The smile that Jaskier sends his way is absolutely not innocent at all, laden with innuendo that would only go over the head of Ciri, probably. It might not even go over her head, which is a fact that is acutely embarrassing and only doesn't show on Geralt's face because it's nearly impossible to make him blush.
"He needs to rest, Jaskier," she says, and there's that hint of royal imperiousness to her tone. She was a crown princess, after all, and she's used to getting her way.
"I'm still right here," Geralt says, and Ciri gently pats his arm. He can't say that he's exactly upset that his child surprise has no fear of him, but he's been treated remarkably casually by a lot of people lately. It's... disorienting. He's used to being feared.
Jaskier mentions the vodka that they'd stashed in the saddlebags, gifts for his brothers that could have been useful for smoothing out any interpersonal issues. Not that there's a need for it with Eskel, he and Jaskier got along like a house on fire. Might still help with Lambert, though.
Vesemir simply nods in acknowledgement, but Geralt says, "Half of it's probably already down Eskel's gullet."
The expression on Vesemir's face turns dry, and he walks over to the chair where Ciri left the book that she had been studying, picking it up and opening it to the marked page.
"Katakans. You have a lot of material to get through, Cirilla."
The princess sighs, but ultimately takes the hint and goes back to Vesemir, taking the bestiary from him and sitting down again with a huff. The old wolf, at least, looks pleased-- maybe she'll prove to be as good a student as her protector.
"Go to bed, Geralt. Try to be mindful of the rest of us."
Dismissed like he's a boy in training again. Geralt frowns, but puts a hand to Jaskier's elbow to start leading him out. The inner halls of the keep are labyrinthine, and it would be all too easy for a human to get lost or wander into an unstable wing. The bard will have to be chaperoned around until he can learn his way well enough.
"Come."
He leads Jaskier through the corridors, and, as he's taking him up a set of stairs towards one of the stable wings, where there are rooms that are sufficiently set up for bedrooms. Geralt's is in this area as well, though Eskel and Lambert have theirs elsewhere. It's as private as you can get in a fortress that houses witchers.
"You can have whatever room you want. The fireplaces are all maintained and if you need more blankets, I can fetch them for you. It can get draughty once winter fully sets in."
Oh, she did get that! What a pleasant surprise! Yes, pleasant, because Jaskier is not ashamed. At all. He probably doesn't know the meaning of that word, honestly. And the way Cirilla pats Geralt's arm too? Ah, she's just perfect. Jaskier will have to apologize to Roach, but he may have a new favorite girl in the world.
"Worry not, my sweet lady, we both need to rest. I only wanted to tease him - it's plenty of fun once you've learned to translate his grunts."
Maybe that could be another gift for her. Some kind dictionary. An encyclopedia? How To Understand and Take Care of Your Father Surprise. Meh, may need a better title, more catchy, but there's something there.
Meanwhile, Vesemir... well then, Jaskier doesn't see that one coming, both eyebrows raising in surprise. Is he like Geralt, throwing jabs while still keeping a straight face, or had that been a true warning? Geralt's frown doesn't exactly speak well of Vesemir's comment, so once more Jaskier decides not to push their luck and follow his witcher out after a simple good luck, princess.
(This good behavior won't last long.)
As soon as they're out of sight, Jaskier grabs Geralt's hand and intertwines their fingers together between them, coming closer to let their arms brush as they walk through the labyrinth that is Kaer Morhen. This isn't like any mansion or castle he's been at before - usually he doesn't have much trouble memorizing layouts, used to that kind of big building life, but this is proving to be a challenge.
The idea of needing an escort (a babysitter) to move around doesn't sit well with him, so he tries to pay as much attention as possible to his surroundings, but suddenly Geralt is talking and that's always much more important.
A frown appears on Jaskier's face as some worry leaks into his scent. Is he understanding this correctly? No assumptions, he reminds himself. He tilts his head at Geralt as he asks his question.
"Any reason why I can't simply stay with you, my dear? Because that's the room I want."
Vesemir is a difficult man to read, even for those who know him well. And Geralt has known him for nearly a century now, since he was a scared six-year-old, so there probably isn't anyone left alive who knows him better. But even Geralt sometimes has a hard time getting a read on exactly what his meanings are. This one is-- a little bit of a jab, and also a warning, if he has to hazard a guess. He has the feeling that Vesemir will want to speak to him soon, and that it will be about the bard, and the Path, and what wants are allowed to a witcher.
He isn't looking forward to it, but it's easier to not think about it when Jaskier's fingers are twined with his.
After Geralt offers the bard whatever room he pleases, that sour worried smell creeps back in. He doesn't try to anticipate what Jaskier will pick; if he wants nothing, than there can be no disappointment. But he's not displeased that the bard wants to share his room with him, even if the choice is a little perplexing. This isn't like all those times when they had shared rooms at an inn and it was a matter of saving precious coin, or like Oxenfurt, when they were only given one dormitory. There are enough bedrooms that Jaskier could take a different one every week and not run out, could keep all of his notebooks and his lute there so that he could practice and compose to his heart's content without being bothered. And there's nothing that says that he has to sleep in the same room as Geralt to fuck him, so it isn't that.
If he had just wanted Geralt's room, than he could've had it, but he wants the room and a witcher in it, too.
"If that's what you want, than it's yours."
When he'd said that he doesn't speak in riddles, it had been true-- he'd said that he would give Jaskier whatever he wants, so he does. The room is his.
Geralt leads him to the end of a winding hallway, to the last room on the left. When he opens the door, everything is as he left it last winter-- there's little by way of decoration or ornamentation, the furniture spartan and pragmatic, the fireplace made of sturdy stonework. Geralt lights it with a quick sign, to start warming the place up for its new human occupant. The bed is large and sturdy enough to fit a witcher, and covered in thick blankets and furs to fight against the winter draughts. There's a worktable along one wall, sitting underneath a set of shelves that contain potion ingredients of various types, all labeled in, quite frankly, awful handwriting. There's a low bookshelf crammed full of bestiaries, monster manuals, and potion-brewing compendiums, as well as a few less obviously witchery books like botany guides. Several of the lower shelves are dedicated to leather-bound journals of varying sizes and quality-- his hunting notes, where he keeps track of all of the details of his hunts and the monsters that he encounters. On top of the bookshelf, there's a little wooden carving of a horse, standing proudly on a gwent deck that's in far better condition than the one that Geralt usually carries around. A potion manual that he'd been reading before he left last year still sits there, too, and the page is marked with a silk ribbon that Jaskier had once used to tie his hair back. He'd known that it would end up ruined if he took it on the road; it would survive much longer as a bookmark.
Once they're both in the room, Geralt would like little more than to lay down on the bed and sleep, without even bothering to take his armor off. Instead, though, he turns to the door.
"I'll fetch our things."
The bags were still on their horses, after all. If Eskel was feeling kind, he might have at least brought them in from the stables, but considering that he had been volunteered by Vesemir to take care of the horses to begin with, he probably wasn't.
"Ours." Jaskier quickly corrects. His tone is light, not even starting to suspect the reason why Geralt worded it like he did. He just thinks the witcher needs to get used to the concept of them being a couple now, and Jaskier will gladly guide him through it.
When the door to the room opens, Jaskier can't help standing there for a second, taking it all in. This... is is Geralt's bedroom. His personal space. The man who doesn't have any wants, the man who doesn't keep things with him that aren't practical... here it is all of it, in one space, filled with his things. Every corner of this room is Geralt.
"Eskel wasn't joking about you being a bookworm, huh." He comments with the biggest smile as he steps inside.
Jaskier lets his fingertips brush every object near him as he walks around, observing every detail. The book topics don't surprise him, but he's pleased to see Geralt's collection of journals - he's always wanted a peek into those. The potion labels make him giggle, and he makes a mental note to offer his penmanship to everyone later if this is how all labeling in the keep looks.
What does shock him and takes the air out of his lungs with a loud gasps are finding his old gifts. Not only the horse and cards, but also the damn ribbon. Once upon a time, Jaskier had tried to shower Geralt with gifts, and he thought the man didn't appreciate them - he changed to practical things after a couple of tries, like sharpening stones.
So to find them here, and well taken care of... there goes the sweet smell filling the room, his heart beating at hundred beats a minute.
"You- you kept them! All of them!"
He runs to Geralt and hugs the hell out of him, arms around his waist with as much as strength as a bard can muster, which isn't much against a witcher's wall of brick muscles, but hey, the intention is what counts, right? He's about to start a soft 'you've been adorable' kiss, but of course that's the moment Geralt chooses to open his mouth.
"...what?"
Oh, Melitele, please give him patience to deal with witcher bullshit.
"Geralt! We can pick up our things later! Why do you think I told Vesemir about the vodka? Let them find it themselves." He pulls back and starts working on taking off Geralt's armor, not different from the ritual they'd have after a hunt, with the witcher too tired or hurt (or both) to move. And even if it only had been a drowner hunt and Geralt had plenty of energy left, Jaskier would this for him anyway, because he deserves a gentle touch and warm comfort that should come after the emotional weight that comes with having to take lives, even a monster one. "You need to rest. Stop worrying for a second, would you, darling? We're all here. Safe. Your brothers. Your daughter. Your lover. You've taken care of us all, now take care of yourself."
Geralt doesn't allow very many people into his room; even the other witchers don't generally hang around in it. They might enter if he's there and they require him for something, but they don't have any interest in the things that he puts in it. Jaskier, on the other hand, is fascinated by everything, even the things that aren't all that special. The labels on his potion ingredients, for instance, are simply for convenience's sake; he can't smell the ingredients when they're sealed up in jars, and many of them look similar at first glance, so a label is the easiest way to distinguish between them quickly. Jaskier likely wishes that he was so meticulous about labeling his actual potions, but he can tell the difference between those by sight.
The bard seems charmed by his books and journals, though they would hardly be the kind of material that he'd want to read. All about monsters and potions, not a bit of poetry to them. Geralt makes a mental note to look through the library later and see if he could track down anything that Jaskier might want to read; he thinks that there were some elven history books in there at one point.
Of course, he's most enthused by the little gifts that he'd given Geralt that survived the trip to Kaer Morhen. It's not everything-- there had been a few, more delicate things that Jaskier had given him that simply couldn't withstand the harshness of his lifestyle. A bottle of bath salts had broken, a handkerchief had been ruined by rotfiend ichor. Delicate things don't always survive a witcher's Path.
Geralt barely feels the grip of Jaskier's arms around his middle through his armor, and after chastising him briefly about wanting to go get their things, the bard starts pulling at the laces and buckles that fasten it. He needs little input from the witcher by this point to get the leather off, only occasionally requiring him to move an arm so that he can slide off a spaulder or to bend over to pull the main cuirass off. Geralt ought to clean it and oil it before going to bed, but... he's exhausted, and it weighs heavier on him now that he doesn't have some desperate purpose driving him forward. Everyone that he cares about are safe. Jaskier is safe, his child surprise is under the watchful supervision of Vesemir, his brothers are accounted for.
"Hm."
That particular flavor of grunt is just for the sake of acknowledgement, confirming that he did, in fact, hear that words were spoken to them and possibly understands their meaning, but offers no further response. He gets through the buttons on his shirt-- and about halfway through, debates the merits of ripping it, but that would also require effort so he just continues on the path that he started-- but can't muster the energy to actually take it off, or the rest of his clothes. Fuck it, he's slept in worse states than this before. Geralt walks to the bed and pitches himself forward onto it, without bothering to get underneath the covers or even take off his boots. The bed frame groans underneath the sudden addition of his weight but holds firm.
The fact Geralt just rolls with it speaks volumes of how exhausted he is. Jaskier is relieved to know he won't have to scold him or hell, even argue with him for it, and so he doesn't even comment on the fact Geralt keeps his clothes on. That's fine, as long as the armor is off - besides, without their things here to pick some kind of night clothing, it's better if he keeps those on to fight the chill anyway.
A couple of things he does fix though: he takes off the witcher's boots, then pulls the covers from under that heavy body, which leaves him panting. Damn those sexy muscles! But the effort is worth it to be able to keep his lover warm - and himself too! Because after taking off his own boots, cloak and doublet, he sneaks under the covers, puts his arms around Geralt, his head on his chest, and lets exhaustion take him as well.
Sleep comes easily, and Jaskier rests while smiling at the fact Geralt cuddles him back. Warm, protection and affection, such a perfect combo. The fact this will be his life from now on is still hard to believe.
There's something he didn't take into account, however: Jaskier did get to sleep the past few days, Geralt is way more tired than he is. Which means he wakes up first, only to find himself caged by witcher strength. Bollocks. He tries to be romantic about it at first, taking a moment to simply enjoy the moment - Geralt's peaceful sleeping face, the slow beating of his heart, their closeness, the fact they're cuddling in freaking Kaer Morhen. But as time passes, it's obvious that Geralt isn't waking up any time soon. Crying out for help isn't really an option - it would be embarrassing, bother his boyfriend, and he doubts anybody is nearby to hear him anyway, witcher hearing or not.
Thankfully, he's wrong - Eskel comes to his rescue when he stops by to drop their things. They had expected Geralt to do his hibernation thing, but he had been worried Jaskier got lost. The bard would consider him a sweetheart if it wasn't for all the teasing he did after freeing him from his brother's arms - fuck, teasing over their relationship he can take, but being found like this is simply dumb!
He can't stay mad at him for long though. Eskel thanks him for the vodka and offers to pick him in half an hour or so, which Jaskier appreciates. He keeps himself busy by taking everything out of their bags, knowing what to put where and in what order after years of traveling together. Seeing his own things mixed with Geralt's in the witcher's very own room fills him with glee, so of course he hums while he works - not one of his, what a miracle. It's a light tune written before he was born about a couple that stood the test of time.
Mental note: write a ballad for the songbird and the wolf soon.
Jaskier is finishing changing his clothes into clean (but still very fashionable, colorful and warm) clothes when Eskel comes by again, earning a toothy grin from the witcher when he sees him put on a bright light blue poncho-like cloak with golden embroidery and close it over his chest by using the wolf brooch. What can he say? That little thing means too much to him to let go of it so soon. Besides, hopefully this will help reinforce the message for the other witchers as well:
Someone out there cares for you.
Lute on his back and gifts in his arms, Jaskier follows his new friend around for a mini tour of the place. And honestly, Eskel has to be the best choice for a guide around here (sorry, Geralt, this bard loves you, but being stingy with the details isn't fun when Jaskier is vibrating with curiosity) - he's friendly, chatty, and doesn't mind answering Jaskier's questions. While it's obvious that he saves certain information for himself, his expression darkening at what can only be bad memories, he never dismisses the bard with a grunt or a shut up, he offers the little he can or at least says no idea, sorry. There's no doubt in Jaskier's mind that he'll become his favorite witcher after Geralt, no need to meet the other two.
What truly seals the deal is when he asks why he isn't allowed to go to the basement.
"Dangerous experiment leftovers. Stay out of it for the sake of everyone."
The pain in his voice makes his stomach turn, and Jaskier wishes he could've brought him so much more than just vodka. No treating him like a child, no hiding behind the 'secrets' excuse - the reason is succinct but clear. If Jaskier hadn't had his arms full of gifts, maybe this could be the perfect moment for that hug he deserves. Another thing for later - but one thing he knows for sure now: the first song he writes in Kaer Morhen will be for Eskel.
They separate at the library, where Jaskier finds Ciri reading through more monster books with a big bowl of grapes by her side. The library itself is absolutely stunning - maybe visually it doesn't look as the fancy one in Oxenfurt, but the sense of ancient knowledge is in the air, in every stone and every chair. It's the kind of atmosphere Jaskier knows he'll lose himself into more than a couple of times this winter.
But that can wait - first he gotta talk with the princess, who is thankful for having an excuse for a break. Cirilla loves every single present he's brought her, blushing furiously when she reaches the linen rags and notices one of the books the bard has brought for the library. Jaskier offers to help her put up her hair in braids, to allow those lovely new ribbons to 'debut', and she accepts after a moment of hesitation.
He brings up the heavy topics then, giving her the chance of to hide her face while he works behind her.
Jaskier tells her that he's sorry for her loss, tells her there's a lot she'll be hearing about the choices of his grandmother, but as far as he goes, he loved singing in Cintra every time, no regrets are had. He tells her he was there the day the Law of Surprise was called, which makes her speak up for the first time since he starting brushing her hair, curious with questions. Geralt had been stingy with the details, and Jaskier isn't even a little bit surprises. He tells her that she's the living image of Pavetta, that there's a ballad he wrote for her parents that he never got to sing because White Wolf related songs were forbidden in Cintra, and promises to sing them to her when she's ready.
He tells her he misses his own grandmother as well. He tells her he misses the huge, beautiful garden he grew up with - no more details are given, but she quickly catches on, especially when he mentions all the things Geralt had to teach him when he joined him on the road. She's a very smart girl, and he can tell she's warming up to him, laughing when he tells her the embarrassing parts of the improvised survival training he had to go through when he decided to follow certain witcher around. Not something he'd usually share, Jaskier always dresses up his stories, but this honesty is probably the best way to reach her, to make her feel better about feeling out of place in here.
He tells her he understands.
He tells her that after a day of reading about monsters and tiring her body out while learning how to use a sword, she can come to him and they can read some poetry, sing some old court songs, share stories about terrorizing their nursemaids.
He tells he can teach her to read every muscle of Geralt's face and understand every grunt.
He tells her he's here for her if she ever needs him.
When the braids are done, she hugs him. They both want to cry, but neither of them do, stubborn nobles that they are.
The start of a friendship has been forged, at the very least, and Jaskier leaves the library with less weight in his arms and also his heart - a heavy emotional moment had been had, and now they can both feel lighter for it, more ready to deal with whatever spending a winter with five witchers can throw at them.
By the time he makes it to the training grounds with three books in his arms, his scent is softly sweet, showing how pleased he's been with this day so far (ignoring the little trapped incident in the morning, thank you very much). Said grounds aren't difficult to find, by the way, because he can hear the witchers bantering and throwing jabs at each other in between grunts and sword clashes.
He decides to stay at the threshold for a moment before letting his presence known, even if he knows they probably heard his heartbeat many steps ago. There is Vesemir, correcting everyone's posture, and Eskel, calling someone out for being a prick. Ah, there's Lambert, and honestly? Jaskier is a little disappointed. His insults are strong, that's for sure, but they're also direct and crass, just being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole - nothing like, and Jaskier can't believe he's thinking this, the smart banter and word play of Yennefer's. Well, at least that means he won't have trouble handling the dickhead, a man so coarse with his mouth will never out-word a bard.
The last one must be Coën, and Jaskier realizes that even if he hadn't already known the wolves and nobody had been wearing their medallions, he would've still been able to identify a griffin. Jaskier may not be a master swordman, but after watching Geralt fight for two decades, he can easily see the same style in the way Eskel and Lambert move, but not in Coën. Fascinating. His beard is well kept, which surprises the bard after so many years of seeing his wolf be a disaster with his hair, and he can't help wondering if it's there to help with the unusual scars on his face. A disease, perhaps?
As cherry on top of all this information, every single one of them is really handsome. How is that even fair.
It's Lambert being a passive aggressive ass that snaps Jaskier out of his thoughts. He doesn't even turn around to look at him when he replies to whatever Eskel's jab had been.
"You're becoming soft, brother. Soon you'll be singing and bringing books to a sword fight."
"It wouldn't be fair for Eskel to fight you with words." Jaskier quickly replies, making everyone turn to finally look at him and acknowledge his presence. Ah, sweet attention, his ego has missed you. "Even in a battle of wits, there's no honor in attacking someone who's totally unarmed."
Eskel loses it then, his laughter reward enough for Jaskier, but there's also the amazing frustrated expression on Lambert's face. Coën raises his eyebrows in surprise, obviously not having heard enough stories about Jaskier to have at least an idea of what's coming - his nose twitches, obviously discovering there's no smell of fear. Good. Let them smell how pleased the bard is with himself at the moment.
"Bold little shit, aren't you, bard?" Lambert finally replies as he comes closer, trying to look intimidating - and he'd succeed with any other person that hadn't spent two decades travelling with Mr Brooding. "I know words that would make your delicate ears bleed."
Oh, he makes it so easy for Jaskier to come up with comebacks, gods. "If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I'd fart."
This time, Coën joins the laughter, although his is more of a discrete chuckle, nothing like Eskel's unrestrained laughter. Lambert has more to say, but Vesemir chooses that moment to jump in.
"Enough!" Eskel and Lambert don't need any more words - just one from his mentor is enough for them to return to their sparring while looking like scolded children. Vesemir turns to Jaskier then. "You, bard - unless you're interested in learning to pick up a sword, then take your books back inside."
"Your books now." Jaskier says after taking a deep breath. Unlike Lambert, Vesemir does manage to intimate him at least a bit, and he knows all of them must be hearing how fast his heart has suddenly started to beat. Bollocks. Usually he would be against the bad treatment of books, but he knows he's already pushing many limits here, coming closer isn't an option - so instead, he picks the top book of his pile (the one about the human reproductive system) and throws it to Vesemir's feet. "There's a woman in the keep now, and she needs you to learn as much as she learns from you. Enhanced senses you may have, yet somehow the fact women bleed once a month has completely gone over all of your witchering heads."
There's a moment of silence as Vesemir picks up the book, surprising everyone in the yard. So maybe he did notice something after all... Melitele bless this humble bard, please, there may be some hope for these disasters after all.
Geralt grumbles when Jaskier tugs at his boots, pulling them off one by one, and when he makes the witcher roll over so that he can yank the blankets out from underneath him. It's certainly more comfortable this way, and a few moments later, Jaskier joins him underneath the covers. He feels the warm weight of the bard against his chest, his senses filled with his scent, the sound of his heart. He sighs, gets an arm around Jaskier, and settles; sleep pulls him under with surprising swiftness.
At some point during the night, he rolls, shifting the both of them onto their sides and trapping the bard in the cage of his arms. Had Geralt not spent the past god knows how long staying awake, he would have risen long before Jaskier, would have already been dressed and gone down to train with his brothers by the time the bard had stirred from slumber. But he was making up for an impressive sleep deficiency today, and when Jaskier wakes, he is oblivious to it. Even when the bard tries to wriggle out from underneath his arm, all Geralt does is tighten his grip in his sleep.
Eskel comes to his rescue by bringing up their bags, and thus discovers the poor bard's plight. He laughs about it at first, of course, before he makes any movement to help. In the end, he has to smack Geralt's shoulder a few times and tell him to 'Roll your heavy fucking ass over, Geralt,' before the witcher would budge an inch. He makes some vague, sleepy sounds of protest before releasing his vice grip on the bard and rolling onto his back.
Geralt doesn't wake again until much later; the spot next to him is cold, Jaskier long since gone. He drags himself out of bed and, since their things are there, changes into fresh clothes. Eskel must have been in a good mood that morning; he doubted that Jaskier would want to go down to the stables and haul everything up himself.
By the time Geralt makes it down to the common areas, it's past noon and the morning training is already complete. Eskel and Lambert are seated at a table, their empty lunch plates pushed to the sides, reading from the same book like a pair of schoolboys. He had planned to head for the kitchens and get himself something to eat, but now this is happening and he can't help but investigate. Geralt approaches and looks over Eskel's shoulder to read what's on the page, and sees... something about menstrual cycles, and stops reading.
Lambert looks back at him, his head propped up on his fist. "Did you know that your bard's got balls, Geralt?"
"I had assumed as much," Geralt replies.
"Yeah, no shit, but he had the stones to toss this book at Vesemir and tell us we all need to study up. Where the fuck did you find him again?"
"Posada," he says. "I got the same lecture." Geralt shrugs, then starts walking towards the kitchen; he hasn't been awake long enough to deal with this. "Just read the damn book."
Geralt makes his way into the kitchen; there's leftover kasha from breakfast, and though it's not as good when it's cold, it'll do for a late lunch. He just finished eating it with a little honey when Vesemir emerges from the larder, probably taking stock of their supplies. The fact that the old witcher is here precisely when Geralt is and no one else is not coincidence. He knows this, and waits.
"We need to talk about your bard."
Geralt nods. What Vesemir means, more likely, is that he needs to talk and he wants Geralt to listen. This is not a dialogue, it's an... admonition.
"I will not lecture you on why this bard should not know the secrets that he does," Vesemir says. "What's done is done. We shall see how that trust is repaid, in time."
"Jaskier would not--"
"You brought a bard to our keep. Will you be responsible for every word that comes from his mouth once he's left it?"
Geralt frowns, his forehead furrowing. Jaskier is not always... discreet, and he makes no secret of wanting to know everything he can about Geralt, about witchers, to write it into his songs. And, of course, the purpose of his songs are to be sung throughout the whole damn Continent, that's why he's in such trouble to begin with.
"I am reminding you of this lesson as a kindness to the both of you. Remember what you are, Geralt, because he certainly won't forget. You've been his meal ticket for twenty years, his protection. You do not need him, but he has a great need of you. Do not confuse need, or even want, with something more."
No one wants witchers, so don't think that someone is going to love you. It's an old lesson, from back when he was one of many boys and was still stupid enough to look at Vesemir's scars with admiration. Seems the lesson didn't stick, because here he is, soft on a bard before he'd even gotten the chance to tumble him. And not just any bard-- Jaskier, who has a reputation for falling in and out of love faster than the wind changes, the man who so many have had but no one can keep.
What makes Geralt think that he's somehow any different? If countesses and lords and countless beauties couldn't keep the bard's interest, why the hell would a scarred monster hunter? What does Geralt have to offer him but an early death?
"I don't care what you do with him behind closed doors. Melitele knows you could use an outlet so that I'm not cleaning Lambert's blood off of the floor again this year." If Geralt could flush, he might have done so at that reminder of his poor temper the previous winter. "Just remember that there are some kinds of foolishness that have no place on the Path."
Geralt nods, just once. That's all that Vesemir needs from him; he turns, leaves Geralt sitting in the kitchen while he goes to do whatever else he had planned for that day besides bringing a witcher back to harsh reality.
Edited (gerald of rivia i guess) 2020-05-29 02:43 (UTC)
Interrupting the training session may've been a bit of a disaster, but these are witchers, and Jaskier thinks his boldness has earned their respect at least. He introduces himself properly after Vesemir is gone - Coën also thanks him for the sake, Lambert does so after a nudge from Eskel. Not only that, Coën accepts to tell him some stories, apparently he's impressed by the fact the bard could tell the difference in witcher fighting styles.
That's how Jaskier ends up having lunch with a griffin and a princess, who also should hear about these things since she's a witcher in training. It makes for a lovely meal - Coën isn't as chatty as Eskel, but he isn't as reserved as Geralt either. He's a happy middle, saying enough when answering Jaskier's questions (turns out his songs have made life easier for witchers of other schools as well) and even asking some in return (it's not every day a human stays for so long in the Path, after all).
Jaskier is on his way to the kitchen, carrying a tray with their empty lunch plates, when he hears the words that make him freeze.
We need to talk about your bard.
He can feel his heart jumping into his chest - he should've seen this coming, Vesemir is going to scold the hell out of Geralt, repeat all the bullshit his boyfriend has been repeating to him the last twenty years. Witchers travel the Path alone. Nothing prepares him, however, for what comes next.
It's like he's a child again.
Geralt tries to defend him and some people would think it's not much, but Jaskier understands. Little Julian would also freeze when his father would yell at him for wanting things that he shouldn't, for having dreams that would never come true. For assuming he knows better what his son wants than the son himself.
And gods, Vesemir sure is doing a great job right now at sounding exactly like Vincent Horatio Pankratz.
He should run. He shouldn't be listening to this... yet he can't bring himself to move. He can only stay there, his whole body trembling, his scent filling with hurt, anxiety, anger. Everything he's achieved for Geralt's acceptance of happiness in the last twenty decades is being destroyed in a few minutes. He's being accused of revealing secrets, of only wanting a meal and protection, of not actually loving the best thing that's ever happened to him.
He wants to scream.
What happens instead is him dropping the tray to the floor when Vesemir comes out, startling him out of his current emotional hurricane. If Jaskier had been any other man, he would punch the witcher in front of him. But Jaskier is Jaskier, so he does what he does best: he uses words.
"Who the FUCK do you think you are! Speaking as if you knew my wants and needs better than the man that's been traveling with me for two bloody decades!"
As his whole body is still shaking, the hands aren't as dramatic as usual, just enough gesturing to go with his unleashed anger. His voice, hoever, is high and furious, and he doesn't need to be a witcher to know there are steps coming to see what's going on.
Good. Let them hear. He's still not afraid of them.
"Do you even TRUST your students at all? Do you actually think I spent twenty years next to a witcher without touching silver? Do you really believe Geralt is THAT dumb? Not to have noticed something himself, to trust me with his secrets if there was a chance I would give them away? Everything he's said and showed me, I EARNED it! I've held his GUTS in my hands, old man, while you've been here thinking him a fool!"
There are people watching behind him, he can tell, but he only has eyes for the asshole in front of him. Let him see the raw fury in his blue eyes, to smell up close how much he means every single one of his words.
"How dare you treat him like naive child, as if he hasn't been punishing himself with all this horseshit logic all this time! How dare you imply he doesn't need anything, when it's obvious they are all craving a friendly touch! How dare you to accuse me of only wanting coin and a bodyguard when I've turned down every offer to be a court bard!" A sob escapes him then, which probably ruins the whole thing - boldness and fearlessness a witcher may respect, but tears? He doubts it. "And how dare you question my loyalty after I stayed by his side after every insult, after he tossed me away, after Nilfgaard whipped my very skin because apparently a bunch of soldiers believe in my bond to him better than you can even start to understand!"
He hears a gasp then, and Jaskier doesn't have to turn around to know who it was - there's only one woman at the keep at the moment.
Geralt hears the tray clatter to the floor and the bard's outraged voice and practically jumps up from his seat. He should have been paying closer attention, but he had been focused on what Vesemir was saying to him and is unused to a humans at Kaer Morhen. Lambert or Eskel would've known not to eavesdrop, would've stayed out of earshot once they knew the kitchen was occupied.
Vesemir has not gone deaf in his old age. Why had he not--
He walks quickly down the short hall separating the kitchen from the common areas, able to clearly hear every word of Jaskier's tirade. And past him there is Eskel and Lambert, drawn to the sound of the commotion, and the small, quick heartbeat of his child surprise. He shouldn't be surprised at the bard rallying to his defense; there had been more than one evening where Geralt had had to pull Jaskier away before he started a bar fight over some stray comments from drunk townsfolk. He had been willing then to launch himself into an altercation over insults that Geralt had weathered for decades, and apparently he's just as willing to do so against an old witcher. Stubborn and headstrong to a fault, this bard.
He stinks of anger and indignation and... sadness? Geralt doesn't dwell on it-- emotions are high right now, and Jaskier's a bard. They feel so many things all the time and it's hard to keep up. Jaskier defends himself, his intentions towards his witcher companion, because of course Vesemir doesn't know all of the ways that Jaskier has helped him on the Path-- Geralt is, as always, stingy with the details. And even if he does, even knowing that Jaskier has held in his guts and sewn up his wounds and brought him potions when he was too weak to get them himself, he may still not look favorably on it. He may only see the weakness of this lack of self-sufficiency. A witcher, after all, is to be independent, needing nothing and no one but themselves and the skills they have learned. The Path is traveled alone.
(This does not account for that fact that, even if witchers were not meant to be solitary, Geralt would not have deserved Jaskier's devotion. Still does not deserve it and probably never will.)
The mention of Jaskier's imprisonment makes Geralt's guts clench, then go cold at Ciri's sharp gasp. This isn't how he would have had her find out about this, and she is too intelligent by half to not know why Nilfgaard would want a humble bard-- she doesn't need the burden of guilt along with everything else.
"Eskel," Vesemir's voice is even and measured, calm as though he hadn't just been on the receiving end of Jaskier's yelling.
Geralt hears Eskel say softly, "Hey, Ciri, let's go check on the horses, okay? Come on,", and the sound of a pair of footsteps retreating. He counts it a blessing that he can't smell the bitter-sour scent of her guilt from here.
"I don't doubt that you are as loyal as any man can be, bard." Vesemir speaks again once Ciri is gone and out of earshot. "But it means little in a torture cell. If Geralt had not rescued you, Nilfgaard would have used a mage to pull the knowledge out of your skull, loyalty be damned. You know more about witchers than anyone who is not among our number, and it is to your detriment. Now the burden of protecting you--" Vesemir turns his head, looking into the corridor where Geralt stands. Geralt reads the message between the lines, that this is the result of his indiscretion, "--falls to all of us."
It isn't just Geralt and Ciri who would be jeopardized if Jaskier's knowledge got into Nilfgaard's hands. So would every other witcher, in particular the wolves, and there are so few of them left. Their home is already in ruins, deteriorating further year by year.
"Geralt, do something with your bard," Vesemir says, then turns and continues his path across the room, leaving. As he nears Lambert, his tone turns sharper, the voice of someone issuing commands. "If you have time to stand there, Lambert, you have time to start repairs on the western wall. Take Coën with you. Geralt will join you later."
Lambert curses under his breath once the old wolf is gone, but still goes to obey him. Geralt emerges from the corridor, stoops to pick up the tray that Jaskier had dropped and the scattered cutlery and crockery. He brings them back to the kitchen to be cleaned, then returns to, as Vesemir had said, do something with his bard-- he just doesn't know quite what to do with him yet.
Fuck, he owes Eskel another one. Jaskier wishes he could go down the mountain one last time to reach the nearest town and buy him a thousand gifts, to say the least. He makes a mental note to talk to both him and Cirilla later, for now? There's an argument to go back to, because this bard doesn't give up easily.
Especially when Vesemir ignores most of his arguments to jump on the one most convenient to him, the bastard. It only makes Jaskier seethe more.
"Yes you do, you doubt everything about me! My loyalty, my usefulness, my feelings! My lov-"
But the old man doesn't care for what he has to say, he moves on with his life while taking the last word with him, as if there wasn't any doubt that he's in the right here. Jaskier is reminded of his childhood again, of being powerless in front of his dad, who barked orders before disappearing to fuck his mistress.
How a noble heart like Geralt and a sweet heart like Eskel came out of this place, Jaskier doesn't know. The same way he came out of Lettenhove, he supposes.
"Do something?! I'm not a dog!" This is his voice as his most indignant, and for the first time, he wishes he had something heavier than a pillow to throw at Vesemir. It speaks loudly of how furious he is, because physical pain isn't Jaskier's usual first reaction to things. His hands go around his mouth instead, to help with his yelling - it's not like he needs it, the witcher isn't far away yet so he'll be able to hear him. But a bard can never let go of his dramatics. "For a man that insists so much on following the witcher way, you're doing a great job at sounding like a self-important lord!"
His arms drop to his sides and Jaskier is left there for a moment, breathing heavily and with too many emotions to handle at the same time. Is this how his winter will go? Having to destroy all the walls made of witcher logic after he spent so many years destroying them? Then it's a good thing he came. He can't even start to imagine what would've been like to send Geralt here after the chat they had while he healed. Whatever you want would've possibly become a forgotten dream, buried under the snow.
He finally turns around when he hears Geralt's steps behind him, blue eyes full of worry observing carefully, waiting for a reaction. Usually he would just run to him, be all over his personal space and remind him things are fine. Has Vesemir punched his self-esteem though? He can't help thinking of Geralt not as wolf but a deer, able to be startled away any second now.
"Geralt?" He asks softly, although his heart doesn't match, still furious in his beating. Jaskier comes closer very slowly, giving his boyfriend time to react if he wishes, and finally picks a witcher hand between his own. "Please tell me you don't believe what he said. About me wanting you only for coin and safety, about foolishness not being allowed in the Path. We've been together for so long, why should it change now? I loved you as a friend, now I love you as my significant other. No feeling should be more foolish than the other."
A pause, fighting the urge to touch more, to kiss him, to hold him close.
Jaskier is furious; he can smell it on him, hear it in the harsh edge to his breathing. There's a tremble to his hands like he's got too much energy pent up in him, and if this had been a bar in Velen with a bunch of drunk peasants yelling for the past ten minutes about how witchers are monsters who should all be strung up like dogs, Geralt would think that he'd have to stop him from throwing a punch or smashing a bottle over someone's skull.
His voice is oddly gentle when he turns to Geralt again. His heart tells a different story, betrays that his emotions are still running high, but his tone, the way he walks towards Geralt like he might be startled away if he doesn't-- it's an unusual gentleness. He's a witcher and a grown man, he's not going to be scared off by an argument like a sensitive child. Hell, that wasn't even Vesemir being frightening-- get the old man to raise his voice, that's something that Geralt doesn't want to have to stare down. He'd rather fight griffins than an angry Vesemir.
Jaskier takes his hand and Geralt allows it.
"Hm."
It's a noncommittal way to respond, and he's not entirely unaware of that. But Vesemir's warning-- remember what you are. How could he forget? He's not a mortal man, who can have love and happiness like mortal men do. It would be easier if Vesemir was entirely right, and Jaskier is only at his side for coin and fame and maybe some sex on the side. That would be simple, easy to navigate. Worse, maybe Jaskier does love him, but in that fleeting way that he loved all of his other loves, and he'll have had his fill in a few months and move on to the next.
Worst of all-- he does love him, real and true, and just doesn't realize that he's handing his heart to a creature that has none. Unaware of the fact that Geralt cannot return his love in any way that matters, like how empty things give back only echoes.
"Let me take you to the library."
Then Jaskier would be able to enjoy himself, do something productive, while Geralt joins his brothers at the western wall for repairs.
Witchers are capable of amazing things. Enhanced bodies allow them to kill monsters, stop flying arrows, hear a pin fall to the floor in the middle of a crowded city and smell every single person you made out with last night.
In the case of Geralt, he's capable to kill the hurricane of emotions in Jaskier's chest with just a grunt.
It's like a bucket of freezing water had been dropped on his head. His heart goes from furiously beating to almost stopping, and for a moment there, he can't even breathe. It's nothing like what happened at the mountain yet at the same time it feels a hundred times worse - Geralt says less, but this time, he's also holding more of his heart.
All of it, in fact.
'You smell of heartbreak', he told Geralt once. The one smelling purely of that at the moment, however, is Jaskier himself.
So tell me, love, tell me, love, how is that just?
He wants to yell. To cry. To throw something at that stubborn head. But he feels... cold. Empty. Defeated. So much talking about what they wanted, so much yelling and promising and making sure there won't be any more assumptions or other guests in their beds-- all for fucking nothing. When will he ever stop being such a fool? When will he ever learn to stop handing his heart so easily, how many times must he take it back in pieces?
Jaskier's hands shake as crazy as they move to his chest, unpin the wolf brooch and put it on Geralt's fingers before stomping his way out of here. He doesn't know where he's going, but he knows he can't look at Geralt right now.
Jaskier’s scent goes wrong again, tainted by something cold and aching that Geralt had only caught on him once before, after he had sent him away on the mountain. Heartbreak— Geralt can’t seem to stop doing that to the bard, breaking his heart in new and terrible ways every time it’s handed to him. Maybe it’s only further proof of Vesemir’s point, that this is one of the many reasons why witchers shouldn’t mix with humans. Hurting them is an inevitability.
The wolf head brooch is still warm from the heart of Jaskier’s body when he pushes it into Geralt’s hand. Returning his claim to him, an unwanted thing. It feels heavier than it should in his palm.
Then the bard retreats, stomping off and taking his scent of hurt and anger with him. Geralt stands for some long moments in the empty room, his fingers clenched tightly around the brooch until the edges bite into his palm.
Jaskier had stormed off... in the direction of the outer walls, which are in such a state of disrepair that they can’t be fixed by only a handful of witchers. Geralt know this. He knows this, so why does being around Jaskier always turn him into such a fucking idiot?
“Fuck.”
Geralt goes after him, and he’s easy to track because of the scent that he trails behind him. He catches up quickly, reaches out to grab him by the elbow before he gets around the corner.
“Wait,” he says, ignoring the way that touching him makes his skin tingle, even with a barrier between their skin. “It’s not safe any further than this.”
Wait, Geralt says, and thank the gods he adds the rest of that sentence as soon as possible, because Jaskier wouldn't have been able to stand even a millisecond of hope. Right, of course, can't have the bard do another stupid thing. He glares at the witcher as he pulls back his arm as if the contact burned him, considering for a moment making another comment about him not being a dog and finally deciding against it. He's just so done with this shit.
"Point at the right way and then kindly fuck off."
The fact he even has to say that aloud hurts like hell.
Thankfully Geralt doesn't follow him this time, and so Jaskier wanders. Not because he's lost (well, there's a bit of that too) but because he doesn't know what to do with himself. Usually company and a distraction is what he'd go for, but he's not in the mood to be stared at by golden eyes, even if they aren't the ones that hurt him. And his mood is not something the princess should deal with, especially after what she heard him confess earlier.
Has it been a mistake to have come here after all? Or had it been wrong of him to confess, to ask for this? Should've they stayed friends and do winter on their own like they used to?
Or had the true mistake been to forgive Geralt in the first place? Maybe it's just a giant chain of mistakes.
He eventually makes it to the library, somehow, and Jaskier decides to stay there, in the company of books. Most of them are monster or potion manuals, not his kind of reading, although he's fascinated by their apparent age. Tucked in corner, though, he finds some elven history books, and those capture his attention immediately. Time to brush off that Elder of his. Dinner time comes and goes, and Jaskier decides not to show up for it - not only because he doesn't want to see a single witcher face, but also because his stomach has barely been able to pass the two or three grapes he stole from the bowl Ciri left there earlier, he doubts he'll be able to eat anything else.
With Elder speech on his eyelids, Jaskier falls asleep in the reading chair, dreaming about a twenty year old adventure with the elves at the edge of the world.
It's Cirilla that finds him there late in the morning, when she comes by to do her daily monster reading. She's clearly worried about him, asking him why he didn't show up for dinner and if he is okay. Jaskier doesn't know what bullshit excuse Geralt may've made up last night when his boyfriend wasn't there with him (let's be fair, the coward probably just grunted) but even if he knew, he wonders if he could even say it when the princess looks at him like that, fierce lion eyes demanding him to share and not be treated as a child.
Calanthe would be proud.
The bard's silver tongue manages to dodge the subject and get her to talk about what she heard the day before. Jaskier doesn't want her to feel guilty for what happened to him - it's not your fault, he repeats over and over, I want to protect you as well, if it pleases you. She's not convinced at first, with him being just a bard and all, but he gets her to reluctantly change her mind when he points out hey now, would you like me to tell you you can't protect me because you're just a girl?. It gets him a nudge in return, but she's smiling. Precious girl, she'll be a magnificent woman one day.
"You should talk to Geralt."
Scratch that, she's a little shit too smart for her own good.
With the excuse of her needing to concentrate on her studies, Jaskier leaves the library, wondering once again what to do with himself. He could put all his feelings into poetry like he's done in the past, he supposes, but what he truly needs is a distraction - he doesn't want to be with his alone with his own thoughts right now. Neither Geralt or Vesemir are options, Cirilla would only try to make him talk to her dad again, and-
Ah. Jaskier stops right in front of a window to make sure he's seeing correctly - yep, that's Eskel on stable duty again. That's kinda perfect actually, his company is nice and tending the horses is actually something Jaskier can help with. It takes him a couple of wrong turns to get there, but thankfully he makes it before the chores are over. Eskel nods at him from behind a horse Jaskier doesn't recognize.
"There you are, we've been wondering--" Golden eyes fall on Jaskier's chest - on the lack of brooch. "Fuck. What the hell happened?"
Jaskier shrugs, trying to come off as feeling better than he actually does. Which is stupid, because Eskel can smell his heartbreak. "Your brother is an arsehole."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"How about thank you?"
That catches Eskel off guard, so Jaskier takes the chance to babble away without mentioning or even referencing Geralt even once. Eskel notices he knows what he's doing with the horses and so they fall into an easy, comfortable rhythm of working and chatting. Jaskier apologizes and thanks Eskel for taking care of Cirilla yesterday, and for having been a sweetheart in general, which of course the witcher doesn't know how to take (Jaskier gets a little bit angrier at Vesemir). He promises him his first song whenever inspiration comes (translation: when he's feeling better) and that he'll include that mention of his handsome face - he hasn't forgotten the comment back in the hunting cabin.
"Not because you asked me for it, but because it's the truth."
And just like it happened with the l-word back in the cabin, Eskel doesn't know how to react, so Jaskier once again decides not to let the chance go to waste and hugs the witcher around his waist.
"Everything I said yesterday to Vesemir - it applies to you too." Not only Geralt is implied there. "You deserve kindness. I hope I can call you a friend."
Bad idea? Should he be doing this after the disaster that had been befriending Geralt? Jaskier can't help it, this little afternoon of chatting and sharing stories have reminded him why he enjoys witcher company in the first place. Luckily Eskel doesn't disappoint: he laughs and awkwardly pats him on the back. "I think I can handle that."
It's Eskel's turn to prepare dinner that evening, so after finishing with the horses (which eventually took them to do some cleaning in the stables and surrounding areas) he drags the bard with him to the kitchen under the excuse of having more chores for him but with a plan to feed him before he misses dinner again (because while other, lighter smells peeked into his scent during the day, heartbreak is still the one on top).
They chop vegetables while drinking ale and munching on bread, cheese and ogórki kiszone, sitting side by side on the table while Eskel tells him about his hunt of a cursed pack of wargs. Muscles tired after a day of working and having spend last night on a fucking chair, plus alcohol going quicker to his head because of his emotional state, Jaskier ends up falling asleep on the witcher's shoulder.
Not surprisingly, Eskel is a walking furnace as well.
He doesn't register being picked up or taken somewhere else until a door is slammed near him. Jaskier sits up with an eep, discovering he's on a bed-- and not just any bed, but Geralt's bed in Geralt's room. Fuck. Not only that, Geralt himself is being pushed inside the room by a very serious looking Eskel.
"I don't want to see either of you again until you work things out."
Bollocks.
The door is slammed again before Jaskier can tell him anything, so he's left staring at Geralt instead who-- fuck, is that a bruise? He's two seconds away from picking up their medical kit to take care of it, but the memories of the day before slowly coming through his sleepy mind and he decides to stay where he is.
"Did Eskel punch you?" He asks with a raised eyebrow. "I owe him another one."
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?”
Someone is fucking pissed. What could've Eskel possibly said to leave him in this mood? Jaskier tilts his head as he stares at Geralt, cursing his heart for still being curious about the witcher, wanting to understand the mysteries behind the man that broke it in the first place.
And what is with the question anyway? A pissy Geralt would usually just grunt or tell him to shut up. Why the sudden interest? In another context, Jaskier would've been happy about Geralt wanting to know about his bard and his brother getting along. Right now, however, there's something behind that question that he can't explain yet still bothers the hell out of Jaskier. Which isn't a good thing when he's feeling petty as fuck.
"If I didn't know better, I would say you were jealous." He replies without thinking, the tone of his voice implying how ridiculous is the mere idea of it would be. Seeing as he won't be able to sleep any time soon, he leaves the bed and picks up his lute, taking it with him to the window. "I owe him for being there."
Simply put, yet carrying a lot of feeling - Eskel has been a blessing in the middle of this mess, a touch of spring in a winter storm. Jaskier hopes he can get on writing soon, his new friend deserves that song. Speaking of music, he sits on the windowsill when he reaches it - since searching for comfort in a warm body isn't an option tonight, he'll find it in his other love: music.
There's no singing, at least. But the notes being played by skillful fingers are, without a doubt, Her sweet kiss.
Someone certainly is pissed, and he's pissed that he's pissed. It's one big, pissiness cycle, and Geralt's in the middle of it, like an asshole.
Jealous. That's ridiculous, isn't it? He just hates that Jaskier smells like his brother, because the mix of Eskel with Jaskier's own scent is jarring and wrong when he's used to it being a mix of his and Jaskier's. It's like someone touching Roach, or his swords, or his potion bag. And, sure, he would let Eskel touch any of those if he needed to, because Eskel is a witcher and knows how to not kill himself with alchemical ingredients or get kicked by Roach. But Jaskier is--
Different.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he's standing near the doorway, glowering at the bard. He just also can't stop. He grunts in response to the accusations of jealousy, because that's the only response something so stupid merits.
"I'm sure he's very good at being there," he says, and the notes of Her sweet kiss feel like-- mockery. I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. Well, that wanting passed quick, didn't it? Moving on to another witcher. Eskel is a better match for him anyway, though, and what fucking right does Geralt have to dictate where he puts his affections? What right does he have to clutch at him? You have always given me freedom, Jaskier had said once. Having that freedom means that he also has the freedom to choose to discard one thing in favor of something better. Geralt for Eskel. It would be a trade-up-- Eskel would be far better equipped to protect both Jaskier's body and heart, because Geralt can't seem to stop breaking the fucking thing.
"I'm sure he'll provide you with plenty of fodder for your songs," Geralt says, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier at last. He moves to the worktable, putting his hands on its surface as though he might have something that he planned to do there. He doesn't-- he just needed to not look at Jaskier. "Come the spring."
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Jaskier's fingers slow down with each of Geralt's words, frowning as he tries to put together whatever bullshit his witcher logic has came up with this time. Yes, Jaskier wants to yell, Eskel is very good at being there. He's only known him for a couple of days but his new friend has proven not to shy from Jaskier's various emotional moods, even if he does tense up when his witcher instincts don't know how to react to certain things. He accepted the word friend without hesitation. Yes, he has plenty of fodder for songs indeed, because he isn't stingy with the details.
They're truths, but also petty thoughts, things he wants to say just to hurt his heart's garroter the same way he hurt him first. But then Geralt adds the bit about spring, and Jaskier's brain finally catches on.
"...bloody hell. You are jealous."
The music comes to a full stop then. Jaskier wants to be offended at the mere thought of what Geralt is implying, but deep inside, he knows he would've done something very stupid if they had been in a town. Husbands and wives he may've bedded, yet he's never cheated himself - would've it counted as cheating this time, after he handed the brooch back? What are they even anymore? If they're something at all.
So no, he can't indignantly yell how dare you, I'm not a slut, because he knows what path that would take them through, and he isn't in a mood to defend his sex life. He's never made excuses for it since he left Lettenhove, and he isn't going to start now. So his anger attaches to be next best thing to be indignant about instead.
"Unbelievable! For you not to trust my word-- I was a fool, I admit, I should've expected that. But Eskel? Your own brother? You truly believe he would do that to you?"
Geralt reaches into his pocket, pulling out the wolf brooch that Jaskier had returned to him. He had kept it with him for the past day, even though there's really no reason to carry it; he could have put it in this room, left it on his shelf. It isn't even his-- Jaskier had gotten it, and should have it again. Silver's valuable, he would be able to sell it for a decent price once he gets down the mountain. Be rid of it and have some coin for his trouble.
"He has done nothing but be a better man. You're not a thing for him to steal from me."
Maybe Geralt is the better witcher of the two of them, better at killing griffons or kikimores or whatever other ugly thing came his way. But that's all he seems to be good for-- swinging a sword and spilling blood and collecting his coin, just as they wanted him to be. Fucking lot of good that does him now, he can't kill this bullshit with a silver sword. He wishes that he could, he knows what to do with some big nasty thing that wants to kill him and a blade. This? This is an unfamiliar battlefield and he's ill-prepared.
Eskel, though, is a gentler, more talkative witcher. That's what Jaskier would want, isn't it? It's what he would've wanted Geralt to be, but he's too old to change his nature. He's not the noble white wolf that the bard sang about so often, once upon a time. If Jaskier had met Eskel those twenty years ago in Posada, he undoubtedly would've had a kinder two decades on the Path with a witcher who treated him as he deserved.
"What can I offer you that he cannot, and better?"
Geralt's nostrils flare, that particular look that these wolf witchers get when they're scenting the air. It's nearly involuntary, because he really doesn't want to have the scent of Eskel and Jaskier burned into his sinuses. He may have to avoid Kaer Morhen for every winter after this, just so that he doesn't have to suffer through four months of inescapable this. It may very well render him the first witcher driven mad by scent alone.
Low and soft and half to himself, he says, "Fuck."
There goes the asshole again, being poetic and respecting him his freedom, all while holding the symbol of their relationship in his hands (because of course the bastard didn't get rid of it, of course). And then he has the nerve to ask what he could even offer! How could Jaskier not love him? No, he isn't what his songs say - he's so much more.
Trying to play the lute again is impossible - his hands are shaking again, he tries two notes (terrible, just terrible) and that's enough to make him close his eyes and bump his head back against the stone of the windowsill. He's emotional, and restless, and he needs to do something to distract himself, not to give in, not to run to Geralt like he so badly wants to do right now to take care of that witcher logic bullshit.
And by the gods, Jaskier hates witcher logic bullshit so fucking much.
Right after his rescue, he told he wanted to forgive Geralt, but there's only so much he could take. How could he know the mountain fiasco wouldn't happen again? Ominous words, he realizes now. He gave in back then, and this is where it's brought him: with the pieces of his heart stuck in his throat. Geralt had promised, had given him his word, and what would happen if he does the same this time? What would make it any different?
Jaskier doesn't know what to do. He wants to fix things, he truly does. But like Geralt himself had said in Oxenfurt: I'm tired of always being in fucking pieces.
One blue eye opens when he hears the cursing and-- nostrils flaring. Ah, right. That's what's bothering him. Jaskier is used to being a touchy person, he hasn't even thought about how that would influence his scent. Because of Nilfgaard, they haven't exactly been out and about being social since they got together.
"I hugged him. We spent the day doing chores together, and I hugged him, and asked him to be my friend. He accepted." A pause as he considers how to word things next - he isn't saying this to placate Geralt's stupid jealousy (although it wouldn't be a bad idea, if they're going to have this talk, they need it free of any stupid assumptions). He's saying it for the sake of his own boundaries. "I woke up here, so I can only assume he was the one to bring me when I fell asleep - because that's what friends do. I have many a friend, Geralt. And I like hugging them. I also like going to taverns or feasts and dance with strangers, enjoy guiding the delicate feet of sweet maidens through the rhythm of a waltz. Human contact is part of my life, Geralt, one that isn't up for negotiation."
A sigh. Hopefully that's clear enough. He shouldn't need to clarify that said human contact is completely platonic - if he should, well. Things may be worse than he thought. Then again, isn't that what has brought them in this situation in the first place? Geralt not trusting his word. That's the topic Jaskier needs to jump on, but he knows Geralt, understands how his mind works. He isn't in the mood to go through the old same reassurances of you aren't the monster they say you are, you deserve kindness when he is feeling like the witcher had been behaving like shit, but if he doesn't take care of this first, they'll never be able to advance the conversation.
"Nobody chooses who they fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants." He explains as restless fingers are tapped on the wood of the lute, a leg getting shaky as well. "What exactly have I asked of you that you think you cannot give me?"
"You always smell like other people," he says, jaw tight. That isn't usually a problem, most humans smell like other humans. It's inevitable, when everyone lives practically on top of each other. "You don't always smell like Eskel."
And he didn't always smell like Eskel after giving back his claim and avoiding him. Not even coming to dinner. Ciri had told him that the bard had been in the library and likely was there all night, based on how he had been slumped over his books. There were plenty of other bedrooms, the bard could have found one that wasn't even anywhere near Geralt, if he had wanted to avoid him so badly.
No one chooses who they love, Jaskier says, as though a heart is a thing that can make decisions on its own, without any input from his head. Not that Geralt would know, all he has for reference are the false feelings planted in himself and Yennefer both by a poorly-conceived djinn wish. It was a choice, even if it wasn't, perhaps, the best one he'd ever made. But it must chafe at Jaskier, a man who loves his freedom and his choices, to not be able to choose who is the object of his love, or to rescind it by his own will when he so desires.
"Then I am sorry," he says, "that I've given you a burden that isn't of your own choosing." Loving a witcher can be nothing else but a burden, and loving Geralt of all witchers, doubly so.
"And that I cannot ease it with reciprocation."
It's a cruel sort of irony that Jaskier, a man who feels love so deeply and truly, would fall in love with a witcher who has had all such emotions stripped from him.
"Ohohoho, nononono, don't you fucking dare, Geralt of Rivia! Don't you fucking dare to repeat all that horseshit he put in your head back to me!"
It's a miracle that he manages to put his lute down against the wall gently when the fury returns, an angry and hurt ball of fire that lights up the entire bedroom when he jumps off the windowsill to pace the room with open arms, calling attention to its heat, its colors, its passion.
(His grandmother called him my buttercup because of his sunny personality - and like the sun, he burns bright and hot, trying to melt every frozen heart around him.)
Geralt's doing it again - doubting his own emotions, Jaskier can understand. Geralt's training pushes him to ignore those, to pretend they don't exist. It's not ideal, and it can get irritating, but he understands. He could be patient to work through them with time. But doubting Jaskier's word? His feelings on the matter? After twenty years of care and songs and friendship? It's like Geralt is spiting on his very face.
"Why would I follow a burden around the Continent for two decades, you cockeyed imbecile? It's as if you didn't know me at all! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, yet no matter how many times I say it, you keep dismissing my feelings! I CHOSE to stay by your side, I CHOSE to befriend you, I CHOSE to give you my youth, and I CHOSE to embrace these feelings instead of trying to-- LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!"
Coming closer is torture, he can feel Geralt's natural warmth coming off him in waves, even in winter. Touching his face is even worse, fingers burning on every inch of skin that makes contact when he grabs the witcher's chin to make him look at him. Blue eyes look up, fearless as always, carrying the same fire that is keeping his heart beating faster than a shot arrow.
"No, I haven't fucked your brother." He almost spits the word, but it feels good to bring it out of the shadows, to stop dancing around it. "And I'll never fuck any witcher, because every time I see golden eyes, I think of YOU. How could you possibly doubt my love after everything we've been through? I don't ask for much, Geralt. I want your trust, which I thought I had, and I cannot believe I had to ask for it again! Is one word from Vesemir truly enough to overthrow what we have? Does it mean that little to you?" The need to emote and flap his hands around is a good one, that way he can let go of Geralt's face before the touch destroys him. "I thought I had been clear back in Oxenfurt - I don't need poetry from you, or an epic confession. I only need your honesty. I only need you to want this because that's what I mean to you. And you SWORE on the trials that made you! Were you lying to me to shut me up?"
He steps back, opening his arms, his voice gaining a mocking tone.
"But you still want to do this? Fine! Let's do this! If you cannot reciprocate, if you cannot feel, then what were you running away from that day in Vizima after the sight-reading contest?"
Stomping and with tears finally appearing his eyes, Jaskier reaches the shelf and grabs the book with the ribbon inside, which he drops on the desk with a blomp.
"THIS isn't lust, Geralt!" He grabs the gwent deck next, same treatment. "THIS isn't lust either! And neither is this!" The wood carving on Roach isn't dropped, but it's put down rather strongly too, noisy all the same, because everything must be dramatic with this bard. "Sir Practicality kept all these, not your cock! My best friend in the whole world went fishing before sunrise so I could have seafood stew, not the monster hunter!"
A pause to breathe, because all the yelling has left him panting. Usually he's excellent at controlling his breathing, thanks to being a performer, but he isn't exactly in control at the moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, letting sadness take over instead of anger to match the words he chooses next.
"It was a brother that lamented the loss of another one of your kind back in the hunting cabin. Because there are many kinds of love and care, and grief is a manifestation of them." He sighs. "So I ask you again, Geralt. What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?"
Jaskier yells for him to look at him and his fingers grab Geralt's chin, turning his head to meet those cornflower blue eyes. They're fearless and angry and bright, and Geralt can't look away. There's a twitch in the witcher's jaw when Jaskier mentions Eskel-- he hadn't thought that the bard had literally jumped into bed with his brother the second that he was out of his sight, but the admission that golden eyes only ever makes Jaskier think of him jolts something in his chest. The bard's fingers are tight against Geralt's face and he doesn't try to shake them off, lets him pull him around as he wishes.
Those fingers leave his face sooner rather than later, though, and he feels where they had been even after they're gone, like he had left marks. Geralt wants those hands back on him, even if it's just to pull him. He would want it even if it's just to strike him.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels forward and his voice dies in his throat. He had fled Vizima because he had felt that terrible want all the way to his bones, but wanting isn't love, is it? He has little time to contemplate it before Jaskier turns, stomps off to the bookshelf and retrieves the potion book, the one with the silk ribbon in it. He slams it down onto the desk; then the gwent desk, the horse carving. The little gifts that he'd given Geralt over the years that had made their way to Kaer Morhen, because-- because they were things that Jaskier had given him, and he had wanted them to survive. Was that borne out of lust? Probably not, because the bard had given him that ribbon before he had ever started to notice long legs and blue eyes. It had been blue once, blue like Jaskier's eyes, but sunlight and time had dulled it to a steely gray.
Bringing up the death of Clovis is a low blow, though, and one that Geralt feels acutely-- Clovis had been in his cohort, and, aside from Eskel, the only other one that had been left alive.
What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?
"Love," he replies, and his voice comes out hoarse, throaty in a way that doesn't make Jaskier weak at the knees. "I can't love you, not in the way that you love me. Whatever capacity I had for it was burned out of me in the Trials. Even if I said the words to you, they would be nothing but words."
The word without the sentiment behind it is worse than a lie.
"And what is left over-- they botched me, Jaskier, when they made me."
It's the only reasonable conclusion that he can come to; they made him wrong, when they gave him the extra mutagens. Something went wrong, left him with scraps of emotions instead of scouring him clean. Flaws on the inside instead of the outside, that couldn't be seen so easily. Had the mages known at the time...
"They left me with echoes of what any other man would feel, but nothing more than that. I won't deceive you into thinking that there's something more in me when what I have is too paltry to be worth anything to you."
If there's something Jaskier has been feeling since Geralt rescued him, it's this deep, feral, raw need to scream.
And so he finally does.
He throws his head back and just screams, probably making his old singing coaches cringe over at Oxenfurt for what he's doing to his throat, but Cirilla may appreciate it. It's a powerful sound by a powerful voice, no words needed to understand the frustration that fuels it. There's only so much he can take, not even a romantic like him (who sings about love conquering it all) can withstand so much bullshit thrown at him without taking a hit or two. Or three, or a hundred. He's only human after all.
"You're bloody impossible! You aren't hearing a word I'm saying! You don't trust me!"
Reaching the door is easy, opening it is not. His hand freezes on the knob, and Jaskier rests his forehead against the wood as he sighs. He said he owes Eskel one, and he meant it. Leaving right now would equal burdening him with this shit the whole season - Cirilla, too. They deserve better than that.
Fuck his fondness for witchers.
Jaskier drags his feet back to the desk and decides to sit on it, legs crossed and hands going to his hips in his usual scolding housewife position. Even if they don't end up together after this conversation, he decides, they should at least reach some peaceful agreement not to make life hell for the rest of the keep and themselves.
"One!" He suddenly exclaims very seriously. "Stop assuming how I feel about things. If something it's worth keeping or not, that's MY choice to make. You KNOW that, you KNOW how much I hate people deciding my feelings for me. And if something makes me happy, so happy that I can feel my heart bursting, then I'd say that's worth the world. Two!" A hand frees his hip to start counting with his fingers. "Either there's some conversation I must be missing here or you're high in potions, because I never asked for the word love - I never asked for any particular words from you. I asked you to swear that you wanted me to be with you as more than friends. I asked you to swear that's what I mean to you, and you did. On the Path. And it meant the world to me. Are you following me so far?"
He's trying not to speak in riddles, just like Geralt likes it, but it's hard not to when discussing feelings. They're an abstract concept, something that needs to be described by poetry because of their very nature. His points are clear, he wants to believe: if something shakes him to his core, then it's worth keeping. And Geralt has shaken him to his core. It's not hard to add two plus two.
"Three." Another finger raises, but this time his voice softens a little it. Almost-- ashamed? "Back when Vesemir was talking to you, I-- I froze. Right at the beginning. I wanted to jump in to defend you and I couldn't, because--" His hands fall to his lap, so do his eyes. "--the way he talked to you, it reminded me of my father. I'm not saying you and I are the same!" He hurries to clarify, that shame completely taking over. "What's happened to you is atrocious, and I'm just a spoiled brat. What I'm trying to say is-- I felt helpless. Because that's what that logic does to you, Geralt. 'You can't have something because of who you are' takes all power to make choices away from you - I imagine that's what the elder witchers were going for. Don't make choices of your own, just follow the Path."
His voice breaks when he says that last part. Fuck, sitting down like this and going through things methodically is helping him a lot to calm down and remember how fucked up things are for Geralt, to remember why he decided to be patient all the way back when he was eighteen and work on a friendship that felt one-sided for a long, long time.
He's broken, and you are the only one that can help him.
Overwhelmed by it all, Jaskier raises his hand again and this time he cups Geralt's cheek, blue eyes begging for gold to stay with him, to believe his words. He surprises himself by feeling relief over the touch being comforting instead of burning - hopefully that's how it feels for Geralt as well.
"Love... love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape, see, but can you define the shape of a pear? I know I can't, not even with all my poetry. I don't need you to understand it, Geralt, I don't need you to put a name on it. All I need is to know there's something here." His other hand moves to rest on Geralt's very slow heart. "Everything you just told me - you're repeating their teachings. You're repeating what humanity has taught you through stones and insults. But even if you were right, a leftover, botched echo is still a feeling."
A calloused thumb strokes Geralt's cheek and before Jaskier can curse his own heart for giving in again, he pulls to bring Geralt closer and make their foreheads touch. A deep breath - gods, how he's missed this.
"I don't want you to tell me you aren't capable of feeling things, because that's a big pile of horseshit if I've ever smelled one. All your problems were born from you caring too much. Forget about witcher logic and your teachings, forget about Vesemir, forget about the shape and size of love, forget about the Path and the trials and the differences between you and I - how would you feel if I said I'm not worthy of you because I'm not powerful and immortal?" His fingers grab Geralt's shirt, and something sad sneaks into his scent - those are doubts that haunt him all the time. "Forget all that. I'm going to ask again, and the only answer I want to hear has to come from your heart, mutated as it is, because I love it that way. Four."
Another deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"Why did you save a bloody ribbon when I have hundreds of those? Why did you wake up before sunrise to fish for me when we had free food in the kitchens? Why does it matter if I smell of Eskel? Why did you take a moment in the middle of the road, while we were in a hurry, to tell me you won't share me? Why did you run away in Vizima? If it's because of something warm in your chest, something you only feel for me... then that's all I need from you. Nothing else."
Jaskier screams, and the sound is pure frustration. His voice is a powerful thing, which makes sense considering that he's a professionally trained vocalist, and the raw edge to it grates on Geralt's sensitive ears. His first thought, however, is that Jaskier shouldn't be doing that to his voice, not when it's his entire livelihood. The next thing that he thinks is that he has irredeemably, completely fucked everything, because the bard is at the door with his hand on the knob, ready to leave. Eskel had put them both in this room to sort everything out, and, technically, deciding that none of this would work is accomplishing that goal. It just is also something that makes Geralt's heart rate tic up into a pace that he usually doesn't get to without the aid of potions.
He turns from the door without opening it, though, and sits on the desk. Geralt watches him like he's a kikimore or some other terribly dangerous thing, rather than a bard who probably couldn't do a thing against him. Jaskier starts ticking things off on his fingers, all the ways, apparently, that Geralt is wrong. The witcher thinks he keeps up with the bard's effusive monologue well enough: things that make him happy-- though Geralt's really not sure if he falls into that category at this point-- are worth keeping; he is not asking Geralt for more than he can give, or for words that he cannot say. Jaskier asks if he's following, and the witcher nods.
The bard's hand touches his cheek, and the texture of his skin is familiar-- smooth palm, calloused fingertips. Geralt tips his head into his palm, just a little, almost without thinking about it. No one touched him as kindly as Jaskier, not even Yen.
Love is pear-shaped, apparently, and that only makes sense to Geralt in the sense that their relationship in the past few days has also gone completely fucking pear-shaped. It's not even an emotion that Geralt's sure he can experience, but it sure has gone and made a fucking mess of things. All he knows is that over the past twenty years, Jaskier has inspired enough inexplicable emotion in him to make him certain that he's a botched witcher, that even mutagens and alchemy and everything else they did to him couldn't prepare him for one teenaged bard in Posada. Sure, some of those emotions that he'd felt over the years were new variations on frustration and deep aggravation, but still.
Their foreheads touch. Jaskier's thumb rasps across the day's worth of stubble on his cheek. If he could, Geralt would live in this moment; nevertheless, he'll remember, those times when the world is shit, that there was someone who would put their hands on him gently and kindly as though he was worth more than just his competency at monster-slaying.
The bard throws a lot of questions at him, all of which have slightly different answers, variations on a common theme-- the ribbon and the gwent deck and the horse figure only have value because they are things that Jaskier gave him. The hours digging for clams and fishing in the frigid waters of the Pontar were worth the trouble because Jaskier deserves to have the things he likes, and Geralt wants to provide them for him. Eskel's scent, because he doesn't want to lose this, his warm touches and fond regard and everything that comes with it. Vizima, because the depth of his wanting was a frightening thing.
Defining the shape of a pear.
"You make me feel things that I don't have names for." Maybe it's love. Maybe it's something else. It's only ever been for Jaskier. "Things that I have nothing to compare to."
He blindly gropes for Jaskier's other hand, then brings it up to his throat, to that soft spot under his jaw where his pulse is easily felt; pushes his fingers into it, to his heartbeat that's at twice what a witcher's should be, in the hope that his words and his racing heart will tell him everything that he wants to know.
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"He needs to rest, Jaskier," she says, and there's that hint of royal imperiousness to her tone. She was a crown princess, after all, and she's used to getting her way.
"I'm still right here," Geralt says, and Ciri gently pats his arm. He can't say that he's exactly upset that his child surprise has no fear of him, but he's been treated remarkably casually by a lot of people lately. It's... disorienting. He's used to being feared.
Jaskier mentions the vodka that they'd stashed in the saddlebags, gifts for his brothers that could have been useful for smoothing out any interpersonal issues. Not that there's a need for it with Eskel, he and Jaskier got along like a house on fire. Might still help with Lambert, though.
Vesemir simply nods in acknowledgement, but Geralt says, "Half of it's probably already down Eskel's gullet."
The expression on Vesemir's face turns dry, and he walks over to the chair where Ciri left the book that she had been studying, picking it up and opening it to the marked page.
"Katakans. You have a lot of material to get through, Cirilla."
The princess sighs, but ultimately takes the hint and goes back to Vesemir, taking the bestiary from him and sitting down again with a huff. The old wolf, at least, looks pleased-- maybe she'll prove to be as good a student as her protector.
"Go to bed, Geralt. Try to be mindful of the rest of us."
Dismissed like he's a boy in training again. Geralt frowns, but puts a hand to Jaskier's elbow to start leading him out. The inner halls of the keep are labyrinthine, and it would be all too easy for a human to get lost or wander into an unstable wing. The bard will have to be chaperoned around until he can learn his way well enough.
"Come."
He leads Jaskier through the corridors, and, as he's taking him up a set of stairs towards one of the stable wings, where there are rooms that are sufficiently set up for bedrooms. Geralt's is in this area as well, though Eskel and Lambert have theirs elsewhere. It's as private as you can get in a fortress that houses witchers.
"You can have whatever room you want. The fireplaces are all maintained and if you need more blankets, I can fetch them for you. It can get draughty once winter fully sets in."
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"Worry not, my sweet lady, we both need to rest. I only wanted to tease him - it's plenty of fun once you've learned to translate his grunts."
Maybe that could be another gift for her. Some kind dictionary. An encyclopedia? How To Understand and Take Care of Your Father Surprise. Meh, may need a better title, more catchy, but there's something there.
Meanwhile, Vesemir... well then, Jaskier doesn't see that one coming, both eyebrows raising in surprise. Is he like Geralt, throwing jabs while still keeping a straight face, or had that been a true warning? Geralt's frown doesn't exactly speak well of Vesemir's comment, so once more Jaskier decides not to push their luck and follow his witcher out after a simple good luck, princess.
(This good behavior won't last long.)
As soon as they're out of sight, Jaskier grabs Geralt's hand and intertwines their fingers together between them, coming closer to let their arms brush as they walk through the labyrinth that is Kaer Morhen. This isn't like any mansion or castle he's been at before - usually he doesn't have much trouble memorizing layouts, used to that kind of big building life, but this is proving to be a challenge.
The idea of needing an escort (a babysitter) to move around doesn't sit well with him, so he tries to pay as much attention as possible to his surroundings, but suddenly Geralt is talking and that's always much more important.
A frown appears on Jaskier's face as some worry leaks into his scent. Is he understanding this correctly? No assumptions, he reminds himself. He tilts his head at Geralt as he asks his question.
"Any reason why I can't simply stay with you, my dear? Because that's the room I want."
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He isn't looking forward to it, but it's easier to not think about it when Jaskier's fingers are twined with his.
After Geralt offers the bard whatever room he pleases, that sour worried smell creeps back in. He doesn't try to anticipate what Jaskier will pick; if he wants nothing, than there can be no disappointment. But he's not displeased that the bard wants to share his room with him, even if the choice is a little perplexing. This isn't like all those times when they had shared rooms at an inn and it was a matter of saving precious coin, or like Oxenfurt, when they were only given one dormitory. There are enough bedrooms that Jaskier could take a different one every week and not run out, could keep all of his notebooks and his lute there so that he could practice and compose to his heart's content without being bothered. And there's nothing that says that he has to sleep in the same room as Geralt to fuck him, so it isn't that.
If he had just wanted Geralt's room, than he could've had it, but he wants the room and a witcher in it, too.
"If that's what you want, than it's yours."
When he'd said that he doesn't speak in riddles, it had been true-- he'd said that he would give Jaskier whatever he wants, so he does. The room is his.
Geralt leads him to the end of a winding hallway, to the last room on the left. When he opens the door, everything is as he left it last winter-- there's little by way of decoration or ornamentation, the furniture spartan and pragmatic, the fireplace made of sturdy stonework. Geralt lights it with a quick sign, to start warming the place up for its new human occupant. The bed is large and sturdy enough to fit a witcher, and covered in thick blankets and furs to fight against the winter draughts. There's a worktable along one wall, sitting underneath a set of shelves that contain potion ingredients of various types, all labeled in, quite frankly, awful handwriting. There's a low bookshelf crammed full of bestiaries, monster manuals, and potion-brewing compendiums, as well as a few less obviously witchery books like botany guides. Several of the lower shelves are dedicated to leather-bound journals of varying sizes and quality-- his hunting notes, where he keeps track of all of the details of his hunts and the monsters that he encounters. On top of the bookshelf, there's a little wooden carving of a horse, standing proudly on a gwent deck that's in far better condition than the one that Geralt usually carries around. A potion manual that he'd been reading before he left last year still sits there, too, and the page is marked with a silk ribbon that Jaskier had once used to tie his hair back. He'd known that it would end up ruined if he took it on the road; it would survive much longer as a bookmark.
Once they're both in the room, Geralt would like little more than to lay down on the bed and sleep, without even bothering to take his armor off. Instead, though, he turns to the door.
"I'll fetch our things."
The bags were still on their horses, after all. If Eskel was feeling kind, he might have at least brought them in from the stables, but considering that he had been volunteered by Vesemir to take care of the horses to begin with, he probably wasn't.
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When the door to the room opens, Jaskier can't help standing there for a second, taking it all in. This... is is Geralt's bedroom. His personal space. The man who doesn't have any wants, the man who doesn't keep things with him that aren't practical... here it is all of it, in one space, filled with his things. Every corner of this room is Geralt.
"Eskel wasn't joking about you being a bookworm, huh." He comments with the biggest smile as he steps inside.
Jaskier lets his fingertips brush every object near him as he walks around, observing every detail. The book topics don't surprise him, but he's pleased to see Geralt's collection of journals - he's always wanted a peek into those. The potion labels make him giggle, and he makes a mental note to offer his penmanship to everyone later if this is how all labeling in the keep looks.
What does shock him and takes the air out of his lungs with a loud gasps are finding his old gifts. Not only the horse and cards, but also the damn ribbon. Once upon a time, Jaskier had tried to shower Geralt with gifts, and he thought the man didn't appreciate them - he changed to practical things after a couple of tries, like sharpening stones.
So to find them here, and well taken care of... there goes the sweet smell filling the room, his heart beating at hundred beats a minute.
"You- you kept them! All of them!"
He runs to Geralt and hugs the hell out of him, arms around his waist with as much as strength as a bard can muster, which isn't much against a witcher's wall of brick muscles, but hey, the intention is what counts, right? He's about to start a soft 'you've been adorable' kiss, but of course that's the moment Geralt chooses to open his mouth.
"...what?"
Oh, Melitele, please give him patience to deal with witcher bullshit.
"Geralt! We can pick up our things later! Why do you think I told Vesemir about the vodka? Let them find it themselves." He pulls back and starts working on taking off Geralt's armor, not different from the ritual they'd have after a hunt, with the witcher too tired or hurt (or both) to move. And even if it only had been a drowner hunt and Geralt had plenty of energy left, Jaskier would this for him anyway, because he deserves a gentle touch and warm comfort that should come after the emotional weight that comes with having to take lives, even a monster one. "You need to rest. Stop worrying for a second, would you, darling? We're all here. Safe. Your brothers. Your daughter. Your lover. You've taken care of us all, now take care of yourself."
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The bard seems charmed by his books and journals, though they would hardly be the kind of material that he'd want to read. All about monsters and potions, not a bit of poetry to them. Geralt makes a mental note to look through the library later and see if he could track down anything that Jaskier might want to read; he thinks that there were some elven history books in there at one point.
Of course, he's most enthused by the little gifts that he'd given Geralt that survived the trip to Kaer Morhen. It's not everything-- there had been a few, more delicate things that Jaskier had given him that simply couldn't withstand the harshness of his lifestyle. A bottle of bath salts had broken, a handkerchief had been ruined by rotfiend ichor. Delicate things don't always survive a witcher's Path.
Geralt barely feels the grip of Jaskier's arms around his middle through his armor, and after chastising him briefly about wanting to go get their things, the bard starts pulling at the laces and buckles that fasten it. He needs little input from the witcher by this point to get the leather off, only occasionally requiring him to move an arm so that he can slide off a spaulder or to bend over to pull the main cuirass off. Geralt ought to clean it and oil it before going to bed, but... he's exhausted, and it weighs heavier on him now that he doesn't have some desperate purpose driving him forward. Everyone that he cares about are safe. Jaskier is safe, his child surprise is under the watchful supervision of Vesemir, his brothers are accounted for.
"Hm."
That particular flavor of grunt is just for the sake of acknowledgement, confirming that he did, in fact, hear that words were spoken to them and possibly understands their meaning, but offers no further response. He gets through the buttons on his shirt-- and about halfway through, debates the merits of ripping it, but that would also require effort so he just continues on the path that he started-- but can't muster the energy to actually take it off, or the rest of his clothes. Fuck it, he's slept in worse states than this before. Geralt walks to the bed and pitches himself forward onto it, without bothering to get underneath the covers or even take off his boots. The bed frame groans underneath the sudden addition of his weight but holds firm.
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A couple of things he does fix though: he takes off the witcher's boots, then pulls the covers from under that heavy body, which leaves him panting. Damn those sexy muscles! But the effort is worth it to be able to keep his lover warm - and himself too! Because after taking off his own boots, cloak and doublet, he sneaks under the covers, puts his arms around Geralt, his head on his chest, and lets exhaustion take him as well.
Sleep comes easily, and Jaskier rests while smiling at the fact Geralt cuddles him back. Warm, protection and affection, such a perfect combo. The fact this will be his life from now on is still hard to believe.
There's something he didn't take into account, however: Jaskier did get to sleep the past few days, Geralt is way more tired than he is. Which means he wakes up first, only to find himself caged by witcher strength. Bollocks. He tries to be romantic about it at first, taking a moment to simply enjoy the moment - Geralt's peaceful sleeping face, the slow beating of his heart, their closeness, the fact they're cuddling in freaking Kaer Morhen. But as time passes, it's obvious that Geralt isn't waking up any time soon. Crying out for help isn't really an option - it would be embarrassing, bother his boyfriend, and he doubts anybody is nearby to hear him anyway, witcher hearing or not.
Thankfully, he's wrong - Eskel comes to his rescue when he stops by to drop their things. They had expected Geralt to do his hibernation thing, but he had been worried Jaskier got lost. The bard would consider him a sweetheart if it wasn't for all the teasing he did after freeing him from his brother's arms - fuck, teasing over their relationship he can take, but being found like this is simply dumb!
He can't stay mad at him for long though. Eskel thanks him for the vodka and offers to pick him in half an hour or so, which Jaskier appreciates. He keeps himself busy by taking everything out of their bags, knowing what to put where and in what order after years of traveling together. Seeing his own things mixed with Geralt's in the witcher's very own room fills him with glee, so of course he hums while he works - not one of his, what a miracle. It's a light tune written before he was born about a couple that stood the test of time.
Mental note: write a ballad for the songbird and the wolf soon.
Jaskier is finishing changing his clothes into clean (but still very fashionable, colorful and warm) clothes when Eskel comes by again, earning a toothy grin from the witcher when he sees him put on a bright light blue poncho-like cloak with golden embroidery and close it over his chest by using the wolf brooch. What can he say? That little thing means too much to him to let go of it so soon. Besides, hopefully this will help reinforce the message for the other witchers as well:
Someone out there cares for you.
Lute on his back and gifts in his arms, Jaskier follows his new friend around for a mini tour of the place. And honestly, Eskel has to be the best choice for a guide around here (sorry, Geralt, this bard loves you, but being stingy with the details isn't fun when Jaskier is vibrating with curiosity) - he's friendly, chatty, and doesn't mind answering Jaskier's questions. While it's obvious that he saves certain information for himself, his expression darkening at what can only be bad memories, he never dismisses the bard with a grunt or a shut up, he offers the little he can or at least says no idea, sorry. There's no doubt in Jaskier's mind that he'll become his favorite witcher after Geralt, no need to meet the other two.
What truly seals the deal is when he asks why he isn't allowed to go to the basement.
"Dangerous experiment leftovers. Stay out of it for the sake of everyone."
The pain in his voice makes his stomach turn, and Jaskier wishes he could've brought him so much more than just vodka. No treating him like a child, no hiding behind the 'secrets' excuse - the reason is succinct but clear. If Jaskier hadn't had his arms full of gifts, maybe this could be the perfect moment for that hug he deserves. Another thing for later - but one thing he knows for sure now: the first song he writes in Kaer Morhen will be for Eskel.
They separate at the library, where Jaskier finds Ciri reading through more monster books with a big bowl of grapes by her side. The library itself is absolutely stunning - maybe visually it doesn't look as the fancy one in Oxenfurt, but the sense of ancient knowledge is in the air, in every stone and every chair. It's the kind of atmosphere Jaskier knows he'll lose himself into more than a couple of times this winter.
But that can wait - first he gotta talk with the princess, who is thankful for having an excuse for a break. Cirilla loves every single present he's brought her, blushing furiously when she reaches the linen rags and notices one of the books the bard has brought for the library. Jaskier offers to help her put up her hair in braids, to allow those lovely new ribbons to 'debut', and she accepts after a moment of hesitation.
He brings up the heavy topics then, giving her the chance of to hide her face while he works behind her.
Jaskier tells her that he's sorry for her loss, tells her there's a lot she'll be hearing about the choices of his grandmother, but as far as he goes, he loved singing in Cintra every time, no regrets are had. He tells her he was there the day the Law of Surprise was called, which makes her speak up for the first time since he starting brushing her hair, curious with questions. Geralt had been stingy with the details, and Jaskier isn't even a little bit surprises. He tells her that she's the living image of Pavetta, that there's a ballad he wrote for her parents that he never got to sing because White Wolf related songs were forbidden in Cintra, and promises to sing them to her when she's ready.
He tells her he misses his own grandmother as well. He tells her he misses the huge, beautiful garden he grew up with - no more details are given, but she quickly catches on, especially when he mentions all the things Geralt had to teach him when he joined him on the road. She's a very smart girl, and he can tell she's warming up to him, laughing when he tells her the embarrassing parts of the improvised survival training he had to go through when he decided to follow certain witcher around. Not something he'd usually share, Jaskier always dresses up his stories, but this honesty is probably the best way to reach her, to make her feel better about feeling out of place in here.
He tells her he understands.
He tells her that after a day of reading about monsters and tiring her body out while learning how to use a sword, she can come to him and they can read some poetry, sing some old court songs, share stories about terrorizing their nursemaids.
He tells he can teach her to read every muscle of Geralt's face and understand every grunt.
He tells her he's here for her if she ever needs him.
When the braids are done, she hugs him. They both want to cry, but neither of them do, stubborn nobles that they are.
The start of a friendship has been forged, at the very least, and Jaskier leaves the library with less weight in his arms and also his heart - a heavy emotional moment had been had, and now they can both feel lighter for it, more ready to deal with whatever spending a winter with five witchers can throw at them.
By the time he makes it to the training grounds with three books in his arms, his scent is softly sweet, showing how pleased he's been with this day so far (ignoring the little trapped incident in the morning, thank you very much). Said grounds aren't difficult to find, by the way, because he can hear the witchers bantering and throwing jabs at each other in between grunts and sword clashes.
He decides to stay at the threshold for a moment before letting his presence known, even if he knows they probably heard his heartbeat many steps ago. There is Vesemir, correcting everyone's posture, and Eskel, calling someone out for being a prick. Ah, there's Lambert, and honestly? Jaskier is a little disappointed. His insults are strong, that's for sure, but they're also direct and crass, just being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole - nothing like, and Jaskier can't believe he's thinking this, the smart banter and word play of Yennefer's. Well, at least that means he won't have trouble handling the dickhead, a man so coarse with his mouth will never out-word a bard.
The last one must be Coën, and Jaskier realizes that even if he hadn't already known the wolves and nobody had been wearing their medallions, he would've still been able to identify a griffin. Jaskier may not be a master swordman, but after watching Geralt fight for two decades, he can easily see the same style in the way Eskel and Lambert move, but not in Coën. Fascinating. His beard is well kept, which surprises the bard after so many years of seeing his wolf be a disaster with his hair, and he can't help wondering if it's there to help with the unusual scars on his face. A disease, perhaps?
As cherry on top of all this information, every single one of them is really handsome. How is that even fair.
It's Lambert being a passive aggressive ass that snaps Jaskier out of his thoughts. He doesn't even turn around to look at him when he replies to whatever Eskel's jab had been.
"You're becoming soft, brother. Soon you'll be singing and bringing books to a sword fight."
"It wouldn't be fair for Eskel to fight you with words." Jaskier quickly replies, making everyone turn to finally look at him and acknowledge his presence. Ah, sweet attention, his ego has missed you. "Even in a battle of wits, there's no honor in attacking someone who's totally unarmed."
Eskel loses it then, his laughter reward enough for Jaskier, but there's also the amazing frustrated expression on Lambert's face. Coën raises his eyebrows in surprise, obviously not having heard enough stories about Jaskier to have at least an idea of what's coming - his nose twitches, obviously discovering there's no smell of fear. Good. Let them smell how pleased the bard is with himself at the moment.
"Bold little shit, aren't you, bard?" Lambert finally replies as he comes closer, trying to look intimidating - and he'd succeed with any other person that hadn't spent two decades travelling with Mr Brooding. "I know words that would make your delicate ears bleed."
Oh, he makes it so easy for Jaskier to come up with comebacks, gods. "If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I'd fart."
This time, Coën joins the laughter, although his is more of a discrete chuckle, nothing like Eskel's unrestrained laughter. Lambert has more to say, but Vesemir chooses that moment to jump in.
"Enough!" Eskel and Lambert don't need any more words - just one from his mentor is enough for them to return to their sparring while looking like scolded children. Vesemir turns to Jaskier then. "You, bard - unless you're interested in learning to pick up a sword, then take your books back inside."
"Your books now." Jaskier says after taking a deep breath. Unlike Lambert, Vesemir does manage to intimate him at least a bit, and he knows all of them must be hearing how fast his heart has suddenly started to beat. Bollocks. Usually he would be against the bad treatment of books, but he knows he's already pushing many limits here, coming closer isn't an option - so instead, he picks the top book of his pile (the one about the human reproductive system) and throws it to Vesemir's feet. "There's a woman in the keep now, and she needs you to learn as much as she learns from you. Enhanced senses you may have, yet somehow the fact women bleed once a month has completely gone over all of your witchering heads."
There's a moment of silence as Vesemir picks up the book, surprising everyone in the yard. So maybe he did notice something after all... Melitele bless this humble bard, please, there may be some hope for these disasters after all.
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At some point during the night, he rolls, shifting the both of them onto their sides and trapping the bard in the cage of his arms. Had Geralt not spent the past god knows how long staying awake, he would have risen long before Jaskier, would have already been dressed and gone down to train with his brothers by the time the bard had stirred from slumber. But he was making up for an impressive sleep deficiency today, and when Jaskier wakes, he is oblivious to it. Even when the bard tries to wriggle out from underneath his arm, all Geralt does is tighten his grip in his sleep.
Eskel comes to his rescue by bringing up their bags, and thus discovers the poor bard's plight. He laughs about it at first, of course, before he makes any movement to help. In the end, he has to smack Geralt's shoulder a few times and tell him to 'Roll your heavy fucking ass over, Geralt,' before the witcher would budge an inch. He makes some vague, sleepy sounds of protest before releasing his vice grip on the bard and rolling onto his back.
Geralt doesn't wake again until much later; the spot next to him is cold, Jaskier long since gone. He drags himself out of bed and, since their things are there, changes into fresh clothes. Eskel must have been in a good mood that morning; he doubted that Jaskier would want to go down to the stables and haul everything up himself.
By the time Geralt makes it down to the common areas, it's past noon and the morning training is already complete. Eskel and Lambert are seated at a table, their empty lunch plates pushed to the sides, reading from the same book like a pair of schoolboys. He had planned to head for the kitchens and get himself something to eat, but now this is happening and he can't help but investigate. Geralt approaches and looks over Eskel's shoulder to read what's on the page, and sees... something about menstrual cycles, and stops reading.
Lambert looks back at him, his head propped up on his fist. "Did you know that your bard's got balls, Geralt?"
"I had assumed as much," Geralt replies.
"Yeah, no shit, but he had the stones to toss this book at Vesemir and tell us we all need to study up. Where the fuck did you find him again?"
"Posada," he says. "I got the same lecture." Geralt shrugs, then starts walking towards the kitchen; he hasn't been awake long enough to deal with this. "Just read the damn book."
Geralt makes his way into the kitchen; there's leftover kasha from breakfast, and though it's not as good when it's cold, it'll do for a late lunch. He just finished eating it with a little honey when Vesemir emerges from the larder, probably taking stock of their supplies. The fact that the old witcher is here precisely when Geralt is and no one else is not coincidence. He knows this, and waits.
"We need to talk about your bard."
Geralt nods. What Vesemir means, more likely, is that he needs to talk and he wants Geralt to listen. This is not a dialogue, it's an... admonition.
"I will not lecture you on why this bard should not know the secrets that he does," Vesemir says. "What's done is done. We shall see how that trust is repaid, in time."
"Jaskier would not--"
"You brought a bard to our keep. Will you be responsible for every word that comes from his mouth once he's left it?"
Geralt frowns, his forehead furrowing. Jaskier is not always... discreet, and he makes no secret of wanting to know everything he can about Geralt, about witchers, to write it into his songs. And, of course, the purpose of his songs are to be sung throughout the whole damn Continent, that's why he's in such trouble to begin with.
"I am reminding you of this lesson as a kindness to the both of you. Remember what you are, Geralt, because he certainly won't forget. You've been his meal ticket for twenty years, his protection. You do not need him, but he has a great need of you. Do not confuse need, or even want, with something more."
No one wants witchers, so don't think that someone is going to love you. It's an old lesson, from back when he was one of many boys and was still stupid enough to look at Vesemir's scars with admiration. Seems the lesson didn't stick, because here he is, soft on a bard before he'd even gotten the chance to tumble him. And not just any bard-- Jaskier, who has a reputation for falling in and out of love faster than the wind changes, the man who so many have had but no one can keep.
What makes Geralt think that he's somehow any different? If countesses and lords and countless beauties couldn't keep the bard's interest, why the hell would a scarred monster hunter? What does Geralt have to offer him but an early death?
"I don't care what you do with him behind closed doors. Melitele knows you could use an outlet so that I'm not cleaning Lambert's blood off of the floor again this year." If Geralt could flush, he might have done so at that reminder of his poor temper the previous winter. "Just remember that there are some kinds of foolishness that have no place on the Path."
Geralt nods, just once. That's all that Vesemir needs from him; he turns, leaves Geralt sitting in the kitchen while he goes to do whatever else he had planned for that day besides bringing a witcher back to harsh reality.
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That's how Jaskier ends up having lunch with a griffin and a princess, who also should hear about these things since she's a witcher in training. It makes for a lovely meal - Coën isn't as chatty as Eskel, but he isn't as reserved as Geralt either. He's a happy middle, saying enough when answering Jaskier's questions (turns out his songs have made life easier for witchers of other schools as well) and even asking some in return (it's not every day a human stays for so long in the Path, after all).
Jaskier is on his way to the kitchen, carrying a tray with their empty lunch plates, when he hears the words that make him freeze.
We need to talk about your bard.
He can feel his heart jumping into his chest - he should've seen this coming, Vesemir is going to scold the hell out of Geralt, repeat all the bullshit his boyfriend has been repeating to him the last twenty years. Witchers travel the Path alone. Nothing prepares him, however, for what comes next.
It's like he's a child again.
Geralt tries to defend him and some people would think it's not much, but Jaskier understands. Little Julian would also freeze when his father would yell at him for wanting things that he shouldn't, for having dreams that would never come true. For assuming he knows better what his son wants than the son himself.
And gods, Vesemir sure is doing a great job right now at sounding exactly like Vincent Horatio Pankratz.
He should run. He shouldn't be listening to this... yet he can't bring himself to move. He can only stay there, his whole body trembling, his scent filling with hurt, anxiety, anger. Everything he's achieved for Geralt's acceptance of happiness in the last twenty decades is being destroyed in a few minutes. He's being accused of revealing secrets, of only wanting a meal and protection, of not actually loving the best thing that's ever happened to him.
He wants to scream.
What happens instead is him dropping the tray to the floor when Vesemir comes out, startling him out of his current emotional hurricane. If Jaskier had been any other man, he would punch the witcher in front of him. But Jaskier is Jaskier, so he does what he does best: he uses words.
"Who the FUCK do you think you are! Speaking as if you knew my wants and needs better than the man that's been traveling with me for two bloody decades!"
As his whole body is still shaking, the hands aren't as dramatic as usual, just enough gesturing to go with his unleashed anger. His voice, hoever, is high and furious, and he doesn't need to be a witcher to know there are steps coming to see what's going on.
Good. Let them hear. He's still not afraid of them.
"Do you even TRUST your students at all? Do you actually think I spent twenty years next to a witcher without touching silver? Do you really believe Geralt is THAT dumb? Not to have noticed something himself, to trust me with his secrets if there was a chance I would give them away? Everything he's said and showed me, I EARNED it! I've held his GUTS in my hands, old man, while you've been here thinking him a fool!"
There are people watching behind him, he can tell, but he only has eyes for the asshole in front of him. Let him see the raw fury in his blue eyes, to smell up close how much he means every single one of his words.
"How dare you treat him like naive child, as if he hasn't been punishing himself with all this horseshit logic all this time! How dare you imply he doesn't need anything, when it's obvious they are all craving a friendly touch! How dare you to accuse me of only wanting coin and a bodyguard when I've turned down every offer to be a court bard!" A sob escapes him then, which probably ruins the whole thing - boldness and fearlessness a witcher may respect, but tears? He doubts it. "And how dare you question my loyalty after I stayed by his side after every insult, after he tossed me away, after Nilfgaard whipped my very skin because apparently a bunch of soldiers believe in my bond to him better than you can even start to understand!"
He hears a gasp then, and Jaskier doesn't have to turn around to know who it was - there's only one woman at the keep at the moment.
"...bollocks."
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Vesemir has not gone deaf in his old age. Why had he not--
He walks quickly down the short hall separating the kitchen from the common areas, able to clearly hear every word of Jaskier's tirade. And past him there is Eskel and Lambert, drawn to the sound of the commotion, and the small, quick heartbeat of his child surprise. He shouldn't be surprised at the bard rallying to his defense; there had been more than one evening where Geralt had had to pull Jaskier away before he started a bar fight over some stray comments from drunk townsfolk. He had been willing then to launch himself into an altercation over insults that Geralt had weathered for decades, and apparently he's just as willing to do so against an old witcher. Stubborn and headstrong to a fault, this bard.
He stinks of anger and indignation and... sadness? Geralt doesn't dwell on it-- emotions are high right now, and Jaskier's a bard. They feel so many things all the time and it's hard to keep up. Jaskier defends himself, his intentions towards his witcher companion, because of course Vesemir doesn't know all of the ways that Jaskier has helped him on the Path-- Geralt is, as always, stingy with the details. And even if he does, even knowing that Jaskier has held in his guts and sewn up his wounds and brought him potions when he was too weak to get them himself, he may still not look favorably on it. He may only see the weakness of this lack of self-sufficiency. A witcher, after all, is to be independent, needing nothing and no one but themselves and the skills they have learned. The Path is traveled alone.
(This does not account for that fact that, even if witchers were not meant to be solitary, Geralt would not have deserved Jaskier's devotion. Still does not deserve it and probably never will.)
The mention of Jaskier's imprisonment makes Geralt's guts clench, then go cold at Ciri's sharp gasp. This isn't how he would have had her find out about this, and she is too intelligent by half to not know why Nilfgaard would want a humble bard-- she doesn't need the burden of guilt along with everything else.
"Eskel," Vesemir's voice is even and measured, calm as though he hadn't just been on the receiving end of Jaskier's yelling.
Geralt hears Eskel say softly, "Hey, Ciri, let's go check on the horses, okay? Come on,", and the sound of a pair of footsteps retreating. He counts it a blessing that he can't smell the bitter-sour scent of her guilt from here.
"I don't doubt that you are as loyal as any man can be, bard." Vesemir speaks again once Ciri is gone and out of earshot. "But it means little in a torture cell. If Geralt had not rescued you, Nilfgaard would have used a mage to pull the knowledge out of your skull, loyalty be damned. You know more about witchers than anyone who is not among our number, and it is to your detriment. Now the burden of protecting you--" Vesemir turns his head, looking into the corridor where Geralt stands. Geralt reads the message between the lines, that this is the result of his indiscretion, "--falls to all of us."
It isn't just Geralt and Ciri who would be jeopardized if Jaskier's knowledge got into Nilfgaard's hands. So would every other witcher, in particular the wolves, and there are so few of them left. Their home is already in ruins, deteriorating further year by year.
"Geralt, do something with your bard," Vesemir says, then turns and continues his path across the room, leaving. As he nears Lambert, his tone turns sharper, the voice of someone issuing commands. "If you have time to stand there, Lambert, you have time to start repairs on the western wall. Take Coën with you. Geralt will join you later."
Lambert curses under his breath once the old wolf is gone, but still goes to obey him. Geralt emerges from the corridor, stoops to pick up the tray that Jaskier had dropped and the scattered cutlery and crockery. He brings them back to the kitchen to be cleaned, then returns to, as Vesemir had said, do something with his bard-- he just doesn't know quite what to do with him yet.
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Especially when Vesemir ignores most of his arguments to jump on the one most convenient to him, the bastard. It only makes Jaskier seethe more.
"Yes you do, you doubt everything about me! My loyalty, my usefulness, my feelings! My lov-"
But the old man doesn't care for what he has to say, he moves on with his life while taking the last word with him, as if there wasn't any doubt that he's in the right here. Jaskier is reminded of his childhood again, of being powerless in front of his dad, who barked orders before disappearing to fuck his mistress.
How a noble heart like Geralt and a sweet heart like Eskel came out of this place, Jaskier doesn't know. The same way he came out of Lettenhove, he supposes.
"Do something?! I'm not a dog!" This is his voice as his most indignant, and for the first time, he wishes he had something heavier than a pillow to throw at Vesemir. It speaks loudly of how furious he is, because physical pain isn't Jaskier's usual first reaction to things. His hands go around his mouth instead, to help with his yelling - it's not like he needs it, the witcher isn't far away yet so he'll be able to hear him. But a bard can never let go of his dramatics. "For a man that insists so much on following the witcher way, you're doing a great job at sounding like a self-important lord!"
His arms drop to his sides and Jaskier is left there for a moment, breathing heavily and with too many emotions to handle at the same time. Is this how his winter will go? Having to destroy all the walls made of witcher logic after he spent so many years destroying them? Then it's a good thing he came. He can't even start to imagine what would've been like to send Geralt here after the chat they had while he healed. Whatever you want would've possibly become a forgotten dream, buried under the snow.
He finally turns around when he hears Geralt's steps behind him, blue eyes full of worry observing carefully, waiting for a reaction. Usually he would just run to him, be all over his personal space and remind him things are fine. Has Vesemir punched his self-esteem though? He can't help thinking of Geralt not as wolf but a deer, able to be startled away any second now.
"Geralt?" He asks softly, although his heart doesn't match, still furious in his beating. Jaskier comes closer very slowly, giving his boyfriend time to react if he wishes, and finally picks a witcher hand between his own. "Please tell me you don't believe what he said. About me wanting you only for coin and safety, about foolishness not being allowed in the Path. We've been together for so long, why should it change now? I loved you as a friend, now I love you as my significant other. No feeling should be more foolish than the other."
A pause, fighting the urge to touch more, to kiss him, to hold him close.
"You do believe me when I say I love you, right?"
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His voice is oddly gentle when he turns to Geralt again. His heart tells a different story, betrays that his emotions are still running high, but his tone, the way he walks towards Geralt like he might be startled away if he doesn't-- it's an unusual gentleness. He's a witcher and a grown man, he's not going to be scared off by an argument like a sensitive child. Hell, that wasn't even Vesemir being frightening-- get the old man to raise his voice, that's something that Geralt doesn't want to have to stare down. He'd rather fight griffins than an angry Vesemir.
Jaskier takes his hand and Geralt allows it.
"Hm."
It's a noncommittal way to respond, and he's not entirely unaware of that. But Vesemir's warning-- remember what you are. How could he forget? He's not a mortal man, who can have love and happiness like mortal men do. It would be easier if Vesemir was entirely right, and Jaskier is only at his side for coin and fame and maybe some sex on the side. That would be simple, easy to navigate. Worse, maybe Jaskier does love him, but in that fleeting way that he loved all of his other loves, and he'll have had his fill in a few months and move on to the next.
Worst of all-- he does love him, real and true, and just doesn't realize that he's handing his heart to a creature that has none. Unaware of the fact that Geralt cannot return his love in any way that matters, like how empty things give back only echoes.
"Let me take you to the library."
Then Jaskier would be able to enjoy himself, do something productive, while Geralt joins his brothers at the western wall for repairs.
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In the case of Geralt, he's capable to kill the hurricane of emotions in Jaskier's chest with just a grunt.
It's like a bucket of freezing water had been dropped on his head. His heart goes from furiously beating to almost stopping, and for a moment there, he can't even breathe. It's nothing like what happened at the mountain yet at the same time it feels a hundred times worse - Geralt says less, but this time, he's also holding more of his heart.
All of it, in fact.
'You smell of heartbreak', he told Geralt once. The one smelling purely of that at the moment, however, is Jaskier himself.
So tell me, love, tell me, love, how is that just?
He wants to yell. To cry. To throw something at that stubborn head. But he feels... cold. Empty. Defeated. So much talking about what they wanted, so much yelling and promising and making sure there won't be any more assumptions or other guests in their beds-- all for fucking nothing. When will he ever stop being such a fool? When will he ever learn to stop handing his heart so easily, how many times must he take it back in pieces?
Jaskier's hands shake as crazy as they move to his chest, unpin the wolf brooch and put it on Geralt's fingers before stomping his way out of here. He doesn't know where he's going, but he knows he can't look at Geralt right now.
Garroter, jury, and judge.
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The wolf head brooch is still warm from the heart of Jaskier’s body when he pushes it into Geralt’s hand. Returning his claim to him, an unwanted thing. It feels heavier than it should in his palm.
Then the bard retreats, stomping off and taking his scent of hurt and anger with him. Geralt stands for some long moments in the empty room, his fingers clenched tightly around the brooch until the edges bite into his palm.
Jaskier had stormed off... in the direction of the outer walls, which are in such a state of disrepair that they can’t be fixed by only a handful of witchers. Geralt know this. He knows this, so why does being around Jaskier always turn him into such a fucking idiot?
“Fuck.”
Geralt goes after him, and he’s easy to track because of the scent that he trails behind him. He catches up quickly, reaches out to grab him by the elbow before he gets around the corner.
“Wait,” he says, ignoring the way that touching him makes his skin tingle, even with a barrier between their skin. “It’s not safe any further than this.”
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"Point at the right way and then kindly fuck off."
The fact he even has to say that aloud hurts like hell.
Thankfully Geralt doesn't follow him this time, and so Jaskier wanders. Not because he's lost (well, there's a bit of that too) but because he doesn't know what to do with himself. Usually company and a distraction is what he'd go for, but he's not in the mood to be stared at by golden eyes, even if they aren't the ones that hurt him. And his mood is not something the princess should deal with, especially after what she heard him confess earlier.
Has it been a mistake to have come here after all? Or had it been wrong of him to confess, to ask for this? Should've they stayed friends and do winter on their own like they used to?
Or had the true mistake been to forgive Geralt in the first place? Maybe it's just a giant chain of mistakes.
He eventually makes it to the library, somehow, and Jaskier decides to stay there, in the company of books. Most of them are monster or potion manuals, not his kind of reading, although he's fascinated by their apparent age. Tucked in corner, though, he finds some elven history books, and those capture his attention immediately. Time to brush off that Elder of his. Dinner time comes and goes, and Jaskier decides not to show up for it - not only because he doesn't want to see a single witcher face, but also because his stomach has barely been able to pass the two or three grapes he stole from the bowl Ciri left there earlier, he doubts he'll be able to eat anything else.
With Elder speech on his eyelids, Jaskier falls asleep in the reading chair, dreaming about a twenty year old adventure with the elves at the edge of the world.
It's Cirilla that finds him there late in the morning, when she comes by to do her daily monster reading. She's clearly worried about him, asking him why he didn't show up for dinner and if he is okay. Jaskier doesn't know what bullshit excuse Geralt may've made up last night when his boyfriend wasn't there with him (let's be fair, the coward probably just grunted) but even if he knew, he wonders if he could even say it when the princess looks at him like that, fierce lion eyes demanding him to share and not be treated as a child.
Calanthe would be proud.
The bard's silver tongue manages to dodge the subject and get her to talk about what she heard the day before. Jaskier doesn't want her to feel guilty for what happened to him - it's not your fault, he repeats over and over, I want to protect you as well, if it pleases you. She's not convinced at first, with him being just a bard and all, but he gets her to reluctantly change her mind when he points out hey now, would you like me to tell you you can't protect me because you're just a girl?. It gets him a nudge in return, but she's smiling. Precious girl, she'll be a magnificent woman one day.
"You should talk to Geralt."
Scratch that, she's a little shit too smart for her own good.
With the excuse of her needing to concentrate on her studies, Jaskier leaves the library, wondering once again what to do with himself. He could put all his feelings into poetry like he's done in the past, he supposes, but what he truly needs is a distraction - he doesn't want to be with his alone with his own thoughts right now. Neither Geralt or Vesemir are options, Cirilla would only try to make him talk to her dad again, and-
Ah. Jaskier stops right in front of a window to make sure he's seeing correctly - yep, that's Eskel on stable duty again. That's kinda perfect actually, his company is nice and tending the horses is actually something Jaskier can help with. It takes him a couple of wrong turns to get there, but thankfully he makes it before the chores are over. Eskel nods at him from behind a horse Jaskier doesn't recognize.
"There you are, we've been wondering--" Golden eyes fall on Jaskier's chest - on the lack of brooch. "Fuck. What the hell happened?"
Jaskier shrugs, trying to come off as feeling better than he actually does. Which is stupid, because Eskel can smell his heartbreak. "Your brother is an arsehole."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"How about thank you?"
That catches Eskel off guard, so Jaskier takes the chance to babble away without mentioning or even referencing Geralt even once. Eskel notices he knows what he's doing with the horses and so they fall into an easy, comfortable rhythm of working and chatting. Jaskier apologizes and thanks Eskel for taking care of Cirilla yesterday, and for having been a sweetheart in general, which of course the witcher doesn't know how to take (Jaskier gets a little bit angrier at Vesemir). He promises him his first song whenever inspiration comes (translation: when he's feeling better) and that he'll include that mention of his handsome face - he hasn't forgotten the comment back in the hunting cabin.
"Not because you asked me for it, but because it's the truth."
And just like it happened with the l-word back in the cabin, Eskel doesn't know how to react, so Jaskier once again decides not to let the chance go to waste and hugs the witcher around his waist.
"Everything I said yesterday to Vesemir - it applies to you too." Not only Geralt is implied there. "You deserve kindness. I hope I can call you a friend."
Bad idea? Should he be doing this after the disaster that had been befriending Geralt? Jaskier can't help it, this little afternoon of chatting and sharing stories have reminded him why he enjoys witcher company in the first place. Luckily Eskel doesn't disappoint: he laughs and awkwardly pats him on the back. "I think I can handle that."
It's Eskel's turn to prepare dinner that evening, so after finishing with the horses (which eventually took them to do some cleaning in the stables and surrounding areas) he drags the bard with him to the kitchen under the excuse of having more chores for him but with a plan to feed him before he misses dinner again (because while other, lighter smells peeked into his scent during the day, heartbreak is still the one on top).
They chop vegetables while drinking ale and munching on bread, cheese and ogórki kiszone, sitting side by side on the table while Eskel tells him about his hunt of a cursed pack of wargs. Muscles tired after a day of working and having spend last night on a fucking chair, plus alcohol going quicker to his head because of his emotional state, Jaskier ends up falling asleep on the witcher's shoulder.
Not surprisingly, Eskel is a walking furnace as well.
He doesn't register being picked up or taken somewhere else until a door is slammed near him. Jaskier sits up with an eep, discovering he's on a bed-- and not just any bed, but Geralt's bed in Geralt's room. Fuck. Not only that, Geralt himself is being pushed inside the room by a very serious looking Eskel.
"I don't want to see either of you again until you work things out."
Bollocks.
The door is slammed again before Jaskier can tell him anything, so he's left staring at Geralt instead who-- fuck, is that a bruise? He's two seconds away from picking up their medical kit to take care of it, but the memories of the day before slowly coming through his sleepy mind and he decides to stay where he is.
"Did Eskel punch you?" He asks with a raised eyebrow. "I owe him another one."
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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?”
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And what is with the question anyway? A pissy Geralt would usually just grunt or tell him to shut up. Why the sudden interest? In another context, Jaskier would've been happy about Geralt wanting to know about his bard and his brother getting along. Right now, however, there's something behind that question that he can't explain yet still bothers the hell out of Jaskier. Which isn't a good thing when he's feeling petty as fuck.
"If I didn't know better, I would say you were jealous." He replies without thinking, the tone of his voice implying how ridiculous is the mere idea of it would be. Seeing as he won't be able to sleep any time soon, he leaves the bed and picks up his lute, taking it with him to the window. "I owe him for being there."
Simply put, yet carrying a lot of feeling - Eskel has been a blessing in the middle of this mess, a touch of spring in a winter storm. Jaskier hopes he can get on writing soon, his new friend deserves that song. Speaking of music, he sits on the windowsill when he reaches it - since searching for comfort in a warm body isn't an option tonight, he'll find it in his other love: music.
There's no singing, at least. But the notes being played by skillful fingers are, without a doubt, Her sweet kiss.
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Jealous. That's ridiculous, isn't it? He just hates that Jaskier smells like his brother, because the mix of Eskel with Jaskier's own scent is jarring and wrong when he's used to it being a mix of his and Jaskier's. It's like someone touching Roach, or his swords, or his potion bag. And, sure, he would let Eskel touch any of those if he needed to, because Eskel is a witcher and knows how to not kill himself with alchemical ingredients or get kicked by Roach. But Jaskier is--
Different.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he's standing near the doorway, glowering at the bard. He just also can't stop. He grunts in response to the accusations of jealousy, because that's the only response something so stupid merits.
"I'm sure he's very good at being there," he says, and the notes of Her sweet kiss feel like-- mockery. I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. Well, that wanting passed quick, didn't it? Moving on to another witcher. Eskel is a better match for him anyway, though, and what fucking right does Geralt have to dictate where he puts his affections? What right does he have to clutch at him? You have always given me freedom, Jaskier had said once. Having that freedom means that he also has the freedom to choose to discard one thing in favor of something better. Geralt for Eskel. It would be a trade-up-- Eskel would be far better equipped to protect both Jaskier's body and heart, because Geralt can't seem to stop breaking the fucking thing.
"I'm sure he'll provide you with plenty of fodder for your songs," Geralt says, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier at last. He moves to the worktable, putting his hands on its surface as though he might have something that he planned to do there. He doesn't-- he just needed to not look at Jaskier. "Come the spring."
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They're truths, but also petty thoughts, things he wants to say just to hurt his heart's garroter the same way he hurt him first. But then Geralt adds the bit about spring, and Jaskier's brain finally catches on.
"...bloody hell. You are jealous."
The music comes to a full stop then. Jaskier wants to be offended at the mere thought of what Geralt is implying, but deep inside, he knows he would've done something very stupid if they had been in a town. Husbands and wives he may've bedded, yet he's never cheated himself - would've it counted as cheating this time, after he handed the brooch back? What are they even anymore? If they're something at all.
So no, he can't indignantly yell how dare you, I'm not a slut, because he knows what path that would take them through, and he isn't in a mood to defend his sex life. He's never made excuses for it since he left Lettenhove, and he isn't going to start now. So his anger attaches to be next best thing to be indignant about instead.
"Unbelievable! For you not to trust my word-- I was a fool, I admit, I should've expected that. But Eskel? Your own brother? You truly believe he would do that to you?"
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"He has done nothing but be a better man. You're not a thing for him to steal from me."
Maybe Geralt is the better witcher of the two of them, better at killing griffons or kikimores or whatever other ugly thing came his way. But that's all he seems to be good for-- swinging a sword and spilling blood and collecting his coin, just as they wanted him to be. Fucking lot of good that does him now, he can't kill this bullshit with a silver sword. He wishes that he could, he knows what to do with some big nasty thing that wants to kill him and a blade. This? This is an unfamiliar battlefield and he's ill-prepared.
Eskel, though, is a gentler, more talkative witcher. That's what Jaskier would want, isn't it? It's what he would've wanted Geralt to be, but he's too old to change his nature. He's not the noble white wolf that the bard sang about so often, once upon a time. If Jaskier had met Eskel those twenty years ago in Posada, he undoubtedly would've had a kinder two decades on the Path with a witcher who treated him as he deserved.
"What can I offer you that he cannot, and better?"
Geralt's nostrils flare, that particular look that these wolf witchers get when they're scenting the air. It's nearly involuntary, because he really doesn't want to have the scent of Eskel and Jaskier burned into his sinuses. He may have to avoid Kaer Morhen for every winter after this, just so that he doesn't have to suffer through four months of inescapable this. It may very well render him the first witcher driven mad by scent alone.
Low and soft and half to himself, he says, "Fuck."
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Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck.
There goes the asshole again, being poetic and respecting him his freedom, all while holding the symbol of their relationship in his hands (because of course the bastard didn't get rid of it, of course). And then he has the nerve to ask what he could even offer! How could Jaskier not love him? No, he isn't what his songs say - he's so much more.
Trying to play the lute again is impossible - his hands are shaking again, he tries two notes (terrible, just terrible) and that's enough to make him close his eyes and bump his head back against the stone of the windowsill. He's emotional, and restless, and he needs to do something to distract himself, not to give in, not to run to Geralt like he so badly wants to do right now to take care of that witcher logic bullshit.
And by the gods, Jaskier hates witcher logic bullshit so fucking much.
Right after his rescue, he told he wanted to forgive Geralt, but there's only so much he could take. How could he know the mountain fiasco wouldn't happen again? Ominous words, he realizes now. He gave in back then, and this is where it's brought him: with the pieces of his heart stuck in his throat. Geralt had promised, had given him his word, and what would happen if he does the same this time? What would make it any different?
Jaskier doesn't know what to do. He wants to fix things, he truly does. But like Geralt himself had said in Oxenfurt: I'm tired of always being in fucking pieces.
One blue eye opens when he hears the cursing and-- nostrils flaring. Ah, right. That's what's bothering him. Jaskier is used to being a touchy person, he hasn't even thought about how that would influence his scent. Because of Nilfgaard, they haven't exactly been out and about being social since they got together.
"I hugged him. We spent the day doing chores together, and I hugged him, and asked him to be my friend. He accepted." A pause as he considers how to word things next - he isn't saying this to placate Geralt's stupid jealousy (although it wouldn't be a bad idea, if they're going to have this talk, they need it free of any stupid assumptions). He's saying it for the sake of his own boundaries. "I woke up here, so I can only assume he was the one to bring me when I fell asleep - because that's what friends do. I have many a friend, Geralt. And I like hugging them. I also like going to taverns or feasts and dance with strangers, enjoy guiding the delicate feet of sweet maidens through the rhythm of a waltz. Human contact is part of my life, Geralt, one that isn't up for negotiation."
A sigh. Hopefully that's clear enough. He shouldn't need to clarify that said human contact is completely platonic - if he should, well. Things may be worse than he thought. Then again, isn't that what has brought them in this situation in the first place? Geralt not trusting his word. That's the topic Jaskier needs to jump on, but he knows Geralt, understands how his mind works. He isn't in the mood to go through the old same reassurances of you aren't the monster they say you are, you deserve kindness when he is feeling like the witcher had been behaving like shit, but if he doesn't take care of this first, they'll never be able to advance the conversation.
"Nobody chooses who they fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants." He explains as restless fingers are tapped on the wood of the lute, a leg getting shaky as well. "What exactly have I asked of you that you think you cannot give me?"
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And he didn't always smell like Eskel after giving back his claim and avoiding him. Not even coming to dinner. Ciri had told him that the bard had been in the library and likely was there all night, based on how he had been slumped over his books. There were plenty of other bedrooms, the bard could have found one that wasn't even anywhere near Geralt, if he had wanted to avoid him so badly.
No one chooses who they love, Jaskier says, as though a heart is a thing that can make decisions on its own, without any input from his head. Not that Geralt would know, all he has for reference are the false feelings planted in himself and Yennefer both by a poorly-conceived djinn wish. It was a choice, even if it wasn't, perhaps, the best one he'd ever made. But it must chafe at Jaskier, a man who loves his freedom and his choices, to not be able to choose who is the object of his love, or to rescind it by his own will when he so desires.
"Then I am sorry," he says, "that I've given you a burden that isn't of your own choosing." Loving a witcher can be nothing else but a burden, and loving Geralt of all witchers, doubly so.
"And that I cannot ease it with reciprocation."
It's a cruel sort of irony that Jaskier, a man who feels love so deeply and truly, would fall in love with a witcher who has had all such emotions stripped from him.
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It's a miracle that he manages to put his lute down against the wall gently when the fury returns, an angry and hurt ball of fire that lights up the entire bedroom when he jumps off the windowsill to pace the room with open arms, calling attention to its heat, its colors, its passion.
(His grandmother called him my buttercup because of his sunny personality - and like the sun, he burns bright and hot, trying to melt every frozen heart around him.)
Geralt's doing it again - doubting his own emotions, Jaskier can understand. Geralt's training pushes him to ignore those, to pretend they don't exist. It's not ideal, and it can get irritating, but he understands. He could be patient to work through them with time. But doubting Jaskier's word? His feelings on the matter? After twenty years of care and songs and friendship? It's like Geralt is spiting on his very face.
"Why would I follow a burden around the Continent for two decades, you cockeyed imbecile? It's as if you didn't know me at all! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, yet no matter how many times I say it, you keep dismissing my feelings! I CHOSE to stay by your side, I CHOSE to befriend you, I CHOSE to give you my youth, and I CHOSE to embrace these feelings instead of trying to-- LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!"
Coming closer is torture, he can feel Geralt's natural warmth coming off him in waves, even in winter. Touching his face is even worse, fingers burning on every inch of skin that makes contact when he grabs the witcher's chin to make him look at him. Blue eyes look up, fearless as always, carrying the same fire that is keeping his heart beating faster than a shot arrow.
"No, I haven't fucked your brother." He almost spits the word, but it feels good to bring it out of the shadows, to stop dancing around it. "And I'll never fuck any witcher, because every time I see golden eyes, I think of YOU. How could you possibly doubt my love after everything we've been through? I don't ask for much, Geralt. I want your trust, which I thought I had, and I cannot believe I had to ask for it again! Is one word from Vesemir truly enough to overthrow what we have? Does it mean that little to you?" The need to emote and flap his hands around is a good one, that way he can let go of Geralt's face before the touch destroys him. "I thought I had been clear back in Oxenfurt - I don't need poetry from you, or an epic confession. I only need your honesty. I only need you to want this because that's what I mean to you. And you SWORE on the trials that made you! Were you lying to me to shut me up?"
He steps back, opening his arms, his voice gaining a mocking tone.
"But you still want to do this? Fine! Let's do this! If you cannot reciprocate, if you cannot feel, then what were you running away from that day in Vizima after the sight-reading contest?"
Stomping and with tears finally appearing his eyes, Jaskier reaches the shelf and grabs the book with the ribbon inside, which he drops on the desk with a blomp.
"THIS isn't lust, Geralt!" He grabs the gwent deck next, same treatment. "THIS isn't lust either! And neither is this!" The wood carving on Roach isn't dropped, but it's put down rather strongly too, noisy all the same, because everything must be dramatic with this bard. "Sir Practicality kept all these, not your cock! My best friend in the whole world went fishing before sunrise so I could have seafood stew, not the monster hunter!"
A pause to breathe, because all the yelling has left him panting. Usually he's excellent at controlling his breathing, thanks to being a performer, but he isn't exactly in control at the moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, letting sadness take over instead of anger to match the words he chooses next.
"It was a brother that lamented the loss of another one of your kind back in the hunting cabin. Because there are many kinds of love and care, and grief is a manifestation of them." He sighs. "So I ask you again, Geralt. What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?"
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Those fingers leave his face sooner rather than later, though, and he feels where they had been even after they're gone, like he had left marks. Geralt wants those hands back on him, even if it's just to pull him. He would want it even if it's just to strike him.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels forward and his voice dies in his throat. He had fled Vizima because he had felt that terrible want all the way to his bones, but wanting isn't love, is it? He has little time to contemplate it before Jaskier turns, stomps off to the bookshelf and retrieves the potion book, the one with the silk ribbon in it. He slams it down onto the desk; then the gwent desk, the horse carving. The little gifts that he'd given Geralt over the years that had made their way to Kaer Morhen, because-- because they were things that Jaskier had given him, and he had wanted them to survive. Was that borne out of lust? Probably not, because the bard had given him that ribbon before he had ever started to notice long legs and blue eyes. It had been blue once, blue like Jaskier's eyes, but sunlight and time had dulled it to a steely gray.
Bringing up the death of Clovis is a low blow, though, and one that Geralt feels acutely-- Clovis had been in his cohort, and, aside from Eskel, the only other one that had been left alive.
What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?
"Love," he replies, and his voice comes out hoarse, throaty in a way that doesn't make Jaskier weak at the knees. "I can't love you, not in the way that you love me. Whatever capacity I had for it was burned out of me in the Trials. Even if I said the words to you, they would be nothing but words."
The word without the sentiment behind it is worse than a lie.
"And what is left over-- they botched me, Jaskier, when they made me."
It's the only reasonable conclusion that he can come to; they made him wrong, when they gave him the extra mutagens. Something went wrong, left him with scraps of emotions instead of scouring him clean. Flaws on the inside instead of the outside, that couldn't be seen so easily. Had the mages known at the time...
"They left me with echoes of what any other man would feel, but nothing more than that. I won't deceive you into thinking that there's something more in me when what I have is too paltry to be worth anything to you."
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And so he finally does.
He throws his head back and just screams, probably making his old singing coaches cringe over at Oxenfurt for what he's doing to his throat, but Cirilla may appreciate it. It's a powerful sound by a powerful voice, no words needed to understand the frustration that fuels it. There's only so much he can take, not even a romantic like him (who sings about love conquering it all) can withstand so much bullshit thrown at him without taking a hit or two. Or three, or a hundred. He's only human after all.
"You're bloody impossible! You aren't hearing a word I'm saying! You don't trust me!"
Reaching the door is easy, opening it is not. His hand freezes on the knob, and Jaskier rests his forehead against the wood as he sighs. He said he owes Eskel one, and he meant it. Leaving right now would equal burdening him with this shit the whole season - Cirilla, too. They deserve better than that.
Fuck his fondness for witchers.
Jaskier drags his feet back to the desk and decides to sit on it, legs crossed and hands going to his hips in his usual scolding housewife position. Even if they don't end up together after this conversation, he decides, they should at least reach some peaceful agreement not to make life hell for the rest of the keep and themselves.
"One!" He suddenly exclaims very seriously. "Stop assuming how I feel about things. If something it's worth keeping or not, that's MY choice to make. You KNOW that, you KNOW how much I hate people deciding my feelings for me. And if something makes me happy, so happy that I can feel my heart bursting, then I'd say that's worth the world. Two!" A hand frees his hip to start counting with his fingers. "Either there's some conversation I must be missing here or you're high in potions, because I never asked for the word love - I never asked for any particular words from you. I asked you to swear that you wanted me to be with you as more than friends. I asked you to swear that's what I mean to you, and you did. On the Path. And it meant the world to me. Are you following me so far?"
He's trying not to speak in riddles, just like Geralt likes it, but it's hard not to when discussing feelings. They're an abstract concept, something that needs to be described by poetry because of their very nature. His points are clear, he wants to believe: if something shakes him to his core, then it's worth keeping. And Geralt has shaken him to his core. It's not hard to add two plus two.
"Three." Another finger raises, but this time his voice softens a little it. Almost-- ashamed? "Back when Vesemir was talking to you, I-- I froze. Right at the beginning. I wanted to jump in to defend you and I couldn't, because--" His hands fall to his lap, so do his eyes. "--the way he talked to you, it reminded me of my father. I'm not saying you and I are the same!" He hurries to clarify, that shame completely taking over. "What's happened to you is atrocious, and I'm just a spoiled brat. What I'm trying to say is-- I felt helpless. Because that's what that logic does to you, Geralt. 'You can't have something because of who you are' takes all power to make choices away from you - I imagine that's what the elder witchers were going for. Don't make choices of your own, just follow the Path."
His voice breaks when he says that last part. Fuck, sitting down like this and going through things methodically is helping him a lot to calm down and remember how fucked up things are for Geralt, to remember why he decided to be patient all the way back when he was eighteen and work on a friendship that felt one-sided for a long, long time.
He's broken, and you are the only one that can help him.
Overwhelmed by it all, Jaskier raises his hand again and this time he cups Geralt's cheek, blue eyes begging for gold to stay with him, to believe his words. He surprises himself by feeling relief over the touch being comforting instead of burning - hopefully that's how it feels for Geralt as well.
"Love... love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape, see, but can you define the shape of a pear? I know I can't, not even with all my poetry. I don't need you to understand it, Geralt, I don't need you to put a name on it. All I need is to know there's something here." His other hand moves to rest on Geralt's very slow heart. "Everything you just told me - you're repeating their teachings. You're repeating what humanity has taught you through stones and insults. But even if you were right, a leftover, botched echo is still a feeling."
A calloused thumb strokes Geralt's cheek and before Jaskier can curse his own heart for giving in again, he pulls to bring Geralt closer and make their foreheads touch. A deep breath - gods, how he's missed this.
"I don't want you to tell me you aren't capable of feeling things, because that's a big pile of horseshit if I've ever smelled one. All your problems were born from you caring too much. Forget about witcher logic and your teachings, forget about Vesemir, forget about the shape and size of love, forget about the Path and the trials and the differences between you and I - how would you feel if I said I'm not worthy of you because I'm not powerful and immortal?" His fingers grab Geralt's shirt, and something sad sneaks into his scent - those are doubts that haunt him all the time. "Forget all that. I'm going to ask again, and the only answer I want to hear has to come from your heart, mutated as it is, because I love it that way. Four."
Another deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"Why did you save a bloody ribbon when I have hundreds of those? Why did you wake up before sunrise to fish for me when we had free food in the kitchens? Why does it matter if I smell of Eskel? Why did you take a moment in the middle of the road, while we were in a hurry, to tell me you won't share me? Why did you run away in Vizima? If it's because of something warm in your chest, something you only feel for me... then that's all I need from you. Nothing else."
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He turns from the door without opening it, though, and sits on the desk. Geralt watches him like he's a kikimore or some other terribly dangerous thing, rather than a bard who probably couldn't do a thing against him. Jaskier starts ticking things off on his fingers, all the ways, apparently, that Geralt is wrong. The witcher thinks he keeps up with the bard's effusive monologue well enough: things that make him happy-- though Geralt's really not sure if he falls into that category at this point-- are worth keeping; he is not asking Geralt for more than he can give, or for words that he cannot say. Jaskier asks if he's following, and the witcher nods.
The bard's hand touches his cheek, and the texture of his skin is familiar-- smooth palm, calloused fingertips. Geralt tips his head into his palm, just a little, almost without thinking about it. No one touched him as kindly as Jaskier, not even Yen.
Love is pear-shaped, apparently, and that only makes sense to Geralt in the sense that their relationship in the past few days has also gone completely fucking pear-shaped. It's not even an emotion that Geralt's sure he can experience, but it sure has gone and made a fucking mess of things. All he knows is that over the past twenty years, Jaskier has inspired enough inexplicable emotion in him to make him certain that he's a botched witcher, that even mutagens and alchemy and everything else they did to him couldn't prepare him for one teenaged bard in Posada. Sure, some of those emotions that he'd felt over the years were new variations on frustration and deep aggravation, but still.
Their foreheads touch. Jaskier's thumb rasps across the day's worth of stubble on his cheek. If he could, Geralt would live in this moment; nevertheless, he'll remember, those times when the world is shit, that there was someone who would put their hands on him gently and kindly as though he was worth more than just his competency at monster-slaying.
The bard throws a lot of questions at him, all of which have slightly different answers, variations on a common theme-- the ribbon and the gwent deck and the horse figure only have value because they are things that Jaskier gave him. The hours digging for clams and fishing in the frigid waters of the Pontar were worth the trouble because Jaskier deserves to have the things he likes, and Geralt wants to provide them for him. Eskel's scent, because he doesn't want to lose this, his warm touches and fond regard and everything that comes with it. Vizima, because the depth of his wanting was a frightening thing.
Defining the shape of a pear.
"You make me feel things that I don't have names for." Maybe it's love. Maybe it's something else. It's only ever been for Jaskier. "Things that I have nothing to compare to."
He blindly gropes for Jaskier's other hand, then brings it up to his throat, to that soft spot under his jaw where his pulse is easily felt; pushes his fingers into it, to his heartbeat that's at twice what a witcher's should be, in the hope that his words and his racing heart will tell him everything that he wants to know.
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