Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We could head to the coast… get away for a while.”

Jaskier doesn’t dare to look at Geralt as he says it.

Those words - they’ve been on his mind a while, though he’s never thought there’d be a good time to ask. Now doesn’t quite feel like it, either, but truthfully, he’s too tired to care. He’s exhausted, really, and of so many things.

(Some of them feel meaningless and selfish, in the grand scheme of things. But they’re still his feelings, true as ever.)

He’s tired of all the fighting, of watching people die. Tired of experiencing Geralt’s guilt, first-hand, nearly every day of his life. Of watching him and Yennefer dancing around each other. Of constantly being left behind, an afterthought.

(The moment Yennefer had walked into that inn, the moment Geralt saw her - he knew he had lost. Perhaps that’s the true reason why he says it.)

He needs a break. They both do, he thinks.

The truth is, he doesn’t expect Geralt to react well to his suggestion. In fact, it doesn’t take long for him to realize that perhaps he’s fucked up - offering his own heart on a silver platter, as though explicitly asking Geralt to ruin it for him.

(Geralt isn’t a cruel man - Jaskier believes so with his whole being. But he also knows there are hearts that Geralt wants to care for more so than for Jaskier’s own.)

In a sudden hurry to bring some levity to the conversation, Jaskier opens his mouth - that sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it? he could say, laugh it off, as though he hasn’t just shared one of his deepest wishes.

Except Geralt speaks before he can.

“Maybe you’re right.”

The sound of his voice startles Jaskier and he turns, wide-eyed, to stare at his companion.

(Why did that startle him so much?)

“What did you just say?” he utters softly.

“You’re right, Jaskier,” Geralt hums, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He turns and their eyes meet - Jaskier doesn’t even have the time to cover his shock. “Life's too short. We should do what pleases us.”

“...well, that sounds an awful lot like something I would say,” he mutters. What he doesn’t mention is the strange sense of deja vu that he gets from this entire conversation.

Geralt’s mouth quirks up, just barely, but Jaskier doesn’t miss it, far too attuned to all of the witcher’s microexpressions.

“We must have been spending too much time together, then,” he says amused.

(No. There is something more to it.)

Jaskier nibbles at his bottom lip, watching Geralt for a longer while. He feels like he’s in a dream, too good to be true, and if he says just one wrong thing, he’ll have to wake up.

“And yet you’ve just agreed to spend even more of it with me,” he says eventually. It’s as much a statement as a question - is this really what will please you, Geralt?

“Hm,” Geralt grunts thoughtfully. He turns to look out at the horizon in front of them. “I suppose I have.”

Doesn’t it make you happy?

“We will leave, then,” Jaskier says on an exhale. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt nod. “Before sundown.”

He cares, Julian.

Hours pass before they finally make it down from that mountain. Before they get far away from dragons and witches and all those magical, mystical things that Jaskier has never thought he’d get so sick of.

They walk, side by side, Geralt on Roach’s saddle while Jaskier is on foot and it all should feel perfectly average, pleasantly so, but somehow… it doesn’t. Something is off, Jaskier can tell as much, and it’s not even necessarily bad, but more so simply distorted like a dream. For all the extensive vocabulary that he has, he’s not sure what word would best describe this feeling.

It’s like… when he looks around, he sees the colors that are just a little too bright, grass that is too green and flowers that turn their heads towards him as though he’s the sun. The temperature is perfect, too, and even his feet don’t feel as sore as they should be.

It frustrates him. It frustrates him that he can’t explain why all these good things feel so wrong.

(It must be that he hasn’t been getting enough sleep, simple as that.)

“Jaskier.”

At the sound of his name being called, he perks up, pulled out of his thoughts. Geralt’s eyes are already on him.

“Yeah?” he prompts when Geralt doesn’t continue. “What is it, Geralt?”

“We’ve been walking for a while,” Geralt says slowly. “I thought maybe you’d want to let your feet rest. You could ride on Roach with me.”

Instantly, Jaskier stops walking.

“What?”

Well, this is certainly a first.

Geralt doesn’t usually do… this. Jaskier still vividly remembers being told not to even touch Roach, much less actually ride on top of her. Obviously, they’ve gotten over some of that over the years - he’s had many a chance by now to run his fingers over Roach’s fur and, blearily, he recalls sitting on her back while nearly choking to death. That, though, was different - despite Geralt’s gruffness, he’s always valued Jaskier’s safety.

But this time? Jaskier isn’t in any grave danger and yet Geralt’s offer still rings loudly in his head.

Noticing that Jaskier isn’t keeping up anymore, Geralt slows Roach down until she comes to a stop. “Do you want to come up here?” he repeats the question calmly, as though oblivious to Jaskier’s surprise.

Jaskier narrows his eyes at him. He should just accept the offer, before Geralt has the time to change his mind, but he can’t help feeling that this is suspicious, somehow.

(Why can’t he just accept the good things as they happen to him?)

“Is this an apology for something?” he asks. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, of course, my feet will certainly thank you later, but… really, Geralt, what is this about?”

“Just get onto the horse,” Geralt huffs. “It’ll be faster this way.”

Now this, this sounds more like the witcher he knows. Jaskier huffs a laugh and finally comes closer, relaxing just a tad at the familiar tone.

“Yes, fine, you don’t need to ask me twice.”

“Apparently I do,” Geralt snorts. “Three times, actually.”

“Oh, so you can count. No need to brag about it, dear.”

With Geralt’s help, he climbs onto Roach and soon enough he’s settled behind the witcher. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his arms at first - he’s never ridden a horse like this with Geralt, not while still fully conscious. Tentatively, he reaches for Geralt’s waist at first, then changes his mind and makes a move for his shoulders instead. Geralt seems to quickly grow frustrated with his indecision and grasps one of Jaskier’s arms, pulls at it until it’s firmly wrapped around his middle. Silently, Jaskier mirrors the motion with his other arm until he’s firmly holding onto Geralt.

“Good?” Geralt asks simply.

Jaskier allows his eyes to linger on the side of his face for a moment before he nods. “Yeah.”

And so they continue on.

Tentatively, Jaskier allows himself a moment to enjoy this - to enjoy the way it feels to be pressed up so close to Geralt, wind blowing in their hair as they ride on. Sitting on a horse is never particularly comfortable on the buttocks, but he likes this. Likes the intimacy of it.

He rests his cheek on Geralt’s shoulder and he both hears and feels the witcher hum.

“Don’t fall asleep. I won’t be able to catch you if you fall off.”

Jaskier smiles, eyes fluttering shut.

“No promises.”

“Hm.”

Before night falls, they find a tavern to stay at. Some small establishment in a middle of nowhere town that they aren’t even sure the name of. It’s nice, if just because no one seems to be afraid or put off by Geralt - whether it’s because they don’t realize who he is or they simply don’t care, Jaskier doesn’t know and doesn’t dare ask.

They get settled in their room in relative silence. Even Jaskier, usually so talkative, is quieter. It’s been a long road and he’s tired, perhaps even more so than he should be after getting to ride on Roach’s back for most of it. He feels the edges of an oncoming headache, though, so perhaps that’s all there is to it. Lack of sleep must still be getting to him.

What you asked for, this is it. Are you not happy?

He shakes his head.

Geralt is still in the same room and he doesn’t want to subject himself to any potential teasing, if he gets too distracted. Although… Geralt has been strangely pleasant to be around, more so than usual. It’s a welcome surprise, of course, but Jaskier still struggles to wrap his head around it. He feels as though he’s missing something, an explanation for Geralt’s sudden gentleness.

Even the scene that he’s watching now is strange. Geralt is bent over the tub, pouring a jug of hot water into it, completely unprompted. Jaskier has offered to take care of it, as he’s always done, but Geralt brushed him off and took over the task. Fascinating.

“Undress.”

The simple command is what pulls Jaskier out of his thoughts. He blinks and raises an eyebrow at Geralt.

“Before the water gets cold,” Geralt continues, as though this is a daily occurence.

(Jaskier is fairly certain it isn’t, but his thoughts have felt muddy for a while.)

“I thought you’d be in a rush to get in first,” Jaskier replies slowly, standing up.

Geralt shrugs. “I’ll help you wash.”

That’s new.

“You know, I’m really beginning to feel like I’m missing something here,” Jaskier says, forcing his tone to remain light, even in the face of his own confusion.

He comes closer to Geralt and as he does, Geralt moves, too. He straightens up, takes a few steps and before Jaskier knows what’s happening, there are hands gently grasping at the edges of his shirt and lips against his cheek.

“Geralt?” he rasps, startled. “Did you just -”

Jaskier lifts a hand to his cheek, feeling over the lingering warmth of Geralt’s lips against his skin. What the actual fuck?

Why aren’t you happy?

(This - this isn’t right.)

There’s a voice, a whisper at the back of his mind, but it’s so faint. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from Geralt, even as he tries to make sense of that insistent voice. Those words.

Turn your back to the forest, hut hut.

Turn your front to me, hut hut.

Your head is mine, not yours.

(He remembers how it all started. Days ago, in a prison cell.)

“Hut, huh… something about a hut… any ideas, Gordon? No? Yes? Come on, guys, give me something to work with.”

Jaskier’s been sitting in this blasted cell for far too long - even though it must’ve been maybe an hour or two at most, it’s enough that he’s getting restless, and anxious, well aware that this time there might not be anyone coming to save him.

(He had already lucked out, with the firefucker. He’s not sure he can be this lucky twice in a row.)

Gods, why is it that Yennefer gets to just poof herself out of existence while he’s the one that gets caught and stuck here?

He can’t even be mad at her, not truly, and he’s glad that she’s managed to get away. In fact, he’d rather it be him, getting this sentence, than her. She’s powerful and important and he knows she will be able to get back to Geralt, to warn him about Rience and the dangers that he and Ciri might soon be facing.

(He also knows there’s no denying the connection she and Geralt have.)

He scoffs. Even now, he can’t fucking stop thinking about him.

“Focus, Jaskier!” he berates himself out loud. He can hear the grunts of the guard outside, further pissed off by his incessant chatter, but he doesn’t bother to worry about it. He needs to think and what better way to do so than by talking himself through it. “Something about a forest… what was it…”

He’s been at it for a while, trying to figure out what it was exactly that Yennefer had said before she disappeared. He’s no magic, never had been, but, hey. Maybe it can help him get out, too. You never know until you try.

“Mother of forests, hut hut…” he starts again, frowning. “No, that’s not - the Deathless Mother? Something about dreams… wait, I think I got it.” He breathes in, closes his eyes and this time makes an honest try of it. “Behold the mother of forests, the Deathless Mother nesting in dreams. Turn your back to the forest, hut hut. Turn your front to me, hut hut.”

As soon as he says the very last word, he feels a strong gust of wind pushing at his chest. He stumbles, barely keeping his balance - hasn’t he been sitting, just moments ago? - and blinks his eyes open.

The prison cell is gone.

Instead, he’s inside a… he’s not sure what, really, but it looks like something straight out of a fairy tale. A dark, grimy, terrifying fairy tale. He spins around, taking in all of his surroundings - it must be some sort of cottage or hut, hidden away in the woods, or at least that’s the feeling he gets despite not being able to see what’s outside of these wooden walls he’s in. There’s a fireplace in one of the walls, fire burning, and he flinches away from it the second his eyes land on it. It seems like the only source of light, though, in an otherwise dark interior.

He doesn’t think he’ll be fond of fairy tales anymore once he gets out of here.

(If he does.)

“Jaskier, you made it.”

Hearing a familiar voice coming from somewhere behind him, he spins on his heels yet again and sees… her. Whole and safe and… as much as it hurts his pride to admit it, he’s relieved.

“Yennefer?”

Chapter Text

Yennefer.

She looks exactly like she did last he saw her, a purple cloak pulled over her forehead and her face cast in shadow. The one difference - the main difference - is the look in her eye. The way she looks at him, it reminds her of when her Chaos was still hers, how she’d look down at anyone that dared disrespect her. He knows, now, that much of it has always been an act, a defence, and yet seeing it in her face again still makes him shudder.

Somehow, it hasn’t even crossed his mind that chanting the incantation could lead him straight to her. It’s a fairly logical leap, now that he thinks about it as he stands in front of her sorceress. Regardless, he still has no clue as to what’s happening. He has no Chaos in him, that much he’s sure of, and yet whatever it was that he did has worked. How?

“What the fuck are you doing here? No, actually, no, don’t answer that, better question, what is this place?”

“You never shut up, do you?”

He scoffs at her words, puffing up his metaphorical feathers in offence. “Well, now - if you haven’t noticed, talking is what I do. Wouldn’t be much of a successful bard if I kept my mouth shut - but, seriously, where are we?”

Jaskier would never want to admit it to her, but there’s something about this place that makes his skin crawl. It certainly makes it so that he’s less willing to joke around, to banter with her. He’d rather get out of here and soon.

(Maybe that prison cell wasn’t so bad after all.)

“Come, Jaskier.”

She gestures to a table - he could swear there wasn’t one there, just a moment ago. Or maybe there was - he finds it difficult to keep track of the space around him, feeling like it’s constantly shifting around him.

(The fireplace feels closer than it should be. He tries not to think about it too deeply.)

“It’s safe here,” she continues. He wonders if she can sense his discomfort. “Come, let’s have a drink.” There’s a bottle in her hand now - clearly something alcoholic, but he can’t make out any labels, anything that would give away what it is. He doesn’t even think to ask.

“Right,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at her. With not a word of protest, he steps closer to where she gestures for him to sit.

When he pulls the chair out from the table, it makes an awful scratching noise against the floor. He barely resists the urge to flinch, but he knows better than to take his eyes off her. Something about this whole situation puts him on edge, makes him even more wary around her. It’s strange.

Slowly, he sits down. She does the same, although with far more ease than him. Still, her eyes remain on him as well, as though he’s her prey and she’s waiting for him to bolt.

(He wishes his own overly active imagination wouldn’t supply him with such comparisons in a moment like this. He’s already creeped out enough as it is.)

“What if I told you -” she begins, pouring them both a glass. When he looks at hers, the image mirrored in the glass is not her face. He blinks. “- that you could get away?”

Jaskier’s fingers curl tightly around the glass, scarred skin soothed by the coolness of it. He doesn’t take a sip, though - suddenly, he doesn’t feel like drinking at all.

“Get away from what?” he huffs, frustration seeping into his voice. He hates it, the way she’s speaking to him - with this sense of superiority, as though she knows something he doesn’t. Perhaps she does.

(And it hurts, when he thinks about how she hadn’t spoken to him like that, the last time he saw her.)

“This heartbreak, Jaskier.” She looks up sharply and their eyes meet. The shade of her eyes is not the right one. “That you could finally matter. For once in your short, miserable, human life… All you need to do is ask.”

“Ask - for what?”

It’s a stupid question. He can immediately guess what this is about, who this is about because isn’t it always about him? All of this destiny talk, Jaskier’s own purpose in life, it seems as though everything, always, revolves around Geralt. And he can’t imagine that this is any different, not when he’s well aware that Yennefer knows his feelings.

(Something about it all makes a piece of his heart simmer with rage.)

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he continues when she doesn’t respond. “I get it, you’re mad at him, too, but you can’t just be telling me to - what, to forget him? Actually, I’m not even sure what it is that you’re trying to say here. If getting rid of a broken heart was so easy, I would’ve done it ages ago, trust me.”

(A lie. He wouldn’t have, no matter how much it hurt.)

“Listen to yourself,” she hisses, leaning forward. “Do you truly want to keep giving so much of yourself to him? You could rid yourself of this suffering, Julek, you could -”

“What did you just call me?”

It hits him, then, when he hears that nickname slipping from her lips. A nickname that so few know of, one that makes him think of fields of flowers, of a young boy running down crowded halls, of his mother’s eyes. Of Lettenhove. Of a home he hasn’t had for a long, long time.

(All the memories which he doesn’t want to be thinking about in front of her.)

His next inhale is shaky, but his expression hardens. “...you’re not Yennefer.”

(Gods, how could it have taken him this long to realize?)

As soon as he says it, Yennefer - or rather this thing, creature, whoever it is - appears to give up on the pretences. Her face falls and then her whole being shifts with it - black hair turns to white, strands of it curling along the curves of her cheeks. Her nose lengthens, bends into something crooked and he winces at the sight of it and yet he can’t look away, somehow entranced by the peculiarity of it all. There are wrinkles now, all over her face, until she looks nothing like Yennefer except for the ghostly memory of a familiar pair of purple eyes that were in front of him just moments ago.

Overall, she - they? He’s not quite sure anymore - has the appearance of someone kind, suspiciously so. Like a grandma that’s about to throw him into the fireplace and smile at him while she does - same way she’s smiling at him right now. The smile draws him in, a dangerous pull, and he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like any of it.

“How clever you are.”

“What the hell are you? What do you want?” He forces himself to speak before she can say anything more. Whatever this thing is - it’s clear that she can see into his very heart and soul. How else would they have known? Yennefer, Geralt, that age-old nickname…

“I want to help you.”

He shakes his head. He’s not an idiot, thank you very much, and he knows very well that this elderly lady, despite her appearances, cannot be trusted.

“No. No, no, no. I’m not buying whatever it is you’re… selling. What do you want?”

Suddenly, he feels it, that pull of magic, crackling in the air around him. It brushes against his cheek, his hands - reaching out, trying to drag him closer. He can almost taste it on his tongue, too, and he grits his teeth to try and keep it out. He has to resist it.

(It feels much in the same way that Rience’s magic had felt, hot and dangerous and terrifying.)

“Haven’t you heard what I said?” she continues calmly. “Why must you suffer so, Julian? Have you never wished for happiness?”

She knows exactly which strings to pull and it terrifies Jaskier to his very core. The idea that she can see into him - that she can pull at his greatest fears, his memories, at his wants and desires.

“Darling, love, my fair lady,” he rambles now, trying to cover up his nerves with words, always more words. It’s pointless, he knows, as she must be aware of all his emotions, but it’s a habit ingrained so deeply into him that he doesn’t even try to stop it. “I don’t know what it is that you’re trying to do, but - look. I’m terribly sorry for barging into your home uninvited, it’s a lovely cottage, truly, but now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to leave.”

Of course, it doesn’t appear like she’ll budge. Why would she? She’s the one with all the power here, not him.

(Damn it all to hell, how did he manage to get himself into an even bigger mess than the one he was in to begin with?)

He feels it again, too. This warmth, like a hug too tight. This strange need to tell her everything - to cry with joy and to laugh with despair, to finally allow himself to share all of this pain with someone. He has to physically bite at his tongue to stop the words from flowing out - to stop himself from telling her about how much he truly misses him and how angry he is and how utterly exhausted. The bitter taste of blood in his mouth is a small price to pay if it means he won’t let it all slip, if it means he won’t put everyone he knows and cares for in danger.

Fuck, it truly is like that firefucker all over again. Except this time it’s his tongue and if this keeps on happening, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to keep on creating.

(That is, if he even gets out of here alive.)

“I can give you anything you ever wanted.”

Geralt, something inside of him whispers. He’s not sure if it’s his own mind speaking. Ask. Ask and it will be given. Don’t you want to be happy?

“Anything at all.”

Don’t you want to stop hurting so much? Wouldn’t you like to rest?

“All you have to do is ask.”

Don’t you want them to care? Don’t you want him to care?

“Fuck off.” It comes out in a growl that he doesn’t even recognize as his own voice.

There’s so much noise in his head, voices overlapping one another, making it impossible to focus. He clicks his tongue and even that hurts, nearly as much as this battle he’s fighting with his own head. Still, he presses on.

“You can - you can shove it up your wrinkly old arse, you witch. I don’t want it.” Every sound is a struggle, every word, and not just because of the bitter blood in his mouth. “I don’t want anything. You really think you can sell me on your - your little spiel? Happiness doesn’t come without a price, not in my experience. And I refuse to be paying yours. So either fuck off or just end it already.”

This is it, he thinks to himself, this is how I die. Mouthing off a witch in a gods-know-where hut.

If he’s lucky, maybe someone will wander in here, eventually, will find his cold, dead body and spin a tale of a careless bard who couldn’t have kept his fucking mouth shut.

(A fitting end.)

Except none of that happens.

Instead, there’s suddenly flames licking at his right hand, coming out of seemingly nowhere. He screams, startled by the sensation and the painful memory of it, and stumbles back. He loses his balance and everything after that is a whirlwind - his eyes fall shut and his feet slip and then he’s falling, falling falling…

Until his ass hits the cold, hard ground.

His hand still feels like it’s burning and he barely chokes back another pained whimper. He’s on some sort of solid ground, now, and so he blinks his eyes open, in a hurry to take in his surroundings.

The prison cell, he realizes. He’s back in that prison cell.

(What in the hell?)

His gaze darts to his hand, then, but there’s no fire to be found there. Just a badly healed scar and a phantom memory of pain. Shakily, he exhales and slumps against the wall.

He has to ground himself, somehow, and so with his scarred hand he touches over the floor, feeling it out as though checking if it’s even real. His left hand, he moves to his face and that’s when he notices that he must’ve started crying, at some point, because there’s still fresh tears on his cheeks. He goes as far as to brush his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to feel out the wound there - but there’s none.

Still, he knows. He knows that it was all real, the hut, the witch, all of it. But why would she have let him out?

There’s a sickly feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Because, fuck, he refuses to believe that he’s not going to pay for this, sooner or later. Fuck.

He lets his head thump against the wall as his eyes flutter shut. Guess he’ll live to see another day.

You could be happy. You could be happy. You could make them listen. You could make him care. You could.

He hears it, again. That soft, frustrating whisper, an itch that can’t be scratched.

Where is he that pleases you, Julian?

He sets his jaw. Rubs at his eyes. He feels so tired, all of a sudden.

Your head is mine, not yours.

Chapter Text

“- if I shoved it up your - Geralt?”

He’s here. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Ever since the hut, ever since he’s met the witch, the voice in Jaskier’s head just doesn’t shut up. It gets quieter, sometimes, becomes more so an incessant buzzing in the very back of his head, but it’s still there.

Always.

Jaskier has taken to singing loudly, banging out rhythms with his little ragtag band of mice all in an attempt to tune out the noise. So far it hasn’t proven to be very effective - and now, it appears that seeing the one person he’s wished to see for so long is not going to make it go away, either.

(In fact, the voice is louder than ever.)

He’s here!

Jaskier grits his teeth and that gesture serves a double purpose now when he’s equally frustrated with the noise in his head as he is with the sight of Geralt. Geralt, who wasn’t supposed to be doing this, wasn’t supposed to be saving him after how he had left him up on that mountainside.

It’s not fair. It isn’t fair either that Jaskier just can't stay mad at him, can he?

He never can.

(His heart could be ripped out of his chest and he’d still forgive him.)

Weak. He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness.

In fact, it does feel as though his heart is being pulled out of his chest as he moves in for a hug and he hears that familiar voice telling him that he’s missed him.

(It’s not fair.)

Gods, how painful this reunion is and how painful it is to finally look in the eyes of someone who he’s longed for so long. He knows, though, that good things don’t just happen. Not to him and not like this. There’s more to it, there always is.

He has to know. “What are you doing here?”

“We don’t have time. We need to go.”

Right. Seems like despite all the time that has passed, nothing has truly changed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He left you.

There it is, the voice prodding at him.

Don’t you remember, Julian?

Like rubbing salt into a fresh wound. Into all the wounds that he hasn’t had the time to heal.

He abandoned you. He abandoned you.

“The last time we saw each other, you basically told me to fuck off. Remember?”

All the bottled up pain and frustration spill out of him at once, as though his tongue isn’t his anymore.

(Perhaps it truly isn’t.)

“And you left me on a mountain. Have you seen these boots? I mean, I pretty much just slid all the way down that hill back to Caingorn.”

He keeps talking because he has to, because if he stops, he’ll break and he doesn’t want to break, he can’t, except Geralt has to cut in, of course he fucking does -

“Jaskier -”

Do you want him to leave you again?

He can’t take it anymore.

“Don’t fucking Jaskier me!”

This anger, it’s so unfamiliar, but now Jaskier wonders if it hasn’t always been there, buried deep down in the darkest pits of his heart. The witch must be laughing at him as she forces him to claw it out from inside him and makes him use it against the person he loves most.

(Just this once, he agrees with her.)

“I’m talking to you. This is how this works.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what sort of reaction he’s hoping to get out of Geralt. What he certainly hasn’t been expecting is for the witcher to come closer to him and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. To look at him with such a tender look in his eyes.

(Why is it that when he’s mad Geralt has to look at him like that?)

“I need your help.”

His heart cracks open. And the witch heckles louder.

“Fine.”

Weak.

It’s late in the evening when they all finally take a break - him, Geralt and their current traveling company of dwarves. Most of them are bustling about as they get ready for the night and Geralt is the closest to him - in fact, Jaskier is fairly certain the witcher has barely taken his eyes off him ever since he’s rescued him from that prison cell.

(The sensation of yellow eyes on his back makes his skin crawl in a way it’s never done before.)

Earlier, Jaskier had told him as much as he could - but not all of it. He had told him about Yennefer, disappearing into thin air, about the witch’s incantation, but… he still hasn’t mentioned his own encounter. Hasn’t mentioned the hut nor the voice in his head. None of it. He doesn’t know why - he vividly remembers standing in that lake and opening his mouth as though to tell him about it all, but then he simply… couldn’t.

Useless useless useless.

The Deathless Mother, Geralt had called her. And then, not long after, they began their travel towards Cintra.

They’re in a rush to get there before Yennefer and Ciri do, but they had to take a break once it started getting dark. They’ll leave by morning, as soon as the sun rises, but for now Jaskier gets to lay there and rest his feet, his body - but certainly not his mind.

(He wishes that he still had his lute with him, if just as a distraction from the gnawing noise.)

What’s the matter, Julian?

With a huff, he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He just wants her to shut up, is that really too much to ask for?

He tries to focus on the other noises around him - the dwarves’ chatter, the clinking of Geralt’s armour, the wind. None of it is enough to drown it out, though, no matter how badly he tries. His hands curl into fists and he feels an urge to cover his ears or tear them off or - anything. Anything, to make it stop.

“Geralt,” he croaks out suddenly, wincing at the sound of his own voice. He clears his throat, blinks his eyes open and is instantly met with a concerned look on Geralt’s face.

“What is it, Jaskier?”

Good question, Jaskier thinks to himself amongst all the buzzing in his head. He breathes out and wills himself to focus. He can’t let Geralt know something is wrong.

(Why can’t he?)

You’re useless to him if you’re broken.

(Right. That’s why.)

“Tell me -” he swallows. The words feel like molasses on his tongue and he hopes Geralt can’t hear it in his voice. “Tell me about Ciri.”

(Tell me anything. Distract me. Please.)

Geralt seems taken aback by his request. There’s a moment of hesitation there before he finally lowers himself to the ground until he’s sitting next to Jaskier’s bedroll.

“...what would you like to know?” he asks gently.

Jaskier shrugs. Lets his eyes flutter shut once more as he shifts to put his arms behind his head. “Anything,” he tells him. “What is she like these days, the Lion Cub of Cintra? You know, I wound up in that court a few times, without you, when she was still little. She’s always seemed like a feisty one. Must’ve taken after Calanthe.”

Geralt hums. He’s quiet for a moment and during that time Jaskier focuses on the sound of his breathing, anything to keep himself grounded.

“She is… incredible, Jaskier,” Geralt says eventually. “She’s one of the best things to have happened to me.”

It’s strange, just how much these words hurt. Jaskier knows that he should be happy - he wants to be happy for Geralt and for Ciri, happy that they have finally found each other and that perhaps Geralt has made peace with his destiny. But the truth is that all he feels in this moment is jealousy and bitterness. He swallows around it, does his best not to give in to the pain of it all.

(He fails.)

“High praise, coming from you,” he mutters. It comes across far more snarky than he’d like it to be, but the alternative, he knows, is so much worse.

Geralt sighs. “I’ve learned a lot,” he admits. “From having to care for her. These aren’t things I say lightly, you should know that better than anyone.”

Tell him.

“Well, frankly, I’m beginning to think that maybe I never truly knew you at all.”

There it is.

The venom that he’s been trying so hard to hold back, to keep himself from spitting it in Geralt’s face. Thoughts - no, fears that have been there for so many years, anger and hatred that he’s only ever allowed himself to indulge in on the darkest of nights, when it was just him and a bottle of rum cradled close to his chest. Anger that he’s always tried so hard to keep hidden from those he cared for.

(He despises himself for saying it out loud.)

He deserves your anger, Julian.

“Jaskier -”

“Fuck,” he says on an exhale. “No, Geralt, it’s -” The pounding in his head is getting worse and it’s like he’s drowning, in the dark, and he feels so bloody lost. “I’m just tired,” he lies. “I’m tired. Sorry, I should - we should - we should rest. There’s still a long way to go, tomorrow.”

Geralt says nothing, but even with his eyes closed and the thick fog clouding his mind, Jaskier can still feel the weight of his gaze on him.

“Don’t worry about me,” he whispers.

(Please do, he wants to plead.)

For once in his life, though, Geralt decides to listen to his request. With a soft hum, he pulls away and then Jaskier can hear him standing up.

“Rest, Jaskier,” he says gently and Jaskier once more feels an urge to claw at his ears, just so that he doesn’t have to hear the tenderness in Geralt’s voice.

Unable to trust his own voice, he only gives a curt nod in response and then turns so that he’s curled up on his side, facing away from Geralt. He knows, though, that he won’t be able to get even a wink of sleep tonight.

You’re nothing to him.

He wraps his arms around his knees and hugs them close to his chest.

It’s when Geralt orders him to take Ciri that something inside him snaps at last, far worse than anything that has happened before.

Only here to be used used used he’s using you he doesn’t really want not like how you want him -

“Stop.”

Same way he had snapped at the witch, the word comes out like a growl. He can feel everyone around him freeze, how they turn their heads to look at him.

(That’s not what really happens. The dwarves barely pay him any mind. And yet - he feels eyes. All around him. Suffocating him.)

Geralt is still holding a sword up to Yennefer’s throat, but his grip on it wavers at the sound of Jaskier’s voice. He tears his eyes off her to stare at the bard instead, thinly veiled surprise painted all over his features. Jaskier wants to look away - he doesn’t want to face the shock in the witcher’s eyes - but he can’t. Something is holding him firmly there, making him meet Geralt’s gaze straight on.

(That something isn’t Jaskier.)

Used used used he’s going to use leave abandon you.

“Stop ordering me around. I’m not your fucking servant.”

The way Geralt looks at him, it’s like he doesn’t recognize him. Jaskier wants to scream.

“Jaskier this isn’t the -”

“It’s never the fucking time, Geralt!”

He stalks closer to the two of them and even Yennefer’s eyes are wide as she looks at him, her head tilted just barely as she tries to avoid the blade that brushes against her throat.

“I’m tired of this,” Jaskier huffs, standing up straight. He tilts his head back so that he can keep looking Geralt in the eye as he speaks. “Would I even be here, if you didn’t think you could use me? If I wasn’t so bloody disposable?”

(Back off, back off, back off, why are you still talking?)

He doesn’t want to be saying these things. Doesn’t want to see the way Geralt’s lips part in surprise, doesn’t want to see how young Cirilla flinches at the tone of his voice, for once looking like the young girl that she is rather than the adult she’s been forced to become. Doesn’t want to see the concern in Yennefer’s piercing eyes.

He wonders, briefly, if she knows. If maybe she’s the only one who can see inside him well enough to know that it isn’t him speaking. If maybe she’s heard this voice, too.

Maybe if she had her Chaos, she’d be able to stop him.

“You’re the only one I can trust with Ciri right now,” Geralt says. “Please, Jaskier.”

(No. No, no, no. Don’t trust me. Please don’t trust me.)

She’s the key. You can do to him, what he did to you.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. He grits his teeth and wills his own words to finally come through. “Fine,” he huffs and for once it feels like it’s really him speaking.

He turns.

“Ciri, let’s go.”

As he walks off towards the horses, the wind picks up. Miles away from the soil he stands on, an elf cries in anguish and the sky darkens with clouds that weren't there just moments ago. All the while, the hum in his head keeps getting louder and louder and louder until it’s a screech that only he can hear.

Your head is mine.

Something flashes in front of his eyes, quick like lighting.

Your head is mine your head is mine your head is mine.

Jaskier blacks out.

“We could head to the coast… get away for a while.”

Jaskier doesn’t dare to look at Geralt as he says it.

“Maybe you’re right.”

You’re mine.

Chapter Text

“I’ll help you wash.”

That’s new.

“You know, I’m really beginning to feel like I’m missing something here,” Jaskier says, forcing his tone to remain light, even in the face of his own confusion.

He comes closer to Geralt and as he does, Geralt moves, too. He straightens up, takes a few steps and before Jaskier knows what’s happening, there are hands gently grasping at the edges of his shirt and lips against his cheek.

“Geralt?” he rasps, startled. “Did you just -”

Jaskier lifts a hand to his cheek, feeling over the lingering warmth of Geralt’s lips against his skin. What the actual fuck?

“Come, now,” Geralt murmurs. He hasn’t let go of Jaskier’s shirt - in fact, he’s now tugging at it, gently, as though trying to undress him.

(Definitely new.)

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Jaskier pulls the fabric out of Geralt’s grasp and stumbles back, raising his arms as he goes. “This is… a little sudden, don’t you think? Not that I don’t appreciate all of -” He gestures vaguely towards the tub. “- this, but, I don’t know, Geralt, it’s not every day you’re… are you certain you’re feeling well?”

He doesn’t stop moving, trying to put as much distance between himself and Geralt. Something about this feels so… off - has felt that way ever since that blasted mountain.

“It’s not sudden, Jaskier,” Geralt says slowly, yellow eyes unnaturally still. “I want you to be well.”

He’s not human, sure, but doesn’t he need to blink, still? Jaskier doesn’t know why he latches onto such detail rather than onto Geralt’s words, but it’s difficult to focus on anything when his head is pounding so much, as though it’s about to explode.

Your head is mine, not yours.

Jaskier shakes his head.

“Right,” he mutters, repeating the motion. The headache keeps getting worse - he can’t stand still anymore, needs to get rid of this excess anxious energy somehow. He begins to pace around the room, doesn’t look at Geralt as he continues, “Right, sure, then you’ve been real fucking awful at showing it before,” he spits out.

“I think you should sit down -”

A hand touches his shoulder and Jaskier flinches. On an instinct, he moves to push it away but because it’s Geralt that has reached for him, Geralt with his inhumane reflexes and heightened senses, Jaskier’s right hand immediately gets caught in the witcher’s grip. Jaskier tugs, tries to free himself, but Geralt’s grip is relentless.

Their eyes lock and Jaskier snarls. “Let me go.”

“I want to help you.”

“Help me?” he scoffs. He doesn’t really know what’s happening anymore - what is it that they’re fighting about. Shouldn’t he be enjoying this, the attention? Geralt’s affections? Shouldn’t he? “Bloody hell, Geralt, let me go!”

Instead, Geralt’s grip tightens and Jaskier feels an instant surge of panic in his entire body. It’s a burning kind of feeling, white-hot flashes, starting at the fingertips of his right hand and then radiating all through the rest of his body.

And suddenly, he feels so small.

“Please, Geralt.” His lip quivers. “I can’t do this, you don’t understand.”

Rather than relent, though, Geralt just laughs. He laughs in his face and it’s not Geralt, it’s never been Geralt and oh, fuck, Jaskier has really fucked up this time.

You wanted this, didn’t you? the voice in his head speaks and Geralt does too, their voices overlapping as Jaskier struggles to pull away.

You’re all mine.

The person standing in front of him isn’t Jaskier. Of that much, Geralt is certain.

He might look like it, at first glance - the shape of his body, color of his hair, the familiar face. Except his eyes glow, a strangely neon shade of blue rather than the pretty blue of summer skies that Geralt has gotten so used to. It’s not even the only giveaway - he can see it in his posture, too, the way that he snarls and snaps, like a wild animal unleashed from its cage.

Looking back, Geralt knows he should’ve realized sooner. There have been hints, ever since that prison cell, that something about Jaskier was off - but they hadn’t seen each other in so long that it took Jaskier nearly choking Lambert bare handed for Geralt to finally put two and two together.

“Hey, songbird!” Lambert had called out.

At that point, Geralt already had a bad feeling about where this was going, but he kept quiet. Watched as Jaskier raised his head and acknowledged Lambert without a word.

(He had been strangely quiet, ever since they arrived in Kaer Morhen.)

“Why don’t you play us a song, huh? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing?”

“Lambert, cut it out -”

“Keep quiet, Geralt, let your bard speak.”

“Unless there’s some instruments around here that you’ve been keeping a secret from me - don’t think I can.”

There was something strange about the way in which Jaskier had responded. He had spoken so slowly, with a slight upturn of his lips as though amused at something - at what, Geralt couldn’t quite tell.

“What, you don’t have your own? Poor excuse for a bard if you don’t even have anything to play on.”

Jaskier said nothing. Geralt had hoped, at the time, that Jaskier simply knew better than to react when Lambert was clearly just trying to get a rise out of him.

(He had been wrong.)

Despite the lack of reaction, Lambert, being Lambert, refused to let it go. “You can still sing, can’t you?”

That was the last straw. In a split second, too fast to be entirely human, Jaskier had moved. Suddenly, he had Lambert pressed up against the table, a hand on his throat. The entire room tensed up at the sight.

“I will make you sing next,” the thing that used to be Jaskier had snarled.

Now, they’re at a standstill.

Geralt was quick to drag Jaskier away from Lambert before him or any other of his brothers dared to drive a sword through the bard. Jaskier, though, didn’t take too kindly to it, had shoved Geralt away with a strength Geralt didn’t even know he had.

(Perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s the monster inside of him that does - the Deathless Mother.)

“What do you want from him?” Geralt yells as he and Jaskier circle around one another.

There’s a commotion, all around them, as everyone is on high alert now that they know Voleth Meir is in a room with them. He doesn’t pay them much mind, except to make sure that none of them touches Jaskier.

(He can’t let them hurt him. He won’t. No matter the danger of it all.)

“The human?” Jaskier speaks, smiling a smile that isn’t quite his. It’s too sharp at the edges, too vicious to be Jaskier’s. “The human is simply… means to an end.”

Geralt doesn’t get the time to question the witch much further than that. Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement - Vesemir, coming in closer, sword in hand. Fuck.

Swiftly, Geralt rushes forward - with how skilled a fighter Vesemir is, he barely has enough time to throw out an Aard in his direction, but somehow he manages - and it’s effective enough, pushing the older witcher away from Jaskier. The witch, though, uses the distraction to her advantage and now Geralt has Jaskier coming at him from the back. Geralt pirouettes and with as precise a swing as he can manage, puts his sword between the two of them.

It does stop her from getting closer. But the movement had been sloppy, he knows, and he can see that he had grazed Jaskier’s right hand. The Deathless Mother seems to notice as much, too, and she pauses. When she does, it’s like everything in the air around them stills, as though time slows to a crawl. She stares at Jaskier’s wounded hand for a longer while and then - then the blood turns to steam and the cut closes on its own, as if it had never been there to begin with.

When she looks up at Geralt, her eyes - Jaskier’s eyes - shine even brighter than before. Her expression, on the other hand, darkens.

And then she’s rushing at him and Geralt feels all air leave his lungs as his back hits one of the stone walls of the keep. With a trembling hand, he makes the sign for Quen and then meets her eye.

As long as the shield is up, it’s just the two of them.

“Jaskier - I know you’re there. I know you can hear me.”

“Fucking - fucky - let me go!”

Jaskier screams it this time, wrestling his arm out of Geralt’s grasp. Geralt’s vicious cackle still rings in his ears and perhaps that’s what gives him the strength to pull away.

(Not Geralt, he has to remind himself. This isn’t Geralt. Geralt wouldn’t… right?)

He’s hurt you before, Julian.

Jaskier’s vision swims and in a blink of an eye the interior around him changes. The tavern in Posada, he realizes immediately, where they’ve first met. He’d recognize it any time. There’s a drink in his hand and Geralt’s sitting on a bench across from him.

It takes him a moment to really wrap his head around the scene in front of him, but once he does, the first thing he feels is a ridiculous laughter tumbling its way out of his mouth. He can’t help it, not really, and so he laughs, much in the same way Geralt had laughed at him, and he laughs and laughs because it’s all that he’s got left in the face of this farce that surrounds him.

Without stopping, he lifts his glass, but instead of it being a toast, it’s a protest - he smashes it onto the table and all at once wobbles to his feet, laughter twisting into anger.

“I’m done,” he hisses and for the first time in days his voice sounds like it’s his own, despite the fury laced through it. This, it’s his anger and his alone. “Done with your twisted games. You’re not Geralt. This -” He waves an arm, gestures at the walls around them. “- none of this is real, is it? You - you’re just playing with me and frankly I’m bloody sick of it.”

By now, he’s sure of it, sure of how much of a fantasy it all is. He doesn’t need any confirmation - and yet he gets one regardless, as Geralt’s expression shifts, his entire face does, and then the witch sits at the table with him.

“This isn’t just a game, Julian,” she hums, a dreadful sound. “As long as I’m here… you’re not in control.”

She stands up and the building rumbles along with her motion, hard enough that he’s barely able to stay on his feet.

(She’s right. He’s not in control.)

Cursing under his breath, he lays a hand against a nearby wall, glances down at his feet - and when he looks up, she’s coming straight at him. He could swear there was a table between them, just moments ago, but it’s not like he has much time to be focusing on such meaningless detail when he’s fairly sure he could die any moment now.

“You were happy,” she continues. “Why would you reject that? Why would you reject the chance to get what - who - you have always wanted?”

“You know why,” he mutters.

He tries to back away but there’s a wall behind him - there wasn’t one before. He’s being caged in, he realizes.

“No, not quite.”

The closer she gets, the stronger the fear he feels - like a noose tightening around his neck, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. And yet he doesn’t stop talking - won’t stop talking even to his last dying breath.

“Look, lady,” he gasps. “I might have spun plenty of fictional tales, but if there’s one thing I’d like to be entirely fucking real - it’s my life. If you thought I’d believe that -” That Geralt could love him, something in the back of his head unhelpfully supplies. “- that what you showed me was real, then you made a mistake.”

In a desperate attempt at regaining control, he swings an arm, grabs at - at whatever is closest. A piece of glass, apparently, from the glass he had smashed earlier.

(Is the table back where it was? And the glass, it was definitely smaller than this. No, focus, this isn’t important.)

The witch doesn’t back off, even as he waves the piece of glass at her. In fact, she seems amused at his poor attempts at self-defence - even more so when his grip on the glass tightens until he feels it dig into his skin, feels the warmth of blood running down his fingers.

Pain courses through his arm, but he doesn’t make a sound. It’s surprising, even to him, how it grounds him, clears some fog from his mind. There’s a brief second where a familiar face flashes in front of him, yellow eyes and white hair, but he’s fairly certain it’s not the witch changing her form. No, it’s something entirely else.

(Something real.)

He grits his teeth and then he moves.

“My head’s not yours, it’s mine,” he howls it at her as he shoves her towards the wall.

After all, what else can he do? Maybe this truly is how he dies, but he refuses to be the one trapped when it’s his head they’re both stuck inside of. He’s never been much of a fighter, always preferred to keep his own hands clean, but he’s desperate - and if he has to go down, he’d rather go down fighting. To his very last fucking breath.

When her back finally hits a wall, he goes with her, swiftly pressing the piece of glass up to her throat. He doesn’t let it cut skin, but it brushes against it like a threat. Naturally, she isn’t intimidated by it - her smile widens and then morphs and Jaskier wants to scream.

“You’re better than this, songbird,” she whispers and her voice is Geralt’s again.

He feels sick, all of a sudden, unable to look her - him - in the eye.

“I’m not,” he grunts. “Shut up. Shut up, I don’t want to hear this from - from his mouth.”

“Oh, I know. I know everything about you. All your fears, your greatest desires. Everything.”

Stupid, he thinks. He’s stupid to still be trying to talk his way out of this, to be hoping that she’ll listen to anything he says. And that she won’t try to use his words against him, won’t try to twist it all on its head just to hurt him more. His pain, now hers.

He shakes his head, keeps his mouth shut.

(But isn’t it all so pointless? She is in his head.)

I know who keeps you awake at night. Who you love. Who brings you pain.

“This,” she snarls. “This is your way to get back at him for what he’s done for you.”

It’s still Geralt’s voice that she speaks with. Geralt’s eyes that meet his as he looks up at her.

“You don’t have to keep hurting anymore, Julian.”

It’s Geralt’s throat that he presses the glass to. It’s Geralt that he’s about to hurt.

“No,” he breathes out, a sudden decision, and pulls back.

Her eyes widen as he staggers backwards, but he pays her no mind.

“Fuck this,” he huffs. “Fuck you,” he spits. “You don’t get to - my pain is mine,” he growls. “It’s mine and mine alone and I won’t let you take it from me. I won’t let you use it to hurt him, even if he hurt me.”

He’s terrified, his heart beating so fast that it feels as though it’s about to burst out of his chest - and yet, he tosses the piece of glass, the only defence he has, to the ground.

“I’d rather die than hurt him.”

And then, he opens his eyes.

So this might be how he finally dies, Geralt thinks to himself.

He would’ve liked not to let it happen at the hands of the bard, the human, but the witch is relentless, it seems. She’s managed to knock his sword out of his grip and is now holding it up to his throat, forcing him to tilt his head back, bare his throat to her, just to avoid the blade of it.

He’s acutely aware of who else is in the room - his brothers, Yennefer, Ciri. He knows that if he let go of the protective bubble around them, they could all most likely overpower her just enough to at least get her away from him.

He doesn’t, though. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep it up for, but as long as he can, he will.

(He’d rather die than let Jaskier get hurt.)

“Jaskier, listen to me.” It’s not the first time he’s tried this. He doesn’t know if Jaskier can hear him, but he has to hope. “You’re better than this, stronger than this. I know you are. I need you here.”

The witch’s grip on the sword tightens and he feels the blade graze his skin. He closes his eyes, focuses on the magic thrumming through his fingers. Prepares himself for the worst.

But when a minute passes and nothing happens, there’s no blood gushing from his throat nor pain running through his body, he opens his eyes.

The gaze that he meets is of blue summer skies. The gaze that he meets is, without a doubt, Jaskier’s.

Chapter Text

Jaskier is living through the world’s worst deja vu.

After all, it’s the second time in one day that he finds himself tossing a weapon to the ground, all in an effort not to hurt someone that he loves so much. There’s still this thrumming at the very base of his skull, a low hum of anger and suffering, but at least for the moment he knows he’s in control.

“Jaskier?”

A voice speaks in front of him, but it takes Jaskier a moment to realize who it belongs to - and that yes, this time it really is Geralt. That there’s no sneer underneath, that his face won’t soon morph into something unrecognizable. A sudden wave of relief washes over him, so strong that he could cry - except he knows it’s not quite over yet.

He staggers back, away from Geralt, until his back hits something - an invisible barrier of sorts. It takes a moment for it to register as being up by Geralt who is still signing magic into the air with one arm.

“Do something,” Jaskier whimpers. For once in his life, he tries to make himself small - he presses himself up against the shield that surrounds them just to keep as much distance between them as possible. “She’s still - Geralt, she’s still here. I can feel it. I don’t know if I can do this.”

There’s some hesitation in Geralt’s expression, but to Jaskier’s surprise, he lowers his arm. Jaskier trips over his own feet when suddenly the wall that was behind him is gone, but then a hand on his shoulder steadies him.

When he glances to his side, he sees that it’s Yennefer who has rushed to him first. On an instinct, he tries to pull away, but as though sensing it, her grip tightens and so he freezes, stuck between her and Geralt.

Geralt steps closer. “It’s the Deathless Mother, she -”

“I know,” Yennefer cuts in. She doesn’t take her eyes off Jaskier and he squirms under the weight of her gaze. “In spite of her, you took control. That’s…”

Jaskier doesn’t know what she meant to say because it’s in that moment that the rest of the room moves towards them. With how much his head is swimming, it’s hard to keep track of people, but he can still easily tell they’re all on high alert.

(And it’s all his fault.)

“So he nearly killed you and we’re just going to stand around here? How the fuck do we know it’s him?”

Jaskier isn’t sure which of the witchers says it. He’s not sure if he cares to find out, either. The hum in his head hollers just a little louder with every reminder of how dangerous he is to them all.

When Geralt responds, though, it’s with no hesitation. “It’s him,” he growls at his brother.

Jaskier wishes that he could truly appreciate the trust Geralt still has in him, despite everything that has happened. But the circumstances don’t exactly allow him any moment of rest.

“It’s him, Coen.”

“Geralt, he has a point,” Jaskier finally joins in, voice soft. The second he speaks, there are eyes on him and he hates it. Hates how terrified it makes him feel. “She didn’t just - fuck off somewhere else, she’s still… in my head. He’s right.”

At that moment, Yennefer squeezes his shoulder. The touch is a reassurance that he never thought he’d get from her.

“But she still hasn’t taken control,” she points out, her eyes meeting his. Their gazes remain locked on one another for a while and deep down Jaskier realizes that she’s the only one that truly understands.

(The only one that has seen the same kind of pain in the reflection of her face.)

“She hasn’t taken control, but if we keep arguing, she might. Voleth Meir feeds on pain.”

“...Yen is right,” Geralt breathes out. Looking over at him, Jaskier sees the newfound realization, some strange sort of wonder, in his expression - as though he’s only just now comprehending how much Jaskier has been hurting. When their eyes meet, Jaskier is quick to look away.

(He doesn’t want Geralt to face his pain.)

“Let’s take him to the lab. I can keep an eye on him.”

Jaskier knows that the last part is simply meant to reassure Geralt’s brothers, but it still makes something inside him twist with guilt and rage. He tries to squash it down, lest the witch feeds on it - and he can only hope that he succeeds.

He has to stay in control.

No matter what.

“Why did she possess you?”

By now, Jaskier feels a little more at home in his own body. His head, though still pounding, feels clearer than it has in days and, for the moment, he’s not so exhausted as though about to collapse.

All that to say, he has more than enough energy to scoff at Geralt’s question.

“How would I know?” he shots back. Geralt gives him a look and Jaskier sighs heavily at the sight of it. “It’s not like I’ve just been enjoying some tea with her while she’s inside my bloody head. She…” he trails off.

All three of them - him, Geralt, Yennefer - are gathered in the lab. Despite Vesemir’s protests, Geralt and Yennefer had insisted on not letting anyone else in, not even Vesemir himself. Something about not overwhelming Jaskier, about keeping him calm lest he loses control of himself again. Jaskier wasn’t fully paying attention, too busy ignoring the voice in his head. At least it’s gotten fainter, faint enough that he can’t even make out the words that it tries to whisper to him.

(He has to count any blessings that he gets.)

“...I suppose it must’ve been her way of getting to - you, or Ciri,” he finally elaborates. “I don’t fucking know, Geralt. We’re not exactly gossip buddies, she hasn’t been keen on sharing any detail.”

(He bites back a bitter quip that comes to his head, something about how you would’ve known something about that, wouldn’t you?)

“Cut it out,” Yennefer steps in before Geralt can respond - her voice strangely gentle. Jaskier is fairly certain she hasn’t taken her eyes off him ever since she laid her hand upon his shoulder. “We have more important things to worry about right now,” she points out. “Like how to get Voleth Meir out of him.”

“I’m right here,” Jaskier grumbles. Yennefer pointedly ignores his words - rather than upset him, though, her ignorance serves to make him feel a little more as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

(Has anything been ordinary, ever since he first met Geralt all those long years ago?)

“She needs a vessel,” Yennefer continues. “The only way we could get her out is if -”

Jaskier knows where exactly she’s going with this.

“No,” he says firmly before she can even finish the sentence. “Absolutely fucking not.”

The Deathless Mother needs a body and he is that body, so what way to get her out if not by swapping his body with another one? He can’t let that happen.

“Jaskier -” Geralt sighs.

“No, Geralt. How is that a solution? Are we going to just start playing hot potato with her? And then what?”

Jaskier doesn’t expect the words that follow. Perhaps he should have, if the look of frustration on Geralt’s face is anything to go by, but somehow, it surprises him, the vitriol with which Geralt responds.

“At least we can find her a vessel that is not as emotional as you.”

It’s ironic, how the witch has been so quiet up until Geralt says it. The moment he does, the moment his words hit Jaskier, like a slap to the face, he hears that familiar cackle. And it gets louder and louder as the hurt properly sets in.

Make him fear you.

“Fuck off,” Jaskier huffs, at Geralt and the witch all at once. He despises the way his voice cracks. “I’m going outside. I need - I need to breathe, don’t follow me.”

He doesn’t bother to look back as he storms out of the room. He hopes that they won’t try to stop him.

(It saddens him when they don’t.)

“I told you not to follow me.”

Those words are enough for Geralt to wonder if perhaps he truly shouldn’t be out here. What are the chances, after all, that he won’t repeat his damned mistakes over and over again, if left alone with Jaskier for long enough? But he swallows back that thought, shakes his head. His cowardice has only served to further hurt people, he knows.

“Yennefer told me that I probably should,” Geralt admits as he comes closer.

“Of course she did.”

Jaskier sits on a half-ruined wall, not far off from the keep. The wall is just high enough that his feet dangle and never quite touch the ground below him. He faces forward, doesn’t let his gaze flicker over to Geralt for even a moment. He’s also trembling, Geralt notes, because in his rush to get outside and with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, he clearly hasn’t thought about the chill outside. Fortunately, Geralt has come prepared - a thick coat hangs off his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs and reaches out to put the coat over Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier tenses at the gesture and Geralt can hear the way his heart speeds up, though he doesn’t pull away. As soon as Geralt backs away, Jaskier pulls the coat tighter around himself.

“Thanks,” Jaskier mutters. “Trust me, Geralt, I’m not too happy about this, either. Never asked to have this bloody… witch talking at me at all times. I didn’t even ask for anything from her, you know? She just… wormed her way in regardless.” He sighs. “Don’t see what else we can do about it, though. I mean, at the very least I’m the only person around here without any… magic. It’s safer if she’s controlling me.”

Jaskier might be right, but that knowledge does nothing to make Geralt feel better about the situation.

“She’s not controlling you right now,” he points out quietly. Jaskier looks over at him, for the first time since Geralt's approached him.

(His eyes are still a familiar shade of blue.)

"No, but I can still hear her," Jaskier replies. "She… her voice, it's in my head, at all times, it just… get louder, sometimes, when…"

"When you're hurting."

“Yeah.” Jaskier tilts his head back and his eyes flutter shut. “Not like we can avoid that, though. Lock me in a room alone and sooner or later I will figure out a way to break my own heart." He laughs as he says it, but there's something bitter about it and Geralt is far too aware of the reasons behind it.

"Jaskier - what I said, earlier…"

"Geralt, don't. You already apologized. And it's not like you were wrong."

"I was," Geralt insists.

Jaskier blinks his eyes open and turns until their gazes meet.

“You are… strong, extraordinarily so,” Geralt continues, not breaking eye contact. “In all the time that we’ve known each other, you have taught me so much about what it's like to truly feel and to… love. I wouldn't be able to care for Ciri if you hadn't shown me these things. I believe that if there's one person that can handle Voleth Meir's manipulation, it's you."

The words don't come easily to him - they never do. But this is important, he knows, even more so in light of everything that has happened. He needs Jaskier to know these things, needs him to understand how truly important his existence is.

"...you know, I could get used to this," Jaskier hums, a faint smile on his lips.

"To what?"

"You, complimenting me."

Geralt huffs, but when he speaks his words are genuine. "I should've told you these things a long time ago."

"You should have," Jaskier agrees. "But… Geralt, I've already forgiven you. It's just been… difficult to think for myself, lately, what with the whole -" He vaguely gestures at his own head. "She -" He pauses to reconsider his words. "I'm terrified, you know? She showed me things that I had wanted, so badly, to happen and then she took it all away from me. She knows exactly what to do to hurt me."

"So how did you…" Geralt hesitates, wondering if he should really be asking this. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him and so he continues. "How did you break free?"

For a long while, Jaskier says nothing. Geralt can see how he thinks, can smell the subtle changes in his emotions - fear, embarrassment and… love, love that the bard always carries with him. It's an overwhelming mix, but Geralt knows now is not the time to run from it.

"Refused to hurt you," Jaskier eventually says. “She kept provoking me - told me how I could… get back at you, for how you hurt me. And I just… refused to do it. Told her that I’d rather die than hurt you.”

It leaves Geralt speechless, the bluntness in Jaskier’s words and the dedication with which he had acted. The knowledge that, not for the first time, Jaskier was willing to risk his safety, his health and life just to protect him. Geralt’s heart aches with the weight of it all and he doesn’t know what to say - or if there even is anything that could be said, if any of his words could ever matter when compared to the strength of Jaskier’s love.

Long minutes pass before he breaks the silence. “We'll find a way to get rid of her."

"And if we don't? And if there is no way to get rid of her, other than sacrificing someone else? Geralt, I'm dangerous like this, I -"

"I won't abandon you again," Geralt says firmly.

Jaskier’s expression softens. He lets out an amused puff of air, then reaches out until his fingertips tenderly brush against Geralt's cheek. Geralt leans into the touch, savours it for a moment before remembering what had happened earlier. He takes Jaskier’s hand in his, pulls it away from his face and gently turns it over to inspect the skin.

"Earlier, when we fought," he says slowly. "I grazed your hand with my sword. I saw the wound heal, leaving no scar, but there's still - this.” He traces a fingertip across burn marks on Jaskier’s skin. “It looks fresh.”

“...I suppose since that one happened before she got a hold of me, she wasn’t interested in healing it,” Jaskier mutters, pulling his hand back. Geralt, though, follows this movement, continues to hold onto Jaskier’s hand. “Yennefer didn’t tell you?”

“Firefucker,” he breathes out a realization, his grip on Jaskier’s hand tightening. “She didn’t say much,” he admits. “Though she… mentioned that you haven’t told him anything, despite how he threatened you.”

There’s a question, buried in that sentence. Geralt briefly ponders if he should ask it out right instead - normally, that’s what he would do, but there’s something particularly sensitive about this topic that makes it all the more difficult.

(Especially when he knows that what he’s really asking is why do you still care for me so?)

And yet, to Jaskier it appears to be as simple as ever. “Why would I have?” he asks. His fingers are now loosely slotted between Geralt’s, their hands hanging in the empty space between them. “Geralt, I love you. I couldn’t have let him -”

“Why?” The word slips from Geralt’s mouth before he can stop himself.

He can feel the way Jaskier stills once the question reaches him - even the rise and fall of his chest seems to momentarily stop. The air around him, too. Even the wind.

“Why what?” he asks, slowly, looking up at Geralt.

(Geralt thinks that he already knows what he was asking.)

“Why do you love me?”

Geralt surprises himself with this question and how easily he asks it. Perhaps it’s the fact that Jaskier has already voiced it first that makes the topic easier to swallow - makes it real, something that Geralt doesn’t have to ponder alone and in silence.

In the moment, a mixture of emotions passes through Jaskier’s expression and scent, but Geralt can’t quite catch most of them. Eventually, Jaskier seems to finally settle on one - fond exasperation, specifically.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he sighs.

“I want to.”

Jaskier chews on his bottom lip in silence. He nods, at some point, and gives a gentle squeeze to Geralt’s fingers before he lets go of them completely.

“Later, Geralt,” he says softly, sliding off the wall until he’s standing on his own two feet. “I will explain. Try to. As soon as I’m not feeling like the arsehole of a corpse.” He huffs a laugh. “I need - fuck, I think I need a gallon of ale and a month long nap to recover from all this.”

Jaskier’s trying to put on a brave face, that much is clear, but Geralt knows that look in his eyes - one that tells him of pain and sadness and fear hidden underneath the layer of humor. There’s something else there, too - the overwhelming affection. For once, Geralt doesn’t shy away from it. He gives a gentle squeeze to Jaskier’s shoulder and then nods towards the keep.

“Later,” he agrees. “Let’s go inside now.”

He lets his hand linger on Jaskier’s shoulder all the way back to the keep.

Later that night, Jaskier closes his eyes and the first thing he sees is her.

They’re back in the hut. This place fills him with dread and yet he keeps on breathing in spite of his fear. This might look like the witch’s hut, her domain, but it is still his head. He’s still in control, has to be, and he won’t let himself forget that.

“And so we meet again, witch,” he murmurs, sliding into the same chair he sat in when he first met her.

She smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “That we do.”

“Let’s have a drink, shall we?” he offers.

He grins as the bottle appears in his hand. Continues smiling as he pours the alcohol into two glasses and offers one of them to her. She doesn’t take it - only stares at it, her expression darkening.

“You really think you have the time for this, Julian?”

“What I think is -”

He nudges the glass in her direction, waits until she finally relents and takes it from him - only then does he continue.

“What I think is that I’ll take my fucking time. However much I want.” He lifts his glass for a toast and as he does, he leans in closer to her. “Because, you see, I’m not trapped with you.”

Something sharp glints in his eye.

“You’re the one who’s trapped with me.”