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Jaskier seethed despite himself, despite the ache in his limbs, despite the buzzing in his ears. It was probably due to the adrenaline still thrumming through his blood, but it wasn't the thrill of it that made him clench his fists and wish to pick up his things to leave the stony witcher keep never to return. No, it was something else.
He watched the three figures sitting huddled together in front of the hearth in the freezing hall of Kaer Morhen, talking to each other in hushed, gentle voices. They made a pretty picture - father, mother, child. A family, as it was supposed to be. Permanent and indefinitely loyal, to the death. And still, Jaskier understood nothing of it as he shivered in the cold.
The sorceress's violet eyes blazed towards him, glancing sideways while her mouth straightened into a thin line. His eyes burned hotly as he tore them away from hers and lowered his head, nursing his tankard of much too strong ale. Jaskier made an effort to straighten his back as he heard her tentative steps approach the charred table he sat at, chugging down the last dregs of the bitter drink.
Yennefer sat beside him in silence, pulling another tankard towards herself and filling it to the brim. He watched her long neck as she drank. A faint flowery smell sweetened the air around them and Jaskier's hands itched to yank her by the braid, just to see if she would choke on the ale.
"All made up already, it seems." He said instead, bitter and cruel.
The witch put down her tankard and the softness in her face chilled him to the bone. It was worse than all the insults she had ever hurled at him, worse than daggers in her eyes and poison in her voice. It was pathetic, this pity she watched him with, all kind and regretful. Fuck, if that didn't hurt.
"Far from it," she looked back towards the hearth. "you know as well as I he's always been slow to forgive." But the pity in her expression said otherwise.
Geralt and the princess were still conversing quietly, the witcher's hand on the girl's shoulder. He seemed to be whispering something reassuringly to Cirilla's hunched over form while she hid her face from him behind a curtain of mousy hair, trying hard not to cry. Witchers never cried. Jaskier bristled at the sight.
"Doesn't look like it." He spat, noting the gentle concern on the witcher's face as he comforted his ward. It wasn't fair.
Yennefer sighed beside him, but deigned him with nothing but silence. The bard fought hard not to bolt from the table. Even if he did, he had nowhere to go; he realised with a scoff.
Winter was already upon them, the trek down the path to the Keep would end in certain death and Jaskier had no such inclinations. Not since that mage licked his palms with tongues of fire. They still burned as the bard's eyes bored into Geralt's back. This is all the thanks he would get. Serves him right for agreeing to follow him time after time after time. After he had told himself he would never again.
And now they were trapped together, the sullen witcher and his scorned bard, for better or for worse. Jaskier was painfully certain it would only get worse from there. He cursed under his breath before leaving Yennefer at the table, striding through the hall, jaw clenched hard as he passed the hearth and felt eyes on his face.
"Jaskier."
He should continue walking, Jaskier thought as the voice brittled harshly in his ears. He should continue walking until he is back in Oxenfurt, or gods know where, far away from the witcher and his stinking pile of shit. He should continue walking and not turn back, Jaskier thought and stopped in his tracks. Fuck.
"Geralt." The word tore itself from his treacherous mouth. "Princess."
"Sit with us." Golden eyes looked up at him and Jaskier's knees went weak. Fuck, fuck.
"I should probably leave you two to whatever it was you were discussing. Hashing out plans for overthrowing whole empires or something of the like." Jaskier bit his tongue as Cirilla's shoulders tensed and Geralt's eyes blazed dangerous, but familiar. It wasn't fair.
"Sit." It wasn't an invitation, but Jaskier sat all the same. The space between two benches seemed accursedly small, making their knees bump together as he settled.
"I should probably go." Ciri said, not looking at either of them and all but ran upstairs, followed by Yennefer's careful eyes.
"I'll go with her." She said, asking. Geralt hummed and she went. So much for not making up already, Jaskier gritted his teeth and stared holes into Yen's receding back.
He wanted to tear it all down. The witcher keep, the draughty hall, their perfect little family. Most of all, Jaskier wanted to sink claws and teeth into the looming form in front of him, tear him apart worse than any monster on the Path ever could. To leave him bleeding and in pain, as he knew he could. Jaskier knew just where he should hit, where it hurt most. He knew and he thought he wanted to, but never did. Geralt would never hurt as much as Jaskier wanted him to. Needed him to.
And now he was staring at him, yellow eyes boring into his, as if trying to read his thoughts. As if it was ever hard. Geralt could probably see the murder in Jaskier's eyes, smell it on his skin. Good; the bard thought venomously. Let him see.
The tense silence between them stretched for a few drawn out moments, interrupted only by the cackle of fire at Jaskier's back. It warmed his cold, stiff body, but reminded his digits of a much less pleasant warmth. He flexed his left hand involuntarily and felt Geralt's perceptive eyes settle on the darkened patches of skin there. Jaskier couldn't stand the silence. It was uncomfortable, a painful reminder of how estranged the two of them had become, but the bard was determined not to break it first.
Then, Geralt's gaze dropped to their feet, worn out boots on bloodstained stone.
"Thank you." He said and it sounded like an apology.
Jaskier snapped his eyes up to the witcher's face, almost startled. Geralt still didn't meet his gaze, but stared at the fire behind him. The flames reflected on his face and Jaskier knew at once what he was thinking.
"You don't have to thank me," the bard said, all that rage seeping out. "we're friends, remember?"
He offered, placating. And as quick as that, Jaskier was weak in the face of the man most couldn't look in the eye. Again.
There was something lurking in the witcher's face as he finally turned to look at Jaskier. Something hard and unrelenting the bard couldn't fully place. He hoped it was guilt and not something else. Guilt he could take, he deserved as much.
"We haven't been friends for a while now." The witcher stated and now it was Jaskier's turn to look away. Geralt's eyes burned worse than fire.
'And whose fault is that?' The bard wanted to bite out at him, just to see him recoil.
He remained silent instead, only smiling sourly.
"I waited for you in Ard Carraigh." And that did it, wiped the bard's smile clean off. Jaskier couldn't look at him. Didn't want to see what he knew was already there, lurking beneath the surface. He knew. Jaskier knew Geralt would wait for him at the foot of the mountain, but he never thought he would hear him admit so. It blew the air from his lungs and he had to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.
"I didn't think you'd leave." Without me; he left unsaid.
"Yeah, well," Jaskier said finally, hating how breathless it sounded. "I had to, after... all that."
"I never meant what I said, Jaskier." the witcher's voice sounded strained, frustrated that the bard could ever think otherwise.
He was supposed to know him better than believe the hateful stream of insults that tumbled from behind Geralt's gritted teeth. He was never supposed to simply stand there and take them, he was supposed to fire away, getting him right back. They were supposed to get over it in a biting flurry of heated words and mocking laughs only to forget it all over a bottle of vodka or two.
"I know." Now it was Jaskier's voice that trembled with frustration. It never was the words that did it for him, it was the unspoken rejection that preceded them. 'We could go to the coast...' 'What pleases you', he had said, painfully close to a confession, and Geralt turned his back on him in favor for Yennefer's sweet scented tent.
"Then why-"
"You know why, Geralt."
That shut him up efficiently. Jaskier could almost hear the witcher's jaw clicking as he closed his mouth. It took him a few moments, just as the bard knew it would, until he heaved a sigh and looked at him again, eyes locking, desperate to make them understand.
"You could've come back, you knew where I would be." Geralt implored and Jaskier smiled at the tautness in his voice. And it was true as well. Jaskier could have gone back on the trail, stopped at each of their meeting points in turn until they eventually ran into each other again. He wanted to more times than he could count.
"I made something of myself in Oxenfurt, as surprising as it might sound to you. I have a life there, you know? Had, I suppose." He added with a grimace.
The witcher huffed something akin to a laugh and Jaskier glared at his boots.
"I knew you were the Sandpiper, Jaskier. As surprising as it might sound to you, I went to Oxenfurt too." He admitted somewhat ruefully.
Jaskier's heart soared and hands shook. He felt like he needed another drink.
"Obviously not to talk to me." The bard accused once he regained his voice, trying to ignore the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.
"I needed a new pair of boots." Geralt cocked his head and looked at him, eyes like molten gold, so wretchedly fond that Jaskier couldn't hold them.
"Fuck you." It came out weak, barely a whisper.
"I bought the boots. I also heard that one song. Something about burning someone's stupid hair, or some other shit like that. I might've heard wrong." The witcher said flatly, lips twitching.
"Right. Well, no surprise about that, it was fairly popular, I suppose." Jaskier swallowed. "I gather you liked it."
"Hmm." And just like that, Jaskier could kiss him.
"Hmm." He mocked instead, barely concealing a smile.
"You'll need a new lute." Forgive me; Geralt's golden eyes echoed. "Do you think you can play?" Forgive me; his eyes begged.
"I was born to play, you oaf. Of course I can fucking play. Sing too. In fact, I think I feel a song coming to me as we speak. I might just-"
Geralt shut him up with a press of his lips against Jaskier's, rushed and urgent, like he couldn't help himself. It made their teeth clash and lips bruise, too rough to be considered a proper kiss.
"I would have done the same." The witcher said, fingers digging into the fabric of Jaskier's sleeve, his other hand grasping the wrist of the bard's left. He held it gently, feeling the bard's fluttering pulse beneath his skin, fingers ghosting over half-healed burns
"I know." Jaskier muttered into the witcher's mouth, burned hand brushing away a few strands of white hair from his forehead.
"You don't know anything, bard." Geralt insisted hotly. "You don't know how dangerous this whole mess is about to become. If you're to go with me, you need to learn to defend yourself with more than that flimsy excuse of a knife in your boot."
"And you need a bath. You stink like a donkey's arse."