Jaskier's fingers are at his throat, touching the skin there like he's something precious. Geralt could count the instances that he let someone touch his throat on one hand, with the exception of Jaskier-- the bard could probably get his hands around it and Geralt wouldn't stop him. He would trust the bard with a blade to his throat and, in the past, had, when Jaskier had shaved him after a bath. He'd lain in the water with his throat bared, and Jaskier could have slit his throat before even a witcher's reflexes could've stopped him.
If he can trust him with that, he can trust him with whatever the hell all of this is, can't he? With his heart, or what's left of it these days after the Trials burned through him and the world tried to crush him.
Geralt wants to kiss him. He wants to push him down onto the bed and strip off all of his clothes and make the bard smell like nothing but him. He wants Jaskier to do whatever he wants with him; he'd get on his knees again for him, if it would please him. Anything. Anything that Jaskier wanted from him, anything that would please him, would be his with just a word.
The bard grasps his chin again, tilts his face so that he can look into Geralt's eyes; the pupils are dilated, round instead of cat's-eyed. He can constrict them at will, usually, but some things make that harder-- adrenaline, for one thing. Looking at Jaskier, for another.
Do you believe me?
"I don't understand you," he says, and it's true-- he doesn't understand how Jaskier can give him second chance after second chance, "but I believe you. I trust you, Jask."
Perhaps he doesn't have to understand him. Perhaps he would come to understand him, in time. Trust is the important thing, and he has already trusted Jaskier with so many things. When has he ever truly been let down by him for anything that mattered? He'll be far gentler with this soft, weak part of Geralt than Geralt had ever been with him.
The wolf brooch is still in his hand; he'd been holding it this whole time, clutched in his palm until the edges dug in. He uncurls his fingers, offers it back to Jaskier. Both a symbol, and also because it was never Geralt's to begin with. Even if it represents Geralt's claim to him, it's a thing that Jaskier chooses to wear; he is only claimed because he wishes to be.
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If he can trust him with that, he can trust him with whatever the hell all of this is, can't he? With his heart, or what's left of it these days after the Trials burned through him and the world tried to crush him.
Geralt wants to kiss him. He wants to push him down onto the bed and strip off all of his clothes and make the bard smell like nothing but him. He wants Jaskier to do whatever he wants with him; he'd get on his knees again for him, if it would please him. Anything. Anything that Jaskier wanted from him, anything that would please him, would be his with just a word.
The bard grasps his chin again, tilts his face so that he can look into Geralt's eyes; the pupils are dilated, round instead of cat's-eyed. He can constrict them at will, usually, but some things make that harder-- adrenaline, for one thing. Looking at Jaskier, for another.
Do you believe me?
"I don't understand you," he says, and it's true-- he doesn't understand how Jaskier can give him second chance after second chance, "but I believe you. I trust you, Jask."
Perhaps he doesn't have to understand him. Perhaps he would come to understand him, in time. Trust is the important thing, and he has already trusted Jaskier with so many things. When has he ever truly been let down by him for anything that mattered? He'll be far gentler with this soft, weak part of Geralt than Geralt had ever been with him.
The wolf brooch is still in his hand; he'd been holding it this whole time, clutched in his palm until the edges dug in. He uncurls his fingers, offers it back to Jaskier. Both a symbol, and also because it was never Geralt's to begin with. Even if it represents Geralt's claim to him, it's a thing that Jaskier chooses to wear; he is only claimed because he wishes to be.
"This is yours," he says, "if you still want it."