Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn't regret the words, not at first.

Despite the fact that he shouts them when he's angry and frustrated and hurt and the person he's shouted them at isn't even the reason he is feeling all those things, he doesn't regret saying them. It feels good to yell at someone, to finally let slip the bonds of his iron self-control. It's like punching a brick wall--ultimately ineffective, but satisfying in the moment.

Then Jaskier's face just kind of crumples, and Geralt feels the tiniest pinch of...something in his gut. Discomfort. Unease. Not regret, of course not, because after all, he's spoken the truth, even if it was in anger. Traveling with Jaskier has done nothing but make his life harder, he is always getting pulled into some new drama or intrigue at the instigation of the flighty little bard, and it is exhausting. Jaskier is always poking and prodding at him, trying to get people to like him, trying to mold him into something that people can like, and Geralt is almighty fucking sick of it.

At the same time, he can't quite look Jaskier in the face after he's said what he's said, so he turns away to stare blindly at the horizon and fume. Jaskier will be fine, he always is, and after a few minutes he'll say something stupid and come over to clap a hand on Geralt's shoulder, and by that point Geralt will have calmed down and they can move on and forget about it.

Except that doesn't happen.

The only thing Jaskier says is a quiet, "See you around, Geralt," and then he's...gone.

Geralt stands there for a while, still gazing off into the distance, waiting for the bard to reappear. Surely any moment he'll come trudging back up the trail, pouting because Geralt hasn't come after him yet. He'll put his hands on his hips and toss his head dramatically and accuse Geralt of being a terrible friend, and Geralt will grunt at him and they'll be back to normal.

But that doesn't happen.

Finally, Geralt is forced to acknowledge that Jaskier has actually left and he's not coming back. His anger has had a chance to cool now, but he can still feel that pinch of...concern. Jaskier is not used to being on his own, and they're not exactly in the safest of areas. What if something happens? Maybe Geralt should go after him.

He decides the bard couldn't have gotten far. He's not exactly a swift traveler, liking to meander more than march and frequently stopping to pick flowers or stare, enraptured, at a spider weaving its web.

Geralt figures he will stumble across the bard within an hour and he'll suggest they make camp for the night and catch them something to eat while Jaskier picks aimlessly at his lute and nags him about the lack of amenities to be had on rugged mountain paths.

But that doesn't happen either.

He picks up the bard's trail easily enough, boot prints interspersed with long skid marks on the steeper spots, and Geralt shakes his head at the bard's poor choice of footwear.

But Jaskier doesn't seem to be following his usual method of traipsing lackadaisically along the path. In fact, he appears to have left in a rather large fucking hurry, and Geralt comes to several places where the skid marks are smeared and interspersed with hand prints, and it's obvious that Jaskier is moving quickly, stumbling and falling from time to time. At one particularly treacherous spot, Geralt finds a few drops of blood on the stone, and he clenches his jaw, agitated. Jaskier has obviously scraped a hand or a knee in his mad dash down the mountain, all because he isn't being careful.

All because he's running away from Geralt.

Geralt swears and picks up the pace, moving faster than is strictly safe himself, but it's too no avail. By the time the sun sets and the moon rises and it's too dark to keep pressing on safely, he still hasn't found Jaskier.

For an instant, he considers soldiering on--the moon is just a sliver, but he has excellent night vision--but pride intervenes. If Jaskier is so determined to get away from him, then he'll let him get away. Isn't that what he wanted, after all?

So Geralt deliberately stops and sets up camp in a copse of small trees just off the path. He doesn't bother with a fire, just gnaws the heel of a loaf of bread and some dried venison he has in his pack. He does not wonder if Jaskier has eaten or what he managed to find.

Then he climbs into his bedroll, ensures that his swords are close at hand, and settles down for a peaceful night's sleep, the silence broken only by the chirp and hum of various insects and the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush.

Hours pass, and Geralt is still awake, still staring up at the stars peeping through the latticework of branches overhead. He tries closing his eyes and meditating, but for some reason he can't find the peace that usually settles over him. Instead he feels restless, wired.

Worried.

Geralt growls and turns to his side, his gaze traveling back in the direction of the trail. Where is Jaskier right now? Is he safe, sleeping quietly, tucked away somewhere close by? Or is he still running?

A chill works its way down Geralt's spine at the thought of Jaskier trying to navigate the mountainside with his feeble human eyes. It would be so easy for him to miss a step in the dark and lose his footing. What if, even now, he is lying somewhere further down the mountain, bleeding and broken and in pain?

Geralt is up and throwing things into his pack in the next moment, cursing quietly to himself when his bedroll doesn't cooperate with him and refuses to fit into its allotted space. Finally, he gives up and just crams it in haphazardly, cinching the bag shut with nerveless fingers.

He's back on the path again within minutes, picking out Jaskier's prints carefully in the soil. At times, the trail becomes so rocky that there's not much to go on, and at those points Geralt is careful to scan the foliage for any broken trees or snapped limbs that might indicate someone had grabbed at them to halt a fall. He's always relieved when he manages to pick up the trail again in the dirt.

Morning finds him at the base of the mountain. Apparently what he feared was true, and the stubborn little bard hadn't stopped all night. It was a miracle that he hadn't broken his fool neck, Geralt thinks furiously. He's only aware that he's grinding his teeth together when his jaw pops.

Roach is where he left her, unharmed but irritated at being abandoned for so long, and he gives her a good scratch under her forelock in apology. She swishes her tail but allows him to mount up, and he casts around for Jaskier's scent among the morass of churned up earth at the trail head. He would know it anywhere--sunshine and cedar and mint, but there's the bitter note of valerian in it now that he's never smelled before.

It smells like betrayal, and it stings Geralt's nostrils.

He follows the scent more than the prints now, since the pine needles carpeting the ground don't retain many clues, but that's fine. His sense of smell is even keener than his eyesight, and Jaskier's particular blend of aromas is imprinted in his olfactory system.

Midmorning, he comes to a decent-sized stream, where he fills his canteen and lets Roach drink before splashing across to continue his search. On the other side, however, he pauses, confused. He can see no prints in the mud of the bank, and he can't pick up Jaskier's scent either. He casts back and forth for a moment, sure he's somehow missed it, then realization strikes him and he freezes.

His bard is not only running from him, now he's hiding as well. The little shit. He's waded downstream, hoping to throw Geralt off his trail.

How did he know Geralt would follow him? Geralt didn't even know he would follow him. In fact, why is he still following? Jaskier obviously got down the mountain fine and is making his merry way back to civilization. Geralt should concern himself no further. It's past time they part ways. Twenty years past time.

Nodding firmly to himself, Geralt chooses a direction at random and clucks to Roach. The mare sets off at a steady plod, and Geralt settles himself in the saddle to enjoy a quiet, peaceful journey.

A week passes without excitement. Geralt finds a town, gets a room, takes a contract, kills the monster. He doesn't speak to anyone he doesn't have to, and no one speaks to him. The townspeople watch him with wariness and poorly concealed fear, which is what he's used to and how he likes it. He asks at the bar if a bard has passed through recently, but the man just shakes his head and shrugs.

Geralt gets back on the road quickly, following rumors of a troublesome nest of drowners to the south. He finds them near Crinfrid, sorts them out, gets paid, and keeps moving.

No one in Crinfrid has seen Jaskier either.

Three months slip by. Geralt's days begin to fall into a pattern of sleeping, riding, eating, and killing. It's an old rhythm, and somewhat soothing for its familiarity, but something is different, something is not right, and Geralt's not certain what it could be. He feels unsettled, restless. He doesn't understand why he can't find the same contentment in his old routines as he used to. Everything is calm and quiet and peaceful, and it should be perfect, but it's not.

The whole world is gray and flat, and he's constantly searching the trail behind him with the nagging feeling that he's forgotten something.

It doesn't click for him until he takes out a basilisk in Varlburg. (Jaskier hasn't been spotted in Varlburg.) The beast had taken to hunting the villagers, dragging them off to its cave if they ventured out of town into the forest, and it turns out to be a nasty piece of work. Geralt finally manages to land the killing blow several minutes into the battle, but he's been scored by the claws, deep gouges dug into his left forearm. Without his vambraces, he might have lost part of the limb. As things stand, he'll need to stitch it, and he's not sure what kind of effect the venom is going to have once it's had time to circulate in his blood stream.

Best get back to the inn and his room before he finds out.

He removes the head, cleans his sword on the grass, and hoists himself into the saddle with a sigh that he feels all the way down to his heels. Roach can find the way back without his guidance, so he gives her her head and lets his mind wander as she heads back to town at a brisk trot, obviously eager to reach her warm stall and ration of oats.

Geralt can sympathize. He hasn't been sleeping well, but he's tired enough tonight that he's already thinking longingly of the hard little bed waiting for him. Maybe by the time he's gotten Roach settled, Jaskier will have ordered him a bath--

Geralt's thoughts stutter to a stop. No. Wait. Jaskier's gone. He won't be ordering Geralt any more baths.

He's gone.

A sudden wave of misery swamps Geralt, taking him by surprise and causing him to reel in the saddle with the intensity of it. Images flood his mind: Jaskier singing a dirty little ditty with an even dirtier little smirk on his face; Jaskier gesticulating wildly as he makes some dubious conversational point; Jaskier washing his hair, his hands a revelation on Geralt's skin; Jaskier's blue eyes glinting at him from across the fire; Jaskier snuggling up next to him on a cold night as Geralt pretends to complain; Jaskier smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling, and Geralt clutches his chest as a horrible, hollow ache spreads inside of him.

"Fuck," Geralt hisses, wondering if the venom is already affecting him. If so, it must be particularly potent, because gods, he feels like he's dying.

Roach swivels her ears back at him but doesn't pause in her determined gait, and soon he's leading her into the stables, untacking her and measuring out her feed, all while his chest throbs unrelentingly.

Is he having a fucking heart attack? He's never heard of a witcher succumbing to such a thing, but it feels like he might be the first.

He staggers up to his room after grunting his request for a bath to the innkeep, who stares at him in trepidation.

"You're not dying, are ya?" he asks bluntly, accepting the coin Geralt slides across the counter. "Don't go dying in my rooms."

"Not dying," Geralt grits out, hoping it's true.

He gets himself up the stairs and out of his armor in fits and starts, and uncorks a vial of Golden Oriole with shaking hands, downs half the bottle.

They bring his bath in before he knows if he's going to live or die, but he decides if he's going to go, he'd just as soon be clean when it happens, so he strips, climbs in the scalding water, and basically collapses, sloshing a large amount over the side.

There's a squeak from the corner of the room, and Geralt slits his eyes open to find one of the maids, a mere slip of a girl, quivering against the wall, her own eyes tightly shut.

Obviously she hadn't been fast enough to make it out before he'd started to disrobe, and now he is between her and the door. She is plainly terrified.

"It's okay," he tells her, trying to remember how to make his voice soothing instead of threatening. He isn't sure if he's successful, because she makes another squeaky sound and squeezes her eyes shut tighter. He's out of practice of interacting with other people since Jaskier isn't around to force it.

Jaskier.

"Listen," Geralt says, in that same hopefully-soothing tone. "You don't have to be afraid. I'm maybe dying and definitely poisoned, even if I wanted to hurt you. Which I don't."

Her eyes pop open out of sheer surprise, and she takes an involuntary step forward. "D-Dying? What do you mean?"

Geralt shrugs, allowing himself to sink a little lower in the tub. "Dunno. My chest hurts. A lot."

"Oh dear." Her hands flutter helplessly. "Should you get a doctor?"

Geralt grunts. "Think I'll just wait and see."

"See if you die?"

"Yeah."

The girl chews on her chapped lip. "You ever have this happen before?"

"Nope. Got stepped on by a troll once though. Kinda felt like this."

They're quiet for a moment, the girl still eyeing him nervously and Geralt eyeing the bar of soap they've provided him with. It's gray, lumpy, and smells faintly unpleasant. He thinks of the smooth white bars Jaskier used to buy for them, the little vials of fragrant oil he would tip stealthily into their baths, the way he rolled up his sleeves and hummed to himself as he gently worked the snarls from Geralt's hair.

Jaskier.

"Girl," he says suddenly, startling the little maiden all over again. She jumps, looks at him with wide eyes.

"What is it?"

Geralt pauses unsure how to proceed. Finally, he asks haltingly, "Have you ever been angry with someone... who maybe didn't deserve it?"

The girl shuffles her feet. "Well, sure. I think everyone feels that way from time to time. It's just human nature, you know." Then she pauses. "Oh, maybe you don't know."

Geralt presses a hand to his chest, rubbing at the ache sitting just underneath his sternum. "Have you ever shouted at them? Said things you shouldn't have?"

"Yes, sometimes." The girl eases a step closer to him, looking intrigued in spite of herself.

Geralt frowns. "How did you...fix things, afterwards?"

She thinks for a moment, her eyes going distant as she remembers. "It depends on the person, I'd say. Sometimes, like with my mother, all it takes is a simple apology. She knows I'm sorry before I say it, but she wants to hear the words. Sometimes, with my best friend Annabelle, I have to let her wear my best bonnet for a day or do all her sewing for a week. Do something to show I'm sorry. And sometimes it doesn't matter what you do, you can't fix it."

The weight on his chest intensifies. "Never?" Geralt chokes.

The girl shakes her head solemnly. "My mother explained to me like this: if you drop a plate and break it, you can try to glue it back together. But drop it too often, or if, say, you threw it against the wall, it would shatter into too many tiny pieces. You couldn't ever put it back together exactly the way it was."

Geralt sits immobile in the tub, thinking of the harsh words he hurled at Jaskier, the devastated look in the bard's blue eyes.

Then he thinks back over all the long years of their friendship, all the times Jaskier has been by his side to comfort, cure, and cheer him. All the times he's scoffed and sneered and insulted the bard. All the times Jaskier met his scowl with a sunny smile. All the cracks in the plate that's been dropped too many times.

He thinks about the very real possibility that, even if he manages to find the bard and the right words to say to tell him he's sorry, Jaskier might never forgive him.

And he thinks about spending the rest of his long life as he's spent the past three months. It stretches out before him, an uninterrupted landscape of death and solitude, and the pain in his chest feels like a blade slicing him apart.

"Mr. Witcher? Are you okay?"

The girl sounds frightened again. He should reassure her.

"I think I've fucked up," he says instead, turning bleary eyes in her direction. "I don't think he'll forgive me. I don't know how he could."

She puts her head to the side, considering. "Have you asked him?"

Geralt shakes his head mutely, unable to look away. Surely this can't be a simple human girl. She must be elven or fey to have such wisdom.

"You should ask," she says simply.

Geralt swallows hard. The next words stick in his throat, coming out as a croak. "What if he says no?"

Her eyes go softer, sympathetic, and she smiles. "Then you should beg."

Geralt does not end up dying that night. He's yet to determine if that's a good thing or not.

He lingers in the bath until he feels less woozy, then climbs out and stitches his wounds with trembling hands. It's not his best work, and he knows it will scar. He doesn't much care. It's not like it will be the first.

He rises early the next morning, eats a quick breakfast, and saddles Roach. He's not sure where to look for his bard, but he decides to go back north and scour the towns at the foothills of the mountains. Jaskier had to have stopped somewhere, and people will remember him. They always do.

As he leaves the stableyard, he spies the maid from last night peering through an upper window at him. He tips his head at her in silent acknowledgement, and she mouths two words: Good luck.

The journey north takes less time than it did to work his way south. He rides purposefully, not pushing Roach too hard, but covering ground steadily. He doesn't stay anywhere longer than a night, but he asks at every inn and tavern if they've seen the bard who calls himself Jaskier. He also provides a description, in case he's calling himself something different these days.

He has no luck.

Back in Crinfrid, staying overnight at the same inn, he decides to take in a pint in the common room to eavesdrop on the local gossip. He doesn't have high hopes that he'll learn anything, but there's always a chance that someone traveling south will have news of a certain blue-eyed bard.

There's another musician entertaining the crowd tonight, a pompous fellow whose ego seems to outmatch his vocal ability, and Geralt is mostly ignoring him, enjoying his ale, when the man finishes up a forgettable tune he's warbling and announces, "Next, my friends, I'd like to sing a different kind of song for you. It's a song of fire and fury, of heartbreak and hunger. It's like nothing you've heard before. Please enjoy 'Burn, Butcher, Burn.'"

Geralt chokes on his ale. It's called what?

The bard launches into the song, and it becomes immediately apparent that he doesn't have the pipes for it. However he's butchering the notes, though, Geralt can still clearly hear all of the words, each of which hit him square in the gut. By the time the bard reaches the pitch of the song and caws:

"What for d'you yearn

 It's the point of no return

After everything we did, we saw

 You turned your back on me--"

Geralt feels like he's going to be sick. He shoves away from the bar and staggers outside, heaving. Unfortunately, he can still hear every lyric from where he's kneeling in the dirt.

If I had any doubts that he hates my fucking guts...

He manages to get himself under control and slips back inside just as the man is finishing up his set, cornering him at the stairs when he's attempting to retire for the evening.

He's bowing dramatically backward into the room as he exits and almost runs into Geralt where he's lurking in the corner.

"Watch out, there, man, you're blocking the stairs --"

"The butcher song. You didn't write it. Where'd you get it?"

The man turns toward him, his oily grin slipping off his face. "Now see here, sir, I'll have you know--"

Geralt slides his hood back, letting the lamplight fall across his face, and the bard trails off, gaping at him.

"You were saying?" Geralt prompts.

"Good gods, you're him," the man whispers. "So sorry, Witcher, I had no idea!"

"The song," Geralt grits, his patience running dangerously low. "Where did you hear it? When? Have you seen Jaskier?"

The bard shakes his head frantically. "No, no, haven't seen him! I've just come from Hengfors and it's being sung in every public house in the city. I heard it was his composition, but I know nothing else, I swear."

Every public house. That has to mean that Jaskier is in the city, or at least close by.

Geralt sweeps out of the room without another word, taking the stairs two at a time while the bard behind him leans back against the wall, clutching his chest and breathing hard.

He paces back and forth like a caged gryphon when he gets to his room, wrestling with his desire to pack his things, leave town tonight, and ride for Hengfors like a demon is chasing him.

The rational part of him (which he'd thought up until quite recently was all of him) knows that he can't make it to Hengfors by morning, and attempting it would probably kill Roach. Or she'd kill him first, more like. But there's another part of him that wants to tear down every obstacle between the two of them with his bare hands, raze cities to the ground until he finds his...his...

He pauses, breathing hard, and shoves a hand through his hair in frustration. He doesn't even know what he and Jaskier are anymore. He can't call them friends now (wouldn't when you had the chance whispers a snide little voice in his head), but they're still something... aren't they?

Geralt sits heavily on the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed to his closed eyelids. He might not know what to call it these days, but he knows that Jaskier is his, dammit, and he knows he won't rest until he finds him.

But he doesn't find him in Hengfors.

He arrives in the sprawling city in record time, having pushed Roach faster than she wanted to go, and as a result she is snappish and surly with him. He gives her extra oats and an apple for good measure, but she still lays her ears back at him when he tries to stroke her nose, so he gives it up as a bad job and takes himself off to ask some questions.

Namely, where the fuck is his bard?

He makes his way through the inns and taverns of Hengfors over the next couple of days. There are a lot of them, and people naturally tend to go the other way when they see him coming, plus Geralt has a sneaking suspicion that he looks more terrifying than usual, grimmer and more travel-worn.

He hears the fucking butcher song everywhere he goes.

It's a knife to his heart every time, and it's no less than what he deserves. He makes himself listen to it until he can recite it from memory. He hums it to himself, staring up at the rafters at night in his room. It feels like a penance of sorts, even if it's too little, too late, and he clings to it.

He wanders the streets like a ghoul, hoping for a glimpse of bright blue eyes, stopping random passerby to describe the bard and ask if they've seen him. No one has.

But the city is so big, there's so much ground to cover, and he's plagued by the idea that he's going to miss something. So he keeps searching.

Then one day he ducks into a tailor's shop out of some pathetic desire to at least look at the fabrics on display and imagine what Jaskier would have to say about them, and just inside the door, he stops. His eyes dart around the shop, and he takes a deep breath in, holding the air in his lungs.

He can smell Jaskier.

Just a hint, just a trace, not enough of his scent to actually be him, but someone in this building has seen him. Someone has touched him.

Rage flares white-hot at the thought, but he banks it carefully. This is no time for whatever that is. This is the time to focus. This is the clue he's been searching for.

He moves through the shop, scanning the customers, sorting through their individual scents. People cast him nervous glances and edge away, but he barely notices. He's tracking that elusive whiff of warm cedar and mint.

He zeroes in on a man standing near the till, deep in conversation with the proprietor about...buttons, or something. Geralt doesn't care enough to figure it out. The important thing is that the hint of Jaskier he's smelling is coming from this person.

In particular, his hat, which is a truly hideous affair in crushed blue velvet, sporting a peacock feather.

"The bard, Jaskier." Geralt walks right up and steamrolls into their conversion without apology. "Where have you seen him?"

The man gapes at him for a moment, his eyes wide with shock, and Geralt grudgingly spares him a moment to recover. He uses the time to size the fellow up, and is less than impressed with what he sees.

Small, watery blue eyes, weak chin, a mouth that looks designed for cruelty and petulance. A soft body dressed in clothes so garish that one must assume they are the height of fashion.

And that fucking hat, of course. Geralt shudders as his eyes light upon it once more. It is truly vile.

The man seems to have gotten over his initial surprise and is eyeing Geralt up in much the same manner as Geralt is eyeing the hat.

Lip curled, he demands, "And who might you be? Friend of his?" His brows rise haughtily, as if to imply that he doubts it.

Geralt ignores the question, since he doesn't really know how to answer it. "Your hat smells of him. Where did you see him?"

The dandy chuckles. "It smells of him? What a brute you are. Although I must admit you are correct. I have seen him, and he did wear my hat for a bit. Thought was quite the thing. It was lovely with his eyes."

Geralt is clenching and unclenching his fists, but manages to leave them at his side. His teeth are clamped so tightly together he can barely speak. "Where. Did you. See. Him."

"He's lovely in general, isn't he?" The man is grinning knowingly at Geralt, as if they share some sort of secret, which makes him shudder harder than the hat. "Beautiful, really. And very friendly."

Geralt's hand is squeezing tightly around the swell's throat before he knows what he's doing, and he's making some sort of low, guttural warning sound in his throat.

The man sputters, choking, but he doesn't struggle in Geralt's grip. "Oh, you are a brute, aren't you?" he gasps, his eyes flashing with excitement.

The shopkeep, who had been silently watching this exchange the whole time, his eyes flying back and forth between the two of them, suddenly snaps his fingers. "You're the Witcher! The one he traveled with?"

Geralt ignores both of of their remarks, bridles his desire to keep squeezing until he crushes the man's windpipe, and repeats the all-important question one more time. "Where is he?"

He flexes his fingers just a bit for emphasis, and the dandy squirms, his enthusiasm taking on an edge of discomfort. "C-Caingorn," he finally capitulates.

"When?" Geralt demands. His brain is already feverishly trying to figure the distance. A day's ride, perhaps a little more.

"Two days ago. The Hart's Desire." At Geralt's befuddled look, he clarifies, "The inn. Can you--ack!--let go now, please? Or squeeze a bit harder, I'm not picky."

Geralt releases the man without a word and turns to stalk out the door, ignoring the curious buzz of speculation gathering in the shop as he exits.

He hopes Roach has had a chance to recover. They've some ground to cover.

Late afternoon of the next day finds him riding into Caingorn, a smaller city than Hengfors, which he hopes will make the inn he needs easy to find.

Roach is in better spirits this time around, having grown tired of being stabled and seeming glad for the chance to stretch her legs. Her ears flick this way and that as she absorbs the sounds of the city, and Geralt gives her a reassuring pat on the neck.

He could use a reassuring pat himself. If the fool in Hengfors was correct, he'll soon be seeing Jaskier, and he's pretty sure it won't be a joyous reunion.

He finds the inn after just a few inquiries and makes sure Roach is comfortably settled in the stable before taking himself into the common room, his heart beating unnaturally fast at the thought of what he might find.

It's a nice place, which doesn't surprise him. Jaskier was always more discerning about their lodgings than he was, and it makes sense that he'd like this place with it's whitewashed walls and dark wood beams. Geralt's willing to bet the food is good too.

It's too early for it to be crowded, and there's no sign of the bard at the few tables that are occupied. Geralt takes note of the small stage in the corner and t slides onto a stool at the bar where he has a good view of it.

A matron with a sweet, plain face and cap of grey curls hustles over, eyeing him with frank curiosity. "Good evening, sir. What'll you be having?"

Geralt tries a smile, which isn't entirely successful, judging from her alarmed expression. "Good evening. An ale, please, and a room as well."

She nods, fetching a tankard and pouring him a draft. "Just one night?"

Geralt hesitates. "I'm not sure how long I'll be staying, to be honest."

The woman shrugs diplomatically. "You can pay a day at a time if you prefer. See how things go."

She gives him the price for a night and it's fair enough, so he pushes the coin across the bar to her and she gets him a key.

He assumes their conversion is finished, but she settles in across from him as if she means to stay and fixes him with a curious gaze.

"I'm Doris. Are you in town for business, then?"

"Not exactly." He takes a quaff of his ale and hums contentedly at the taste--as he'd surmised, quite good.

"Oh? "

Doris seems to expect him to elaborate, and he shifts on the stool, wondering how much he should give away.

"I'm looking for my--for a friend," he says awkwardly, and watches her absorb that with a thoughtful nod.

"Does your friend live here?"

He opens his mouth to answer, then realizes he doesn't know. Maybe Jaskier does live here. Maybe Caingorn is his new home.

"I haven't seen him in recent months," he admits. "But I heard that he'd been spotted here, at your inn."

Doris frowns. "Well, we see a lot of travelers. I'd know a regular, for sure, but there are many who come and go."

"You would remember him," Geralt says confidently. "He's hard to miss. He's a bard, brown hair, blue eyes, always laughing--"

"Oh, you mean Jaskier!" Doris cries, her wrinkled face splitting into a huge smile. "Of course I know Jaskier! He sings for us here most evenings. Be here in a few minutes, as a matter of fact."

Geralt feels light-headed with a mixture of relief and trepidation. "Yes, that's him. You say he'll be here soon?"

"Comes in around this same time like clockwork," the matron confirms. She smiles at Geralt, her features softening and warming. "I'm glad you're here to see him. I think he could use a friend."

Geralt is about to ask what she means when he hears the door open. He turns to see more people trickle in, but none of them are Jaskier. It's a rowdy group of youngsters that take a table near the stage and settle in with boisterous laughter and teasing jibes. No sooner have they ordered drinks from the barmaid than the door opens again and another group shuffles in.

"Looks like he's a popular fellow," Geralt observes, smiling at the thought of Jaskier performing for a packed house every night.

"Oh yes," Doris agrees happily. "We've always done well here, but he's been wonderful for business. We'll be sorry when he moves on."

Geralt wants to find out more, but the woman gets busy serving as more customers place their orders, so he lets her get on with it and watches the door instead. A few more moments pass with the crowd inside the room only growing, and then, between one breath and the next, the door swings open again and Jaskier steps inside.

Chapter Text

Jaskier steps inside, a mischievous grin already tugging at his lips, and the sight of his familiar face would be enough to bring Geralt to his knees if he weren't already sitting.

His fingers tighten around the tankard until the metal indents as he braces himself for the impact of the bard's cornflower blue eyes, but someone calls Jaskier's name eagerly, and he turns to answer the greeting before he sees Geralt huddled at the bar.

Well. Maybe not a bad thing to put off the confrontation.

Geralt pulls his hood down a little further, struck by a sudden desire to watch Jaskier interact with his fans. He stops at each table, greeting people by name, clasping hands, focusing on each one like they are the most important person in the room.

That's the way he used look at you, his brain supplies helpfully, and Geralt scowls at himself.

He catches Doris's eye as she brings a round to her newest group of customers, and she raises her brows inquisitively. Geralt knows she's wondering why he doesn't go greet his supposed friend.

Surprise, he mouths to her, and she grins, nodding enthusiastic approval. He turns his attention back to the bard, watching him throw back his head and laugh at something one of the youngsters said to him.

He looks good, Geralt thinks, studying him intently. His hair is a bit longer, a bit lighter, as if he's spent time in the sun. He's abandoned his customary doublet, at least for today, and is wearing a simple white shirt that flatters his slim, strong frame. He has a glow about him, as if he's been living well.

As if he's been happy.

He doesn't look like a man who's been hurting, lonely, broken inside like Geralt himself feels. He looks well-loved and well taken care of and healthy and happy and...

He looks beautiful, Geralt realizes with a shock, and it's so obvious that he can't understand why he never saw it before. The man in Hengfors was right.

Jaskier is beautiful.

He's beautiful outwardly, with his sharp cheekbones and soft blue eyes and sly pink lips that are always ready to smile. He's beautiful inside too, kind and funny and braver than he gives himself credit for.

And Geralt is the fucking idiot who told him he didn't want him anymore.

Jaskier takes the stage to raucous cheers and applause, and he turns to face his audience with a cheeky little bow. For a moment, Geralt wonders if he'll be spotted, and apprehension curdles his gut. But apparently the crowd combined with the cloak are enough to keep him from attracting notice, because Jaskier doesn't react when his eyes sweep over the bar.

"Good evening, friends," the bard calls, and the nose immediately dies down as everyone quiets to hear him speak. "Thank you for joining me tonight at The Hart's Desire, the finest establishment in Caingorn!"

There's another burst of cheering, and Jaskier throws a wink at Doris, who yells back cheerfully, "The finest in the Hengfors League!"

There's general laughter, and Jaskier lifts a hand in acknowledgement. "Quite right, my dear. I misspoke. Well, since we all have the good fortune of being together at the finest establishment for hundreds of miles, with the finest of food and the finest of drink and the finest of proprietoresses--" another wink to Doris-- "how about a little music, eh?"

"The finest music!" someone shouted, and Jaskier beamed at them all.

"You're too kind. What shall we start with?"

"Her Sweet Kiss!" a girl near the stage cries, the adoring look on her face making it clear that she would be happy to share a sweet kiss with a certain bard.

"Your favorite, Millie?" Jaskier says, cocking his head at her playfully. "Well, who am I to refuse a beautiful woman?"

He launches into the song, his voice strong and clear. Geralt sits and listens as the notes fill the room, wrapping around the spellbound audience and weaving a tapestry so rich that he can almost see it painted on the backs of his eyelids when he closes his eyes.

Something else he never noticed, never appreciated.

Gods, he's been such a fool.

Jaskier sings song after song, some his own and some not. He takes requests from the crowd, jokes with them and teases them. Tells stories here and there and dances a bit and sings his little heart out, giving each performance all he's got. The same way he does everything.

Two hours go by in this manner, Geralt barely marking the passage of time, too caught up in the joy sparking from Jaskier's presence, when someone in the throng calls, "Let's hear 'Burn, Butcher, Burn!'"

Geralt goes stock still. Up on the stage, Jaskier's face flickers, his eyes going bleak for the briefest instant. The expression is gone so quickly that Geralt wonders if he imagined it. His easy grin slides back into place as he strikes the opening chords of the piece. As he begins to sing, Geralt tries to steady himself with a deep breath.

He knows the song backward and forward by now, but familiarity doesn't make it easier to listen to, especially when Jaskier is the one singing it. And like every other song that night, he's singing it with passion, with feeling. So much raw emotion that Geralt can't understand how one person can hold it all.

The anger and despair in his voice could be part of the performance, Geralt tells himself dismally. Could be. But it sounds real. It feels real. It feels like Jaskier's slicing himself open right up there on the stage, all his pain and sorrow bleeding out, and Geralt can't fucking bear it.

He's lunged to his feet before he knows what he's doing, acting on some wild impulse that he doesn't fully understand, some half-formed notion to rush over and gather the bard into his arms.

But the movement attracts Jaskier's attention, and suddenly his gaze lands directly on Geralt. His eyes widen in shock and disbelief, and Jaskier cuts off mid-song, leaving an echoing silence. The room is abruptly quiet enough to hear a pin drop. The confused crowd shifts restlessly, people glancing at each other, then following Jaskier's gaze back to where Geralt is still standing, frozen by the bar. There are gasps and murmurs as some people realize who he is, but Geralt ignores them. He has eyes only for Jaskier.

The bard is still staring at him, looking like he's not quite prepared to believe what he's seeing. He rubs one eye with his fist like a tired child, blinks blearily as if he's waking from a particularly vivid dream.

"Geralt?" he asks, and his voice is so heart-rendingly uncertain that Geralt feels his throat close up.

"Jaskier," he rasps, pushing his hood back. The buzz on the room grows louder as his white hair is revealed, and in his peripheral vision, he catches Doris gaping at him.

But he doesn't have time for any of that right now, because Jaskier has leapt off the stage and is making his way through the crowd towards him, people parting wordlessly to let him through until finally he's standing right in front of Geralt, even more lovely up close, and gods, Geralt can smell him again, that warm, sweet scent that always clings to him no matter what he--

 Jaskier punches Geralt right in the face.

Geralt's so overwhelmed by the sensory overload of having the bard within arms' reach again that he doesn't even see it coming. It takes him completely by surprise, and Geralt's head snaps back with the force of the blow. He reels backward a step, catches himself on the bar, and brings a hand to his smarting jaw.

"Ow," he says admiringly, eyeing Jaskier with new respect. He'd never realized the bard could throw a punch like that.

"Oh, shut up," Jaskier hisses, and now his expression is decidedly less dazed and decidedly more furious, his beautiful face like a thundercloud. "Just shut up, you fucking asshole."

"Jaskier--" Geralt begins, reaching for him, but the bard backs away, shaking his head.

"Don't touch me," he fumes. "Just...Just leave me alone."

Then he spins on his heel and runs, escaping up the stairs at the back of the room.

Quite a bit later, Doris has come to his rescue by declaring firmly that she'll not have a man murdered in her inn, bitterly disappointing Jaskier's adoring fans.

She sits Geralt down at the bar with firm instructions for him not to move while she sets about pacifying the bloodthirsty crowd and chivvying them out the door.

He doesn't have the wherewithal to argue with her. Jaskier's words, the look on his face, have sapped Geralt of all his strength. He thinks maybe he'll just continue to sit here on this stool for the night. Maybe even longer.

Maybe the rest of his life, which won't be all that long if the residents of Caingorn have their way. Someone will slip past Doris sooner or later. Geralt wouldn't even fight them at this point.

"Okay, you great buffoon, they're gone," Doris says briskly, sliding back behind the bar.

Geralt glances around and realizes she's cleared the room and locked the door. Efficient woman, that Doris.

"Thank you for your help," he says dully. "You could have let them kill me, though. It's no more than I deserve."

"Quite right," she agrees, and Geralt blinks at her in mild surprise.

"Then why didn't you?" he asks. He had figured she must just be a sweet old lady who didn't want to see anyone come to harm.

Doris dispels him of that notion by scowling at him fiercely. "Because you need to fix things with Jaskier."

"You heard him. He wants me to leave him alone."

Doris snorts, slapping a hand down on the bar for emphasis. "Horseshit."

Geralt growls at her, a little of his numbness replaced by irritation. "He obviously can't stand the sight of me. Besides, he's got lots of friends here. What does he need one more for? Especially one like me. Trust me, he's better off this way."

"Gods above, men are such idiots," Doris cries, throwing her hands into the air. "This is why I've never married, and never will!"

Geralt maintains a stony silence, and Doris sighs deeply, leaning on the bar.

"Do you really think he's happy here, Witcher?"

Geralt glowers into his ale. "He looks happy as fuck. Like I said, he's got--"

"He's miserable," Doris says with grim certainty, and Geralt looks up, startled.

"What do you mean?"

Doris meets his gaze solemnly. "I mean, he comes in here every night and charms everyone in the room, entertains them and befriends them and makes them feel special. He sings and dances and laughs and jokes, and I'm not saying he's faking that. He's not. It's honest. It's real. He does those things because he truly enjoys giving a performance and he truly loves these people. And they love him back. There isn't a person who was in this room tonight who wouldn't kill for that young man if he asked it of them."

Geralt just nods, unsurprised. Jaskier does tend to have that effect on people.

"But I make the rounds every night at closing time," Doris continues, "It's a habit of mine. The only way I feel settled before bed is to check on everything. And every night, as I'm passing Jaskier's room, do you want to know what I hear?"

"What?" Geralt asks, not entirely sure he does want to know. But like anything to do with Jaskier, he's helpless to stop himself.

"I hear him in there every night, sobbing like his heart will break."

Geralt can't contain the wounded sound that rips its way out of his chest.

She nods grimly. "The first time, I didn't know what to do. I told myself to leave it, that it wasn't my business. And then he came down the next morning and there wasn't a sign of it on his face. No red eyes, no blotchy skin. Looked like he'd slept like a baby. Acted like he had not a care in the world. I thought, 'That's sorted, then.' And then I heard him again that night."

Geralt closes his eyes, feeling about a thousand years old. "Every night?"

"Every night." Doris pours them both another draught and takes a bracing gulp of hers. "Like I say, I didn't want to ask him what was wrong--but then he wrote 'Burn, Butcher,' and I didn't have to."

Silence falls between them while Doris rubs her index finger over a whorl in the wood of the bar and Geralt stares at it unseeingly.

Finally, Doris heaves a deep sigh and raises her eyes to Geralt's face again. "I don't know what happened between you two, but you have to find a way to make it right."

Geralt laughs, but there's no mirth in the sound. "What makes you think there's anything I can do that will make things right? Gods, the things I said to him...I can't forgive myself. How can he forgive me?"

"Our Jaskier is a forgiving sort." Doris smiles, her eyes crinkling in a friendlier expression. "The fact that he's nursing all that heartache means he still cares for you. You need to show him that you're sorry and you care for him as well."

Geralt is silent, mulling that over, and Doris's eyes sharpen. "You do care for him?" she demands.

"Oh," Geralt says, startled. He's unused to talking about his feelings with anyone, let alone random old ladies in a bar. Especially when he's not a hundred percent clear on said feelings. However, it's obvious that Doris wants the best for Jaskier. And she also looks rather menacing. "Yes, I, ah. I care for him."

"In what way?" Doris presses, her gimlet eyes focused intently on Geralt's face.

"He's a good friend," Geralt evades, but Doris narrows her eyes even further, until they're mere slits.

"Witcher," she says warningly. "The truth."

Geralt huffs in exasperation, and is horrified when his voice comes out sounding plaintive. "I'm not good at feelings. They're confusing and...messy. All I know is that I've spent the last three months missing him like I'd miss my sword arm if someone cut it off, but I just...ignored it. Wouldn't let myself think about it. And then when I finally did, it was all I could think about, and it hurt so bad I thought I might be dying. I don't think I took a full breath until tonight when he walked into the room. And when I saw him again it was like I was seeing him for the first time ever but also like I was seeing a face as familiar to me as my own. And even though I always say he talks too much, it turns out I'd rather hear his voice again than any other sound, even if he's calling me an asshole. And also he smells really good "

"Ah," Doris says, sounding unutterably smug, "Well, nothing too confusing about all that."

"No?" Geralt asks doubtfully. He can't help feeling that, although she is surely a nice woman with many fine qualities, in this instance Doris might be full of shit.

"No. You're obviously in love with him. I mean, really, how could you not be?"

Geralt stares at her, shocked, feeling the truth of her words ring in his bones for a full sixty seconds before burying his face in his hands in an agony of embarrassment and despair.

"What am I going to do?" he mumbles into his palms, not really expecting an answer.

Doris pats his head consolingly. "There, there, dear. You'll think of something."

He's doing that a bit later--lying in bed, wracking his brain for a way to undo the damage he's caused to... yes, thank you, Doris, the man he loves, as if that isn't a mindfuck in and of itself, when a noise, so quiet as to be barely audible, registers in his consciousness. It almost sounds like...like...

Geralt's at the wall that adjoins the room next to his in a heartbeat, pressing his ear to the plaster, trying to see if--yes, he can hear it more clearly now, and he feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Muffled sobs, coming from the room right next door. Geralt can picture the bard huddled in his bed just on the other side of the wall, burying his face in a pillow to stifle his grief so as not to burden anyone else with it.

Oh, Jaskier.

"I'm sorry," Geralt whispers, resting his forehead and palms against the barrier between them. "I'm so fucking sorry, sweetheart."

Then he pauses, caught off guard by the endearment that slipped from his own lips. Sweetheart? He can't recollect ever having used that word.

It fits, though. He suddenly can't fathom how he's never called Jaskier that before. Surely he's thought it. Surely, when the bard was massaging liniment into his muscles after a long day or snuggled up close on a cold night, his body tucked perfectly into Geralt's side like they were two pieces of the same puzzle, surely then. Surely the tight, terrible ache in his throat during such moments was this word, fighting to escape a mouth unused to such endearments.

If Jaskier would give him another chance, he would say it every day. He would never again take for granted a single look, a touch, a word. So many things he would do differently, if Jaskier would allow him.

On the other side of the wall, Jaskier sniffles softly, then hiccups. He sounds like he's quieting, like he's drifting off, but the knowledge brings Geralt no peace. The thought that Jaskier has been crying himself to sleep every night makes him want to howl.

He thinks, wildly, of storming into the room, knocking the door off its hinges. Grabbing Jaskier by the shoulders and shaking him and making him listen.

He could do it, he has no doubt. He could use his strength to force the bard to hear him out.

But he can't force him to accept his apology. He can't force him to forgive. He can't make Jaskier look at him like he used to, like he's some kind of avenging paladin, come to save the world.

The way forward is going to require a gentler touch than Geralt is used to. In place of a closed fist, an open hand. And the hope that somehow, he can prove himself worthy enough for Jaskier to reach out and take it.

He begins his efforts the next morning, waiting quietly outside Jaskier's door with a warm pastry from the kitchen.

He's already dressed and broken his own fast, watching Doris over his bowl of porridge as she bustled about.

"Sleep well?" she'd inquired sweetly, her smile pointed, and Geralt glowered.

"You know very well I didn't, you harpy."

She chortled. "A guilty conscience will do that to you."

Geralt had manfully chosen not to engage and simply stole a cherry tart when she wasn't looking (Jaskier's favorite). He'd hurried up the stairs to Jaskier's room and raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. Perhaps the bard wasn't awake yet? Maybe he should just leave the tart and let him sleep? But then it would get cold, and Jaskier liked them best when they were still warm.

Geralt debates for a moment, frozen with indecision, but then the choice is abruptly made for him as the door swings open and Jaskier hurries out, his head bowed and seemingly deep in thought. So deep he doesn't even notice Geralt standing there, and Geralt's so surprised by his sudden appearance that he can't immediately find the words to make his presence known.

Jaskier slams into Geralt's chest and bounces off with a squeak, and Geralt instinctively steadies him with his free hand before he can stumble.

"Whoa there, I've got you," he says soothingly, and Jaskier's head jerks up at the sound of his voice. Geralt has a bare moment to note the bard's clear blue eyes and flawless complexion before Jaskier snatches his arm away, scowling.

"Why are you lurking outside my room?" he demands. "Are you trying to scare me to death? Don't you have better things to do? Monsters to slay, witches to fuck?"

Geralt blinks. Huh. He hasn't even thought of Yennefer since the mountain. How about that.

"My room is actually right next door," he says carefully.

Jaskier deflates a bit. "Oh."

"But I did want to give you this," he admits, holding up the tart, which plays its part as a tempting treat to perfection, looking all golden brown and flaky, oozing sweet fruit filling and drizzled with sugar icing.

"Oh," Jaskier breathes, then he seems to remember that he's angry with Geralt and bites his lip, clearly torn.

"It's still warm," Geralt tempts, and then adds softly, "And taking it doesn't mean you've forgiven me."

Jaskier eyes him for another second, then holds his hand out. "Gimme."

Geralt places it in his palm, feeling a rush of affection for the little bard as he takes a huge bite of the pastry, moaning when the sweet flavor bursts on his tongue. His eyes flutter shut, his pleasure in the treat absolute, and Geralt can't tear his eyes away from the smear of frosting on Jaskier's upper lip, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. Lust comes crashing down on him with the force of a sledgehammer and his mouth goes bone dry.

Fuck.

He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Jaskier's eyes pop open and he frowns at Geralt. "Stop staring like that. I'm not sharing."

Geralt refrains from informing him that it wasn't the tart he was salivating over.

Probably too soon for that. Maybe if Jaskier stops actively hating him they can work on it.

"What are our plans for the day?" Geralt asks instead. He doesn't really expect Jaskier to go for it, but figures it's worth a shot.

"Our plans?" Jaskier echoes incredulously. "You can fuck right off."

"Okay," Geralt says, trying to sound neutral about it.

Jaskier turns on his heel and marches off down the hall, still munching on his breakfast. Geralt waits until he hears the bard exchange a cheerful greeting with Doris, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing, before he sets out to follow. Doris gives him a calculating look as he slips by, but he pointedly ignores her and hurries out into the sunshine, scanning the street for Jaskier.

He spots the bard making his way south, although it's slow progress as he seems to stop to speak to everyone he sees. He buys a shiny red apple, which he tucks into a pocket, then a loaf bread and some kind of pink blossom from the flower cart.

Geralt follows him stealthily, keeping enough distance between them that he won't be noticed and lingering over the wares displayed for sale in an attempt to appear like he's shopping instead of trailing Jaskier like a lovesick puppy.

Finally, content with his purchases, Jaskier heads out of town on foot. It's harder to stay unobserved with fewer people and buildings to hide behind, but Geralt manages by slipping into the trees that line the right side of the road.

Where is the bard headed? He seems to be striding along purposefully now, not out for a leisurely stroll. But there doesn't seem to be much out this way, so Geralt can't imagine what that purpose could be.

Finally, a small cottage comes into view, and Jaskier walks right up to the door and knocks. "Greta!" he calls brightly. "It's me, Jaskier! Are you home, or have you spent the night with one of your paramours again?"

The door swings open, revealing a wizened old woman that makes Doris look like a teenager.

"Boy, how many times have I told you?" she chastises in a creaky whisper. "You'll ruin my reputation!"

Jaskier looks around at the deserted countryside. "Yes, wouldn't want the dormice to start any rumors."

The woman, Greta, chuckles. "Well, what have you come to bother me about today?"

Jaskier affects a wounded expression. "I've just come to declare my affections and ask you to marry me... again."

He presents her with the flower, going down on one knee dramatically.

"You know, in my day we used to get a ring with a proposal," Greta says mischievously, accepting the flower and burying her nose in its petals with obvious pleasure.

"Greta, I am but a simple bard," Jaskier protests, holding out beseeching hands. "I cannot afford baubles worthy of the likes of you."

The woman taps his head lightly with the bloom. "Not much enticement for me to marry you then, is it?"

Jaskier gasps. "You mercenary! What about love?"

"Love doesn't put food on my table," Greta says pertly, propping a hand on her hip.

Jaskier laughs. "Very sensible, I'm sure. But in this case it does, because I also brought you a loaf of that bread you like."

He passes her the bread and she gifts him with a beautiful smile. Geralt can see her affection for his friend shining in her faded eyes as she pats his head with her free hand.

"You're a good boy, Jaskier. I've told you it's not necessary."

Jaskier springs to his feet. "And I've told you that it's my pleasure. Now, what needs to be tackled today?"

Greta hesitates, looking guilty. "Are you sure you don't have better things to do? You're a young, handsome man. You should be out getting into scrapes with your friends or seducing some lucky girl." She winks at him saucily.

"And miss your shortbread?" Jaskier shakes his head emphatically. "No thank you. I know where my bread is buttered. Literally."

They enter the cottage together and Geralt settles in to wait. Before too long, however, Jaskier is back outside, a wooden bucket in hand. He makes his way to the well at the back of the property, then lugs the bucket back inside, whistling cheerfully. He makes a few more trips to the well, then moves on to the woodpile, where he rolls up his sleeves and goes to work with the axe.

Geralt creeps closer, fascinated. Jaskier's never been a big, bulky man like Geralt himself. He's built on a slimmer, slighter scale. However, he's handling the axe with an ease that speaks of familiarity, and Geralt can see the muscles in his forearms flexing, his biceps pushing at the fabric of his shirt. It's...quite a sight.

After he's established a nice pile of firewood, Jaskier carries it over and stacks it neatly next to the house, bringing in a few pieces for immediate use. Then he spends some time in Greta's vegetable garden, weeding it and watering the plants carefully. He hums or whistles or sings quietly to himself the entire time. The sun beams down on his bent head and sweat trickles down his brow, but Jaskier doesn't seem to mind.

He finishes up around noon and goes inside for a bit. Geralt can hear the rattle of crockery and the buzz of pleasant conversation, punctuated by laughter.

After lunch, Jaskier takes his leave, kissing Greta on her withered cheek at the door, then setting off down the road again, heading further out of town. Geralt follows, wondering where they're headed now.

After traveling a bit further, Jaskier suddenly veers off the path, causing a moment of panic for Geralt as he melts further back into the trees. It doesn't appear that Jaskier's spotted him, though; he seems to have a different destination in mind.

Within moments, they've reached a clearing containing a small, perfectly blue pool. Jaskier wastes no time in kicking off his boots and rolling up his pants so he can wade into the water. He heaves a blissful sigh as he stands at the shallow edge of the pond, stretching his arms over his head and twisting his torso to and fro to work out the kinks from the morning's chores.

Then he abruptly charges deeper into the pond with a whoop, splashing water everywhere and startling a frog, which hops away with an indignant croak. When he hits hip level, Jaskier dives headfirst into the depths, surfacing a moment later gasping and pushing his hair back out of his face.

In the treeline, Geralt sinks into a crouch and watches Jaskier swim a few laps through the deepest part of the pond before he flips onto his back and allows himself to float freely. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed and peaceful.

After a few more silent moments, Geralt rises to his feet and slowly makes his way back into town.

He doesn't go down to watch Jaskier perform that night. He'd like to, but he doesn't want his presence to deter Jaskier from enjoying something he loves. So he stays in his room, paces, and thinks.

Jaskier had returned from the pond shortly before his usual time to entertain, his clothes dry and his cheeks glowing pink from the sun. Geralt had watched him trip up the lane from the window in his room and noted his loose, carefree stride, the smile tugging at his lips.

Jaskier is happy here. No matter what Doris says, it's obvious. He's made a family of a sort in Caingorn, a group of people who love and appreciate him. He has a home. He's found what pleases him.

And it isn't Geralt.

Geralt tries not to let the thought cut him too deeply. He reminds himself that he shouldn't be selfish, that he had Jaskier for years and years all to himself. Would probably still have him all to himself if it weren't for a moment of anger and thoughtlessness.

You should leave, he tells himself sternly. Let him have this happiness. He deserves it.

Geralt sinks onto the bed, clutching his head in his hands. He already knows he's not leaving. He can't. Fuck it, he's never claimed to be anything but a selfish bastard. If there's even the slightest possibility that Jaskier will forgive him and welcome him back, even as a friend, he has to take it.

Chapter Text

It's the fifth day since Geralt arrived in Caingorn, and he feels like he's losing his mind a little bit.

Well. A little bit more, anyway.

He's spent pretty much all of his time skulking around behind Jaskier, trying to stay out of sight while still keeping the bard in his sights. He's not sure what he's hoping to accomplish by following him around. Probably nothing. He just feels a compulsion to keep him as close as possible now that he's finally found him again.

Plus he can't seem to get his fill of just looking at the lovely creature. He's yet to make sense of the fact that he's apparently managed to ignore how absolutely devastatingly pretty Jaskier is for the past twenty years. What the fuck is wrong with him? He can't fathom that he woke up to that face countless mornings, oftentimes pillowed on his chest (Jaskier is a cuddly sleeper) and he never realized that his best friend is utterly fucking delicious.

Case in point: Jaskier is spending this warm, beautiful morning re-thatching Greta's roof, and about ten minutes ago he apparently decided he would be more comfortable if he took his shirt off.

Geralt tried for about thirty seconds to pretend to himself that he was unaffected, but then Jaskier arched his back and stretched, lithe muscles rippling under sun-warmed skin, and now Geralt is just shamelessly staring.

This is a new low, he reflects idly. Crouching in the bushes, gawking lustfully at a man who runs in the opposite direction when he sees Geralt coming. He feels vaguely dirty.

Not dirty enough to stop, but still.

Up on the roof, Jaskier is working tirelessly to remove the old straw and replace it with clean new thatch. Geralt's done it before and knows that it's hot, itchy work, hard on the back. But Jaskier is cheerful as usual, singing something bright and bouncy under his breath that Geralt can't quite make out from where he's hidden. He stops every now and then to drink from a canteen at his waist and wipe the sweat from his brow, but otherwise seems unbothered by the heat.

After completing about a third of the roof, Jaskier decides to take a longer break. He sighs and lies back in the hay, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun. He stays like that for quite a while, and Geralt's just begun to wonder if he's fallen asleep, when suddenly he speaks without opening his eyes.

"I know you're there, Geralt."

Geralt startles and almost topples over into the scrub.

Jaskier's mouth twitches, but he doesn't open his eyes. "Come out. If you're going to be here, you might as well help me."

Geralt scrambles to his feet and sheepishly makes his way out of the trees, pausing beside the cottage and craning his neck to look up at the bard.

"How did you know?"

Jaskier sits up, eyeing him incredulously. "Are you serious? You're literally the size of a cart horse, Geralt."

"I'm stealthy," Geralt protests, chagrined. He catches the edge of the roof and swings himself up easily, forgoing the ladder that Jaskier's propped up against the wall.

He's not showing off.

Not much, anyway.

Jaskier squints at him. "There is no amount of stealth that can conceal your hulking form darting along behind me through the market. You're making the shopkeeps nervous."

Geralt scowls and pitches a handful of thatch off the roof. "I might have been shopping."

Jaskier levels him with a disbelieving look. "Right. You. Shopping."

Then he lifts a finger and gently presses it against Geralt's lower lip, which has somehow jutted its way out past the upper one.

"Melitele, look at you. Actually pouting," he chuckles. "No need for all that."

"I'm not pouting," Geralt mutters sulkily. "I just don't get why you let me follow you and didn't say anything if you saw me."

Jaskier shrugs. "Thought it was kinda funny. And I wanted to see if you would do anything. But you've just been 'hiding' in the woods the whole time and it was getting a little creepy."

"I thought you wouldn't want me around if you knew," Geralt admits. He flicks his tongue over his lower lip, trying to see if the place where Jaskier touched him tastes any different. To his disappointment, it doesn't.

Jaskier doesn't address his remark, just continues to watch him with thoughtful eyes. "Hmm."

Geralt shifts, feeling self-conscious under that intent gaze. "Do you want me to go?"

"I haven't decided yet. But don't worry," Jaskier says placidly. "If I decide I do, I'll just push you off the roof."

Geralt doesn't think he's joking, but he tries a chuckle anyway.

Jaskier doesn't laugh, just goes back to work. After an instant of uncertainty, Geralt crawls over next to him and begins to help. They don't speak, but Jaskier starts singing again softly, and Geralt is more than content to be next to him again, close enough to touch, close enough to scent him. His normal fresh, woodsy smell is overlaid with the musk of sweat and male, additions that Geralt heartily approves of. He inhales deeply through his nose to get more of the scent, trying to be subtle about it. Judging by the eyebrow Jaskier arches at him, he's not entirely successful.

With both of them working, it only takes a few hours to finish the roof, and by early afternoon they're ready to slide down and join Greta inside for a late lunch. Geralt balks at first, feeling odd about sharing a meal in a stranger's home, but Jaskier just looks him in the eye and says quietly, "Please join us," and that is that.

When he steps over the threshold into the cozy little cottage, Greta straightens from where she's setting bowls something steaming on the table.

"Well, hello there," she greets them, looking surprised to see an extra visitor. "Jaskier, looks like you found some help this morning!"

"Yes, I thought he might come in handy," Jaskier answers warmly. "Greta, this is my..." He hesitates, and his eyes flick to the witcher for an instant before he settles on, "This is Geralt."

Greta's eyes widen. "Oh, so you're Geralt!" She cries, crossing the room with a speed that is frankly astonishing for a woman her age. She takes one of Geralt's hands in both of hers, clutching it tightly. "Jaskier's told me so much--"

Behind her, Jaskier breaks into a violent coughing fit, doubling over with the force of it. Concerned, Geralt extricates himself with an apology and hurries over to the bard's side, grasping his shoulder with one hand and rubbing his back gently with the other.

"Alright, Jask?" he murmurs, dipping his head to meet the bard's eyes.

"I--yes, thank you, I'm fine," Jaskier says, looking dazed, wheezing a bit. "I don't know what came over me."

"Perhaps some of the dust from the straw settled in your lungs,"Greta suggests. "I'll fetch you some water."

As she bustles about, preparing the beverage, Geralt studies Jaskier worriedly. The bard looks flushed, his skin a hectic pink from his cheekbones down his throat. He's also breathing a bit harder than seems healthy, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and Geralt can see the pulse throbbing in his neck.

"You need to sit down," he says, using a firm tone to forestall any arguing. Not that that's ever worked, not once in twenty years, but luckily, Jaskier doesn't object this time and lets Geralt slide an arm around him and help him to the table.

Once there, Geralt finds himself loath to step back. He realizes this is the first time he's touched Jaskier in months, and the way the his bare skin feels under Geralt's palms makes the idea of letting go repellant. Finally, he manages to talk himself into leaving just one hand curled around the nape of the bard's neck, and if that seems a little proprietary --well, that's the way he's feeling.

Mine, he thinks, watching the way the soft chestnut curls slide through his fingers, noticing how his palm wraps easily around the back of Jaskier's neck, large enough that his thumb settles just under the other man's ear. Mine.

He starts stroking the patch of skin under his thumb without really thinking about it, just enjoying the smooth slide of it under his rough fingertip. He wonders if anyone else has ever touched Jaskier here. If anyone else has ever noticed how silky soft his skin is. If anyone else has ever felt Jaskier shiver in response when they grazed his earlobe just slightly.

"Here you go, dear." Greta sets a cup of water in front of Jaskier with a sudden thump, and Geralt starts as if coming out of a dream. He looks up to find her wise eyes fixed speculatively on his hand.

It dawns on him then that he hasn't been given leave to touch Jaskier again, that in fact his touch is probably unwelcome, and he jerks his hand away as if he's been burned, tucking it guiltily behind his back.

Greta just grins at him knowingly, her wrinkles sprouting wrinkles of their own as her eyes squint and her cheeks crease.

These old women are going to be the death of Geralt.

"Thanks, Greta," Jaskier says, still sounding winded. Geralt drops into the chair next to him, the better to watch him like a fucking hawk, his eyes busily cataloguing symptoms as he examines his bard. Still flushed, still breathing a bit heavily. Elevated heart rate. Dilated pupils.

"Maybe I should fetch a healer," he says worriedly to Greta, who is still smirking at him and seems not at all concerned that Jaskier is having possible thatch-related breathing issues.

"I think he probably just got a little carried away," Greta says reassuringly, which makes no sense whatsoever.

Before he can question her, Jaskier is waving an impatient hand in his face.

"Uh, hello? I'm sitting right here. Don't need a healer, for fuck's sake. It was just a cough."

"It was a coughing fit," Geralt argues. "And you were gasping for air. Your breathing is still too shallow and your pulse hasn't settled yet."

Jaskier smiles at him, bemused. "Are you the same man who grunted at me that I'd be fine when that arachas nearly took my leg off?"

Geralt closes his eyes, remembering the day. The terror that had clutched at his heart when the monster turned it's beady eyes on Jaskier. The need to treat the wound as something minor to keep the bard from panicking. The dread that gripped him every time he changed the bandage, that he would see the telltale red streaks that would spell disaster. He hadn't breathed easy until the wound was cleanly healed and the risk of infection past. Hadn't even understood, then, why he was so afraid.

But he knows now.

"No," he says quietly, opening his eyes to meet Jaskier's. "Not the same man."

Jaskier opens his mouth, but for once seems uncertain what to say. His eyes roam over Geralt's face, a question hovering in the air between them.

Greta breaks the silence again, this time by announcing cheerfully, "I think everyone is constantly in the process of change. You're not the same person today as you were yesterday--or if you are, you must be incredibly boring. That's the beauty of being human: the ability to reinvent yourself."

She settles into her seat at the table and pulls her bowl closer, inhaling the fragrant steam that wafts off the stew. "Now, enough philosophizing. Let's eat!"

They all dig in and the conversation, carried mostly by Jaskier and Greta, moves on to lighter matters. But Geralt catches the bard's eye a few times during the meal, and Jaskier still looks thoughtful, assessing.

After lunch, they take their leave of Greta. She makes Jaskier promise to bring Geralt back, and then she shocks the witcher by giving him a hard hug while Jaskier is checking to make sure she has enough wood for the night. She's only tall enough to reach his chest and her arms don't go all the way around, but with a tilt of her head, she motions Geralt to lean down. He does, and she whispers swiftly into his ear, "Don't give up on him, dear. His heart may take a while to heal, but it's worth the wait."

Geralt feels a burst of affection for the old woman. He impulsively squeezes her, not too hard, and whispers, "I won't. Thank you, Grandmother."

She pulls back, her face wreathed in smiles, and lays a trembling hand against his cheek. "You're a sweet boy, Geralt. No matter what they've tried to make of you."

Geralt's eyes are stinging as he and Jaskier set out, side by side.

They travel for a moment in silence, both full of their own thoughts, and when they reach the road, Geralt immediately turns toward Caingorn. He hasn't gone more than two paces when Jaskier stops him with a hand curled around his bicep.

"Do you--that is, I was wondering..."

"Wondering what?" Geralt turns back to face the bard, instinctively covering Jaskier's detaining hand with his own.

"Wondering...would you like to come swimming with me?" Jaskier blurts the invitation almost shyly, his eyes studying his boots, and Geralt feels himself lose a little more of his heart.

And that's how he finds himself, a short while later, bobbing in the little blue pool while Jaskier frolics around him, diving and resurfacing and exclaiming over the colorful little fish that come up to nibble his toes when he manages to hold still for more than two seconds.

"You look like an otter," Geralt calls as Jaskier swirls himself around in an exuberant circle.

Jaskier disappears under the surface again, then pops up right in front of Geralt, his hair plastered to his head, eyelashes spiky.

"Well, you look like a merman," he laughs, reaching out to tug at a lock of Geralt's hair.

Geralt raises his eyebrows. "I'm going to assume you've never seen a merman before."

"No." Jaskier bobs closer, fascinated. "Why, what do they look like?"

"Grayish-green skin. Scales. Sharp claws, sharp fangs. Hair like kelp. Eyes like bits of onyx. Fearsome-looking beasts, actually."

"Well." Jaskier sinks down until just his eyes and nose are above the surface. "As I said. A dead ringer."

Geralt pushes his head the rest of the way under with a mock scowl, and Jaskier surfaces spluttering and giggling. Geralt feels an answering grin stretch over his face, pulling at facial muscles grown stiff with disuse, and realizes he can't remember the last time he smiled.

"Gods, I've missed you," he blurts unthinkingly.

Jaskier stills, his face going blank, and Geralt curses himself roundly.

"Think I'll head back," Jaskier says neutrally, and starts for the shore.

Geralt represses an almost overwhelming urge to grab hold of him. "Don't go. Enjoy the water. I'll leave if you want me to."

The bard shakes his head and keeps slogging through the water. Geralt has to turn to keep him in sight "No. This was a bad idea."

"Jaskier." Geralt feels panic clutch at his lungs. "Let me apologize to you. Please."

Jaskier freezes, his back to the witcher, shoulders rising and falling with his exhalations. Geralt holds his own breath. Finally he turns, his face still expressionless. "Fine. Say what you want to say."

Geralt presses his eyes shut, inhales deeply. Tries to marshal his rioting thoughts and emotions. "I'm sorry, Jaskier."

"Okay. Thanks for that." The bard's voice is cold, distant.

But Geralt isn't finished, not by a long shot.

"I'm so fucking sorry for what I said to you on that mountain. I was stupid and I was a dick and I was hurt and I took everything out on you when you'd done nothing wrong."

Across the few feet separating them, Geralt can see the bard's body is stiff, tension in every muscle. "Yes. Agreed. I'm going to go now."

"And then you left, just like I told you to, and I feel like I've been looking for you ever since." Geralt swallows hard. "Searching for your face in every crowd. Hearing your voice in every song. Never finding what I'm looking for."

Jaskier remains silent, but Geralt can see him shaking, a fine tremor starting up in his limbs. The bard's composure slips a fraction, his mouth twisting slightly. Geralt presses on, the truth spilling from him like a river that's burst its dam.

"I was miserable without you, Jask. I felt like I'd died. Everything was bleak, bland, meaningless. The only thing that made me feel anything at all was the thought that I'd hurt you, and that made me wish I was dead."

Jaskier's whole body is trembling now, vibrating so hard it seems like he's about to come apart. The look in his eyes makes Geralt take two involuntary step steps forward, his hand extended beseechingly.

"Please stop," Jaskier whispers, barely audible. "I can't...please let me go."

"Don't run away from me, Jask," Geralt begs, his voice breaking. "I can't stand it. You can yell at me, curse me, hit me. Just don't leave me again."

A sob punches its way out of Jaskier's throat, raw and ugly, and he abruptly goes limp, all of the starch draining out of his spine in an instant.

Geralt doesn't hesitate. He crosses the distance between them in three large strides and then Jaskier is in his arms, his head resting just over the witcher's heart, and something slots back into place inside Geralt's chest. He holds the bard close with one arm and cups the back of his head tenderly with the other.

"Forgive me," Geralt says hoarsely, bending his head to press his lips to Jaskier's temple. "For the gods sakes', please say you can forgive me."

Jaskier gulps, tears streaming down his face. His voice, when he speaks, sounds small and hopeless. "I'd forgiven you before I made it off the mountain, Geralt."

Geralt's arms tighten, pulling the bard closer against him as he drags in a shuddering breath. He feels dizzy, weak with relief. "Thank fuck."

"But I can't do this to myself anymore." Jaskier looks up at him, blue eyes huge and devastated. "I can't continue to let you tear me apart like this."

Geralt's heart stops. He shakes his head, a denial. "I don't--"

"But you do," Jaskier says quietly. He lifts a hand, brushes his knuckles across Geralt's cheek. "You say things all the time about how useless I am, how frivolous, how foolish. How you don't need me or want me around. And each time it fucking guts me."

Geralt makes a low, broken sound. "Jaskier."

"I can't put myself through it any longer." The bard pulls his hand away, balls it into a fist. His face is pale, set, even as tears continue to trickle down his cheeks steadily. "I can't go with you, Geralt."

"Jaskier, please." Geralt can barely speak for how tight his throat is. "I swear on my life, I'll never hurt you again."

Jaskier laughs hollowly. "No good. I already know how little your life means to you."

"Then on your life," Geralt says desperately. "You must know that your life means more to me than anything else."

"Don't say that to me," Jaskier chokes. He suddenly looks wrung dry, exhausted, but the tears continue to fall. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"It's true," Geralt insists. "I didn't understand, I didn't realize until you were gone, but you--you're so important to me, Jask."

"Stop." Jaskier shakes his head, closes his eyes. "I know I'm just a silly bard. I'm okay with that. You don't have to--"

"You're not just anything," Geralt breaks in fiercely. "It's my fault you think that. I made you think your humor, your sweetness was a weakness when it's anything but. Do you have any idea how rare it is to find a person like you in this world?"

Jaskier gapes at him, astonishment stamping his features. "I--"

"All my life, I've felt like at best, people would see me as a tool to fight evil. At worst, they would consider me part of that evil." Geralt shakes his head, strokes a reverent thumb along Jaskier's cheek. "And then you came along and made me feel like so much more."

"You are so much more," Jaskier insists, scowling. "Just because the world is full of small-minded assholes, that doesn't make them right."

Geralt brushes away a tear clinging to Jaskier's lower lashes. "See? Defending me to the last, even when I've been a complete bastard to you. The only person who ever wanted me for exactly who I was, and I told him it would be a blessing if he went away."

Jaskier hiccups. "Y-you didn't mean it," he says, sounding unsure.

"I didn't mean it," Geralt agrees. "But it doesn't matter. I hurt you. If it's any consolation, I hurt myself just as badly."

"Maybe a little bit," Jaskier mutters, and one corner of his mouth tips upward, making Geralt's heart soar with hope.

"I don't deserve your forgiveness," he says baldly. "I've been a fool. Not just once, but over and over. But I swear to you that if you'll give me one more chance, I will never take you for granted again."

Jaskier hesitates. "I'm not ready to leave Caingorn yet. I like it here, and there's Greta, and--"

"I'll stay," Geralt promises instantly. He doesn't think about it. There is nothing to think about.

Jaskier's eyebrows shoot up. "Just like that? What about your witchering?"

Geralt shrugs. "I'm due a vacation."

Jaskier smiles tentatively. "Didn't think you knew what those were."

"I told you, bard." Geralt pulls Jaskier close again, resting his chin atop the bard's head as they embrace in the midst of a swirl of the tiny, brightly colored fish. "I'm not the same man."

Chapter Text

The next weeks pass in a blur of contentment. Jaskier's presence in Geralt's life is like the return of the sun after a long, cold winter, and Geralt luxuriates in the warmth of it, spending every moment possible with the bard.

They fall into a pattern of visiting Greta to help her and stuff themselves with her delicious cooking most mornings. Their afternoons are less structured-sometimes they wander the city, sometimes they swim, sometimes they assist Doris with one of the many projects she wants to tackle at the inn. She's steadfastly refused payment from both of them since they returned together that first afternoon. She claims that Jaskier's music every evening more than covers their room and board and won't hear any arguments, so they just try to lend a hand whenever she needs it.

Jaskier's fans have become accustomed to Geralt's presence in the dining room and no longer attempt to assault him, although it was touch and go the first few times. Jaskier had to work his magic to settle the room and stop people trying to slip deadly concoctions into Geralt's ale. It still happens occasionally, although most have subsided into shooting him resentful glares periodically throughout the night.

At the end of the evening, they bid each other good night and retire to their separate rooms. Geralt has entertained the notion of asking Jaskier to share, but he doesn't want to push too far, too fast. For now, he's happy enough that he no longer hears Jaskier crying before the soft sound of his peaceful snores drifts through the wall.

Although he's left the room situation alone for present, Geralt has begun to...court his friend, after a fashion. He doesn't suppose Jaskier realizes that's what's going on, but that fact matters less than making sure the bard knows he is cared for, thought of, looked after.

He brings tarts and croissants and pastries from the kitchen every morning, cheerfully aided and abetted by Doris. He buys exotic fruits and honey from the slowly-warming merchants in town and brews tea with the bard's breakfast to soothe his throat. He also finds himself shopping for fripperies for the first time in his life, sorting through the shopkeeps' stalls looking for sweet smelling soaps or finely crafted accessories that he knows Jaskier will adore. He wheedles a large tub out of Doris (not difficult, once she understood the purpose) for Jaskier's exclusive use and hauls buckets of water up himself for baths every night. He heats them with magic and feels no compunctions about it. He massages the bard's hands after his performances, rubbing out the tension while Jaskier lies in said bath, completely boneless.

That's as much a treat for Geralt as it is for Jaskier, honestly. He tries not to stare too hard at his friend's beautiful, nude body reclined in the hot water. Tries not to imagine the blissed-out expression on his face a result of other attentions he'd like to pay the bard. Tries not to let himself be affected by the sweet sounds that slip from Jaskier's lips, little sighs and murmurs of Geralt's name that have him testing the integrity of the stitches in his trousers.

If Geralt had been forced to guess, he would have predicted that he would be awful at this sort of thing. And maybe in some ways he is--after all, his intended courtee is unaware that he's being single mindedly pursued. But the truth is, Geralt finds it the easiest thing in the world to do nice things for Jaskier. It brings him an inordinate amount of joy to perform some small task or present some trinket and watch the wonder spread over Jaskier's face. He reacts with incredulous delight each time, which makes Geralt even more aware of what a bastard he's been in the past.

He still sees it in Jaskier's eyes sometimes, when he realizes he's being extra loud or chatty or silly: a brief flash of apprehension, as if he's waiting for Geralt to say something cutting. An expectation of being slapped down.

It only strengthens Geralt's resolve that his bard should never feel that way again.

To his surprise, Geralt even finds that he's better with his words than he would have surmised--he, who has so often struggled to gentle his tone, to give voice to any kinder emotions. He's not suddenly gifted with a silver tongue or a dose of extra charm--he just finds himself unable to refrain from saying all manner of soft, foolish things that pop into his head.

"I enjoyed your performance."

"That color suits you."

"Talk to me, Jaskier--I like the sound of your voice."

"You know I value your opinion."

"You're so fucking smart. How did Oxenfurt let you slip away?"

And, most embarrassing, one day while working in Greta's garden: "All of this manual labor seems to agree with you. Your physique is looking quite impressive."

At which Jaskier looks like he thinks Geralt might be suffering from a head injury, and Geralt thinks longingly of melting into the dirt.

Fuck's sake, he thinks, disgusted with himself. Who says 'physique'?

But then Jaskier smiles, tentatively pleased, and says, "Thanks, love," and Geralt doesn't feel quite so stupid after all.

A secret little thrill grips him every time Jaskier calls him one of those pet names: love, dear, darling. He hasn't quite gotten brave enough to utter the "sweetheart" on the tip of his own tongue, but with how often he's thinking it, he's sure it's going to slip out sooner or later.

He can't seem to stop himself from putting his hands on Jaskier at the slightest opportunity either. Brushing an errant lock of hair back into place, touching his arm to get his attention, placing a possessive hand on the small of his back as they cross a crowded room.

He's also fairly sure that every time he looks at his friend his face does something ridiculous. He can feel it happening: his lips automatically turning up, his eyes going soft and dreamy. He feels it must be glaringly obvious to everyone that he's completely besotted with the little bard.

It's certainly obvious to Doris and Greta, the meddling old hens. They can't seem to stop smirking wherever Geralt's in the vicinity, shooting him knowing looks whenever they think Jaskier isn't looking. He tries scowling menacingly at them, but neither of them seem particularly cowed.

For his part, Jaskier seems to blossom under the attention. Geralt had thought he looked well when he'd arrived in Caingorn, but the bard has become, impossibly, more lovely than ever. His eyes look bluer, his grin brighter, his skin virtually glowing with good health and happiness. Anytime they're in the same room, Geralt can barely tear his eyes away.

He is in so much fucking trouble.

But, drunk on the wine of Jaskier's smile, he's finding it hard to care. Geralt hoards the moments they spend together like a dragon crouching over its gold, unwilling to lose even a single glittering second.

Jaskier's hair sticking out in all directions when he opens the door to Geralt's morning breakfast delivery. The care with which he takes Greta's hand to help her up. The trickle of sweat sliding over the ball of one strong shoulder. The clear, true ring of his voice as he brings the water from the well. The mischief in his expression when he tries to push Geralt under the water while they're swimming. The way the sunlight caresses his face as they lie next to other on the bank to dry out. Blue eyes meeting gold across the room while he's performing. The secret smile that blooms just for Geralt. A tousled head resting on his shoulder at the end of the night, when Jaskier's had one too many. The sweet sound of his husky laugh in Geralt's ear. The feeling of the fine, delicate bones of his fingers placed trustingly in Geralt's huge, rough hands.

The thought that he's spent twenty years pushing this away claws at his gut. He's wasted so much time. And even though he's fairly sure there's something special going on in Jaskier's physiology that makes the passage of time somewhat irrelevant (the man doesn't look a day older than when they met), Geralt is determined to savor every moment going forward.

And so he does.

The days meld together, one long, sunlit stretch full of satisfying hard work and lazy golden afternoons and Jaskier, and Geralt has never been so happy in all his life.

But of course, nothing lasts forever.

It's a beautiful morning that begins like all the others, Jaskier's excitement over his breakfast pastry made no less fervent by the fact that it's roughly the fiftieth time Geralt has met him at his door with one. They set off together for Greta's, and Jaskier stops on the way to buy her a little pot of the jam she favors and pick a bouquet of wildflowers.

Geralt tucks a daisy behind his ear and admires the effect as they make their way out of town. I should bring Jaskier flowers, he thinks, watching the way the bard keeps raising his hand to check that the bloom is still secure. Is that too obvious? Oh, who cares? He deserves flowers.

They reach Greta's cottage within a few minutes and Geralt goes straight to the well while Jaskier makes his way inside to deliver his gifts. He's just pulling up the first bucketful of water when he hears a low, distressed cry, followed by the crash of crockery.

He's dropped the bucket and is running before the sound dies away. He bursts through the door of the cottage like a fury, instincts on high alert and every muscle primed for attack.

What he sees stops him in his tracks.

Greta is sitting in her favorite chair, facing the garden and the rising sun. Her eyes are closed, her face serene, her lips tilted up in a joyful smile.

She is unnaturally still. No breath of air stirs her slight frame.

Jaskier is kneeling before her, clasping her lifeless fingers in his own, his head bowed over their joined hands. His shoulders are shaking soundlessly. The little pot of jam lies shattered at his feet, the flowers cast aside, never to be appreciated by their intended recipient.

"Oh, Jask," Geralt murmurs, and goes to him. He kneels down beside the bard and wraps his arms around him, gathering him close. Jaskier turns to him instinctively, burying his face against Geralt's shoulder as he trembles with grief.

"I know she was old," he says, his voice thick with tears. "But I d-didn't think--"

"Sssshhh," Geralt soothes him, rubbing a hand up and down his back. "She didn't suffer, dear one. She passed peacefully. It was a good death."

Jaskier nods into Geralt's shoulder, then hiccups. "I didn't get to say goodbye."

"She knew you loved her." Geralt strokes a gentle hand through the bard's hair. "That's all that matters."

He shifts his weight slightly, getting more comfortable, and Jaskier makes a rueful sound, tries to pull away. His eyes are still streaming, but he makes a valiant effort to sniff back his tears.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to--"

"Don't apologize." Geralt refuses to let him go. Pulls his head back down to rest on the broad shelf of his shoulder again. "Cry all you like. I'll be here."

Jaskier melts back into his arms with a grateful murmur and Geralt, unable to stop himself, places a featherlight kiss on the crown of his bard's bent head.

They bury Greta the next day, laying her to rest on her property at the foot of a sprawling yew tree that she'd especially liked.

She has no family to speak of, but many of Jaskier's friends and admirers attend the service, which consists of a kindly local priest delivering a short eulogy and Jaskier, clad in his bardic best, singing a few of Greta's favorite songs (one of which is a bawd so naughty, the priest crosses himself at several points).

Despite a slight wobble in his voice, Jaskier performs admirably, and Geralt catches several people making heavy use of their handkerchiefs.

After he's finished, Jaskier reverently places a small bouquet of forget-me-nots on Greta's breast before she's gently lowered into the ground. Geralt steps forward and silently takes the bard's hand in his own as a few volunteers began to shovel dirt over the simple wooden box. The tip of Jaskier's nose is pink and he's blinking furiously, but he smiles over at Geralt through his tears.

" The first time I met her, she was out by the road, mending her gate. The latch was broken. I stopped to ask if I could help, and when she turned to look at me, she said, 'Why so sad, child? He's coming back for you, you know.'"

Geralt draws in a hard, unsteady breath and squeezes the bard's hand. "She was a wise woman."

"Yes." Jaskier looks back towards the slowly filling grave. "She also told me to give you another chance the day you met her."

Geralt swipes a hand over his burning eyes. His voice sounds rusty when he speaks. "Did she?"

Jaskier hums. "I told her that you broke my heart, and she just smiled and said, 'Only right that he should put it back together, then.'"

They stand there together, the crowd slowly dispersing around them, until the last bit of dirt has been shoveled onto the tidy little mound under the yew. Then they turn as one and head back to town, their hands still linked between them.

Jaskier is a little more solemn in the days after Greta's passing. He still laughs and jokes and smiles and chatters, but from time to time his eyes will go sad and a bit distant, and Geralt will know he's remembering his friend.

He understands. He hadn't known the woman long, but, like Jaskier, she had been generous with her affection, and it's obvious that she and the bard had forged a special bond. So when Jaskier goes quiet, Geralt doesn't push. He just lets him remember. And when he doesn't want to venture past the cottage out to their swimming spot, Geralt suggests an alternate activity.

It's how they end up picking berries one afternoon in the forest a short distance from town, the bushes full to bursting with fruit so plump and juicy that they have to be careful not to crush them as they pull them off the vine. They each have a bucket that they're supposed to be filling, although Jaskier is so busy cramming the sweet fruit in his mouth that Geralt doesn't think he's dropped a single berry in his pail.

"Going to be awfully hard for Doris to bake you that pie with nothing to put in it," Geralt observes, sliding a sideways look at the bard, whose eyes are closed in apparent rapture as he pops another berry in his mouth.

Jaskier responds with a moan. "How can you stop eating these long enough to pick any?"

Geralt attempts a pious expression. "Self restraint. And also I'm not a glutton."

Jaskier screeches in outrage behind him. "How dare you, you fucking hypocrite? You do realize that I've seen you devour practically an entire cow in one sitting, right?"

With difficulty, Geralt keeps his lips from twitching. "It's important to keep my protein intake high to fuel muscle growth."

"Is it also important to keep your bullshit output high?" Jaskier shoots back, and Geralt turns just in time to catch him filching a handful of berries from Geralt's bucket, which is fucking empty because he now realizes Jaskier has been stealing them out of it the whole time.

There's a brief silence while Geralt looks from the bucket to the bard with narrowed eyes, then Jaskier crams the berries he's holding in his mouth and takes off running with a shout of laughter.

Geralt gives chase instantly, his blood igniting with the thrill of the hunt. Jaskier is nimble and fast, but he's no match for witcher mutagens. Still, Geralt lets him take the lead for a moment, enjoying the stretch and coil of his muscles and the wild cackling Jaskier is doing as he darts away through the trees.

Geralt settles into an easy lope behind the bard, occasionally getting close enough to playfully snatch at his shirt, making Jaskier shriek and put on another burst of speed. Then Geralt falls back a short distance, banking the primal instinct that urges him to chase, catch, mate.

Ahead, a copse of thick fir trees loom, and Jaskier ducks into them with a telling smirk over his shoulder. He's planning something.

Geralt enters the grove a moment later at a brisk trot, his head on a swivel to catch any surprises the bard might throw at him. He's expecting a sneak attack from behind one of the sturdy trunks, but instead Jaskier drops soundlessly from the branches above Geralt's head like an overgrown bird of prey.

Warned by some sixth sense, Geralt figures it out in enough time to dance aside, but instead he instinctively turns and throws his arms up in some misguided attempt to catch the bard.

Which he does, and immediately goes down like a felled kikimore.

"Got you!" Jaskier crows triumphantly, sitting astride Geralt and looking entirely too pleased with himself. "The hunter becomes the hunted!"

"We'll see about that," Geralt gasps, winded from taking the brunt of the impact, and with a quick heave and twist, he handily reverses their positions, his knees landing on either side of the bard's slim hips and his hands pinning Jaskier's wrists above his head to prevent retaliation.

But then he gets a good look at the bard's face and feels his heart stutter. Jaskier's laughing, his head tipped back in the dry needles carpeting the forest floor, his eyes dancing with merriment, his lips purple from the berries and looking just as plump and sweet. The feeling of his lean strength pinned under Geralt's weight, the intoxicating scent of his sweat, and his joyful, mischievous expression all combine to hit Geralt low in the gut, swamping him with a wave of emotion so intense that he chokes out, unthinking, "Gods, Jaskier, you are so damned beautiful."

The mirth drops off Jaskier's face like a stone, shock registering. "What?"

"Fuck." Geralt comes back to reality with a jolt, the words he spoke suddenly registering in his brain, and panic explodes behind his breastbone instantly because how can he have been so stupid and his friend looks fucking dumbfounded and he cannot lose Jaskier again, he won't survive it a second time--

"I'm sorry," he croaks, closing his eyes against the force of his own horror. His throat is dry as dust. "I just--was thinking it, but I didn't mean to say it. I know you don't--well--fuck, I'm such an idiot."

"You...think I'm beautiful?" Jaskier asks slowly, sounding strange, and when Geralt dares to open his eyes again, the bard is gazing at him with that same look of slowly blooming wonder as when Geralt draws him a bath or brings him a cup of tea. The fact that he doesn't seem angry, that he, in fact, looks rather pleased, gives hope a toehold in the morass of the witcher's mortification.

"Gods, yes," Geralt rasps, his voice gone even rougher than usual. "Yes, Jaskier. You're so fucking lovely it hurts."

"Oh," Jaskier breathes, blinking rapidly. "Oh. Well then, would you...would you mind terribly... kissing me?"

Geralt goes still, hardly daring to believe his ears. "You. Want me to kiss you?"

"I would like that very much," Jaskier says shyly, then adds hastily, "If you want to, that is."

"If I want to?" Geralt echoes incredulously. He seems incapable of anything but repeating what the bard's just said. Fuck, is he joking? If Geralt wants to?

Jaskier bites his lip, looking suddenly self-conscious. "Please."

Please.

The word flips a switch in Geralt's brain. He growls, pressing their bodies closer, lowering his head until their lips are brushing as he speaks. "Listen to me, sweetheart, and listen well. You don't ever have to beg me for a kiss. Not ever. Do you hear me? I should be the one begging you."

And then he closes the final millimeter between them and licks his way into Jaskier's mouth, groaning brokenly at the taste of him.

Fuck, even better than he'd imagined.

"So good, Jask, so fucking sweet," he pulls back just long enough to slur, already half out of his mind with desire, then takes Jaskier's mouth again, greedily swallowing the whimpers that rise from the back of the bard's throat.

Geralt loses himself in kissing Jaskier. In some corner of his mind he knows that he's completely without finesse, just wet and messy and desperate, but the way Jaskier is moaning and shuddering under him seems to indicate that he doesn't mind.

Finally, Geralt's wolf won't be ignored any longer. "Please, want to mark you," he mumbles, already kissing his way down the bard's jaw.

Jaskier just hums agreeably, so Geralt takes that as assent and starts eagerly sucking a bruise into his neck. Jaskier whines in response, his wrists twitching spasmodically under Geralt's fingers as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

Geralt worries the patch of skin between his teeth until there's vivid purple splotch decorating Jaskier's pale throat and the bard is squirming and panting beneath him, then sits back to admire the mark. His wolf snarls in satisfaction-- now everyone will know who the little songbird belongs to.

Then he turns to the embarrassment of riches he knows lies beneath the buttons of the bard's shirt, tugging at the material impatiently.

"Please, can I take it off?" he asks, and makes himself wait until Jaskier huffs a laugh and nods.

Then he rips the thing straight down the middle, causing Jaskier to gasp, though Geralt can't tell if it's due to outrage or arousal. He figures probably the latter, though, since the next thing the bard does is use his newly liberated hands to tear at Geralt's own shirt.

"Get it off," he demands, giving up on removing it himself and pushing his fingers under the hem, running them over the planes of Geralt's flat belly. "Oh fuck, get it off so I can look at you."

Geralt obliges, pulling the thing over his head one-handed while Jaskier just watches him, pupils blown wide, lips red and swollen.

"You have no right being this gorgeous," he says, sounding actually a bit disgruntled about it. "No right going around looking like a fucking walking wet dream, distracting innocent bards. How dare you."

Before Geralt can put together any sort of response to that, Jaskier dips his fingertips under the waistband of Geralt's pants. That would have been enough on its own to short-circuit his brain, but then said fingertips brush over the head of his very hard, very erect penis, and Geralt makes a sound that he will definitely be embarrassed about later, when he can remember how to feel anything other than completely lust-fucked.

"Sweet Melitele," Jaskier breathes, and immediately begins tugging at the buttons of Geralt's pants, popping them free as quickly as he can. "These trousers. Did you have them specially tailored to drive me insane?"

Geralt can barely form a coherent thought, let alone give voice to one. "I don't--what do you--"

Jaskier, true to form, is still talking, an especially dirty version of his usual stream of consciousness.

"So fucking tight, and clingy, I can see every single muscle in your thighs and your delicious fucking arse, gods, and all these buttons just straining over this bulge, I just want to suck--"

Right about then he manages to undo enough of the buttons that Geralt's cock slips free of the confining fabric and springs out right into his eager hands, and Jaskier makes a high, incredulous noise, as if this is a completely unforseen development.

But then he wraps both hands around the length of it and strokes, and Geralt tips his head back and groans at the branches above them as everything below his navel goes hot and liquid.

"You like it," Jaskier marvels, his voice sounding slightly awestruck. His fists tighten reflexively, his thumb slips over the swollen head on the upstroke, and he seems to register for the first time the fact that Geralt is steadily oozing precum. "Oh fuck, you like it a lot."

Geralt knows that looking back down is a mistake, especially as he's trying to focus on making sure Jaskier has the time of his fucking life, but he can't resist the temptation to take a peek and see if the bard's hands look as good wrapped around his cock as they feel. So he does it, he lets himself look, and oh. Oh gods.

The sight of the bard's pale, nimble fingers working against his ruddy shaft, not quite able to meet around the girth, is undeniably one of the hottest things he's ever seen. It makes his stomach muscles clench, makes him hiss in a harsh breath between his teeth. But even better than that is Jaskier's face-- he's staring at Geralt's cock all wide-eyed, his expression hungry and almost reverent, and Geralt feels himself get impossibly harder, another surge of precum welling from his slit.

"Jaskier," Geralt growls, and the bard's eyes snap to his, even as he continues to palm Geralt's cock greedily.

"Yes, love?" he breathes. "Tell me what you want. I'll do anything you like."

By all the gods. The bard is going to kill him.

"Please," Geralt grits out, then has to pause to breathe for a second when a bead of his pre-cum drips onto Jaskier's stomach and the bard lets out an approving little murmur. "Please, let me suck you."

Jaskier shudders, head to toe, and his mouth falls open. He looks poleaxed. "Are...you sure?" he asks, his voice strangled.

Geralt can relate. "Yes," he says, as composedly as he's able to--so not very. "I would like to suck your dick. If you'll let me."

Jaskier sounds a little hysterical when he laughs. "Well, if you must."

Geralt nods soberly. "I'm afraid it's an absolute necessity."

Together, they turn to the task of removing Jaskier's breeches, managing it with a minimum of shifting and sliding. Geralt feels a bit more steady now that he isn't being expertly jerked off... Or at least, he does until he's down between Jaskier's legs, looking at the exceptionally pretty cock that he's about to have the pleasure of swallowing.

He doesn't know that he's ever thought of a cock as pretty before, but Jaskier's is. Of course it is. Not as long or thick as Geralt's, it's still an impressive size, flushed red, hard and leaking. His balls are full and round, his hole a dusky pink pucker that Geralt can just make out between between the spread of his legs.

On the whole, every part of the little bard looks nothing short of edible, and Geralt fully intends to savor every bit of him.

He starts off with tentative licks to the crown, just tasting the pearly drops beading at the tip. He's surprised to find that he's faintly nervous--he hasn't done this often, and it's been quite a while. What if he's... bad at it? However, his fears are quickly put to rest by Jaskier's response, which seems to vacillate between gasping for air and filthy words of encouragement as Geralt tongues his slit, licks at his balls, mouths at his hip bones, and generally does whatever he can to work the bard into a frenzy without actually sucking his cock.

However, this has the unintended effect of working Geralt into an equal frenzy. The sounds falling from the bard's open mouth, the musk of his sex, the taste of him on Geralt's tongue, have him grinding into the dirt, completely unable to help himself, while Jaskier writhes and moans under him. Finally, when he feels neither of them can withstand any more teasing, he takes mercy on them both and swallows the bard's cock to the root.

Jaskier cries out, his spine arching off the ground, and Geralt groans in response. He could get off, just like this, the witcher thinks hazily, looking up at Jaskier's face, contorted with pleasure, feeling the tension in his body as he struggles not to fuck Geralt's throat raw. Could let go and just come all over himself just from listening to the pleading little whines that Jaskier's futilely trying to trap behind his teeth. Just from knowing that he, Geralt, is the reason Jaskier is making those sweet little desperate noises.

But he has other plans.

He pops off Jaskier's cock and clears his throat, but his voice still comes out hoarse and raspy. "Jaskier. Look at me."

Jaskier opens his eyes obediently, although he can't seem to stop whimpering.

Geralt pets over his trembling thighs gently. "Sssshhh. It's okay. Just wanted to ask you something."

Jaskier garbles something incoherent, his tone questioning and vaguely indignant.

Geralt runs his thumb over the seam of the bard's tight, lightly furred balls and then lower, tracing gently over his perineum before settling the digit just against Jaskier's tightly furled rim. The bard's noises pitch up slightly and he rocks into the pressure.

"After you've finished coming in my mouth, could I please eat you out?"

Geralt's barely finished the question before he's sliding back down on Jaskier's dick, hollowing his cheeks as he applies suction. He wiggles his thumb at the same time, more of a massage than an attempt at entry, and Jaskier shouts and goes rigid, his cock jerking as he spurts straight down Geralt's willing throat.

Geralt swallows every drop, then pulls off and licks his lips just to make sure he hasn't missed any.

There's silence for about thirty seconds, and then: "Geralt, gods above, your fucking mouth," Jaskier says, sounding wrecked, and Geralt just shoots him a predatory grin and pushes his legs up.

"Geralt, what are you--" Jaskier begins, voice squeaking into another octave, then shrieks the instant Geralt's tongue touches his rim. "Sweet fucking mother of--"

Geralt makes a hungry noise, cups the bard's bottom in both hands and spreads him wide. Licks over his fluttering hole all the way back up to his balls. Does it again as the music of Jaskier's cries rings in his ears. Then settles in for a better taste, sucking and licking mercilessly until he's worked his tongue as deep as he can get it in Jaskier's ass.

Jaskier, for his part, has given up on anything resembling words, even curses. He's sobbing incoherently, his cock already stiff again, his body thrashing under Geralt's ministrations. Geralt can't help but feel a little smug; if it's been a long time since he's had a cock in his mouth, it's been even longer since he's done this, but apparently he's still pretty good at it.

Of course, the fact that every sound out of Jaskier's mouth drives him to do more, to try make it even better could be part of his success, as well as the fact that he feels like he's actually starving for this man. Every taste, every lick, every nibble helps to soothe a wild hunger that's been simmering unchecked in Geralt's belly for weeks. A hunger he thought he might never have the chance to sate.

And now, incredibly, Jaskier is spread out before him like a sacrificial offering, all Geralt's for the touching and tasting... and taking.

The thought makes his cock throb and Geralt gropes blindly in his pocket for the little vial of oil he bought the other day in the market and has been carrying around ever since. It's scent, another little trinket he thought Jaskier might enjoy, and probably not intended for the purpose to which he intends to put it. But needs must. It's slick and it will get the job done. He refuses to do this dry and risk hurting Jaskier.

Although maybe dry is a stretch--Jaskier is glistening with a combination of sweat, spit, and cum--the oil will help. Geralt is above average in size and Jaskier feels tight as a vice, so the more preparation the better.

Geralt finds the oil and reluctantly withdraws his tongue, giving Jaskier's twitching hole one last affectionate kiss. "Be right back," he whispers to it, then sits back on his heels to uncork the bottle.

Geralt surveys the wreckage of a bard laid out under him and notes fondly that he looks as though he's been in a brawl. His hair is in complete disarray, his chest heaving like a bellows, and at some point he's bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He is also staring at Geralt incredulously. "Are you... talking to my asshole?" he croaks finally.

The sound of his voice, completely destroyed by all the screaming he's been doing, makes Geralt fumble the glass vial and almost drop it. He gives Jaskier a reproving look as he gets a better hold on the slippery little tube and pulls the stopper out.

"We're friends now," he says, dribbling some of the aromatic oil onto his new friend and beginning to massage it in with a careful fingertip. "We've gotten very close recently."

Jaskier's face does something complicated. He looks torn between moaning and laughing. "I'm- ah- aware of the relationship. But I'm not sure you're a good influence on him. It. Me. Melitele, I can't think."

"That's fine," Geralt assures him, and presses his index finger in up to the second knuckle. "You don't have to. Just say 'Yes, Geralt.'"

Jaskier tries to look peeved but can't quite manage it. "Yes, Geralt?" he echoes skeptically.

"Perfect. Now, be a good boy and hold still so I can get you ready to take my cock. Please."

Jaskier's breath snags in his throat. "Yes, Geralt," he says huskily.

Opening him up turns out to be both easier and harder than Geralt had imagined. Easier because Geralt has already done a thorough job with his tongue and Jaskier's body is so relaxed and pliant that there's almost no resistance to be found. And harder because the way his channel keeps squeezing around Geralt's fingers and he keeps moaning, "Yes, Geralt," is severely testing the witcher's self control.

"Should have known you'd take the piss even when you're gagging for it," he mutters, and twists his wrist in retaliation, nudging his questing fingers right up against the bard's prostate.

Jaskier almost levitates off the ground, his body bucks so violently. He wails a wordless plea, and the last thread of Geralt's frayed restraint snaps. He pulls his fingers free as gently as he can and tries not to feel like a bastard when Jaskier whimpers softly.

"Don't, Jask, I've got you," he murmurs, trying to sound steady and sure while his hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold the bottle of oil. He ends up sloshing most of what's left over himself, then tosses it aside carelessly.

Lining himself up, the head of his cock nudging eagerly at Jaskier's slick, swollen rim, he meets the bard's eyes.

"Ready?" he asks. It's a stupid question, he knows. He's spent quite a long time making sure that Jaskier is ready. But somehow, that's not what he means. It's not what he means at all.

What he really means is, Are you with me? Do you want this? Are you sure?

"Yes, Geralt," Jaskier says softly, and a sweet smile flickers at the corners of his mouth. He understands what Geralt's really asking.

Of course he does.

Taking a deep breath, Geralt presses forward. Jaskier's hole puts up the most token of token resistances, then stretches to fit him like a fucking glove. He pushes in in one long, slow slide that feels like the nearest thing to paradise he'll ever experience, watching Jaskier's face the whole time, looking for a sign of discomfort or hesitation. The bard just stares back at him, mouth ajar, lashes fluttering, that awed expression back in his eyes.

"Geralt," he chokes, "Geralt, Geralt," and Geralt nods, his breath hitching.

"I know, sweetheart. I know. Me too."

When he's buried to the hilt, Geralt drops his forehead to rest against the bard's, gasping raggedly. He had known it would be good between them since the moment he'd dared to allow himself to think about such things, but this feeling of rightness, of completion is something he's never even dreamed of.

Without lifting his head, he rocks a little bit, a testing sort of thrust, and they groan simultaneously at the sensation. Geralt does it again, and again, not pulling out more than a couple of inches before he grinds back in as deep as he can get, the bard's body welcoming him back like he's vital, necessary to its continued survival.

When he's imagined this in the past (and he has imagined it, despite his admonitions to himself), he's fantasized about them coming together fast and hard, the force of their desire for each other burning too brightly for them to contain. He's imagined it soft and gentle, whispering sweet words to each other as they chased their mutual pleasure.

But never has he thought that it would be like this: every moment an earth-shattering revelation, every place their skin is touching a silken caress, every tiny movement a tug he can feel in his gut, his head, his heart.

And Jaskier, for all his affairs and liaisons, looks just as thunderstruck as Geralt feels. He's gasping like he's run a mile, his eyes hazy with pleasure and terribly, terribly soft, and his whole body is juddering against Geralt's as though he might fly apart if Geralt doesn't hold him together.

So Geralt does. He holds his bard close and rocks into him slow and deep and looks straight into those wondering blue eyes, when, his heart too full to hold it back, he whispers, "I love you, Jaskier. Gods, how I love you."

Jaskier cries out, clenching down hard where they're joined, and Geralt feels the hot flood of his release between them. It causes his own climax to hit him like a punch to the gut, and he grinds deep one more time, stays buried there while he jerks and spills, his body practically convulsing with the strength of his orgasm.

He doesn't think he passes out, but he does lose some time then while his brain is struggling to reshape itself from the puddle of goo it's turned into. Eventually, he comes back to himself enough to realize that he's sprawled atop Jaskier, his body slack and doubtlessly heavy, and he rolls to the side with a grunt of apology, pulling Jaskier up against him snugly.

The bard doesn't seem to be much better off than Geralt: he allows himself to be positioned with nary a murmur of complaint, just blinking owlishly from his makeshift pillow of Geralt's chest.

They lay like that for a while, their breathing gradually slowing and evening out, and as oxygen returns to his brain, Geralt begins to experience misgivings about Jaskier's continued silence.

The bard is many things, but quiet is rarely one of them. And Geralt can think of one glaring reason why Jaskier might be suddenly reluctant to speak.

"Jask," he says gently, when he can stand the silence no longer, "I... hope you don't mind."

Jaskier squints at him, looking as if he's been startled out of some deep thought. "Mind?"

"What I said," Geralt clarifies, feeling unaccountably like a child who's broken the rules. "About me. Um. Loving you."

"Oh." Jaskier's face is unreadable, which disconcerts Geralt further. "Why would I mind? Did you not--" his expression flickers, too quickly for Geralt to decipher. "Did you not mean it?"

The question is so ridiculous that Geralt openly scoffs. "Of course I meant it. Don't be ridiculous. But I. Well." He flounders, not sure how to put what he's thinking into words. "Look, I understand if that's not what you want. I understand if you don't want to travel the path. I know you've built a life here without me and you have friendship and family and happiness. Plenty of good company and people who care for you and your music and just... Everything your heart desires. So I understand if I... If I don't fit, or at least I don't fit like that."

"Everything my heart desires," Jaskier echoes, his voice suddenly thick, and Geralt is horrified to see tears welling in the bard's eyes.

"Please don't cry, sweetheart." He is desperately afraid that he's going to cry, himself.

"Everything my heart desires," Jaskier says again, and then he smiles, so bright and beautiful that it literally takes Geralt's breath away. "Oh, Geralt, darling. Don't you know that the only thing my heart has ever really desired--is you?"

They don't make it back to the inn until hours later, and when they do their pails are empty. Doris starts to say something about the pie, but then she takes a closer look and notices their disheveled clothing, their guilty, flushed faces, and the soft, secret little smiles they keep shooting at each other, and instead she promptly bursts into tears and flings her arms around them both.