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dreamofbecoming · 2 years

Text

bitten lips and broken hands

the incomparable @wren-of-the-woods tagged me in a totally innocuous wip ask game, and although i had no current wips, this apparently triggered my latent gifted child programming and i ended up staying up all night to write this

so thank you wren from the bottom of my heart, and i hope all y’all enjoy whatever the fuck this is

geraskier/implied pre-geraskefer

rating: t

wc: 6500

ao3

Geralt is drunk. Properly drunk, too, not just the lights are all brighter and the jokes all funnier drunk. Perhaps not quite oh dear, is that the floor? How did it get all the way up he- drunk, but certainly in the vicinity of I might not remember deciding to homestead in this ditch on the side of the road, but surely it was a good decision and I stand by it drunk.

In his defense, he’s quite sure he’s earned it. They all have, after everything. So many of his brothers dead, blood soaking into the stone floor again, throwing him back to the Sacking...he snatches the bottle from Lambert and downs another swig of White Gull to cut off that line of thinking. That’s why they’re getting drunk, to stop thinking about it. Getting maudlin, while on brand, defeats the whole purpose. Ciri is safe, gone to bed hours ago, and he got Yen settled into an empty room (near Vesemir’s, who promised to keep an ear out in case she tried anything unsavory) after supper before heading back down to get pissed with his brothers, so there’s nothing keeping him from what he’s definitely earned.

Vartok and Tolbert are already passed out, drooling on the floor in front of the fire, but Geralt and Eskel and Lambert have at least another bottle to get through.

“So whas- wash- what’s the deal with your bard, anyway? The fuck’d you bring him here for?”

“Lam, don’ be a fuckin’ prick, hey? Bard’s nice enough. Likes Lil Bleater! ‘s good people!”

“’as how I know he’s mad! Nobob- boby- nobody likes that bloody monster! Fuckin’ menace she is.”

“Don’ fuckin’ insult my damn goat, you ass! Yer jus’ cross she got into your room las’ year. ‘s yer own fault! Told you! Shut the door! Pass the damn Gull, Wolf, quit hoggin’ it.”

“Those were bran’ new boots! Fuckin’ beast! You still owe me new ones, ya prick. The fuck was I talking about anyway?”

Geralt is only half listening to the familiar bickering, so Eskel has to stop guzzling from the rapidly emptying bottle to answer. “Bard,” he nods decisively, going back to the bottle.

“Right! Bard! The fuck were you thinking, Pretty Boy? Fancy type like that, all, all frilly and shit, what good is he in a wisher- witcher keep? Tossing rocks about in the middle of fights? ‘ sides, dunno why he’s still hangin’ around you anyway, din’ you chase him off? Don’ belong here, that one.”

“I know,” Geralt laments. He does know. It’s why he never invited Jaskier here to winter with him, despite the many and myriad hints he pretended not to pick up on over the years. He knew from the moment he met Jaskier that this place, with its ghosts and bloodstains and drafty corridors and broken edges and broken witchers, was no place for someone like his the bard. Someone bright and vibrant and joyful. Kaer Morhen was none of those things. Even whole and full of life, it had been a cruel and a hard place. A place of dead children and frightened youths and cold men. No, he had never wanted to see Jaskier in these halls if he could help it.

“Din’ have much of a choice, y’know. Yen ‘s all-” He waves his hand vaguely about in an approximation of the chaos that was the days following the mess at Nenneke’s. “Hadta get Ciri back. Wouldn’ta brought him here otherwise.”

In hindsight, he’ll probably blame the drink for the fact that he didn’t register the familiar scent of sweat and parchment and almond oil, but the truth is, he’s so lost in thoughts of Jaskier already that he assumes it’s only in his head.

It is not. Eskel whaps him on the shoulder in alarm, trying to cut him off, but it’s too late. Jaskier stands motionless in the doorway for a moment before he whirls on his heel and vanishes into the hall, the tray of food he had obviously very thoughtfully prepared for them clattering to the ground behind him.

Geralt abruptly feels very sober. Jaskier’s face, eyes huge and brimming with tears, expression utterly crushed, is going to haunt him, he knows. It’s like the mountain all over again.

“...whoops?” Lambert tries, though he does look genuinely contrite, for Lambert values of contrite, anyway. Granted, he’s already out of his seat and gathering up the scattered food onto the discarded platter, shoveling a roll into his mouth straight off the floor, so Geralt takes his remorse with several grains of salt.

“G’wan, you hafta fix it! Go talk to him!” Eskel shoves him off the couch, gesturing frantically at the doorway where Jaskier disappeared from.

Geralt’s reflexes are slow, and his brain hasn’t quite caught up with the situation, but as the shock starts to wear off, hot shame followed by cold dread settles into his limbs, sending him stumbling down the hall towards the bedrooms. The molten pit of shame in his gut writhes even harder when he realizes he doesn’t know which room Jaskier has been staying in, hasn’t even gone to see him once since arriving, not even to check on him after the battle. Gods, he’s an awful friend.

Shoving down feelings that will do him no good right now, he tries to shake off some of the lingering alcohol haze not burned off by adrenaline and focus on Jaskier’s scent as it leads him through the winding corridors of the keep, tainted as it is by the scent of saltwater tears and moldy grief.

He finds him on one of the lower levels, in a cramped little room off a side hallway without even a hearth. There are no torches lit, but a magelight Yen must have cast sometime before supper glows over the desk, though why she would use her freshly-restored, still-regenerating power on something like that, Geralt isn’t sure.

What’s worse, Jaskier is packing.

To be fair, there isn’t much to be packed, but he’s carefully stacking notebooks into a satchel Geralt recognizes as dwarven design, which he assumes Yarpen and his people gave to him on the way across the Continent.

“Jas-”

“I hope one more night won’t be too much of an imposition,” he interrupts. “Yen’s already asleep, I checked, and after what she went through today, it seemed unchivalrous to wake her just to ask her for a portal off the mountain. You have my word I’ll be-” Jaskier’s voice, already thin and warbling from tears, breaks for a moment before he recovers, “I’ll be off your hands just as soon as possible. I never intended to intrude on a place I...I don’t belong.”

His back is to the witcher, and Geralt can see the quiver in his shoulders as he grips the desk with white knuckles, the strain of holding himself together causing him to shake where he stands. His choice of phrasing does not go unnoticed, hitting its mark like Geralt is sure it was meant to. It twists in his belly like poisoned dagger, burning and tugging.

“Jas that wasn’t- I didn’t- fuck. Fuck! I’m too fucking drunk for this.” He finds himself all at once overwhelmed, the grief and the shock and the guilt and the fear and the fucking White Gull and now the thought of the inevitable loss of Jaskier all running into each other and piling up and taking his legs out from under him. He sits down hard on the bed, his face in his hands.

There’s a long pause, then a rustling and a clinking sound he barely registers, before Jaskier’s voice, much close than before, says, “Here.”

When he looks up, the bard is standing before him, eyes red and cheeks tear-tracked, expression hard. He’s holding out a vial. Geralt takes it on instinct, body not needing input from his brain to trust that anything Jaskier gives him is safe to consume.

“It’s White Honey, not Wives’ Tears, but it should still help.”

“Where- why? How?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess I never got out of the habit of carrying the basics. Vesemir let me nick a few from the stores here, since all my things in Oxenfurt have probably been picked off by now.”

Bewildered, Geralt drinks the potion down. It isn’t as instantaneous as Tears would be, but alcohol is close enough to toxicity that he still feels his head start to clear. There’s so much he wants to address about everything Jaskier just said, but he has no idea where to start.

“Didn’t mean it like that, y’know. I swear. I didn’t.”

“Forgive me if that doesn’t make me feel better, Geralt. How the fuck did you mean it, then? How exactly am I meant to take hearing that I don’t belong here, and you wouldn’t have brought me if you had another choice?”

Fuck. That does sound really bad out loud. Geralt never meant for him to hear any of that, but that’s no excuse.

“’s not- ugh. It’s not that you don’t- it’s here, Jas, not you. Here doesn’t belong with...fuck. I hate this. You know I’m no good at this!”

Jaskier continues to lean against the desk, arms crossed. He raises one eyebrow, and Geralt knows no help is coming. He isn’t being let off the hook this time. He puts his face back in his hands with a groan. He almost wishes he hadn’t taken the Honey, maybe alcohol would loosen his tongue enough to help explain to Jaskier why he should want to get off this mountain as fast as possible, why belonging here was the last thing Geralt wants for him, wants for anyone he loves.

(He balks a little at the word, but inside his own mind, at least for now, it’s easy enough to ignore. And it’s not like he hasn’t know its true for years; its just one of the many things he decided a long time ago to pretend weren’t happening to him. The Child Surprise and the djinn wish came back to bite him in the ass, but surely it can’t hurt to ignore this lesson one more time, right?)

“You don’t belong in this place, just like- just like you don’t belong with me, ok?”

The moldy, rotten scent of grief and hurt swells so quickly Geralt almost sneezes. He looks up in alarm to see Jaskier staggering back towards the wall, away from Geralt, a look on his face like the witcher had just carved up his sister in front of him. He looks gutted. Fuck, that hadn’t come out right either, had it?

“Well, witcher, that certainly does clear things up. I suppose I should thank you for refraining from screaming my faults in my face this time. I apologize for having inflicted my presence on you for so long, then. Message received.” Geralt winces at the epithet, always before so soft in Jaskier’s mouth, so full of affection and admiration, now sharp and bloody on his lips.

“Wait, no, fuck, that isn’t what I meant!”

“No need to explain any further. You can go back to your brothers now, I’m sure they’re missing you. I can finish packing on my own. I’ll be gone in the morning, you won’t have to suffer me any further.”

“Jaskier, would you fucking listen to me? I don’t mean I don’t want you here! Of course I want you here! I always want you here!” Geralt is shouting now, desperation flooding him with adrenaline that feels remarkably like familiar, comfortable anger, and he leans into it.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You just told me I don’t belong here in your home, I don’t belong by your side, you only allowed me here because you had no choice, your brother called me useless and you flat-out agreed with him, how fucking dare you tell me you want me here! It’s cruel to toy with me like this, Geralt! You’re many things, but I’ve never known you to be cruel before, so please just go and let me take myself off your fucking hands in peace!”

Geralt feels frantic, out of control. Jaskier is slipping through his fingers and he doesn’t know which words to pick to stop it from happening. The thought that just an hour ago, he was planning out the best way to take the bard down the mountain as soon as the snow cleared, to send him back to a better, safer, happier life, a life without Geralt in it, doesn’t occur to him. Everything is blanked out by terror, leaving only the singular thought that he has to make Jaskier stop looking like that, stop smelling like that, has to fix what he keeps breaking.

“You don’t belong with me because you belong somewhere better, you fucking moron!”

Hm. Not quite the tone he was going for, but closer than before, at least.

Jaskier has stopped moving altogether, and is staring at him in something like shocked incredulity. At least he’s stopped shoving potions into his satchel, which is something.

Geralt can see Jaskier trying to formulate a response, emotions shifting rapidly across his face as his scent fluctuates wildly, pingponging from rage to hope to hurt and back again. Eventually he seems to settle on flat indignation.

“I’m going to need you to elaborate on that, Geralt. I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” Based on the expression on his face, Geralt doubts that, but apparently being forced to articulate himself is his punishment for being an ass.

“You don’t- you aren’t- ugh. You’re good, Jaskier! You’re light and laughter and softness. You’re pretty silks and rich foods and shiny jewelry. You play for kings and queens, you have Oxenfurt panting after you every year to teach more classes, you’ve had half the pretty people on the Continent in your bed, and every one of them has begged you not to leave! I’ve known it since we met, Jaskier, you don’t belong on the Path. You don’t belong in the damp and the muck and the blood and the shit. You don’t belong with a fucking Butcher! I tried so hard, Jaskier, for so long, to make you leave. To make you see that you deserve more. Deserve better. I don’t know why the fuck you kept coming back, but I thought after the mountain I had finally done it, I had finally made you see. But I was weak and when Yen fucked me over I got scared, I came to you because you’re the only person I know who would keep coming back, who I could trust with Ciri because you kept picking me for all those years when I didn’t deserve it. But you were supposed to be gone! You were supposed to be safe! You should have been happy in Oxenfurt without me, and instead I dragged you back into this nightmare and almost got you killed and now you’re stuck in this horrible keep full of the ghosts of dead witchers and my idiot dickhead brothers and I can’t even get my shit together enough to be nice to you! Why the fuck are you here, Jaskier? Why the fuck do you want to belong here? It’s fucking terrible here! You should be somewhere better!”

Geralt collapses back onto the side of the bed, having gotten up to pace at some point during that monologue, most of which was less conscious speech and more “ripped straight out of his ribcage by some unseen force.” Fuck, he’s actually winded. He hasn’t shouted that much without stopping since the Trials, he doesn’t think.

Jaskier is staring again, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline and his mouth hanging open. Geralt very carefully does not think about Jaskier’s open mouth, in much the same way he has carefully not thought about Jaskier’s mouth for the last 15 years or so.

It takes a moment for Jaskier to gather his thoughts, and Geralt thinks it might be the longest moment of his life thus far. He fights the urge to fidget with his hands, a nervous habit he didn’t realize he had picked up from the bard until after the mountain, and thereafter made a deliberate effort to squash.

Finally Jaskier seems to come to some internal decision, and he nods to himself before meeting Geralt’s eyes squarely. “I have a number of questions, Geralt, but the first and most consequential is this: who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Wh- huh?” Apparently Geralt has spent all of the words he had available, which isn’t terribly surprising given the circumstances. That isn’t where he expected Jaskier’s reaction to go, though.

“I said, witcher, who the fuck do you think you are, to decide for me the company I should keep and the kind of life I should lead?”

Well, shit. “That’s not- I wasn’t-”

“Because the last person to try that was the Count de fucking Lettenhove, darling, and I assure you, it didn’t work for him, either.”

Geralt blinks. His brain latches onto the pet name, which seems like it must be an improvement over witcher spat with such vitriol, even if it still sounds distinctly like an insult in that tone. He fights to regain some of his footing in this conversation, which is rapidly changing directions to somewhere he did not expect and is not prepared for, to no avail. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Jaskier isn’t done.

“Do you really think me so shallow? So soft? That I’m nothing but silks and sex and a pretty face? Do you think the university wants me to teach because I’m- what was it Lambert called me? Frilly? Do you know what I was doing in Oxenfurt before you found me? Because I assure you, dear heart, I wasn’t fucking lounging about on featherbeds drinking Toussainti wine!”

Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion, which seems to stoke the bard’s ire from embers to a conflagration.

“You fucker, that is what you fucking thought! You never even fucking asked, you utter ass! I was bloody tortured for you and you want to send me back because, what, you think whenever I’m not with you I’m fulfilling my life’s fucking purpose as a vapid, foppish little brat? You don’t fucking know me at all, do you? I can’t fucking believe you right now!” Jaskier’s face is flushed with anger, teeth bared and scent spiking burnt and bitter.

Geralt’s thoughts have all screeched to a grinding halt, the room fading out around him as his focus narrows completely to the man before him.

“Tortured?” His voice quavers in a way that would probably embarrass him if he could think about anything but Jaskier’s voice on a loop in his head, tortured tortured tortured. He’s had this nightmare before, a dozen times and more.

Jaskier seems to bring himself up short, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “I- yes? Yen said she told you...I thought that’s why you came for me?”

“She said. She. She said you were “in some trouble.” The guard outside the jail said you were locked up for peeping. I just assumed…”

Jaskier’s face has gone flat and blank again, and the rotten smell of hurt is swirling in the air again, mixing unpleasantly with the burnt anger smell and turning Geralt’s stomach.

“You just thought I had done something stupid and selfish and probably involving my dick, and never thought to question it or ask me if I was alright.”

“I- yes. I mean no, I- I should have- I- Jaskier, please, what happened?” He isn’t proud of the pleading note in his voice, but the longer he waits for answers the stronger the urge gets to throw himself off the tallest tower the keep has, or grab Jaskier around the middle and wrap him in blankets and never let him out of his sight, neither of which he thinks would go over well with the other residents.

A note of uncertainty creeps into Jaskier voice and demeanor, which Geralt finds somehow more painful than the anger. “I- there was a mage. He was looking for you. Well, I think ultimately he was looking for Ciri, but he knew he needed to find you first. And I guess I’ve done quite a good job tying our reputations together over the years, and I wasn’t exactly hard to track down, so I guess…”

A mage…“Firefucker.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, a bitter, unhappy thing. “An appropriate moniker. I see you ran into him eventually.” He looks up in sudden alarm. “I didn’t- Geralt, I didn’t tell him anything. I swear I didn’t. I mean, I said you told me of a witcher keep, but I told him that the fortress in the mountains was a story I made up, and even if he took that and ran with it, I never even said which mountains! I promise, Geralt, I’d have died before I let him hurt you, or Ciri, I swear it.”

Geralt isn’t sure how many times his heart can break in a single day, in a single conversation. Surely it can’t be many more after this, can it?

“I...I’m not worried about that, Jaskier. In fact, if anything like that ever happens in the future, you tell them everything. Whatever they want to know. You tell them everything you know, before you let them hurt you, Jaskier, please, promise me you’ll tell them.”

Jaskier’s eyes seem older than Geralt has ever seen them, full of a boundless sadness he never wants his bard to have to feel ever again. “You know I can’t promise that, my dear. If I had to do it over, I’d do it all again. I’d suffer him burning my fingers clean off before I let him anywhere near you.”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand automatically, only realizing at the last moment that he might not welcome the touch. He withdraws his hand reluctantly, trying to subtly angle his head instead to see Jaskier’s fingers where they’re tucked under his crossed arms.

“Are you- did they- how-” Luckily Jaskier seems to have retained his fluency in Geraltese, and holds out his right hand for inspection. The skin is shiny and red, obviously burned, but definitely in the later stages of healing. There are no open sores or blisters, and he winces in discomfort but not pain when he stretches the mottled skin by splaying his fingers out.

“Yennefer was kind enough to take a look at them earlier, once we were sure none of you were being stoic idiots and hiding injuries. They’ll be alright eventually, she thinks. And it isn’t like I have a lute to play at the moment, anyway, so it’s no great hardship to rest them while they heal. I had some trouble writing earlier, but I didn’t put all that effort in school into being able to write with either hand for nothing. You needn’t worry about me, Geralt. I’m fine, I promise.”

Geralt is quite sure he isn’t fine at all. None of this is fine. Every part of this is setting off a screaming klaxon in his head of wrongWrongWRONG and he has no idea how to fix any of it. The choice of room suddenly makes a great deal more sense, though, as does the magelight. Geralt feels a sudden, fierce rush of gratitude for Yen. Even though he’s still furious with her, and it’ll be a long time before he trusts her the way he once did, she’s obviously been taking care of Jaskier where he has failed utterly in doing so, and he’s desperately thankful that at least his inattention hasn’t left Jaskier completely alone. He isn’t sure when the two of them got as close as they clearly are, but upon reflection, he finds no jealousy, only gratefulness and a hint of chagrin that he has so clearly failed where the two of them have succeeded in making each other happy.

Jaskier is still holding his injured hand out between them. Geralt moves slowly, waiting for any sign that Jaskier doesn’t want him near, reaching out to grasp it gently, careful of the inflamed skin. Jaskier lets him, sitting down beside him on the edge of the mattress.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m sorry I sent you away, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you from this. I’m sorry you were hurt because of me. This is the opposite of what I wanted. I hoped you would be safer without me. Happier. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“There you go again, martyring yourself on the altar of other people’s choices. When will you learn, Geralt? You’re so desperate to push away anyone who gets close, because you think you’re some kind of curse on our lives. That’s bollocks. We stay because we want to. We sacrifice because we want to. We risk danger because we want to. Because being around you is worth it. We’re not asking for protection, or saving, or glitz and glamor. We’re only asking to stay. Because we want to. Because you’re worth it, you unbelievable moron. Stop trying to make everyone else’s choices for them, for once.”

He isn’t sure he can wrap his head around that right now, so he doesn’t try, but he does tuck it close to his heart for safekeeping, to turn it over in his hands later like a precious stone. He’s still holding Jaskier’s hand, and he squeezes gently for lack of a better response.

“I am sorry, you know. For what I said in Caingorn. It wasn’t true. None of it. I shouldn’t have lashed out when you were just trying to help.”

“You know it was never about what you said, right?”

Geralt makes a questioning noise, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’ve known you for 25 years, shithead, you don’t think I know how you get when you’re angry? You don’t think I can tell when you’re pissed at yourself and taking it out on whatever’s nearby? You think I haven’t heard worse insults from you than a bunch of blatant falsehoods and a melodramatic declaration of never wanting to see me again? Please, I got more cutting rebukes from my kid cousins growing up. Yes, it was shitty, and yes, it stung in the moment, but I never took it to heart.”

Fearing to know, but needing the answer all the same, Geralt asks, “What, then? I heard the song, you know.” The sharp intake of breath tells him Jaskier knows which song he means. “In Aedirn, in some backwater town. There was some nobody bard there, but even if he performed it terribly, I could tell it was yours. I had thought about looking for you once I got Ciri settled, but when I heard that song...I knew there was no fixing it. I knew you hated me properly, after that. So if it wasn’t what I said, what was it?”

Geralt hears the hitch in Jaskier’s breath and smells the salt of his tears, but he can’t bring himself to look up for this. He can’t bear to be looking into those blue eyes he loves so dearly as Jaskier explains how Geralt managed to destroy the best thing in his long, wretched life. He does hold his hand a little tighter, and hopes it’s enough to keep him here.

“I’m sorry for that. I needed to write it, but I should never have played it for anyone. I never meant to, really. You never should have heard it, and I’m sorry you had to. I was angry when I wrote it, and bitter, and...well. Heartbroken, I suppose. It’s no excuse, though.”

Geralt has a lot of questions about that, actually, but he still needs an answer to the one he already asked. “Why did you write it, then? If it wasn’t...what was it, Jaskier? What did I do?”

“You didn’t come back.”

He does look up then, confused, searching Jaskier’s face for clarity. He looks haunted, and desperately sad. He apparently reads Geralt’s need for clarification on his face, and continues.

“It was hardly the first time you got angry and took it out on me because I was the closest target. Not that that’s a great pattern in itself,” Geralt winces in agreement and apology, “but it wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to. I knew the routine- you get mad, you lash out, you cool off, you give me the biggest portion of supper or a sweetbun from the market or swing towards a town sooner than we have to instead of apologizing out loud, I forgive you, we move on.

“I figured I would head back to the camp, let you cool off for a few hours, and then try again. Of course, then I talked to Borch and got the bones of what had happened, and I realized it was bigger than I’d thought, and you might need longer to calm down, so when I realized you weren’t coming back right away, I managed to tag along with the dwarves on the way down. I grabbed the essentials out of Roach’s packs and set up at the inn at the foot of the mountain. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I left nearly all our coin with you. I only took enough for a night’s room and supper, since I was too tired to play after the hike down.

“I waited for you, Geralt. I stayed posted up there for three weeks. When you never came, I thought maybe you had just needed even more time alone, so once I’d overstayed my welcome there I started making my way towards Oxenfurt- the long way, mind, I swung all the way inland to Ard Carriagh, hoping to catch you on your way home for the winter. I made sure to be as loud and ostentatious as I could, so you’d be able to track me down when you were ready. Months I waited, Geralt. Months.

“I didn’t accept that you weren’t coming back for me until spring. That’s when I gave up.” Geralt’s heart cracks for what must be the dozenth time tonight, but he doesn’t dare interrupt. “I ended up at the Seat Of Friendship, looking for some kind of community, of purpose, to fill the space you left. That’s when I wrote- well. That’s when I wrote that song. And it was good, there. I missed you, I was hurt, but I felt safe, and appreciated, and understood. It was like being a student again, surrounded by other artists, all feeding off each other’s creative energy. And then…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and clutches Geralt’s hand tight enough to hurt anyone who wasn’t a witcher.

“It was a massacre, Geralt. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t- I couldn’t-” He breaks off again, choking on a sob. Unable to stand it any longer, Geralt tucks an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tentatively closer. Jaskier crumples, collapsing into Geralt’s chest and clutching at his tunic as he sobs into his neck. Geralt rubs soothing circles into Jaskier’s back, like he used to sometimes when they shared a bedroll and Jaskier would wake them both with nightmares of a childhood he refused to discuss.

Long minutes later, Jaskier’s weeping slows, cries quieting to whimpers. He draws back from Geralt’s shoulder enough to swipe the sleeve of his doublet over his face, blotchy and red and tear-stained as it is. Geralt is reluctant to move his arm from around Jaskier’s shoulders, but luckily Jaskier only settles more comfortably into his side, still sniffling. Geralt savors the solid warmth of him against his side as he waits for him to be ready to continue.

“There was nothing I could do to save them. I barely made it out alive myself. I’ve never felt so fucking helpless, Geralt. So useless. I had to do something. I’d have gone mad if I didn’t. So, I took some of the coin from my father’s coffers, and bought a tavern in Oxenfurt, right on the pier. I managed to leverage my spywork to coax some more coin out of the Redanian Crown, and used that to set up a smuggling network with some old connections from my school days and a handful of likeminded survivors of Bleobheris, and I became the Sandpiper.

“The song was never meant to be public, truly. Right after I bought the pub, before the network was fully set up, I was...struggling. Owning a bar means pretty much unlimited access to alcohol and I...well. I don’t remember a lot of those first few weeks, really. I woke up one particular morning with no memory of the night before, until I was playing my set that night and people started requesting Burn, Butcher, Burn. Apparently I’d been feeling especially maudlin the night before and I played it while I was blackout drunk. There was a witcher in town, as I recall. Something about a monster in the sewers under the university, I was trying not to pay a lot of attention. He was a Bear, if the rumors were correct, but still close enough to set off unwanted memories, and send me to the bottom of several bottles.”

Guilt and resentment war for dominance in Geralt’s gut, churning violently. He wants to stop Jaskier, doesn’t want to hear any more, but he can’t, and he knows he shouldn’t.

“It was never meant to get out. My life’s work has been erasing the Butcher of Blaviken from history entirely. I was angry, Geralt, I am angry, but I never wanted to use that name against you. Never that. I am truly sorry for that.”

Geralt can hardly believe that after everything Jaskier has just explained, all the anguish Geralt had caused with his selfish, childish actions, that Jaskier is still apologizing to him. Sure, he hates that fucking song, but it isn’t like he hasn’t earned the name, both times apparently.

“You don’t- I’m not- You don’t owe me an apology, Jaskier. I would deserve it just for wounding you, now doubly so for not realizing just how deeply I had. I can’t...I don’t know how to fix it, Jaskier. I don’t know how to make it up to you. How can I fix it?”

Jaskier sits back, drawing his leg up onto the bed between them to better face Geralt head on. Geralt mourns the loss of contact, but holds Jaskier’s clear blue gaze with his own, hoping against hope that he’ll get to keep at least this, if nothing else.

“Are you going to send me away again?”

Geralt grimaces, but concedes it’s a fair question. “I thought it was the best thing for you, Jaskier. The safest thing. I only wanted you to be where you would be happiest.”

“That’s not your fucking call to make, witcher, and it’s not what I asked. Are you going to send me away again, yes or no?”

“No. Part of me still feels like I should, but I don’t think I could if I tried, anymore. I had been planning to, but when I came in here and you were packing, I...I’ve only felt fear like that when Yen took Ciri. Maybe it’s weak, but I don’t want to lose you again, Jaskier. I don’t want to be without you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are swimming with tears again, but his scent is full of cautious hope, telling Geralt he finally said something right.

“You’re a bastard and an idiot, and I want to stab you a little bit for that answer, but I’m going to focus on the positives because I’m fucking exhausted. We can deal with the rest tomorrow.” He pauses, uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Will you...will you stay with me tonight? I just- the nightmares used to be easier with you there, on the Path, and I thought, if you were alright with it, we could-”

Geralt takes pity and cuts him off. “I’ll stay. Do you...would you come to my room instead? The bed is bigger, there. There’s a hearth, but I can put it out if you need. It should be warm enough with an extra fur or two, with two of us in the bed.”

The sour smell of embarrassment fills the air as a blush creeps up Jaskier’s neck. “That obvious, huh?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jaskier. You were hurt with fire, fear is a normal reaction. It should fade eventually, and I’ll help you in the meantime. We all will. You already have Yen wrapped around your finger, if she’s conjuring you magelights.”

The attempt at levity works, drawing a chuckle from the bard as he looks up at the light hanging above their heads. Geralt notes with vague interest that it apparently followed Jaskier across the room when he moved to sit by Geralt, meaning it will probably also follow him up to Geralt’s room, eliminating the need to make Jaskier anxious with torches. Geralt will have to track Yen down tomorrow and thank her, anger or not. She really has come through for Jaskier, and that’s a debt Geralt can never repay.

The newfound camaraderie between the bard and the witch raises some interesting possibilities for the shape of his relationships with both of them eventually, but that’s a thought for far, far in the future. He has bridges to construct and trust to rebuild with both of them before that’s worth thinking about, and Ciri will have to be all of their first priorities for a while yet, but it’s nice to have something to look forward to. Geralt had almost forgotten what being hopeful for the future felt like, he’s spent so long running from it or assuming he didn’t have one. It’s nice, he thinks. Strange, but nice.

But that’s for later. For now, he has a bed waiting for him, and a bard to fill it with him, and the promise of at least one more day without that bard fleeing Geralt’s brutish ways down the mountain. He has a daughter to train in the morning, and brothers to tease for their inevitable hangovers, and a father to thank for looking out for his bard while he couldn’t, and a witch to start to reconcile with.

It’s enough, for now. It’s enough.

#the witcher #twn #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #eskel #lambert #the witcher fanfiction #my writing #i’m sorry they talk so much #i always start out with such grand ideals of being funny and poignant #and then it’s just two dumbasses spouting exposition at each other for 3k words #if i could make them stop i would #snaksofhdbkaksjd i just! realized i forgot about coen!!!#he’s uhhhhh asleep already whoops #my brain has so thoroughly classified him as Not A Wolf that i fully forgot he should be there at the start of this ahhhhh i’m so sorry coe

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