was packing.
“Uh…what are you doing?” Jaskier asked, stupidly, because his brain couldn’t compute it. Their argument hadn’t even been a long one (Jaskier hated long arguments – he was a make-up straight away sort of guy. The guilt ate him alive otherwise). Why was Geralt packing?
The lines of Geralt’s shoulders were tense. Jaskier’s fingers itched to run across them, soothe them, press kisses there until Geralt was boneless and making those soft little contented sounds he swore he didn’t make. Except considering what Geralt was doing, he was pretty certain if he tried he’d be shoved off.
“I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes,” Geralt grunted, finally, clinging a little too tightly to a pair of jeans (Jaskier’s favourite pair of jeans on Geralt, actually, they clung to that ass just right) before he chucked them towards the duffle bag. He wasn’t even meeting Jaskier’s eyes.
“You’ll be…out of my hair? Where are you going to go? Geralt, you live here,” and his voice had risen a few octaves, his hands reaching out to tug the jeans away from the bag and close to his chest, as if he could hold them ransom to make Geralt stay. They’d been arguing about noise and singing for Christ’s sake so why was Geralt suddenly thinking he needed to…to pack his bags…
“Yeah. My old landlord might take me back. It’s not been too long and I can probably afford it if I take a few extra jobs next month.”
No. No, this was not happening. Their wires had to have gotten crossed somewhere. They’d gotten together barely a month ago. He wasn’t losing the best thing that life had ever seen fit to throw his way after only a month.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jaskier held up his hands as if in surrender (though one kept a firm grip on those jeans), “we’re going to slow this right down. You’re…moving out?”
Geralt finally – finally – lifted those stunning golden eyes towards Jaskier (Jaskier’s never seen anything like them, was shocked when he found out they weren’t even contacts, Geralt was just fucking unique and perfect all over). There’s a blankness to them which indicates that Geralt’s got his walls up again, but Jaskier’s known Geralt for years, he’s fluent in all of Geralt’s facial expressions; more than enough to see behind the mask. He can see the way the line of his mouth indicates confusion; the set of his jaw indicates pain. “You left.”
Jaskier felt his frown deepen, “Yeah, for a walk…not for good, Geralt.”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that?” Geralt growls, looking a bit like a trapped animal, eyes flashing angry and frustrated and hurt all at once.
Jaskier stares at him because honestly? It would have been less surprising for Geralt to grow two heads. How was Geralt supposed to know that? How couldn’t he know that? It was as if he’d never done this before.
Holy shit. It was as if he’d never done this before.
“You’ve never done this before.” He says because he can’t stop thinking it. It’s so obvious. Why didn’t he see it before?
Geralt narrows his eyes, says nothing.
The anxiety that was bunching in Jaskier’s chest finally lessens and he can finally let out a huff of relief. Geralt has never done this before. He’s not packing because he’s just that pissed, he’s packing because— well, because he’s an absolute idiot.
Jaskier moves back to the duffle bag and begins to pull out more than just the jeans, passing them back into a confused Geralt’s arms, “You’re not going anywhere. Welcome to an adult relationship, Geralt. We fight, we bicker, we argue, but we apologise, and we get over it.”
Geralt is still quiet, before sinking onto the end of the bed. The clothes fall to the floor, which Jaskier would usually be annoyed about, but he’ll let it slide for now in favour of sliding onto Geralt’s lap. Geralt is still stiff, but he lets him, brings an arm around to steady him even. A good sign.
“You left,” he repeats, low, eyes dropped.
He’s so fucking stupid, Jaskier wants to kiss him and never stop.
He runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, “Yeah, darling, I needed some air, to calm down and realise that maybe you were right and I shouldn’t force my singing on you at all times of the day.”
Geralt is quiet still, but the bunching of his shoulders has lessened slightly. Good.
“Look, at me,” he begs, and waits until Geralt does, “from now on, you can assume that I’ll always come back, even when I yell. Hell, just because I left earlier doesn’t mean I’m not still here. That’s why we live together. Because we know that, at the end of the day, we’re going to crawl in bed next to one another and nobody can take that away from us.”
Geralt lets out a soft breath and lets his head fall forward, so its leant on Jaskier’s collarbone.
“I love you,” he murmurs because he knows Geralt should hear it now. Too many people have loved Geralt and left him (if Jaskier ever gets his hands on Geralt’s mother, he’s pretty sure he’ll end up convicted of a felony and he doesn’t even care). He tilts Geralt’s head up, presses his lips against his just the once, “now start unpacking. Quickly. Because we’re having gracious amounts of makeup sex before bed.”
Geralt’s lips quirk into a smirk, and there, there’s his Geralt, “are we now?” Geralt queries, “haven’t you got an optimistic appraisal of the evening, hm?”
“I think you’ll find I have an excellently accurate appraisal of the evening. I am going to cover you head to toe in kisses,” Jaskier moves his hands to bop Geralt’s nose, but before he can Geralt grabs his wrist.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” Geralt murmurs, sincere in a way that makes Jaskier’s heart soften and warm
“I’m going to cover you head to toe in kisses twice,” he promises, sliding off Geralt’s lap again, “and I’m sorry too.”
It’s a lot later that they’re cuddled up in bed, significantly sweater and happier, (and with Geralt kissed head to toe three times) and Jaskier feels content in a way that he’s only ever been around Geralt. Geralt might have never done this before, but Jaskier is willing to show him how a relationship works, with the unconditional promise that he’ll never leave for long. Ever. Because this? Here? Geralt in his arms? It’s all he ever wants for the rest of his life.
With the warmth of Geralt next to him, he can barely even remember how cold it was outside.