We're not friends. How many times has he heard Geralt say that? Jaskier stops counting after a while.
He should've listened. But nooo, he gets cocky, lets the way Geralt allows him into his stories and his scars, shares his food and his rooms and protects him from angry husbands get to his head, feed his ego. Obviously Geralt cares about him, right? He's just an actions-rather-than-words kind of guy. Life has been rough for him, he doesn't know how to communicate. So many excuses has Jaskier made for Geralt's behavior through the years, thinking of himself to be so smart for figuring out what he calls Geralt-speech.
He should've listened.
If like could give me one blessing...
The words play on repeat in his head over and over as he makes his way down the mountain - tired, dirty, alone. Hurting. "See you around, Geralt" had been an answer spoken from shock, but with every step he takes with heavy feet, pain and anger build in his chest until they finally explode. Two decades, the best years of his short human life, his best songs... all wasted on this son of a bitch.
He really should've listened, he thinks again when he stops by a river to wash his face, not wanting to reach town with his eyes red from tears spilled over the biggest asshole in the world. He truly is a fool.
(He gets drunk that evening, and sings and dances for the local tavern until his feet and throat are sore. Drinking songs, naughty songs, adventure songs. But not a single song about the White Wolf.)
Oxenfurt seems to be the most logical step, so he stays there for a while, trying to put himself back together. He finishes "Her Sweet Kiss", adding to it a new bitter twist that didn't have before ("gorgeous garroter"? "lovely garroter"? how about neither). Half of the dinner hall cries when they hear him sing it for the first time. And it's the only song about Geralt he sings when he goes back to the road.
There's war coming, people need bards to help them forget. Oxenfurt may be home (in a way Lettenhove never was and never will) but Jaskier is still Jaskier, and he grows restless easily. He needs adventure, he needs his freedom. So back to the road he goes, jumping from inns to taverns, from courts banquets to weddings, singing for both pleasure and coin. People keep asking for the songs of the White Wolf, he deflects the best way he can - it's hard to escape his reputation.
The three soldiers that kidnap him from his room definitely don't let him forget.
They don't believe him when he says he doesn't have any idea about Geralt's whereabouts. They ask him about princess Cirilla as well, because they know he's played in court before. Bloody hell, if their information gathering is so good, how come they don't know Jaskier hasn't seen that asshole of a witcher in over a year? If they've been tracking him, surely they would've noticed the lack of very specific songs?
Jaskier tells them that after the first day. Obviously being afraid and obeying doesn't change anything, so if he's going to get hurt anyway, then at least he wants to use his tongue as it deserves. They think the whole separation deal is an act - Jaskier snorts.
If only.
They hit him and whip him, they keep him chained and only feed him some water and bread in the morning that he gets to throw up later when feet connect with his stomach. They don't ask about Geralt's location any longer, changing the tactic to wanting to know the witcher's secrets and weaknesses. Those Jaskier does know. He still doesn't tell. He tells himself it's because he doesn't want Nilfgaard to win.
The truth is, even now, he's still a loyal fool.
They leave guards outside. A waste of soldiers, because nobody is coming for him. Geralt isn't coming for him, but this part he keeps for himself - the guards possibly shitting themselves at the chance the White Wolf may come for them is the only little pleasure he can get from this situation.
It seems there's some commotion outside tonight, but he isn't paying attention. Jaskier stays in the corner of the cell, face and clothes covered in blood, pants reeking of piss, hugging his legs and waiting for sleep to come - if it comes at all. When the door opens, he whimpers in fear and tries to make himself smaller.
Jaskier has never been afraid of Geralt. For him, all the time. Of him? Never. Yet he reeks of it now. And when blue eyes finally look up and see who it is, they widen, filled with shock. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming.
"...Geralt?"
The voice is barely a murmur, sounding tired and broken... and the smell of fear starts disappearing, only leaving a faint touch under a racing hearbeat. Because he's still a loyal fool. Because even if he wants to throw something at the witcher's head and tell him to fuck off, he knows he's safe from Nilfgaard now.
Jaskier is a huddled figure in the corner of the room, dirty and injured and afraid. Another man might have barely been able to recognize him through the grime and bruises, the missing doublet, the tattered chemise stained with blood. He looks nothing like the vibrant thing that sang at banquets and public houses, all smiles and winks and merriment. Geralt stands in the doorway for several agonizing moments longer than he wants to, senses assaulted by the evidence of what was done in this small, cold room.
The smell of fear is inescapable, and it's far worse than the reek of piss, vomit, and blood that clings to the bard.
His name, spoken so soft and in a voice hoarse from screaming and dehydration, spurs Geralt into movement. He is across the room in two strides, kneeling before Jaskier to assess his wounds. His mind is clear, focused. Underneath that witcher-trained lucidity, Geralt wants to walk back out into that outpost, find every man who laid a hand on Jaskier and drag them back from the dead so that he can kill them all again, but more slowly. What he needs to do is make sure that the bard is well enough to move, and if he isn't, to tend to his wounds.
"I'm here."
His voice is low and gentle, the same tone that he uses to calm Roach when she spooks. He reaches out slowly to unlock the shackles from around his wrists; then hooks two fingers under his jaw, tilts his head a little to get a better look at the bruising to his face, to see if it's serious. Checks his eyes for a concussion. Moves on from there, to the major joints-- shoulders, knees, ankles. Dislocated shoulders wouldn't have been uncommon for this kind of treatment, and are easily, though not painlessly, fixed. Injuries to the knees or ankles would mean that Jaskier couldn't walk and would be harder to mend, would possibly require a healer or a mage. It's the long-term outcome that concerns him-- Geralt would carry him as far as necessary.
"We need to leave." He needs to take Jaskier somewhere safe, somewhere that he could get him cleaned up and bandaged, put him in a bed to rest. Get a few good meals into him. "Can you stand?"
For once in his life, Jaskier stays silent. And that speaks volumes of his current state of mind.
I'm here, the asshole says, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had just drank together some piss-tasting ale the night before. It's so much, too much to be exact, even for Jaskier, who usually isn't overwhelmed by emotions. He's used to feeling a lot, but not this, definitely not like this. Pain, fear, tiredness, thirst; his body and mind are already trying to navigate them all. He can't let his heart add all his anger at Geralt now.
He can't let it long for the gentleness on that voice that for once is showing care.
And now he's starting to feel dizzy.
A short sob escapes his lips, a mix of relief at being saved and his other emotions creating a hurricane in his chest, but he swallows the rest down when Geralt reaches out to touch him. Not right now, not like this. He can't help flinching, not because it's Geralt, but because his body still hasn't caught up with the fact he's free now, he's safe. These fingers aren't here to hurt him.
(This one does it with words.)
Jaskier lets him check anyway, because he isn't sure himself - his whole body is screaming in pain, he wouldn't be able to tell his injures apart even if he tried. Thankfully there is nothing broken - they're all bleeding cuts or purple bruises, and he does whimper when Geralt touches those, but at least his bones are fine. (They did threaten his tongue. Jaskier isn't sure he would've wanted to be saved if they had come through.)
Geralt's comment gets him a nod, then a shrug. Can he stand? He isn't sure, but he's going to try. Hands grab the wall and Jaskier raises slowly, the back of his legs showing more gashes from whipping there. The answer to the question? It's a no. His whole body starts shaking and with a painful fuck! he falls to his knees, fire burning through his veins, making it hard to breathe.
"Geralt..." Pride and anger forgotten for now, Jaskier begs in between pants for the only thing he desperately needs right now. "Please take me out of here."
Jaskier's attempt at standing fails; he's been too badly whipped for his legs to bear the weight of his own malnourished body. The bard trembles and falls with a short curse and Geralt reaches for him to try to slow his landing. Bruised knees are barely anything on top of all of the other injuries that he's got, but his-- the bard is already more bruise than not. His breaths are short and too quick, and Geralt worries that his ribs are cracked or broken. He presses his palms to each side of his ribcage, feeling for a telltale crunch or shift that shouldn't be there.
Taking Jaskier out of there is the least that Geralt can do for him. He intends to do more. This is his fault, both for the fact that Jaskier would never have been targeted if he hadn't sang Geralt's praises from one end of the Continent to the other, and because he would never have been taken if Geralt had been with him.
He should have been with him. It's a simple truth.
"I'll need to lift you."
This is all the warning that Jaskier gets before Geralt gets one arm under his legs and the other around his back and lifts, picking him up like he weighs no more than a child. Easily, even though they aren't far off in height, since Jaskier doesn't have anywhere near the same mass as a witcher and he's likely lost some while in captivity, besides.
He carries him out of the outpost, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers as he makes for the nearest exit. Once outside, he whistles for Roach and she comes readily at his call.
"You'll need to hang on," he says, hefting the bard into the saddle. Roach stands patiently, barely even shifts as Geralt deposits Jaskier onto her back. He directs Jaskier's hands into her mane, giving him something to grab on to and keep himself steady. "You won't hurt her."
Geralt digs briefly through the saddlebags until he finds his cloak, tossing it over Jaskier's shoulders and securing it at his throat; both to keep the bard warm on the ride as well as to conceal his injuries and tattered clothes. Walking into a city with a battered man would raise questions that Geralt doesn't have the time nor patience to answer. Then he swings into the saddle behind him, and when he grabs the reins, his arms are tucked securely up against Jaskier's sides. If Jaskier is to fall from the saddle, he'd have to take Geralt with him.
"Come on, Roach."
He spurs her forward. A slower pace would be easier on Jaskier, but Geralt can't be sure that there are no more Nilfgaardian soldiers in the area. They need to go to ground quickly and hole up somewhere safe until the bard has recovered enough to move on, and then...
Something. Geralt hasn't thought that far into the future yet.
He rides them up to Vizima; it's near, and it's a city big enough to get lost in. He locates an inn, one that's out of the way and looks clean enough that Jaskier won't catch something just by sleeping in the bed. The price for the room is exorbitant, even more than the usual witcher markup that Geralt is used to, but he pays it without complaint. Jaskier needs a bed and safety more than Geralt needs a heavy coin purse.
His whole body aches when Geralt picks him up, the pain burning him from head to toe, eliciting the sharpest groan out of him. He needs a distraction, to put his attention on something else. But that would mean being extra aware of Geralt, of his body around him, of the fact he's being kind and helping him without complaining about him getting in trouble again. It would mean being aware of Roach, the good old girl who has carried him once before and it was during the whole djinn disaster, and that's one memory he doesn't need to revisit right now.
At least the feeling of her mane in his hands is familiar. Comforting. Jaskier tries to concentrate on that, on afternoons spent braiding flowers in her hair.
Don't think about the pain, he tells himself under the pressure of his body's wounds.
Don't think about you incredibly complicated feelings for Geralt, the man his brain wants to push away and his heart wants to cuddle under his protection, like the traitor it is.
At least the trip is short, and Jaskier suddenly finds himself very grateful for Geralt's cloak hiding him from the city's curious eyes. As social as he is, interacting with people is the last thing he wants to do right now - the first being finding a bed, crawl under the sheets and sleep for a whole week.
Those aren't Geralt's plans, however. He sits Jaskier on the bed but only to start inspecting him to check his wounds. Awkwardness slips in then - never in twenty years Jaskier had trouble meeting Geralt's eyes (unless he's failing to be sneaky when asking for a favor) yet now he can't stand the heaviness of that golden gaze. Jaskier may find care in them if he does, and Melitele knows it would be extremely foolish to fall for that again.
So he looks away instead, taking in every detail of the room they're in. Not their-- his, Geralt's usual cheap inn.
"You don't have to stay." His voice is rough when he finally speaks again, and he knows he probably shouldn't do that in the first place, but he can't stand the silence. It leaves him alone with his own mind, and it's not a pretty place to be at right now. "You can send a healer and go. It's not--" He swallows a sob. "I didn't tell them anything. You're safe to leave."
Once Jaskier is in the relative safety of the room, Geralt locks the door and sets their things down. Everything is kept out of the way except for the medical kit, which he sets next to the bed as he goes over to check the bard more thoroughly than he could've in the outpost. He takes stock of Jaskier's injuries, starting from the head and moving downward, calm and methodical.
His head seems relatively unharmed, aside from some bruising on the face-- they likely struck him, probably just with fists. They wouldn't want him too addled from brain trauma to talk to them, after all, just scared enough to be compliant. The neck is fine, collarbone intact, shoulders still in their sockets. Bruises and abrasions on his wrists from the shackles, but nothing that some salve and bandages wouldn't take care of. Geralt checks his hands and fingers with particular care-- they're Jaskier's livelihood, after all, and he's relieved to find that they're uninjured.
Geralt had been silent, inspecting Jaskier with an expression on his face like a thundercloud-- dark, angry, and brooding. Not at the bard, but at the state of him and at himself. This is what happens to everyone to gets caught up with Geralt and his bullshit destiny.
He looks up from Jaskier's hands sharply when the bard speaks.
"Shut up, Jaskier."
It's not the right thing to say, and part of him knows that. But it's ridiculous, the idea that he'd walk out the door while Jaskier is in this state, just send along a healer and leave him to his fate? While Nilfgaard is still looking for him? He'd just rescued the man, he doesn't want him to walk out the door and get captured all over again.
He reaches for the torn hem of Jaskier's chemise, intending to pull it off of him.
"I need to see your wounds."
Which meant he'd need the trousers off, too. They'd whipped the back of his legs, and he needs to have a better look at any bruising. Make an estimate at whether he has enough salve and bandages, or whether he'll need to send someone to wake the healer and get supplies. If possible, he wants to take care of everything himself, without involving any third parties that might have loose lips.
Three words. Just... three little words, words that he's heard thousand of times before coming from multiple people, words that were always favored by a very particular witcher. Hearing them right now, when he's feeling so emotional and vulnerable, is like getting punched in the stomach again.
Fuck this asshole of a witcher. At least his heart syncs up with his mind now, not wanting to seek Geralt's kindness anymore. Anger returns and, if he had the energy, he would scream.
"Didn't shut me up in two decades, witcher. Not going to start working now."
His tone is bitter, his lack of will power to say Geralt's name obvious. Not his best comeback, he admits, his sentences are choppy and lack dramatics, but it's the best he can do at the moment. Being sassy is all he has, his only weapon, the one he used against the soldiers when he realized being quiet and obedient wouldn't earn him better treatment.
(They did threaten him with worse, way worse. But he's no soldier, he's weak and wimpy, they were afraid anything would kill him, and they needed the information urgently. They threatened his hands and tongue as well. Jaskier yelled at them, tell them that damaging those was equal to actually killing him. They got the idea, but he has to wonder how many days would've passed before they would've decided to stop being careful.)
With a sigh and trembling arms, Jaskier starts undressing, slowly, painfully, whimpering whenever a particular wounded muscle is pulled the wrong way. At least this doesn't feel like a big deal, considering he and Geralt have seen each other naked many times before while washing in rivers or lakes. It does bother Jaskier, however, that this probably means there's no healer coming - the witcher plans to take care of him himself. Fantastic.
His legs have gotten the worst of the whipping. They kept mocking him, asking him to dance. Jaskier doesn't stand up to remove his pants, he lies down on the bed and raises his butt, which thankfully is only required for a couple of seconds, because he doesn't have the energy for more than that. He doesn't sit up after it either - the bed is comfortable. The cuts on his back are bothering him, and he feels like tearing his skin off, but the tiredness wins.
"...it's cold." He murmurs, his whole body shivering on the matress.
Before, Jaskier had always taken Geralt's shut ups more gracefully, with better humor. But that was before-- before the mountain, before Geralt had not just ruined his relationship with Yennefer, but also with Jaskier. Everything ruined, all in one fell swoop. It's probably impressive, how quickly the witcher managed to drive people away from him.
There's a venom in Jaskier's voice when he says witcher that Geralt's never heard from his mouth. Others, yes, but not him. And there's something equally bitter that makes its way into his scent, angry and sharp, and it almost doesn't matter what he says, not when the tone and his smell say it all for him.
Jaskier doesn't want his help. Geralt frowns, the expression putting deep furrows in his brow. Well-- too bad. He might not want it, but he's going to get it.
Geralt helps him with his clothes where he can, trying to keep him from having to bend or stretch and put pressure on his injuries, both for practical reasons and because hearing his pain makes the vice-thing twist tighter in his chest. With each piece of clothing removed, more injuries are revealed-- his abused back, his ribs and stomach mottled in red and purple, turning into greens and yellows where the bruises have started to heal. His legs, criss-crossed with the marks from a whip. Geralt is intimately familiar with the pain that a whipping can cause; there are towns that have blamed the arrival of a witcher for a plague or a crop blight or some other thing that was beyond his control.
He's pulling supplies out of his pack, his jar of medical salve and rolls of clean bandages, when Jaskier complains about the cold. His big hand rests on Jaskier's shin, left there from where he'd been inspecting a particularly nasty mark, and he feels the trembling start. He stands and goes to the fireplace, adding more wood and stoking it up so that the room warms. When he returns to Jaskier's bedside, he puts the cloak back around his shoulders; it doesn't matter if he gets blood on it, Geralt's bled on it plenty before.
There are more things that he'll need before he can tend to the bard, though. Water, for one thing, both for Jaskier to drink and for cleaning him. Washcloths, food, maybe a little hot mulled wine, if he could manage it. He's on his way to the door before he remembers some fragment of manners and says,
"Wait here. I need to get some things to tend to you."
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him, to fetch what he can as quickly as he can. When he returns, his errand had been mostly successful-- he has a large pitcher of water and a bowl, some cloths to wash him with and a little soap, whatever food could be scrounged up from the kitchen this late at night. No mulled wine, but there is a mug of cider that had been warmed for him.
As soon as Geralt leaves, Jaskier sighs. If it's with relief or tiredness, he isn't sure. But he hates how his emotions keep shaking him all over the place: being alone is something that he loathes, being the people person he is and needing comfort at the moment, yet Geralt's presence has been incredibly stressful.
The cloak is nice, at least, and Jaskier slowly moves his body to hug his legs and create a cocoon out of witcher black, wishing he could fall asleep and wake up to all this being a horrible nightmare. Instead, his eyes travel around the room again, watching the fireplace and admiring the colors of the flames, moving afterwards to Geralt's pile of things, wondering if anything has changed since--
Wait.
Is that--?
There's no fucking way. He couldn't have done it, he's an ass, he wouldn't have cared about his--
Wrapping the cloak around himself and with very careful steps, Jaskier leaves the bed. A horrible idea, because of course he falls, getting some colorful curses out of him - hopefully the witcher's dumb dog ears don't pick on it. So he crawls the rest of the way, tears on his eyes because of the pain but also because of what awaits him on that pile. He thought he would never see it again.
When Geralt returns, he'll find Jaskier sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and hugging a very specific object against his chest.
The frown on Geralt's face deepens momentarily when he sees Jaskier on the floor, the cloak draped over him and his lute in his lap. There's too much in his hands to go tend to him immediately, so Geralt sets everything down, the water and food and supplies, before returning and kneeling in front of the bard again. With the grip that he has on that lute, Geralt's pretty sure that he'd have to break his stupid fingers to get it away from him. Easier to just let him have it, if it gives him comfort.
"I found your room in Gors Velen," he says. "Why would I have left your things?"
And regardless of what Geralt thinks of the barding profession in general, Jaskier loves that damn lute. Loves it more than his own hide, probably, considering that he takes better care of it than he does himself sometimes. But perhaps it's not so alien a concept-- Jaskier's lute is basically the bard's equivalent of Geralt's swords, and he takes meticulous care of his weapons.
There is a part of him, too, that's pleased that Jaskier is pleased. It was nothing for him to carry the lute and his pack along with him, but it's made the bard look at him without bitterness. That makes the minor encumbrance worth it.
"Back to the bed. I can't bandage you when you're on the floor."
It couldn't be comfortable, either. The less that he aggravates his injuries, the better off he'll be. Geralt's arms are plenty strong enough to help a bard back to the bed, even with the added burden of a lute.
Once on the bed again, Geralt could get to work-- the supplies that he'd gotten are sitting on an endtable near the bed, and he takes the pitcher and pours out a glass of water for Jaskier, and a measure into the bowl for cleaning. A brief flash of Igni heats the water to steaming, and the witcher checks it to make sure that it isn't scalding. Then-- with businesslike hands, because anything else would be... too much-- he gets to work, cleaning Jaskier's skin before applying salve and bandages as needed. He even starts from the legs and works his way up, mostly to leave Jaskier to his lute-cuddling for as long as possible.
Geralt is absolutely right, Jaskier isn't letting go of the lute any time soon. Especially now that his Geralt-related emotions are getting messy again. Gods, he had fallen into Angry and Bitter pretty comfortably, why can't he stay there? Why does Geralt have to be nice? Why does he mention picking up Jaskier's things as if it was the most obvious and natural choice from his part? As if he hadn't threatened to destroy the lute hundreds of times in the past?
He doesn't know what to think anymore. Maybe he should say thank you, but the words get stuck in his throat.
The witcher mandhandles Jaskier back to bed, and isn't that an irony? Because that's a fantasy Jaskier has had before, but it didn't go like this - exactly the opposite in fact. It's been a night full of opposites, to be fair. Geralt is the one doing the room renting, food ordering, wound mending. It's surreal, having him at his feet like this, being gentle with his wounds like Jaskier had thousands of times before for him. It makes him wince and whimper every now and then, depending on how deep the cut goes, but the salve is soothing and Geralt's hands are kind, so Jaskier's body is slowly lowering its defenses and giving in to the caretaking.
Something else is bothering him though. He watches Geralt with a frown on his face, arms always hugging the lute, as he tries to put two and two together. Why would Geralt find his room in Gors Velen? If he's been protecting princess Cirilla, then he should've been tracking the Nifgaardian soldiers, right? Unless... no way.
"...you were looking for me." He finally says aloud, clearly not believing his own words. Blue eyes are wide with surprise, all his messy emotions raw in there as well, not understanding what the fuck is going on. "Bloody hell. Why?"
It's easier, when Jaskier finally loosens a little under his hands. Tending to wounds when the person's muscles are tight just makes the job more painful and difficult, and... something sits wrong in his chest with the fact that Jaskier is tense around him.
He finishes smearing a glob of salve over one of the marks near Jaskier's knee when the bard's faint, surprised voice comes out of his mouth. Geralt looks up at him again, head tilted slightly to one side as he regards him, then bends to his work again.
"I found my child surprise," he says, and that seems like the best place to start. "She's safe."
It might be awkward, having Geralt's hands on Jaskier's thighs while he bandages up the lacerations from the whip, but if he focuses enough on talking, he isn't thinking about all the other times that he'd thought about warm, pale thighs. It's not a good time for that kind of thing, anyway. Not when he's hurt.
"Nilfgaard knows that she was with me, so I had to prioritize her safety. I came back to find you after I got her to Kaer Morhen." He ties the bandages carefully, so that the knot won't press against any of the wounds. "They won't stop coming for you, Jaskier. Not after all the songs."
That explains the delay-- but the why, well. That's obvious, isn't it? Are the words really necessary?
He double-checks his work and makes a soft hum when he's satisfied.
It's not the part about Princess Cirilla - he already heard that from the soldiers, so he isn't surprised. He's glad to know she's safe, actually. It's not the part about Geralt's hands on his thighs, either, although a little part of him does want to scream about that. He's too tired and hurt to have any kind of sexual thoughts.
No, what takes the air out of his lungs -again- is the fact that even when he's not expecting anything, he manages to get disappointed anyway. Because yes, Geralt, words are truly necessary. Otherwise Jaskier will think this is only happening because the witcher just doesn't want to have another corpse under his name, because he doesn't want to give Nilfgaard a pawn.
The bitter smell returns.
Garroter, jury, and judge...
The only reason why he turns around and lays his body face down on the bed, offering his back to Geralt as he requested, is because he wants this to be over with. The lute stays by his side, fingertips brushing its wood, itching to play it but knowing they have to wait. 'Her sweet kiss' is echoing in his mind when he speaks again.
"...and we can't have the bard keeping on shoveling shit on you, can we?"
Geralt gets fresh water as Jaskier turns over for him, arranging himself however is least painful on the bed. The cuts to his back are unpleasant, crusted and ragged, inflamed from going so long without proper treatment. No infection yet, though, and hopefully his tending has come soon enough to prevent any from setting in. He cleans them out as he did Jaskier's legs, forcing his calloused hands into gentleness. The salve with help it heal quick and clean, but there may still be scars.
His hands go still when the bard speaks.
He remembers Jaskier's face on the mountain, when Geralt had turned on him like the beast that the bard had tried to convince everyone he isn't. Shocked, hurt-- betrayed. Jaskier had spent twenty years of his life following Geralt all over the Continent, rehabilitating his terrible reputation and only separating from him for a few months at a time, and he had repaid his devotion with that.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off of my hands.
Geralt is exactly what his reputation had said. A witcher, synonymous with beast and monster. He had cut Jaskier down with the same cruel efficiency that he sliced through drowners or ghouls, but without ever even having to draw steel.
"Fuck."
He turns his head to the side, looking down at the worn floorboards instead of at Jaskier. At this point, to keep tending to him, he'll need him to sit up so that he can wind bandages around his back and chest, but that would mean looking at him, possibly even at his face. Geralt would rather throw himself into a whole nest of kikimores than do that, or, hell, go spelunking down the throat of a fucking selkiemore. If this whole conversation got interrupted by a band of rotfiends, he'd gladly welcome it.
"I. Jaskier." His mouth twists as though he'd just bitten into something sour. He isn't good with words, and they so often don't come out right when he tries. Just like with Yennefer-- he talked more around her than probably anyone else, but most of the time, what he said was all wrong. "It isn't."
Insufficient. If this had been a strike with a sword, it'd be a glancing blow. An incomplete Sign.
Fuck indeed, Jaskier thinks. He feels the hands stopping and Jaskier is tempted to turn around, check on Geralt, but at the same time he's afraid of what he'll find there. Will it be the same look Geralt gave him on the mountain? Because Jaskier still remembers that one, it's been burned on his mind, no matter how hard he's tried to forget.
No matter how much time passes, though, he's still a fool, and hearing his name said like that continues to be a weakness. Covering himself with the cloak again (because if Geralt isn't going to touch him anymore then he doesn't want to feel cold again), he turns his body to lie on his side, blue eyes searching for something, anything, on Geralt's face.
Except the witcher doesn't even dare to look at him, the big coward, and what he says? Barely an apology, if it can even be called that.
Jaskier is tired. Angry. Frustrated. In pain. Scared. He's a mess of emotions, half of them having been ignored for the past year, so they've had time to settle down and fester - because no matter how he's tried to sing and fuck his way through the continent, he never moved on. That much of an impact Geralt has had in his life, and that much of an impact he's having now, poking at big emotional wounds with his kindness and care, making them bleed again with poor words.
There's only so much Jaskier cant take - and so he snaps.
"You-- YOU--" He's sitting up, his whole body screaming at the sudden movement, but he doesn't care. Resentment and anger are the energy that move him now, guiding his limbs as if it was adrenaline itself. Before he realizes what he's doing, Jaskier grabs a pillow and throws it at Geralt's face. He shouldn't yell, he should protect his throat. He does it anyway. "YOU BLOODY EMOTIONAL-CONSTIPATED, SWAMP-DWELLING, DIMWITTED, SHIT-DRIPPING, IMBECILIC, COCKEYED, GREASY GOMERIL, BLUNDERING PILLOCK, ASININE BASTARD SON OF A WEASEL AND A WHORE!"
Jaskier moves and Geralt sees it out of the corner of his eyes, and though his reflexes are sharpened by by his heightened senses and decades of training, he expects a thrown pillow so little that it hits him right in the side of the head. His eyes, when they're turned back to the bard, are wide and stunned, mostly from the fact that he actually threw a godsdamned pillow at him and started yelling. There's quite a bit of yelling, really, and a rather impressive list of insults that the bard has leveraged at him.
Geralt stares at him for a few long moments, dumbfounded.
"...I am not cockeyed."
That is entirely not the point of any of this, but Jaskier has never dared to speak to him like this before and it's the first thing that comes to his mind after that wave of insults. Hell, no one has spoken like this to him, except perhaps Vesemir, and even then only when Geralt was young and stupid and needed a firm hand and a firmer lecture. Jaskier, who barely knows how to hold a sword the right way around and regularly ran to Geralt whenever he needed to be protected, is chastising the man who was called a butcher with nothing but anger and frustration in his scent.
Jaskier is only ever fearless around Geralt.
Then he catches a hint of salt, the metallic tang of iron, and it drags him out of his stupefaction. Geralt curses again and reaches for the bard, runs a hand over his back until he feels warm wetness. When he pulls it back from under the cloak, there are red smears; he probably ripped some of his scabs.
"Stop fucking moving, you're tearing everything open again," he growls, and he does not think about how Jaskier has said that exact same thing to him in the past. But it's different-- he is a witcher, and his mutated body was made to be ripped and torn. "And stop fucking yelling, are you so foolish that you'd forget you're a wanted man?"
There are not enough words to describe the amount of satisfaction that shows on the glint in blue eyes and smirk on thin lips - how many people can claim having surprised Geralt like this, when the man has live for a century? Having hit him with a freaking pillow, when the witcher can usually dodge arrows with his sword? Nobody, that's who. Another thing for his "I'm the only one who gets this Geralt" list. It's a pity he doesn't sing about the motherfucker anymore, because it would make an amazing comic jig.
And of course, what does the asshole say in return? This has to be a joke.
"THAT'S what you concentrate on, you bloody imbecile? Unbelievable." Jaskier says after groaning and rolling his eyes, hands thrown in the air in exasperation. Seriously, his metaphors are wasted on this man. "Not THAT kind of cockeyed. It means foolish! Absurd! Preposterous! LudicroooAAAH-!" He would've started another rant of insults if it wasn't for Geralt lowering the cloak, and now he can feel the cold on the open scabs. The damn fingers touching them, too. Stupid witcher and his stupid kindness. "...bollocks."
Arms hug his stomach and his back bends over, body shivering again as the adrenaline starts fading away and Jaskier becomes aware of the pain again. Fuck, why couldn't Geralt have found him earlier? Yelling all these things at him is so damn satisfying. He doesn't want to stop now - sadly he can see Geralt's point. Just like that day with the djinn (she saved your life, Jaskier), he hates it that the witcher is right.
"Oh sure, NOW you're an advocate of not moving for the sake of wounds." The snort that comes with that is loud enough to echo in the room, the sarcasm is so thick in the air that you could cut it with a blade. But at least he does lower his voice when speaking this time, because unlike what Geralt believes, he isn't that stupid. No, really. "Worry not, you horse's ass, I'll go to sleep after you're done patching me up, and you won't have to hear this filling-less pie no more. We cannot have more shit piled on you."
A sigh, then he mumbles to himself, pointless considering Geralt's hearing. "I truly am foolish."
Geralt pulls the cloak so that it's at least covering Jaskier's legs, keeping him a little warmer. Humans are so susceptible to temperatures, this one in particular, even with the fire blazing. Geralt had scoffed at it before, when they were on the road together and Jaskier complained about the chill, but would still stoke up the fire or give him an extra blanket, if only to quiet him.
One night, when the weather really had turned far more bitter than Geralt expected and he was truly concerned about the bard's ability to endure it, he'd shared a bedroll with him. He'd discovered that night that Jaskier snores when it's cold, and the knowledge haunts him.
He makes an annoyed grunt at Jaskier's sarcasm, reaching for the bandages to get him wrapped up. The pressure from the wrappings will stop the bleeding and keep the salve in place, and, gods willing, he'd heal quicker. The witcher has to reach around his torso to cover his wounds, leaning in close enough that Jaskier can probably feel the warmth of his body.
"It isn't the same. You're a bard, not a witcher."
And by virtue of that, every ounce of Jaskier's blood was worth more than Geralt's. A witcher's body was made to withstand so much, and he could lose pints and still keep going, leave wounds untended and still heal from them. He wouldn't need this to survive, the careful binding of his injuries, tying the knot just so and tucking it away so that it wouldn't catch on anything. He pulls a bottle of yellowish oil out of his pack, uncorks it-- there's the faint smell of celandine-- and pours some onto his fingers. He'll try to rub some of it into the bruises on the bard's face, if he'll let him get that close, to take down the swelling.
"You are foolish. Didn't you hear me?"
He'd said it, he told him that the blessing he'd wished for wasn't a blessing at all.
"I just found you, I'm not going to fucking leave after I've been riding across half the damn Continent." What a waste of time that would be for everyone. "And the things I said on that mountain were... I was angry. I lost my temper."
"Yeah, well..." He looks down at his lap, not wanting to meet those golden eyes. "You already know my answer to that."
How many times did they have this argument in the past? Jaskier telling Geralt not to move while he was being patched up, only for the man to say it was fine because he was a witcher? How many times he would take on a new contract regardless of the state of his body after the last one? Jaskier would start a speech every time, reminding Geralt that being a witcher didn't mean he had to endure the pain. It didn't mean he didn't deserve a break, didn't mean he didn't deserve kindness or soothing.
He can't bring himself to say all that now, though. His heart isn't exactly in the mood to work on Geralt's reputation and self-esteem issues.
And yet... here they are, with Geralt playing nurse. His hands are kind and methodical, putting his pain at ease and helping his body relax. Every single muscle and bone is still sore as fuck, but at least it's tolerable now. What's difficult to deal with is everything Geralt related.
They aren't talking about the same kind of foolish, he wants to say, but Geralt is still talking, and Jaskier lets him. It's such a rare occurrence after all. When the witcher says he isn't going to leave, Jaskier snorts again, thinking about Geralt didn't have trouble leaving back on the mountain.
Speaking of the mountain... ah. Here we go. Jaskier finally looks up, heart beating fast in anticipation... but that's it? He raiseshis eyebrows.
"...aaaaaaand?"
Goddammit, he's two seconds away from throwing the other pillow.
And? Geralt shoots an annoyed look Jaskier's way, brow furrowing. He isn't eager to delve deeply into the disaster that was the mountain-- the Many Fuck-ups of Geralt of Rivia doesn't need an encore. But--
Here they are.
The sour-lemon face is back, twisting Geralt's mouth in a distasteful expression. Jaskier's good with words, can't he read between the lines and figure out what Geralt is trying to say? Read the apology hidden in his scarce words? But apparently that isn't good enough and he either doesn't understand or refuses to, wants more. He deserves more, and from a better man than Geralt.
"I was... cruel."
An understatement, really. And his cruelty had led to this, to Jaskier spending too much time in Nilfgaard's tender care, to the bandages that Geralt had to apply himself over all those wounds. Some of those injuries might scar, might mark Jaskier for the rest of his life. He owes Jaskier words, at the very least. If he is to be honest with himself, he owes Jaskier two decades and a reputation, and that's a heavy price.
He takes Jaskier's wrists, to salve and bandage them next. Keeping his hands busy is far better than letting them sit uselessly on his thighs.
"I lashed out at you in anger, and you didn't deserve such treatment. I wanted to be left alone to my misery. I knew that what I said to you would make that so." He smooths the bandage over Jaskier's wrist, taking more time than is strictly necessary to be sure that it wouldn't pinch or be too tight. "I've walked the Path for decades, and you're the only person who has walked it with me. The only person who isn't shackled to me by destiny. You chose, year after year, to be at my side."
The muscles in his jaw are tight. He almost wishes that Jaskier had kept yelling at him, or had just struck him and was done with it, because that would be far more bearable than this.
Jaskier is, indeed, very good with words, understanding the meaning in between lines. And he thought he was an expert at reading Geralt's, all the grunts and even the slight shift of his body language. But that day on the mountain, his image of his friend was shattered in pieces. He doesn't know what's real and what is wishful thinking anymore.
More now than ever, Jaskier needs reassurance. He needs to know what Geralt really feels, and not just the usual pushing he does to keep people at bay that Jaskier has to battle against.
He's so done with battling. He's so done with having to translate friendly gestures into actual interest.
At least Geralt does understand he was cruel - that's a start. Jaskier allows him to keep bandaging him up, the words he's hearing soothing his soul as the witcher's hands soothe his physical pain. Blue eyes follow those fingers that could kill him in one swift movement being gentle just for him, and finally lets himself enjoy it. He even can't help smiling a little when Geralt points out Jaskier stayed because of choice, not because of destiny.
That's right - take that, destiny, you bitch. Jaskier is above all of your shit.
"You did. And it scares me, Geralt." His voice is soft, and his eyes are still on Geralt's hands, which are suddenly held by Jaskier's when he's done with the bandages. This bard likes to talk and the power of words, yes, but he is also touchy as fuck and likes physical reassurance. "It scares me to think how easily I believed you."
A pause. Blue eyes look up again, intense. Demanding. Needing the comfort. "What are we, Geralt?"
Something about what Geralt has said must be right, because Jaskier eventually softens to him-- he can see it in his eyes, in his face. His voice gentles, looses its cutting edge, and his hands catch Geralt's. He doesn't try to hold Jaskier's back, but lets his hands rest loose and harmless in his grasp.
He had cut Jaskier down so easily, and could probably do it again. It's power that he clearly shouldn't be given-- see how he abused it? How could Jaskier trust him again? How had Jaskier ever trusted him at all, really? It's a terribly foolish idea, giving your heart over to a creature that doesn't have one.
Jaskier's eyes are very blue. Cornflower blue, if he is to put a name to the color, and Geralt's brain unhelpfully supplies a piece of folklore-- young men in love would wear them, and if the flower fades too quickly, their love is not returned.
What are we?
"Whatever you want." Jaskier is the aggrieved party here; he should decide. "I understand if you cannot forgive me."
Blue eyes widen in shock, his heartbeat starts running incredibly fast. Bloody hell. Those three words are so much bigger than what he expected, and he isn't sure if Geralt realizes exactly how much Jaskier wants to ask for. Has he listened to "Her Sweet Kiss"? Understood its meaning? Probably not, too busy with Ciri.
"I want to! So badly." He suddenly exclaims - Jaskier has never had much control of his emotions, always carrying his heart in his sleeve, yet he can feel himself losing it right now. His voice breaks a little with the next words, his hands squeezing Geralt's fingers. "...I've missed you."
It hurts his pride to admit it. Jaskier would've liked to have been a petty bitch for the past few months, able to dismiss pain and move on. But that's also not true at all, he loves to love openly and freely, he loves feeling this strongly, and no matter how he tried to pretend he was over it... he never stopped missing Geralt.
Whatever you want is a lot. It's a fire in his chest, and he's scared of burning. If Geralt had asked before the mountain, Jaskier would've jumped on it. Now, however? Now he needs to know their friendship is fine before he can even consider anything else. And as much as he hates having this thought, sooner or later he'll have to ask about certain sorceress as well. That is, if Geralt means his offer that way in the first place - Jaskier still has doubts.
"You told me thousands of times that we weren't friends. And the last year I kept thinking: you should've listened, Jaskier, you're such an utter fool." He shakes his head at himself before looking at Geralt again, his expression and tone of voice demanding to be taken seriously. To be paid attention to. "I know it's hard for you to relate to people, Geralt. I know better than anyone, and that's why I've been patient for twenty bloody years. I don't expect you to suddenly read me poetry and laugh at my jokes. Banter is good, teasing is what friends do - you tell me to shut up, not meaning it, I tell you you're emotionally constipated. It works. But there's also only so much I can take."
A deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"I want to forgive you, and I know I will, because I am a fool, especially for you. But I need your word that at least you're going to try, Geralt. No more filling-less pie. No more 'we aren't friends'. No more pushing me away. Can I have that much at least?" He shouldn't be a manipulative bastard, but as a wordsmith, the urge is stronger than him. "Hasn't my loyalty earned that consideration?"
Jaskier has been patient with Geralt for far longer than any person should ever have to, or ever want to. Two decades is a long time for a human, and Geralt isn't always as cognizant of the shortened lifespans of most of the Continent, but the thought of it, that Jaskier is steadily walking to a place that he can't follow, make the chest-vice squeeze up again. One day, Jaskier will have grey in his hair. One day, he won't be able to go on hunts. One day, and every day after that, he won't be there at all.
Twenty years is a lot of time to make up for. If Geralt works very hard for the rest of the time that he is granted with the bard, maybe he can get close.
"Yes."
It's a single word, and saying it is both easy and hard. The admission that he had been so wrong chafes him, but-- it's the reparations that Jaskier needs. He needs to hear the words, or at least close enough to them.
"You've earned that and more. We are... we're friends, Jaskier."
It's a word that took twenty godsdamned years to come out of his mouth, one that plenty of other people had said about them. But Geralt will make amends for that lack. He can't afford not to.
This has been very... emotional and heart-bearing and all of that shit that Geralt is shit at, so the easiest thing is to turn it back around to something practical.
"You should eat something. And rest. You'll need to heal before we can leave, and I don't want to stay this far south for too long. Nilfgaard's too close."
That one word already shakes Jaskier's entire world, but then Geralt keeps talking, saying he's earned more and-- by Melitele's tits, he uses the f-word. And not the one he likes so much.
Jaskier's smile could light up the entire fucking inn.
Forget the bitterness - Jaskier smells sweetly now, happiness exuding from every inch of his body, eyes twinkling like the stars, grin almost splitting his face in two. He's still sore so he doesn't enter his dramatics mode, but it's obvious that a general bounce has returned to his limbs.
And before Geralt gets away, because he knows that face, knows the conversation has become too much for him, Jaskir leans in and hugs the hell out of him.
"I forgive you, old friend." Gods, it feels good to be able to say those words once more. Makes his heart beat to the rhythm of Toss a coin again. "And thank you. For saving me, and for taking care of my wounds." He pulls back and this time his little smirk is more of a teasing kind. "I won't apologize for the pillow, however, I shall carry that success with me. Your cloak is mine now too."
Okay, the cloak part he doesn't mean, not really. But he still grabs it and wraps himself in it, enjoying having this little piece of Geralt protecting him. He was too hurt, both in the emotional and the physical sense, to appreciate it on the ride here. Now though? Now he doesn't let go of it, moving to lie down on the pillow that is left on the bed. See, he's being a good boy!
"Let us sup, then, my dear witcher!" Congrats, Geralt, you've earned some extra terms of endearment. Jaskier pats the spot next to him. "Come, Geralt. Bring the tray and sit with me. Let us share food like the old times. Then I'll promise I'll rest - I am tired and I don't want to stay here for too long either."
Where is he going, he has no idea. But they can figure that out in the morning. Now he only wants to cuddle against Geralt's broad back, just like he used to do while sharing bedrolls and rooms with only one bed.
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He should've listened. But nooo, he gets cocky, lets the way Geralt allows him into his stories and his scars, shares his food and his rooms and protects him from angry husbands get to his head, feed his ego. Obviously Geralt cares about him, right? He's just an actions-rather-than-words kind of guy. Life has been rough for him, he doesn't know how to communicate. So many excuses has Jaskier made for Geralt's behavior through the years, thinking of himself to be so smart for figuring out what he calls Geralt-speech.
He should've listened.
If like could give me one blessing...
The words play on repeat in his head over and over as he makes his way down the mountain - tired, dirty, alone. Hurting. "See you around, Geralt" had been an answer spoken from shock, but with every step he takes with heavy feet, pain and anger build in his chest until they finally explode. Two decades, the best years of his short human life, his best songs... all wasted on this son of a bitch.
He really should've listened, he thinks again when he stops by a river to wash his face, not wanting to reach town with his eyes red from tears spilled over the biggest asshole in the world. He truly is a fool.
(He gets drunk that evening, and sings and dances for the local tavern until his feet and throat are sore. Drinking songs, naughty songs, adventure songs. But not a single song about the White Wolf.)
Oxenfurt seems to be the most logical step, so he stays there for a while, trying to put himself back together. He finishes "Her Sweet Kiss", adding to it a new bitter twist that didn't have before ("gorgeous garroter"? "lovely garroter"? how about neither). Half of the dinner hall cries when they hear him sing it for the first time. And it's the only song about Geralt he sings when he goes back to the road.
There's war coming, people need bards to help them forget. Oxenfurt may be home (in a way Lettenhove never was and never will) but Jaskier is still Jaskier, and he grows restless easily. He needs adventure, he needs his freedom. So back to the road he goes, jumping from inns to taverns, from courts banquets to weddings, singing for both pleasure and coin. People keep asking for the songs of the White Wolf, he deflects the best way he can - it's hard to escape his reputation.
The three soldiers that kidnap him from his room definitely don't let him forget.
They don't believe him when he says he doesn't have any idea about Geralt's whereabouts. They ask him about princess Cirilla as well, because they know he's played in court before. Bloody hell, if their information gathering is so good, how come they don't know Jaskier hasn't seen that asshole of a witcher in over a year? If they've been tracking him, surely they would've noticed the lack of very specific songs?
Jaskier tells them that after the first day. Obviously being afraid and obeying doesn't change anything, so if he's going to get hurt anyway, then at least he wants to use his tongue as it deserves. They think the whole separation deal is an act - Jaskier snorts.
If only.
They hit him and whip him, they keep him chained and only feed him some water and bread in the morning that he gets to throw up later when feet connect with his stomach. They don't ask about Geralt's location any longer, changing the tactic to wanting to know the witcher's secrets and weaknesses. Those Jaskier does know. He still doesn't tell. He tells himself it's because he doesn't want Nilfgaard to win.
The truth is, even now, he's still a loyal fool.
They leave guards outside. A waste of soldiers, because nobody is coming for him. Geralt isn't coming for him, but this part he keeps for himself - the guards possibly shitting themselves at the chance the White Wolf may come for them is the only little pleasure he can get from this situation.
It seems there's some commotion outside tonight, but he isn't paying attention. Jaskier stays in the corner of the cell, face and clothes covered in blood, pants reeking of piss, hugging his legs and waiting for sleep to come - if it comes at all. When the door opens, he whimpers in fear and tries to make himself smaller.
Jaskier has never been afraid of Geralt. For him, all the time. Of him? Never. Yet he reeks of it now. And when blue eyes finally look up and see who it is, they widen, filled with shock. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming.
"...Geralt?"
The voice is barely a murmur, sounding tired and broken... and the smell of fear starts disappearing, only leaving a faint touch under a racing hearbeat. Because he's still a loyal fool. Because even if he wants to throw something at the witcher's head and tell him to fuck off, he knows he's safe from Nilfgaard now.
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The smell of fear is inescapable, and it's far worse than the reek of piss, vomit, and blood that clings to the bard.
His name, spoken so soft and in a voice hoarse from screaming and dehydration, spurs Geralt into movement. He is across the room in two strides, kneeling before Jaskier to assess his wounds. His mind is clear, focused. Underneath that witcher-trained lucidity, Geralt wants to walk back out into that outpost, find every man who laid a hand on Jaskier and drag them back from the dead so that he can kill them all again, but more slowly. What he needs to do is make sure that the bard is well enough to move, and if he isn't, to tend to his wounds.
"I'm here."
His voice is low and gentle, the same tone that he uses to calm Roach when she spooks. He reaches out slowly to unlock the shackles from around his wrists; then hooks two fingers under his jaw, tilts his head a little to get a better look at the bruising to his face, to see if it's serious. Checks his eyes for a concussion. Moves on from there, to the major joints-- shoulders, knees, ankles. Dislocated shoulders wouldn't have been uncommon for this kind of treatment, and are easily, though not painlessly, fixed. Injuries to the knees or ankles would mean that Jaskier couldn't walk and would be harder to mend, would possibly require a healer or a mage. It's the long-term outcome that concerns him-- Geralt would carry him as far as necessary.
"We need to leave." He needs to take Jaskier somewhere safe, somewhere that he could get him cleaned up and bandaged, put him in a bed to rest. Get a few good meals into him. "Can you stand?"
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I'm here, the asshole says, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had just drank together some piss-tasting ale the night before. It's so much, too much to be exact, even for Jaskier, who usually isn't overwhelmed by emotions. He's used to feeling a lot, but not this, definitely not like this. Pain, fear, tiredness, thirst; his body and mind are already trying to navigate them all. He can't let his heart add all his anger at Geralt now.
He can't let it long for the gentleness on that voice that for once is showing care.
And now he's starting to feel dizzy.
A short sob escapes his lips, a mix of relief at being saved and his other emotions creating a hurricane in his chest, but he swallows the rest down when Geralt reaches out to touch him. Not right now, not like this. He can't help flinching, not because it's Geralt, but because his body still hasn't caught up with the fact he's free now, he's safe. These fingers aren't here to hurt him.
(This one does it with words.)
Jaskier lets him check anyway, because he isn't sure himself - his whole body is screaming in pain, he wouldn't be able to tell his injures apart even if he tried. Thankfully there is nothing broken - they're all bleeding cuts or purple bruises, and he does whimper when Geralt touches those, but at least his bones are fine. (They did threaten his tongue. Jaskier isn't sure he would've wanted to be saved if they had come through.)
Geralt's comment gets him a nod, then a shrug. Can he stand? He isn't sure, but he's going to try. Hands grab the wall and Jaskier raises slowly, the back of his legs showing more gashes from whipping there. The answer to the question? It's a no. His whole body starts shaking and with a painful fuck! he falls to his knees, fire burning through his veins, making it hard to breathe.
"Geralt..." Pride and anger forgotten for now, Jaskier begs in between pants for the only thing he desperately needs right now. "Please take me out of here."
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Taking Jaskier out of there is the least that Geralt can do for him. He intends to do more. This is his fault, both for the fact that Jaskier would never have been targeted if he hadn't sang Geralt's praises from one end of the Continent to the other, and because he would never have been taken if Geralt had been with him.
He should have been with him. It's a simple truth.
"I'll need to lift you."
This is all the warning that Jaskier gets before Geralt gets one arm under his legs and the other around his back and lifts, picking him up like he weighs no more than a child. Easily, even though they aren't far off in height, since Jaskier doesn't have anywhere near the same mass as a witcher and he's likely lost some while in captivity, besides.
He carries him out of the outpost, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers as he makes for the nearest exit. Once outside, he whistles for Roach and she comes readily at his call.
"You'll need to hang on," he says, hefting the bard into the saddle. Roach stands patiently, barely even shifts as Geralt deposits Jaskier onto her back. He directs Jaskier's hands into her mane, giving him something to grab on to and keep himself steady. "You won't hurt her."
Geralt digs briefly through the saddlebags until he finds his cloak, tossing it over Jaskier's shoulders and securing it at his throat; both to keep the bard warm on the ride as well as to conceal his injuries and tattered clothes. Walking into a city with a battered man would raise questions that Geralt doesn't have the time nor patience to answer. Then he swings into the saddle behind him, and when he grabs the reins, his arms are tucked securely up against Jaskier's sides. If Jaskier is to fall from the saddle, he'd have to take Geralt with him.
"Come on, Roach."
He spurs her forward. A slower pace would be easier on Jaskier, but Geralt can't be sure that there are no more Nilfgaardian soldiers in the area. They need to go to ground quickly and hole up somewhere safe until the bard has recovered enough to move on, and then...
Something. Geralt hasn't thought that far into the future yet.
He rides them up to Vizima; it's near, and it's a city big enough to get lost in. He locates an inn, one that's out of the way and looks clean enough that Jaskier won't catch something just by sleeping in the bed. The price for the room is exorbitant, even more than the usual witcher markup that Geralt is used to, but he pays it without complaint. Jaskier needs a bed and safety more than Geralt needs a heavy coin purse.
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At least the feeling of her mane in his hands is familiar. Comforting. Jaskier tries to concentrate on that, on afternoons spent braiding flowers in her hair.
Don't think about the pain, he tells himself under the pressure of his body's wounds.
Don't think about you incredibly complicated feelings for Geralt, the man his brain wants to push away and his heart wants to cuddle under his protection, like the traitor it is.
At least the trip is short, and Jaskier suddenly finds himself very grateful for Geralt's cloak hiding him from the city's curious eyes. As social as he is, interacting with people is the last thing he wants to do right now - the first being finding a bed, crawl under the sheets and sleep for a whole week.
Those aren't Geralt's plans, however. He sits Jaskier on the bed but only to start inspecting him to check his wounds. Awkwardness slips in then - never in twenty years Jaskier had trouble meeting Geralt's eyes (unless he's failing to be sneaky when asking for a favor) yet now he can't stand the heaviness of that golden gaze. Jaskier may find care in them if he does, and Melitele knows it would be extremely foolish to fall for that again.
So he looks away instead, taking in every detail of the room they're in. Not their-- his, Geralt's usual cheap inn.
"You don't have to stay." His voice is rough when he finally speaks again, and he knows he probably shouldn't do that in the first place, but he can't stand the silence. It leaves him alone with his own mind, and it's not a pretty place to be at right now. "You can send a healer and go. It's not--" He swallows a sob. "I didn't tell them anything. You're safe to leave."
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His head seems relatively unharmed, aside from some bruising on the face-- they likely struck him, probably just with fists. They wouldn't want him too addled from brain trauma to talk to them, after all, just scared enough to be compliant. The neck is fine, collarbone intact, shoulders still in their sockets. Bruises and abrasions on his wrists from the shackles, but nothing that some salve and bandages wouldn't take care of. Geralt checks his hands and fingers with particular care-- they're Jaskier's livelihood, after all, and he's relieved to find that they're uninjured.
Geralt had been silent, inspecting Jaskier with an expression on his face like a thundercloud-- dark, angry, and brooding. Not at the bard, but at the state of him and at himself. This is what happens to everyone to gets caught up with Geralt and his bullshit destiny.
He looks up from Jaskier's hands sharply when the bard speaks.
"Shut up, Jaskier."
It's not the right thing to say, and part of him knows that. But it's ridiculous, the idea that he'd walk out the door while Jaskier is in this state, just send along a healer and leave him to his fate? While Nilfgaard is still looking for him? He'd just rescued the man, he doesn't want him to walk out the door and get captured all over again.
He reaches for the torn hem of Jaskier's chemise, intending to pull it off of him.
"I need to see your wounds."
Which meant he'd need the trousers off, too. They'd whipped the back of his legs, and he needs to have a better look at any bruising. Make an estimate at whether he has enough salve and bandages, or whether he'll need to send someone to wake the healer and get supplies. If possible, he wants to take care of everything himself, without involving any third parties that might have loose lips.
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Fuck this asshole of a witcher. At least his heart syncs up with his mind now, not wanting to seek Geralt's kindness anymore. Anger returns and, if he had the energy, he would scream.
"Didn't shut me up in two decades, witcher. Not going to start working now."
His tone is bitter, his lack of will power to say Geralt's name obvious. Not his best comeback, he admits, his sentences are choppy and lack dramatics, but it's the best he can do at the moment. Being sassy is all he has, his only weapon, the one he used against the soldiers when he realized being quiet and obedient wouldn't earn him better treatment.
(They did threaten him with worse, way worse. But he's no soldier, he's weak and wimpy, they were afraid anything would kill him, and they needed the information urgently. They threatened his hands and tongue as well. Jaskier yelled at them, tell them that damaging those was equal to actually killing him. They got the idea, but he has to wonder how many days would've passed before they would've decided to stop being careful.)
With a sigh and trembling arms, Jaskier starts undressing, slowly, painfully, whimpering whenever a particular wounded muscle is pulled the wrong way. At least this doesn't feel like a big deal, considering he and Geralt have seen each other naked many times before while washing in rivers or lakes. It does bother Jaskier, however, that this probably means there's no healer coming - the witcher plans to take care of him himself. Fantastic.
His legs have gotten the worst of the whipping. They kept mocking him, asking him to dance. Jaskier doesn't stand up to remove his pants, he lies down on the bed and raises his butt, which thankfully is only required for a couple of seconds, because he doesn't have the energy for more than that. He doesn't sit up after it either - the bed is comfortable. The cuts on his back are bothering him, and he feels like tearing his skin off, but the tiredness wins.
"...it's cold." He murmurs, his whole body shivering on the matress.
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There's a venom in Jaskier's voice when he says witcher that Geralt's never heard from his mouth. Others, yes, but not him. And there's something equally bitter that makes its way into his scent, angry and sharp, and it almost doesn't matter what he says, not when the tone and his smell say it all for him.
Jaskier doesn't want his help. Geralt frowns, the expression putting deep furrows in his brow. Well-- too bad. He might not want it, but he's going to get it.
Geralt helps him with his clothes where he can, trying to keep him from having to bend or stretch and put pressure on his injuries, both for practical reasons and because hearing his pain makes the vice-thing twist tighter in his chest. With each piece of clothing removed, more injuries are revealed-- his abused back, his ribs and stomach mottled in red and purple, turning into greens and yellows where the bruises have started to heal. His legs, criss-crossed with the marks from a whip. Geralt is intimately familiar with the pain that a whipping can cause; there are towns that have blamed the arrival of a witcher for a plague or a crop blight or some other thing that was beyond his control.
He's pulling supplies out of his pack, his jar of medical salve and rolls of clean bandages, when Jaskier complains about the cold. His big hand rests on Jaskier's shin, left there from where he'd been inspecting a particularly nasty mark, and he feels the trembling start. He stands and goes to the fireplace, adding more wood and stoking it up so that the room warms. When he returns to Jaskier's bedside, he puts the cloak back around his shoulders; it doesn't matter if he gets blood on it, Geralt's bled on it plenty before.
There are more things that he'll need before he can tend to the bard, though. Water, for one thing, both for Jaskier to drink and for cleaning him. Washcloths, food, maybe a little hot mulled wine, if he could manage it. He's on his way to the door before he remembers some fragment of manners and says,
"Wait here. I need to get some things to tend to you."
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him, to fetch what he can as quickly as he can. When he returns, his errand had been mostly successful-- he has a large pitcher of water and a bowl, some cloths to wash him with and a little soap, whatever food could be scrounged up from the kitchen this late at night. No mulled wine, but there is a mug of cider that had been warmed for him.
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The cloak is nice, at least, and Jaskier slowly moves his body to hug his legs and create a cocoon out of witcher black, wishing he could fall asleep and wake up to all this being a horrible nightmare. Instead, his eyes travel around the room again, watching the fireplace and admiring the colors of the flames, moving afterwards to Geralt's pile of things, wondering if anything has changed since--
Wait.
Is that--?
There's no fucking way. He couldn't have done it, he's an ass, he wouldn't have cared about his--
Wrapping the cloak around himself and with very careful steps, Jaskier leaves the bed. A horrible idea, because of course he falls, getting some colorful curses out of him - hopefully the witcher's dumb dog ears don't pick on it. So he crawls the rest of the way, tears on his eyes because of the pain but also because of what awaits him on that pile. He thought he would never see it again.
When Geralt returns, he'll find Jaskier sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and hugging a very specific object against his chest.
"...you rescued my lute."
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"I found your room in Gors Velen," he says. "Why would I have left your things?"
And regardless of what Geralt thinks of the barding profession in general, Jaskier loves that damn lute. Loves it more than his own hide, probably, considering that he takes better care of it than he does himself sometimes. But perhaps it's not so alien a concept-- Jaskier's lute is basically the bard's equivalent of Geralt's swords, and he takes meticulous care of his weapons.
There is a part of him, too, that's pleased that Jaskier is pleased. It was nothing for him to carry the lute and his pack along with him, but it's made the bard look at him without bitterness. That makes the minor encumbrance worth it.
"Back to the bed. I can't bandage you when you're on the floor."
It couldn't be comfortable, either. The less that he aggravates his injuries, the better off he'll be. Geralt's arms are plenty strong enough to help a bard back to the bed, even with the added burden of a lute.
Once on the bed again, Geralt could get to work-- the supplies that he'd gotten are sitting on an endtable near the bed, and he takes the pitcher and pours out a glass of water for Jaskier, and a measure into the bowl for cleaning. A brief flash of Igni heats the water to steaming, and the witcher checks it to make sure that it isn't scalding. Then-- with businesslike hands, because anything else would be... too much-- he gets to work, cleaning Jaskier's skin before applying salve and bandages as needed. He even starts from the legs and works his way up, mostly to leave Jaskier to his lute-cuddling for as long as possible.
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He doesn't know what to think anymore. Maybe he should say thank you, but the words get stuck in his throat.
The witcher mandhandles Jaskier back to bed, and isn't that an irony? Because that's a fantasy Jaskier has had before, but it didn't go like this - exactly the opposite in fact. It's been a night full of opposites, to be fair. Geralt is the one doing the room renting, food ordering, wound mending. It's surreal, having him at his feet like this, being gentle with his wounds like Jaskier had thousands of times before for him. It makes him wince and whimper every now and then, depending on how deep the cut goes, but the salve is soothing and Geralt's hands are kind, so Jaskier's body is slowly lowering its defenses and giving in to the caretaking.
Something else is bothering him though. He watches Geralt with a frown on his face, arms always hugging the lute, as he tries to put two and two together. Why would Geralt find his room in Gors Velen? If he's been protecting princess Cirilla, then he should've been tracking the Nifgaardian soldiers, right? Unless... no way.
"...you were looking for me." He finally says aloud, clearly not believing his own words. Blue eyes are wide with surprise, all his messy emotions raw in there as well, not understanding what the fuck is going on. "Bloody hell. Why?"
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He finishes smearing a glob of salve over one of the marks near Jaskier's knee when the bard's faint, surprised voice comes out of his mouth. Geralt looks up at him again, head tilted slightly to one side as he regards him, then bends to his work again.
"I found my child surprise," he says, and that seems like the best place to start. "She's safe."
It might be awkward, having Geralt's hands on Jaskier's thighs while he bandages up the lacerations from the whip, but if he focuses enough on talking, he isn't thinking about all the other times that he'd thought about warm, pale thighs. It's not a good time for that kind of thing, anyway. Not when he's hurt.
"Nilfgaard knows that she was with me, so I had to prioritize her safety. I came back to find you after I got her to Kaer Morhen." He ties the bandages carefully, so that the knot won't press against any of the wounds. "They won't stop coming for you, Jaskier. Not after all the songs."
That explains the delay-- but the why, well. That's obvious, isn't it? Are the words really necessary?
He double-checks his work and makes a soft hum when he's satisfied.
"Back, next."
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It's not the part about Princess Cirilla - he already heard that from the soldiers, so he isn't surprised. He's glad to know she's safe, actually. It's not the part about Geralt's hands on his thighs, either, although a little part of him does want to scream about that. He's too tired and hurt to have any kind of sexual thoughts.
No, what takes the air out of his lungs -again- is the fact that even when he's not expecting anything, he manages to get disappointed anyway. Because yes, Geralt, words are truly necessary. Otherwise Jaskier will think this is only happening because the witcher just doesn't want to have another corpse under his name, because he doesn't want to give Nilfgaard a pawn.
The bitter smell returns.
Garroter, jury, and judge...
The only reason why he turns around and lays his body face down on the bed, offering his back to Geralt as he requested, is because he wants this to be over with. The lute stays by his side, fingertips brushing its wood, itching to play it but knowing they have to wait. 'Her sweet kiss' is echoing in his mind when he speaks again.
"...and we can't have the bard keeping on shoveling shit on you, can we?"
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His hands go still when the bard speaks.
He remembers Jaskier's face on the mountain, when Geralt had turned on him like the beast that the bard had tried to convince everyone he isn't. Shocked, hurt-- betrayed. Jaskier had spent twenty years of his life following Geralt all over the Continent, rehabilitating his terrible reputation and only separating from him for a few months at a time, and he had repaid his devotion with that.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off of my hands.
Geralt is exactly what his reputation had said. A witcher, synonymous with beast and monster. He had cut Jaskier down with the same cruel efficiency that he sliced through drowners or ghouls, but without ever even having to draw steel.
"Fuck."
He turns his head to the side, looking down at the worn floorboards instead of at Jaskier. At this point, to keep tending to him, he'll need him to sit up so that he can wind bandages around his back and chest, but that would mean looking at him, possibly even at his face. Geralt would rather throw himself into a whole nest of kikimores than do that, or, hell, go spelunking down the throat of a fucking selkiemore. If this whole conversation got interrupted by a band of rotfiends, he'd gladly welcome it.
"I. Jaskier." His mouth twists as though he'd just bitten into something sour. He isn't good with words, and they so often don't come out right when he tries. Just like with Yennefer-- he talked more around her than probably anyone else, but most of the time, what he said was all wrong. "It isn't."
Insufficient. If this had been a strike with a sword, it'd be a glancing blow. An incomplete Sign.
"A blessing, I mean."
That you were gone.
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No matter how much time passes, though, he's still a fool, and hearing his name said like that continues to be a weakness. Covering himself with the cloak again (because if Geralt isn't going to touch him anymore then he doesn't want to feel cold again), he turns his body to lie on his side, blue eyes searching for something, anything, on Geralt's face.
Except the witcher doesn't even dare to look at him, the big coward, and what he says? Barely an apology, if it can even be called that.
Jaskier is tired. Angry. Frustrated. In pain. Scared. He's a mess of emotions, half of them having been ignored for the past year, so they've had time to settle down and fester - because no matter how he's tried to sing and fuck his way through the continent, he never moved on. That much of an impact Geralt has had in his life, and that much of an impact he's having now, poking at big emotional wounds with his kindness and care, making them bleed again with poor words.
There's only so much Jaskier cant take - and so he snaps.
"You-- YOU--" He's sitting up, his whole body screaming at the sudden movement, but he doesn't care. Resentment and anger are the energy that move him now, guiding his limbs as if it was adrenaline itself. Before he realizes what he's doing, Jaskier grabs a pillow and throws it at Geralt's face. He shouldn't yell, he should protect his throat. He does it anyway. "YOU BLOODY EMOTIONAL-CONSTIPATED, SWAMP-DWELLING, DIMWITTED, SHIT-DRIPPING, IMBECILIC, COCKEYED, GREASY GOMERIL, BLUNDERING PILLOCK, ASININE BASTARD SON OF A WEASEL AND A WHORE!"
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Geralt stares at him for a few long moments, dumbfounded.
"...I am not cockeyed."
That is entirely not the point of any of this, but Jaskier has never dared to speak to him like this before and it's the first thing that comes to his mind after that wave of insults. Hell, no one has spoken like this to him, except perhaps Vesemir, and even then only when Geralt was young and stupid and needed a firm hand and a firmer lecture. Jaskier, who barely knows how to hold a sword the right way around and regularly ran to Geralt whenever he needed to be protected, is chastising the man who was called a butcher with nothing but anger and frustration in his scent.
Jaskier is only ever fearless around Geralt.
Then he catches a hint of salt, the metallic tang of iron, and it drags him out of his stupefaction. Geralt curses again and reaches for the bard, runs a hand over his back until he feels warm wetness. When he pulls it back from under the cloak, there are red smears; he probably ripped some of his scabs.
"Stop fucking moving, you're tearing everything open again," he growls, and he does not think about how Jaskier has said that exact same thing to him in the past. But it's different-- he is a witcher, and his mutated body was made to be ripped and torn. "And stop fucking yelling, are you so foolish that you'd forget you're a wanted man?"
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And of course, what does the asshole say in return? This has to be a joke.
"THAT'S what you concentrate on, you bloody imbecile? Unbelievable." Jaskier says after groaning and rolling his eyes, hands thrown in the air in exasperation. Seriously, his metaphors are wasted on this man. "Not THAT kind of cockeyed. It means foolish! Absurd! Preposterous! LudicroooAAAH-!" He would've started another rant of insults if it wasn't for Geralt lowering the cloak, and now he can feel the cold on the open scabs. The damn fingers touching them, too. Stupid witcher and his stupid kindness. "...bollocks."
Arms hug his stomach and his back bends over, body shivering again as the adrenaline starts fading away and Jaskier becomes aware of the pain again. Fuck, why couldn't Geralt have found him earlier? Yelling all these things at him is so damn satisfying. He doesn't want to stop now - sadly he can see Geralt's point. Just like that day with the djinn (she saved your life, Jaskier), he hates it that the witcher is right.
"Oh sure, NOW you're an advocate of not moving for the sake of wounds." The snort that comes with that is loud enough to echo in the room, the sarcasm is so thick in the air that you could cut it with a blade. But at least he does lower his voice when speaking this time, because unlike what Geralt believes, he isn't that stupid. No, really. "Worry not, you horse's ass, I'll go to sleep after you're done patching me up, and you won't have to hear this filling-less pie no more. We cannot have more shit piled on you."
A sigh, then he mumbles to himself, pointless considering Geralt's hearing. "I truly am foolish."
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One night, when the weather really had turned far more bitter than Geralt expected and he was truly concerned about the bard's ability to endure it, he'd shared a bedroll with him. He'd discovered that night that Jaskier snores when it's cold, and the knowledge haunts him.
He makes an annoyed grunt at Jaskier's sarcasm, reaching for the bandages to get him wrapped up. The pressure from the wrappings will stop the bleeding and keep the salve in place, and, gods willing, he'd heal quicker. The witcher has to reach around his torso to cover his wounds, leaning in close enough that Jaskier can probably feel the warmth of his body.
"It isn't the same. You're a bard, not a witcher."
And by virtue of that, every ounce of Jaskier's blood was worth more than Geralt's. A witcher's body was made to withstand so much, and he could lose pints and still keep going, leave wounds untended and still heal from them. He wouldn't need this to survive, the careful binding of his injuries, tying the knot just so and tucking it away so that it wouldn't catch on anything. He pulls a bottle of yellowish oil out of his pack, uncorks it-- there's the faint smell of celandine-- and pours some onto his fingers. He'll try to rub some of it into the bruises on the bard's face, if he'll let him get that close, to take down the swelling.
"You are foolish. Didn't you hear me?"
He'd said it, he told him that the blessing he'd wished for wasn't a blessing at all.
"I just found you, I'm not going to fucking leave after I've been riding across half the damn Continent." What a waste of time that would be for everyone. "And the things I said on that mountain were... I was angry. I lost my temper."
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How many times did they have this argument in the past? Jaskier telling Geralt not to move while he was being patched up, only for the man to say it was fine because he was a witcher? How many times he would take on a new contract regardless of the state of his body after the last one? Jaskier would start a speech every time, reminding Geralt that being a witcher didn't mean he had to endure the pain. It didn't mean he didn't deserve a break, didn't mean he didn't deserve kindness or soothing.
He can't bring himself to say all that now, though. His heart isn't exactly in the mood to work on Geralt's reputation and self-esteem issues.
And yet... here they are, with Geralt playing nurse. His hands are kind and methodical, putting his pain at ease and helping his body relax. Every single muscle and bone is still sore as fuck, but at least it's tolerable now. What's difficult to deal with is everything Geralt related.
They aren't talking about the same kind of foolish, he wants to say, but Geralt is still talking, and Jaskier lets him. It's such a rare occurrence after all. When the witcher says he isn't going to leave, Jaskier snorts again, thinking about Geralt didn't have trouble leaving back on the mountain.
Speaking of the mountain... ah. Here we go. Jaskier finally looks up, heart beating fast in anticipation... but that's it? He raiseshis eyebrows.
"...aaaaaaand?"
Goddammit, he's two seconds away from throwing the other pillow.
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Here they are.
The sour-lemon face is back, twisting Geralt's mouth in a distasteful expression. Jaskier's good with words, can't he read between the lines and figure out what Geralt is trying to say? Read the apology hidden in his scarce words? But apparently that isn't good enough and he either doesn't understand or refuses to, wants more. He deserves more, and from a better man than Geralt.
"I was... cruel."
An understatement, really. And his cruelty had led to this, to Jaskier spending too much time in Nilfgaard's tender care, to the bandages that Geralt had to apply himself over all those wounds. Some of those injuries might scar, might mark Jaskier for the rest of his life. He owes Jaskier words, at the very least. If he is to be honest with himself, he owes Jaskier two decades and a reputation, and that's a heavy price.
He takes Jaskier's wrists, to salve and bandage them next. Keeping his hands busy is far better than letting them sit uselessly on his thighs.
"I lashed out at you in anger, and you didn't deserve such treatment. I wanted to be left alone to my misery. I knew that what I said to you would make that so." He smooths the bandage over Jaskier's wrist, taking more time than is strictly necessary to be sure that it wouldn't pinch or be too tight. "I've walked the Path for decades, and you're the only person who has walked it with me. The only person who isn't shackled to me by destiny. You chose, year after year, to be at my side."
The muscles in his jaw are tight. He almost wishes that Jaskier had kept yelling at him, or had just struck him and was done with it, because that would be far more bearable than this.
"And I sent you away."
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More now than ever, Jaskier needs reassurance. He needs to know what Geralt really feels, and not just the usual pushing he does to keep people at bay that Jaskier has to battle against.
He's so done with battling. He's so done with having to translate friendly gestures into actual interest.
At least Geralt does understand he was cruel - that's a start. Jaskier allows him to keep bandaging him up, the words he's hearing soothing his soul as the witcher's hands soothe his physical pain. Blue eyes follow those fingers that could kill him in one swift movement being gentle just for him, and finally lets himself enjoy it. He even can't help smiling a little when Geralt points out Jaskier stayed because of choice, not because of destiny.
That's right - take that, destiny, you bitch. Jaskier is above all of your shit.
"You did. And it scares me, Geralt." His voice is soft, and his eyes are still on Geralt's hands, which are suddenly held by Jaskier's when he's done with the bandages. This bard likes to talk and the power of words, yes, but he is also touchy as fuck and likes physical reassurance. "It scares me to think how easily I believed you."
A pause. Blue eyes look up again, intense. Demanding. Needing the comfort. "What are we, Geralt?"
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He had cut Jaskier down so easily, and could probably do it again. It's power that he clearly shouldn't be given-- see how he abused it? How could Jaskier trust him again? How had Jaskier ever trusted him at all, really? It's a terribly foolish idea, giving your heart over to a creature that doesn't have one.
Jaskier's eyes are very blue. Cornflower blue, if he is to put a name to the color, and Geralt's brain unhelpfully supplies a piece of folklore-- young men in love would wear them, and if the flower fades too quickly, their love is not returned.
What are we?
"Whatever you want." Jaskier is the aggrieved party here; he should decide. "I understand if you cannot forgive me."
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Blue eyes widen in shock, his heartbeat starts running incredibly fast. Bloody hell. Those three words are so much bigger than what he expected, and he isn't sure if Geralt realizes exactly how much Jaskier wants to ask for. Has he listened to "Her Sweet Kiss"? Understood its meaning? Probably not, too busy with Ciri.
"I want to! So badly." He suddenly exclaims - Jaskier has never had much control of his emotions, always carrying his heart in his sleeve, yet he can feel himself losing it right now. His voice breaks a little with the next words, his hands squeezing Geralt's fingers. "...I've missed you."
It hurts his pride to admit it. Jaskier would've liked to have been a petty bitch for the past few months, able to dismiss pain and move on. But that's also not true at all, he loves to love openly and freely, he loves feeling this strongly, and no matter how he tried to pretend he was over it... he never stopped missing Geralt.
Whatever you want is a lot. It's a fire in his chest, and he's scared of burning. If Geralt had asked before the mountain, Jaskier would've jumped on it. Now, however? Now he needs to know their friendship is fine before he can even consider anything else. And as much as he hates having this thought, sooner or later he'll have to ask about certain sorceress as well. That is, if Geralt means his offer that way in the first place - Jaskier still has doubts.
"You told me thousands of times that we weren't friends. And the last year I kept thinking: you should've listened, Jaskier, you're such an utter fool." He shakes his head at himself before looking at Geralt again, his expression and tone of voice demanding to be taken seriously. To be paid attention to. "I know it's hard for you to relate to people, Geralt. I know better than anyone, and that's why I've been patient for twenty bloody years. I don't expect you to suddenly read me poetry and laugh at my jokes. Banter is good, teasing is what friends do - you tell me to shut up, not meaning it, I tell you you're emotionally constipated. It works. But there's also only so much I can take."
A deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"I want to forgive you, and I know I will, because I am a fool, especially for you. But I need your word that at least you're going to try, Geralt. No more filling-less pie. No more 'we aren't friends'. No more pushing me away. Can I have that much at least?" He shouldn't be a manipulative bastard, but as a wordsmith, the urge is stronger than him. "Hasn't my loyalty earned that consideration?"
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Twenty years is a lot of time to make up for. If Geralt works very hard for the rest of the time that he is granted with the bard, maybe he can get close.
"Yes."
It's a single word, and saying it is both easy and hard. The admission that he had been so wrong chafes him, but-- it's the reparations that Jaskier needs. He needs to hear the words, or at least close enough to them.
"You've earned that and more. We are... we're friends, Jaskier."
It's a word that took twenty godsdamned years to come out of his mouth, one that plenty of other people had said about them. But Geralt will make amends for that lack. He can't afford not to.
This has been very... emotional and heart-bearing and all of that shit that Geralt is shit at, so the easiest thing is to turn it back around to something practical.
"You should eat something. And rest. You'll need to heal before we can leave, and I don't want to stay this far south for too long. Nilfgaard's too close."
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Jaskier's smile could light up the entire fucking inn.
Forget the bitterness - Jaskier smells sweetly now, happiness exuding from every inch of his body, eyes twinkling like the stars, grin almost splitting his face in two. He's still sore so he doesn't enter his dramatics mode, but it's obvious that a general bounce has returned to his limbs.
And before Geralt gets away, because he knows that face, knows the conversation has become too much for him, Jaskir leans in and hugs the hell out of him.
"I forgive you, old friend." Gods, it feels good to be able to say those words once more. Makes his heart beat to the rhythm of Toss a coin again. "And thank you. For saving me, and for taking care of my wounds." He pulls back and this time his little smirk is more of a teasing kind. "I won't apologize for the pillow, however, I shall carry that success with me. Your cloak is mine now too."
Okay, the cloak part he doesn't mean, not really. But he still grabs it and wraps himself in it, enjoying having this little piece of Geralt protecting him. He was too hurt, both in the emotional and the physical sense, to appreciate it on the ride here. Now though? Now he doesn't let go of it, moving to lie down on the pillow that is left on the bed. See, he's being a good boy!
"Let us sup, then, my dear witcher!" Congrats, Geralt, you've earned some extra terms of endearment. Jaskier pats the spot next to him. "Come, Geralt. Bring the tray and sit with me. Let us share food like the old times. Then I'll promise I'll rest - I am tired and I don't want to stay here for too long either."
Where is he going, he has no idea. But they can figure that out in the morning. Now he only wants to cuddle against Geralt's broad back, just like he used to do while sharing bedrolls and rooms with only one bed.
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