Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier hasn’t been the same since they reunited. Geralt can’t help but wonder if his hateful words on the mountain are the cause or whatever it is that happened to the bard in between that regretful moment and the present. 

Maybe both. Probably both, he concludes.

To someone who hasn’t known Jaskier for almost two decades, he might seem the same. He jokes, he laughs, he loudly sings raunchy songs, he’s just as over the top and ridiculous as he’s always been. 

Geralt, though, sees that his smiles rarely reach his eyes. He hears how his laughter is just a tad too loud, somewhat forced. He notices those moments when Jaskier just seems to stare straight ahead, at nothing in particular, his breathing strangely flat and quick. He always plays it off with a joke as soon as he snaps out of it.

Geralt sees the slight tremor in Jaskiers hands when the bard isn’t carefully hiding them, either underneath the table or in some stupidly long sleeves. He seems to favor his left hand these days, barely touching anything with his right.

When he starts paying attention, he notices how jumpy he is, flinching at every little noise, especially in the dark. How tense his shoulders are at any given time. How his eyes flit around the room, to the door, to the window, back to the door, like he’s looking for a way out even though he’s safe. 

He’s drunk almost constantly, and even when he stops showing the obvious signs of drunkenness, Geralt can smell it on his breath. He doesn’t even know where he gets all the booze from, Kaer Morhen’s cellars must be drained at this point. Not even being drunk seems to help the bard relax, though.

Yen mentioned that Jaskier had been in trouble, but she never elaborated. He doesn’t know what exactly happened. Yennefer never told him and Jaskier also doesn’t talk about it. Geralt knows it must have been bad, though, to change his friend like that. He wished he could fix it.

Geralt finds himself thinking back on certain moments after finding Jaskier in his prison cell.

~

The first thing the bard demands is a bath. Of course Geralt can smell the dirt, grime, sweat, blood and fear that Jaskier wants to wash off. It’s only understandable. 

When Jaskier thrusts his coat and that ridiculous doublet into his arms, though, pulling his shirt over his head, Geralt can only stare. 

Since when has Jaskier been that muscular? He doesn’t remember him looking like that. Sure, he’s never been scrawny, walking endless miles at Roach’s side, chopping wood for their fire at night, hauling around chairs and tables in taverns every night to make room for his performances... but this... is different.

Maybe he’s lost weight in captivity and that’s why it’s more obvious now? Or maybe he just worked out in his prison cell to kill time, to keep himself from dying of boredom. Geralt doesn’t know. But what he’s seeing is quite impressive.

When Jaskier starts talking about his nipples, he has to fight down any reaction he may have had, so he quickly steers the conversation away from Jaskier’s nipples to what Yennefer may or may not be up to.

~

The water was colder than expected and Geralt can tell that Jaskier is cold, even with the coat back around his shoulders. 

“Let’s get a fire started to warm you up.” The Witcher says, frowning when Jaskier scrambles to stop him from gathering wood, reeking of fear once more.

“No! No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. I’ll be just fine, I promise.” He babbles at lightning speed. “Let’s just, uh, keep going. I don’t mind.”

Geralt is so stumped by the bard's obvious panic that he just goes with it. The dwarves don’t pay them much attention, so Geralt shrugs it off as well. Jaskier’s shirt would dry in time, as well as the rest of his clothes and until then, that ugly, bright coat would keep him warm enough.

Later, when they do stop for the day, Geralt notices that Jaskier pointedly stays away from the campfire. As far as possible. It doesn’t make sense, with his wet clothes and all, but Geralt doesn’t want to nag, so he leaves him alone. 

The scent of fear lingers.

~

Jaskier won’t let him apologize.

No matter how often Geralt tries to bring it up, the bard waves it off with a joke or a teasing comment, imitating him in that irritating way of his. But he won’t listen. It frustrates Geralt.

Because he IS sorry. He really is. And Jaskier won’t have any of  it. 

Geralt hopes he knows, either way.

~

“N..no. Please.” Soft whimpers wake Geralt from his light slumber.

Again, that scent of fear. Quick breaths and a racing heartbeat.

Geralt sits upright, turning to his left.

“Jaskier.”

The bard whines and twitches, then he cries out, seizing in his bedroll briefly before going still. It takes him a moment before he opens his eyes, blearily staring into the dark.

“G-Geralt?” He whispers. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Bad dream?”

“Yeah... just... a bad dream.” He sighs.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Geralt offers. Jaskier shakes his head.

“It was just a dream.” He says firmly and lies back down. Geralt leaves him alone. He knows it wasn’t just a dream, but if Jaskier doesn’t want to talk about it, he won’t make him.

~

“Jask, watch out.” Geralt says, but the bard's mind is elsewhere. He doesn’t see the root sticking up from the path. He’s gonna stumble and land face first in the dirt. 

Geralt gently touches his hand to get his attention. Jaskier makes a strangled noise and snatches his hand back like it’s been burnt. It disappears in the long sleeve of his coat.

“Don’t.” He snaps, staring at Geralt with wide, fearful eyes.

“I just-”

“Don’t touch me.” He snaps again and marches off, narrowly missing the root by an inch or two, leaving Geralt in his wake, confused.

~

Jaskier is angry and irritable. 

He never used to be like that, always trying to see the good in everything, but now, he gets angry and snappy more often than not.

Most of the time, he seems to be angry at himself, though, and Geralt doesn't understand.

'Useless', 'can't do anything right', he mutters under his breath and Geralt wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. But he doesn't.

~

Jaskier buys a large bottle of some homebrew liquor, moonshine or something, at the next village they stop by. Strong enough to affect a Witcher, that stuff.

Geralt reckons he hasn't seen the bard sober since then. He seems a little less angry, a little more lethargic and resigned, now.

~

He sends Jaskier off to Kaer Morhen with Ciri. 

Maybe having a task will help. Give him something to focus on. 

But when Geralt gets back to the keep and finally has some time to even look at his friend, in the aftermath of the battle, the battle against his own daughter, he can see that the bard is worse than ever. 

He needs to do something. He can't do much for Ciri right now other than keeping her safe in the keep, letting Yennefer teach her everything she knows, so Geralt finally has some time to focus on Jaskier, to find out what happened.

He's almost ready to give up when Jaskier, once again, plays it off when he asks. 

It's obvious that he's not alright, but how can Geralt help him when he refuses to acknowledge the problem?

~

“Vesemir?” Geralt approaches his mentor thoughtfully. “Are there any instruments in the keep?” He asks. The older witcher raises an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t know. Maybe somewhere in the basement, where they used to keep things given to them when people couldn’t pay with coin?” He suggests. None of them have been down there, prefering to pawn off items right away rather than storing them at Kaer Morhen. It’s worth a shot, though, Geralt reckons. Maybe having an instrument, playing an instrument, actually making music, would help Jaskier.

He thanks Vesemir with a nod and heads down there, past the cellars where they keep food and drink, further into the depths of the keep. Igni lights a torch when it gets too dark even for his enhanced eyes to see, and he opens a door that hasn’t been opened in, well, probably centuries. 

Geralt crinkles his nose at the stench in the old storage room, years and years of dust and mold. Even if there are any instruments in here, they wouldn’t be in any shape to be played. He still presses on and starts looking around.

Several hours later, Geralt returns to his room with the single object he deemed at all salvageable. 

A small mandolin, made from dark wood, intricately decorated with floral paintings. It’s not a lute, it has far fewer strings than a lute, but maybe Jaskier could still play it? Currently, it doesn’t have any strings at all, because the ones it did have were in awful shape, but for some reason Destiny seems to have smiled upon Geralt today.

It came with a small pouch that included some tools and two sets of replacement strings. Hoping that they’re still alright after all those years in storage, Geralt strips it off its old, worn and torn strings before pausing. He has no idea how to proceed. He doesn’t know the order the strings go on. 

Well, at least that will give Jaskier something to do, he muses as he looks at the curled up strings in his palm. Carefully, he puts them back into the little pouch and heads out to find the bard. 

He knows not to look inside the keep. Despite the cold, Jaskier seems to prefer to spend his days outside nowadays, wandering around or just sitting and staring into the distance. Sometimes he sits with the horses for hours on end. Straining his ears, he tries to pick up any sign of him and it doesn’t take him long until he finds him standing at the battlements, letting his gaze wander over the mountains and valleys. 

“Jaskier.” He says softly, as gently as he can, but the bard still jumps, spinning around and almost losing his footing on the snowy stone, bracing himself against the battlement behind him. He quickly slips the small bottle he was holding into the pocket of his long coat, almost dropping it to the floor instead.

“G-Geralt.” He stammers, staring at him with wide eyes for a moment before schooling his features into a big, fake smile. “Good to see you, what are you doing out here, got bored with your witcher brothers, came looking for better company?” He chuckles, like he didn’t just jump out of his skin. The witcher smells the strong alcohol on his breath.

“I came to find you.” Geralt answers. “I found this and I thought... you might want it? There’s replacement strings in the pouch.” He says awkwardly and holds the mandolin and the little leather pouch out for Jaskier to take.

He watches all the color drain from the bard’s face as his eyes fall on the instrument. The fake smile falters as his face blanches and he swallows audibly. Geralt can hear his heart starting to race and he clenches his fists.

“I... uh... Geralt, that’s... I mean, thank you. Very considerate of you, really.” He says, his voice strangely flat and devoid of emotion. He clears his throat and carefully takes a few steps towards the witcher. 

Quickly, he snatches it out of Geralt's hands, tucking it under his arm and slipping the pouch into the other, empty pocket of his coat, clears his throat again and throws another fake smile at the other man.

“Thank you, I’ll, uh, see about those strings, then.” He says and hurries into the keep, leaving Geralt standing in the cold, confused. 

That was not the reaction he’d pictured. He had hoped for a real smile. Some real, actual happiness. Not... this. Whatever this was. Panic, maybe? 

~~

That evening, when Jaskier plays them a roaring rendition of his ‘Whoreson Prison Blues’ (mich to Ciri’s delight, until Yennefer uses a quick spell to render her deaf for the duration of the song), using a pair of spoons to create a beat rather than using the mandolin Geralt gave him, the Witcher knows that something is very, very wrong. 

The Jaskier he used to know would have been delighted at being gifted an instrument, especially such a beautiful, expensive piece of art, much like Filavandrel’s lute. This Jaskier didn’t seem to care for it whatsoever. 

He watches Jaskier during dinner and despite that performance he just gave, he seems even more skittish than usual. He also looks even more drained. He drinks even more and excuses himself even earlier than on other evenings. 

Geralt has seen enough. He needs to talk to Jaskier, even if talking isn’t exactly his strong suit. Excusing himself, he follows the bard to his room, taking a calming breath before knocking on the door. He listens for an answer, hearing an accelerating heartbeat before a tentative “yes?”. 

When he opens the door, Jaskier’s room is dark. Frowning, Geralt uses igni to light the candles on the wall.

Jaskier whimpers and flinches, scurrying backwards, away from the wall, away from Geralt, his eyes wide, staring at the small flames in sheer panic. He’s panting, almost hyperventilating, and his hands are stuffed underneath his shirt. He shakes his head frantically, pressing himself against the wall as if he wanted to melt into it. Geralt hears his heart hammering a staccato into his ribs like it wants to break free.

“Please, no.” He whimpers and closes his eyes. He shoves his hands further into his shirt, tucking them underneath his arms. He’s trembling like a leaf. “Please. I told you I don’t know anything.”

Geralt has never seen Jaskier this scared. In all those years they’ve traveled together, even faced with horrible monsters, Jaskier has never been this terrified. Geralt curses under his breath. He doesn’t know if he can fix this. 

“Jaskier. Jask. It’s me.” He says gently. “Jaskier. It’s me, Geralt.” He repeats, when it doesn’t seem to have an effect on the bard. 

He has half a mind to use axii on him to calm him down, but then he remembers. Igni. It all started when he ignited the candles. 

Geralt curses himself silently. How hasn't he noticed this before? Fire. It was always what seemed to scare Jaskier the most. The way he always seemed to stay as far away from any campfires or candles, refusing to look at the flames if he had to be in their presence. It should have been obvious.

A small gust of aard quickly extinguishes the flames and Geralt tries again.

“Jaskier? It’s ok. I’m not going to hurt you.” He says, much like he’d try to soothe Roach when she’s skittish. “Nobody is going to hurt you, I promise. You’re at Kaer Morhen. You’re with me. You’re safe.”

The bard is still trembling, still trying to become one with the thick wall of the keep, and he's not calming down. He's hyperventilating and Geralt fears he's going to pass out if he doesn't stop.

"Shhh, it's ok. Breathe with me." He says softly, slowly inching closer. "Slowly, in and out." He coos, starting to count his breaths for Jaskier.

It takes him a moment or two to catch on, but then he starts following Geralt's guidance, gradually slowing his breathing, matching it to the Witcher's. Geralt gently puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling him flinch briefly before relaxing into the touch.

"We need to talk about this." Geralt sighs.

"No, we fucking don't." Jaskier growls. His voice is rough.

"You can't go on like this. Refusing to talk about it isn't going to make it go away."

"And how, pray tell, is talking going to help?? Will it take away the memories? Will it turn back time to before... Before..." He tails off with a frustrated noise, clenching his left hand into a first. 

"No. But it might make it easier to deal with." Geralt offers. 

"I said no, Geralt. I don't want to talk. I just... I just... want this to stop." He says, defeated. "I want you to leave. Please leave."

"Jaskier... At least give it a try, you don't know if-"

"NO! Fuck off, Geralt! I said I don't want to! Leave me alone!!" Jaskier yells, loud enough for the other Witchers to hear, shoving at Geralt's chest with his left hand, hard. 

The Witcher takes a few steps back and sighs. There's no getting through to his friend in this state, so he decides to do as he's asked and leaves him to it. 

He won't give up that easily though.

~

He marches to the room Yennefer currently occupies and throws open the door without knocking.

"Tell me what happened to Jaskier." He demands.

The sorceress slowly turns around to face him from where she is standing by the window, raising an elegant eyebrow at him.

"Still no manners whatsoever, I see." She comments. "Barging into people's rooms like a brute-"

"Cut the crap, Yen. Tell me what happened to him." Geralt interrupts her.

"Why don't you ask him? It's his story to tell, and if that isn't exactly what bards do best..." She shrugs and turns back around. 

"I tried. He won't talk." Geralt says through grit teeth. 

"Odd." She says. 

"Yen..." 

"Alright, fine. The sorcerer, the one who's after Ciri. He tried to get information out of Jaskier." She sighs. 

"The... 'Firefucker'?" Geralt asks lamely and Yennefer shoots him a little grin, obviously pleased that he remembered her lovely little nickname for the sorcerer.

"That one, yes." 

"Fuck." The Witcher curses. Now it's starting to make sense. "He... He went for his hands, didn't he? That asshole knew he's a bard, so he went for his fucking hands!" 

Yennefer doesn't dignify that with an answer, just raises her brow at him again, like he should have known. 

"That's why he's so scared of fire. That's why he won't use his right hand. That's why he doesn't use the mandolin I gave him." Geralt shakes his head, remembering Jaskier going pale at the sight of the instrument.

"You found him a mandolin?" Yennefer asks, mildly surprised. "You really do care." Geralt just glares at her.

"He said you saved his life." He says. "Why didn't you heal his hand??" He shouts and Yennefer laughs.

"Oh, lovely. You conveniently forgot that chaos left me. I couldn't, you dense oaf!" She shouts back. "Even if I had been able to use magic, we were on the run, in case you forgot that, too! I was captured and held and so was he, you found him in a prison cell, remember?"

"Right. Fuck." Geralt huffs and deflates. He sits down on Yennefer's bed, resting his head in his hands.

"How do I fix this, Yen?" He asks. 

"Slowly." The sorceress suggests, sitting down next to him. "He needs to admit that there is a problem, first. He needs to stop running from it." 

Geralt nods. That is something he understands. That's how fear works. The more you run from it, the stronger it grows. Jaskier needs to stop running.

"I'm not good at this, Yen." Geralt sighs.

"Are you sure? You did well with Ciri. You helped her overcome her fears. She admires you." Yennefer says. 

"Hmmm." He hummed. Maybe he can do this. He glances at the woman next to him. "Thank you." 

Maybe he can learn to trust her again. 

~

Geralt starts his new mission by simply spending more time with Jaskier. 

He sits with him in the library, he walks outside through the snow with him, he brushes the horses when Jaskier's in the stables. 

If the bard notices what he's doing, he doesn't comment on it, he simply accepts Geralt's presence. The Witcher likes to think he's enjoying it, even. He seems to be a little more at ease.

He even gets a genuine, real laugh out of Jaskier when he starts telling a funny story to the horse he's currently brushing, something about Lambert and too much white gull. 

He sits next to Jaskier when he's done and glances at the younger man.

"I want to help you." He says earnestly and Jaskier huffs a humourless laugh.

"And how do you plan to do that?" He asks. 

"Well. First of all I need you to talk to me." This gets him another half huff, half snort.

"That's funny, coming from the man who almost killed me by wishing for me to shut up." Jaskier says bitterly and Geralt cringes. He did do that, right. He almost apologizes again, but remembers that that isn't what Jaskier wants to hear at all.

"Show me your hand." He says, instead. He needs Jaskier to get out of his shell, away from those walls he's built around himself.

The bard's head whips around to stare at him, eyes impossibly big. As if on cue, his hand disappears in his sleeve and he cradles it close to his body, protectively. He just stares at Geralt.

"He burnt your hand, didn't he?" Geralt asks. Jaskier's breath hitches and he cradles his hand even closer to himself. He's trembling now. 

Geralt hates doing this to him, causing him such distress. But it's necessary. He knows that much.

"The thing with fear is... if you ignore it, if you try to run from it, it'll just keep growing. It'll get worse and worse, consuming you." He explains. "The more you try to get away from it, the stronger it gets." 

"What do you want me to do, put my hand in the fireplace in the great hall?" Jaskier says. His voice is small and trembles, breaks on certain words, but it's also angry. Geralt shakes his head.

"Acknowledge what happened. Talk to me. Face it." He says. 

Jaskier curses under his breath, but ever so slowly, he releases the vice grip on his right arm and moves his trembling hand closer to Geralt, still covered by his sleeve.

The Witcher gently accepts him, cradling his arm in a gentle hold before slowly pulling up his sleeve and turning it, palm up.

He curses and Jaskier sobs quietly. Geralt can smell the salt in the air before he sees the tears falling on the front of Jaskier's coat.

The skin of Jaskier's fingertips is healed, but of course, instead of rough string callouses, it's red, tender and baby-soft. Several fingernails have been removed and are now starting to grow back in.

What made Gerald curse, though, is something else. The unnatural angle at which his index and middle fingers are bent away from his palm.

They'd been broken and healed without being set correctly. There's no way Jaskier can play any string instrument like this, lute or mandolin. 

"Jaskier... I... Why didn't you say anything?" Geralt whispers, gently holding the broken hand in his own. 

"What good would it have done? By the time you got me out of that prison cell, they were... ‘healed’ already." The bard says brokenly. 

He’s still scared, Geralt can tell, but he seems to grow more comfortable with his hand in Geralt’s by the second, despite how much it’s trembling, he’s slowly relaxing, bit by bit. Geralt wants to hold more than his hand, wants to wrap his arms around him and hold him close, but he doesn’t dare, he doesn’t want to overwhelm the poor bard more than he already is. He sighs and shakes his head.

“This is my fault. If you hadn’t known me, he would have never targeted you, this wouldn’t have happened...” Geralt says bitterly. Jasker looks up at him briefly, eyes still wet with tears, then he shakes his head.

“It’s not. It was my decision. I chose to follow you like a lovesick puppy.” He says firmly, with conviction. 

*Lovesick* *Lovesick* *Lovesick* ... Geralt’s ears are ringing. 

“Fuck, I was so young and stupid. I was barely 18. I was so in awe with all the heroism, the adventure and... well... you.” He huffs. “I just wanted to be close to you, no matter what it took, no matter how difficult the Path got, you inspired me, nothing you could have said would have kept me from following you.”

Geralt still sees that 18-year-old, fresh-faced and excited to follow him into whatever adventure when he looks at the 39-year-old version of Jaskier. He hasn’t even changed that much, Geralt thinks. He may not have changed at all if Geralt hadn’t chased him away so cruelly. 

“And then... then you broke my heart.” Jaskier continues, his hand twitching in Geralt’s. 

Fuck, Geralt thinks. 

“All I ever wanted was to be important to you. That day, on that mountain, I realized that I would never be. That you didn’t want me near you. I wasn’t useful to you, you didn’t even *like* me, and I was...” He trails off and shakes his head with a little sob. 

“That’s not true, Jask.” Geralt starts, but Jaskier raises his good hand to shut him up. 

“Let me finish.” He says, sounding tired. 

The Witcher nods and gives his hand a gentle squeeze, staying clear of his fingers, careful not to cause him any pain.

“I don’t know what hurt more. The punches, the rope rubbing my wrists raw, the fire or... the realization that even if I had known where you were... even if I could have told him the way to your hidden Witcher keep... I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have given him a single thing. Out of some falsely placed sense of... loyalty, for someone who didn’t even care about me.” He finishes and Geralt feels like he’s been punched in the gut. 

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. Nobody has ever shown him such loyalty, such... love. And it is obvious to him now that Jaskier loves him. Loved him? He’s not sure now. 

The bard is crying again, silently, just little sobs wrecking his frame and this time, Geralt pulls him into his arms, letting him cry until there are no more tears left. Jaskier goes willingly, resting his head on Geralt’s chest, his good hand coming up to grab a fistful of his shirt for support. 

“I need you to know that it’s not true. What you thought. That I don’t care about you, I mean.” Geralt says awkwardly once Jaskier is all cried out. 

“You have a weird way of showing that, do you know that?” He asks, the sentence interrupted by hick-ups. Geralt chuckles. 

“I know.” He says. “I’m sorry. I regretted my words almost as soon as they left my mouth. I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t just take them back, either. Then... a lot of things happened all at once, with Ciri and the war and all...” He sighs. “I would have come to find you much sooner if it hadn’t been for all that.”

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time, did I?” Jaskier says. “Fuck, I’m having trouble believing it now.”

“I can’t blame you.” Geralt admits. “I care about you. At first, I tried to scare you away. Because I was worried you’d get hurt if you stuck around.”

“I thought you did it because I was annoying you.” Jaskier says with a hollow chuckle. 

“Well... I wasn’t used to the constant chatter, I’ll admit that much, but... that wasn’t why I wanted you gone.” Geralt takes a deep breath. “I never wanted you gone at all, not really. I was looking for a scapegoat, and you were there. It was easy to blame it all on you, when actually, it was all me, all along. I made those choices. I claimed the law of surprise, knowing full well what *could* happen. Whether by destiny or by my own stupidity, I did it all to myself.”

“Go on. Go on, tell me more. Don’t stop now. I’m not gonna lie, it feels great to hear all that.” Jaskier says, a small, tired smile on his chapped lips. An honest one, though, Geralt notices.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.” Geralt vows and Jaskier quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Even you can’t turn back time.” He shrugs. “What’s done, is done.” He adds, looking down at his ruined hand sadly. “I don’t know what to do, Geralt. What am I, if not a bard? What use am I without...” He trails off and if he had it left in him, he’d be crying again, Geralt is sure.

“You’re a hero.” Geralt says, now taking both of Jaskier’s hands in his.

“What...?”

“A hero. I know what you did. The Sandpiper. I’ve heard about it. You saved hundreds of lives, Jaskier. You’re not just a bard. You are a hero.”

“You know...?”

“When I noticed that there was something awfully wrong with you and you refused to talk to me... I did some digging of my own.” Geralt admits. “What you did was amazing. I’m proud of you, Jaskier.”  

“Fucking cock. This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. You’re not actually saying these wonderful things to me. I must be hallucinating. I need to stop drinking.” Jaskier rambles and tries to get up. Geralt gently tugs him back down by his wrist, a smile on his face. 

“It’s real. I promise. You yourself said that people can change, remember?” He says. 

“Yennefer. Yeah. Turns out I was wrong about that.” Jaskier points out, but Geralt shrugs.

“I’m not so sure. She had her reasons for what she did, we know that now.”

“So you’re going to forgive her?”

“We’ll see. It’ll take some time, for sure.” Geralt admits, then frowns. “Wait. Yennefer.”

“What about her? Geralt?” Jaskier asks, trying to hide his crooked fingers in the sleeve of his coat once more when Geralt starts looking at them again, feeling self-conscious.

“If anyone can help you with this, it’s her.” He says. 

“What on earth could she do?”

“We won’t know unless we ask her. Come.” Geralt says and pulls Jaskier up from where they’ve been sitting, pulling him along in search of the sorceress.

“Geralt. Geralt, wait.” Jaskier says, scrambling to keep up with him. The Witcher stops and turns to look at the bard.

“Even if she can fix my hand... who’s gonna fix my head?” Jaskier asks in a small voice, not meeting Geralt’s eyes. “You don’t understand. I can’t sleep. When I do pass out, either by sheer exhaustion or with the help of way too much alcohol, all I see is *him*. His face. His hand, the fire. I can hear his voice, all. The. Time.” He whispers. 

Geralt puts his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, relieved when this time, he doesn’t jump or flinch.

“I think we’ve made the first step towards fixing that, already.” He says softly. “You started talking about it. You started facing your fear. We’ll take it slowly, from here. I’ll be there for you, you won’t be going through this alone, I promise.”

Jaskier looks up at him and swallows thickly, then nods and motions for him to go on, to find Yennefer. Geralt hopes she can actually do something for Jaskier.

Chapter Text

He’s glad Jaskier agreed and is following him. He’s even happier when Jaskier shyly, tentatively slips his good hand into Geralt’s, holding on tightly as they’re walking through the old keep. Geralt can’t help but smile and give it a little squeeze. He’s finally starting to feel like he can fix this. Do something. Help Jaskier.

They find the sorceress in the library, brooding over an ancient tome with a frown. It doesn’t disappear when she looks up and spots Geralt, but to the witcher’s surprise, it does soften when she notices Jaskier behind him. Geralt thinks he even sees the hint of a smile when she notices their intertwined fingers.

She’s different now, he thinks. She used to be all harsh words, glares, hungry for power. A lot of that is back now that she has her magic back, but a little bit of that softness she had when it was gone remained. He wonders how much of that is Jaskier's doing.

"Yen. We need your help." Gerald says firmly.

"Anything. I'll do whatever I can to fix what I did..." She starts, but Geralt cuts her off.

"It's not about that. Not about Ciri. Well, indirectly, it is, I suppose." He sighs. "Firefucker. Jaskier's hands. Can you fix them?"

He knows he doesn't need to explain, Yennefer was there after all, getting Jaskier out of there. He eyes her warily as she rises from her chair.

"Let me see." She says softly, to the bard who has been all but hiding behind the only slightly taller Witcher. He's been nervous before, but now he's downright terrified again and Geralt squeezes his good hand again, hoping to reassure him, and Jaskier slowly raises his right arm, hand still mostly covered by the sleeve of his ridiculous coat.

Yen quickly brushes it up so it folds, resting along Jaskier's wrist. The bruises and abrasions there have long since healed, in all the weeks it took to travel from Oxenfurt to Kaer Morhen, but Geralt can picture them now that Jaskier mentioned them.

"Fuck." Yennefer curses, making the poor bard flinch. "Shhh, it's ok. I can fix this, but it won't be easy. Or painless. I have to break them again, then mend them by magic."

"Figures." Jaskier mutters under his breath. "Of course. Because why would it be easy and painless? Can't catch a break these days, fucking... fuck."

"Can't you make a potion for him so he doesn't have to feel it? Or be awake for it?" Geralt pleads. Yen raises an eyebrow at him.

"You don't have a single ingredient fit for human consumption in this keep, whatever I can make would kill him. But you're welcome to knock him out yourself." She says coolly.

Geralt just glares at her while Jaskier seems to shrink into himself, as if to hide.

"Just hold him down, don't let him move or I'll do more damage than good." She says and takes the bard's hand in her own once more.

"Why don't you use magic to prevent that?"

"I need to focus on breaking the right bones and mending them. I can't hold him down at the same time or I'll turn his entire hand into minced meat." She says between grit teeth.

Jaskier doesn't say anything, he just stares straight ahead, unseeing. He's still trembling though and he's about to start hyperventilating again, but he's not moving. This might be their chance to get this done.

"Alright." Geralt nods. He winds one arm around Jaskier's middle, pinning his left arm to his side so he won't start flailing as soon as the pain starts, with his other hand, Geralt grasps the bard's delicate right wrist, holding it tightly and keeping him from jerking it back.

Yen nods at him as well and closes her eyes, starting to focus on her chaos. Almost immediately, Jaskier whimpers and starts pleading, Geralt can feel him trying to pull back his arm, but he's no match for a Witcher's strength.

"No! No, please! No more! I told you that I don't know! Why won't you believe me?" Jaskier sobs pitifully, turning his head away from Yennefer.

"Shhh, it's ok, it'll be over soon, I promise." Geralt whispers, in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

"I don't know where he is! He left me. He LEFT me! He never told me anything!" Jaskier cries, trembling harder.

"Fuck! I can't do it! He's twitching too much!" The sorceress curses, her focus lost. She lets go of Jaskier's hand, so Geralt stops restraining him as well.

Jaskier immediately stumbles away from them, into the corner of the room, guarding his hand, sobbing and whimpering.

"He grunts, I come up with poetry. That's how it works. I'm just a bard. I make things up. Please leave me alone..." He whined.

Geralt looks at Yennefer worriedly.

"What's happening to him?" He asks.

"He's not here with us right now. He's back in that tavern, tied to that chair." She explains. "He doesn't know where he is."

"Well, do something! Get in his head and tell him he's safe, he's in Kaer Morhen!"

"I can't. If I just invade his mind right now, it could break him... Well, break him even more." She sighs. "We'll have to get him back the conventional way."

With that, she slowly walks towards the whimpering mess of a bard in the corner and crouches down, still at a slight distance, and starts talking to him, softly.

Geralt hesitates, but then decides to join her.

"Jask... It's ok. I'm here. You're safe." He says as gently as his rough voice allows him to.

It takes a while. Geralt doesn't know how long. But after a good while, the sobbing and pleading stops, and after even more time passes, Jaskier's eyes lose the haunted, far-away look, regaining awareness.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, ashamed.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Jaskier." Geralt says solemnly, but the way the bard refuses to meet his eyes tells him that he doesn't believe him.

"I can't do this. Every time you touch my hand... All I can see is him. Fire. All I can feel is pain. And fear." He says. "I can't stop it. Even though I know I'm safe here... It's like my brain just stops working when I'm... like that."

Geralt doesn't know what to say. He scoots closer and opens his arms. Jaskier goes willingly, slumping against the Witcher's chest, exhausted. Geralt holds him tightly, running his fingers through his hair soothingly.

"You could use Axii." Yennefer suggests and Geralt glares at her. Of course he's considered it. But... He loathes that sign.

"Isn't there another way?" He asks. "We could strap him down-"

"Do you really think that's a good idea??" Yennefer gasps, glaring right back at him. "After what he's been through, strapping him down to break his fingers while he's fully aware of what's happening is probably the worst idea!"

"Right. Shhh, it's ok, we won't do that." Geralt coos when Jaskier stirs in fear in his arms.

"What would Axii do to me?" He asks in a small voice.

"It... Fuck, Jaskier. It's an awful thing. I never use it unless I absolutely have to. It takes away someone's free will and bends them to mine. If I used it on you, you wouldn't be able to do anything but what I want you to do. Not even subconsciously." Geralt explains, snarling in disgust.

"Well, that doesn't sound all bad." The bard says, to Geralt's surprise. "Would I still feel the pain?"

"Yes. But you wouldn't care." Geralt says, staring at his friend. How is he even considering this?

"Could you make me feel safe? Stop me from... slipping, back to... him?"

"Yes." Geralt confirms. Maybe this isn't such a terrible idea after all, but he still hates the very thought of bending Jaskier to his will like that.

"I trust you." Jaskier then says and Geralt gapes at him, like he's not sure he's hearing correctly. How can this man trust him like this, after everything he's done and said to him? He feels completely undeserving of such trust.

"It's the best way, Geralt. I know how much you hate using that sign, but just this once, it could do some good." Yennefer chimes in. "He's consenting to it, it's not like you'd do it against his will."

"Would it interfere with your magic?" He asks after several moments of consideration. She shakes her head.

"No. Witcher signs are different." She assures him.

"Alright. If you're sure." Geralt sighs heavily, looking at Jaskier, who nods.

"Yes. I'm sure." He says and manages to actually sound like it, too. "I'd much rather have you in my mind than him." He adds bitterly and huffs.

Geralt doesn't answer, even though inside he's screaming for Jaskier to stop saying these things. He doesn't deserve it, any of it.

Instead of answering, he gets up and helps the bard up, as well. Together, they move back to the table and Yennefer pulls up three chairs, arranging them so they can sit in something that resembles a circle.

"Can you hold my good hand or do you need both for the sign?" Jaskier asks almost shyly once they sit down and Geralt gives him a small smile.

"Give it here." He says, putting his own hand on his knee, palm up. Jaskier smiles back and puts his hand in Geralt's.

The Witcher can't help but notice that he's less nervous now that he was for their first attempt. He really does trust him, then.

"Ready?" He asks, looking at both Jaskier and Yennefer, waiting for them both to nod. When they do, he raises his hand and makes the sign for Axii. It feels different now that he can take his time and do it properly, not rushing in the middle of a fight or when calming down Roach on the road.

Jaskier's eyes glaze over as he succumbs to the sign easily, not even trying to resist at all.

'You're safe. You're with me. We'll help you and you're going to be fine. You won't struggle, you won't move at all, no matter what, until I tell you otherwise.'

It feels weird, being let into Jaskier's mind like this, without any resistance. Usually it's not that easy to bend someone to his will, they fight, push back, they don’t want him to, but Jaskier goes easily, willingly, baffling Geralt with his trust.

It startles Geralt so much he almost loses his hold on the bard's mind, but he forces himself to get a grip and keep it, gently soothing him and making sure he doesn't move, isn't afraid.

He can't do anything about the pain Jaskier feels when Yennefer breaks his already broken bones once again, but he can make him not care, not react to it whatsoever. It's there, though, and Geralt hates that he has to go through this again, even if he’s not fully aware of it.

At least this time he doesn't have to be afraid. He doesn't have to go back to that mage, in his mind. He's with Geralt now.

'We're almost there. You're fine. You're going to be fine.'

It takes a while until Yennefer is done, and when she releases Jaskier's hand, she is exhausted, breathing heavily. She nods at him to signal that she is done and he can release the hold on Jaskier's mind, then she flops back in the chair, boneless and tired.

Geralt settles Jaskier's mind with more reassurances before letting go just so he won't startle as soon as Axii's power leaves him.

Jaskier blinks groggily before his eyes focus on Yennefer's limp form, then flit over to Geralt before narrowing in concern when he looks back at the sorceress.

"Are you alright?" He asks softly, reaching out with his left hand to touch her right one gently. Geralt doesn't know whether to be surprised that that's the first thing Jaskier cares about or not. These two have obviously grown closer in the time they didn't together at Oxenfurt and here in Kaer Morhen.

"I will be." Yennefer answers with a tired smile, sitting back up a little more that she caught her breath. "Magical healing isn't easy. I did what I could, but we should still put your hand in a splint, just for a few days. I couldn't do anything about the burns, but luckily they weren't deep enough to cause any nerve damage. Looks like I got to you just in time."

"Thank you. Again. For coming for me and for doing this." Jaskier says warmly and gives her hand a squeeze. She smiles at him and Geralt wonders if he has ever received a smile like that from her. He's not sure.

"I'll take care of the splint. You should rest, Yen. Thank you." Geralt says. She nods and promptly breaks out into a big yawn, making both Geralt and Jaskier smile, before leaving for her room.

"Thank you, too. For helping with this. I'm sorry I couldn't do it on my own." Jaskier sighs. "That was something else, though. Probably one of the weirdest things I've felt in my life. I knew I was in pain and that I should be afraid but I just couldn't."

"It's the least I could do. Thank you for letting me. I felt how much you trusted me with that." Geralt mumbles. Jaskier smiles again, wistfully this time.

"I did trust you with that, yes. With my mind, and to some extent, my body. I'm not sure I can trust you with my heart again." He says and Geralt gulps.

"I... We'll talk about that, but for now, let's get your hand looked after. I'll also need you to eat something, you've lost a significant amount of weight."

"You noticed, huh?"

"Of course. You've been trying to sustain yourself on hard liquor, mostly, these past weeks. We need to talk about that, too." Geralt sighs. "Come on, let's find something for your hand."

Jaskier's eyes look guarded again, suspicious, even, but he follows the Witcher anyway, letting himself be led to what counts as the keeps 'infirmary', a small room adjacent to the lab with some potions, ointments, salves, bandages and, hopefully, something to use as a splint.

Geralt asks him to sit while he rummages through drawers and cupboards in search of something to use. He comes up with several fresh bandages as well as some small, flat wooden sticks. It's not perfect, but it'll do.

Crouching down in front of the bard, he hesitates to reach out.

"Does it hurt?"

"It aches. She healed the new fractures the best she could, but it does ache something fierce." Jaskier sighs. He hasn't moved his newly set fingers yet, either. He does hold out his hand for Geralt to take, though, and it doesn't seem to cause him nearly as much anxiety as it did beforehand, Geralt notes in relief.

He makes quick work of bandaging it, using the wooden sticks as support inside the bandage.

"We might have a slave we can use for the burns." He then says and starts to rummage once more.

"They're healed, Geralt."

"I know. But the new skin is still tender and soft. It still hurts, too. I know, I can smell it on you every time you touch something."

"Damn those Witcher senses. Can't hide anything from you." Jaskier huffs.

"Here." Geralt says, glad when he finds a small jar with a salve he knows doesn't contain any ingredients that would kill anybody but a Witcher. It's a regular salve anybody could use.

Jaskier lets him put it on his fingertips, even though this does almost launch him into another fit of panic, making him tremble and shake. Geralt doesn't comment on it, just makes quick work of it and adds another layer of cloth to keep his fingertips safe.

"Now, kitchen. Food."

"Yes, Sir." Jaskier answers with some amusement.

"Didn't mean to be bossy. I just want to take care of you. I should have been doing that a long time ago." Geralt grumbles.

"I'm not gonna argue with that." Jaskier shrugs, but follows him to the kitchen without protest.

Once there's a big, steaming bowl of stew and a large chunk of bread in front of the bard, along with a large pitcher of water, Geralt gets a small portion for himself as well. He isn't even hungry, but he doesn't want Jaskier to feel awkward eating all by himself either.

"I don't... I don't want to nag, but you can't keep drinking, Jaskier. It's too much. You're destroying yourself." He says after a while of eating in silence.

"I'm aware, thank you very much." Jaskier growls with a glare. "But I can't sleep without it."

"You'll have to try. I'm not letting you drink yourself to death."

"What do you suggest, then? Exhausting myself to death instead?"

"Would it help if I stayed with you?"

"Doubt it." Jaskier shrugs. "Couldn't you just Axii me to sleep?"

"No."

"Why not? Please, Geralt..."

"No!" The Witcher snaps, regretting it immediately. "Sorry. It's just... Axii can leave traces in someone's mind. It's not good. It can break your mind, too, if used repeatedly. I just did it this once to get you through what Yen had to do." He explains.

"Oh." Jaskier makes and stirs the remains of his stew absentmindedly.

There's silence, for a bit, broken by Jaskier nibbling on his chunk of bread as he stares into the distance, somewhere over Geralt's shoulder. Then:

"Will you teach me to fight?"

Geralt looks at him in surprise, raises an eyebrow.

"I need... I need to at least feel like I can defend myself if I have to. Apparently posing as the poor, harmless, unsuspecting bard doesn't save you from torture." He huffs. Geralt nods.

"Alright. If you promise to stop drinking. You need to be in good shape if you want to fight."

"I promise to try, at the very least." Jaskier sighs.

"Hmm. That's good enough for me." Geralt answers. "I know you're not the scrawny little bard you pretend to be with your frilly doublets, I've seen."

"Oh, so you looked, didn't you?" Jaskier flashes him a flirty smile and winks, although it's not quite the same as it would have been, before... the mountain.

"Jaskier, I..." Geralt has no idea how to approach this subject, but it seems like he doesn't have to.

"Let's not... Let's just not. Not right now." The other man says tensely, the flirty smile gone from his face as quickly as he had plastered it on there in the first place.

Jaskier decides to change the subject, instead.

"I had some fencing lessons when I was a teenager. Was quite good at it, apparently. But that was all show, no combat, you know." He shrugs. "I did use some small daggers and knives during my time in Oxenfurt, though. Maybe we could do something with that."

"You're agile and you can be quiet if you have to be." Geralt nods. "I'll still teach you to use a sword, too. Knives and daggers require you to get too close to your opponent. I'd rather have you at a bit of a distance."

"Are you any good with a bow? Maybe I could learn. I have good eyesight."

"We'll have a look, as soon as your hand is healed and you've recovered from what you put your body through these past few weeks, alright?"

"Alright." Jaskier says and gives him a small smile over the edge of his bowl as he lifts it to slurp the last few drops of his stew. Geralt finds himself returning it.

He does decide to stay with Jaskier, taking the bard to his room as soon as he’s done rinsing their dishes. He doesn’t want him to be alone and afraid, he doesn’t want him to wander off and find alcohol, either. Even if staying with him won’t help him fall asleep, even if it won’t keep the nightmares away if he does manage to fall asleep... at least he won’t be alone.

They don’t talk much as they sit in Jaskier’s room, the bard huddled in more blankets than Geralt has ever seen before, but that gives him the time to think about how to talk about the elephant in the room, their feelings for each other. So far, every time he’d tried, Jaskier had changed the subject, so he obviously wasn’t quite ready for it. Maybe it was just too much after everything that happened that day. At least his hand is going to be fine, Geralt thinks to himself with a bit of relief.

Chapter Text

Jaskier falls asleep at some point, Geralt notes with another surge of relief. The other thing he hoped for, that his mere presence would keep the nightmares at bay, doesn’t come true, though. Of course it doesn’t.

When Jaskier starts whimpering and pleading in his sleep, tensing and twitching as if the pain were real, Geralt decides to wake him up.

The bard is grateful to be taken out of his nightmare, to find the Wichter next to him, ready to hold him and soothe him.

“You’re alright. It’s over.” Geralt rumbles as he rubs Jaskier’s back soothingly.

“Yeah.” Jaskier breathes, all but deflating in the warm embrace. He doesn’t fall back asleep for a long, long while, but he’s clearly enjoying being in Geralt’s arms, because he makes no move to get out of the embrace, instead he snuggles closer, making himself smaller despite being very nearly the same size as Geralt, just to fit a little bit better.

Geralt finds himself smiling at that, pulling the blankets up and around the bard. It is cold in the room, the drafty keep not doing much to keep any warmth inside, and Jaskier has started shivering again.

“Could you... uh... light a fire?” He asks tentatively, after a moment.

“Sure. But you’re going to have to let me go.” Geralt says with some amusement.

“Use Igni.” The answer surprises him.

“Are you sure? I thought it scares you.”

“It’s... not the same. It’s you. I know you wouldn’t use it against me. I need to get used to it again. As you said, if I keep hiding from it, it’ll only get worse.” Jaskier sighs.

“True.” Geralt nods. “You’re right, it isn’t the same. I can’t control fire itself, like he could. I can ignite things, but I can’t conjure flames out of thin air.” He explains. Jaskier raises his head from where he’d tucked it into the crook of Geralt’s neck, nodding, then looking over at the fireplace.

“Do it.” He says in a soft voice.

Geralt lifts one hand from Jaskier’s back and points it towards the fireplace. There’s enough charcoal and logs left in there because the bard hasn’t used it since he got here, so he doesn’t need to add any more. He casts the sign and the fireplace comes to life.

Jaskier barely even flinches as he watches, apparently feeling safe in Geralt’s arms.

“Now, some Aard...” Geralt mumbles and sends a few gusts of air into the fireplace to stoke the flames. Soon, he can feel the warmth radiating at them, and Jaskier isn’t frozen in fear at all, he just watches with some curiosity, then turns his head to give the Witcher a small smile.

“Thank you.” He says, then promptly tucks his head back where he evidently thinks it belongs now, resting on Geralt’s shoulder, his face smushed against the side of his neck. His breath tickles Geralt slightly, but he wouldn’t change their position for anything in the world, noticing just how content he feels right now, with Jaskier safe, warm and healing, in his arms.

Some time towards the morning, he must have fallen asleep, and when he wakes up, the sun is already shining in through the tiny window of Jaskier’s room. The bard is awake as well, looking at him curiously.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you asleep. Not that deeply, at least.” He says.

“Good morning to you, too.” Geralt says grumpily and stretches. Jaskier laughs.

“Good morning.” He says. “And thank you. Again.” He adds, almost bashfully. Geralt doesn’t ask what for. It could be many things. He still feels like he doesn’t deserve Jaskier’s gratitude for anything, not after what he’s done.

“How’s your hand?” He asks, instead.

“Sore as fuck.” Jaskier winces. “Pretty good, though. considering I just had it broken again last evening.” He shrugs, then.

“I’ll ask Yen to help with the healing a little, I’m sure your body can take some more magic today.” Geralt says and stretches again. “But first, breakfast. You need to regain your strength if I’m to teach you anything with a sword.”

“Yes, sir!” Jaskier says cheekily and all but leaps out of bed. Geralt finds himself grinning at his antics, more than a little glad to see him back to his old self, almost. The bard then pauses and looks down his own body, grimacing. “I really need some fresh clothes, I’ve been wearing these same ones, washing them and drying them every other day, since I got here. They’re getting a little threadbare.” He sighs.

“We’ll find something for you.” Geralt promises and gets out of bed as well. He can’t offer Jaskier fine silks or embroidered, shiny fabrics, like the bard usually prefers to wear, but he can offer warm, functional clothes that will serve him well in the keep.

~

Two weeks pass during which they fall into a certain rhythm. With his hand healing well, Jaskier picks up chores around the keep. By the end of the first week, he’s taken over kitchen duties for Lambert completely, as he turns out to be quite a good cook, despite how chaotic he is, turning Vesemir’s kitchen into a huge mess every time, but the food he makes always turns out delicious.

By the second week, his hand is healed completely, with some magical help by Yennefer, in small increments so as to not overburden the bard’s body with too much magical healing. Geralt can tell that he’s itching to play an instrument, but he hasn’t touched the mandolin Geralt gave him, yet.

“I’m just... my fingertips are still so tender, I don’t know if...” He says when asked about it, but then he suddenly lights up and jumps up from his chair.

“What?” Geralt asks, confused.

“Mandolin! Metal strings! Yes!” He says excitedly. “Uh... well, see, a lute has very delicate strings made from sheep intestines, as gross as that sounds. You have to play them carefully, or they’ll snag. But a mandolin has metal strings! I can play it with a pick or my nails!”

“I... didn’t know that.” Of course he didn’t. Jaskier flashes him another grin, then dashes off to his room to retrieve the instrument, returning with it and the little pouch of replacement strings a minute or two later.

Geralt watches him expertly string the instrument, then tune it, plucking the strings carefully with the back of his fingers, using his nails. It sounds nothing like the lute the bard used to play, but soon enough, he’s playing chords and melodies, making it work with his music either way. He starts to sing and Geralt can’t help but watch in awe as Jaskier all but blooms right in front of his eyes.

“Since your hand is obviously good enough to play, do you think you could pick up a sword?” Geralt challenges once Jaskier finishes his song. The bard looks at him, blinking in surprise, then he nods.

“Yes. Let’s do it.” He decides and puts down his mandolin.

Geralt leads him out to the training grounds, Jaskier softly humming under his breath the whole time.

“Here.” He says as he thrusts a wooden practice sword at Jaskier, picking up another one for himself. The bard takes it and weighs it in his hand carefully, twirling it around, getting a feel for it.

Geralt takes him through the basics, how to hold it properly, how to block, to parry, and finally to attack, showing him everything he needs to know to defend himself.

Jaskier was wrong when he said his fencing lessons wouldn’t help him with this. While they didn’t do much for the strength of his attacks, they taught him how to dodge gracefully and they taught him a certain speed that makes his attacks almost unpredictable. If Geralt wasn’t a Witcher with superior senses, Jaskier could have easily gotten in a few hits.

By the end of their first training session, they’re both sweaty, Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed and Geralt can’t stop staring at him. Never has a training session made him feel quite this way, but then again, he hasn’t sparred with someone he’s evidently in love with.

“Now I really need those hot springs.” Jaskier says, still panting slightly, his breath little clouds of white in the cold winter air. Geralt nods, agreeing, although he’s not sure what seeing Jaskier naked is going to do to him and how the bard would feel about *that*.

They still haven’t talked about that, even though these past two weeks, it’s become quite clear that there’s something between them, slowly building. Touches have been lingering longer each day, Jaskier has been more flirty again, although he always stopped quickly. Geralt has no idea if he stopped because he didn’t like it or because he thought Geralt didn’t. It was awkward.

He follows the bard back into the keep and frowns. He’s actually nervous. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous about anything. Maybe he’s just scared he’ll fuck this up and scare Jaskier off.

Jaskier seems oblivious to the turmoil going on in his friend’s head as he heads down to the springs. He easily sheds his clothes, letting them drop to the floor carelessly before wading straight into one of the steaming pools of water.

Geralt respectfully averts his gaze, although he can’t help but glance at the bard briefly before going back to studying the tiled floor.

“Geralt? Are you coming in or what?” Jaskier asks. “The water is quite lovely, but you know that. Really soothes those sore muscles.” He winks and Geralt wishes he'd stop talking about his muscles. He sighs and nods, quickly shedding his clothes as well. Unlike Jaskier, he folds them neatly and places them on one of the stone benches along the wall before joining the bard in the springs. He sits, leaning back against the edge, closing his eyes.

“Are you alright? You seem... distracted.” Jaskier asks, mirroring Geralt’s position on the other side of the small pool.

‘Flirt with him. Do something. Make a move!’ Geralt’s brain seems to scream at him, so for a moment, he just stares at Jaskier, before finally snapping out of it. He smiles.

“Of course I’m distracted.” He says, moving his left leg so his calf slides along Jaskier’s right.

The other man stares at him, dumbfounded, for a moment, before his brain catches on and he grins back.

“Oh, are you saying I’m distracting, Witcher dear?” He says, obviously delighted with the flirtation.

“Hmm. Always.” Geralt says, delighting in the fact that Jaskier actually blushes. Encouraged, Geralt extends his hand to the bard, silently asking him to come closer. Jaskier takes it without hesitation, letting himself be pulled to the other side, ending up between Geralt’s legs, blushing further.

“Geralt. I...” He stammers, blinking rapidly. The Witcher can’t help but wonder why Jaskier is being so awkward. He’s supposed to be a master at seduction, this is supposed to be his element, isn’t it? He needs to slow down.

“I know I’ve hurt you. I have since realized why, though.” He says gently.

“Yes?” Jaskier asks and Geralt takes a deep breath.

“Because... I fell in love with you and it scared me. So I did the only thing I knew how to do, I pushed you away.” He shakes his head.

“Oh Geralt. Oh dear, sweet Geralt.” Jaskier sighs and wraps his arms around the broad shoulders, smiling. “How I longed to hear you say these words.”

“I love you.” Geralt blurts out at that and Jaskier’s smile broadens.

“And I, you, Witcher mine.” He answers. Geralt feels like the weight of the entire Keadwenian Mountains had been lifted from his shoulders, before Jaskier speaks up again. “What made you realize you were in love with me?” He thinks about it for a moment before answering.

“I don’t think I really did until... until you were gone. Or rather, until after I left.” He sighs, guilt gnawing at his insides once more. “But I think I’ve been in love with you for a much longer time than I realized. At first, I didn’t understand why you were there, why you were following me, I was annoyed, I felt inconvenienced, I didn’t get it.” He explains.

“But then, I noticed these little things. Things you were doing, for me. How you always ordered an extra portion of food when you were waiting for me in a tavern. How you stopped using the strongly scented bath oils and switched to something more bearable for Witcher noses.” He chuckled. “How you did your very best to be quiet when I came back from a contract with potions still in my system, because you knew I couldn’t take it, that it was just too much. But you made an effort. For me.”

“I did. I didn’t want to cause you pain. Or discomfort.” Jaskier nods.

“I really appreciated that. And then I noticed that I actually liked having you around. I started to hate the quiet when you weren’t. I felt lonely, for the first time in my life. Without your presence next to me, your constant chattering, your scent... I couldn’t sleep or even meditate without your heartbeat next to me. It grounded me and when it was missing, I just... couldn’t.” He continued. “I stopped feeling at home in Kaer Morhen. Home was... with you.”

“Aww, fuck, Geralt. You’re gonna make me cry.” Jaskier said, moving closer. Geralt wrapped his arms around him, pulling him against his chest.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. When I did realize, it was too late. I tried to convince myself it was for the better.”

“Why?”

“Well. I’m a Witcher, Jask. You’re human. Mortal.” He sighs.

“Oh.” Jaskier says, pulling back a little to look at him. “You’re afraid of losing me.”

“Yes. And now I feel like I’ve wasted so damn much time.” Geralt huffs, resting his forehead on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Hm. Look at it this way: We’ve had 20 years already, and they were good years, lots of fun, adventures, all that. Now you get to have me for however many years I have left. That’s still better than never having me at all, isn’t it?” The bard says seriously.

“Every second with you is worth it.” Geralt agrees. “Even if it’s going to hurt like hell when it’s over.

“Now, now, I don’t plan to kick the bucket any time soon.” Jaskier chuckled, pulling back again so Geralt had to raise his head off his shoulder and look up at him. “Don’t think about it, just enjoy what we have right now.”

“You mean until my brothers are inevitably going to rudely interrupt us?” Geralt chuckles.

“Exactly.” Jaskier grins and leans in. Geralt looks up into those cornflower blue eyes for a moment before finally closing the distance and kissing his bard.

Now, it’s far from his first kiss, and yet, it feels different than any others he’s shared. It just feels... right. Like coming home. He deepens it and pulls Jaskier even closer, growling into the kiss as the bard moans softly when their bodies make contact, flush against one another.

Geralt slides his hands along Jaskier’s back, further down, pulling him closer as they kiss until they run out of breath. When they part, Geralt kisses along the bard’s slightly stubbly jaw and along his neck, making him sigh and shiver.

“Geralt... I... stop.” He then says in a small voice, weakly pushing at the Witcher’s shoulders. Immediately, Geralt pauses and looks up at him. He can feel that they’re both hard, yet Jaskier asked him to stop.

“What’s wrong?” He frowns. “Did I...”

“No. No, you didn’t do anything, it’s just... I don’t... I’m not ready for this, yet.” Jaskier stammers, looking down at the water. “It’s not that I don’t want you, I do, I just... I’m sorry.” He mumbles.

“Shh. It’s ok. You don’t have to apologize. If you’re not ready, we’ll wait.” Geralt soothes him gently, simply resting his hands on his waist, allowing him to pull back from the very intimate contact. It only made sense that Jaskier needed more time to truly forgive him, and yet, it was jarring to be rejected by someone who was known for his promiscuity. This wasn’t just about sex, though, Geralt was well aware of that.

“Will you still stay with me tonight? Please?” Jaskier pleads.

“Of course. Tonight and every night you want me there with you.” Geralt answers with an encouraging smile that just grows wider when Jaskier returns it, wrapping his arms back around his shoulders to snuggle against him.

He’d already wasted 20 years, he could wait just a little longer, especially if it meant getting to hold Jaskier close.