Jaskier tells him to fuck off. Geralt, for lack of any other idea of what to do, fucks off.
He tends to the western wall with his brothers, and the hard labor is good for his composure, his mental clarity. Hard work is simple and straightforward, a task that he can dedicate himself to completing. He always does better when he has a set goal, even if this one is going to take weeks of labor.
When they go down for dinner that night, Jaskier is nowhere to be found. Geralt eats with the rest of them but keeps an ear out for the bard, and by the strange looks that he gets from Eskel and the questioning ones from Ciri, his absence is noted. Eskel tries to bring it up, but gives up in the face of Geralt’s neutral grunting.
He doesn’t return to the room that night, either. Geralt lets him have the space that he wants, and returns the next day to his work on the wall. The weather has been steadily getting colder, and by the time he comes inside again, his hands ache from both the labor and the temperature.
Dinner is Eskel’s duty tonight, but he’s there in the hall when Geralt comes in from the battlements. There’s a look on his face that’s some mix of anger and frustration, and Geralt knows that it’s for him even though he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it yet. But, gods know, he’s going to find out in a minute.
“What the fuck did you say to him?”
“Hm.”
Eskel scoffs, a rough sound in the back of his throat. “Use your fucking words for once, Geralt! How do you go from being disgusting in the morning to heartbroken by the fucking afternoon?”
Geralt growls and tries to push past him, but Eskel blocks his path with his shoulder. He’s big enough that Geralt would have to work to get through him. He smells like Jaskier, and it sets his teeth on edge.
“I just told you what I said.”
“You just grunted? What the fuck did he— does this have to do with what Vesemir said?”
Geralt hums again, and the annoyed look on Eskel’s face is a petty satisfaction. His brother prods more, trying to get the full story out of a man who has always been stingy with the details, but he’s nothing if not persistent. Eventually, he pries the whole thing out of him, the question that Jaskier had asked of him.
“You’re doing a fine job of replacing me.”
And for a long, level moment, he just looks at Geralt.
Then he punches him.
It hits him straight on the mouth, and he feels his lip split on his teeth. He wasn’t braced for a punch, and he has to catch himself on the wall so that he doesn’t fall over. His mouth tastes like copper.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says, ignoring Geralt’s indignant noise. “Don’t give me that shit, you are. And I’m not dealing with all your fucking stupidity the whole damn winter.”
He grabs Geralt by the shoulder, his fist balling up the fabric, and frog marches him through the corridor like a prisoner going to the scaffolds. His growls and attempts to shrug his brother off go largely ignored, or, once to his obvious surprise, returned.
He is pushed into his own room, where Jaskier waits on the bed. They are told that they’re not to leave until they talk, and Geralt doesn’t doubt that Eskel would keep bringing him back until they work things out.
Geralt grunts in response to the question. His mouth still throbs from the hit. He hates the smell of his brother all over the bard and hates more that he hates it at all. But mostly he hates that he missed Jaskier for the one fucking day that he didn’t see him, and that he wants to go to him and put his head in his lap. Crawl into his arms to satisfy the hungry thing in his skin that’s only smoothed by his touch.
Let it fucking starve. Geralt stays near the door, his face like a thundercloud.
“Another one,” he repeats. “What else do you owe him for?”
no subject
He tends to the western wall with his brothers, and the hard labor is good for his composure, his mental clarity. Hard work is simple and straightforward, a task that he can dedicate himself to completing. He always does better when he has a set goal, even if this one is going to take weeks of labor.
When they go down for dinner that night, Jaskier is nowhere to be found. Geralt eats with the rest of them but keeps an ear out for the bard, and by the strange looks that he gets from Eskel and the questioning ones from Ciri, his absence is noted. Eskel tries to bring it up, but gives up in the face of Geralt’s neutral grunting.
He doesn’t return to the room that night, either. Geralt lets him have the space that he wants, and returns the next day to his work on the wall. The weather has been steadily getting colder, and by the time he comes inside again, his hands ache from both the labor and the temperature.
Dinner is Eskel’s duty tonight, but he’s there in the hall when Geralt comes in from the battlements. There’s a look on his face that’s some mix of anger and frustration, and Geralt knows that it’s for him even though he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it yet. But, gods know, he’s going to find out in a minute.
“What the fuck did you say to him?”
“Hm.”
Eskel scoffs, a rough sound in the back of his throat. “Use your fucking words for once, Geralt! How do you go from being disgusting in the morning to heartbroken by the fucking afternoon?”
Geralt growls and tries to push past him, but Eskel blocks his path with his shoulder. He’s big enough that Geralt would have to work to get through him. He smells like Jaskier, and it sets his teeth on edge.
“I just told you what I said.”
“You just grunted? What the fuck did he— does this have to do with what Vesemir said?”
Geralt hums again, and the annoyed look on Eskel’s face is a petty satisfaction. His brother prods more, trying to get the full story out of a man who has always been stingy with the details, but he’s nothing if not persistent. Eventually, he pries the whole thing out of him, the question that Jaskier had asked of him.
“You’re doing a fine job of replacing me.”
And for a long, level moment, he just looks at Geralt.
Then he punches him.
It hits him straight on the mouth, and he feels his lip split on his teeth. He wasn’t braced for a punch, and he has to catch himself on the wall so that he doesn’t fall over. His mouth tastes like copper.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says, ignoring Geralt’s indignant noise. “Don’t give me that shit, you are. And I’m not dealing with all your fucking stupidity the whole damn winter.”
He grabs Geralt by the shoulder, his fist balling up the fabric, and frog marches him through the corridor like a prisoner going to the scaffolds. His growls and attempts to shrug his brother off go largely ignored, or, once to his obvious surprise, returned.
He is pushed into his own room, where Jaskier waits on the bed. They are told that they’re not to leave until they talk, and Geralt doesn’t doubt that Eskel would keep bringing him back until they work things out.
Geralt grunts in response to the question. His mouth still throbs from the hit. He hates the smell of his brother all over the bard and hates more that he hates it at all. But mostly he hates that he missed Jaskier for the one fucking day that he didn’t see him, and that he wants to go to him and put his head in his lap. Crawl into his arms to satisfy the hungry thing in his skin that’s only smoothed by his touch.
Let it fucking starve. Geralt stays near the door, his face like a thundercloud.
“Another one,” he repeats. “What else do you owe him for?”