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Chapter Text

Kaer Morhen got quiet at night. So quiet Jaskier sometimes felt his breathing alone echoed through the crumbling halls. The rest of the witchers had long since retired for the night, leaving him alone in the castle’s kitchens at the wrong side of midnight. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, shaking his head a little to force himself to stay awake. He scrubbed hard on a particularly tough char stain on one of their cooking pots, willing the sponge to just get the damned thing clean already.

He had been at this since dinner ended a few hours ago. Dishes tended to pile up in a house full of perpetually ravenous witchers. He should have given them a wash before this, but he’d been busy mucking the stables, milking the goats, scrubbing the floors, mending clothes…

Jaskier sighed, leaning forward a little as a wave of exhaustion hit him. The waves had become more and more prominent in recent days. Some were so pronounced Jaskier thought he might faint, but hadn’t yet. He cleared his throat, forcing himself upright again. He bit down hard on his lip, hoping to jolt himself back to life with a little pain. It only half worked, but it was enough to keep scrubbing.

He couldn’t complain. No one had actually demanded he stay up to finish cleaning the cookware. He had offered, just like he had offered to do every other chore he could think of since he had arrived at Kaer Morhen a little under a month ago. No one ever asked him to do anything because they never needed to. Jaskier would offer before the request could even form in their mouths.

He had heard Geralt speak of Kaer Morhen for nearly twenty years. Two decades of dreading winter enough to make himself sick - when he would inevitably have to part with Geralt with no real guarantee he would ever see him again. Every winter while he was exiled to Oxenfurt, he’d dream of Geralt in Kaer Morhen. Dreamed of a world where Geralt would want to bring him there, where Geralt would carry him away to a castle. For years upon years, the very idea of Kaer Morhen was everything Jaskier knew he couldn’t have - a permanent, valued place in Geralt’s life.

Now, he was there. He was there, and he had never felt more lost in his life.

Because Geralt had not asked him the way Jaskier imagined he would in his dreams. He had not asked because he desired Jaskier, or loved him. Geralt had brought him there because he had no other choice.

Geralt had been on his way to spend his winter, like always, in Kaer Morhen with his family while he dealt with the fallout he’d had with Yennefer. Jaskier, as always, had followed him like a beat dog, trying to delay their parting as long as humanly possible. He had planned to break his own heart and part from Geralt at the last village before the long trail up to Kaer Morhen. But, before Jaskier could take his leave, a mountain of snow slid down onto the road into town. Jaskier had been blocked with no way back. If Geralt had abandoned him, he would have been long dead by now.

Geralt had allowed him to attend because he was a good man, nothing more.

Jaskier had understood from the moment Lambert eyed him with his lip turned up in a sneer and Eskel greeted him only with a slight nod that he would have to earn his keep. He was a guest only so long as he could pull his own weight and not be a bother.

Every day, he sought to do the exact opposite of all the things Geralt had come to hate about him. He tried never to speak unless spoken to. He kept his head down. He never laughed too loud or offered to sing. He never asked the other Witchers to tell him stories about their travels and adventures. He made himself small, kept his voice low. He folded himself into the shadows of Kaer Morhen.

Geralt seemed to find him more tolerable this way, and in some ways, he felt proud that he had finally figured out a way to be of use to him. If he had been like that since they met, perhaps he could have avoided watching his heart shatter right in front of him.

He had been heartbroken before, but nothing had ever felt like that. It had seemed as though his world ended the moment those words left Geralt’s lips.

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands…

It had become his mantra in the time since The Mountain. He heard it over and over in his head. He muttered it to himself while he worked. He mouthed it silently as he drifted off to sleep. He never let himself forget, digging the blade deeper into the wound every time. But he deserved it. Because he had failed.

From the moment he had laid eyes on Geralt, he knew he would devote himself to trying to make his life better. He attempted to do so using his only talent in this life - his music. But Geralt hated his singing, his voice, hearing him play the lute. And he hated his songs, especially the ones about him.

He had not played a note since The Mountain. Even the concept was strange now. His lute, on the rare occasions he picked it up anymore, felt odd in his hands.

But despite that, all he had ever wanted to do was make Geralt’s life on the path easier, gentler, happier. Not only had he failed in that, but he had actually made Geralt’s life harder. He had complicated it and been a nuisance to the man with the weight of the world already on his shoulders. And he had only added to it.

For that, he could never forgive himself. He could only try to mitigate the damage he had already caused. He had no idea how much longer Geralt would tolerate his presence. In truth, he had been expecting Geralt to cast him aside ever since The Mountain. Jaskier still did not fully understand why he continued to let him follow at all. Perhaps it was because Jaskier had started booking separate rooms at every inn they stayed at and made an active effort to keep out of his way. Geralt would leave him for days at a time, and Jaskier always expected him not to return at some point. For whatever reason, he had.

But they never discussed The Mountain. They never discussed much of anything anymore. In the days after, they had just sat in complete silence around the fireplace until they both wordlessly laid down in their separate bedrolls, far apart from each other. Geralt started to keep to himself even more than he had in the past. He dealt with monsters and his family and Yennefer mostly on his own. Jaskier learned how to mind his business. He polished Geralt’s armor and helped make his potions and tended to Roach without Geralt having to ask. His only hope had been to adjust, so he adjusted.

Posada seemed like a lifetime ago. The lovesick fool he had been felt like a dream. Everything in his life had been a dream until Geralt made him wake up. He should be grateful. He might have gone on being a burden for the rest of his life. At least now he had a chance to still be something to Geralt, even if it was only a functional role. But it was better than an entire life without him - especially since he had discovered fae blood ran through his veins. He had many, many years ahead of him. The idea of having to live out the rest of his existence scorned by Geralt was unbearable. So, he did what he had to do.

Tonight, that was scrubbing the dishes until the difficult char stain had been wiped away. Because that was something he could do. That was something he could fix. Nothing else he had ruined could be so easily mended.

It was a gift, really.

Jaskier started to whisper to himself, softly and under his breath.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands…”

In the silence of the kitchen for only ghosts to hear. ______________________________________________________________________________

When Jaskier’s eyelids pried themselves open, dawn was just breaking. His back and hands ached furiously, but it was the burning in his legs that he noticed immediately.

At some point in the night, he realized, he had fallen asleep. A spike of panic surged through him as he thought he might have missed the goat’s milking time, but a quick look at the horizon and he realized he still had another hour or two.

He ran his hands through his hair. He would need a bath after he took care of the goats. And a whole load of clothes needed washing and mending. He imagined that would take the majority of his day. And he then had to figure out what to do for dinner. The storerooms were well-stocked, but every meal required doing the math to make sure he used their rations as conservatively as possible.

He yawned and leaned back, forcing himself to stand up. He cracked his back and fingers before starting to put the dishes away, ignoring the way his shaking fingers and pounding head screamed at him to collapse back in bed. There was no time.

By the time Jaskier had finished with the goats, the early morning sun had risen to cloak the snow-laden mountains and illuminate the castle. It looked beautiful in this light. Ancient and secure. The slightest wisp of a smile curled over his lips. Despite how crushing this had all been, it was still an honor beyond anything he had ever expected to be allowed there. He tried to focus on that, tried to remember that he needed to be grateful. That had been one of his downfalls in the past; his arrogance and entitlement.

He never took anything more for granted anymore.

Even the bath he let himself have after doing the milking felt like a luxury. In the old days, Geralt would chastise him endlessly for the fancy oils and soaps he would always purchase at market. In hindsight, it was embarrassing. Geralt fought for his life to keep their purse full. Jaskier’s playing helped, but all those frivolous purchases showed just how immature and foolish he had been in the past.

Now, he felt blessed for even having hot water to use.

He scrubbed himself off as hard as he scrubbed the dishes and dressed in a plain white shirt. The bright colors that had always patterned his wardrobe did not fit at Kaer Morhen. They also no longer fit him as he found himself thinning out the longer he was at the keep. He ate only what was absolutely necessary to sustain him and not a crumb more. He could not be seen taking more than he needed, especially not in a castle full of witchers who all but ate their body weight in food on the daily.

He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. He would get to talk to Geralt today. Only for a moment to gather the clothes that needed washing and sewing, but it was still an excuse to hear his voice and see his eyes. Ever since the mountain, Geralt always avoided looking him in the eye. And even though they were technically living together, the castle was huge. Geralt spent most of his time reading or in the yard with his brothers. Jaskier always took his meals in his room to stay out of the way, so their interactions were limited to barebone exchanges and nods in the hall.

Jaskier smoothed down his hair, straightening his shirt as he walked down the belly of Kaer Morhen toward Geralt’s room.

He paused to steady himself outside Geralt’s door, hesitating before rapping softly on the wood.

“Geralt?” he ventured tentatively, sounding meek even to his ears.

His heart pounded furiously in his chest as he heard Geralt’s footsteps, and he took a steadying breath out to try and hide his nerves.

But despite that, he still felt that old rush of affection when Geralt opened the door. His black shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, his hair was loose about his face. He looked stunning. He always did, but especially here, where he could let his guard down like he could never do on the road. Or, perhaps, like he could never do with Jaskier always hanging around. Jaskier shook off the newly-familiar feeling of guilt and tried to muster a smile.

“Hello.”

Geralt nodded at him.

“I, um…I was just coming around to collect any clothes that need washing or mending.”

Geralt tilted his chin up at him a little, like he was examining him or sizing him up.

“I can do my own laundry.”

Jaskier’s paper-thin smile evaporated. He swallowed hard, his eyes flickering over Geratl’s face. “Oh.”

This had never happened before. He had cleaned and sewed up everyone’s clothing since he arrived at the keep. Every time he asked Geralt for his pile, he had turned it over wordlessly and without argument, never looking Jaskier in the eye.

It was quiet for a long moment, Jaskier’s throat suddenly burning. Finally, Geralt grunted, angling his gaze at him oddly.

“Did someone tell you to do the washing?”

Jaskier shook his head.

“No, no. Of course not.”

“But you always do it.”

“Well, yes.”

“Why?”

Again, a tense quiet fell over them. Jaskier swallowed hard, trying to force what felt like a wad of sand down his throat.

What had he done wrong?

“I was only trying to help,” he said, his voice so quiet it was almost undetectable.

Something shifted in Geralt’s posture. He lost some of his stiffness, letting out a long sigh through his nose. He went back into his room for just a moment before re-emerging with an armful of clothes. Jaskier’s entire system flushed with relief. He reached out for the bundle before Geralt could hand it to him.

“I’ll have them back before sundown,” he said stiltedly.

Geralt just watched him, golden eyes guarded. Jaskier’s mouth went dry, and he cleared his throat before he tried to speak again.

“Was there anything else?” he asked.

He knew the answer was yes. Geralt’s room could use a good dusting, his books needed reordering, his floors ought to be scrubbed…He chided himself for even making Geralt ask in the first place.

But Geralt did not say anything, not for a long moment. Long enough for Jaskier’s gaze to flit between Geralt and the hall ahead of him. He wondered if he should have walked away by now.

Finally, Geralt rumbled, “You’ve lost weight.”

Jaskier’s palms grew clammy. He tried to laugh it off, but the noise he let out sounded more like a pained bark than a chuckle.

“I don’t think so.”

“You have.”

Again, Jaskier was left speechless. This felt like more than Geralt had collectively said to him since they had arrived at the castle. Jaskier had made every effort not to let Geralt notice anything about him since The Mountain, and somehow this felt like a failure.

He floundered for something to say, smoothing down his shirt over his stomach.

“The castle has a way of getting you in shape,” was finally what he decided on. Though Geralt surely noticed the slight tremble in his voice despite the way he tried to hide it.

Geralt hummed but did not look convinced.

Still, Jaskier took that as his cue and stepped back a little, preparing to depart.

“I’ll be off, then,” he said softly.

Geralt hummed again, tilting his chin.

“I’ll see you at supper.”

Jaskier brightened a little at that. “Of course. I was thinking about making that stew Vesemir showed me. Lambert and Eskel liked it, I think.”

“You never eat with us.”

“Well, I’m always back in the kitchen. Hard to find a time to sit down.”

That was far from the truth, but it had always been his excuse. Geralt had never questioned it, nor had anyone else. Not until now.

Geralt, after a moment, only repeated, “I’ll see you at supper.”

He stepped back, closing the door on Jaskier.

He lingered there, in some mild state of shock, before making his way stiffly down the hall toward Lambert and Eskel’s rooms to continue on his errand. But Geralt’s comments continued to circle in his mind. There was something about the whole interaction that set him on edge like he had not been in weeks. Every day since he had arrived had been spent trying to make himself more amicable to Geralt, more amicable to everyone. His one job was to stay out of the way, not to be a bother. What did it mean that Geralt had noticed his drop in weight and his absence at meals?

He straightened himself, trying to shake off the feeling that something was wrong. He knew from recent experience that he could find a way to work himself into a panic over just about anything. And that did no one any good, especially since he was already an hour behind on washing. ______________________________________________________________________________

The sounds of overlapping voices and laughter echoed from the dining hall into the kitchen where Jaskier scrambled to keep dinner from burning. Doing the laundry had taken longer than he expected, and the meat was taking what felt like an eternity to cook.

Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir were in the dining hall already. Vesemir, like he always did, offered to help Jaskier prepare the food. And Jaskier, like he always did, rather performatively denied the assistance. It had become a nightly ritual between the two of them.

Geralt had not yet come down, but he was often the last one to arrive for dinner. Jaskier had, for the most part, put his and Geralt’s awkward conversation from the afternoon out of his mind. And the chores helped, keeping his mind from eating itself with worry. At the moment, his only major concern was making sure the venison was seasoned enough to go into the broth.

He bounded back and forth between the different pants and pots, trying to hold the salt because Lambert hated too much salt and adding extra potatoes because Eskel loved extra potatoes and putting in a few more cloves of garlic because Vesemir told him to and -

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier startled, burning the tip of his forefinger a bit on a hot pan but pretending he didn’t. He turned around, unable to stop the smile that almost always passed over his lips when he saw Geralt, standing in the kitchen. He had tied his hair back, his body still taut no doubt from doing drills in the yard. He smelled of sweat and dust and horse and steel and leather and…Geralt. He smelt of Geralt. Jaskier could imagine nothing more beautiful.

“Oh, hello. You’ve caught me right in the middle of it, I’m afraid. I’m in a bit of a state.”

Geralt moved deeper into the kitchen, his eyes flickering over the pots and pans Jaskier was presently working with.

“Venison stew?”

Jaskier nodded. “Lambert requested it, apparently. At least that’s what Eskel told me.”

Geralt hummed, approaching him slowly like Jaskier was a horse he was trying not to frighten.

“Vesemir said he offered to help. Said you turned him down.”

“I’m not going to make your father cook.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed, just slightly. “He’s never minded the kitchen.”

“Not minding something and wanting it are two different things, Geralt,” he said, and his stomach sank for a moment.

He turned back around, his smile slipping off his lips as he focused on preparing the stew. He cleared his throat, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Was there anything you needed?”

Geralt was quiet for a moment, but Jaskier heard him step closer.

“I didn’t know no one was helping you in here all this time,” he muttered, the quiet thunder of his voice sending shivers over Jaskier’s flesh. “I assumed at least Ves…”

Jaskier faltered as Geralt trailed off strangely. He refused to meet Geralt’s gaze despite how close he’d gotten. He was standing parallel to him by the counter, his golden eyes seemed to burn holes through his skin.

“I’ve never asked for help. I don’t need it, honestly. I cooked all the time back home.”

“I didn’t know that,” Geralt said after a moment.

Jaskier hummed. “Oh, yeah. One of seven kids, all boys if you can believe it. So every meal was an ordeal.”

Again, Geralt went silent. He shifted next to Jaskier, and he could feel himself being watched.

“You’ve never mentioned your brothers.”

“No,” Jaskier said, instantly regretting bringing them up at all.

“Why?”

“Seven boys, one house, absentee parents. There’s a hierarchy to things, you know? Some of the litter has to be on the bottom and some have to be on top. And someone has to be at the bottom of the bottom. That’s just how it is.”

He stopped abruptly when a knot all at once formed in his throat. He tried to clear it away, shaking his head a little.

“I tried to keep busy as best I could. Helping in the kitchen was a few hours of not being tortured, so I came to quite enjoy it.” He tried to sound unbothered by the memory, as though the wound healed long ago.

Geralt swallowed loudly beside him, their arms almost touching but not quite.

“They hurt you? Your brothers.”

Jaskier tried to smile, nodding too quickly to look natural.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure. But that’s how it is having brothers, eh? You always get a little beat up in the process. I imagine you got some bruises yourself with other witchers around.”

“Yes, but -”

“Jaskier! Geralt!” Lambert’s voice suddenly boomed from the dining room. Jaskier jumped and startled in spite of himself. “What are you two doing in there? We’re starving!”

He heard a loud smack as Eskel’s voice quickly followed.

“Shut up, why don’t you? Lazy ass.”

“Who’re you calling lazy?”

An eruption of laughter and sounds of horseplay followed, with Vesemir chiding them in his telltale stern, fatherly way.

Jaskier tried not to let his panic show, biting down on the inside of his cheek. He tried to swallow the wad of sand in his throat.

“Gods, I’m behind. I just need twenty minutes,” he turned to Geralt but avoided looking him directly in the eye. “Would you mind telling everyone? Maybe they can gnaw on their own arms for a while.”

“They can wait, Jaskier.”

“I should have planned better. If I’d started the potatoes at the same time as the broth…fuck, that’s what I should have done. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I can help with -”

“No!” Jaskier all but shouted, clearly surprising them both. “No, thank you. There’s nothing you need to do.”

“But -”

“I don’t need help, Geralt,” he interrupted, fighting to keep his voice even. “Just…ask them to give me twenty minutes. Please.”

He turned his attention back to dinner, not looking back at Geralt as he slowly made his way out of the kitchen. ______________________________________________________________________________

It was only after Jaskier had finished dishing out everyone else’s supper that he allowed himself to lean against a wall and catch his breath. As always, Lambert had gotten two servings and thanked him with a hard smack on the back while Eskel offered him a small, genuine smile and Vesemir gave him a nod. But Geralt, unlike previous days, actually tried to meet his eye and watched him as he filled his bowl, even though Jaskier would not return his gaze.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of laughter, allowing himself to be relieved. He had almost fucked things up, but his lateness had been mercifully ignored. Though he did not doubt that he would not get off so easily next time. He had to be more careful. He could never forget that even one slip risked exile.

Jaskier let out a long, slow breath. He ran his hand over his face and turned the potion he had set aside for himself. It was well under half what everyone else had received, but it was all he needed.

Jaskier cupped the sides of his bowl, heading out of the kitchen and toward his room, where he always ate. He would return to clean up the table and dishes once everyone else had gone to bed.

But as he rounded the corner, Geralt appeared. Jaskier jumped, steadying the bowl in his hands and chucking breathlessly in surprise.

“Geralt! Gods, you’re popping up everywhere today.”

Geralt hummed.

“Where are you going?”

Jaskier’s smile faded. He dug his fingers into the sides of the bowl.

“Just up to my room. I’ll do the dishes before I go to bed, though. I promise. I only thought…I only thought I’d take a moment to -”

But Geralt did not let him finish, his eyes flickering down to the meager bowl of stew and his brow furrowing.

“Have you already eaten?”

Jaskier snorted out a laugh.

“No, you goose.”

Geralt’s brow wrinkled further. “Why have you taken so little?”

“I haven’t. I’ve just adjusted the portion sizes, dear. A little half-human shouldn’t get the same as witchers. Any idiot knows that.”

Geralt shook his head a little, his face still knotted up. “We eat the same on the Path.”

“That involves miles and miles of walking, Geralt. I don’t need that much food when we aren’t traveling.”

“That isn’t enough for a child, Jaskier.”

“It’s all I need.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Geralt said, raising his voice a little. Jaskier tried not to flinch. “Go get more.”

“I don’t want anymore. Honestly,” he said, trying to sidestep Geralt.

But Geralt blocked him with his body, holding his arm out so Jaskier could not get past.

“Where are you going?”

“To my room. I already told you.”

“Why aren’t you eating with us?”

“I always eat in my room.”

“I know. I’m asking you why.”

“I just do.”

“But why don’t you eat with us?”

“I…” Jaskier stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. “Uh -”

Much to his horror, he felt a sudden burning at the backs of his eyes. He didn’t know what to say or what to do. Geralt had never questioned him before, and by doing it now it felt like he was trying to drag something into the light that ought to stay in the shadows. All at once, he wanted to scream at him -

Why do you think? Because you don’t want me around. You told me so. Because if I annoy anyone again or put my foot in my mouth, that’ll be it. We both know it. I’m trying to stay out of your way like you wanted. I’m trying to change. I’m trying to be less of a burden. I’m trying so fucking hard…

Instead, he reined himself in. He cleared his throat, grinning up at Geralt and moving out of his path.

“Maybe I need a little peace from you lot, ever think of that?’ he said, making sure to keep the teasing tone in his voice. “What’s it going to take for a poor bard to get some peace around here? Gods.”

He forced himself to start walking away, letting his face fall the moment Geralt could no longer see it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called out behind him, but Jaskier did not heed it.

“Enjoy your dinner, dear!” he said over his shoulder, his tone still playful and jovial.

He rushed upstairs, not allowing himself to stop for even a moment or catch his breath as he made a beeline to his room.

He shut his door behind him the moment he was inside, abandoning his dinner on his little side table. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, breathing hard and sliding down the door onto the ground. He gave himself a moment to stop panting and catch his breath. He eventually opened his eyes, staring off into space.

He felt sick. He could not even imagine the reason why Geralt had questioned him. Geralt never cared about him before. So, why now? Every day he worked to make himself unobtrusive, and somehow he was managing to fail at that. He was failing at failing.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut again, burying his head in his knees. Geralt was looking to get rid of him. That was the only reason he could think of. He was searching for a way to cast him off.

What had he done wrong? The castle was as close to spotless as it could be, dinner was always prepared, and the animals were all taken care of…he thought he’d been doing everything right. He hadn’t said more than a handful of words to anyone here. He let everyone talk and laugh and tell stories while he washed and cleaned in the background. He was so careful, and it still wasn’t enough.

How was it never enough? How was he never enough?

Those were the only questions swirling around his head for the rest of the evening where he sat curled up in a tight ball on the floor.

Hours passed, and before he knew it, the moon had risen and stars dotted the sky. He only had some awareness of how much time had passed by the stabbing pain in his back. His dinner still sat, cold and forgotten, on his table. Not a single sound could be heard from the hall, so he did not doubt that everyone else had long since gone to bed.

He needed to wash the dishes. Somehow that was the only thing he could think, the only thought in his head that was coherent for him to act on. He stood him stiffly, running his hands through his hair. He collected his now-ruined dinner and made his way back downstairs.

He had never moved so slowly in his life, his feet all but dragging behind him. It seemed an age had passed before he actually reached the kitchens. He gathered up the discarded bowls with his shaking hands, his movements all but mechanical as he began to scrub them clean. He didn't know what else to do.

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands… ______________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier ached the next morning. Not just his body, he ached from somewhere unreachable. He felt as though his bones themselves were sore and bruised. He shifted a little in his bed, trying to will himself to get up. He was already late to feed the goats. And today was his day to muck the stables, peel the potatoes, and polish the armor…But he had no idea how he was going to do any of that, especially like this. His limbs were on fire. His head pounded. His eyes felt as though they were going to pop out of his skull. But he couldn’t be sick. Not now, when everything was on the line.

He buried his head in his pillow for a moment, taking a few moments to try and work himself up to standing. Eventually, he managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed. It took another few moments of readying himself to rise. When he finally did, he had to keep ahold of the bedpost until he had enough strength to stand on his own. The concentration it took not to collapse to the ground was enough to make him queasy, but he had to ignore it. He should have been up a while ago.

Dressing took far longer than he expected. His skin felt raw, like an open wound. Even pulling fabric across it strung viciously. By the time he had made himself presentable, he felt as though he had already exerted himself for the day.

He leaned against the wall for support as he made his way through the keep. Every step was more difficult than the last, his mouth and throat so dry he could hardly swallow. But if he could just make it to the goat pen, he could sit for a while. Getting breakfast ready would be more of a challenge, but perhaps he could catch a short nap before he went to work in the stables. He wouldn’t have time to eat until dinner, but -

“Jaskier?” Geralt's voice suddenly boomed next to him.

Jaskier had not even noticed that he was there until he was, his golden eyes affixed to him. He could’ve wept at how calming the sound of his voice was, even now. He tried to smile as Geralt approached him, his face knitted up.

“Where are you going?”

“Um…” Jaskier had to think for a moment, the simple sight of Geralt enough to compound his already foggy brain. “The goats.”

“Lambert takes care of the goats.”

“No, no. I - I do that. I do it, now.”

He was slurring a little, he realized. His own voice sounded slow and strange.

“For how long?” Geralt asked, his eyes flickering over his face.

“I…um…I don’t - I don’t know.”

Somehow, he didn’t. He knew the answer, but he could not reach it. Everything was too muddled, too confused.

Geralt cocked his head, still examining him. After a moment, he lifted his hand to press the back of his fingers to Jaskier’s forehead, then his cheek.

“You’ve got a fever,” Geralt stated plainly.

He hadn’t been touched, he suddenly realized, for months beyond a slap on the back from one of the other witchers. To be touched by Geralt was rare, and the unexpectedness of it nearly debilitated him. All at once, he could feel tears beating at the back of his eyes and he fought them off, but he could not stop his eyelids from fluttering shut for just a moment at the feeling of Geralt’s hand against his cheek.

“You’ve got a fever, Jaskier,” Geralt said again. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I have to…go to…”

“Easy, easy. Hey, Jaskier…”

Was the last thing he heard before darkness closed in on him.

Chapter Text

Geralt caught Jaskier just before he collapsed in an unconscious heap on the ground, scooping his legs out from under him and hoisting him up in his arms. He considered saying his name again, but when Jaskier’s head lolled over his shoulder, he knew he wouldn’t hear him.

He checked Jaskier’s pulse. It was far more rapid than it should have been, though his breathing was even which mitigated at least some of the concern. His skin was all but translucent, far too pale. Geralt had noticed before, but only when he had him in his arms did he realize just how thin he’d gotten. He felt frail and his whole body trembled in his hold.

Geralt swallowed hard, clutching Jaskier tighter to his chest and moving swiftly toward his room.

On his way, he ran into Lambert coming from the other side of the castle, a grin on his face. Geralt could not help the spark of frustration that rose in him.

“Geralt! Still want to go hunting after…”

But his smile faded the moment he saw Jaskier’s unconscious body cradled in his arms. His brow furrowed, worry flashing briefly over his eyes before he could hide it.

“What’s wrong with little brother?”

“Fainted.”

“What?”

“He has a fever. Should’ve been in bed. But he was determined to feed the goats, apparently.”

Lambert looked back and forth between Jaskier and Geralt, something akin to guilt on his face.

“I never asked him to, you know. He just started doing it one day. Wouldn’t let me help. But he didn’t have to…”

Geralt’s irritation dissipated easily. He couldn’t say that he understood Jaskier lately, but he knew that whatever was going on with him wasn’t because of Lambert.

He adjusted Jaskier in his arms and stepped past his brother.

“Feed the goats,” Geralt grunted. “I need to get him upstairs.”

He did look back at Lambert as he called, “Need any help?”

“No,” he replied without thinking. “I’ve got him.”

It felt like a lie, but he still said it. In truth, it felt as though Jaskier had been slipping through his fingers for some time. Since The Mountain, actually. Even though he could never say it out loud. He could barely even admit it to himself.

Every day since he had said what he said to Jaskier on that horrible day outside of Caingorn, he felt like he was walking on shattered glass whenever he spoke to him. Something had broken between them, and Geralt didn’t know how to fix it.

Whenever they were alone, they could all but hear his brutal words echoing in the space between them. If he so much as thought about it, he almost flinched. He should have apologized right away, the moment the words left his lips. Or that night, after they had made camp. Or any of the nights after that, when the two of them sat in stone-cold silence around the fire. But he hadn’t. He went over what to say a thousand times in his head, but when the moment came, the words wouldn’t. He’d look into Jaskier’s hurt eyes and suddenly he could barely breathe. He had no idea where to start, and the fear of damaging things further debilitated him.

As the silence festered, the distance between them grew. Every time Geralt could even get close to addressing what happened, Jaskier busied himself with some chore. It became a preoccupation while they were on the Path, with Jaskier polishing his armor to oblivion out of nowhere, or brushing Roach’s coat over and over without need, or rushing off to the river to wash clothes until his fingers were numb.

Geralt just assumed it was an excuse to get some distance between them, and he could hardly blame Jaskier for that. He understood that he needed space, and he made every effort to give it to him. He was careful what he said, tried to let Jaskier initiate. He had hoped that getting Jaskier up to Kaer Morhen would give them the chance to talk about things - for him to be able to fix what he’d ruined.

But Jaskier was avoiding him even more now. Not only him but his brothers and Vesemir as well. As the weeks went on, he thought that Jaskier would surely start taking his meals with them. That he would start talking to someone - if not him, someone. That he would offer to sing or play his lute…But none of that was happening. Geralt didn’t think he’d seen him pick up his lute or even hum since The Mountain.

He never looked too deeply into Jaskier’s day-to-day activities at the keep because he assumed if Jaskier wanted him to know what he did, he would tell him. He knew he was helping with the washing and assisted in the kitchen. But he had no idea Jaskier had also taken over tending to the goats or that he was cooking entirely on his own. What else had he been doing?

Geralt clutched him tighter in his arms.

He took him into his room, went over to the bed, and lowered him down onto the sheets. He slipped off his shoes, placing them next to the bed. Jaskier was entirely limp, his skin hot to the touch and his heart racing. Geralt swore under his breath. He brushed Jaskier’s hair out of his face, letting out a long sigh before heading over to the fireplace to get some warmth into the room.

Almost the moment he’d gotten the flames going, he heard some muttering coming from the bed. He whipped his head around, quickly returning to Jaskier’s side as he mumbled incoherently. Geralt cupped his face in his hands.

“Jaskier?”

His eyelids fluttered, but he did not fully stir.

“If…life could…off my…”

Geralt tried to focus on the words, leaning in a little closer.

“Give…bless - blessing…if life could…give me one blessing…take you…”

Geralt dropped his face like he had been burned, taking a step back from the bed. His stomach sank as a cold, steel pit hardened in his place. He stood there, gawking like an idiot at Jaskier, as he continued to repeat those horrible words in his fucking sleep. He was finally broken out of his shocked daze when Jaskier’s chanting changed into a pitiful plea.

“Geralt,” he muttered, his voice reedy and thin and desperate. “Geralt…”

Geralt swallowed hard, getting his bearings again. He steeled himself and leaned back over the bed. He straightened his shoulders, trying not to let the sudden swell of emotion crush him as he started to pat Jaskier’s cheek gently.

“Jaskier,” he said roughly. “Wake up.”

It took a few moments, but Jaskier’s eyelids finally and sluggishly opened. His eyes darted around until they could focus on Geralt’s face. He blinked a few times, his brow furrowing.

“Geralt?”

He hummed, pushing Jaskier back onto the bed when he tried to sit up too fast.

“Stay down,” he commanded. “I’ll get you some water.”

He rose before Jaskier had a chance to say anything, going toward a waterskin on the back of a chair.

“What happened?” Jaskier questioned hazily behind him.

“You have a fever. You fainted,” he replied simply, going back over to the bedside to hold the waterskin up to his mouth. “Drink. Slowly.”

Jaskier obeyed, his questioning eyes still flickering over him as he drank.

“I fainted?”

“Hmm.”

“But the goats…” Jaskier’s eyes suddenly widened, even more of the color draining from his face. “Oh, gods. I didn’t feed the goats. I haven’t even started on the stables. I won’t have enough time to get dinner going -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. “Lambert is taking care of it. Eskel or I will clean the stables. Vesemir can cook.”

“No,” Jaskier snapped. “No, no. I’m fine. I can still -”

“You’d collapse the moment you got outside.”

“But I -”

“You’re not going anywhere, Jaskier,” he said, his tone brokering no room for argument. “I’ll get you something to bring the fever down.”

He tried to ignore the way Jaskier’s face fell, rising again to fetch some herbal remedies he always kept on hand. As he prepared a healing draft, he suddenly imagined what might have happened if he had not happened to run into Jaskier in the hall. He pictured Jaskier collapsing somewhere exposed outside - behind the stables or a spot unsheltered from the snow. Hours could have gone by without anyone noticing - without him noticing. If he had fainted in the wrong place, the cold might have gotten to him before Geralt. He might’ve…

Geralt flexed his fingers, clearing his throat. His chest and stomach started to burn.

“What were you thinking?” he asked, harsher than he meant to. “What good did you think you’d be unconscious?”

He ground the herbs too hard with the mortar and pestle, suddenly furious with himself. Jaskier was quiet from the other side of the room. Geralt finally turned around, the frustration dying away a little as he took in Jaskier’s confused, frightened face.

“I was just trying to help.”

“How is killing yourself ‘helping’ anything?” he snapped.

Jaskier pursed his lips, averting his gaze.

“Please don’t yell at me.”

Geralt’s heart clenched a little, and he let out a long breath.

“Why didn’t you tell Lambert you couldn’t see to the goats? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Jaskier kept his gaze down, shaking his head a little. He muttered something Geralt couldn’t hear.

Geralt tightened his lips into a thin line, slamming his hand on the table. “Dammit, Jaskier!”

He regretted it instantly when Jaskier all but jumped out of his skin, his face crumbling. To his horror, Jaskier curled in on himself, dropped his face in his hands, and burst into tears.

Geralt was frozen for one horrible moment, any anger he felt instantly replaced with guilt and mind-numbing worry. He rushed back over to his side the moment he came to his senses. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to catch Jaskier’s attention, gripping his arms.

“Hey, look at me. Jaskier, come on. Calm down.”

But Jaskier turned into himself further, trying to wriggle out of Geralt’s hold and gasp out something that sounded too much like an apology. Geralt’s chest ached, what felt like ice water coursing through his veins instead of blood.

“Come here, come here, come here,” he grunted, struggling to maneuver him out of the tight knot he had curled himself into.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, using the same tone he used for Roach when she got riled as he tried to keep himself from panicking. “Come on, it’s alright, Jaskier.’

He finally managed to haul Jaskier into his arms, pulling him onto his lap without thinking. Jaskier tried to push back for a moment, but when Geralt bracketed his arms around him and locked him in, Jaskier quickly gave up fighting and collapsed in his hold. He cupped the back of Jaskier’s head, pulling him in until he could bury his face in his neck and muffle rounds of wailing sobs there. Hot tears rained over Geralt’s skin.

He found himself cradling Jaskier, his arms pinned against Geralt’s chest. He angled his lips into Jaskier’s temple, rocking him a little. He shushed him firmly because that’s what he did for Roach.

“It’s alright. Breathe, it’s alright,” he murmured into his hair, willing him to calm down. But something had uncorked in Jaskier. It felt like a dam had burst, and Geralt had no clue what to do except try to hold him together.

He’d seen Jaskier cry before, but never in anguished rivers like this. This was exhaustion, bone-deep exhaustion. This was sorrow and misery. He could smell, and all but feel, the pain rolling off him. The sadness was sticky, clinging to him like sap. There was no anger, just heartache. So much fucking heartache.

Geralt found his throat closing up unexpectedly. He was forced to come eye-to-eye with the sheer weight of grief Jaskier had been carrying around on his own, and an anvil of regret and guilt hit him. He had left him alone with this for who knows how long. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take in a long breath and feel as much of Jaskier’s hurt as he could.

“I’m sorry,” he found himself whispering. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

He wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for; for yelling, making him cry, for his obliviousness, hurting him, his cruelty, The Mountain, for all the little jabs, for the fever itself…perhaps it was for everything. He was apologizing for everything.

Jaskier curled up tighter in his lap, unpinning his arms to wrap them around Geralt. He didn’t know what else to do, so he just kept apologizing. Over and over, until the words felt like they were melting on his tongue.

He had no idea how long the two of them sat like that, tangled together on the bed. But at some point, the heartbroken sobs receded until Jaskier just laid slack against him and wept in silence. His shoulders shook while he shed tears noiselessly aside from hitching breaths. He kept holding Jaskier against his neck, at the very least giving him a place to hide while he fell apart.

Once he'd finally wrung himself out, he was left shivering softly in Geralt’s arms. Neither of them moved for some time.

Geralt wondered briefly if he should pull back, change his tear-damp shirt, and get Jaskier more water…But the thought of any distance between them at that moment was somehow unbearable.

He was in a strange kind of trance after Jasker’s breakdown passed. Though he lifted out of his haze enough to realize that Jaskier was shaking, and he needed a blanket.

He adjusted Jaskier to try and reach down to grab one of the furs. But Jaskier must have thought he was trying to pull away and tightened his hold, clutching the back of his shirt desperately.

Geralt’s stomach clenched. He shushed him again, stroking slowly down his back.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

Jaskier relaxed a little but kept his iron-tight grip.

Geralt pulled the fur up to Jaskier’s shoulders, repositioning them more comfortably on the bed. He felt his stomach calm a little when Jaskier deflated against his chest, letting himself be held by Geralt and not pulling away. Geralt stroked over his back again while they started to dry out, unsure if he was trying to soothe Jaskier or soothe them both. The only thing that grounded him right then was the feeling of Jaskier’s weight in his arms, the visceral reminder that he was still there. He had him.

He wasn’t sure what had been going on, but he was going to find out, and he was going to fix it. Because he hadn't curled up in his lap and cried his eyes out over the goats. Clearly, he had hurt Jaskier. Badly. Worse than he realized. So, not fixing this was not an option. Leaving him alone was not an option. Not anymore.

Geralt pursed his lips, burying his nose deeper into his hair for a moment. He shifted them to carefully dab Jaskier’s tear-slick face dry with a balled-up piece of cloth, softly blotting the fabric over his cheeks and eyes like he was cleaning a wound. Jaskier let him.

“Sleep,” he whispered.

Jaskier curled his fingers tighter around Geralt’s shirt, which he took as acknowledgment. He hummed, feeling brave enough to nuzzle his temple a little.

Eventually, he heard Jaskier’s breathing even out. His body went limp in his hold, his rapid heartbeat slowing. Geralt let out a long sigh of relief, shutting his eyes and burying his face into Jaskier’s neck.

He allowed himself to shatter for just a moment, breathing raggedly and feeling his brows arch in. He thought for one brief and baffling moment that tears of his own might come, but he quickly gathered himself again before he could do anything drastic. There was only so much emotion he could handle in one sitting. He let out another sigh, clearing his throat and leaning back against the headboard.

There was no time to wallow in his own misery. He had already put Jaskier through twenty years of that. He needed to focus.

Geralt tucked his head under his chin, burying his nose in his hair. He angled his head to stare down at Jaskier’s softly shaking hand where it lay flat on his chest, reaching down to intertwine their fingers.

Eventually, he allowed himself to close his eyes, releasing some of the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He was going to fix this.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Geralt was disorientated the moment he opened his eyes, blinking a few times in the darkness of the room. It was night, he realized. He must have been asleep for hours. It felt surreal to be waking up just as evening had descended. He looked down at Jaskier, realizing he was stirring softly. An ache coursed through him at the way Jaskier nuzzled down into his shirt for a moment before his eyelids fluttered open.

He looked better than he had that morning, a little color had returned to his face. The dark circles had lessened somewhat. But his eyes were bloodshot from bawling and his skin was still hot to the touch.

Jaskier took a moment to wake up, but when he did, his eyes widened and he pulled away from Geralt, sitting up in bed.

Geralt tried to ignore the way his stomach dropped at the loss of Jaskier’s weight and warmth against his chest, sitting up next to him. He watched Jaskier for a moment, keeping a close eye on his face even though Jaskier could not meet his gaze. But he couldn’t read him. So, he just waited, trying not to rush Jaskier as he collected himself.

After a few moments, Jaskier let out a low groan and dropped his head in his hands.

“Fuck,” he ground out, his voice raw. “Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry.”

Geralt furrowed his brow, lifting his hand to touch him but thinking better of it before he could. “For that?”

Jaskier scoffed. “What do you think?”

Geralt knew immediately he meant his tears, and he shook his head firmly.

“Don’t.”

Jaskier lifted his head out of his hands, running his fingers through his hair.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Jaskier said, as though he hadn’t heard him. “Maybe it was the fever.”

Geralt could tell even Jaskier didn’t believe himself. That was more than a delirious, fever-induced crying spell. That was suffering.

“It’s fine, Jask.”

Jaskier’s ears pricked up, and Geralt realized he had never called him that before. His eyes started to flicker over Geralt.

“Why are you being like this?” he asked, his voice wary. “Did Vesemir tell you something? Am I dying?”

Geralt huffed out a small laugh, though he felt ill at the thought that basic care was so out-of-character for their dynamic. He lifted his hand to feel his forehead again, gauging his temperature.

“No, you’re not dying.”

He stood, feeling Jaskier’s suspicious gaze still on him as he went to grab the healing draft he ought to have made him take hours ago.

“Here,” he said. “Try to drink it quickly. The taste isn’t pleasant.”

Jaskier did not even ask what it was, still, for some reason, trusting him enough to assume whatever Geralt did was in his best interests.

The thought might have debilitated him if he lingered on it, so he tried to set it aside.

Jaskier’s face crinkled as he tasted the concoction, as though he had just bitten into something sour.

“Melitele's tits, that’s rank,” he said.

Geralt could not help the small smile that passed over his lips, handing him the waterskin, which he accepted willingly.

Geralt just watched him, drinking in his face, his eyes, his hands. The strange feeling that he might have come close to losing him fostered a fondness he had never confronted. He suddenly wanted so badly to reach out and pull him back into his arms, but he didn’t know if that kind of contact was welcome yet - if it ever would be again.

“How do you feel?”

Jaskier lowered his eyes almost shyly, gripping the waterskin. “Better, honestly.”

“Good,” he hummed.

It was quiet for a moment, Jaskier not willing to look at him despite the way Geralt willed him to. He let out a breath through his nose, ducking his head to try and meet Jaskier’s gaze.

“Look at me.”

Jaskier pursed his lips. Geralt paused momentarily, his eyes flickering over his face in the moonlight.

He really was beautiful. He had never let himself think it, but he was. He reached out slowly, tilting his chin up with his index finger. Jaskier finally met his eyes, looking up at him through his bangs. He forced Jaskier to keep his gaze for a moment, to see that he wasn’t angry or embarrassed by anything that had happened. Jaskier seemed to understand it after a moment, and some of the anxiety in his face dissipated.

“I want you to tell me what’s been going on,” he said, letting his hand come to rest on his knee. Jaskier allowed it. “What have you been doing around the keep?”

Jaskier hesitated, shrugging. “I help out wherever -”

“Jaskier,” he interrupted, careful to keep his voice quiet and even. “What else do you do - besides cook and tend to the goats? You help Vesemir with the potions, yeah? Do you clean the stables?”

He swallowed hard but eventually nodded. Geralt hummed.

“And the dishes and the clothes? By yourself? Do you fetch all the water?”

He nodded again.

“The floors? And the food in the kitchen, you prepare it all? And the garden?”

Another nod.

Geralt sighed, trying not to get too angry with himself. Any irritation in his posture might be taken as annoyance with Jaskier, and Geralt would not risk upsetting him again when he was so delicate.

“Anything else?”

Jaskier paused before saying quietly, “The armor.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “I polish the armor.”

He let out a short laugh, looking up at him sheepishly. “You have many amazing qualities, dear. But I’m afraid you’re a very haphazard polisher.”

He might have laughed if the thought of Jaskier doing yet another chore had not almost made him nauseous.

“You nearly worked yourself to death, Jaskier,” he said.

Jaskier looked away, his eyes veiling. He fidgeted with a loose string on his pants, and Geralt waited.

Finally, Jaskier muttered, “I was trying to be useful. I wanted to help.”

“We share duties, no one can manage it on their own. Especially not the way you’ve been eating.”

“I was…” Geralt’s stomach lurched when Jaskier’s lip started to quiver, just the tiniest bit, smelling the slightest undertone of salt. “I was just trying to help.”

“You did. Hey, you did help, Jaskier,” he said, trying to be as gentle as he could. “But it’s too much, for anyone. No one could’ve kept that up.”

Jaskier looked at him again, his shimmering eyes calming a little. He looked so small and vulnerable and sweet, gazing up at Geralt like he was holding his heart in his bare hands.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Geralt could almost feel his heart crack, but he could not back away now.

“Why,” he hesitated, clearing his throat when the words got stuck there. “What made you think you were a burden?”

Jaskier did not answer, but his eyes told him what he needed to know.

I did, Geralt thought. I made you feel that way.

Jaskier had made the road easier and softer for two decades. More bearable, with his laughter and his stories, his voice, his music, his kindness. And what had Geralt offered him in return? Nothing but cruelty.

He had to look away momentarily, swallowing down the growing agitation at himself. He licked his lips and regained his composure before it could slip.

“Jaskier -”

“It’s fine, Geralt.”

“It’s not,” he says firmly. “Listen, what I said…outside of Caingorn -”

Jaskier visibly flinched, sitting up and suddenly looking as though he wanted to crawl out of his skin.

“We don’t need to -”

“Yes, we do. Jaskier, look at me.”

“No.”

“Jaskier.”

“No. I don’t want to talk about this.”

Geralt paused, only for a moment.

“Jaskier,” he murmured. “Please.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a long breath through his nose. After a few endless moments, he turned to look up at Geralt again.

In the light, when the moon hit him a certain way, it made him look just like he did in Posada.

Geralt could still see him clearly, a wonderstruck boy with too-bright clothes and a too-loud voice and a too-big heart. Jaskier had been the light of his life whether he could have admitted it or not for years. The only times he laughed were always because of him. Jaskier had given him his career, devoting it and himself to changing the way the world saw and thought about him. He worked endlessly for something Geralt could not even see in himself. He could have had a life of riches and comfort and fame, and he had given up everything for him.

Suddenly, Geralt could not even fathom how he had ever said what he said on The Mountain. He wondered how he could ever have hurt him at all.

Geralt swallowed a rock in his throat, reaching out to tuck some of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear, cupping his cheek. Jaskier’s eyes welled with tears almost immediately, but he had to get this out.

“I’m sorry, Jask,” he whispered, not frantically like before. He wanted Jaskier to hear it, truly hear it. “I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

Jaskier bit down on his lip to keep it from quivering. He looked up at the ceiling, clearly trying to blink away tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “What I said that day…I was a bastard. I was in a rage, and I took it out on you. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“But,” he started, his voice thickening. “You said - if life could give you one blessing -”

“No. Of course not.”

His face crumbled a little, and he lifted his sleeve to swipe it over his eyes. Geralt stroked his shoulders, almost like he was petting him.

“But I always make you so angry,” he said, his breath hitching. “On the Path, you never wanted me around. I - I thought if I could change, pull my weight, maybe you wouldn’t…” Jaskier shrugged, still pawing at his face. “...Maybe you wouldn’t dislike me so much,” he finally finished.

“Dislike you?” Geralt echoed. “You thought I disliked you all this time?”

He wrapped his arms around his middle, shrinking.

“I thought you hated me, Geralt.”

“Never,” Geralt ground out, sounding as desperate as he felt. “You’re my friend. We're family.”

The look on Jaskier’s face almost annihilated him, like he had taken an arrow to the heart.

“What?” he asked, breathlessly.

From the moment he met Jaskier, he knew he was too good for the Path, too good for him. Geralt knew from experience what happened when he got close to anyone Violence, pain, and death followed. He had never been able to bear the thought of anything like that happening to him. Keeping Jaskier at arm’s length seemed the only solution, especially before he knew he was part fae. He could not allow himself to get attached when he thought he would lose Jaskier so quickly. It was too easy to get attached to someone that beautiful and loving. But he had not properly considered the effect it would have on his tender heart.

“You’ve never been a burden, Jaskier,” he said. “I was a fool for making you think you were. You’re my friend. My best friend. I brought you here because we’re family.”

“You brought me here because of the snow,” Jaskier half-wept, on the verge of breaking down again.

“No, Jask,” Geralt told him emphatically. “I wanted you here. I didn’t know how to ask, not after what I said. I never thought you’d want to come. I never imagined you’d want to be here at all. I thought you were happy in Oxenfurt, you had a good life there. Why would you want to be in a ruined castle with just us for company?”

“I’d follow you to the end of the world, Geralt, why wouldn’t you think I’d follow you here? You wouldn't have even had to ask,” Jaskier blurted out, looking like he wished he hadn’t right after.

Geralt was quiet for a moment, pursing his lips and letting out a long sigh. Jaskier wrung his hands, and Geralt could see him fighting with himself in his head. Geralt wracked his brain, trying to come up with some other way to convince him.

“I found you every spring, Jaskier. If I’d wanted to get away from you, I could have,” Geralt said. “I met you every year because I wanted to take the Path with you, no one else. Not because I felt obligated. I want you with me.”

Jaskier just stared at him for a moment, clearly processing his words. He blinked as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks, and Geralt reached up to smooth them away with his thumbs before he could even consider it.

“Really?” he asked, his voice breathless and so fucking hopeful.

Geralt nodded, his stomach calming a little at the thought that he might be getting through.

“Yeah, Jask.”

Jaskier pursed his quivering lips, running his hands over his face. Geralt could tell how desperately he wanted to believe him, he could see it in his expression. But he also knew it would take time. One night of promises would not make up for a lifetime of hurting him, but it was at least a start.

“What do you need?” he asked after a moment. “Talk to me.”

Jaskier hesitated, a request on his lips but stuck there. Geralt reached up to smooth his hair. “What is it?”

“Could you,” Jaskier paused for another long moment. Then, softer, “Could you hold me? Just for a minute?”

Almost instantly, Jaskier looked like he wanted to go back on it. Geralt reached out before he could, gathering him back up against him without giving Jaskier any time to second guess himself. And he was more than happy for an excuse to have Jaskier in his arms again, a warmth spreading through his stomach at the way Jaskier tucked into him easily. Even after all this, Jaskier came to him with trust and vulnerability. But he knew he still had to earn it. He would be better. He had to be better.

Geralt folded them back onto the bed, covering Jaskier with the blanket again as he laid his head on his chest.

“Is this alright?”

He felt Jaskier nod.

“Perfect.” Then, gentler, “This is so much more than I ever -”

His voice caught and he curled his fist around Geralt’s shirt, burying his face into the fabric. He could tell he was moments away from working himself back up into tears.

“Easy,” Geralt soothed, stroking up and down his back slowly. “You're alright.”

He felt Jaskier’s breathing calm, but he kept his face pressed against his chest. Geralt bundled him up tighter in his arms.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

After a while, Geralt could tell he had drifted back off to sleep.

Even though he knew Jaskier would not hear, he still whispered, “I’ll fix this. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier did not make it downstairs the following day. Geralt kept him firmly in his bed instead, making him take more healing drafts than were perhaps necessary and forcing him to rest. Despite how much Jaskier tried to fight him at the beginning, he eventually relented and allowed Geralt to mother-hen him.

Geralt brought his meals up from the kitchen on a tray, avoiding the others’ questions about Jaskier and telling them that he ‘wasn’t feeling well’ before rushing back upstairs to resume his place beside him in bed. Jaskier himself spent most of the day curled up in Geralt’s arms, drifting in and out of sleep.

He was surprised at how easy it was to hold Jaskier like that, how naturally it came to both of them. Geralt had never been free with his touch. He was guarded to a fault. But something about seeing Jaskier crumble only to be so affectionate and open made him rise to the occasion. This was what Jaskier needed. But what surprised him was that he needed it too.

Geralt discovered that Jaskier liked to have his hair played with. He all but purred like a cat when he carded his fingers through it. He also discovered that he could make Jaskier shiver when he ran the tips of his fingers over his lower back. And he found out that Jaskier was ticklish. The little giggle he let out when Geralt got too close to a sensitive spot almost made Geralt feel giddy.

By the second day, it felt as though they had fallen into a kind of rhythm. An invisible wall between them had been broken down. Even if neither acknowledged it outwardly, there was no need to. Geralt could tell that Jaskier felt the shift as acutely as he did. Not only had the sticky smell of sadness stopped clinging to him, but his eyes changed. They brightened and cleared. The fever had lifted, but something else seemed to have released from him as well.

The way he looked up at Geralt now, as though he was in constant awe of him, was almost a little hard to take. He put so much faith in him, so much trust without reason. Geralt had done nothing to earn it, but he also never wanted that look to go away. And he certainly never wanted Jaskier to smell as devastated and grief-stricken as he had the day of his breakdown. He wanted Jaskier to be happy. Not only that, but he wanted to be the one to make him happy. When he understood that he was evidently an integral part of that happiness, it only made him more motivated.

So, when the barriers were broken down, Geralt let them fall. In the past, he would have done everything in his power to put them back up and keep Jaskier at the same distance he had always kept him. But that was before. And even the idea of hurting him more than he already had felt monstrous.

But there was still awkwardness. When they took a bath together for the first time, there had been a strangeness to it initially. They had seen each other nude more than once - nearly twenty years on the road would have made that difficult to avoid. But something about the intimacy of being naked together, in a relatively small tub of water, was new territory for both of them. Two puzzle pieces finding how they fit together.

Geralt had taken it slowly; with gentle touches and as much reassurance as Jaskier needed. By the end, Jaskier was laying slack against him, Geralt kneading his tight muscles as Jaskier closed his eyes and leaned his head back on Geralt’s shoulder.

By the time the two of them exited the bath, they were both relaxed from the hot water. But some element of the shared intimacy also remained, as they were especially clingy afterward. Each of them kept a hand on the other if they could, even just a brushing of fingers. Neither of them said it out loud, but they both clearly needed the contact.

Geralt had just prepared his final healing draft as Jaskier laced up his shirt strings. His hair was still damp from the bath, his skin soft and flushed. He looked up at Geralt and smiled, eyes a little hazy.

Geralt reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear, allowing himself to stroke the backs of his fingers over Jaskier’s cheek before handing him the potion. Jaskier looked up at him with those big, pleading eyes, groaning melodramatically.

“Must I?”

“Last one.”

“I’m almost certain I’ve heard those words before; dare I say three whole concoctions ago?”

Geralt felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. “Last one. I promise.”

Jaskier sighed, hesitating before reluctantly pouring the potion down the back of his throat. He grimaced and shook out his head, sticking his tongue out for a moment.

“Vile. Horrible. A delicate creature like me can only take so much.”

Geralt could not stop the chuckle that tumbled out of him. He leaned in, cupping the side of Jaskier’s face. He pretended to be checking for a fever. But he did not immediately drop his hand and stroked a thumb under his eye, waiting for Jaskier to pull away. He leaned into it instead, pressing his cheek into Geralt’s palm.

“The fever’s gone down,” Geralt said plainly. “How do you feel?”

Jaskier smiled, covering Geralt’s hand with his palm and squeezing.

“Quite well.”

Geralt hummed. “Are you hungry?’

“A bit.”

“I’ll bring you a tray.”

Jaskier hesitated, his eyes flickering away for a moment. Geralt’s brow furrowed and he stepped a little closer, keeping the hand on his cheek.

“What is it?”

He thought for another moment before licking his lips and looking back to Geralt.

“Could I come downstairs with you?”

Geralt blinked, taken aback. He pushed away the strange, entirely sudden, and out-of-line desire to keep Jaskier bundled away in his room and tucked out of sight until he had his strength back. He didn’t want to share him, not yet. Especially since his emotions were still as sensitive as an exposed nerve. He’d had to bite back tears when Geralt remembered how much sugar he liked in his tea and acted like Geralt had offered him the world when he brought him honey for his toast; one unintentionally harsh comment from Lambert might crush him.

“You feel up to it?”

Jaskier swallowed but looked up at Geralt determinedly and nodded.

“ I think it would do me good to get some air.”

He hummed, nodding. “Alright.”

Jaskier was still looking up at Geralt through his eyelashes.

“You’ll stay with me?” he asked, his voice soft and tentative.

Geralt melted, feeling brave enough to reach out and catch Jaskier’s free hand in his own.

“Of course.”

Jaskier’s face relaxed a little and he nodded to himself, squeezing Geralt’s hand.

“Good,” he said, letting out a long breath. “Good.”

Geralt ignored the surge of pride over the fact that he could still make Jaskier feel safe, finally dropping the hand from his cheek to smooth down his back. He looped an arm around his waist, drawing him in.

“Whenever you want to come back up, tell me.”

Jaskier grinned shyly, leaning forward to bury his face in Geralt’s shoulder and loosely hooking his arms around his middle. Geralt brought his other hand to stroke his bicep, moving up to clasp the nape of his neck as he held him. He would never have been able to fathom them doing this a few days ago, but now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. He pressed his nose into Jaskier’s damp hair, inhaling softly.

For a few long moments, they stood like that as snow poured from the gray sheet clouds above them. Finally, Jaskier took a long breath in, releasing it as a pleased sigh. He burrowed down into his shoulder for a moment, gripping him a little tighter.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper as he nuzzled Geralt’s neck.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. By all rights, he should be groveling at Jaskier’s feet. He shouldn’t be thanking him at all.

“I don’t know. For everything,” he said, his voice tender. “Being gentle with me. You’ve been so patient. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.”

Geralt swallowed the knot in his throat, stroking his thumb over the nape of Jaskier’s neck. He should have been gentle and patient from the beginning.

“I don’t want you to thank me,” Geralt said gruffly.

He felt Jaskier still a little in his hold. After a moment, he turned deeper into him.

“Why?” Jaskier eventually asked.

“Why what?”

“Why don’t you want me to thank you?”

“You have nothing to thank me for,” Geralt said.

“Of course I do. You’ve been good to me.”

Geralt flinched a little. “Don’t.”

“Geralt -”

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Don’t. I don’t…I don’t deserve it.”

Jaskier was quiet for another moment before he pulled back. Geralt tried to keep him in his hold briefly, but finally relented and let him go. Jaskier looked up at him, his eyes bright and all at once flushed with concern. He gripped Geralt’s arms, searching his face.

Geralt suddenly felt exposed, unable to hide from the sudden swell of guilt so heavy it might crush him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said gently. “What are you talking about?”

He pursed his lips for a moment, suddenly wanting to find a way to apologize again for every single thing he had ever done to hurt him. He wanted to go back in time and beat himself bloody for all the misery he’d put Jaskier through. He wanted to change what could never be changed, to un-shatter the heart they were both trying to mend.

He found himself shaking his head a little, moving his hands to cup his face.

“I’ve been a monster to you,” he said, voice rough. “How can you even let me touch you?”

A flash of something that looked like horror crossed Jaskier’s face as his lips parted a little. “Don’t say that again, don’t ever call yourself a monster.”

“Jask -”

“I mean it,” he snapped. “Don’t say that again. You’re the best man I’ve ever known, Geralt. Nothing could change that.”

Geralt wanted to crawl out of his skin, looking down and moving to step back. But Jaskier kept his hands on his arms, trying to hold him still.

“Darling,” Jaskier all but breathed.

Geralt stilled, letting out a long sigh through his nose. He gathered himself before finally meeting Jaskier’s eyes. But the look he gave him almost made Geralt unravel. So adoring. So, so fucking adoring.

“I forgive you,” Jaskier whispered, his eyes shimmering. “I forgive you, dear. You are the best, bravest, strongest person I’ve ever known. You have such a good heart, Geralt. You work so hard, you try so hard. You keep everyone afloat, we’d all drown if it weren’t for you. You take on so much for everyone, not just us, for everyone. For everything. You carry such weight, and you bear it.”

Jaskier had to pause, his eyes shining a little more.

“You suffer,” he continued, his voice tightening and thickening. “And you get hurt over and over again. But you’ve helped so many. You’ve saved so many, for so little reward. Including me. You saved me, Geralt. You protect me and take care of me. We’ve had some bumps, but you’ve never truly failed me. And I never, never lost faith in you. Not even for a moment.”

Even as Geralt’s mind tried to fight against his words, the earnestness in his face transfixed him. He was enthralled by Jaskier, by the passion in his voice and the expression making him ache from somewhere deep in his core.

“I am so proud of you, Geralt. I am so proud to know you, and travel with you, to take your Path with you. It’s the greatest honor of my life. And I hate how much you hurt and how much pain you live in. I don’t - I don’t want you to suffer more because of me. I don’t want you to be guilty, or sorry. When I say I forgive you, I mean it. Of course I do, you're my life. You’re my whole life. I -”

The words stuck in his throat as his bottom lip began to quiver, looking up at Geralt with those pleading eyes again.

Geralt suddenly came to his senses, realizing Jaskier was certainly still too emotionally raw for this kind of thing.

Geralt pulled him close as Jaskier fell into his chest. He clasped Geralt tight around the waist and dug his fingers into his back, burying his face against the side of his throat. Geralt stroked down his back a little.

“Alright,” Geralt soothed. “Come on, it’s alright.”

Jaskier sniffled quietly, letting out a shaky breath against his skin while Geralt gave him a long moment to calm down. Jaskier spoke of his good heart, but he had never known anyone with a capacity for love like his bard. Jaskier was all love; made of it and made for it. Despite how little he had received in his life.

Finally, Jaskier pulled back a little but stayed in the circle of Geralt’s arms. His eyes were clear and a little bright.

“Do you believe me?” he whispered. “Honestly, do you?”

Geralt nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

His features fell, and Geralt’s stomach lurched.

“No, you don’t,” he replied sadly. “But I’ll convince you.”

Geralt huffed, keeping him close and reluctant to let him shift too far out of his hold.

“I believe you, Jask,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

He did not want any additional stressors on Jaskier, not now when he was regaining some color and smiling again for the first time in a good while. He wanted to shield him somehow, guard him against anything that might do him additional harm. Worrying more about Geralt and what he thought was the opposite of that.

Jaskier sighed, his eyes softening.

“You're a stubborn ox, you know that?”

A chuckle tumbled out of him, finally stepping out of the embrace. Though he held Jaskier’s hand securely in his own. He did not want Jaskier to dwell on this.

“Come on,” he said, “Let’s get you something to eat.”

“Are you even going to respond to the ‘stubborn ox’ thing? I don’t even get a retort?”

“Am I an ox?”

“Yes, you are. They should call you the White Ox of Rivia.”

Geralt laughed again, leading him out of the room so they could get downstairs in time for dinner.

“So what does that make you?” Geralt asked as they started to walk down the hall.

“Me? I am but a songbird. A robin or a wren or a sparrow, perhaps. Colorful, very beautiful. Known for my illustrious and radiant singing.”

“A sparrow,” he echoed. “Loud and flighty. Is that what you are?”

Jaskier laughed. It was the first time he’d heard him laugh, he realized, in weeks. All the music in the world and nothing could compare to that sound. Jaskier dropped his hand to take his arm, holding onto his bicep with both arms and squeezing.

“Exactly. Flighty and loud.”

Geralt felt a twinge of regret. Perhaps it was still too soon to be bantering around like that. He could not stand the idea that his joking might be taken for actual criticism, especially in recent days.

“And colorful,” Geralt repeated. “Very beautiful. Known for your illustrious and radiant singing.”

Jaskier looked up at him, his face softening. He laid his head on Geralt’s shoulder for a moment.

“You’re very sweet. For an ox.”

Geralt hummed. “For an ox.”

Geralt kept Jaskier close as they made their way toward the kitchen. Slowly, they began to hear the telltale sound of Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir talking over each other. Jaskier gripped his arm tighter, and Geralt looked at him. Jaskier did not meet his gaze, but Geralt could feel him stiffen, his lip straightening into a thin line. Geralt slowed down a little but kept his stride, ducking his head to try and meet Jaskier’s gaze.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Jaskier seemed to snap out of something, blinking as he glanced his way and attempted to muster what was clearly a fake grin.

“Nothing.”

“Jask…” Geralt rumbled.

Jaskier took in a breath, clinging to him like he was about to be washed away by invisible waves.

“Just a little nervous, that’s all.”

“Why?”

Jaskier scoffed. “I’ve never actually eaten with your family, Geralt. I don’t want to…I don't know. I talk too much when I’m nervous. I laugh too loud. I do that weird thing with my hands. I don’t want to annoy anyone.”

Geralt stopped his stride at that. Jaskier finally looked up at him, his face entirely unguarded. Geralt could see that this worry ran deeper than simple nerves. It was still strange to see Jaskier so timid and self-conscious; he was used to the boisterous peacock who could struct in the middle of the dingiest tavern in the world. But The Mountian had taken more out of Jaskier than he had been able to admit to himself - until he’d seen Jaskier shatter a couple of days before. He wanted him confident again, though he wasn’t sure how to get him there. He wished he knew how to put into words the way he’d always seen Jaskier; beautiful and brilliant and worth every round of applause he’d ever received.

“You still don’t believe you’re family?” he rumbled, trying to keep himself from sounding accusatory.

Jaskier blinked before he smiled a little. He stroked Geralt’s knuckles with his thumb.

“I can’t be family like that, darling. That’s your father and your brothers. I’m just -”

“Jaskier,” he warned gently. He wasn’t sure if it was selfish to stop him, but he couldn’t stand hearing Jaskier berate himself again.

And Jaskier did stop. Geralt searched his wide, blue eyes. He didn’t know what he was thinking, but he could tell Jaskier was honed in on his every word. Never in his life would he have imagined the power he somehow held over him.

Even when he’d held Jaskier at a certain distance, he’d always assumed Jaskier knew he would always protect him if it came down to it. He'd assumed Jaskier understood that Geralt did care, deep down. He’d spent more time with him over the past two decades than with almost anyone else. He never told him he wanted him because he thought Jaskier knew.

But how else could Jaskier have taken it? Especially when Geralt was always sharp and a little distant?

He felt like a fool.

“You’re still family, just as much as anyone. And they know you’re mine,” he said, because it was true. His family would not have accepted just anyone in the keep. They trusted Jaskier because Geralt did, they sheltered him because it was understood Jaskier was under his protection. Jaskier was with him, and Geralt needed him to hear that. “You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.”

Jaskier looked at him for a moment, as though his mind was trying to comprehend something incomprehensible. And Geralt waited to see if the words were sinking in. After a long pause, Jaskier opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something - but whatever words he was trying to say got tangled on his tongue.

“I…” Jaskier began, before stopping and starting again. “But I’m…”

“Mine, Jaskier,” Geralt reiterated. “You’re here because I want you here, that’s enough. Alright?”

Jaskier still seemed a bit shocked as Geralt wrapped an arm around his waist and continued leading them down the hall. Clearly, from the stunning silence he’d just been met with, Jaskier was still processing everything that had happened over the last few days. But he felt his words and promises were finally starting to imprint… at least somewhat. He had no doubt he would need to repeat them many times over, but he could live with that. Even though words, and speaking in general, were not his strong suit. It was a muscle he would need to work, he did not doubt that. But Jaskier had put up with his deafening silence for nearly two decades. If words would help mend his heart, he would speak every day from sunup until nightfall. Whatever it took.

As they neared the dining hall, Jaskeir seemed to snap out of his daze. But Geralt was still nervous about Lambert. Before The Mountain, he would have had no doubt that Jaskier could take all of his brother’s sometimes brutal teasing in stride. He might have even given as good as he got. But Jaskier had been scoured raw from all of this and needed to be handled gently. Geralt didn’t want him to be torn down again over some silly joke that might be taken too far.

By the time they got to the dining hall, his brothers and Vesemir had just dished out dinner. They were still milling about between the hall and the kitchen, grabbing ale or more honey for their bread. Geralt felt Jaskier’s fingers twist into his shirt.

Vesemir was the first to notice them, setting his mug down and lifting his chin.

“It’s good to see you up, lad,” he said to Jaskier. “You look pale, but Geralt says worst of the fever’s passed.”

Jaskier smiled shyly as Geralt offered him his arm to hold while he sat. He looked so small and sweet and overwhelmed sitting there at the ancient oak table. A little sparrow among a keep full of swords, death, and old stone. He kept a hand on Jaskier’s back as he poured him a glass of wine.

“Geralt’s been a very patient nurse.”

Lambert moved behind Jaskier’s chair, reaching over to ruffle Jaskier’s hair as he went by.

“Glad to see it wasn’t fatal, little brother,” he said, continuing to the kitchen.

Jaskier smiled and chuckled a little, smoothing down his hair. Geralt let out a long sigh through his nose, watching Lambert’s back until he had left the room. He bent a little closer to Jaskie’s ear, stroking his hand down his back so his brother and Vesemir couldn’t see.

“I’ll get you something to eat. I’ll be right back.”

Jaskier nodded stiffly, offering Geralt a smile that was more forced than he would have liked to see. He rumbled, only just resisting a sudden urge to kiss him on his head before he departed. He heard Vesemir continue peppering Jaskier with questions about his health behind him.

Lambert was pouring himself an overly healthy portion of stew from their cooking cauldron when Geralt entered, barely paying him heed beyond an acknowledging grunt.

“Needs more salt,” he said, ripping off a chunk of bread and plunking it in the bowl.

Geralt hummed, waiting until he could get his brother’s attention.

“Lambert,” he said, pausing while he turned around. “I need a favor.”

Lambert cocked his brow as he took a large swig of ale.

“Well?”

Geralt hesitated, trying to figure out how to ask this.

“Go easy on Jaskier,” was what he finally decided on. “He’s had a difficult time. He takes things to heart more than most, and he’s easily wounded. Try not to upset him.”

“Difficult? What’s a pretty bardling like him got to worry about?” he scoffed.

Geralt pushed away the little tingle of irrational jealousy, swallowing hard and looking away for a moment.

“Difficult because of me,” he said, his voice growing a little rough. “He’s suffered, and it’s my fault. I want him spared of any more pain.”

Lambert paused, some of the levity visibly seeping out of him.

Geralt sighed. “Just go easy. Alright?”

His brother was quiet for a moment before nodding. Geralt grunted, satisfied, and went to work fixing supper for himself and Jaskier.

By the time he returned to the dining room, two steaming bowls in his hands, he noticed that Jaskier had relaxed a little at the table. His shoulders weren’t quite so tight, he didn’t seem nearly as unsure of himself. He was listening to Vesemir talk about potions with Eskel, chiming in here and there. Geralt felt some of the tension in his body ease as well. It was good to see Jaskier talking and lively again.

He sat their meals down and perched in the chair beside Jaskier. He gave Geralt a grateful smile and squeezed his hand under the table.

“Thank you, dear,” he said so only the two of them heard.

Geralt hummed.

“Try to eat as much as you can.” He wanted to get some meat back on Jaskier’s bones.

Jaskier nodded, squeezing his hand one more time before letting it go. Geralt was pleased when Jaskier dipped the bread into the bowl, not eating quickly but steadily.

Vesemir and Eskel continued discussing herbs and elixirs while Lambert all but inhaled his meal. Geralt kept a careful eye on Jaskier while he ate, a knot in his stomach subsiding the closer he got to the bottom of his bowl.

Finally, Lambert groaned and leaned back melodramatically in his chair.

“By the gods, this is dull talk. This is why winters are so tedious with just you lot for company.”

Vesemir took another spoonful of his stew, giving him a look of light parental reproach.

“You should know better than that by now. The well-executed use of a potion can be the difference between life and death out there -”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know. We speak of the same matters, over and over,” Lambert said, pausing for a moment before turning to Jaskier and smiling.

Geralt wrapped his hand over Jaskier’s thigh under the table.

“Little brother,” he boomed. “You’ve been quiet over there.”

He felt Jaskier tense up under his palm and sat straighter in his chair, ready at any moment to tell Lambert to be quiet if he took this too far.

“I know,” Jaskier replied sheepishly. “I hope I’m better company soon.”

Geralt gripped his leg a little tighter.

“You’re fine,” he rumbled.

Lambert didn’t hear him, but he noted the fleeting grateful look Jaskier shot his way.

“I’ll take anything after being stuck with these three for so long,” Lambert said, still eating as though he was starved.

He chuckled, and Geralt felt Jaskier relax a little beside him.

“I look forward to all the stories you can tell about that great beast beside you,” Lambert continued, a teasing tone still in his voice. “I can’t imagine being on the road with him for twenty years.”

“Says the man who eats his weight in food every day and drinks and fucks his way through the night,” Geralt countered.

Lambert laughed. “Aye, and never denied it.”

Jaskier smiled again, glancing down.

“He does snore rather loudly,” Jaskier said softly, with a hint of mischief in his voice that Geralt hadn’t expected. “And he’s a right grouch when he hasn’t gotten his beauty rest.”

Lambert’s brow raised, clearly a bit impressed. “Now that’s more like it. And how do you enjoy his grunting, eh? That’s a man who knows more grunts than words.”

Jaskier was still smiling, and Geralt was pleased to see him playing along. “Once you learn how to speak ‘grunt’, it isn’t so bad.”

Geralt pretended to be annoyed, cocking his brow as Lambert laughed more boisterously. Even Eskel offered up a grin at that.

“There’s that sharp tongue I was promised,” Lambert bellowed across the table. “Every winter, it’s the same thing. ‘Jaskier said this’ and ‘Jaskier did that.’ ‘Jaskier told me’ and ‘Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier…’”

Eskel snorted from the other side of the table. “Don’t forget ‘Jaskier’s cooking is better.’ I don’t think we’ve gone a single meal without that one. But you are a great cook, Jaskier.”

Lambert hummed. “Oh, aye. Every second word out of his mouth was your name, bardling. I hope you know how maddening it was. If you don’t return every winter to spare us of that, I’ll have to hunt you down and bring you back myself.”

The table chuckled, and Geralt glanced over to see Jaskier’s face soften. His eyes got a bit glassy as he grinned to himself, taking another sip of his wine. Geralt could tell it had moved him. He looked pleased, comfortable…happy. When Jaskier caught him looking, he smiled wider, wrapping his slender fingers over the top of Geralt’s.

It was difficult to take his eyes off of Jaskier after that. He watched him relax more and more until he was laughing with his whole chest, the way he used to. His spark was starting to reignite. Watching that was more intoxicating than all the ale he could drink.

By the time they had all eaten their fill and were a few cups deep, Jaskier was a little tipsy and just the slightest bit unsteady on his feet. Geralt let Jaskier keep a hold of his arm as he led them back upstairs once all the dishware had been stowed and goodnights had been said.

Jaskier was still telling him a story he’d started about twenty minutes ago, remembering a new detail that led to stories within stories every few sentences. Geralt was utterly lost, but he nodded diligently and allowed himself the pleasure of watching Jakier get animated after seeing his light dimmed for so long.

As they approached Geralt’s room, Jaskier's smile began to fade and his story was forgotten. Geralt could smell the worry suddenly emanating from him as he looked down the dark hallway like it was leading to the executioner. It was obvious Jaskier had no desire to return to his room alone, and Geralt didn’t want him to. He wanted him close as much as Jaskier did.

Geralt slipped an arm around Jaskier’s waist, leading him inside his room again without any discussion. Jaskier relaxed the moment he did, the sharp smell of worry dissipating quickly.

“I don’t have any clothes,” Jaskier said, a softness in his voice that made Geralt’s chest ache.

“You can use some of mine.”

Jaskier grinned as though Geralt had just offered him the moon on a silver platter.

He sat down on the bed as Geralt grabbed some sleeping clothes for him; large and soft and covered in his scent. He was unsure if Jaskier took any comfort in his scent or if he just wanted Jaskier to smell like him. He tried not to think too hard about it as Jaskier changed.

Geralt perched next to him on the bed, slipping his shoes off.

“No repulsive healing potions for me tonight, witcher?” Jaskier asked snarkily, his words a little slurred from the alcohol.

“I promised you the last one was the last one.”

Jaskier let out a sound of concession, leaning back on the pillows.

He was quiet for a long moment as Geralt slipped his shirt off and laid down next to him, gazing at Jaskier where he was turned on his side. They laid like that for a few long beats as Geralt watched the moonlight cast shadows over Jaskier’s face.

After a moment, Jaskier pursed his lips and looked at Geralt with his tender blue eyes.

“Darling?”

“Hmm?”

Jaskier hesitated, but Geralt noticed a slight blush creeping over his cheeks. He reached out to lace his fingers with Jaskier's. Jaskier squeezed back softly.

“Thank you for tonight,” Jaskier finally said. “I don't know if you asked Lambert to say that… ‘if you don’t return every winter, I’ll have to hunt you down and bring you back myself…’ but it was very sweet. And obviously I won't hold you to that. But you've all made me feel so welcome. It means the world to me.”

Geralt furrowed his brow, holding his arm out to him. Jaskier took the invitation, curling around Geralt and resting his head on his chest. He stroked Jaskier’s arm a little.

“What do you mean you won't hold me to it?” he asked. If Jaskier didn't believe he was more than welcome every winter, he needed to nip that in the bud.

“I just mean I won't make you bring me back every year because your brother made a joke at dinner. I got to be a part of your family, that's more than enough already.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt rumbled. “You are family, I keep telling you.”

Jaskier clasped him tighter. “I know. I know, darling. And you have no idea how much it means to me. It's everything. When I was child, I would lie awake and pray with all of me that I could find a place where people wanted me. I begged for a real family. I never thought it would happen, but you let me feel what that’s like tonight. There's nothing I can do to repay that…”

Geralt’s stomach clenched. He bundled him up in his arms, and Jaskier melted into his hold. He started to get nervous for whatever Jaskier was going to say next, because if it was anything besides ‘I would like to come back every winter,’ it was going to be difficult to accept.

“...But I've also been a mess the last few days,” Jaskier continued. “I know how much you wanted to help me, and you have. Every moment I get with you is a gift, but I don't want you to feel like we have to be attached at the hip from now on. I don't own you. I don't want to. And I don't want to be a burden -”

“You're not a burden, Jask,” Geralt interrupted. “I want you at Kaer Morhen. I like taking care of you, and I need you safe. Lambert wouldn't say what he said if he didn't mean it. Neither would I.”

Jaskier went quiet, fiddling with Geralt’s fingers where they were laced together with his. Geralt pressed his lips to Jaskier's hairline. Somehow it was easier to say this without seeing the pain and vulnerability he knew would be behind Jaskier’s eyes if he looked.

“I almost lost you,” he whispered. “I can't lose you again. You have a home here. You have a family. You can go wherever you want, but you're welcome here, always. We want you.”

Jaskier was silent for another long few moments, his long fingers warm and soft under Geralt’s calloused palm. He didn't want to rush or overwhelm him, but he also couldn't let him keep feeling this way - as though he was a guest whose presence was merely tolerated.

“Alright?” he asked, trying to be as gentle as he could.

Jaskier was silent for a while longer, and Geralt started to get concerned. He looked down at him to try and see his expression, but all he saw was the top of his head. Though, to his concern, he began to smell a mix of scents emanating from him. Happiness, fear, and sadness all combined into a cocktail. Geralt wished he knew what to say to make the harsh, bitter scents of worry and pain fade away so only the sweet smell of his pleasure remained. He wished he knew how to fix this.

After some time had passed, Jaskier lifted his head off his chest, sitting up a little. Geralt sat up a little in bed too, trying to keep Jaskier close. He furrowed his brow.

“Jask?” he ventured, softly as he could.

Jaskier looked at him then, his blue eyes suddenly burning with something Geralt couldn't place. He seemed embarrassed and flustered and disorientated all at once, like a skittish prey animal about to bolt. Before Geralt could try pulling him back into his arms, Jaskier sat up in bed fully.

“I…” Jaskier began, and then stopped. He suddenly clenched his eyes shut and locked his hands over the back of his head. “Fuck…”

Geralt’s brow furrowed deeper as he tried to reach out and touch him.

“Hey, hey, hey. Easy, Jaskier. It's alright. Tell me what's happened.”

Jaskier dodged his touch, suddenly moving as though his skin was on fire. He shook his head almost frantically, starting to get out of bed.

“I - I'm sorry. I shouldn't…maybe I should go back to my own room. I don't…”

He got out of bed and started rushing to the door, and Geralt only just startled out of his shock in time to bolt upright and close the door right as Jaskier opened it, holding it shut. He tried to make eye contact despite how Jaskier avoided it. His face was a prism of emotions and none of them good.

“Jaskier,” he rumbled. “Look at me.”

Jaskier hesitated before very reluctantly angling his chin toward him, but avoided looking at him directly. His eyes were glassy and his breathing was a little thin.

Geralt placed his hand between his shoulder blades gingerly. Jaskier stiffened a bit but didn't pull away.

“What’s happened?” he asked again. “Did I say something?”

Jaskier shook his head immediately, and Geralt's stomach calmed a little.

“Are you in pain? I can get Ves if you need -”

He shook his head again. “No, no…”

Geralt nodded slowly, stroking over his shoulders a little. He was baffled at how quickly this change had come about. Only moments ago he'd seemed so calm and happy.

He petted down his back. Geralt could see him leaning into his palm, though he visibly resisted taking too much pleasure in the touch. But he at least let Geralt get close enough to feel the way he started to tremble.

“Why don't you sit down?” he suggested, still stroking over the back of his shirt. “I'll get you some water.”

Jaskier started to shake his head, but stopped. His eyes flickered between Geralt, the door, and the chair. It was miserable seeing him so clearly frightened and confused, especially when he didn't understand what caused it or how to fix it.

“Maybe I should go back to my room,” he said before trailing off.

“Why would you go back to your room?” he asked, trying to use the soft tone he had come to reserve for Jaskier over the last few days.

“Because - because I think I've asked for too much.”

“You haven't asked for anything. Besides, we've traveled together for twenty years. Anything I have is already yours.”

Jaskier shut his eyes for a moment like he'd gotten kicked in the gut, which was entirely not the reaction Geralt hoped to elicit.

“Geralt…” he whined. “Please don't, I can't…”

Jaskier dropped his head in his hands before he could finish.

Geralt’s stomach lurched as he hooked an arm around his waist, gingerly guiding him away from the door and toward the couch by the fireplace. Jaskier allowed himself to be led.

He sat him down once they were close enough to the sofa. He knelt down in front of Jaskier. The warmth from the fire radiated onto his back as he gently pried Jaskier's hands from his face, wrapping his fingers over his and stroking his knuckles. He wasn't crying, but he looked on the verge of tears.

“Tell me what's wrong,” Geralt said, trying not to sound demanding and spook him.

Jaskier still refused to look at him, instead staring down at Geralt's thumb swiping over his fingers for a long moment. His face crumbled a little and he looked like he was about to get up and rush off again. Geralt tangled their fingers together to try and keep him in place.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered again, his voice cracked. “I need to go back to my room. I'm not sick anymore, we both know that. You've been so wonderful…But - but it feels too good to be close to you…especially since I know we can't do this anymore. I understand, really I do. I just - I just can't get used to this. If we're going to go back to the way things were before -”

“I don't want things to go back to the way they were before,” Geralt said, trying to stop Jaskier before he started to spiral. “I'm not going to hurt you like that again.”

“It isn't that,” Jaskier said, his voice thickening. “It's just…getting to hold your hand and touch you and sleep the way we have been… it's too much. Because I…I -”

It was almost like the words were physically caught in his throat. Geralt watched him flounder, leaning forward as though he was trying to vomit out the words. His eyes started to water as he try and speak and failed. Whatever he was going through looked agonizing, and Geralt just wanted to make it stop.

“Breathe.”

Jaskier tried to obey, taking in more of a halting gasp. He shook his head again and squeezed Geralt’s hands tighter.

“Fuck, this is all I've ever wanted and I'm about to ruin everything…” he muttered, seemingly more to himself than anyone else.

Geralt waited, letting Jaskier hold his hands as tightly as he needed. He couldn’t imagine Jaskier doing anything that could possibly bring about the reaction he appeared to be so terrifed of. He could hear Jaskier’s heart pounding, and he couldn't deny that his was beating twice as fast as usual.

Once Jaskier seemed to collect himself enough to be able to speak, he took a long, trembling inahle of air.

“Geralt,” he began, breathing his name instead of speaking it. “I…I need you in a way you don't need me. When you're not around, it's like nothing is real. When months and months go by where I can't see you, don't know if you're dead or alive, I can't breathe. I can't think. I lose my mind when you're not around. The only thing I ever wanted was to be somebody to you, because you're everything to me.”

His voice broke on the last sentence, and Geralt barely resisted scooping him back up into his arms and crushing him against his chest. But he needed to listen to this. He needed to let Jaskier get it out of his system.

“And you've saved me these past few days. I was hanging by a fucking thread, I don't what would have happened if you hadn't taken care of me the way you did. But…what I need from you isn't something you can give me. Do you - do you understand what I…?”

Jaskier looked at him with all the desperation of a deer being hunted, his hands shaking badly in Geralt's palms.

Geralt blinked slowly, trying to understand what he was hearing.

“What can't I give you?” he asked. “If it's within my power, it's yours.”

Jaskier barked out a wet laugh.

“What I need would require a miracle, darling. Marvelous as you are, even you can’t perform one of those.”

Geralt blinked again and then shrugged his shoulders slightly, genuinely perplexed.

“We’ll figure it out,” he reasoned calmly. “But I want you to tell me -”

“I love you,” Jaskier suddenly blurted out, the words sharp on his tongue as though they hurt to say. He let out a gasped sob right after, taking in a breath that looked painful. “I love you, Geralt.”

A brief moment of stunned silence settled over them before Jaskier’s eyes widened and every hint of color was drained from him. He ripped his hands away from Geralt’s and slapped them over his mouth. His breath grew so erratic Geralt thought he might faint, and he shook himself out of the trance he'd fallen into.

“Easy, sparrow,” Geralt soothed. “Calm down.”

Jaskier couldn't. Geralt could tell by the way his eyes darted around that he had worked himself up into a panic. He perched on the couch beside him, hauling him into his arms before Jaskier could resist.

He burrowed down between Geralt's bare neck and shoulder, hiding his face against his skin and clutching Geralt so hard his knuckles went white. Geralt shushed him and massaged the nape of his neck.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” he gasped out frantically once he got the air to do so. “I wanted to tell you, I swear. I was so scared you'd make me leave. I didn’t know what to do. Please don't be mad - please -”

Geralt shushed him more firmly, trying to get him calm enough to stop apologizing. “Why would I be angry with you? You've done nothing wrong.”

“Because -” he began haltingly, tears now apparent in his voice. “Because I lied to you. I kept it from you and I hate myself for it. I wasn't trying to deceive you, honestly. I just didn't want to ruin everything, and now I have.”

“Why would this ruin everything?”

Jaskier's breath hitched, and Geralt felt him lift his sleeve to swipe over his eyes.

“Because you don't…I can't…fuck, I don't know,” he whined, hiding his face against his chest.

Geralt rumbled, squeezing him tighter. “Alright, it's alright.”

Jaskier took a long breath in, releasing it as shuttering gasps against his skin. But it was an improvement from before.

Just by the way he smelled, it was clear that Jaskier had been holding in this fear and anguish for a long time. The fact that Jaskier truly believed Geralt would cast him aside for his feelings was enough to make him nauseous with guilt.

He wasn't angry, far from it. It was a surprise, but only because he could never imagine someone like Jaskier having feelings for someone like him. An artist - and a royal - with precious fae blood in his veins, Jaskier could have anyone he wanted. He possessed more charm and beauty and talent than anyone he'd seen. Everyone loved him, it was impossible not to.

The question of whether he loved Jaskier was never one he'd considered. To know Jaskier was to love him, so of course he did. He loved him like his heart beat. He loved him like breathing. Effortlessly. How could he not?

He'd never allowed himself to adore Jaskier as openly as he wished he could, but he also never even fathomed that was something Jaskier would want from him.

He tried to ignore the little flutters of something akin to butterflies in the pit of his stomach, remembering that Jaskier was still trying not to dissolve in his arms. Geralt gave him another few moments until his breathing calmed and his whole body stopped quaking like a leaf in his hold.

He was still trembling a little as Geralt stroked his thumb over his neck, shushing him softly with his lips pressed against Jaskier’s hairline. Once he seemed calm enough to talk again, Geralt took a deep breath and cradled him tighter against his chest.

“Are you alright?”

Jaskier was still for a moment before Geralt felt him nod. But it was shaky at best, not at all convincing.

“Can you look at me?”

Jaskier immediately shook his head. Geralt rumbled deep in his chest.

“I can’t read your mind, sparrow,” Geralt murmured against his hair. “I’m not angry. I’m not leaving, and I don’t want you to go anywhere. Tell me why you’re upset.”

Geralt began to smell the undertone of salt, and he heard Jaskier sniffle.

“I’m not upset,” he said, his voice heavy and rough with tears. “It’s just…I’ve been dreading this for twenty years. I thought the day I said it would be the last time I ever saw you. But you’re being so kind, I’m a little -”

“Overwhelmed?” he guessed.

Jaskier nodded. Geralt hummed, reaching up to smooth over his hair. He wished he hadn’t made his ability to be kind so inconceivable to Jaskier. He wished he hadn’t made him carry this around as though it was a secret he needed to be ashamed of. He wished he could have been spending the last two decades making Jaskier happy rather than hurting him. But the past was out of his reach. He could only try to protect and mend his heart now.

He sighed through his nose, leaning back a little to try and get a look at Jaskier’s face. What he needed to say next, he needed to say to him directly. Jaskier was hesitant but eventually pulled back far enough to fix his gaze to Geralt’s. His eyes were damp and red-rimmed, but they were still so bright. Those bright, pretty blue eyes.

Geralt shook his head a little, confounded by the fact that he was still so beautiful even at his most vulnerable. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“What you are scared of, little sparrow?” he whispered.

Jaskier pursed his lips for a moment, his brows arched up. He studied Geralt’s face for a moment before trying to muster something like a smile.

“Nothing. The only thing that ever truly frightened me was being scorned by you over this.”

Geralt paused, stroking his thumbs under his eyes brimming with tears he was refusing to let fall.

“Really?” he asked. “That was your greatest fear?”

Jaskier paused for a moment before nodding solemnly, his heart all but laid out in the open for Geralt to gaze at.

Geralt hummed and nodded, more to himself than to Jaskier.

This was going to take work. A lot of work. But he was willing. Watching the transformation Jaskier had undertaken over dinner was like watching a flower blossom before his eyes. He was mesmerizing when he was happy, and Geralt had discovered how much he enjoyed pleasing him. And even though it broke his heart when he was in pain, he wanted to be the one to fix things when they needed fixing. He wanted to be the one that Jaskier came to for comfort and companionship and affection. He couldn’t say he understood Jaskier’s devotion, but he could strive to be worthy of it.

If the last few days had convinced him of anything, it was that he wanted to protect Jaskier. He wanted him close. He wanted to keep sleeping tangled together, he wanted to keep feeling Jaskier’s hand in his own, he wanted to hold him.

He wanted Jaskier. If he needed to hear the words, then Geralt would say them.

“You’re my heart, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled. “Of course I love you.”

A moment passed as Jaskier seemed to process what he said before he blinked. His breathing hitched, his face crumbling. He covered his mouth with his hand as a fresh wave of tears rolled down his cheeks. Geralt reached out to him but Jaskier pulled back a little.

“Wait - wait,” he gasped. “Do you mean that? If you’re just saying it out of pity, please take it back now.”

Geralt was surprised by how calm he was. The words had come easier than he expected, they’d tasted sweet in his mouth. It felt right. It felt natural. It felt like saying something out loud that ought to have been said many years ago.

He reached over to cradle Jaskier’s hand in his own, lifting it to kiss the inside of his palm. And he nodded.

Jaskier closed his eyes as more droplets of water trickled down, letting out a little whimper. Geralt opened his arms, and Jaskier all but collapsed into them. He started to cry the moment he buried his face into his chest.

The tears smelled more like relief than the despair he’d been met with when he had wept in his arms before. But this time Geralt didn’t try to rush him. He just held him and kissed his hair and waited for Jaskier to let out what he needed to let out.

Jaskier was all apologies the moment he had gathered himself enough to come up from his chest, as though a few more tears were something he needed to be embarrassed of. Geralt simply held his face and brushed away the wetness with his thumbs and the back of his hands. He kissed stray tears away and soothed him until the desperate apologies had been forgotten.

The first and only time they kiss that night, it’s brief and salty with Jaskier’s tears. And sweeter than anything Geralt had ever experienced.

By the time Jaskier had relaxed enough to lay in a limp-limbed puddle in his lap, the fire had died down to a few soft yellow flickers over burnt wood. Jaskier’s eyes were a little puffy, but they had run dry. He seemed tranquil, if exhausted. He had his head rested on Geralt’s shoulder, raking his fingertips gently across his bare chest.

Geralt angled his nose deeper into Jaskier’s hair, inhaling softly.

“You smell happy,” he murmured. “Are you?”

Jaskier scoffed, leaning in so his nose brushed Geralt’s neck.

“You’ve just given me everything I’ve ever wanted. What do you think, you great ox?”

Geralt chuckled deep from his chest, feeling brave enough to press a kiss to his hairline. “A great ox who loves you.”

Jaskier melted, curling his arms around Geralt again and burying his face into the crook of his neck.

“Fuck, Geralt…” he breathed. “I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

Geralt hummed. “We can take this slow. We have time.”

“Do we?” he asked. “If we do this, it can’t be over when we leave here come spring. It can’t…it can’t stop when we see Yen again. I’m not saying you have to end things with her, but whatever happens, I can’t be left behind. I couldn’t bear it. I know it’s not fair to ask so much of you so quickly. I wish I didn’t have to. But you have to swear that you won’t tell me to leave again. That would kill me.”

Geralt swallowed the rock in his throat as he carded his fingers through Jaskier’s hair.

“Never. Yen and I are over, Jask. I choose you. I want you. I’ll never leave, and I’ll never tell you to leave again. I know you can’t believe it yet, but give me time. I’ll show you. I’ll make you happy.”

Jaskier let out a short breath against his neck, curling tighter around him.

“You’ve made me blissful already, darling. There’s nothing else you need to do.”

Geralt knew that wasn’t true. Jaskier deserved real romance, real love. But the last thing he wanted to do was rush this before Jaskier was ready. He needed to savor this, to process it all. They both did. And Geralt could wait. It was the least he could do after leaving Jaskier to wilt in the shade of his indifference for twenty years.

He would give Jaskier all the things he had denied him. He couldn’t grant him the life of luxury he deserved, but he would find a way to be a good companion to him. A good friend, finally. A good lover, if Jaskier decided he wanted that.

He was going to love him the way Jaskier ought to be loved.

Geralt brushed some hair away from the side of Jaskier’s face, kissing his jaw.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

Jaskier let out a small sound, burrowing deeper into him. “Can we stay like this for a while longer? Just until the fire goes out.”

Geralt hummed. “Of course.”

The silence that fell over them was gentle and soft then. For the first time in a long while, nothing hurt. Jaskier was warm in his arms. They were safe. They were together. They were in love.

He knew this would not come without its challenges. They would still need to explain it to Yen and Ciri and his family. It would be a new dynamic for all of them to navigate. But the changes were good. He would make sure they were good, because Jaskier was not going to get hurt again. Not if he could help it.

He shifted a little as Jaskier nuzzled his neck.

“Rest, sparrow,” he whispered. “I have you now.”

Geralt felt him smile against his skin. “‘Sparrow.’ I love it when you call me that. You have to promise never to stop saying it.”

He chuckled again. “Not a hard promise to make.”

“Good,” he said, exhaustion starting to slur his words a bit. “I really do love you, Geralt. My heart doesn’t know what else to do except adore you.”

Geralt’s chest ached and he cradled the back of his head, holding him flush against his chest. He didn’t want any space between them. Not now, not ever again.

“I love you, too, sparrow,” he said. “Always.”

Jaskier eventually did fall into slumber, and Geralt held him until the very last embers of the fire had been burned away. He carried Jaskier to bed, still asleep even as he curled around Geralt again once they were under the sheets.

Geralt held him and combed his fingers through his hair while he slept. His mind was as quiet and calm as the night. He watched the snow, and he smiled to himself in the dark.

Chapter Text

It had been a long winter. Not frigid the way long winters tended to be, though still cold enough to get below the bones. But spring was coming, Geralt could feel it. Something softer and sweeter was on the horizon, and that meant one thing - Soon it would be time to leave Kaer Morhen for another year.

But this year - this spring - everything would be different.

It had been two months since that night by the fireplace when his world had shifted like a kaleidoscope. Two months since Jaskier had told him the truth about his feelings and two months since he’d discovered what being the recipient of unconditional, utterly selfless love felt like. Two months since he’d been given something he’d needed so desperately without ever knowing it.

As for himself, there had been moments in the past weeks when he hardly recognized his own mind. Sometimes he just found himself gazing at Jaskier, watching the curve of his mouth when he laughed, listening to the music of his voice, studying the way his eyes lit up whenever Geralt gave him any drop of affection. It was intoxicating and took his breath away more than he could admit aloud.

Loving Jaskier had come easier than he’d expected. Part of that was how easy Jaskier made it - how grateful he was for everything and anything Geralt did. He hadn’t realized just how starved Jaskier was for care and touch and affection until he allowed himself to bestow it on Jaskier freely. He soaked it up like a flower drinking in sunlight. But another part of it was how Jaskier was with him - the tender way his hands traced over scars others had always been afraid to touch, the sheer trust he placed in him, the way he heard him. Not just listened, but heard him. Sometimes Jaskier held him so carefully, as though he was something breakable and delicate. It was like nothing he’d experienced. There had been passion in his affairs before, but this went beyond lust. This permeated something deep in his core. There was a way he allowed Jaskier to be with him that he would never imagine coming from anyone else, just as there was a way he allowed himself to be with Jaskier that was for Jaskier alone.

Still, not all the days had been easy. The last two months had also been a complete peeling back of every barrier Jaskier had put up to protect his heart from two decades of mistreatment. There had been fights, a couple of bad ones. But he needed to hear all of it, he needed to let Jaskier purge himself, and he needed to recognize what he’d put him through. No matter how badly it stung sometimes, it was better than letting old wounds haunt this new thing that was so fresh between them - this thing that felt so good and so right.

And with the healing of all that hurt, other pain came to the surface. Stories of brutality from Jaskier’s childhood and stories of abuse from past lovers - all of which Geralt had been stupidly unaware of. He'd even found out about the things Jaskier had done to earn his keep financially when he'd lost the will to perform after The Mountain - the nights and access to his precious, tender body he'd sold in exchange for enough money for a room while Geralt was off on a hunt. But as agonizing as it was to hear, it was almost infinitely more miserable for Jaskier to have to recount.

In the last two months - he’d learned how to be patient, how to be gentle, how to keep his temper instead of letting it run wild to accidentally lash out against his sparrow ever again. If Jaskier looked at him the way he looked at him on The Mountain a second time, he would never forgive himself.

Jaskier felt everything so much deeper than anyone he had ever known; sorrow and pleasure both. Geralt had come to understand that the best possible thing was to let Jaskier feel whatever he had to feel and then to greet him with open arms and reassurance and comfort. He'd learned to let Jaskier laugh whenever he felt like it or cry on his shoulder if he needed to shed tears. In the last two months, he'd learned what it would take to heal Jaskier's heart as well as his own. He came to understand the meaning of devotion.

And despite its crumbling walls, Kaer Morhen had been their sanctuary while they’d had to do all that hard work for each other. It had given them a place to rest, to take stock. Heading out into the real world for spring out would be a new challenge, but Geralt couldn’t bring himself to dread it. He wanted to show Jaskier off as his. He wanted anyone who looked to see the pretty pink blush only he could make color Jaskier’s cheeks. He wanted to spoil and pamper him with every extra coin he earned. He wanted to kiss him in public, without any of the shame Jaskier always thought Geralt held for him.

And keeping a songbird caged for too long wasn’t right. It wasn’t good for Jaskier. He’d only just started plucking away at his lute for the first time since The Mountian, but Geralt wanted to see him on the stage again. In his element, where he could glow for everyone the way he glowed for Geralt every night.

Geralt blinked and shifted, breaking himself out of the distracted trance he’d entered without realizing it. He closed the book in his lap he’d finished nearly an hour ago, glancing over at the dying fire. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in another world in the middle of the library, but at least a few hours had passed since Jaskier and Vesemir had wandered off toward the garden to discuss potions. It had become a hobby of Jaskier’s over the winter, and he could tell that Vesemir enjoyed having a new student truly interested in his tutelage.

Geralt liked that Jaskier was developing interests of his own again. He enjoyed seeing him inquisitive and excited after a particularly stimulating lesson. But he found it difficult to go too long without seeing Jaskier, especially in the last few weeks. He'd begun to crave Jaskier's presence as others craved coin or drink. Still, he didn’t want to be overbearing.

He signed and stood up, storing the book back on the shelf and going to stoke the fire. He added a few additional logs to get warmth back in the room for when Jaskier reappeared. His bard was easily chilled at night.

He had just selected a book on weaponry he hadn’t read before when he heard the tell-tale, lightfooted steps only Jaskier could possess coming down the hall. He couldn't stop a curl from coming to the edges of his lips, his mood lifting almost instantly.

Jaskier entered without knocking, stepping in and scanning the room. His face lit up the way it always did when he saw him, and it seemed to Geralt that the room began to shimmer. Before all this, he’d never noticed how Jaskier took the air to and from wherever he went.

“Somehow I knew I’d find you here, hermit that you are,” Jaskier teased, the honey of his voice flowing like nectar through Geralt’s veins. “Why aren’t you in bed, love?”

“Waiting for you,” he admitted, no longer under any pressure to disguise his need.

Jaskier smiled wider, coming deeper into the library toward him. “Oh, I’m sorry darling. You didn’t have to do that.”

Geralt grunted, sliding the book away as Jaskier approached the couch. He crawled and melted into his lap without hesitation, making himself small to allow Geralt to cocoon him in his arms the way he liked. A tender kind of burn spread all through him at the feeling of Jaskier’s weight coiled around his own. And he wondered, not for the first time, how he had gone without this for as long as he did.

He pressed a few long kisses to Jaskier’s temple and the side of his face, savoring the sweet smell of his pleasure as he did.

“How was the lesson?” he asked.

“Good,” he replied, his voice warm and relaxed. “Vesemir says I’ve got White Honey down. Thank the gods, because I think he might have strangled me if I’d fucked it up one more time.”

Geralt huffed out a laugh through his nose, but he still clutched Jaskier a little tighter. Most of the time, Geralt knew he was kidding when he spoke like that. But there were times when he could sense genuine fear lurking just below the joke. Geralt had left him feeling lonely and unwanted for years, and the aftereffects of that still lingered. Jaskier didn’t ask for constant reassurance, but Geralt had gotten better at understanding when he needed it.

“White Honey is delicate, it took me a year to get it right,” Geralt said. “You’re learning faster than I ever did.”

Jaskier chuckled, but Geralt still noticed the slight blush spreading over his rounded cheeks. “I’m quite sure you’re exaggerating, but I’ll take it. That damned elixir about sent me to the bottle.”

“Which bottle?” he asked.

“Whichever one I could reach first.”

Geralt laughed, a low rumble from his chest. “You can always take a break if you want. Ves is a strict teacher.”

“He’s been surprisingly patient. If I lost a year for everything I’ve broken I’d be little more than a shriveled husk by now. But I’m getting better, I think. And…I want to be able to help more when we’re back on the Path.”

Geralt’s ears pricked up, and he shifted a little to try and get a better look at him. “You do help.”

“I help with cleaning and cooking and setting up camp. I want to do more than that. What if you get hurt while we’re out in the middle of nowhere and you run out of Kiss or Swallow? I’d die if anything happened to you. This way I’d actually be able to do something useful instead of twiddling my thumbs.”

Geralt hummed softly. He liked the idea of Jaskier feeling more confident in his place on the Path, but it was a similar mindset to this that had sent him spiraling not long before. Once he got fixated on the idea that his worth was only measured by his ‘usefulness’, it was difficult to convince him otherwise. Geralt didn’t want anything like that festering in Jaskier’s mind again.

Jaskier must have sensed it because after a moment he let out a soft breath and nuzzled up against Geralt’s neck.

“I’m not saying that I want a job as your in-house potion maker, darling. I’ll still be a simple bard who just happens to know which leaf goes with what. But…I need to feel valuable. Not just to you, but to your work. I need to feel like I’m taking some of the burden off. My whole career is more or less dedicated to singing about you, after all. At least this evens things up a bit.”

Geralt nodded slowly, humming again as he took in what he was saying. “Alright.”

“Is it alright?”

He paused, leaning back further to meet Jaskier’s eye. Geralt observed him for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on in that head of his.

“I want whatever pleases you,” Geralt whispered, almost against Jaskier’s lips. “If helping with the potions pleases you, then it’s alright.”

Jaskier smiled, lifting his head to press a quick peck to Geralt’s cheek. “Thank you, dear.”

Geralt let out a low rumble as Jaskier laid his head down on his shoulder again, letting out a long contented breath. He didn’t want to poke the bear and upset Jaskier unnecessarily, which happened sometimes when he pushed too hard, but he knew they would need to revisit this.

If Jaskier never did anything again other than sit around until he was as plump and lazy as a well-fed tomcat, Geralt would still be just as happy to have him. If he had to rob graves to keep Jaskier safe and taken care of, he would.

There were very few truly good things on this damned Continent. He was one of them. Jaskier was good. Jaskier was kind. Jaskier had a seemingly endless supply of compassion for the world and everything in it. And he was Geralt’s. He was Geralt’s to cherish and protect, and the responsibility of being the caretaker of a heart like that was not lost on him. He would do anything in his power to keep the gentleness within him intact, not to let him lose it to life’s cruelty.

And, although Jaskier never admitted it outwardly, he could still sense that it all hadn’t quite sunk in yet. It seemed Jaskier trusted Geralt enough to allow him to be the keeper of his love, but that he could not fully trust Geralt being in this for good. It was as though he was always trying to stay a step ahead of abandonment and heartbreak.

Geralt knew it would take time, but he also wanted to do something to help convince him that this was permanent. He knew he didn’t believe it, but losing Jaskier would destroy Geralt as much as it would destroy him. Jaskier had gotten into his bones, into the earth of him. Words alone weren’t enough to convey that. He needed to try harder.

Geralt sighed through his nose, reaching up to card his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier all but purred, burrowing deeper into him.

“We can go to bed if you’re tired,” Jaskier said, his voice getting a little husky as sleep crept up on him. “I didn’t mean to make you stay up so long.”

“I’m not tired,” he said. And it was true. Geralt was awake, perhaps for the first time in his life.

Jaskier seemed to enjoy the idea of not exiting the embrace any sooner than he had to, yawning and pressing his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck. “If I fall asleep, wake me when you’re ready to go upstairs. I don’t want you carrying me again, it isn’t good for your back.”

Geralt hummed and grinned to himself a little, kissing the part of his face he could reach. Jaskier weighed little more than a feather compared to what he was used to, but something about the concern was intimate in a way he was still getting used to. Who else had ever bothered to worry about his back? No one that he could recall. Being seen - and being known - the way Jaskier saw and knew him was a privilege he never wanted to take for granted again.

“Close your eyes, sparrow,” he murmured. “Rest.”

He could feel Jaskier obeying, easing into him until he was little more than a pool of limbs in his arms.

“I’ll dream of you,” he said dozily. “You and how much Vermilion I need to add to make Petri's Philter the right way.”

Geralt chuckled. “Just a pinch. Too much will spoil the brew.”

He scoffed, but Geralt felt the smile against his skin. “Know-it-all.”

Geralt allowed the grin to stay fixed over his lips, soaking in the mellow silence that settled between them. ______________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier woke up to hazy sunlight dripping through the cracked window in Geralt’s - in their - bedroom. The furs he was buried under were so warm he didn’t initially realize Geralt wasn’t in bed next to him. He blinked the sleep away the moment he did, taking in a long breath through his nose as he tried to wake up.

He was almost startled when a gently thunderous voice said, “Finally awake.”

Jaskier sat up, his eyes still losing some of their early morning blur as tried to fix his gaze on Geralt, clear across the room and already dressed.

“I trust you can provide me with a reasonable explanation for this behavior,” Jaskier said, trying to be snarky despite the sleepy gravel in his voice. “You better have somewhere important to be, making me wake up cold and desperately alone like this.”

“Desperately alone?” Geralt countered, a little smirk on his lips that might have made Jaskier’s knees weak if he weren’t already lying down.

He flopped dramatically back onto the mattress. “Oh, yes. And I may perish if I don’t receive a kiss from a brave warrior as soon as possible.”

“I’ll fetch Lambert, then. He might be better equipt to deal with your morning breath.”

Jaskier cried out in a show of fake indignation, covering his head with the furs. “Rude! Horribly rude.”

He heard Geralt laugh, smiling to himself as footsteps approached the bed. He felt a dip in the mattress as Geralt perched beside him.

“Are you planning on coming out from there?”

Jaskier peeked his eyes out over the covers. “That depends. Do I actually have morning breath? Careful how you answer.”

Geralt chuckled, pulling the furs down further until he could cup the sides of his face. He looked at him for a moment, which is all it took to get lost in the gold of his eyes, before leaning in to press his lips to Jaskier’s. No matter how often Geralt kissed him, it always felt like the first time. A fire seemed to catch in his stomach, reaching up to warm his heart like the embers of a flame. He was floating, somewhere outside himself, with only Geralt’s calloused hands to keep him tethered to the ground. He wondered sometimes if he would ever get used to it. Secretly he hoped he wouldn’t.

Jaskier could not stop the little sigh of bliss that passed through his lips once they broke apart, trying and failing to appear nonchalant.

“What’s your verdict, wolf?” he asked, a fondness in his voice dispelling the teasing tone he had been attempting to maintain.

Geralt just looked at him for a moment. “You taste like honey. You always taste like honey.”

Jaskier felt himself grin wide, no doubt looking just as foolishly smitten as he felt. “I still haven’t been offered any sort of excuse for you being up and dressed before the birds have even started to chirp.”

Geralt rumbled, stroking Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m going hunting, with Eskel and Lambert. And Lambert found some traveling merchants he’s determined to trade with. We’ll stop by their settlement.”

“Do you want me to come? I can help.”

“No, no,” he said. “It’s barely light. Sleep. We might return before you’re up.”

“Calling me lazy, is that it?”

“I’ve never known you to be a friend to early mornings. Or early afternoons.”

“I don’t enjoy torture, so no, the crack of dawn and I are not on speaking terms.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. “Go back to bed. I’ll bring you a rabbit for supper.”

“Promise? You have to promise so I can hold it over you in case you don’t manage to catch one.”

“I’ll catch one.”

“And if you don’t?”

Jaskier watched Geralt try to suppress his grin, nodding a little to himself as though he was truly considering it. “I’m sure you’ll think up some punishment for me.”

“Oh, absolutely I will.”

Geralt huffed, tracing his finger over the curve of Jaskier’s lower lip. “Get some rest. We’ll return before dinner, but I’m likely to be back before you know I’m gone.”

Impossible, he thought.

“Be careful,” he said instead, “Wear your heavy cloak, and take some of that buttered bread I made for lunch.”

Geralt grinned again. “Alright.”

Jaskier let out a long breath, trying to delay Geralt’s leaving for even a few extra moments. Finally, he pulled Geralt’s hand toward him, kissing his knuckles.

“Go on,” he said, forcing himself to release Geralt before he could consider asking him to sleep in for a few hours longer. “But come back to me soon.”

Geralt hummed, going quiet for a moment before he reached out to smooth over Jaskier’s hair. “Love you.”

“I love you,” Jaskier replied, still shocking a part of himself over the fact that he got to say that.

Geralt lingered for just a moment longer, letting out a grunt as he kissed his forehead a final time before standing from the bed and departing the room. Jaskier rolled over on his bed, closing his eyes.

It only occurred to him just before he fell back asleep that he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten upstairs last night after he’d drifted off in Geralt’s arms. Geralt must have carried him up those gods-forsaken stairs instead of waking him. But by the time Jaskier had woken up enough to scold him for it, he had left the room.

Jaskier sighed, collapsing back onto the bed. But he still found himself smiling against the pillowcase. ______________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier let himself sleep in for the rest of the morning, spending some time pampering the animals and doing a few chores around the keep to distract himself while Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel were out. He spent a little while with his lute once he’d run out of things to do. The keep felt strange and silent without them. Empty. Vesemir didn’t seem as bothered by it as he was, so he tried to keep his mind occupied while the witchers went about their business.

He was just becoming a bit concerned when the sun started to go down and the boys still hadn’t returned home when they saw the trio galloping up to the gate. He allowed a rush of relief, perhaps a bit dramatic for a simple hunting trip, to wash him over him before he rushed downstairs to greet them.

He tried not to at least look like he was hurrying, lovesick buffoon that he was, but he still found his heart pounding as he waited eagerly for the witchers to stow their horses and enter through the main doors.

Lambert entered the main hall first, carrying a haul of traded goods, animal products, and fresh-killed meats over his shoulder.

“Little brother,” he called. “Seems we won’t starve.”

Jaskier approached him, a smile on his lips. “With your stomach, nothing is guaranteed.”

Lambert furrowed his brow, pretending to be annoyed, but Jaskier saw through it. “Next time, you can kill it yourself.”

Jaskier laughed, going to take one of the bundles out of Lambert’s grip to try and lighten his burden. He hadn’t expected it to be quite so heavy, however, and he stumbled a bit when he trusted the sack over his shoulder.

“Gods,” he grunted. “Have you brought back rocks when I requested food?”

“Aye, bardling. I hope you have strong teeth.”

Jaskier chuckled again, trying not to exhibit what a struggle that damned sack was until he could deposit it in the kitchen beside the rest of Lambert’s haul. Lambert all but slammed his hand against Jaskier’s back, nearly propelling him forward.

“Appreciated, little brother.”

Of all of the many unexpected things the winter had brought, Lambert had been one of the most astonishing. Initially, Jaskier had been most concerned with how Lambert would react to the news of his and Geralt’s newfound relationship. They’d told Vesemir first, then Eskel, saving Lambert for last. Vesemir had seemed unsurprised, and Eskel seemed pleased. Lambert had been the most taken-a-back, but he had also been the most earnestly supportive.

Jaskier’s brothers had been painful to live with, and he cannot recall many fond memories of any of them. Lambert was more of a brother, and more of a friend, than any his blood family had ever been.

Eskel entered a moment later, nodding at Jaskier as he set his bundles down beside Lambert’s. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat when Geralt followed swiftly behind him. The three witchers seemed to be in good spirits, no one looked hurt; which was the only thing Jaskier cared about. He would rather feast on melted snow for the rest of the winter than see any of them injured.

He bit down on his bottom lip to keep that stupid, smitten grin that so often came when he saw Geralt from rising to his lips. He knew he heard Eskel and Lambert saying something, but the words sounded far away and blurry. His world narrowed to the snow laced around the hem of Geralt’s cloak, the way his hair framed his face, the gold of his eyes when they met Jaskier’s. He could have collapsed at the little smile tugging on the corner of Geralt’s lips as their gazes affixed to each other, trying to retain some semblance of restraint while the witcher discussed their haul with Vesemir, who just had entered from the hall. He waited patiently for the others to exit the kitchen for the rest of the supplies, allowing his toothy grin to appear as he launched himself Geralt. Geralt caught him in his arms, lifting him off the ground just a little so his toes brushed the ground. He melted into the deep chuckle he felt against Geralt’s chest, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut as he nuzzled his cheek - still warm despite being out in the cold all day.

“Sparrow,” Geralt rumbled.

“Wolf,” he breathed.

They stayed that way for a few beats longer until Geralt lowered him to the ground. Jaskier clasped him tighter for a moment before forcing himself to pull back, still smiling wide as Geralt cupped the sides of his face.

“Good day?”

Geralt hummed. “Long day, without you.”

Jaskier forced himself to scoff, but he still turned to kiss the inside of Geralt’s palm. “Sap. So, did you catch my rabbit you promised or do I have to come up with a punishment benefiting your crime?”

Geralt grinned a little more, huffing a laugh through his nose.

“I think I’ve spoiled you,” he teased. “You’ll have your rabbit. And I’ve brought you a few more gifts. If you’re good.”

“Oh, did you?” he asked, trying not to sound as excited as he felt. He had never been the kind of person who was given presents. He always gave. It didn’t matter what Geralt had brought him, the mere thought alone was enough to make him fall in love again for the umpteenth time.

“Hmm. After dinner. You still have that good bottle of wine?”

Jaskier nodded. “Indeed I do. Is this a special occasion?”

Geralt was quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering down to Jaskier’s lips before he leaned in to kiss him. Jaskier moaned a little as Geralt hands moved down to caress his sides, trying to take in every moment and every breath and everything Geralt gave him.

They broke apart once the others could be heard returning, Geralt stroking his cheek.

“Bring the wine,” he murmured against his lips.

Jaskier nodded, squeezing his biceps quickly before they had to separate, pretending to have been putting away supplies the whole time.

Lambert took credit for the successful trade with Eskel and Geralt rolling their eyes at each other, but not denying it. They brought back a store of venison, and Jaskier mentally planned a week’s worth of meals he could prepare with enough left over to strip down for jerky. Geralt made good on his promise to produce a rabbit, and they brought back a whole hog as well. Strips of leather, new linen, some iron ingots. A much-needed new saddle for Roach, and for Eskel and Lambert’s horses also.

Geralt brought him a new wool cloak as well, by far the nicest one he's ever owned. Heavy and warm and mink fur-lined, perfect for a blanket when they're back on the road. Which also meant no more frigid nights in just his flouncy doublets when they camped. It was silver, embroidered with blue thread along the trim, and Jaskier loved it more than any piece of clothing he’d ever owned. Besides the cloak, Jaskier was perhaps most excited to see a bundle of fresh garlic and some well-grown carrots, two crops that hadn’t faired well in their greenhouse garden over the winter. He kissed Lambert on the cheek when he’d bragged about being the one to procure the garlic just to watch his exaggerated show of pushing him off, laughing as he felt Geralt’s arms cocoon him from behind in that mildly possessive way Jaskier would never admit to loving out loud.

Jaskier cooked that night to give the witchers a chance to rest, fixing rabbit with potatoes and seasoned with that lovely, fresh garlic. He’d make sure to fix a double portion of potatoes, a sense of satisfaction warming him as the witchers ate their fill and then some once he’d dished out their food.

Part of him wished he could do this always; remain this way at Kaer Morhen all year round and leave the damned world to fend for itself. But he understood why that could never be. He didn’t want to pay heed to the anxiety that always crept up on him when he thought about having to leave the castle, where he’d gotten so comfortable and had come to feel so welcome, back into the outside world. But if he lingered too long on those thoughts he might break down, so he pushed them away before he could spoil the peaceful moment.

By the time all but kitchen scraps had been consumed and the dishes cleaned, Jaskier was ready to retire to the privacy of their room. As much as he adored Geralt’s family, after a while he craved his witcher’s presence alone. They finished the dishes, and Jaskier kept giving Geralt little glances until he took the hint and made some excuse for them to head upstairs for the evening.

Jaskier let out a breath the moment they had walked far enough away that they were out of sight, squeezing his hand where their fingers were laced together. He had the bottle of wine Geralt requested under the other arm, wondering what he had in store for him once they reached their room.

“I don't think I really got a chance to say ‘thank you’ for the cloak. It's beautiful. I can't believe my days of freezing to death are at an end.”

Geralt hummed, glancing his way.

“I should have gotten you one years ago,” he said, then softer, “I'm sorry.”

Jaskier sighed. Geralt did this too often, punishing himself for the past. He couldn't seem to understand that Jaskier had let go of all that, he couldn't recognize that Geralt's suffering was already the worst thing for him. They'd both been so miserable for so long, he didn't want to be miserable anymore.

“Don't, dear,” he said quietly. “I have it now, that's what matters.”

Geralt’s eyes flickered away momentarily, and Jaskier leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“I love you more than the world,” he said, relishing the way Geralt’s body relaxed a bit as soon as the words left his lips. “There's nothing to be sorry about. I adore the cloak. I adore you. And you've made me tremendously happy. Okay?”

Geralt rumbled a bit. Jaskier's heart dropped for a moment when Geralt released his hand, but lifted again when he slipped his arm around his waist instead, pulling him close. Jaskier leaned into him, and Geralt turned his head to kiss Jaskier’s hairline.

"I have one more surprise for you."

“Is that why you're trying to get me drunk?” Jaskier asked playfully.

“Not drunk. Tipsy, maybe.”

“I'll have a better chance of liking it if I'm a few cups deep, is that it?”

Geralt hummed. “Exactly.”

Jaskier chuckled, nuzzling up against him.

“Don’t be silly. You could give me a hat made out of some old straw from the stable and I’d love it,” he paused. “It isn’t that, right?”

Geralt did not answer, walking firmly ahead with a little mischievous grin over his lips. Jaskier narrowed his eyes, trying to suppress his own smile as they approached their room.

“Geralt…stop. You didn’t actually get me some dreadful garment, did you? Nothing with a buckle, surely. Anything but that.” Geralt remained silent, only chuckling a little when Jaskier slapped his arm playfully. “No, I can’t bear it. If you’re teasing me, I swear I’ll -”

Geralt finally stopped him with his lips, kissing him in front of their door.

“Hush, bard,” he muttered against his lips. “It's nothing that will insult your vanity.”

“Well, that’s good,” he said, his words a bit slurred in between Geralt’s kisses. “I have to look pretty for you.”

“Hmm. No ‘dreadful garment’ could stop you from looking pretty.”

Jaskier smiled wider, closing his eyes as Geralt kissed him deeper, slipping the bottle from his hand almost without him noticing.

He chased Geralt when he pulled back a little, but obeyed when he heard Geralt mutter, “Keep your eyes closed, little sparrow.”

Jaskier bit his bottom lip as he heard Geralt open their door, then listened when he quietly murmured ‘Igni’ under his breath. Just as he was about to ask if Geralt was trying to light their room on fire, Geralt kissed him on the temple quickly before saying, “Open.”

Jaskier did, a gasp quickly escaping his lips as his hands flew up to cover them. Somehow, without his noticing, Geralt had arranged cakes and nuts and dried fruits on the small table by their fireplace. Two glasses sat ready to be filled with wine, and half a dozen candles decorated the room. The entire space was ripened with his favorite scents aside from Geralt’s aroma; cinnamon and roses.

“Oh, Geralt,” breathes. “Darling. When did you…”

Geralt led him deeper inside when Jaskier trailed off like a fool. “While you were cooking dinner.”

Jaskier could barely hear him, pursing his lips against the way they started to tremble, fighting back the tightness in his throat and the tears welling in his eyes. He led Jaskier to the table, sitting him before pouring them both a glass of wine. Geralt thumbed away a tear that slipped out of Jaskier’s eye without a word, pressing his lips against his forehead briefly before sitting down across from him.

“How…how does the room smell like that?” he asked, still a little choked up as he continued to take it all in.

“Incense. I bought enough to take with us. You always say tavern rooms smell like a barn. At least now you won’t have to notice it.”

Jaskier barked out a watery chuckle, swiping his sleeve over his eyes. “I guess all that complaining paid off.”

Geralt tilted his head a little. “You don’t complain.”

Jaskier felt his lips quiver again as he tried to muster what must have been an ugly smile. He looked down at the little pastries on the table, and he realized that Geralt got his favorites; honey spice cakes and sweet buns. His face crumbled and he covered it with his hands.

“You got the cake I like,” he whined, feeling stupid and blissful and so hopelessly in love he could die.

Geralt chuckled in his deep rumble, reaching across the table to gently ease Jaskier’s hands from his face. “It’s alright, beauty.”

Jaskier sniffled, letting out a shaky sign as he uncovered his face and shook his head rapidly. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. This is just…it’s so perfect. No one has ever done anything like this for me.”

Geralt hummed, stroking his fingers over Jaskier’s knuckles where one of his hands came to rest in his. “You like it, then?”

Jaskier scoffed tearfully, sniffling again as he continued to paw at his face with his free hand. “Yes, love. I’d say I like it well enough.”

“Good,” Geralt muttered.

Jaskier let out a breath to try and steady himself, trying to look at Geralt over the mist in his eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were about to propose.”

He laughed, expecting Geralt to laugh along with him. Instead, his witcher just stared, golden eyes softer than Jaskier could ever recall seeing them. Jaskier felt his heart start to pound, his smile slipping away from his face.

“No, Geralt…” he said softly. “That was a stupid thing to say, but please don’t tease me.”

Geralt swallowed, circling the table to go to Jaskier’s side. Once he was close enough he knelt before him, still clasping one of Jaskier’s hands between both of his. He pressed a slow, reverent kiss to his knuckles, as though he were the object of worship. Jaskier’s breath was being squeezed out of his lungs as he watched him, suddenly feeling as though he was levitating out of his chair.

Geralt looked up at him after a moment, his thumb stroking over the top of his hand as he searched Jaskier’s face.

“We can call it whatever you want to call it - a proposal, an agreement, a vow,” he said softly. “I heard somewhere the fae call it ‘Binding.’ Whichever word you like. But I want you to be my…I want you to be mine. Completely. I’ve never gotten a choice in anything except you, and I choose you, always. Destiny, fate, all this horseshit - it doesn’t mean anything. Nothing means anything without you.”

Jaskier could not help the little choked noise that escaped him, the back of his throat and eyes burning furiously.

“Darling…”

Geralt paused briefly, still cradling his palm delicately between his fingers.

“When I said I was in this for good, I meant it. I don’t want you to worry when we leave here that I’m going to wander, or abandon you for something else. I won’t. I can’t. No matter what, I’m yours, little sparrow. Forever, if you let me.”

Geralt took his hands away from Jaskier’s, reaching into his pocket. He took out a little box, and Jaskier had to fight to see it over the tears full to the brim in his gaze. His shoulders shook with suppressed sobs as Geralt gingerly propped it open, revealing a silver and sapphirine band atop a tiny velvet cushion.

“Julian,” Geralt muttered, his voice dripping with affection. “My heart …”

He did not even need to finish as Jaskier hurled himself into his hold, wrapping his arms around his waist. Geralt grunted in surprise but did not hesitate to cocoon Jaskier tightly in his lap where they had come to tangle together on the floor. Jaskier pressed his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck and wept, salty rivers flowing freely. He was half-laughing and half-sobbing and all but choking on his own overwhelming joy.

Geralt petted over his back and trembling shoulders. “Happy tears, I hope?”

Jaskier's breath hitched and he nodded. He coughed out something resembling a chuckle, gathering up some of Geralt’s shirt in his fist.

“Yes,” he gasped out. “Happy. So happy I can’t even…you don’t know what this means to me. You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted this. This is everything. I - gods, thank you, thank you, thank you -”

Jaskier lost his words as the rivulets of overcome tears drowned out his voice, curling up tighter in his arms. He tried to focus on Geralt as he hushed him soothingly and cradled the back of his head.

“Be calm, sweet one. I have you.”

Jaskier forced himself to settle, but it was difficult after finally receiving something he'd always wanted but had long since given up on. It meant just as much as it had the first time Geralt said he loved him back, but this was different. There was so much thoughtfulness, so much assurance in a commitment like the one Geralt was offering. Jaskier had been presented with a future that crushed all the worries that had been circling his head like vultures for the past two months.

He felt foolish and a bit embarrassed for reacting so strongly, still, it wasn't the first time he’d dissolved in Geralt’s arms that winter. He was just grateful Geralt let him do it in private. He could never imagine anyone else seeing him like this; exposed and damp and humiliatingly vulnerable.

He was surprised he'd been completely reduced to a puddle over this gesture, but part of him felt the way he used to after waking up from a nightmare as a child - so drenched with gratitude over all that misery being just a dream that he couldn't seem to do anything but wait in the dark for morning to come.

Morning had come. Finally, for him and for that little boy who wished so badly for someone to want to take care of him.

He’d never expected this so soon, or at all, from Geralt. But as much as the back of his mind wanted to question it, or himself, or the situation, he needed this. It mended something deep in his soul; to know that he was wanted. Permanently. Publicly. Because once Geralt made a promise, he didn't break it.

Geralt’s hand still stroked Jaskier's back slowly, holding him against his neck until he'd quieted down and was reduced to quiet sniffling. Jaskier waited until he had regained the ability to speak before coming up and pulling back, his breath still trembling. Geralt carefully dried Jaskier’s face and eyes with his shirt sleeve, dabbing away the last of the fat droplets rolling down his cheeks while Jaskier gathered himself.

“Alright?” Geralt asked, gently swiping his thumbs over his cheeks after he'd finished drying them.

Jaskier nodded, smiling shakily. An ache coursed through him as he took in Geralt's tender, open expression. It almost hurt, feeling like that. Loving so much and so completely. And he realized, in that moment, that this was the thing he was made for. This was what his heart was meant to do. This was his reason.

“You are my hero,” he finally managed to say, his voice thick. “You are my muse, my best friend, and you are the love of my life. I’ve belonged to you since the first moment I saw you. As long as I’m anything in this world, I’m yours. Even after the breath leaves my body. I worship you, Geralt. And if you don’t put that ring on my finger right now, I will never forgive you.”

Geralt barked out a laugh that told Jaskier he was just as emotional as he was, slipping the ring from the cushion. Jaskier’s bottom lip quivered as he watched Geralt slip the band over his finger. He shook his head a little in disbelief. Disbelief that this was his life, that this was happening to him. He’d yearned to be the kind of person that got loved back. He could hardly comprehend that he finally was.

“It’s perfect,” he said gently, his voice breaking. “I’m quite literally never taking it off.”

Geralt grinned wider, looking younger than Jaskier could ever recall seeing him. “Is that a ‘yes’ then?”

Jaskier wasn’t even sure what he was agreeing to, he only knew that he was willing. More than willing. Whatever this was, whatever it meant, it would all happen at Geralt’s side. He’d never wanted anything so badly in his life.

Jaskier scoffed and laughed at the same time, savoring the coolness of the silver ring on his finger. “As if I’d ever say ‘no’ to you. Of course, wolf. Yes, yes, yes…”

Geralt kissed him before he could say anything more, hungry and desperate and teeth gnashing against teeth. It felt like Geralt was trying to fuse them together, pull Jaskier inside himself until they were one person. They only broke apart when they needed to gasp for air, knocking their foreheads together as they caught their breath before Geralt pulled him back into his arms, Jaskier’s face buried in his silver hair. And then they just held each other, so tight it almost hurt his ribs.

After a while, Jaskier’s legs started to go numb where they were tangled together on the floor. Geralt kissed him again before they shifted back onto their chairs at the table. The tears Jaskier shed had long since dried and his intense emotional surge had passed a bit, leaving him more giddy and hyper and elated than anything else. His mouth was going a mile a minute, about the ring he wanted to get made for Geralt and yes he hated weddings but no he wouldn't be opposed to a little honeymoon down at the coast and gods he couldn't wait to brag to Valdo Marx…

He was babbling, but he didn't know how to stop. Geralt would have had every right to ask him to please give them both a moment of peace, but instead he listened to Jaskier’s euphoric rambles with great patience, a little grin at the corner of his lips.

It was only after he had devoured nearly all of the cakes and most of the wine entirely by himself that he realized he had gotten a bit drunk and bloated when he should have given Geralt the best night of his earthly existence in bed. But by the time he made it to their mattress, it was with Geralt’s assistance.

He let out a groan as Geralt lowered him onto the sheets, holding his head in his hands. The room had started to spin a tad and he closed his still-red-rimmed eyes, sighing.

“Oh, darling. I'm terribly sorry about this,” he slurred. “I cannot believe I'm allowing you to go to bed entirely un-ravished when you've just given me the best night of my life.”

Geralt chuckled. Jaskier pried his eyes open against the too-bright light of one of the overzealous candles, framing Geralt so he looked like the sun.

“Who says this hasn't been the best night of my life, too?” he asked in his deep rumble.

Jaskier's breath caught, but wasn't sure his sore eyes could even produce any more tears and he didn't want to cry again, so he forced back the lump that suddenly rose in his throat.

“If you don't kiss me this second, I'll die.”

Geralt huffed out another laugh, leaning in close. “Can't have that.”

The kiss was gentle, even a bit chaste. The almost frantic passion that had inflamed their lips before had melted away into something sweeter. But Jaskier also appreciated Geralt clearly understanding that he couldn't give much more with an (almost) full bottle of wine sloshing around in his belly.

Still, he moaned a little in displeasure when Geralt pulled away.

“Hush, bard,” Geralt grunted, blowing out the candles. “I'm sure you'll ravish me in the morning.”

Jaskier hummed, already growing too tired to respond as Geralt spooned him from behind once he'd covered them both with the furs. He pulled Geralt's arms tighter around him, snuggling down into the warm sheets and his witcher. Geralt hummed contentedly, kissing Jaskier a few times behind the ear.

“We never did decide on a term, and I know the word ‘lovers’ makes you vomit in your mouth,” he said, his voice growing husky with impending sleep. “Am I allowed to call you ‘husband’ or is that laying it on a bit thick?”

Jaskier felt Geralt huff out a chuckle through his nose, his warm breath tickling the back of his neck. “You can call me whatever you’d like.”

Jaskier was quiet for a moment, tracing over Geralt’s massive palms and battle-hardened fingers. Husband. Lover. Partner. Companion. His wolf. His other half. His soul. Using only one term to describe Geralt’s place in his life felt like a fool’s errand. He was all of that, so much so that sometimes Jaskier felt his heart would implode for carrying too much love for him. He chuckled a little at the sheer overwhelming weight of it.

“I don’t want to fall asleep,” he whispered to Geralt in the dark. “This feels too much like a dream to be real.”

“It’s real. I promise.”

“Well, that’s good. Otherwise, I think you’ll be picking the pieces of my heart off the ground tomorrow morning.”

Geralt rumbled again, pulling Jaskier flush against him. “No more heartbreak for you, sparrow.”

Jaskier’s throat tightened a little, and he went quiet to avoid putting Geralt through a second emotional surge in one evening. He twisted behind him to plant a kiss on Geralt’s cheek instead, finding him even in the shadows. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else, so he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to creep up on him. Tomorrow morning, he would still be Geralt’s. He could hardly imagine a better reason to wake up. ______________________________________________________________________________

For the next week, Jaskier started to seriously prepare to leave Kaer Morhen for the first time that winter. The vague feeling of dread at having to set back out on the Path that had been plaguing him seemed to evaporate almost the moment Geralt slipped that ring around his finger. He’d re-discovered a confidence in himself he thought he’d lost that day of The Mountian. Colors seemed brighter, food tasted better. Even listening to the songbirds slowly returning after the winter made his fingers itch for his lute as they hadn’t in months.

For the first couple of days, he’d found it almost impossible to keep an idiotic grin off his lips; even while he was mending clothes or cooking.

He settled down into a more manageable feeling of contentment and peace after the initial exhilaration calmed a bit, but he still found himself fiddling with the ring on his finger almost constantly - nearly intoxicated by the way it caught the light when the sun hit the sapphire a certain way.

Two weeks prior to the date Geralt had selected for them to leave and almost all of the necessary preparations had been made. Jaskier had finished mending their clothes for another long season of travel, they’d stripped down leftover meat for previsions, Roach had been properly rested. Now, all that was left was to wait for the last blanket of snow to melt. ______________________________________________________________________________

It was early morning when Jaskier stirred from his deep sleep curled up in Geralt’s arms. He blinked, unsure what woke him until he realized that Geralt was awake too and staring out their window. His brow furrowed and he pulled back a bit, trying to shake off the fog.

“Darling?” he asked, his voice rough from sleep.

Geralt pulled him closer, hushing him softly.

“Quiet, sparrow.”

Jaskier obeyed, his body tensing up a bit as he tried to hear whatever Geralt was listening for. He was focused in a way that made Jaskier nervous - with the same glint in his eyes he got right before a hunt.

After another endless moment of silence, Jaskier heard it. Something between a bellow and a shriek. A howl, almost, that sent shivers down his spine immediately. Geralt must have been able to tell because he began to card his fingers through Jaskier’s hair slowly, rumbling so Jaskier could feel it in his bones.

“What was that?”

Geralt thought for a moment, then replied, “Sounds like an archgriffin.”

Jaskier stomach sank. “Are you sure?”

“No. But I’ve never heard anything else that screams the way they do.”

He looked up at Geralt’s eyes - still locked on their tiny bedroom window.

It hadn’t gone well that last time Geralt faced an archgriffin. The damn thing had spit mouthfuls of acid powerful enough to burn through his leather and caused him agony for days. Jaskier could still remember the smell of Geralt’s charred flesh, the way his shirt fused to his skin so it had to be peeled off. It had been torture to watch him go through that back then, Jaskier could hardly imagine it happening now.

“But when it’s way off in the middle of some tundra, what does it matter? It isn’t hurting anyone.”

“If it wanders into any of the mountain towns, those people are done for.”

“You don’t even have a contract for it,” Jaskier said, hating that he was arguing about this. He knew Geralt was right, even though it made him sick to his stomach. “Last time you fought one it was awful.”

“I was alone then. Lambert or Eskel will help this time.”

“When did you decide that, exactly?” Jaskier countered, fighting to swallow back the tightness in his throat. “You don’t even know where it is.”

“We can track it. They’ll help if I ask them to.”

Jaskier was quiet then, half of his brain still trying to come up with some excuse for Geralt not to leave and the other half proud beyond measure at his bravery and strength. He pursed his lips, burrowing down into his chest.

“Geralt…” he whined.

He felt him duck to press a slow kiss to Jaskier’s forehead, petting down his back. “Easy, sweet one. It’s alright.”

“You thought it would be alright the last time, too,” he said, the desperation starting to bleed through in his voice.

Geralt was quiet for a moment. “If Lambert and Eskel won’t help, I’ll leave it alone. I promise.”

That did reassure him a little. The chances of Geralt not coming back were greatly reduced with the two of them by his side. It was certainly not ideal, but it soothed him to know that Geralt wouldn’t face that beast on his own if it came down to it.

“You have to come back to me,” he nearly whispered. “You have to. You can’t promise me what you’ve promised and then leave. There’s no way I’d survive losing you now.”

He went silent again, and Jaskier leaned back a bit in the circle of his arms. He needed Geralt to look him in his face; he needed to know that Geralt comprehended what he was saying.

“Hey,” he said again, forcing him out of the slight trance he’d appeared to fall into. “I mean it. Swear you’ll come back.”

“Sparrow,” he sighed, a heaviness in his voice that nearly made Jaskier dissolve. “You know the risks. Anytime I go on a hunt, there’s always a chance that -”

Jaskier pulled back fully before he could finish, trying to find his breath again. Geralt caught him, keeping him from getting out of bed with his arms locked around Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier didn't put up any fight as Geralt pulled him flush against his chest again, cloaking him with his body.

“No, no, no. Come here,” he rumbled softly. “Don't upset yourself.”

Jaskier couldn't look back at him, but he still allowed Geralt to resettle them on the bed. He pursed his lips and tried to push down the sour feeling in his stomach, the edge of dread. Part of him wondered if it was his intuition and part of him wondered if his lovesick mind was making him unreasonable. He knew he couldn't act like this every time Geralt had to go to what was basically his job. He'd understood what he was getting into when he chose this life with him. But he also hated whenever Geralt put himself in harm's way, no matter the context.

They were quiet for a bit, Jaskier careful to keep his breathing under control as Geralt stroked a palm over his stomach soothingly.

Finally, Geralt said, “I've fought them before, Jask. I won’t be alone.”

He paused, and Jaskier knew he was waiting for him to reply. He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You're going no matter what I say, so what does it matter?”

Geralt sighed, his breath warm against the back of Jaskier’s neck. “Sparrow…”

“Don't, Geralt,” he interrupted. “I'm too tired to keep talking about this.”

And he did go quiet, sighing again before pressing a slow kiss against the back of his head. Jaskier's eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

“I love you,” he said, because no matter his displeasure at the situation, he never wanted Geralt to forget that.

Geralt rumbled, nuzzling his neck. “I love you, too, beauty. I'll come back to you.”

Jaskier couldn't help but press back against him, running his thumb over Geralt’s knuckles and trying not to think about the multitudes of things that could go wrong. He wanted to block out anything that wasn't Geralt’s smell and the feeling of his warmth under the furs. ______________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier felt queasy when Geralt broached the idea of tracking that shrieking breast for the first time to his brothers. Three nights had passed since the first time they'd heard the screams and every time, they'd seemed to get closer. But he was comforted when he saw how calm Eskel and Lambert were at the prospect of hunting it. They all appeared so confident. He could see for the first time that they truly had been brought up like soldiers.

On the fourth night, Jaskier could feel something coming to a head. It was an aching kind of dread that had been building since they'd heard the howling earlier that week. The air was sharp in the keep, everyone on edge and the witchers clearly posed for a fight.

Jaskier was writing when it happened, scribbling away in his notebook to keep his mind occupied while Geralt practiced in the yard with his brothers. But it didn't feel like the typical practice he was used to seeing. It felt like training; like they were getting ready for something.

Dust was just about to fall when he heard it - a shout. A cry; far more human than the screeching of the archgriffin he'd become strangely accustomed to in the past few days. The sound had sent shivers over his flesh and he'd dropped his pen without thinking, not caring about the ink splatter it left behind as he scrambled out of their room where he'd been writing. He darted downstairs, closer to the origin of the sound. It was then that he heard the cacophony of voices overlapping - frantic, loud, and filling the castle walls.

The others, including Geralt, had gathered by the main doors. He realized that a woman was standing at the entrance to the castle - visibly distressed and in tatters. Her eyes were haunted and wide, her clothes stained with what appeared to be blood as he got closer. A pit hardened in his stomach, his fingers going cold.

“ - anything. Anything we have, you can take as payment. A whole store of steel - all the furs you can carry. I - I have a gold pendant passed down by my grandmother. What you want, it's yours if you help us. Please, sirs. I beg you -”

“That isn't necessary,” he heard Geralt interrupt. “When did it last attack?”

“Last night,” she replied. “It took my husband the week before, and it came for both of my boys while my back was turned. All our best fighters, my sister's baby - sometimes it leaves the bodies behind. It kills to kill, and we can't even make it down the mountain pass to escape. If you would clear the way for us, my people would sing your praises until our voices cease.”

Jaskier could feel the weight of impending doom creeping up on him with the understanding of what was about to happen. He released a breath, his body suddenly much heavier than he remembered it being.

It was then, perhaps at the worst possible moment, that Geralt apparently sensed his presence and turned around to face him. Some part of Jaskier wanted to be angry, to show some fiery disapproval or turn away from him. But he couldn't manage it, not after Geralt looked at him like that - guilty and noble and so fucking brave.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he could hear Lambert and Eskel continue to interrogate her for details about the attack. But he only saw Geralt as he approached him, his throat already tightening as he cupped Jaskier’s cheek gingerly.

“Sparrow, I -”

Jaskier shook his head sharply before he could finish.

“I know you're going after it,” he managed to choke out.

Geralt leaned in before he could finish, pressing their foreheads together as Jaskier lost the air in his lungs.

“It's just another hunt. I'll be back before you know I'm gone.”

Jaskier's eyes flickered away from his. “Right. Sounds lovely.”

He returned the kiss Geralt pressed to his lips with as much distance as he could manage, because anything else would have shown how frightened he was. He pulled back, tightening his arms around his middle while he stepped back.

“Go on, then. Don't let me stop you.”

“Jaskier…”

But he was already heading back upstairs, a massive part of himself fighting to urge to beg Geralt to let this one go. But there was another part of himself who felt foolish, because this is what he signed up for and Geralt was not a damned child. He knew what he was doing. Still, he found the terrified side winning, his feet carrying him up to the second floor with the best view of the main gate.

It was only when he watched three of them riding away into the dusk, fully armored and stirring their horses into a gallop, that he realized how he'd acted toward Geralt for doing what he had to do. He hadn't even said he loved him before he left. Suddenly, his entire body wanted to leap from that window and fly after him, to kiss him until he couldn't breathe and tell him how proud he was, that he understood why he had to do this. At the very least, he could have injected him with some confidence before he had to fight that beast instead of making him feel guilty for saving innocent lives. But before he could even shout after him, the three of them disappeared into the vast forest surrounding Kaer Morhen. ______________________________________________________________________________

He spent the first few hours pacing, the next few wandering the castle like a restless spirit. Being around Vesemir didn't help. He seemed just as on edge as he was, which was anything but normal for the older witcher. He couldn't even focus on his lute or chores to try and occupy his mind. All he could think about was the icy way he'd returned Geralt’s kiss, the fucking arrogance he'd shown. Gods, what was wrong with him?

But the time night came, he could tell both himself and Vesemir could feel the weight of a full day without the trio, endless possibilities of what might be happening - or what might have already happened - haunting the silence between them.

Jaskier had decided to try and lie down for a while, hoping to pass some of the time with sleep. But he found himself staring up at the ceiling instead, the weight of Geralt’s absence heavy in their bed.

Then, in the middle of the night, he could hear a distant sound - some commotion outside. Voices, loud voices. Lambert, Eskel.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he bolted out of bed. He didn't even stop to look out the window, some distracted part of himself managing to get down the stairs and head towards the main gates where he always met Geralt once he’d returned from a trip.

But the closer he got, the more panic he could hear.

He rounded the corner to where he hoped they were. But when he finally saw them, his heart all but burst out of his chest.

Blood. So, so much blood. Everywhere, on the ground and on Lambert and Eskel and Vesemir and -

Geralt.

“No,” he moaned, the weight of grief already weighing down his voice. “No, no no.”

Somehow, he managed to approach Geralt where he was lying on the castle floor before collapsing onto his knees beside him. Already, there was a pool of crimson gathering under him from the vicious gash Jaskier immediately saw in his stomach. It was bad, it was beyond bad, but Geralt was still awake as Jaskier reached out to cup his face in his trembling hands. He felt something within himself shatter as Geralt tried to affix his blurry gaze on his face.

Jaskier could see his strength fading, but Geralt still managed to slur out, “Jask.”

“Shh, don't talk,” Jaskier tried to gasp, his voice shaking badly. “Save your strength. You're going to be fine.”

He looked up at the others, the anguish of what was happening already cast on their faces.

“Damned fool,” Lambert growled. “That fucking beast was coming for me and he - damned fool doesn't listen.”

“Has he taken a bottle of Kiss, or Swallow?” Vesemir asked, clearly trying to keep calm.

Lambert and Eskel glanced at each other, something like guilt on their faces as Eskel sighed heavily.

“Both of us had gotten hurt, Geralt made us take a bottle and the archgriffin smashed the potion bag before it got him.”

It was only when he saw Vesemir’s face fall that a sound of misery crawled out of his lips before he could stop it. He was furious and proud and why did this have to happen? Why couldn't he have kept a bottle under his armor? How had he been so careless and so selfless at the same time?

He looked back down at Geralt through the haze of tears that started to gather in his eyes. He tried blinking them away so he could at least see Geralt clearly while he died. He felt Geralt wrap one of his palms around his wrist, already getting weaker even though Jaskier could see how hard he was fighting.

“I'm sorry, sparrow,” he whispered.

He let out a sob as he tried to kiss him with his trembling lips, resting his forehead against Geralt's.

“Please don't leave me,” he managed to whimper. Perhaps he should have permitted him; told him it was alright to go. But he couldn’t. Gods forgive him, but he just couldn’t.

“Don't…want to…”

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on Geralt, on being with him while this happened.

“Please,” he begged, not even sure who he was pleading to. “Please, please, please.”

That one moment seemed to stretch out into eternity as everything went still around them. Nothing existed beyond the place where their foreheads met.

Suddenly, a vicious stinging in his arm jolted him awake again. He saw a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, some heat. But it took him a moment before he could bring himself to pull back just a little. He was still shaking furiously as he took in the confusion all at once present on the others’ faces.

“I'll be damned,” Lambert muttered, his gaze locked on Geralt's wound. “Ves…”

Vesemir shifted a bit, his eyes still wild with fear as he lifted Geralt's shirt to examine the injury on his stomach. He paused, hesitating as Jaskier managed to move away from Geralt a bit as something like hope stirred in his chest. The burning sensation in his arms was forgotten when he got a look at the damage again.

It was better - more than that, it almost appeared to be healing as he watched. The torso-wide cut was quite literally fusing back together, not even leaving a scar behind. The four of them were frozen, obvious shock taking the place of the soul-crushing impending grief they had all been about to share. They were all broken out of their trance when Geralt took in a massive breath where he still lay on the ground. Jaskier turned back to his wolf, his whole being flushing with debilitating relief when he saw how much color had returned to his face. His golden eyes regained some of their focus. He choked out something between a laugh and a cry as he scrambled back over to him, trying not to hyperventilate as Geralt reached up to thumb away tears he hadn't realized he'd shed.

“Geralt? Love,” He breathed. “Gods - are you - are you alright?”

Geralt blinked slowly before letting out a low rumble.

“I'm fine, sparrow.”

He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling too weak to do anything but drop his head on Geralt chest. He felt his hand come up to stroke his hair, and he had to resist the urge to bawl his eyes out on the castle floor.

“How did…” Lambert began. “I don't understand.”

“We'll figure it out later. We should take him to his room, get him in bed.” he heard Vesemir reply, his voice steadier than theirs.

Jaskier curled his fist into Geralt’s shirt for just a moment, gathering himself enough to lift his head off his chest as Lambert and Eskel got ready to move him, each of them holding Geralt up on either side. The wound was vastly improved, but he'd still lost a stomach-churning amount of blood. A few minutes more, and he would have doubtlessly bled to death.

He felt hollowed out by the time his brothers managed to deposit Geralt in bed, too distracted with helping them to focus his mind on understanding what had just happened.

They cleaned themselves up after Vesemir made sure what was left of the injury was properly bandaged and protected from infection. The frantic energy of the situation had faded into an exhausted calm, and he knew he must have looked as shattered as the rest of them did.

Eskel was the first to retreat to his room once it was clear the danger had passed. Lambert went next, giving Jaskier's shoulder a tight squeeze before he exited the room. They still hadn't worked out what had occurred, but everyone was too weary to even bring it up. Without discussing it, they knew that was a matter for the morning.

He was stroking his hand over Geralt's scalp, perched on a chair by his bedside as Vesemir finished packing up the medical supplies he'd been using.

“Lad,” he heard Vesemir say.

It was difficult to tear his eyes away from Geralt, but he managed to look up the elder witcher's sympathetic face.

“Would you rather I stay with him? You look like you could use the rest.”

Jaskier shook his head immediately. “I can't leave him.”

Vesemir nodded, seeming to understand as he handed Jaskier a couple of tinctures.

“Make sure he takes both in the morning. They’ll accelerate the healing process. Probably not necessary now, but better to be safe.”

Jaskier accepted them gladly, beyond grateful for anything that might help him. “Thank you.”

He nodded again, glancing down at Geralt. For a moment, he didn't look like the hardened, wise warrior Jaskier was accustomed to. He just looked like a father who had nearly lost his boy. Jaskier had to look away before he broke.

“Get some sleep if you can, lad,” Vesemir finally spoke into the silence. “He'll be alright.”

Jaskier jerked his head in agreement, not able to manage anything else as Vesemir reached out to grip Geralt’s hand briefly before turning to make his way out of the room.

They were silent for a few minutes once they were alone, Jaskier's hand tangled in his hair as he watched him breathe. Part of him was still livid with Geralt for making him go through this, but he was too worn out from heartache to feel anything but gratitude that he was still there. And anyway, now was not the time to scold Geralt for his recklessness. Not when he was still weakened from blood loss, clearly fighting against letting himself go to sleep. He tried to muster something like a smile, letting out a shaky breath.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice rusty. “Any pain?”

He let out a grunt, shaking his head a bit on the pillow. “No pain, my heart.”

Jaskier tried to nod, swallowing the rock-hard lump in his throat. “Okay.”

Geralt was still for a moment before lifting his arm a bit to beckon Jaskier to get into bed with him. Jaskier's whole body ached with the desire to obey, but he hesitated.

“Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you if -”

“Come here, Jask,” he interrupted gently.

Jaskier sniffled, considering for just another second or so before he gave in. He crawled onto the mattress beside him, curling carefully into his side. He waited until Geralt had resettled himself comfortably before resting his head on his chest.

“Is this okay?”

Geralt hummed in confirmation, nuzzling the top of his head fondly. Jaskier felt himself truly relax for the first time that night, sinking into him. His eyelids suddenly felt full of steel as he allowed them to flutter closed. He didn't want to question what had happened, he didn't want to think about it or consider possibilities. He just wanted to be with Geralt, to feel the subtle movements of his breathing and fill his senses with his scent. He wanted to surround himself until there was nothing but Geralt as he allowed sleep to creep up on him. ______________________________________________________________________________

The sun woke Geralt the next morning, gold warmth against his eyelids before they pried open. He looked down at Jaskier, still enveloped against his side. But he couldn't feel the aftermath of the archgriffin's talons against his stomach, which confounded him immediately.

He’d known how severe the injury was the moment it happened, and the way his brothers had eyed him after they'd gotten a look at the injury had only confirmed it. He'd never been afraid of dying before, but gods, he had been desperate not to yesterday. All he'd been able to focus on was the begging look in Jaskier’s eyes as he asked him not to leave, the smell of desperation and grief and love so powerful it could have knocked him out. Knowing that he had nearly left him heartbroken and alone in this ugly world after Jaskier had been against the hunt in the first place was unbearable. If he could have turned back time, he'd have done it in an instant.

He still had no idea what had happened, how the wound had closed like it had, and how he wasn't a rotting corpse that morning instead of in bed with the love of his life.

What the fuck?

Geralt swallowed the wad of sand in this throat as he fixed his gaze firmly on Jaskier again, starting to turn fitfully in his sleep. Geralt realized he was probably having some kind of nightmare, and he knew it was best to wake him up - even if he liked to see him resting.

He sighed, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Jask? Wake up, beauty.”

It took a few extra moments, but he finally roused from his uneasy slumber. He blinked a few times, and Geralt's heart clenched as their eyes met - Jaskier clearly reorienting himself. After another few moments, the memory of last night seemed to sink in and he bolted upright in bed.

He scrambled to lift his shirt, checking under the snow-white bandages around his torso. Geralt watched him hold his breath for a moment as he finally managed to reveal and survey the place where his flesh had been rendered so brutally yesterday, now not even bearing a scar.

Jaskier’s entire body seemed to deflate the moment he saw there was no evidence of a wound there, his face crumpled and eyes welling up. Geralt’s stomach lurched and he reached out for Jaskier just in time for his bard to fling himself into his arms, grasping onto Geralt as though he was about to evaporate and burying his face into his shoulder.

“Sparrow…” he began, not knowing what else to say.

Jaskier let out a choked noise, gathering up fistfuls of his shirt. He felt the fabric dampen under Jaskier’s eyes.

“Bastard,” he ground out. “You reckless, careless bastard. Do you have any idea what you put me through last night?”

Geralt’s gut curdled with guilt. “I know. I'm sorry, Jask.”

“You damn well should be. What were you thinking? You knew how I felt and you didn't think to keep an extra bottle of Kiss with you? Especially if you were going to insist on becoming a martyr and letting yourself bleed out in my fucking arms, you son of a -”

Jaskier’s breath caught and he lost his words, muffling a barely swallowed-back sob into his shoulder. Geralt clutched him tighter.

“You’re right,” he said, trying not to upset him any more than he already was. “I should've been more careful. Keeping the potions in one bag instead of dividing them between us was a mistake. And the three of us should have communicated better, gotten organized. We left in a rush and we paid for it. It was foolish, Jask, I won't let it happen again.”

Jaskier sniffled, going quiet. Geralt waited for him to catch his breath, stroking his thumb over the nape of his neck.

“What happened?” Jaskier eventually croaked. “How did you heal so fast?”

The anger in his voice had melted away, and he suddenly sounded so small and frightened.

“I don't know,” he admitted. “All I remember is looking at you, and then the pain stopped. Everything else is hazy.”

He trailed off, still trying to work it out in his own head. Jaskier eventually pulled back a bit. Geralt's chest ached as he thumbed away the last of the tears on his cheeks.

“Did you see anything?” he asked, trying to give Jaskier something to focus on. “ Or feel anything?”

Jaskier blinked, letting out a trembling breath and running his fingers through his hair. He considered for a moment before replying, “There was a heat, and…and my arm started to burn…”

Geralt's ears pricked up and his brow furrowed. Concern began to bloom in his stomach as reached out to him.

“Let me see.”

Jaskier obeyed, scooting closer to him again. He yelped a bit when Geralt gingerly put his hands on his arm, surprising them both.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Only when you touch it.”

Geralt's brow furrowed deeper as he gently began to peel his sleeve back. But he froze after the first bit of flesh was revealed, a spike of panic coursing through when he saw some kind of dark streak, just starting to become visible. He rolled back the fabric fully.

Between his wrist and his elbow, there was a mark. Not just a mark; a tattoo. Delicate, intricately woven lines tangled together to form some kind of symbol from a language he didn't understand. The marks were a little red as though they had been newly drawn, clearly visible against his soft skin.

He stared for a few moments more before looking up at Jaskier. When he saw that he looked as baffled and shocked as he felt, he set his jaw firmly.

“We need to speak with Ves.” ______________________________________________________________________________

Geralt clasped Jaskier’s hand tightly in his own, stroking over his knuckles. He wasn't sure if he was trying to keep Jaskier calm or himself, trying not to show that he was worried.

He was perched next to Jaskier on the sofa in Vesemir's room, watching as the elder witcher wordlessly and carefully examined the strange mark on Jaskier's arm. They had just finished explaining what had happened, and Geralt was trying not to rush him despite how impatient he was for an answer.

Finally, Vesemir grunted and nodded to Jaskier, pulling his shirt sleeve back down. He stood and crossed the room, sighing to himself as he poured a cup of water.

“Well?” Geralt said, unable to wait any longer. “Do you know what it is?”

“Aye,” he said. “The lad has gotten himself a Soul Mark.”

“A what?” Jaskier asked before he had the opportunity.

“A Soul Mark,” Vesemir repeated. “It's rare to see these days, but some ancient fae bloodlines still carry the ability to obtain one.”

“Ancient bloodlines? I mean, I know about the whole ‘slowed aging’ thing, but besides that I've never…I didn’t even know I wasn't fully human until a few years ago.”

Vesemir paused, thinking for a moment as he took a sip of water. “Blood runs deep, and fae mate for life. If they are rejected, they aren't long for this world. But once they select a partner, the connection is physical as well as mental. They go through a Binding Ceremony, and after, they receive their Soul Mark. It tethers them, heightens awareness of the other's emotions, allows healing properties to be shared between them. And…it ensures that once one of them dies, the other will…”

The silence that Vesemir allowed to descend made his blood freeze in his veins, the reality of what he was implying sinking in. The ground under him was made of sand. After an endless moment, he felt Jaskier take in a long, steady breath beside him.

“Well,” he said calmly. “That's good to know, I suppose.”

“‘Good to know'?” he growled, unable to look Jaskier in the eye. “How do we get rid of it?”

Vesemir shook his head. “You can't. Love isn't just an emotion for the fae or those who carry the blood. It's more primal than that, it's bone-deep. It was Jaskier who healed you, and you're only alive because the lad’s instincts kicked in. The bond has been made.”

“There has to be a way.”

“Geralt…” Jaskier muttered quietly beside him.

“Should I repeat myself into your good ear, boy? What’s done is done.”

Jaskier's hand suddenly stung to hold, and Geralt stood up and stalked out of the room before he could break something.

This was the very thing he’d been afraid of. This was what he'd been trying to avoid. He'd managed to do to Jaskier what he did to everything else; drag him down into his world of violence and death. The idea that he would be the one responsible for stripping this world of a blessing like Jaskier made him sick, and the dangerous nature of Geralt’s bloody profession all at once seemed insurmountable. He quite literally couldn't allow himself to die in a job that almost guaranteed it at some point.

He stepped out onto one of the balconies, trying to get some air after feeling as though he was about to suffocate. He gripped the stone railing, closing his eyes.

He was only out there for another minute or two before he heard a soft sigh behind him.

“Are you busy sulking or can we talk about this?” Jaskier asked, having entered the balcony without him noticing.

Geralt didn't answer, still too furious about the situation to respond.

“You heard Vesemir, love. It is what it is. And I don't regret it, if that's what you're worried about. If this…thing on my arm saved you yesterday, it was well worth it.”

Geralt scoffed bitterly. “If I die, it'll kill you.”

Jaskier was quiet for a long moment, but Geralt still couldn't bring himself to face him.

“Darling,” Jaskier finally cooed. “There was never an ‘after’ after you anyway. Not really. Not for me. I…I don't mind knowing I won't have to live without you. That's probably a little sick, but I won't pretend. Especially after yesterday - I can't do that again. I've always understood the risk of this life, Geralt. It's alright.”

Geralt shook his head slowly, still trying to work through what this meant for Jaskier. Part of him had always taken comfort in knowing that Jaskier could have moved on if he ever decided he wanted something new. He never wanted him to feel trapped, and now he was in every possible way.

“At least talk to me,” Jaskier pleaded, frustration rising in his tone. “You're making me feel like I did something wrong.”

He felt himself soften.

“You've done nothing, Jaskier,” he grunted.

“Exactly! This is something that's happened to me, and I'm telling you I don't mind.”

“But one day you might. If you ever want something different -”

“Never.”

“Jask…”

“Never, Geralt. I'm not a child. I know my own mind. I know my own heart, and I've known who it belongs to since Posada. If you have some grand notions about the fabulous life I'd lead once you finally succeed in getting yourself killed, you can throw those away right now. If I'd lost you yesterday, the only future your ‘sparrow’ would have had is a final flight from the tallest tower in the castle.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt snapped, the thought alone making his skin crawl.

“What?” he snapped back. “Would you rather I lie? I know how much you love not valuing your life, but it's everything to me. You're everything to me, and I can't - I just can't -”

He cut off with a shaky sigh, and the ache to comfort him took over. He finally turned around, looking Jaskier in the eye. He looked surprisingly steady after finding out what he'd just found out.

“I value my life, Jaskier.”

“Forgive me if I disagree after watching you be irresponsible with it for two decades. I know your pain, Geralt, even if you think I don't. But - damn it, you have responsibilities now. To Ciri, to Yen. And to me, you ox. We rely on you. We need you. I need you. So yes, now you have to not be the death-seeking loner you pretend you are. Just stay alive, and everything will be fine. Alright?”

He was silent, his words slowly hitting him.

He was right, of course he was. He was always right. There was something difficult about admitting that he had treated himself and his life haphazardly. But he had a family, a child even. He had Jaskier; one of the rarest creatures the dirty world had ever forged. And Jaskier had made the stakes clear to him from the beginning. In some ways, it was easier to just imagine all the ways he might move on rather than really accept the sheer power he held over his heart, and how devastating it would be if he ever abused that power again.

He cut his eyes away, any anger he felt swiftly disappearing.

He heard Jaskier let out a long sigh before saying quietly, “Do you want to be alone for a while? I can give you some space.”

Geralt melted, pursing his lips. He beckoned his bard to him, holding open his arms for Jaskier to step into. He rushed over to him without hesitation, a look of relief on his face as Geralt wrapped him firmly in his hold and kissed his temple.

His sense of calm enveloped him almost immediately once he had Jaskier back in his arms, every overwhelming problem melting away as he nuzzled up against his neck.

Geralt held him tighter than usual. But when he realized how hard he was squeezing and tried to loosen his grip a bit, Jaskier only clasped him harder.

He was shivering, just a little.

“Are you cold?” Geralt asked stupidly, just now realizing that he had him outside without a cloak.

Jaskier shook his head quickly, burrowing deeper into him. “No. I'm fine.”

Geralt cocked his brow even though Jaskier couldn't see it. He knew he was lying, but he was also not eager to allow any space between them.

He allowed them to soak up comfort from the embrace for a while longer before he could feel Jaskier start to shake harder from the cold. He rumbled, smoothing down his arms to try and get some warmth back into him.

“You’re freezing,” he said. “Come on, I'll make you some tea.” ______________________________________________________________________________

Geralt draped a blanket over Jaskier's shoulders where he was perched by the fireplace. He had just finished brewing his tea, and Jaskier sipped at it while Geralt sat beside him. He'd stopped trembling from the cold, still calm despite the emotional strain of the past 24 hours.

“How's your arm?” he asked, stroking over Jaskier's back slowly.

“Not bad. I can barely feel it now.”

Geralt hummed, trying not to stare at him while he drank. But he couldn’t help it, the glint of the silver ring he'd given him sparkling against the corner of his eye. He suddenly felt deeply sentimental over him, foolish and emotional like he wasn't used to being. Everything that Vesemir said about the way fae love put all that Jaskier had gone through into a new perspective. That was why The Mountain had been such a deep cut. Geralt had quite literally almost killed him by turning his heart into an open wound, and despite that, he remained faithful and adoring and steadfast - somehow not embittered by it all. He'd given them a chance to build a good life together no matter how hard Geralt had tried to ruin it for them.

Geralt was glad when Jaskier finished his tea so he could hold him again, cradling him where they tangled together next to the hearth. Jaskier melted into his chest.

“You're so warm,” he purred.

Geralt kissed the top of his head softly. “Wear your cloak next time. I didn't get you one so you can be cold.”

“I was too busy stopping you from brooding to think about it, my beloved.”

Geralt hummed, looking back at the cracking fire and breathing in Jaskier's sweet scent. When he was happy, he smelled like something between buttercups and honey over toast. He smelled like springtime, morning, hope.

If Geralt simply dedicated the rest of his existence to making him smell like that, he realized, it would be a satisfying life.

“You know I love you, don't you, sparrow?” he muttered, all at once needing to say it. “There's nothing for me but you.”

Jaskier was quiet for a moment before coiling more tightly around him, his forehead pressed against the side of his neck.

“I love you, too. With everything I have,” he replied, and reached up to kiss his jaw quickly. “We'll take this day at a time. Everything else will work itself out. We're here, right now. That's more than enough.”

Geralt rumbled, realizing he hadn't truly kissed him since he was bleeding out on the castle floor. He leaned back a bit so he could press his lips fully to his, tongue licking into the roof of his mouth. Jaskier pressed himself deeper into his torso, moaning hungrily.

He heard Jaskier whisper a slurred ‘take me to bed’ against his ear and he was carrying him to their mattress the next moment. Jaskier’s fingers were soft against his scarred skin as he stripped him of his clothes until nothing separated their flesh. And they kissed, and moaned, and fucked, and entered each other until they weren’t sure where one began and the other ended. Afterwards, Geralt cradled Jaskier until morning came. ______________________________________________________________________________

In a week, they will leave Kaer Morhen. Lambert will hug Jaskier tight enough to lift him off the ground, while Vesemir will smile at them both and Eskel will make Jaskier promise to sing him some of his songs next winter. In the first town, Geralt will buy Jaskier his own horse and Jaskier will name her ‘Pegasus’ because of course he will. He won't play at the first tavern they stay at, but he will at the second, then the third, and then every night the way he used to. In a year, Ciri will come to think of Jaskier as her third parent. She'll even give him a necklace in the shape of a tuning fork for his birthday and she'll be like the child he never had. A few decades more, and the two of them will retire to a little cottage on the coast. Ciri will visit them, even Yen. Jaskier will play for the townsfolk and start a little garden in the backyard. Geralt will whittle and protect the surrounding villages and Jaskier will try to teach him how to cook (unsuccessfully). And the two of them will spend most of their time wrapped around each other, listening to the birds and watching the sun move.

But for the moment, they simply laid tangled together in the darkness of Kaer Morhen - safe, warm, happy.

And the wolf held his sparrow.