Before, Jaskier had always taken Geralt's shut ups more gracefully, with better humor. But that was before-- before the mountain, before Geralt had not just ruined his relationship with Yennefer, but also with Jaskier. Everything ruined, all in one fell swoop. It's probably impressive, how quickly the witcher managed to drive people away from him.
There's a venom in Jaskier's voice when he says witcher that Geralt's never heard from his mouth. Others, yes, but not him. And there's something equally bitter that makes its way into his scent, angry and sharp, and it almost doesn't matter what he says, not when the tone and his smell say it all for him.
Jaskier doesn't want his help. Geralt frowns, the expression putting deep furrows in his brow. Well-- too bad. He might not want it, but he's going to get it.
Geralt helps him with his clothes where he can, trying to keep him from having to bend or stretch and put pressure on his injuries, both for practical reasons and because hearing his pain makes the vice-thing twist tighter in his chest. With each piece of clothing removed, more injuries are revealed-- his abused back, his ribs and stomach mottled in red and purple, turning into greens and yellows where the bruises have started to heal. His legs, criss-crossed with the marks from a whip. Geralt is intimately familiar with the pain that a whipping can cause; there are towns that have blamed the arrival of a witcher for a plague or a crop blight or some other thing that was beyond his control.
He's pulling supplies out of his pack, his jar of medical salve and rolls of clean bandages, when Jaskier complains about the cold. His big hand rests on Jaskier's shin, left there from where he'd been inspecting a particularly nasty mark, and he feels the trembling start. He stands and goes to the fireplace, adding more wood and stoking it up so that the room warms. When he returns to Jaskier's bedside, he puts the cloak back around his shoulders; it doesn't matter if he gets blood on it, Geralt's bled on it plenty before.
There are more things that he'll need before he can tend to the bard, though. Water, for one thing, both for Jaskier to drink and for cleaning him. Washcloths, food, maybe a little hot mulled wine, if he could manage it. He's on his way to the door before he remembers some fragment of manners and says,
"Wait here. I need to get some things to tend to you."
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him, to fetch what he can as quickly as he can. When he returns, his errand had been mostly successful-- he has a large pitcher of water and a bowl, some cloths to wash him with and a little soap, whatever food could be scrounged up from the kitchen this late at night. No mulled wine, but there is a mug of cider that had been warmed for him.
As soon as Geralt leaves, Jaskier sighs. If it's with relief or tiredness, he isn't sure. But he hates how his emotions keep shaking him all over the place: being alone is something that he loathes, being the people person he is and needing comfort at the moment, yet Geralt's presence has been incredibly stressful.
The cloak is nice, at least, and Jaskier slowly moves his body to hug his legs and create a cocoon out of witcher black, wishing he could fall asleep and wake up to all this being a horrible nightmare. Instead, his eyes travel around the room again, watching the fireplace and admiring the colors of the flames, moving afterwards to Geralt's pile of things, wondering if anything has changed since--
Wait.
Is that--?
There's no fucking way. He couldn't have done it, he's an ass, he wouldn't have cared about his--
Wrapping the cloak around himself and with very careful steps, Jaskier leaves the bed. A horrible idea, because of course he falls, getting some colorful curses out of him - hopefully the witcher's dumb dog ears don't pick on it. So he crawls the rest of the way, tears on his eyes because of the pain but also because of what awaits him on that pile. He thought he would never see it again.
When Geralt returns, he'll find Jaskier sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and hugging a very specific object against his chest.
The frown on Geralt's face deepens momentarily when he sees Jaskier on the floor, the cloak draped over him and his lute in his lap. There's too much in his hands to go tend to him immediately, so Geralt sets everything down, the water and food and supplies, before returning and kneeling in front of the bard again. With the grip that he has on that lute, Geralt's pretty sure that he'd have to break his stupid fingers to get it away from him. Easier to just let him have it, if it gives him comfort.
"I found your room in Gors Velen," he says. "Why would I have left your things?"
And regardless of what Geralt thinks of the barding profession in general, Jaskier loves that damn lute. Loves it more than his own hide, probably, considering that he takes better care of it than he does himself sometimes. But perhaps it's not so alien a concept-- Jaskier's lute is basically the bard's equivalent of Geralt's swords, and he takes meticulous care of his weapons.
There is a part of him, too, that's pleased that Jaskier is pleased. It was nothing for him to carry the lute and his pack along with him, but it's made the bard look at him without bitterness. That makes the minor encumbrance worth it.
"Back to the bed. I can't bandage you when you're on the floor."
It couldn't be comfortable, either. The less that he aggravates his injuries, the better off he'll be. Geralt's arms are plenty strong enough to help a bard back to the bed, even with the added burden of a lute.
Once on the bed again, Geralt could get to work-- the supplies that he'd gotten are sitting on an endtable near the bed, and he takes the pitcher and pours out a glass of water for Jaskier, and a measure into the bowl for cleaning. A brief flash of Igni heats the water to steaming, and the witcher checks it to make sure that it isn't scalding. Then-- with businesslike hands, because anything else would be... too much-- he gets to work, cleaning Jaskier's skin before applying salve and bandages as needed. He even starts from the legs and works his way up, mostly to leave Jaskier to his lute-cuddling for as long as possible.
Geralt is absolutely right, Jaskier isn't letting go of the lute any time soon. Especially now that his Geralt-related emotions are getting messy again. Gods, he had fallen into Angry and Bitter pretty comfortably, why can't he stay there? Why does Geralt have to be nice? Why does he mention picking up Jaskier's things as if it was the most obvious and natural choice from his part? As if he hadn't threatened to destroy the lute hundreds of times in the past?
He doesn't know what to think anymore. Maybe he should say thank you, but the words get stuck in his throat.
The witcher mandhandles Jaskier back to bed, and isn't that an irony? Because that's a fantasy Jaskier has had before, but it didn't go like this - exactly the opposite in fact. It's been a night full of opposites, to be fair. Geralt is the one doing the room renting, food ordering, wound mending. It's surreal, having him at his feet like this, being gentle with his wounds like Jaskier had thousands of times before for him. It makes him wince and whimper every now and then, depending on how deep the cut goes, but the salve is soothing and Geralt's hands are kind, so Jaskier's body is slowly lowering its defenses and giving in to the caretaking.
Something else is bothering him though. He watches Geralt with a frown on his face, arms always hugging the lute, as he tries to put two and two together. Why would Geralt find his room in Gors Velen? If he's been protecting princess Cirilla, then he should've been tracking the Nifgaardian soldiers, right? Unless... no way.
"...you were looking for me." He finally says aloud, clearly not believing his own words. Blue eyes are wide with surprise, all his messy emotions raw in there as well, not understanding what the fuck is going on. "Bloody hell. Why?"
It's easier, when Jaskier finally loosens a little under his hands. Tending to wounds when the person's muscles are tight just makes the job more painful and difficult, and... something sits wrong in his chest with the fact that Jaskier is tense around him.
He finishes smearing a glob of salve over one of the marks near Jaskier's knee when the bard's faint, surprised voice comes out of his mouth. Geralt looks up at him again, head tilted slightly to one side as he regards him, then bends to his work again.
"I found my child surprise," he says, and that seems like the best place to start. "She's safe."
It might be awkward, having Geralt's hands on Jaskier's thighs while he bandages up the lacerations from the whip, but if he focuses enough on talking, he isn't thinking about all the other times that he'd thought about warm, pale thighs. It's not a good time for that kind of thing, anyway. Not when he's hurt.
"Nilfgaard knows that she was with me, so I had to prioritize her safety. I came back to find you after I got her to Kaer Morhen." He ties the bandages carefully, so that the knot won't press against any of the wounds. "They won't stop coming for you, Jaskier. Not after all the songs."
That explains the delay-- but the why, well. That's obvious, isn't it? Are the words really necessary?
He double-checks his work and makes a soft hum when he's satisfied.
It's not the part about Princess Cirilla - he already heard that from the soldiers, so he isn't surprised. He's glad to know she's safe, actually. It's not the part about Geralt's hands on his thighs, either, although a little part of him does want to scream about that. He's too tired and hurt to have any kind of sexual thoughts.
No, what takes the air out of his lungs -again- is the fact that even when he's not expecting anything, he manages to get disappointed anyway. Because yes, Geralt, words are truly necessary. Otherwise Jaskier will think this is only happening because the witcher just doesn't want to have another corpse under his name, because he doesn't want to give Nilfgaard a pawn.
The bitter smell returns.
Garroter, jury, and judge...
The only reason why he turns around and lays his body face down on the bed, offering his back to Geralt as he requested, is because he wants this to be over with. The lute stays by his side, fingertips brushing its wood, itching to play it but knowing they have to wait. 'Her sweet kiss' is echoing in his mind when he speaks again.
"...and we can't have the bard keeping on shoveling shit on you, can we?"
Geralt gets fresh water as Jaskier turns over for him, arranging himself however is least painful on the bed. The cuts to his back are unpleasant, crusted and ragged, inflamed from going so long without proper treatment. No infection yet, though, and hopefully his tending has come soon enough to prevent any from setting in. He cleans them out as he did Jaskier's legs, forcing his calloused hands into gentleness. The salve with help it heal quick and clean, but there may still be scars.
His hands go still when the bard speaks.
He remembers Jaskier's face on the mountain, when Geralt had turned on him like the beast that the bard had tried to convince everyone he isn't. Shocked, hurt-- betrayed. Jaskier had spent twenty years of his life following Geralt all over the Continent, rehabilitating his terrible reputation and only separating from him for a few months at a time, and he had repaid his devotion with that.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off of my hands.
Geralt is exactly what his reputation had said. A witcher, synonymous with beast and monster. He had cut Jaskier down with the same cruel efficiency that he sliced through drowners or ghouls, but without ever even having to draw steel.
"Fuck."
He turns his head to the side, looking down at the worn floorboards instead of at Jaskier. At this point, to keep tending to him, he'll need him to sit up so that he can wind bandages around his back and chest, but that would mean looking at him, possibly even at his face. Geralt would rather throw himself into a whole nest of kikimores than do that, or, hell, go spelunking down the throat of a fucking selkiemore. If this whole conversation got interrupted by a band of rotfiends, he'd gladly welcome it.
"I. Jaskier." His mouth twists as though he'd just bitten into something sour. He isn't good with words, and they so often don't come out right when he tries. Just like with Yennefer-- he talked more around her than probably anyone else, but most of the time, what he said was all wrong. "It isn't."
Insufficient. If this had been a strike with a sword, it'd be a glancing blow. An incomplete Sign.
Fuck indeed, Jaskier thinks. He feels the hands stopping and Jaskier is tempted to turn around, check on Geralt, but at the same time he's afraid of what he'll find there. Will it be the same look Geralt gave him on the mountain? Because Jaskier still remembers that one, it's been burned on his mind, no matter how hard he's tried to forget.
No matter how much time passes, though, he's still a fool, and hearing his name said like that continues to be a weakness. Covering himself with the cloak again (because if Geralt isn't going to touch him anymore then he doesn't want to feel cold again), he turns his body to lie on his side, blue eyes searching for something, anything, on Geralt's face.
Except the witcher doesn't even dare to look at him, the big coward, and what he says? Barely an apology, if it can even be called that.
Jaskier is tired. Angry. Frustrated. In pain. Scared. He's a mess of emotions, half of them having been ignored for the past year, so they've had time to settle down and fester - because no matter how he's tried to sing and fuck his way through the continent, he never moved on. That much of an impact Geralt has had in his life, and that much of an impact he's having now, poking at big emotional wounds with his kindness and care, making them bleed again with poor words.
There's only so much Jaskier cant take - and so he snaps.
"You-- YOU--" He's sitting up, his whole body screaming at the sudden movement, but he doesn't care. Resentment and anger are the energy that move him now, guiding his limbs as if it was adrenaline itself. Before he realizes what he's doing, Jaskier grabs a pillow and throws it at Geralt's face. He shouldn't yell, he should protect his throat. He does it anyway. "YOU BLOODY EMOTIONAL-CONSTIPATED, SWAMP-DWELLING, DIMWITTED, SHIT-DRIPPING, IMBECILIC, COCKEYED, GREASY GOMERIL, BLUNDERING PILLOCK, ASININE BASTARD SON OF A WEASEL AND A WHORE!"
Jaskier moves and Geralt sees it out of the corner of his eyes, and though his reflexes are sharpened by by his heightened senses and decades of training, he expects a thrown pillow so little that it hits him right in the side of the head. His eyes, when they're turned back to the bard, are wide and stunned, mostly from the fact that he actually threw a godsdamned pillow at him and started yelling. There's quite a bit of yelling, really, and a rather impressive list of insults that the bard has leveraged at him.
Geralt stares at him for a few long moments, dumbfounded.
"...I am not cockeyed."
That is entirely not the point of any of this, but Jaskier has never dared to speak to him like this before and it's the first thing that comes to his mind after that wave of insults. Hell, no one has spoken like this to him, except perhaps Vesemir, and even then only when Geralt was young and stupid and needed a firm hand and a firmer lecture. Jaskier, who barely knows how to hold a sword the right way around and regularly ran to Geralt whenever he needed to be protected, is chastising the man who was called a butcher with nothing but anger and frustration in his scent.
Jaskier is only ever fearless around Geralt.
Then he catches a hint of salt, the metallic tang of iron, and it drags him out of his stupefaction. Geralt curses again and reaches for the bard, runs a hand over his back until he feels warm wetness. When he pulls it back from under the cloak, there are red smears; he probably ripped some of his scabs.
"Stop fucking moving, you're tearing everything open again," he growls, and he does not think about how Jaskier has said that exact same thing to him in the past. But it's different-- he is a witcher, and his mutated body was made to be ripped and torn. "And stop fucking yelling, are you so foolish that you'd forget you're a wanted man?"
There are not enough words to describe the amount of satisfaction that shows on the glint in blue eyes and smirk on thin lips - how many people can claim having surprised Geralt like this, when the man has live for a century? Having hit him with a freaking pillow, when the witcher can usually dodge arrows with his sword? Nobody, that's who. Another thing for his "I'm the only one who gets this Geralt" list. It's a pity he doesn't sing about the motherfucker anymore, because it would make an amazing comic jig.
And of course, what does the asshole say in return? This has to be a joke.
"THAT'S what you concentrate on, you bloody imbecile? Unbelievable." Jaskier says after groaning and rolling his eyes, hands thrown in the air in exasperation. Seriously, his metaphors are wasted on this man. "Not THAT kind of cockeyed. It means foolish! Absurd! Preposterous! LudicroooAAAH-!" He would've started another rant of insults if it wasn't for Geralt lowering the cloak, and now he can feel the cold on the open scabs. The damn fingers touching them, too. Stupid witcher and his stupid kindness. "...bollocks."
Arms hug his stomach and his back bends over, body shivering again as the adrenaline starts fading away and Jaskier becomes aware of the pain again. Fuck, why couldn't Geralt have found him earlier? Yelling all these things at him is so damn satisfying. He doesn't want to stop now - sadly he can see Geralt's point. Just like that day with the djinn (she saved your life, Jaskier), he hates it that the witcher is right.
"Oh sure, NOW you're an advocate of not moving for the sake of wounds." The snort that comes with that is loud enough to echo in the room, the sarcasm is so thick in the air that you could cut it with a blade. But at least he does lower his voice when speaking this time, because unlike what Geralt believes, he isn't that stupid. No, really. "Worry not, you horse's ass, I'll go to sleep after you're done patching me up, and you won't have to hear this filling-less pie no more. We cannot have more shit piled on you."
A sigh, then he mumbles to himself, pointless considering Geralt's hearing. "I truly am foolish."
Geralt pulls the cloak so that it's at least covering Jaskier's legs, keeping him a little warmer. Humans are so susceptible to temperatures, this one in particular, even with the fire blazing. Geralt had scoffed at it before, when they were on the road together and Jaskier complained about the chill, but would still stoke up the fire or give him an extra blanket, if only to quiet him.
One night, when the weather really had turned far more bitter than Geralt expected and he was truly concerned about the bard's ability to endure it, he'd shared a bedroll with him. He'd discovered that night that Jaskier snores when it's cold, and the knowledge haunts him.
He makes an annoyed grunt at Jaskier's sarcasm, reaching for the bandages to get him wrapped up. The pressure from the wrappings will stop the bleeding and keep the salve in place, and, gods willing, he'd heal quicker. The witcher has to reach around his torso to cover his wounds, leaning in close enough that Jaskier can probably feel the warmth of his body.
"It isn't the same. You're a bard, not a witcher."
And by virtue of that, every ounce of Jaskier's blood was worth more than Geralt's. A witcher's body was made to withstand so much, and he could lose pints and still keep going, leave wounds untended and still heal from them. He wouldn't need this to survive, the careful binding of his injuries, tying the knot just so and tucking it away so that it wouldn't catch on anything. He pulls a bottle of yellowish oil out of his pack, uncorks it-- there's the faint smell of celandine-- and pours some onto his fingers. He'll try to rub some of it into the bruises on the bard's face, if he'll let him get that close, to take down the swelling.
"You are foolish. Didn't you hear me?"
He'd said it, he told him that the blessing he'd wished for wasn't a blessing at all.
"I just found you, I'm not going to fucking leave after I've been riding across half the damn Continent." What a waste of time that would be for everyone. "And the things I said on that mountain were... I was angry. I lost my temper."
"Yeah, well..." He looks down at his lap, not wanting to meet those golden eyes. "You already know my answer to that."
How many times did they have this argument in the past? Jaskier telling Geralt not to move while he was being patched up, only for the man to say it was fine because he was a witcher? How many times he would take on a new contract regardless of the state of his body after the last one? Jaskier would start a speech every time, reminding Geralt that being a witcher didn't mean he had to endure the pain. It didn't mean he didn't deserve a break, didn't mean he didn't deserve kindness or soothing.
He can't bring himself to say all that now, though. His heart isn't exactly in the mood to work on Geralt's reputation and self-esteem issues.
And yet... here they are, with Geralt playing nurse. His hands are kind and methodical, putting his pain at ease and helping his body relax. Every single muscle and bone is still sore as fuck, but at least it's tolerable now. What's difficult to deal with is everything Geralt related.
They aren't talking about the same kind of foolish, he wants to say, but Geralt is still talking, and Jaskier lets him. It's such a rare occurrence after all. When the witcher says he isn't going to leave, Jaskier snorts again, thinking about Geralt didn't have trouble leaving back on the mountain.
Speaking of the mountain... ah. Here we go. Jaskier finally looks up, heart beating fast in anticipation... but that's it? He raiseshis eyebrows.
"...aaaaaaand?"
Goddammit, he's two seconds away from throwing the other pillow.
And? Geralt shoots an annoyed look Jaskier's way, brow furrowing. He isn't eager to delve deeply into the disaster that was the mountain-- the Many Fuck-ups of Geralt of Rivia doesn't need an encore. But--
Here they are.
The sour-lemon face is back, twisting Geralt's mouth in a distasteful expression. Jaskier's good with words, can't he read between the lines and figure out what Geralt is trying to say? Read the apology hidden in his scarce words? But apparently that isn't good enough and he either doesn't understand or refuses to, wants more. He deserves more, and from a better man than Geralt.
"I was... cruel."
An understatement, really. And his cruelty had led to this, to Jaskier spending too much time in Nilfgaard's tender care, to the bandages that Geralt had to apply himself over all those wounds. Some of those injuries might scar, might mark Jaskier for the rest of his life. He owes Jaskier words, at the very least. If he is to be honest with himself, he owes Jaskier two decades and a reputation, and that's a heavy price.
He takes Jaskier's wrists, to salve and bandage them next. Keeping his hands busy is far better than letting them sit uselessly on his thighs.
"I lashed out at you in anger, and you didn't deserve such treatment. I wanted to be left alone to my misery. I knew that what I said to you would make that so." He smooths the bandage over Jaskier's wrist, taking more time than is strictly necessary to be sure that it wouldn't pinch or be too tight. "I've walked the Path for decades, and you're the only person who has walked it with me. The only person who isn't shackled to me by destiny. You chose, year after year, to be at my side."
The muscles in his jaw are tight. He almost wishes that Jaskier had kept yelling at him, or had just struck him and was done with it, because that would be far more bearable than this.
Jaskier is, indeed, very good with words, understanding the meaning in between lines. And he thought he was an expert at reading Geralt's, all the grunts and even the slight shift of his body language. But that day on the mountain, his image of his friend was shattered in pieces. He doesn't know what's real and what is wishful thinking anymore.
More now than ever, Jaskier needs reassurance. He needs to know what Geralt really feels, and not just the usual pushing he does to keep people at bay that Jaskier has to battle against.
He's so done with battling. He's so done with having to translate friendly gestures into actual interest.
At least Geralt does understand he was cruel - that's a start. Jaskier allows him to keep bandaging him up, the words he's hearing soothing his soul as the witcher's hands soothe his physical pain. Blue eyes follow those fingers that could kill him in one swift movement being gentle just for him, and finally lets himself enjoy it. He even can't help smiling a little when Geralt points out Jaskier stayed because of choice, not because of destiny.
That's right - take that, destiny, you bitch. Jaskier is above all of your shit.
"You did. And it scares me, Geralt." His voice is soft, and his eyes are still on Geralt's hands, which are suddenly held by Jaskier's when he's done with the bandages. This bard likes to talk and the power of words, yes, but he is also touchy as fuck and likes physical reassurance. "It scares me to think how easily I believed you."
A pause. Blue eyes look up again, intense. Demanding. Needing the comfort. "What are we, Geralt?"
Something about what Geralt has said must be right, because Jaskier eventually softens to him-- he can see it in his eyes, in his face. His voice gentles, looses its cutting edge, and his hands catch Geralt's. He doesn't try to hold Jaskier's back, but lets his hands rest loose and harmless in his grasp.
He had cut Jaskier down so easily, and could probably do it again. It's power that he clearly shouldn't be given-- see how he abused it? How could Jaskier trust him again? How had Jaskier ever trusted him at all, really? It's a terribly foolish idea, giving your heart over to a creature that doesn't have one.
Jaskier's eyes are very blue. Cornflower blue, if he is to put a name to the color, and Geralt's brain unhelpfully supplies a piece of folklore-- young men in love would wear them, and if the flower fades too quickly, their love is not returned.
What are we?
"Whatever you want." Jaskier is the aggrieved party here; he should decide. "I understand if you cannot forgive me."
Blue eyes widen in shock, his heartbeat starts running incredibly fast. Bloody hell. Those three words are so much bigger than what he expected, and he isn't sure if Geralt realizes exactly how much Jaskier wants to ask for. Has he listened to "Her Sweet Kiss"? Understood its meaning? Probably not, too busy with Ciri.
"I want to! So badly." He suddenly exclaims - Jaskier has never had much control of his emotions, always carrying his heart in his sleeve, yet he can feel himself losing it right now. His voice breaks a little with the next words, his hands squeezing Geralt's fingers. "...I've missed you."
It hurts his pride to admit it. Jaskier would've liked to have been a petty bitch for the past few months, able to dismiss pain and move on. But that's also not true at all, he loves to love openly and freely, he loves feeling this strongly, and no matter how he tried to pretend he was over it... he never stopped missing Geralt.
Whatever you want is a lot. It's a fire in his chest, and he's scared of burning. If Geralt had asked before the mountain, Jaskier would've jumped on it. Now, however? Now he needs to know their friendship is fine before he can even consider anything else. And as much as he hates having this thought, sooner or later he'll have to ask about certain sorceress as well. That is, if Geralt means his offer that way in the first place - Jaskier still has doubts.
"You told me thousands of times that we weren't friends. And the last year I kept thinking: you should've listened, Jaskier, you're such an utter fool." He shakes his head at himself before looking at Geralt again, his expression and tone of voice demanding to be taken seriously. To be paid attention to. "I know it's hard for you to relate to people, Geralt. I know better than anyone, and that's why I've been patient for twenty bloody years. I don't expect you to suddenly read me poetry and laugh at my jokes. Banter is good, teasing is what friends do - you tell me to shut up, not meaning it, I tell you you're emotionally constipated. It works. But there's also only so much I can take."
A deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"I want to forgive you, and I know I will, because I am a fool, especially for you. But I need your word that at least you're going to try, Geralt. No more filling-less pie. No more 'we aren't friends'. No more pushing me away. Can I have that much at least?" He shouldn't be a manipulative bastard, but as a wordsmith, the urge is stronger than him. "Hasn't my loyalty earned that consideration?"
Jaskier has been patient with Geralt for far longer than any person should ever have to, or ever want to. Two decades is a long time for a human, and Geralt isn't always as cognizant of the shortened lifespans of most of the Continent, but the thought of it, that Jaskier is steadily walking to a place that he can't follow, make the chest-vice squeeze up again. One day, Jaskier will have grey in his hair. One day, he won't be able to go on hunts. One day, and every day after that, he won't be there at all.
Twenty years is a lot of time to make up for. If Geralt works very hard for the rest of the time that he is granted with the bard, maybe he can get close.
"Yes."
It's a single word, and saying it is both easy and hard. The admission that he had been so wrong chafes him, but-- it's the reparations that Jaskier needs. He needs to hear the words, or at least close enough to them.
"You've earned that and more. We are... we're friends, Jaskier."
It's a word that took twenty godsdamned years to come out of his mouth, one that plenty of other people had said about them. But Geralt will make amends for that lack. He can't afford not to.
This has been very... emotional and heart-bearing and all of that shit that Geralt is shit at, so the easiest thing is to turn it back around to something practical.
"You should eat something. And rest. You'll need to heal before we can leave, and I don't want to stay this far south for too long. Nilfgaard's too close."
That one word already shakes Jaskier's entire world, but then Geralt keeps talking, saying he's earned more and-- by Melitele's tits, he uses the f-word. And not the one he likes so much.
Jaskier's smile could light up the entire fucking inn.
Forget the bitterness - Jaskier smells sweetly now, happiness exuding from every inch of his body, eyes twinkling like the stars, grin almost splitting his face in two. He's still sore so he doesn't enter his dramatics mode, but it's obvious that a general bounce has returned to his limbs.
And before Geralt gets away, because he knows that face, knows the conversation has become too much for him, Jaskir leans in and hugs the hell out of him.
"I forgive you, old friend." Gods, it feels good to be able to say those words once more. Makes his heart beat to the rhythm of Toss a coin again. "And thank you. For saving me, and for taking care of my wounds." He pulls back and this time his little smirk is more of a teasing kind. "I won't apologize for the pillow, however, I shall carry that success with me. Your cloak is mine now too."
Okay, the cloak part he doesn't mean, not really. But he still grabs it and wraps himself in it, enjoying having this little piece of Geralt protecting him. He was too hurt, both in the emotional and the physical sense, to appreciate it on the ride here. Now though? Now he doesn't let go of it, moving to lie down on the pillow that is left on the bed. See, he's being a good boy!
"Let us sup, then, my dear witcher!" Congrats, Geralt, you've earned some extra terms of endearment. Jaskier pats the spot next to him. "Come, Geralt. Bring the tray and sit with me. Let us share food like the old times. Then I'll promise I'll rest - I am tired and I don't want to stay here for too long either."
Where is he going, he has no idea. But they can figure that out in the morning. Now he only wants to cuddle against Geralt's broad back, just like he used to do while sharing bedrolls and rooms with only one bed.
Jaskier, he thinks, forgives too easily-- with just a few words, he casts off his anger and reluctance like an unwanted cloak, the bitter tang of it disappearing from his scent. He smells sweet and light and welcoming, a familiar thing that had followed him for twenty years, and there's a part of Geralt that wants to fall forward and push his face into the bard's neck and just breathe. He shoves the impulse aside, of course; Jaskier is injured and their renewed friendship is only fledgling. That kind of contact would be too intimate, friends do not bury their faces against their friends' bodies to memorize the nuances of their scent.
He's caught in a hug before he can move out of Jaskier's reach, however, and though the bard is covered in bandages and his old cloak, he's still very much undressed. The scent of him is inescapable, mixed with Geralt's from wearing his clothes, and that combination is something that he has to steel himself against-- heady like sweet wine on an empty stomach. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he settles for patting the bard gently on the side, like he would pet Roach's flank after a long ride.
When finally released, Geralt grunts in lieu of a verbal response. Jaskier can keep his apologies and the witcher's cloak besides, Geralt will be fine without it. It's only practical that the bard switch from his flashy, attention-seeking doublets to something more subdued, anyway, and even as the weather gets cooler as autumn sets in, Geralt will manage without the cloak. And if Jaskier agrees--
Well. Geralt hasn't even asked yet, and it's not something that he has to do tonight. The bard might not even want to winter in Kaer Morhen, where his only company will be a bunch of witchers and a child surprise, holed up in a decaying fortress until the spring thaw. He would likely prefer the comforts of Oxenfurt or Novigrad, though it would pain Geralt to have to leave him there.
He fetches the tray while Jaskier gets comfortable; the mattress is decent and the sheets are clean, which is about all that anyone could ask for. The food is... serviceable, some cheese and bread and pottage, the now lukewarm cider, but Geralt can't really complain. Jaskier is far better at charming nicer fare from the cooks than he is, especially at this time of night.
"Eat."
He pushes the tray towards him on the bed. Jaskier can eat whatever he wants from it; Geralt will finish whatever is left over. The bard needs sustenance more than he does after his captivity, and a witcher can go for days longer than a human on little to no rations.
A pat on his side. Oh, Geralt. It makes Jaskier chuckle - would he kill for a proper hug? Absolutely. Jaskier could spend a whole day just touching Geralt, platonically or not, and nothing would make him happier than Geralt returning the sentiment. They're nowhere near that, sadly, but Jaskier is still glad for that little pat: it proves Geralt is already keeping his word. He's trying. And that makes him all warm and fuzzy inside.
Fine cheese and wine Jaskier may love, but he's also spent many years on the road, be with Geralt or alone. Coin isn't always available to eat the best of the best, Melitele knows they've stayed at some really crappy inns in their time. That added to the his recent time in captivity? It makes this tray look and smell like the most delicious banquet.
The cup of cider is the first thing he picks up, closing both hands around it to protect and receive its warmth as he takes a deep sniff and lets the aroma wrap around him. That aroma ends up going straight to his head - a lightweight he is not, but his stomach is empty and his mind tired. So he ends up picking up some cheese and bread first.
"Geralt." He says in between bites, giving the witcher that looks like says I'm about to ask something from you and it won't be up for discussion. "I told you to sit with me. Please. I want-" Your presence, your warmth, to feel safe next to you, I've missed sharing tiny wobbly beds with a witcher larger than a bear. "To hear about you and Princess Cirilla. Living image of Pavetta, is she not?"
To be fair, it's not a complete lie, he does want to know about that too. But right now what he needs the most is comfort. And while Geralt is not at a point where he's offering his hugs (yet?), bumping shoulders would already be enough.
Geralt would prefer to stand-- in fact, he'd prefer to stand with his sword at his side in front of the door, ready to cut down any man who'd try to enter. This would do nothing to help the reputations of witchers, of course, nor would it be particularly subtle for him to skulk around the door like a surly guard dog, but his desires don't always line up perfectly with what is prudent. And what Jaskier is asking of him is a small thing-- just so sit with him, like friends. To talk like they used to, or, maybe, not how they used to, since Geralt would rarely talk. Better than they used to.
The witcher sits on the edge of the bed, but only after moving his swords so that they lean against the wall in easy reach.
"You've been back to Cintra."
It's not a question; Jaskier knows the princess' name and what she looks like. He must have seen her at some point to know how much like her mother she is, and, really, it's unreasonable for him to assume that Jaskier would stay away from a well-paying job just because he wanted to give Cintra a wide berth. There were times that they had separated. Jaskier just had the foresight to plan his trips to Calanthe's court at times when Geralt would not be with him.
"Ciri is more like her mother than you'd think," he says. "She has her gifts, too. It's why Nilfgaard wants her so badly."
Not a question, and it isn't scolding either. Just stating the fact. Jaskier hadn't been sure how Geralt would react to him working in Cintra, considering how badly he had wanted to stay away from the place, but it seems he doesn't mind. Good, that's what supportive friends do. After eating another piece of bread and cheese, Jaskier finally takes a sip of his cider and oh, it does wonders to his weary body. The alcohol helps his muscles relax, makes his stomach warm and puts his mind at ease. Although the last point is more Geralt himself than the drink.
"Queen Calanthe said that if she had to hire a bard for celebrations, then she wanted the sassy one." He explains with pride in his voice. "I never hesitated to mouth off the nobles, and I think she found entertainment in that. The pay was good as well."
The edge of the bed? Damn. Well, he'll have to work with that. Jaskier puts down his mug on the tray, then drags it and the pillow with him as he crawls until he can rest right next to Geralt. This close and not distracted by emotions anymore, he can tell the man is smelling of onions again, because not even with a princess at his side he'll take care of himself.
Mental note: bathe him with oils soon.
And isn't that an amusing thought? Tonight he's the one being taken care of, yet he's already falling so easily back into his old nurse-for-the-witcher role. Geralt truly has a tight leash on his heart, and that should be a scary thought, but honestly? Jaskier likes to think this is a sign that he's needed, and basks in it. Starting right now, with the fact Geralt hasn't picked any food yet. Jaskier pushes some bread and cheese into the man's fingers before picking the pottage for himself, and he sips it idly as he lets his body slack against his friend's side. Sensing those hard muscles against him make the whole thing more real (it's happening, we're together again) and adds a layer to that feeling of safety Geralt always wraps him with (nobody is going to get me tonight).
"Poor girl. So young and already lost it all, already carrying a power greater than she is. I'm pleased to hear you've taken her under your wing, my friend, no place is safer." A pause to yawn. With food and alcohol in his belly, he's getting drowsy. "Where is she now anyway?"
A bit like onion, yes, and also a bit like blood. Geralt had had to kill more than a few men to get to Jaskier, and that kind of thing is never a clean business. The combination is probably not a pleasant one, but he had been more concerned with getting Jaskier cleaned up than he was about himself. And before that--
Well. He'd never kept the oils with him, and Jaskier's the one who knows the ratios and which scents can be combined into something that wouldn't irritate his nose. And if Geralt tried to approximate it and didn't get it right, then he wouldn't smell right and it would undoubtedly put him into a foul mood. So... onions and horse it is, and everyone can just live with it.
Jaskier is tucked up against Geralt's side, a long line of warmth against him, and that's... normal. He pushes bread and cheese into his hands-- less normal-- but he's taken the pottage for himself, so the witcher is satisfied that he'll be well fed.
"Kaer Morhen. It's too early in the year for any of the other witchers to be back yet, but Vesemir never leaves. He's watching over her." Geralt rips off a piece of the bread and some of the cheese. "My old fencing teacher."
The closest thing, really, that Geralt has to a father.
"The trail up to the keep will be impassible after the first snow, so it will be the safest place to train her until the thaw. I'll have to be on my way by mid-autumn, or I won't be able to make it back."
And that threshold of no return is fast approaching. With Jaskier or without, Geralt will have to make it through Morhen Valley before the snows.
Kaer Morhen - the Wolf School headquarters. The closest thing Geralt has to a home. A place of stories and legends. Can't deny it, Jaskier is jealous that Cirilla gets to visit it, to live there. To see and learn everything that made Geralt who he is today. It makes sense, he knows, she's his Child Surprise - his daughter in all sense of the word. She gets privileges he'll never get access to - and isn't that an ironic thought, because Jaskier already has unique access to a mountain of things regarding Geralt. Like rubbing chamomile on his lovely bottom.
But he can't help it, he's ambitious and in love. When it comes to Geralt, he wants it all.
"The man responsible for your breathtaking use of the sword? She's as safe as she can be, then."
A bit of a generic answer, he knows, but his mind is now lost in the rest of what Geralt said. He forces himself to finish the pottage, not matter how hard his stomach is turning right now. Separating when winter comes isn't news to them, they've been doing it since they met. Jaskier to Oxenfurt, Geralt to Kaer Morhen. It's tradition by now.
They just reunited, though. Jaskier doesn't want to part so soon, not after a year of heartbreak. He wants to stay by Geralt's side, catch up with his adventures, get him all tidy and pretty again, sleep to his side and dream to the unique rhythm of his heartbeat, he wants--
Whatever you want.
All. He wants it all. When he was a child, Jaskier was't allowed to want many things outside of what was viscount appropriate. Jaskier promised he would never be shackled by those chains again, and here is Geralt, offering him the world.
The pottage bowl is put down and Jaskier drinks a good amount of cider before speaking again, a hand reaching to hold onto Geralt's sleeve.
"Whatever you want, you said. Did you really mean it?" He rests his head on Geralt's shoulder, eyes closing. "I know how our winters usually go, I remember the routine. But I can't do it again so soon, Geralt. I just got you back."
Kaer Morhen would, by all metrics, be the safest place for Jaskier to be. He had always wintered in Oxenfurt, in the comfort and familiarity of the Oxenfurt Academy, surrounded by his friends and colleagues. He would tell Geralt about it, when they met again in spring, about the songs he'd composed and the nights he'd spent at any number of taverns, drinking and singing until his voice gave out.
Geralt's jaw tightens. He had said whatever you want, but he has a responsibility to Ciri, as well. Leaving her with Vesemir for a time while he went to find Jaskier was necessary, but he couldn't leave her alone all winter to stay with the bard. He couldn't abandon her again, not after he had spent so many years running away from his duties to her.
"Jaskier..."
If he brought him to the keep, Vesemir might not approve at first, and his brothers might not enjoy having another outsider in their home, but so long as Geralt takes responsibility for him, he'd be able to stay. The issue is that there are so few reasons for him to want to-- the company wouldn't be nearly as lively or entertaining as in Oxenfurt, and the library is full of witchers' texts and monster manuals, not poetry. The fortress is aging and drafty, and there are areas of it that are inaccessible from the ravages of time and disrepair. The larders and pantries would be well-stocked, but with food that could last an entire winter, and there wouldn't be any of Jaskier's accustomed delicacies.
"I can't stay in Oxenfurt all winter. Ciri will need me."
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There's a venom in Jaskier's voice when he says witcher that Geralt's never heard from his mouth. Others, yes, but not him. And there's something equally bitter that makes its way into his scent, angry and sharp, and it almost doesn't matter what he says, not when the tone and his smell say it all for him.
Jaskier doesn't want his help. Geralt frowns, the expression putting deep furrows in his brow. Well-- too bad. He might not want it, but he's going to get it.
Geralt helps him with his clothes where he can, trying to keep him from having to bend or stretch and put pressure on his injuries, both for practical reasons and because hearing his pain makes the vice-thing twist tighter in his chest. With each piece of clothing removed, more injuries are revealed-- his abused back, his ribs and stomach mottled in red and purple, turning into greens and yellows where the bruises have started to heal. His legs, criss-crossed with the marks from a whip. Geralt is intimately familiar with the pain that a whipping can cause; there are towns that have blamed the arrival of a witcher for a plague or a crop blight or some other thing that was beyond his control.
He's pulling supplies out of his pack, his jar of medical salve and rolls of clean bandages, when Jaskier complains about the cold. His big hand rests on Jaskier's shin, left there from where he'd been inspecting a particularly nasty mark, and he feels the trembling start. He stands and goes to the fireplace, adding more wood and stoking it up so that the room warms. When he returns to Jaskier's bedside, he puts the cloak back around his shoulders; it doesn't matter if he gets blood on it, Geralt's bled on it plenty before.
There are more things that he'll need before he can tend to the bard, though. Water, for one thing, both for Jaskier to drink and for cleaning him. Washcloths, food, maybe a little hot mulled wine, if he could manage it. He's on his way to the door before he remembers some fragment of manners and says,
"Wait here. I need to get some things to tend to you."
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him, to fetch what he can as quickly as he can. When he returns, his errand had been mostly successful-- he has a large pitcher of water and a bowl, some cloths to wash him with and a little soap, whatever food could be scrounged up from the kitchen this late at night. No mulled wine, but there is a mug of cider that had been warmed for him.
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The cloak is nice, at least, and Jaskier slowly moves his body to hug his legs and create a cocoon out of witcher black, wishing he could fall asleep and wake up to all this being a horrible nightmare. Instead, his eyes travel around the room again, watching the fireplace and admiring the colors of the flames, moving afterwards to Geralt's pile of things, wondering if anything has changed since--
Wait.
Is that--?
There's no fucking way. He couldn't have done it, he's an ass, he wouldn't have cared about his--
Wrapping the cloak around himself and with very careful steps, Jaskier leaves the bed. A horrible idea, because of course he falls, getting some colorful curses out of him - hopefully the witcher's dumb dog ears don't pick on it. So he crawls the rest of the way, tears on his eyes because of the pain but also because of what awaits him on that pile. He thought he would never see it again.
When Geralt returns, he'll find Jaskier sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and hugging a very specific object against his chest.
"...you rescued my lute."
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"I found your room in Gors Velen," he says. "Why would I have left your things?"
And regardless of what Geralt thinks of the barding profession in general, Jaskier loves that damn lute. Loves it more than his own hide, probably, considering that he takes better care of it than he does himself sometimes. But perhaps it's not so alien a concept-- Jaskier's lute is basically the bard's equivalent of Geralt's swords, and he takes meticulous care of his weapons.
There is a part of him, too, that's pleased that Jaskier is pleased. It was nothing for him to carry the lute and his pack along with him, but it's made the bard look at him without bitterness. That makes the minor encumbrance worth it.
"Back to the bed. I can't bandage you when you're on the floor."
It couldn't be comfortable, either. The less that he aggravates his injuries, the better off he'll be. Geralt's arms are plenty strong enough to help a bard back to the bed, even with the added burden of a lute.
Once on the bed again, Geralt could get to work-- the supplies that he'd gotten are sitting on an endtable near the bed, and he takes the pitcher and pours out a glass of water for Jaskier, and a measure into the bowl for cleaning. A brief flash of Igni heats the water to steaming, and the witcher checks it to make sure that it isn't scalding. Then-- with businesslike hands, because anything else would be... too much-- he gets to work, cleaning Jaskier's skin before applying salve and bandages as needed. He even starts from the legs and works his way up, mostly to leave Jaskier to his lute-cuddling for as long as possible.
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He doesn't know what to think anymore. Maybe he should say thank you, but the words get stuck in his throat.
The witcher mandhandles Jaskier back to bed, and isn't that an irony? Because that's a fantasy Jaskier has had before, but it didn't go like this - exactly the opposite in fact. It's been a night full of opposites, to be fair. Geralt is the one doing the room renting, food ordering, wound mending. It's surreal, having him at his feet like this, being gentle with his wounds like Jaskier had thousands of times before for him. It makes him wince and whimper every now and then, depending on how deep the cut goes, but the salve is soothing and Geralt's hands are kind, so Jaskier's body is slowly lowering its defenses and giving in to the caretaking.
Something else is bothering him though. He watches Geralt with a frown on his face, arms always hugging the lute, as he tries to put two and two together. Why would Geralt find his room in Gors Velen? If he's been protecting princess Cirilla, then he should've been tracking the Nifgaardian soldiers, right? Unless... no way.
"...you were looking for me." He finally says aloud, clearly not believing his own words. Blue eyes are wide with surprise, all his messy emotions raw in there as well, not understanding what the fuck is going on. "Bloody hell. Why?"
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He finishes smearing a glob of salve over one of the marks near Jaskier's knee when the bard's faint, surprised voice comes out of his mouth. Geralt looks up at him again, head tilted slightly to one side as he regards him, then bends to his work again.
"I found my child surprise," he says, and that seems like the best place to start. "She's safe."
It might be awkward, having Geralt's hands on Jaskier's thighs while he bandages up the lacerations from the whip, but if he focuses enough on talking, he isn't thinking about all the other times that he'd thought about warm, pale thighs. It's not a good time for that kind of thing, anyway. Not when he's hurt.
"Nilfgaard knows that she was with me, so I had to prioritize her safety. I came back to find you after I got her to Kaer Morhen." He ties the bandages carefully, so that the knot won't press against any of the wounds. "They won't stop coming for you, Jaskier. Not after all the songs."
That explains the delay-- but the why, well. That's obvious, isn't it? Are the words really necessary?
He double-checks his work and makes a soft hum when he's satisfied.
"Back, next."
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It's not the part about Princess Cirilla - he already heard that from the soldiers, so he isn't surprised. He's glad to know she's safe, actually. It's not the part about Geralt's hands on his thighs, either, although a little part of him does want to scream about that. He's too tired and hurt to have any kind of sexual thoughts.
No, what takes the air out of his lungs -again- is the fact that even when he's not expecting anything, he manages to get disappointed anyway. Because yes, Geralt, words are truly necessary. Otherwise Jaskier will think this is only happening because the witcher just doesn't want to have another corpse under his name, because he doesn't want to give Nilfgaard a pawn.
The bitter smell returns.
Garroter, jury, and judge...
The only reason why he turns around and lays his body face down on the bed, offering his back to Geralt as he requested, is because he wants this to be over with. The lute stays by his side, fingertips brushing its wood, itching to play it but knowing they have to wait. 'Her sweet kiss' is echoing in his mind when he speaks again.
"...and we can't have the bard keeping on shoveling shit on you, can we?"
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His hands go still when the bard speaks.
He remembers Jaskier's face on the mountain, when Geralt had turned on him like the beast that the bard had tried to convince everyone he isn't. Shocked, hurt-- betrayed. Jaskier had spent twenty years of his life following Geralt all over the Continent, rehabilitating his terrible reputation and only separating from him for a few months at a time, and he had repaid his devotion with that.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off of my hands.
Geralt is exactly what his reputation had said. A witcher, synonymous with beast and monster. He had cut Jaskier down with the same cruel efficiency that he sliced through drowners or ghouls, but without ever even having to draw steel.
"Fuck."
He turns his head to the side, looking down at the worn floorboards instead of at Jaskier. At this point, to keep tending to him, he'll need him to sit up so that he can wind bandages around his back and chest, but that would mean looking at him, possibly even at his face. Geralt would rather throw himself into a whole nest of kikimores than do that, or, hell, go spelunking down the throat of a fucking selkiemore. If this whole conversation got interrupted by a band of rotfiends, he'd gladly welcome it.
"I. Jaskier." His mouth twists as though he'd just bitten into something sour. He isn't good with words, and they so often don't come out right when he tries. Just like with Yennefer-- he talked more around her than probably anyone else, but most of the time, what he said was all wrong. "It isn't."
Insufficient. If this had been a strike with a sword, it'd be a glancing blow. An incomplete Sign.
"A blessing, I mean."
That you were gone.
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No matter how much time passes, though, he's still a fool, and hearing his name said like that continues to be a weakness. Covering himself with the cloak again (because if Geralt isn't going to touch him anymore then he doesn't want to feel cold again), he turns his body to lie on his side, blue eyes searching for something, anything, on Geralt's face.
Except the witcher doesn't even dare to look at him, the big coward, and what he says? Barely an apology, if it can even be called that.
Jaskier is tired. Angry. Frustrated. In pain. Scared. He's a mess of emotions, half of them having been ignored for the past year, so they've had time to settle down and fester - because no matter how he's tried to sing and fuck his way through the continent, he never moved on. That much of an impact Geralt has had in his life, and that much of an impact he's having now, poking at big emotional wounds with his kindness and care, making them bleed again with poor words.
There's only so much Jaskier cant take - and so he snaps.
"You-- YOU--" He's sitting up, his whole body screaming at the sudden movement, but he doesn't care. Resentment and anger are the energy that move him now, guiding his limbs as if it was adrenaline itself. Before he realizes what he's doing, Jaskier grabs a pillow and throws it at Geralt's face. He shouldn't yell, he should protect his throat. He does it anyway. "YOU BLOODY EMOTIONAL-CONSTIPATED, SWAMP-DWELLING, DIMWITTED, SHIT-DRIPPING, IMBECILIC, COCKEYED, GREASY GOMERIL, BLUNDERING PILLOCK, ASININE BASTARD SON OF A WEASEL AND A WHORE!"
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Geralt stares at him for a few long moments, dumbfounded.
"...I am not cockeyed."
That is entirely not the point of any of this, but Jaskier has never dared to speak to him like this before and it's the first thing that comes to his mind after that wave of insults. Hell, no one has spoken like this to him, except perhaps Vesemir, and even then only when Geralt was young and stupid and needed a firm hand and a firmer lecture. Jaskier, who barely knows how to hold a sword the right way around and regularly ran to Geralt whenever he needed to be protected, is chastising the man who was called a butcher with nothing but anger and frustration in his scent.
Jaskier is only ever fearless around Geralt.
Then he catches a hint of salt, the metallic tang of iron, and it drags him out of his stupefaction. Geralt curses again and reaches for the bard, runs a hand over his back until he feels warm wetness. When he pulls it back from under the cloak, there are red smears; he probably ripped some of his scabs.
"Stop fucking moving, you're tearing everything open again," he growls, and he does not think about how Jaskier has said that exact same thing to him in the past. But it's different-- he is a witcher, and his mutated body was made to be ripped and torn. "And stop fucking yelling, are you so foolish that you'd forget you're a wanted man?"
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And of course, what does the asshole say in return? This has to be a joke.
"THAT'S what you concentrate on, you bloody imbecile? Unbelievable." Jaskier says after groaning and rolling his eyes, hands thrown in the air in exasperation. Seriously, his metaphors are wasted on this man. "Not THAT kind of cockeyed. It means foolish! Absurd! Preposterous! LudicroooAAAH-!" He would've started another rant of insults if it wasn't for Geralt lowering the cloak, and now he can feel the cold on the open scabs. The damn fingers touching them, too. Stupid witcher and his stupid kindness. "...bollocks."
Arms hug his stomach and his back bends over, body shivering again as the adrenaline starts fading away and Jaskier becomes aware of the pain again. Fuck, why couldn't Geralt have found him earlier? Yelling all these things at him is so damn satisfying. He doesn't want to stop now - sadly he can see Geralt's point. Just like that day with the djinn (she saved your life, Jaskier), he hates it that the witcher is right.
"Oh sure, NOW you're an advocate of not moving for the sake of wounds." The snort that comes with that is loud enough to echo in the room, the sarcasm is so thick in the air that you could cut it with a blade. But at least he does lower his voice when speaking this time, because unlike what Geralt believes, he isn't that stupid. No, really. "Worry not, you horse's ass, I'll go to sleep after you're done patching me up, and you won't have to hear this filling-less pie no more. We cannot have more shit piled on you."
A sigh, then he mumbles to himself, pointless considering Geralt's hearing. "I truly am foolish."
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One night, when the weather really had turned far more bitter than Geralt expected and he was truly concerned about the bard's ability to endure it, he'd shared a bedroll with him. He'd discovered that night that Jaskier snores when it's cold, and the knowledge haunts him.
He makes an annoyed grunt at Jaskier's sarcasm, reaching for the bandages to get him wrapped up. The pressure from the wrappings will stop the bleeding and keep the salve in place, and, gods willing, he'd heal quicker. The witcher has to reach around his torso to cover his wounds, leaning in close enough that Jaskier can probably feel the warmth of his body.
"It isn't the same. You're a bard, not a witcher."
And by virtue of that, every ounce of Jaskier's blood was worth more than Geralt's. A witcher's body was made to withstand so much, and he could lose pints and still keep going, leave wounds untended and still heal from them. He wouldn't need this to survive, the careful binding of his injuries, tying the knot just so and tucking it away so that it wouldn't catch on anything. He pulls a bottle of yellowish oil out of his pack, uncorks it-- there's the faint smell of celandine-- and pours some onto his fingers. He'll try to rub some of it into the bruises on the bard's face, if he'll let him get that close, to take down the swelling.
"You are foolish. Didn't you hear me?"
He'd said it, he told him that the blessing he'd wished for wasn't a blessing at all.
"I just found you, I'm not going to fucking leave after I've been riding across half the damn Continent." What a waste of time that would be for everyone. "And the things I said on that mountain were... I was angry. I lost my temper."
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How many times did they have this argument in the past? Jaskier telling Geralt not to move while he was being patched up, only for the man to say it was fine because he was a witcher? How many times he would take on a new contract regardless of the state of his body after the last one? Jaskier would start a speech every time, reminding Geralt that being a witcher didn't mean he had to endure the pain. It didn't mean he didn't deserve a break, didn't mean he didn't deserve kindness or soothing.
He can't bring himself to say all that now, though. His heart isn't exactly in the mood to work on Geralt's reputation and self-esteem issues.
And yet... here they are, with Geralt playing nurse. His hands are kind and methodical, putting his pain at ease and helping his body relax. Every single muscle and bone is still sore as fuck, but at least it's tolerable now. What's difficult to deal with is everything Geralt related.
They aren't talking about the same kind of foolish, he wants to say, but Geralt is still talking, and Jaskier lets him. It's such a rare occurrence after all. When the witcher says he isn't going to leave, Jaskier snorts again, thinking about Geralt didn't have trouble leaving back on the mountain.
Speaking of the mountain... ah. Here we go. Jaskier finally looks up, heart beating fast in anticipation... but that's it? He raiseshis eyebrows.
"...aaaaaaand?"
Goddammit, he's two seconds away from throwing the other pillow.
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Here they are.
The sour-lemon face is back, twisting Geralt's mouth in a distasteful expression. Jaskier's good with words, can't he read between the lines and figure out what Geralt is trying to say? Read the apology hidden in his scarce words? But apparently that isn't good enough and he either doesn't understand or refuses to, wants more. He deserves more, and from a better man than Geralt.
"I was... cruel."
An understatement, really. And his cruelty had led to this, to Jaskier spending too much time in Nilfgaard's tender care, to the bandages that Geralt had to apply himself over all those wounds. Some of those injuries might scar, might mark Jaskier for the rest of his life. He owes Jaskier words, at the very least. If he is to be honest with himself, he owes Jaskier two decades and a reputation, and that's a heavy price.
He takes Jaskier's wrists, to salve and bandage them next. Keeping his hands busy is far better than letting them sit uselessly on his thighs.
"I lashed out at you in anger, and you didn't deserve such treatment. I wanted to be left alone to my misery. I knew that what I said to you would make that so." He smooths the bandage over Jaskier's wrist, taking more time than is strictly necessary to be sure that it wouldn't pinch or be too tight. "I've walked the Path for decades, and you're the only person who has walked it with me. The only person who isn't shackled to me by destiny. You chose, year after year, to be at my side."
The muscles in his jaw are tight. He almost wishes that Jaskier had kept yelling at him, or had just struck him and was done with it, because that would be far more bearable than this.
"And I sent you away."
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More now than ever, Jaskier needs reassurance. He needs to know what Geralt really feels, and not just the usual pushing he does to keep people at bay that Jaskier has to battle against.
He's so done with battling. He's so done with having to translate friendly gestures into actual interest.
At least Geralt does understand he was cruel - that's a start. Jaskier allows him to keep bandaging him up, the words he's hearing soothing his soul as the witcher's hands soothe his physical pain. Blue eyes follow those fingers that could kill him in one swift movement being gentle just for him, and finally lets himself enjoy it. He even can't help smiling a little when Geralt points out Jaskier stayed because of choice, not because of destiny.
That's right - take that, destiny, you bitch. Jaskier is above all of your shit.
"You did. And it scares me, Geralt." His voice is soft, and his eyes are still on Geralt's hands, which are suddenly held by Jaskier's when he's done with the bandages. This bard likes to talk and the power of words, yes, but he is also touchy as fuck and likes physical reassurance. "It scares me to think how easily I believed you."
A pause. Blue eyes look up again, intense. Demanding. Needing the comfort. "What are we, Geralt?"
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He had cut Jaskier down so easily, and could probably do it again. It's power that he clearly shouldn't be given-- see how he abused it? How could Jaskier trust him again? How had Jaskier ever trusted him at all, really? It's a terribly foolish idea, giving your heart over to a creature that doesn't have one.
Jaskier's eyes are very blue. Cornflower blue, if he is to put a name to the color, and Geralt's brain unhelpfully supplies a piece of folklore-- young men in love would wear them, and if the flower fades too quickly, their love is not returned.
What are we?
"Whatever you want." Jaskier is the aggrieved party here; he should decide. "I understand if you cannot forgive me."
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Blue eyes widen in shock, his heartbeat starts running incredibly fast. Bloody hell. Those three words are so much bigger than what he expected, and he isn't sure if Geralt realizes exactly how much Jaskier wants to ask for. Has he listened to "Her Sweet Kiss"? Understood its meaning? Probably not, too busy with Ciri.
"I want to! So badly." He suddenly exclaims - Jaskier has never had much control of his emotions, always carrying his heart in his sleeve, yet he can feel himself losing it right now. His voice breaks a little with the next words, his hands squeezing Geralt's fingers. "...I've missed you."
It hurts his pride to admit it. Jaskier would've liked to have been a petty bitch for the past few months, able to dismiss pain and move on. But that's also not true at all, he loves to love openly and freely, he loves feeling this strongly, and no matter how he tried to pretend he was over it... he never stopped missing Geralt.
Whatever you want is a lot. It's a fire in his chest, and he's scared of burning. If Geralt had asked before the mountain, Jaskier would've jumped on it. Now, however? Now he needs to know their friendship is fine before he can even consider anything else. And as much as he hates having this thought, sooner or later he'll have to ask about certain sorceress as well. That is, if Geralt means his offer that way in the first place - Jaskier still has doubts.
"You told me thousands of times that we weren't friends. And the last year I kept thinking: you should've listened, Jaskier, you're such an utter fool." He shakes his head at himself before looking at Geralt again, his expression and tone of voice demanding to be taken seriously. To be paid attention to. "I know it's hard for you to relate to people, Geralt. I know better than anyone, and that's why I've been patient for twenty bloody years. I don't expect you to suddenly read me poetry and laugh at my jokes. Banter is good, teasing is what friends do - you tell me to shut up, not meaning it, I tell you you're emotionally constipated. It works. But there's also only so much I can take."
A deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"I want to forgive you, and I know I will, because I am a fool, especially for you. But I need your word that at least you're going to try, Geralt. No more filling-less pie. No more 'we aren't friends'. No more pushing me away. Can I have that much at least?" He shouldn't be a manipulative bastard, but as a wordsmith, the urge is stronger than him. "Hasn't my loyalty earned that consideration?"
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Twenty years is a lot of time to make up for. If Geralt works very hard for the rest of the time that he is granted with the bard, maybe he can get close.
"Yes."
It's a single word, and saying it is both easy and hard. The admission that he had been so wrong chafes him, but-- it's the reparations that Jaskier needs. He needs to hear the words, or at least close enough to them.
"You've earned that and more. We are... we're friends, Jaskier."
It's a word that took twenty godsdamned years to come out of his mouth, one that plenty of other people had said about them. But Geralt will make amends for that lack. He can't afford not to.
This has been very... emotional and heart-bearing and all of that shit that Geralt is shit at, so the easiest thing is to turn it back around to something practical.
"You should eat something. And rest. You'll need to heal before we can leave, and I don't want to stay this far south for too long. Nilfgaard's too close."
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Jaskier's smile could light up the entire fucking inn.
Forget the bitterness - Jaskier smells sweetly now, happiness exuding from every inch of his body, eyes twinkling like the stars, grin almost splitting his face in two. He's still sore so he doesn't enter his dramatics mode, but it's obvious that a general bounce has returned to his limbs.
And before Geralt gets away, because he knows that face, knows the conversation has become too much for him, Jaskir leans in and hugs the hell out of him.
"I forgive you, old friend." Gods, it feels good to be able to say those words once more. Makes his heart beat to the rhythm of Toss a coin again. "And thank you. For saving me, and for taking care of my wounds." He pulls back and this time his little smirk is more of a teasing kind. "I won't apologize for the pillow, however, I shall carry that success with me. Your cloak is mine now too."
Okay, the cloak part he doesn't mean, not really. But he still grabs it and wraps himself in it, enjoying having this little piece of Geralt protecting him. He was too hurt, both in the emotional and the physical sense, to appreciate it on the ride here. Now though? Now he doesn't let go of it, moving to lie down on the pillow that is left on the bed. See, he's being a good boy!
"Let us sup, then, my dear witcher!" Congrats, Geralt, you've earned some extra terms of endearment. Jaskier pats the spot next to him. "Come, Geralt. Bring the tray and sit with me. Let us share food like the old times. Then I'll promise I'll rest - I am tired and I don't want to stay here for too long either."
Where is he going, he has no idea. But they can figure that out in the morning. Now he only wants to cuddle against Geralt's broad back, just like he used to do while sharing bedrolls and rooms with only one bed.
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He's caught in a hug before he can move out of Jaskier's reach, however, and though the bard is covered in bandages and his old cloak, he's still very much undressed. The scent of him is inescapable, mixed with Geralt's from wearing his clothes, and that combination is something that he has to steel himself against-- heady like sweet wine on an empty stomach. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he settles for patting the bard gently on the side, like he would pet Roach's flank after a long ride.
When finally released, Geralt grunts in lieu of a verbal response. Jaskier can keep his apologies and the witcher's cloak besides, Geralt will be fine without it. It's only practical that the bard switch from his flashy, attention-seeking doublets to something more subdued, anyway, and even as the weather gets cooler as autumn sets in, Geralt will manage without the cloak. And if Jaskier agrees--
Well. Geralt hasn't even asked yet, and it's not something that he has to do tonight. The bard might not even want to winter in Kaer Morhen, where his only company will be a bunch of witchers and a child surprise, holed up in a decaying fortress until the spring thaw. He would likely prefer the comforts of Oxenfurt or Novigrad, though it would pain Geralt to have to leave him there.
He fetches the tray while Jaskier gets comfortable; the mattress is decent and the sheets are clean, which is about all that anyone could ask for. The food is... serviceable, some cheese and bread and pottage, the now lukewarm cider, but Geralt can't really complain. Jaskier is far better at charming nicer fare from the cooks than he is, especially at this time of night.
"Eat."
He pushes the tray towards him on the bed. Jaskier can eat whatever he wants from it; Geralt will finish whatever is left over. The bard needs sustenance more than he does after his captivity, and a witcher can go for days longer than a human on little to no rations.
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Fine cheese and wine Jaskier may love, but he's also spent many years on the road, be with Geralt or alone. Coin isn't always available to eat the best of the best, Melitele knows they've stayed at some really crappy inns in their time. That added to the his recent time in captivity? It makes this tray look and smell like the most delicious banquet.
The cup of cider is the first thing he picks up, closing both hands around it to protect and receive its warmth as he takes a deep sniff and lets the aroma wrap around him. That aroma ends up going straight to his head - a lightweight he is not, but his stomach is empty and his mind tired. So he ends up picking up some cheese and bread first.
"Geralt." He says in between bites, giving the witcher that looks like says I'm about to ask something from you and it won't be up for discussion. "I told you to sit with me. Please. I want-" Your presence, your warmth, to feel safe next to you, I've missed sharing tiny wobbly beds with a witcher larger than a bear. "To hear about you and Princess Cirilla. Living image of Pavetta, is she not?"
To be fair, it's not a complete lie, he does want to know about that too. But right now what he needs the most is comfort. And while Geralt is not at a point where he's offering his hugs (yet?), bumping shoulders would already be enough.
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Better than they used to.
The witcher sits on the edge of the bed, but only after moving his swords so that they lean against the wall in easy reach.
"You've been back to Cintra."
It's not a question; Jaskier knows the princess' name and what she looks like. He must have seen her at some point to know how much like her mother she is, and, really, it's unreasonable for him to assume that Jaskier would stay away from a well-paying job just because he wanted to give Cintra a wide berth. There were times that they had separated. Jaskier just had the foresight to plan his trips to Calanthe's court at times when Geralt would not be with him.
"Ciri is more like her mother than you'd think," he says. "She has her gifts, too. It's why Nilfgaard wants her so badly."
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"Queen Calanthe said that if she had to hire a bard for celebrations, then she wanted the sassy one." He explains with pride in his voice. "I never hesitated to mouth off the nobles, and I think she found entertainment in that. The pay was good as well."
The edge of the bed? Damn. Well, he'll have to work with that. Jaskier puts down his mug on the tray, then drags it and the pillow with him as he crawls until he can rest right next to Geralt. This close and not distracted by emotions anymore, he can tell the man is smelling of onions again, because not even with a princess at his side he'll take care of himself.
Mental note: bathe him with oils soon.
And isn't that an amusing thought? Tonight he's the one being taken care of, yet he's already falling so easily back into his old nurse-for-the-witcher role. Geralt truly has a tight leash on his heart, and that should be a scary thought, but honestly? Jaskier likes to think this is a sign that he's needed, and basks in it. Starting right now, with the fact Geralt hasn't picked any food yet. Jaskier pushes some bread and cheese into the man's fingers before picking the pottage for himself, and he sips it idly as he lets his body slack against his friend's side. Sensing those hard muscles against him make the whole thing more real (it's happening, we're together again) and adds a layer to that feeling of safety Geralt always wraps him with (nobody is going to get me tonight).
"Poor girl. So young and already lost it all, already carrying a power greater than she is. I'm pleased to hear you've taken her under your wing, my friend, no place is safer." A pause to yawn. With food and alcohol in his belly, he's getting drowsy. "Where is she now anyway?"
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Well. He'd never kept the oils with him, and Jaskier's the one who knows the ratios and which scents can be combined into something that wouldn't irritate his nose. And if Geralt tried to approximate it and didn't get it right, then he wouldn't smell right and it would undoubtedly put him into a foul mood. So... onions and horse it is, and everyone can just live with it.
Jaskier is tucked up against Geralt's side, a long line of warmth against him, and that's... normal. He pushes bread and cheese into his hands-- less normal-- but he's taken the pottage for himself, so the witcher is satisfied that he'll be well fed.
"Kaer Morhen. It's too early in the year for any of the other witchers to be back yet, but Vesemir never leaves. He's watching over her." Geralt rips off a piece of the bread and some of the cheese. "My old fencing teacher."
The closest thing, really, that Geralt has to a father.
"The trail up to the keep will be impassible after the first snow, so it will be the safest place to train her until the thaw. I'll have to be on my way by mid-autumn, or I won't be able to make it back."
And that threshold of no return is fast approaching. With Jaskier or without, Geralt will have to make it through Morhen Valley before the snows.
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But he can't help it, he's ambitious and in love. When it comes to Geralt, he wants it all.
"The man responsible for your breathtaking use of the sword? She's as safe as she can be, then."
A bit of a generic answer, he knows, but his mind is now lost in the rest of what Geralt said. He forces himself to finish the pottage, not matter how hard his stomach is turning right now. Separating when winter comes isn't news to them, they've been doing it since they met. Jaskier to Oxenfurt, Geralt to Kaer Morhen. It's tradition by now.
They just reunited, though. Jaskier doesn't want to part so soon, not after a year of heartbreak. He wants to stay by Geralt's side, catch up with his adventures, get him all tidy and pretty again, sleep to his side and dream to the unique rhythm of his heartbeat, he wants--
Whatever you want.
All. He wants it all. When he was a child, Jaskier was't allowed to want many things outside of what was viscount appropriate. Jaskier promised he would never be shackled by those chains again, and here is Geralt, offering him the world.
The pottage bowl is put down and Jaskier drinks a good amount of cider before speaking again, a hand reaching to hold onto Geralt's sleeve.
"Whatever you want, you said. Did you really mean it?" He rests his head on Geralt's shoulder, eyes closing. "I know how our winters usually go, I remember the routine. But I can't do it again so soon, Geralt. I just got you back."
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Geralt's jaw tightens. He had said whatever you want, but he has a responsibility to Ciri, as well. Leaving her with Vesemir for a time while he went to find Jaskier was necessary, but he couldn't leave her alone all winter to stay with the bard. He couldn't abandon her again, not after he had spent so many years running away from his duties to her.
"Jaskier..."
If he brought him to the keep, Vesemir might not approve at first, and his brothers might not enjoy having another outsider in their home, but so long as Geralt takes responsibility for him, he'd be able to stay. The issue is that there are so few reasons for him to want to-- the company wouldn't be nearly as lively or entertaining as in Oxenfurt, and the library is full of witchers' texts and monster manuals, not poetry. The fortress is aging and drafty, and there are areas of it that are inaccessible from the ravages of time and disrepair. The larders and pantries would be well-stocked, but with food that could last an entire winter, and there wouldn't be any of Jaskier's accustomed delicacies.
"I can't stay in Oxenfurt all winter. Ciri will need me."
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