Jaskier’s scent goes wrong again, tainted by something cold and aching that Geralt had only caught on him once before, after he had sent him away on the mountain. Heartbreak— Geralt can’t seem to stop doing that to the bard, breaking his heart in new and terrible ways every time it’s handed to him. Maybe it’s only further proof of Vesemir’s point, that this is one of the many reasons why witchers shouldn’t mix with humans. Hurting them is an inevitability.

The wolf head brooch is still warm from the heart of Jaskier’s body when he pushes it into Geralt’s hand. Returning his claim to him, an unwanted thing. It feels heavier than it should in his palm.

Then the bard retreats, stomping off and taking his scent of hurt and anger with him. Geralt stands for some long moments in the empty room, his fingers clenched tightly around the brooch until the edges bite into his palm.

Jaskier had stormed off... in the direction of the outer walls, which are in such a state of disrepair that they can’t be fixed by only a handful of witchers. Geralt know this. He knows this, so why does being around Jaskier always turn him into such a fucking idiot?

“Fuck.”

Geralt goes after him, and he’s easy to track because of the scent that he trails behind him. He catches up quickly, reaches out to grab him by the elbow before he gets around the corner.

“Wait,” he says, ignoring the way that touching him makes his skin tingle, even with a barrier between their skin. “It’s not safe any further than this.”