Chapter Text
Jaskier sighs as he leans against Geralt, letting his head rest against the witcher’s shoulder.
He isn’t sure how long the two of them simply sit together, eyes closed and not a word said between them. Usually, it would be impossible for Geralt to enjoy a moment’s silence with the bard at his side, what with his ever present talks of nobility and whatnot, his halfwitted quips and sing-songy theatrics.
But now, Jaskier is tired. The events of the past weeks are weighing heavily on him, despite his best efforts to appear as unbothered as ever. In his mind’s eye he can still see the bodies of the fallen witchers - Geralt’s comrades, his brothers - in the hall of Kaer Morhen.
He still sees the crazed mage’s face before him and, though his burned hand had started to heal, he still winces whenever he gets just a little too close to an open flame.
He was so tired, so exhausted, to the point where even standing up straight felt like a chore to him. He told himself he was successful in presenting himself as the cheerful poet he was known to be.
Of course, he was wrong.
“Jaskier-” his name leaves Geralt’s lips quickly, hurriedly, as if he had tried to say it for hours now and was afraid he might never be able to say it if he waited even a second longer.
Instead of an answer, the bard lets out a short hum, as if to confirm he was listening. He doesn’t open his eyes, still leaning against his companion. Part of him curses Geralt for speaking up, denying him the smallest bit of tranquillity he’s experienced in weeks.
He doesn’t see Geralt opening and closing his mouth several times, trying, struggling to find the right words.
“I’m sorry, Jaskier.”
Well shit, now he has to say something. “It’s fine, Geralt, you’ve apologised already.” He doesn’t want to have this conversation now. The index finger of his left hand feels like it’s on fire again.
“No, I haven’t,” Geralt insists, “at least not properly. And you deserve a proper apology. You deserve.. you deserve an explanation.”
He goes quiet again, for a moment. It feels like an eternity to Jaskier.
“I wish I could give you an explanation.”
The silence that follows feels anticipatory, as if the witcher is waiting for him to say something. Maybe he expects a similar conversation to the one they had in Oxenfurt.
Whatever reaction it is he is waiting for, he doesn’t get it. Jaskier nods, a nod that Geralt easily would have missed, were it not for his heightened senses. He opens his eyes, but doesn’t move his head from Geralt’s shoulder.
His thumb grazes the tip of his index finger, barely noticeable at first, then lightly presses down on it. Sharp pain shoots through his hand. He presses his fingers together again.
“That day. I was angry and I was frustrated and- I took it out on you. You didn’t deserve that.”
He continues putting pressure on his scarred appendage as the pain spreads to his middle finger.
“I didn’t think you’d actually leave. I didn’t… want you to leave. Jaskier, I-”
“Geralt,” the bard raises his head, a tired smile on his lips. His voice is low and raspy, as if he hadn’t spoken in days, “please. Stop.”
A puzzled look is spread over Geralt’s face as he turns to face Jaskier. “No, Jask, I need you to know-”
“That you didn’t mean it? That you regret it? I know all that. Please, Geralt, don’t…” The rest of his sentence is lost as Jaskier’s voice grows soft. The words sound like a plea. He shuts his eyes tightly, just for a moment, as he digs his nails into the scarred skin of his palm. The pain is overwhelming, but this way he doesn’t have to feel the way Geralt’s piercing gaze seems to linger on him.
He takes a deep breath in, lets the cold air fill his lungs. He holds his breath, then releases it with a sigh. Not the kind of exasperated, theatrical sigh Geralt is used to hearing from him. This sounds weak and defeated.
“I’m tired, I’m really fucking tired. And I don’t want to talk about what happened on that mountain. I don’t want to talk at all.”
This is definitely a first. They both think it and can’t help but smile. They know the other is thinking it, too.
“We don’t have to talk. Not right now, at least.” Geralt takes another, closer look at his bard. Until now, he hadn’t noticed just how exhausted he really looked. His once-bright eyes were now pools of dull bluish grey, with dark circles serving as evidence of his apparent insomnia. “Do you want me to bring you to your room?”
Jaskier shakes his head a little too quickly. “I’d like to stay here. With you.”
Geralt nods, inching closer to him. He looks thinner, too. The witcher makes a mental note of it, deciding to make sure his companion eats full meals from now on. He reaches out his right hand and, carefully, unclenches Jaskier’s fist.
“No more of that.” he mutters, voice stern but kind as he takes Jaskier’s hand into his own, the bard’s injured palm facing upwards. “You need to let your hand heal.”
Jaskier chews the inside of his lip and mumbles unintelligible words of agreement. His head is already resting on his witcher’s shoulder again and he’s struggling to keep his eyes open.
“Comfortable?”
“Hmm.. very.” His voice is barely more than a whisper as he allows himself to close his eyes again.