Geralt hears the tray clatter to the floor and the bard's outraged voice and practically jumps up from his seat. He should have been paying closer attention, but he had been focused on what Vesemir was saying to him and is unused to a humans at Kaer Morhen. Lambert or Eskel would've known not to eavesdrop, would've stayed out of earshot once they knew the kitchen was occupied.
Vesemir has not gone deaf in his old age. Why had he not--
He walks quickly down the short hall separating the kitchen from the common areas, able to clearly hear every word of Jaskier's tirade. And past him there is Eskel and Lambert, drawn to the sound of the commotion, and the small, quick heartbeat of his child surprise. He shouldn't be surprised at the bard rallying to his defense; there had been more than one evening where Geralt had had to pull Jaskier away before he started a bar fight over some stray comments from drunk townsfolk. He had been willing then to launch himself into an altercation over insults that Geralt had weathered for decades, and apparently he's just as willing to do so against an old witcher. Stubborn and headstrong to a fault, this bard.
He stinks of anger and indignation and... sadness? Geralt doesn't dwell on it-- emotions are high right now, and Jaskier's a bard. They feel so many things all the time and it's hard to keep up. Jaskier defends himself, his intentions towards his witcher companion, because of course Vesemir doesn't know all of the ways that Jaskier has helped him on the Path-- Geralt is, as always, stingy with the details. And even if he does, even knowing that Jaskier has held in his guts and sewn up his wounds and brought him potions when he was too weak to get them himself, he may still not look favorably on it. He may only see the weakness of this lack of self-sufficiency. A witcher, after all, is to be independent, needing nothing and no one but themselves and the skills they have learned. The Path is traveled alone.
(This does not account for that fact that, even if witchers were not meant to be solitary, Geralt would not have deserved Jaskier's devotion. Still does not deserve it and probably never will.)
The mention of Jaskier's imprisonment makes Geralt's guts clench, then go cold at Ciri's sharp gasp. This isn't how he would have had her find out about this, and she is too intelligent by half to not know why Nilfgaard would want a humble bard-- she doesn't need the burden of guilt along with everything else.
"Eskel," Vesemir's voice is even and measured, calm as though he hadn't just been on the receiving end of Jaskier's yelling.
Geralt hears Eskel say softly, "Hey, Ciri, let's go check on the horses, okay? Come on,", and the sound of a pair of footsteps retreating. He counts it a blessing that he can't smell the bitter-sour scent of her guilt from here.
"I don't doubt that you are as loyal as any man can be, bard." Vesemir speaks again once Ciri is gone and out of earshot. "But it means little in a torture cell. If Geralt had not rescued you, Nilfgaard would have used a mage to pull the knowledge out of your skull, loyalty be damned. You know more about witchers than anyone who is not among our number, and it is to your detriment. Now the burden of protecting you--" Vesemir turns his head, looking into the corridor where Geralt stands. Geralt reads the message between the lines, that this is the result of his indiscretion, "--falls to all of us."
It isn't just Geralt and Ciri who would be jeopardized if Jaskier's knowledge got into Nilfgaard's hands. So would every other witcher, in particular the wolves, and there are so few of them left. Their home is already in ruins, deteriorating further year by year.
"Geralt, do something with your bard," Vesemir says, then turns and continues his path across the room, leaving. As he nears Lambert, his tone turns sharper, the voice of someone issuing commands. "If you have time to stand there, Lambert, you have time to start repairs on the western wall. Take Coën with you. Geralt will join you later."
Lambert curses under his breath once the old wolf is gone, but still goes to obey him. Geralt emerges from the corridor, stoops to pick up the tray that Jaskier had dropped and the scattered cutlery and crockery. He brings them back to the kitchen to be cleaned, then returns to, as Vesemir had said, do something with his bard-- he just doesn't know quite what to do with him yet.
Fuck, he owes Eskel another one. Jaskier wishes he could go down the mountain one last time to reach the nearest town and buy him a thousand gifts, to say the least. He makes a mental note to talk to both him and Cirilla later, for now? There's an argument to go back to, because this bard doesn't give up easily.
Especially when Vesemir ignores most of his arguments to jump on the one most convenient to him, the bastard. It only makes Jaskier seethe more.
"Yes you do, you doubt everything about me! My loyalty, my usefulness, my feelings! My lov-"
But the old man doesn't care for what he has to say, he moves on with his life while taking the last word with him, as if there wasn't any doubt that he's in the right here. Jaskier is reminded of his childhood again, of being powerless in front of his dad, who barked orders before disappearing to fuck his mistress.
How a noble heart like Geralt and a sweet heart like Eskel came out of this place, Jaskier doesn't know. The same way he came out of Lettenhove, he supposes.
"Do something?! I'm not a dog!" This is his voice as his most indignant, and for the first time, he wishes he had something heavier than a pillow to throw at Vesemir. It speaks loudly of how furious he is, because physical pain isn't Jaskier's usual first reaction to things. His hands go around his mouth instead, to help with his yelling - it's not like he needs it, the witcher isn't far away yet so he'll be able to hear him. But a bard can never let go of his dramatics. "For a man that insists so much on following the witcher way, you're doing a great job at sounding like a self-important lord!"
His arms drop to his sides and Jaskier is left there for a moment, breathing heavily and with too many emotions to handle at the same time. Is this how his winter will go? Having to destroy all the walls made of witcher logic after he spent so many years destroying them? Then it's a good thing he came. He can't even start to imagine what would've been like to send Geralt here after the chat they had while he healed. Whatever you want would've possibly become a forgotten dream, buried under the snow.
He finally turns around when he hears Geralt's steps behind him, blue eyes full of worry observing carefully, waiting for a reaction. Usually he would just run to him, be all over his personal space and remind him things are fine. Has Vesemir punched his self-esteem though? He can't help thinking of Geralt not as wolf but a deer, able to be startled away any second now.
"Geralt?" He asks softly, although his heart doesn't match, still furious in his beating. Jaskier comes closer very slowly, giving his boyfriend time to react if he wishes, and finally picks a witcher hand between his own. "Please tell me you don't believe what he said. About me wanting you only for coin and safety, about foolishness not being allowed in the Path. We've been together for so long, why should it change now? I loved you as a friend, now I love you as my significant other. No feeling should be more foolish than the other."
A pause, fighting the urge to touch more, to kiss him, to hold him close.
Jaskier is furious; he can smell it on him, hear it in the harsh edge to his breathing. There's a tremble to his hands like he's got too much energy pent up in him, and if this had been a bar in Velen with a bunch of drunk peasants yelling for the past ten minutes about how witchers are monsters who should all be strung up like dogs, Geralt would think that he'd have to stop him from throwing a punch or smashing a bottle over someone's skull.
His voice is oddly gentle when he turns to Geralt again. His heart tells a different story, betrays that his emotions are still running high, but his tone, the way he walks towards Geralt like he might be startled away if he doesn't-- it's an unusual gentleness. He's a witcher and a grown man, he's not going to be scared off by an argument like a sensitive child. Hell, that wasn't even Vesemir being frightening-- get the old man to raise his voice, that's something that Geralt doesn't want to have to stare down. He'd rather fight griffins than an angry Vesemir.
Jaskier takes his hand and Geralt allows it.
"Hm."
It's a noncommittal way to respond, and he's not entirely unaware of that. But Vesemir's warning-- remember what you are. How could he forget? He's not a mortal man, who can have love and happiness like mortal men do. It would be easier if Vesemir was entirely right, and Jaskier is only at his side for coin and fame and maybe some sex on the side. That would be simple, easy to navigate. Worse, maybe Jaskier does love him, but in that fleeting way that he loved all of his other loves, and he'll have had his fill in a few months and move on to the next.
Worst of all-- he does love him, real and true, and just doesn't realize that he's handing his heart to a creature that has none. Unaware of the fact that Geralt cannot return his love in any way that matters, like how empty things give back only echoes.
"Let me take you to the library."
Then Jaskier would be able to enjoy himself, do something productive, while Geralt joins his brothers at the western wall for repairs.
Witchers are capable of amazing things. Enhanced bodies allow them to kill monsters, stop flying arrows, hear a pin fall to the floor in the middle of a crowded city and smell every single person you made out with last night.
In the case of Geralt, he's capable to kill the hurricane of emotions in Jaskier's chest with just a grunt.
It's like a bucket of freezing water had been dropped on his head. His heart goes from furiously beating to almost stopping, and for a moment there, he can't even breathe. It's nothing like what happened at the mountain yet at the same time it feels a hundred times worse - Geralt says less, but this time, he's also holding more of his heart.
All of it, in fact.
'You smell of heartbreak', he told Geralt once. The one smelling purely of that at the moment, however, is Jaskier himself.
So tell me, love, tell me, love, how is that just?
He wants to yell. To cry. To throw something at that stubborn head. But he feels... cold. Empty. Defeated. So much talking about what they wanted, so much yelling and promising and making sure there won't be any more assumptions or other guests in their beds-- all for fucking nothing. When will he ever stop being such a fool? When will he ever learn to stop handing his heart so easily, how many times must he take it back in pieces?
Jaskier's hands shake as crazy as they move to his chest, unpin the wolf brooch and put it on Geralt's fingers before stomping his way out of here. He doesn't know where he's going, but he knows he can't look at Geralt right now.
Jaskier’s scent goes wrong again, tainted by something cold and aching that Geralt had only caught on him once before, after he had sent him away on the mountain. Heartbreak— Geralt can’t seem to stop doing that to the bard, breaking his heart in new and terrible ways every time it’s handed to him. Maybe it’s only further proof of Vesemir’s point, that this is one of the many reasons why witchers shouldn’t mix with humans. Hurting them is an inevitability.
The wolf head brooch is still warm from the heart of Jaskier’s body when he pushes it into Geralt’s hand. Returning his claim to him, an unwanted thing. It feels heavier than it should in his palm.
Then the bard retreats, stomping off and taking his scent of hurt and anger with him. Geralt stands for some long moments in the empty room, his fingers clenched tightly around the brooch until the edges bite into his palm.
Jaskier had stormed off... in the direction of the outer walls, which are in such a state of disrepair that they can’t be fixed by only a handful of witchers. Geralt know this. He knows this, so why does being around Jaskier always turn him into such a fucking idiot?
“Fuck.”
Geralt goes after him, and he’s easy to track because of the scent that he trails behind him. He catches up quickly, reaches out to grab him by the elbow before he gets around the corner.
“Wait,” he says, ignoring the way that touching him makes his skin tingle, even with a barrier between their skin. “It’s not safe any further than this.”
Wait, Geralt says, and thank the gods he adds the rest of that sentence as soon as possible, because Jaskier wouldn't have been able to stand even a millisecond of hope. Right, of course, can't have the bard do another stupid thing. He glares at the witcher as he pulls back his arm as if the contact burned him, considering for a moment making another comment about him not being a dog and finally deciding against it. He's just so done with this shit.
"Point at the right way and then kindly fuck off."
The fact he even has to say that aloud hurts like hell.
Thankfully Geralt doesn't follow him this time, and so Jaskier wanders. Not because he's lost (well, there's a bit of that too) but because he doesn't know what to do with himself. Usually company and a distraction is what he'd go for, but he's not in the mood to be stared at by golden eyes, even if they aren't the ones that hurt him. And his mood is not something the princess should deal with, especially after what she heard him confess earlier.
Has it been a mistake to have come here after all? Or had it been wrong of him to confess, to ask for this? Should've they stayed friends and do winter on their own like they used to?
Or had the true mistake been to forgive Geralt in the first place? Maybe it's just a giant chain of mistakes.
He eventually makes it to the library, somehow, and Jaskier decides to stay there, in the company of books. Most of them are monster or potion manuals, not his kind of reading, although he's fascinated by their apparent age. Tucked in corner, though, he finds some elven history books, and those capture his attention immediately. Time to brush off that Elder of his. Dinner time comes and goes, and Jaskier decides not to show up for it - not only because he doesn't want to see a single witcher face, but also because his stomach has barely been able to pass the two or three grapes he stole from the bowl Ciri left there earlier, he doubts he'll be able to eat anything else.
With Elder speech on his eyelids, Jaskier falls asleep in the reading chair, dreaming about a twenty year old adventure with the elves at the edge of the world.
It's Cirilla that finds him there late in the morning, when she comes by to do her daily monster reading. She's clearly worried about him, asking him why he didn't show up for dinner and if he is okay. Jaskier doesn't know what bullshit excuse Geralt may've made up last night when his boyfriend wasn't there with him (let's be fair, the coward probably just grunted) but even if he knew, he wonders if he could even say it when the princess looks at him like that, fierce lion eyes demanding him to share and not be treated as a child.
Calanthe would be proud.
The bard's silver tongue manages to dodge the subject and get her to talk about what she heard the day before. Jaskier doesn't want her to feel guilty for what happened to him - it's not your fault, he repeats over and over, I want to protect you as well, if it pleases you. She's not convinced at first, with him being just a bard and all, but he gets her to reluctantly change her mind when he points out hey now, would you like me to tell you you can't protect me because you're just a girl?. It gets him a nudge in return, but she's smiling. Precious girl, she'll be a magnificent woman one day.
"You should talk to Geralt."
Scratch that, she's a little shit too smart for her own good.
With the excuse of her needing to concentrate on her studies, Jaskier leaves the library, wondering once again what to do with himself. He could put all his feelings into poetry like he's done in the past, he supposes, but what he truly needs is a distraction - he doesn't want to be with his alone with his own thoughts right now. Neither Geralt or Vesemir are options, Cirilla would only try to make him talk to her dad again, and-
Ah. Jaskier stops right in front of a window to make sure he's seeing correctly - yep, that's Eskel on stable duty again. That's kinda perfect actually, his company is nice and tending the horses is actually something Jaskier can help with. It takes him a couple of wrong turns to get there, but thankfully he makes it before the chores are over. Eskel nods at him from behind a horse Jaskier doesn't recognize.
"There you are, we've been wondering--" Golden eyes fall on Jaskier's chest - on the lack of brooch. "Fuck. What the hell happened?"
Jaskier shrugs, trying to come off as feeling better than he actually does. Which is stupid, because Eskel can smell his heartbreak. "Your brother is an arsehole."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"How about thank you?"
That catches Eskel off guard, so Jaskier takes the chance to babble away without mentioning or even referencing Geralt even once. Eskel notices he knows what he's doing with the horses and so they fall into an easy, comfortable rhythm of working and chatting. Jaskier apologizes and thanks Eskel for taking care of Cirilla yesterday, and for having been a sweetheart in general, which of course the witcher doesn't know how to take (Jaskier gets a little bit angrier at Vesemir). He promises him his first song whenever inspiration comes (translation: when he's feeling better) and that he'll include that mention of his handsome face - he hasn't forgotten the comment back in the hunting cabin.
"Not because you asked me for it, but because it's the truth."
And just like it happened with the l-word back in the cabin, Eskel doesn't know how to react, so Jaskier once again decides not to let the chance go to waste and hugs the witcher around his waist.
"Everything I said yesterday to Vesemir - it applies to you too." Not only Geralt is implied there. "You deserve kindness. I hope I can call you a friend."
Bad idea? Should he be doing this after the disaster that had been befriending Geralt? Jaskier can't help it, this little afternoon of chatting and sharing stories have reminded him why he enjoys witcher company in the first place. Luckily Eskel doesn't disappoint: he laughs and awkwardly pats him on the back. "I think I can handle that."
It's Eskel's turn to prepare dinner that evening, so after finishing with the horses (which eventually took them to do some cleaning in the stables and surrounding areas) he drags the bard with him to the kitchen under the excuse of having more chores for him but with a plan to feed him before he misses dinner again (because while other, lighter smells peeked into his scent during the day, heartbreak is still the one on top).
They chop vegetables while drinking ale and munching on bread, cheese and ogórki kiszone, sitting side by side on the table while Eskel tells him about his hunt of a cursed pack of wargs. Muscles tired after a day of working and having spend last night on a fucking chair, plus alcohol going quicker to his head because of his emotional state, Jaskier ends up falling asleep on the witcher's shoulder.
Not surprisingly, Eskel is a walking furnace as well.
He doesn't register being picked up or taken somewhere else until a door is slammed near him. Jaskier sits up with an eep, discovering he's on a bed-- and not just any bed, but Geralt's bed in Geralt's room. Fuck. Not only that, Geralt himself is being pushed inside the room by a very serious looking Eskel.
"I don't want to see either of you again until you work things out."
Bollocks.
The door is slammed again before Jaskier can tell him anything, so he's left staring at Geralt instead who-- fuck, is that a bruise? He's two seconds away from picking up their medical kit to take care of it, but the memories of the day before slowly coming through his sleepy mind and he decides to stay where he is.
"Did Eskel punch you?" He asks with a raised eyebrow. "I owe him another one."
Jaskier tells him to fuck off. Geralt, for lack of any other idea of what to do, fucks off.
He tends to the western wall with his brothers, and the hard labor is good for his composure, his mental clarity. Hard work is simple and straightforward, a task that he can dedicate himself to completing. He always does better when he has a set goal, even if this one is going to take weeks of labor.
When they go down for dinner that night, Jaskier is nowhere to be found. Geralt eats with the rest of them but keeps an ear out for the bard, and by the strange looks that he gets from Eskel and the questioning ones from Ciri, his absence is noted. Eskel tries to bring it up, but gives up in the face of Geralt’s neutral grunting.
He doesn’t return to the room that night, either. Geralt lets him have the space that he wants, and returns the next day to his work on the wall. The weather has been steadily getting colder, and by the time he comes inside again, his hands ache from both the labor and the temperature.
Dinner is Eskel’s duty tonight, but he’s there in the hall when Geralt comes in from the battlements. There’s a look on his face that’s some mix of anger and frustration, and Geralt knows that it’s for him even though he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it yet. But, gods know, he’s going to find out in a minute.
“What the fuck did you say to him?”
“Hm.”
Eskel scoffs, a rough sound in the back of his throat. “Use your fucking words for once, Geralt! How do you go from being disgusting in the morning to heartbroken by the fucking afternoon?”
Geralt growls and tries to push past him, but Eskel blocks his path with his shoulder. He’s big enough that Geralt would have to work to get through him. He smells like Jaskier, and it sets his teeth on edge.
“I just told you what I said.”
“You just grunted? What the fuck did he— does this have to do with what Vesemir said?”
Geralt hums again, and the annoyed look on Eskel’s face is a petty satisfaction. His brother prods more, trying to get the full story out of a man who has always been stingy with the details, but he’s nothing if not persistent. Eventually, he pries the whole thing out of him, the question that Jaskier had asked of him.
“You’re doing a fine job of replacing me.”
And for a long, level moment, he just looks at Geralt.
Then he punches him.
It hits him straight on the mouth, and he feels his lip split on his teeth. He wasn’t braced for a punch, and he has to catch himself on the wall so that he doesn’t fall over. His mouth tastes like copper.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says, ignoring Geralt’s indignant noise. “Don’t give me that shit, you are. And I’m not dealing with all your fucking stupidity the whole damn winter.”
He grabs Geralt by the shoulder, his fist balling up the fabric, and frog marches him through the corridor like a prisoner going to the scaffolds. His growls and attempts to shrug his brother off go largely ignored, or, once to his obvious surprise, returned.
He is pushed into his own room, where Jaskier waits on the bed. They are told that they’re not to leave until they talk, and Geralt doesn’t doubt that Eskel would keep bringing him back until they work things out.
Geralt grunts in response to the question. His mouth still throbs from the hit. He hates the smell of his brother all over the bard and hates more that he hates it at all. But mostly he hates that he missed Jaskier for the one fucking day that he didn’t see him, and that he wants to go to him and put his head in his lap. Crawl into his arms to satisfy the hungry thing in his skin that’s only smoothed by his touch.
Let it fucking starve. Geralt stays near the door, his face like a thundercloud.
“Another one,” he repeats. “What else do you owe him for?”
Someone is fucking pissed. What could've Eskel possibly said to leave him in this mood? Jaskier tilts his head as he stares at Geralt, cursing his heart for still being curious about the witcher, wanting to understand the mysteries behind the man that broke it in the first place.
And what is with the question anyway? A pissy Geralt would usually just grunt or tell him to shut up. Why the sudden interest? In another context, Jaskier would've been happy about Geralt wanting to know about his bard and his brother getting along. Right now, however, there's something behind that question that he can't explain yet still bothers the hell out of Jaskier. Which isn't a good thing when he's feeling petty as fuck.
"If I didn't know better, I would say you were jealous." He replies without thinking, the tone of his voice implying how ridiculous is the mere idea of it would be. Seeing as he won't be able to sleep any time soon, he leaves the bed and picks up his lute, taking it with him to the window. "I owe him for being there."
Simply put, yet carrying a lot of feeling - Eskel has been a blessing in the middle of this mess, a touch of spring in a winter storm. Jaskier hopes he can get on writing soon, his new friend deserves that song. Speaking of music, he sits on the windowsill when he reaches it - since searching for comfort in a warm body isn't an option tonight, he'll find it in his other love: music.
There's no singing, at least. But the notes being played by skillful fingers are, without a doubt, Her sweet kiss.
Someone certainly is pissed, and he's pissed that he's pissed. It's one big, pissiness cycle, and Geralt's in the middle of it, like an asshole.
Jealous. That's ridiculous, isn't it? He just hates that Jaskier smells like his brother, because the mix of Eskel with Jaskier's own scent is jarring and wrong when he's used to it being a mix of his and Jaskier's. It's like someone touching Roach, or his swords, or his potion bag. And, sure, he would let Eskel touch any of those if he needed to, because Eskel is a witcher and knows how to not kill himself with alchemical ingredients or get kicked by Roach. But Jaskier is--
Different.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he's standing near the doorway, glowering at the bard. He just also can't stop. He grunts in response to the accusations of jealousy, because that's the only response something so stupid merits.
"I'm sure he's very good at being there," he says, and the notes of Her sweet kiss feel like-- mockery. I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. Well, that wanting passed quick, didn't it? Moving on to another witcher. Eskel is a better match for him anyway, though, and what fucking right does Geralt have to dictate where he puts his affections? What right does he have to clutch at him? You have always given me freedom, Jaskier had said once. Having that freedom means that he also has the freedom to choose to discard one thing in favor of something better. Geralt for Eskel. It would be a trade-up-- Eskel would be far better equipped to protect both Jaskier's body and heart, because Geralt can't seem to stop breaking the fucking thing.
"I'm sure he'll provide you with plenty of fodder for your songs," Geralt says, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier at last. He moves to the worktable, putting his hands on its surface as though he might have something that he planned to do there. He doesn't-- he just needed to not look at Jaskier. "Come the spring."
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Jaskier's fingers slow down with each of Geralt's words, frowning as he tries to put together whatever bullshit his witcher logic has came up with this time. Yes, Jaskier wants to yell, Eskel is very good at being there. He's only known him for a couple of days but his new friend has proven not to shy from Jaskier's various emotional moods, even if he does tense up when his witcher instincts don't know how to react to certain things. He accepted the word friend without hesitation. Yes, he has plenty of fodder for songs indeed, because he isn't stingy with the details.
They're truths, but also petty thoughts, things he wants to say just to hurt his heart's garroter the same way he hurt him first. But then Geralt adds the bit about spring, and Jaskier's brain finally catches on.
"...bloody hell. You are jealous."
The music comes to a full stop then. Jaskier wants to be offended at the mere thought of what Geralt is implying, but deep inside, he knows he would've done something very stupid if they had been in a town. Husbands and wives he may've bedded, yet he's never cheated himself - would've it counted as cheating this time, after he handed the brooch back? What are they even anymore? If they're something at all.
So no, he can't indignantly yell how dare you, I'm not a slut, because he knows what path that would take them through, and he isn't in a mood to defend his sex life. He's never made excuses for it since he left Lettenhove, and he isn't going to start now. So his anger attaches to be next best thing to be indignant about instead.
"Unbelievable! For you not to trust my word-- I was a fool, I admit, I should've expected that. But Eskel? Your own brother? You truly believe he would do that to you?"
Geralt reaches into his pocket, pulling out the wolf brooch that Jaskier had returned to him. He had kept it with him for the past day, even though there's really no reason to carry it; he could have put it in this room, left it on his shelf. It isn't even his-- Jaskier had gotten it, and should have it again. Silver's valuable, he would be able to sell it for a decent price once he gets down the mountain. Be rid of it and have some coin for his trouble.
"He has done nothing but be a better man. You're not a thing for him to steal from me."
Maybe Geralt is the better witcher of the two of them, better at killing griffons or kikimores or whatever other ugly thing came his way. But that's all he seems to be good for-- swinging a sword and spilling blood and collecting his coin, just as they wanted him to be. Fucking lot of good that does him now, he can't kill this bullshit with a silver sword. He wishes that he could, he knows what to do with some big nasty thing that wants to kill him and a blade. This? This is an unfamiliar battlefield and he's ill-prepared.
Eskel, though, is a gentler, more talkative witcher. That's what Jaskier would want, isn't it? It's what he would've wanted Geralt to be, but he's too old to change his nature. He's not the noble white wolf that the bard sang about so often, once upon a time. If Jaskier had met Eskel those twenty years ago in Posada, he undoubtedly would've had a kinder two decades on the Path with a witcher who treated him as he deserved.
"What can I offer you that he cannot, and better?"
Geralt's nostrils flare, that particular look that these wolf witchers get when they're scenting the air. It's nearly involuntary, because he really doesn't want to have the scent of Eskel and Jaskier burned into his sinuses. He may have to avoid Kaer Morhen for every winter after this, just so that he doesn't have to suffer through four months of inescapable this. It may very well render him the first witcher driven mad by scent alone.
Low and soft and half to himself, he says, "Fuck."
There goes the asshole again, being poetic and respecting him his freedom, all while holding the symbol of their relationship in his hands (because of course the bastard didn't get rid of it, of course). And then he has the nerve to ask what he could even offer! How could Jaskier not love him? No, he isn't what his songs say - he's so much more.
Trying to play the lute again is impossible - his hands are shaking again, he tries two notes (terrible, just terrible) and that's enough to make him close his eyes and bump his head back against the stone of the windowsill. He's emotional, and restless, and he needs to do something to distract himself, not to give in, not to run to Geralt like he so badly wants to do right now to take care of that witcher logic bullshit.
And by the gods, Jaskier hates witcher logic bullshit so fucking much.
Right after his rescue, he told he wanted to forgive Geralt, but there's only so much he could take. How could he know the mountain fiasco wouldn't happen again? Ominous words, he realizes now. He gave in back then, and this is where it's brought him: with the pieces of his heart stuck in his throat. Geralt had promised, had given him his word, and what would happen if he does the same this time? What would make it any different?
Jaskier doesn't know what to do. He wants to fix things, he truly does. But like Geralt himself had said in Oxenfurt: I'm tired of always being in fucking pieces.
One blue eye opens when he hears the cursing and-- nostrils flaring. Ah, right. That's what's bothering him. Jaskier is used to being a touchy person, he hasn't even thought about how that would influence his scent. Because of Nilfgaard, they haven't exactly been out and about being social since they got together.
"I hugged him. We spent the day doing chores together, and I hugged him, and asked him to be my friend. He accepted." A pause as he considers how to word things next - he isn't saying this to placate Geralt's stupid jealousy (although it wouldn't be a bad idea, if they're going to have this talk, they need it free of any stupid assumptions). He's saying it for the sake of his own boundaries. "I woke up here, so I can only assume he was the one to bring me when I fell asleep - because that's what friends do. I have many a friend, Geralt. And I like hugging them. I also like going to taverns or feasts and dance with strangers, enjoy guiding the delicate feet of sweet maidens through the rhythm of a waltz. Human contact is part of my life, Geralt, one that isn't up for negotiation."
A sigh. Hopefully that's clear enough. He shouldn't need to clarify that said human contact is completely platonic - if he should, well. Things may be worse than he thought. Then again, isn't that what has brought them in this situation in the first place? Geralt not trusting his word. That's the topic Jaskier needs to jump on, but he knows Geralt, understands how his mind works. He isn't in the mood to go through the old same reassurances of you aren't the monster they say you are, you deserve kindness when he is feeling like the witcher had been behaving like shit, but if he doesn't take care of this first, they'll never be able to advance the conversation.
"Nobody chooses who they fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants." He explains as restless fingers are tapped on the wood of the lute, a leg getting shaky as well. "What exactly have I asked of you that you think you cannot give me?"
"You always smell like other people," he says, jaw tight. That isn't usually a problem, most humans smell like other humans. It's inevitable, when everyone lives practically on top of each other. "You don't always smell like Eskel."
And he didn't always smell like Eskel after giving back his claim and avoiding him. Not even coming to dinner. Ciri had told him that the bard had been in the library and likely was there all night, based on how he had been slumped over his books. There were plenty of other bedrooms, the bard could have found one that wasn't even anywhere near Geralt, if he had wanted to avoid him so badly.
No one chooses who they love, Jaskier says, as though a heart is a thing that can make decisions on its own, without any input from his head. Not that Geralt would know, all he has for reference are the false feelings planted in himself and Yennefer both by a poorly-conceived djinn wish. It was a choice, even if it wasn't, perhaps, the best one he'd ever made. But it must chafe at Jaskier, a man who loves his freedom and his choices, to not be able to choose who is the object of his love, or to rescind it by his own will when he so desires.
"Then I am sorry," he says, "that I've given you a burden that isn't of your own choosing." Loving a witcher can be nothing else but a burden, and loving Geralt of all witchers, doubly so.
"And that I cannot ease it with reciprocation."
It's a cruel sort of irony that Jaskier, a man who feels love so deeply and truly, would fall in love with a witcher who has had all such emotions stripped from him.
"Ohohoho, nononono, don't you fucking dare, Geralt of Rivia! Don't you fucking dare to repeat all that horseshit he put in your head back to me!"
It's a miracle that he manages to put his lute down against the wall gently when the fury returns, an angry and hurt ball of fire that lights up the entire bedroom when he jumps off the windowsill to pace the room with open arms, calling attention to its heat, its colors, its passion.
(His grandmother called him my buttercup because of his sunny personality - and like the sun, he burns bright and hot, trying to melt every frozen heart around him.)
Geralt's doing it again - doubting his own emotions, Jaskier can understand. Geralt's training pushes him to ignore those, to pretend they don't exist. It's not ideal, and it can get irritating, but he understands. He could be patient to work through them with time. But doubting Jaskier's word? His feelings on the matter? After twenty years of care and songs and friendship? It's like Geralt is spiting on his very face.
"Why would I follow a burden around the Continent for two decades, you cockeyed imbecile? It's as if you didn't know me at all! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, yet no matter how many times I say it, you keep dismissing my feelings! I CHOSE to stay by your side, I CHOSE to befriend you, I CHOSE to give you my youth, and I CHOSE to embrace these feelings instead of trying to-- LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!"
Coming closer is torture, he can feel Geralt's natural warmth coming off him in waves, even in winter. Touching his face is even worse, fingers burning on every inch of skin that makes contact when he grabs the witcher's chin to make him look at him. Blue eyes look up, fearless as always, carrying the same fire that is keeping his heart beating faster than a shot arrow.
"No, I haven't fucked your brother." He almost spits the word, but it feels good to bring it out of the shadows, to stop dancing around it. "And I'll never fuck any witcher, because every time I see golden eyes, I think of YOU. How could you possibly doubt my love after everything we've been through? I don't ask for much, Geralt. I want your trust, which I thought I had, and I cannot believe I had to ask for it again! Is one word from Vesemir truly enough to overthrow what we have? Does it mean that little to you?" The need to emote and flap his hands around is a good one, that way he can let go of Geralt's face before the touch destroys him. "I thought I had been clear back in Oxenfurt - I don't need poetry from you, or an epic confession. I only need your honesty. I only need you to want this because that's what I mean to you. And you SWORE on the trials that made you! Were you lying to me to shut me up?"
He steps back, opening his arms, his voice gaining a mocking tone.
"But you still want to do this? Fine! Let's do this! If you cannot reciprocate, if you cannot feel, then what were you running away from that day in Vizima after the sight-reading contest?"
Stomping and with tears finally appearing his eyes, Jaskier reaches the shelf and grabs the book with the ribbon inside, which he drops on the desk with a blomp.
"THIS isn't lust, Geralt!" He grabs the gwent deck next, same treatment. "THIS isn't lust either! And neither is this!" The wood carving on Roach isn't dropped, but it's put down rather strongly too, noisy all the same, because everything must be dramatic with this bard. "Sir Practicality kept all these, not your cock! My best friend in the whole world went fishing before sunrise so I could have seafood stew, not the monster hunter!"
A pause to breathe, because all the yelling has left him panting. Usually he's excellent at controlling his breathing, thanks to being a performer, but he isn't exactly in control at the moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, letting sadness take over instead of anger to match the words he chooses next.
"It was a brother that lamented the loss of another one of your kind back in the hunting cabin. Because there are many kinds of love and care, and grief is a manifestation of them." He sighs. "So I ask you again, Geralt. What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?"
Jaskier yells for him to look at him and his fingers grab Geralt's chin, turning his head to meet those cornflower blue eyes. They're fearless and angry and bright, and Geralt can't look away. There's a twitch in the witcher's jaw when Jaskier mentions Eskel-- he hadn't thought that the bard had literally jumped into bed with his brother the second that he was out of his sight, but the admission that golden eyes only ever makes Jaskier think of him jolts something in his chest. The bard's fingers are tight against Geralt's face and he doesn't try to shake them off, lets him pull him around as he wishes.
Those fingers leave his face sooner rather than later, though, and he feels where they had been even after they're gone, like he had left marks. Geralt wants those hands back on him, even if it's just to pull him. He would want it even if it's just to strike him.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels forward and his voice dies in his throat. He had fled Vizima because he had felt that terrible want all the way to his bones, but wanting isn't love, is it? He has little time to contemplate it before Jaskier turns, stomps off to the bookshelf and retrieves the potion book, the one with the silk ribbon in it. He slams it down onto the desk; then the gwent desk, the horse carving. The little gifts that he'd given Geralt over the years that had made their way to Kaer Morhen, because-- because they were things that Jaskier had given him, and he had wanted them to survive. Was that borne out of lust? Probably not, because the bard had given him that ribbon before he had ever started to notice long legs and blue eyes. It had been blue once, blue like Jaskier's eyes, but sunlight and time had dulled it to a steely gray.
Bringing up the death of Clovis is a low blow, though, and one that Geralt feels acutely-- Clovis had been in his cohort, and, aside from Eskel, the only other one that had been left alive.
What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?
"Love," he replies, and his voice comes out hoarse, throaty in a way that doesn't make Jaskier weak at the knees. "I can't love you, not in the way that you love me. Whatever capacity I had for it was burned out of me in the Trials. Even if I said the words to you, they would be nothing but words."
The word without the sentiment behind it is worse than a lie.
"And what is left over-- they botched me, Jaskier, when they made me."
It's the only reasonable conclusion that he can come to; they made him wrong, when they gave him the extra mutagens. Something went wrong, left him with scraps of emotions instead of scouring him clean. Flaws on the inside instead of the outside, that couldn't be seen so easily. Had the mages known at the time...
"They left me with echoes of what any other man would feel, but nothing more than that. I won't deceive you into thinking that there's something more in me when what I have is too paltry to be worth anything to you."
If there's something Jaskier has been feeling since Geralt rescued him, it's this deep, feral, raw need to scream.
And so he finally does.
He throws his head back and just screams, probably making his old singing coaches cringe over at Oxenfurt for what he's doing to his throat, but Cirilla may appreciate it. It's a powerful sound by a powerful voice, no words needed to understand the frustration that fuels it. There's only so much he can take, not even a romantic like him (who sings about love conquering it all) can withstand so much bullshit thrown at him without taking a hit or two. Or three, or a hundred. He's only human after all.
"You're bloody impossible! You aren't hearing a word I'm saying! You don't trust me!"
Reaching the door is easy, opening it is not. His hand freezes on the knob, and Jaskier rests his forehead against the wood as he sighs. He said he owes Eskel one, and he meant it. Leaving right now would equal burdening him with this shit the whole season - Cirilla, too. They deserve better than that.
Fuck his fondness for witchers.
Jaskier drags his feet back to the desk and decides to sit on it, legs crossed and hands going to his hips in his usual scolding housewife position. Even if they don't end up together after this conversation, he decides, they should at least reach some peaceful agreement not to make life hell for the rest of the keep and themselves.
"One!" He suddenly exclaims very seriously. "Stop assuming how I feel about things. If something it's worth keeping or not, that's MY choice to make. You KNOW that, you KNOW how much I hate people deciding my feelings for me. And if something makes me happy, so happy that I can feel my heart bursting, then I'd say that's worth the world. Two!" A hand frees his hip to start counting with his fingers. "Either there's some conversation I must be missing here or you're high in potions, because I never asked for the word love - I never asked for any particular words from you. I asked you to swear that you wanted me to be with you as more than friends. I asked you to swear that's what I mean to you, and you did. On the Path. And it meant the world to me. Are you following me so far?"
He's trying not to speak in riddles, just like Geralt likes it, but it's hard not to when discussing feelings. They're an abstract concept, something that needs to be described by poetry because of their very nature. His points are clear, he wants to believe: if something shakes him to his core, then it's worth keeping. And Geralt has shaken him to his core. It's not hard to add two plus two.
"Three." Another finger raises, but this time his voice softens a little it. Almost-- ashamed? "Back when Vesemir was talking to you, I-- I froze. Right at the beginning. I wanted to jump in to defend you and I couldn't, because--" His hands fall to his lap, so do his eyes. "--the way he talked to you, it reminded me of my father. I'm not saying you and I are the same!" He hurries to clarify, that shame completely taking over. "What's happened to you is atrocious, and I'm just a spoiled brat. What I'm trying to say is-- I felt helpless. Because that's what that logic does to you, Geralt. 'You can't have something because of who you are' takes all power to make choices away from you - I imagine that's what the elder witchers were going for. Don't make choices of your own, just follow the Path."
His voice breaks when he says that last part. Fuck, sitting down like this and going through things methodically is helping him a lot to calm down and remember how fucked up things are for Geralt, to remember why he decided to be patient all the way back when he was eighteen and work on a friendship that felt one-sided for a long, long time.
He's broken, and you are the only one that can help him.
Overwhelmed by it all, Jaskier raises his hand again and this time he cups Geralt's cheek, blue eyes begging for gold to stay with him, to believe his words. He surprises himself by feeling relief over the touch being comforting instead of burning - hopefully that's how it feels for Geralt as well.
"Love... love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape, see, but can you define the shape of a pear? I know I can't, not even with all my poetry. I don't need you to understand it, Geralt, I don't need you to put a name on it. All I need is to know there's something here." His other hand moves to rest on Geralt's very slow heart. "Everything you just told me - you're repeating their teachings. You're repeating what humanity has taught you through stones and insults. But even if you were right, a leftover, botched echo is still a feeling."
A calloused thumb strokes Geralt's cheek and before Jaskier can curse his own heart for giving in again, he pulls to bring Geralt closer and make their foreheads touch. A deep breath - gods, how he's missed this.
"I don't want you to tell me you aren't capable of feeling things, because that's a big pile of horseshit if I've ever smelled one. All your problems were born from you caring too much. Forget about witcher logic and your teachings, forget about Vesemir, forget about the shape and size of love, forget about the Path and the trials and the differences between you and I - how would you feel if I said I'm not worthy of you because I'm not powerful and immortal?" His fingers grab Geralt's shirt, and something sad sneaks into his scent - those are doubts that haunt him all the time. "Forget all that. I'm going to ask again, and the only answer I want to hear has to come from your heart, mutated as it is, because I love it that way. Four."
Another deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"Why did you save a bloody ribbon when I have hundreds of those? Why did you wake up before sunrise to fish for me when we had free food in the kitchens? Why does it matter if I smell of Eskel? Why did you take a moment in the middle of the road, while we were in a hurry, to tell me you won't share me? Why did you run away in Vizima? If it's because of something warm in your chest, something you only feel for me... then that's all I need from you. Nothing else."
Jaskier screams, and the sound is pure frustration. His voice is a powerful thing, which makes sense considering that he's a professionally trained vocalist, and the raw edge to it grates on Geralt's sensitive ears. His first thought, however, is that Jaskier shouldn't be doing that to his voice, not when it's his entire livelihood. The next thing that he thinks is that he has irredeemably, completely fucked everything, because the bard is at the door with his hand on the knob, ready to leave. Eskel had put them both in this room to sort everything out, and, technically, deciding that none of this would work is accomplishing that goal. It just is also something that makes Geralt's heart rate tic up into a pace that he usually doesn't get to without the aid of potions.
He turns from the door without opening it, though, and sits on the desk. Geralt watches him like he's a kikimore or some other terribly dangerous thing, rather than a bard who probably couldn't do a thing against him. Jaskier starts ticking things off on his fingers, all the ways, apparently, that Geralt is wrong. The witcher thinks he keeps up with the bard's effusive monologue well enough: things that make him happy-- though Geralt's really not sure if he falls into that category at this point-- are worth keeping; he is not asking Geralt for more than he can give, or for words that he cannot say. Jaskier asks if he's following, and the witcher nods.
The bard's hand touches his cheek, and the texture of his skin is familiar-- smooth palm, calloused fingertips. Geralt tips his head into his palm, just a little, almost without thinking about it. No one touched him as kindly as Jaskier, not even Yen.
Love is pear-shaped, apparently, and that only makes sense to Geralt in the sense that their relationship in the past few days has also gone completely fucking pear-shaped. It's not even an emotion that Geralt's sure he can experience, but it sure has gone and made a fucking mess of things. All he knows is that over the past twenty years, Jaskier has inspired enough inexplicable emotion in him to make him certain that he's a botched witcher, that even mutagens and alchemy and everything else they did to him couldn't prepare him for one teenaged bard in Posada. Sure, some of those emotions that he'd felt over the years were new variations on frustration and deep aggravation, but still.
Their foreheads touch. Jaskier's thumb rasps across the day's worth of stubble on his cheek. If he could, Geralt would live in this moment; nevertheless, he'll remember, those times when the world is shit, that there was someone who would put their hands on him gently and kindly as though he was worth more than just his competency at monster-slaying.
The bard throws a lot of questions at him, all of which have slightly different answers, variations on a common theme-- the ribbon and the gwent deck and the horse figure only have value because they are things that Jaskier gave him. The hours digging for clams and fishing in the frigid waters of the Pontar were worth the trouble because Jaskier deserves to have the things he likes, and Geralt wants to provide them for him. Eskel's scent, because he doesn't want to lose this, his warm touches and fond regard and everything that comes with it. Vizima, because the depth of his wanting was a frightening thing.
Defining the shape of a pear.
"You make me feel things that I don't have names for." Maybe it's love. Maybe it's something else. It's only ever been for Jaskier. "Things that I have nothing to compare to."
He blindly gropes for Jaskier's other hand, then brings it up to his throat, to that soft spot under his jaw where his pulse is easily felt; pushes his fingers into it, to his heartbeat that's at twice what a witcher's should be, in the hope that his words and his racing heart will tell him everything that he wants to know.
The fact Geralt tips his head into his palm even after all the screaming and fighting, even after everything has become simply a mess, makes Jaskier melt. He's such a fool, and yet he doesn't do anything to stop it.
I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting
A cute little gasp escapes him when he feels that heartbeat under his fingers, followed by a choked sound, a mix of a chuckle and a sob. The sweetness returns to his scent - not overwhelming as other times, but it's there, mixing with the bitterness. Poets through the ages have put feelings into words, lovers have showed them through gifts, but there's nothing more honest and natural than a heartbeat. No gesture in the world can top this.
"That's it, darling. That's your pear." He says with a smile, fingers stroking Geralt's neck lovingly. The term of endearment isn't planned, but he's too touched by this not to use it. Hope is trying to peek back... "And it's the most romantic pear I've ever gotten. Anyone can toss a coin and buy flowers, but this? This is your body, calling for me. Fuck, I want to kiss you so badly right now."
Yet he doesn't, because while he's ready to let his heart explode with love, to throw himself back in Geralt's arms, he hasn't forgotten this keeps happening. He had been wary to forgive Geralt and that had just been their friendship - how would his heart survive after the final relationship jump?
"If you ask me, Geralt - I think we have something amazing here. And I know this is too new for you, too much. I don't mind reassuring you from time to time, guiding you through it - haven't I done that the last twenty years? With friendship, but the point stands nonetheless. It's my honor that you let me in like this. I want nothing more than having you on the bed between my legs and kissing every single one of your scars, telling you how they only make you more handsome. I can be patient through your witchering ways - I have been for two decades. But I need you to believe it, my dear. To believe in us, in my words, to trust me. Doubts are fine, I have them myself - but please don't put up your walls every time Vesemir tells you too." A sigh. "They go up in a moment but it takes me days to bring them down again. There's only so much I can take - I've said that already, haven't I? Back in Vizima."
He forgave Geralt because he promised to try. And he did - he's been Geralt still, throwing jabs at Jaskier, brooding when he felt like it, but less mean, more accepting of their friendship. Jaskier's hand grabs Geralt chin again, searching those golden eyes for any signs of doubt or honesty.
"I don't want coin or a bodyguard. I want your company - your stories and your pear. Be as a friend, or your significant other. I like you, Geralt. I love you. Do you believe me?"
Jaskier's fingers are at his throat, touching the skin there like he's something precious. Geralt could count the instances that he let someone touch his throat on one hand, with the exception of Jaskier-- the bard could probably get his hands around it and Geralt wouldn't stop him. He would trust the bard with a blade to his throat and, in the past, had, when Jaskier had shaved him after a bath. He'd lain in the water with his throat bared, and Jaskier could have slit his throat before even a witcher's reflexes could've stopped him.
If he can trust him with that, he can trust him with whatever the hell all of this is, can't he? With his heart, or what's left of it these days after the Trials burned through him and the world tried to crush him.
Geralt wants to kiss him. He wants to push him down onto the bed and strip off all of his clothes and make the bard smell like nothing but him. He wants Jaskier to do whatever he wants with him; he'd get on his knees again for him, if it would please him. Anything. Anything that Jaskier wanted from him, anything that would please him, would be his with just a word.
The bard grasps his chin again, tilts his face so that he can look into Geralt's eyes; the pupils are dilated, round instead of cat's-eyed. He can constrict them at will, usually, but some things make that harder-- adrenaline, for one thing. Looking at Jaskier, for another.
Do you believe me?
"I don't understand you," he says, and it's true-- he doesn't understand how Jaskier can give him second chance after second chance, "but I believe you. I trust you, Jask."
Perhaps he doesn't have to understand him. Perhaps he would come to understand him, in time. Trust is the important thing, and he has already trusted Jaskier with so many things. When has he ever truly been let down by him for anything that mattered? He'll be far gentler with this soft, weak part of Geralt than Geralt had ever been with him.
The wolf brooch is still in his hand; he'd been holding it this whole time, clutched in his palm until the edges dug in. He uncurls his fingers, offers it back to Jaskier. Both a symbol, and also because it was never Geralt's to begin with. Even if it represents Geralt's claim to him, it's a thing that Jaskier chooses to wear; he is only claimed because he wishes to be.
"I don't think anybody really understands me, Geralt." He says, laughing. It's not at the witcher, but simply a expression of mirth. "But if anyone could ever come close, that's probably you."
The mirth sends all the last of the bitterness away, and Jaskier's scent is back to being overwhelmingly sweet. The nickname is back, and he has Geralt's trust. His feelings, too, beating strongly in that broad chest. They have each other, they have trust, and they keep managing to work through their troubles - even if they needed a little push to do so.
They're going to be fine.
They have pears.
Geralt's offering the brooch himself, without Jaskier having to ask for it, that makes him smile from ear to ear. He doesn't grab it though - with his heart beating fast, he reaches for Geralt's face instead, to bring him in for a kiss. It starts sweet and tender but gods, he's missed this, missed him, so Jaskier ends up nibbling on Geralt's lower lip and letting his tongue make a quick peek before finally pulling back, cheeks flushed.
"I do. Go on, my wolf, make your claim. And then you shall start working on making my scent right again." A wink. "I hope you understand I may have to hug Eskel again tomorrow as a thank you for pushing us here, so you better be incredibly thorough."
He's being a little shit, and he knows it. But a possessive Geralt is such a fun Geralt, and going down to breakfast with a purple neck would be the perfect fuck you on Vesemir's face.
A kiss is just as good as him taking the brooch; it's soft and gentle at first, tender in that particular way that Jaskier has that makes his chest tighten up and pulls a low, broken sound out of his throat. Jaskier already wrecks him with just a kiss-- there's no telling how much he might ruin him with more. Then there's teeth on his lips and that noise goes from broken to growling, arousal jolting through his guts. He gets a hand on the bard's hip, gripping him through layers of fabric, aching for skin.
He pulls away far too quickly for Geralt's liking, and the witcher chases his lips, one last quick press before he starts talking. It's too long to be without, though, not when just that relatively tame kiss set a fire under his skin. The only cure for it is the bard's hands on him-- his body, calling for him. A poetic way of saying that he wants Jaskier under him and screaming his name.
A wink and a few coy words gives him all the permission that he needs.
"I'll pin this to you in the morning," he says, setting the brooch on the desk. He'd put it on him now, but there's a lot of fabric between him and Jaskier's skin and so many buttons, and Geralt has very little patience. He kisses him again, getting his arms around the bard and pulling him in, then ducks his head against his neck and breathes. He smells sweet again, honey and happiness, and Geralt bites the pulse point on Jaskier's throat where the smell is strongest.
"How fond are you of this doublet?"
Geralt thinks it might be the worst thing he's ever seen on Jaskier. Hardly flattering at all, it would be practically a favor to get it off of him.
Honey, happiness and arousal, because the fact he can get Geralt to make such erotic noises is a turn-on all by itself. The witcher chases after his lips, needing more, he grabs his and breathes him and Jaskier can just get drunk in this feeling. For such an amazing man -old and powerful, with senses that allow him to feel in ways he can't even start to imagine- to be so aroused by a mere human like him, well, it's simply... intoxicating.
Jaskier's body react easily to every touch: he throws his head back to offer his neck, groaning at the bite, and his legs close around Geralt as soon as he comes closer. How fond is he of this doublet? Honestly, Jaskier is fond of all his doublets. They're fine silks, not exactly cheap. But tonight is a special occasion, and there's no way they're getting interrupted again thanks to Eskel. He has a whole winter ahead of him to sew and well...
A fantasy to fulfill.
Twenty years of pining and awkward boners... time to fucking celebrate.
His arms are thrown around Geralt's shoulders and Jaskier licks his ear before whispering against it.
"Throw me on the bed and rip it."
If that doesn't show how much he loves him, honestly, nothing will.
How could Geralt refuse such a command? It's the sweetest one that he's ever been given, though he has no doubts that Jaskier will give him more, and sweeter, ones in time.
He gets his hands underneath the bard's ass and lifts him, carrying him those few feet to the bed before dropping him onto it. It's not the Oxenfurt bed-- and, gods, he still regrets not getting the chance to fuck Jaskier in that bed, with its soft feather mattress and bountiful covers, big enough to fit the two of them and another person besides-- but it'll do. And there is something that Geralt finds very appealing about Jaskier, the bard who loves his finery and luxuries, in a bed piled high with furs and lit only in guttering firelight.
Geralt pursues him, climbing onto the bed after him and grabbing him by the thighs, manhandling him closer. It's easy, both because the bard doesn't resist his grasp and because witcher's strength makes even a grown man's weight insignificant. He pulls the bard's long legs apart and makes space for himself in between them.
The buttons holding the bard's doublet together are small and made of some shiny golden metal, probably bronze, and quite pretty in shape; Geralt thumbs at the one that sits right at the hollow of Jaskier's throat. A shame, then, that he was going to lose so many of them, as Geralt grabs the fabric on either side, bunching it up in his fists, and yanks. The fabric tears in one long stroke, buttons flying off into the dark corners of the room. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise at the results of his efforts, and keeps going-- pulling the silk off of his shoulders and down his arms, eventually tossing the thing away in more than one piece.
"It looks better on my floor," he rumbles, his eyes sweeping over the revealed chemise. He would be tempted to tear that asunder, too, and it would be easier than heavy silk, but he knows that Jaskier likes this one. It's got the silk lace at the cuffs and collar, and little buttercups embroidered on it. So this garment is spared, simply because of the bard's fondness, and Geralt actually takes the time to undo the buttons at his throat before leaning in to leave marks. He hadn't been subtle with his marks in Oxenfurt and he isn't subtle about them now-- he sucks wide, aching bruises into Jaskier's neck, too high up to ever conceal with a collar.
Jaskier laughs when Geralt picks him and throws him, a tent already forming in his pants, the scent of arousal taking over. They've slept on this bed already, and Jaskier hadn't thought much of it - twenty years of traveling together means they've fallen asleep in thousands of different places, one stops noticing after a while. It's downing on him now though, feeling the fur tickle the back of his head, this is Geralt's bed. Geralt, the White Wolf, mighty witcher, is going to fuck him. On his bed. Who nobody else has ever gotten to share, not like this at least.
His blood may be traveling south pretty quickly, but his ego is hitting the fucking roof. And Geralt wanted him to believed he was only capable of 'echos' while bringing him to his most intimate, private space? Hah.
As soon as Geralt's hands touch his legs, Jaskier is opening them himself in a silent invitation, lips being licked at the sight of Geralt climbing on top of him... which causes him to accidentally bite his tongue when he whimpers as his doublet is ripped as easily as it had been paper.
He'll spend the whole day tomorrow searching for those buttons.
Worth it.
"Fuck." It's deep, heartfelt, somehow managing to pronounce every letter naughtily. "I love how strong you are." Jaskier's fully hard now, and his hips thrust up when Geralt descends on him to mark his neck. "Do I look better on your bed as well, my wolf?" He asks as deft fingers start working on the buttons of Geralt's pants. "Do I--ah, yes, mmh, keep doing that-- do I smell of you yet? I want to, so badly-- mmh, fuck-- I want every single witcher in this keep to smell what you've done to me as soon as I leave this room."
Buttons undone, Jaskier slips a hand inside, starting to stroke Geralt's bulge through his small clothes. Usually he wouldn't jump so soon on it, but he remembers the little witcher biology lesson Geralt gave him in the cabin, so he wants to help. Besides, after having to wait for so long, he's simply dying to hold such a powerful cock in his hand and have his way with it all night long.
Jaskier is the first human who has been welcomed at Kaer Morhen since the sacking, other than Geralt's child surprise. The first person that Geralt has ever brought to this bed, the first to be pressed against the furs, the first to have spent an entire night there with him. The first, if Geralt doesn't do something else that's wildly wrong, to spend an entire winter there with him.
The bard smells fucking amazing. Honey sweet, the spicy sharp edge of his arousal, warm and open and so very willing-- good enough to eat. The taste of his skin is almost as good, sweet with a salt tang from his sweat, and Geralt could map every inch of his body with mouth and tongue and still not be satisfied. Maybe he'd never be satisfied, maybe he could glut himself on Jaskier from now until the day he died and it wouldn't ever be enough.
Geralt can smell how hard Jaskier is already without even having to feel his cock. Jaskier's always eager for a tumble but this is quick even for him-- already standing to attention even though the witcher hadn't done much at all. He's almost a little envious of him for that. The bard's fingers get to work on Geralt's trousers as well, his dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons. Bless his irrepressible horniness for giving him the manual dexterity to undo even the fiddliest buttons without looking.
"You'd look better without all these fucking clothes," Geralt growls in reply, and, now that he's marked Jaskier's throat, there's the whole rest of him that demands his attention. He tugs the chemise up from where it's tucked into Jaskier's trousers, then drags it up over his head and throws it aside.
With the chemise gone, Jaskier's hairy chest is bared to him, and there is surprising appeal to running his hands over it, the coarse drag of hair against the callouses on his palms. Geralt thumbs at the bard's nipples, watching how they peak under his touch, then leans in to get at them with his mouth. Teases them and scrapes his teeth over them, moving from one and then to the other. Jaskier manages to wriggle a hand into his open pants and palms his cock, and Geralt makes a low noise against his hairy pectoral-- why is he so hairy, and why does he like it?
"Fuck," he says, eloquently, and bucks his hips into the bard's hand. His heart rate had been up high enough from their argument that his cock is filling a little faster than usual-- still far slower than a normal man, but not quite the glacial pace from when they were in the cabin.
"Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, his nose pressed to Jaskier's chest and filled with the scent of horny bard. "You're going to smell of nothing but me by the time I'm done with you."
His hand gropes for a moment at the front of Jaskier's trousers before he realizes that the damn things don't open in the front and has to run his hand around to his back. The fucking things laced at the small of it, an absurd way to close his godsdamned pants that meant there was this little fucking bow right above his ass, drawing attention to it. He tugs on it now-- which he has wanted to do many, many times before in various contexts-- yanking the bow until it comes undone.
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Vesemir has not gone deaf in his old age. Why had he not--
He walks quickly down the short hall separating the kitchen from the common areas, able to clearly hear every word of Jaskier's tirade. And past him there is Eskel and Lambert, drawn to the sound of the commotion, and the small, quick heartbeat of his child surprise. He shouldn't be surprised at the bard rallying to his defense; there had been more than one evening where Geralt had had to pull Jaskier away before he started a bar fight over some stray comments from drunk townsfolk. He had been willing then to launch himself into an altercation over insults that Geralt had weathered for decades, and apparently he's just as willing to do so against an old witcher. Stubborn and headstrong to a fault, this bard.
He stinks of anger and indignation and... sadness? Geralt doesn't dwell on it-- emotions are high right now, and Jaskier's a bard. They feel so many things all the time and it's hard to keep up. Jaskier defends himself, his intentions towards his witcher companion, because of course Vesemir doesn't know all of the ways that Jaskier has helped him on the Path-- Geralt is, as always, stingy with the details. And even if he does, even knowing that Jaskier has held in his guts and sewn up his wounds and brought him potions when he was too weak to get them himself, he may still not look favorably on it. He may only see the weakness of this lack of self-sufficiency. A witcher, after all, is to be independent, needing nothing and no one but themselves and the skills they have learned. The Path is traveled alone.
(This does not account for that fact that, even if witchers were not meant to be solitary, Geralt would not have deserved Jaskier's devotion. Still does not deserve it and probably never will.)
The mention of Jaskier's imprisonment makes Geralt's guts clench, then go cold at Ciri's sharp gasp. This isn't how he would have had her find out about this, and she is too intelligent by half to not know why Nilfgaard would want a humble bard-- she doesn't need the burden of guilt along with everything else.
"Eskel," Vesemir's voice is even and measured, calm as though he hadn't just been on the receiving end of Jaskier's yelling.
Geralt hears Eskel say softly, "Hey, Ciri, let's go check on the horses, okay? Come on,", and the sound of a pair of footsteps retreating. He counts it a blessing that he can't smell the bitter-sour scent of her guilt from here.
"I don't doubt that you are as loyal as any man can be, bard." Vesemir speaks again once Ciri is gone and out of earshot. "But it means little in a torture cell. If Geralt had not rescued you, Nilfgaard would have used a mage to pull the knowledge out of your skull, loyalty be damned. You know more about witchers than anyone who is not among our number, and it is to your detriment. Now the burden of protecting you--" Vesemir turns his head, looking into the corridor where Geralt stands. Geralt reads the message between the lines, that this is the result of his indiscretion, "--falls to all of us."
It isn't just Geralt and Ciri who would be jeopardized if Jaskier's knowledge got into Nilfgaard's hands. So would every other witcher, in particular the wolves, and there are so few of them left. Their home is already in ruins, deteriorating further year by year.
"Geralt, do something with your bard," Vesemir says, then turns and continues his path across the room, leaving. As he nears Lambert, his tone turns sharper, the voice of someone issuing commands. "If you have time to stand there, Lambert, you have time to start repairs on the western wall. Take Coën with you. Geralt will join you later."
Lambert curses under his breath once the old wolf is gone, but still goes to obey him. Geralt emerges from the corridor, stoops to pick up the tray that Jaskier had dropped and the scattered cutlery and crockery. He brings them back to the kitchen to be cleaned, then returns to, as Vesemir had said, do something with his bard-- he just doesn't know quite what to do with him yet.
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Especially when Vesemir ignores most of his arguments to jump on the one most convenient to him, the bastard. It only makes Jaskier seethe more.
"Yes you do, you doubt everything about me! My loyalty, my usefulness, my feelings! My lov-"
But the old man doesn't care for what he has to say, he moves on with his life while taking the last word with him, as if there wasn't any doubt that he's in the right here. Jaskier is reminded of his childhood again, of being powerless in front of his dad, who barked orders before disappearing to fuck his mistress.
How a noble heart like Geralt and a sweet heart like Eskel came out of this place, Jaskier doesn't know. The same way he came out of Lettenhove, he supposes.
"Do something?! I'm not a dog!" This is his voice as his most indignant, and for the first time, he wishes he had something heavier than a pillow to throw at Vesemir. It speaks loudly of how furious he is, because physical pain isn't Jaskier's usual first reaction to things. His hands go around his mouth instead, to help with his yelling - it's not like he needs it, the witcher isn't far away yet so he'll be able to hear him. But a bard can never let go of his dramatics. "For a man that insists so much on following the witcher way, you're doing a great job at sounding like a self-important lord!"
His arms drop to his sides and Jaskier is left there for a moment, breathing heavily and with too many emotions to handle at the same time. Is this how his winter will go? Having to destroy all the walls made of witcher logic after he spent so many years destroying them? Then it's a good thing he came. He can't even start to imagine what would've been like to send Geralt here after the chat they had while he healed. Whatever you want would've possibly become a forgotten dream, buried under the snow.
He finally turns around when he hears Geralt's steps behind him, blue eyes full of worry observing carefully, waiting for a reaction. Usually he would just run to him, be all over his personal space and remind him things are fine. Has Vesemir punched his self-esteem though? He can't help thinking of Geralt not as wolf but a deer, able to be startled away any second now.
"Geralt?" He asks softly, although his heart doesn't match, still furious in his beating. Jaskier comes closer very slowly, giving his boyfriend time to react if he wishes, and finally picks a witcher hand between his own. "Please tell me you don't believe what he said. About me wanting you only for coin and safety, about foolishness not being allowed in the Path. We've been together for so long, why should it change now? I loved you as a friend, now I love you as my significant other. No feeling should be more foolish than the other."
A pause, fighting the urge to touch more, to kiss him, to hold him close.
"You do believe me when I say I love you, right?"
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His voice is oddly gentle when he turns to Geralt again. His heart tells a different story, betrays that his emotions are still running high, but his tone, the way he walks towards Geralt like he might be startled away if he doesn't-- it's an unusual gentleness. He's a witcher and a grown man, he's not going to be scared off by an argument like a sensitive child. Hell, that wasn't even Vesemir being frightening-- get the old man to raise his voice, that's something that Geralt doesn't want to have to stare down. He'd rather fight griffins than an angry Vesemir.
Jaskier takes his hand and Geralt allows it.
"Hm."
It's a noncommittal way to respond, and he's not entirely unaware of that. But Vesemir's warning-- remember what you are. How could he forget? He's not a mortal man, who can have love and happiness like mortal men do. It would be easier if Vesemir was entirely right, and Jaskier is only at his side for coin and fame and maybe some sex on the side. That would be simple, easy to navigate. Worse, maybe Jaskier does love him, but in that fleeting way that he loved all of his other loves, and he'll have had his fill in a few months and move on to the next.
Worst of all-- he does love him, real and true, and just doesn't realize that he's handing his heart to a creature that has none. Unaware of the fact that Geralt cannot return his love in any way that matters, like how empty things give back only echoes.
"Let me take you to the library."
Then Jaskier would be able to enjoy himself, do something productive, while Geralt joins his brothers at the western wall for repairs.
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In the case of Geralt, he's capable to kill the hurricane of emotions in Jaskier's chest with just a grunt.
It's like a bucket of freezing water had been dropped on his head. His heart goes from furiously beating to almost stopping, and for a moment there, he can't even breathe. It's nothing like what happened at the mountain yet at the same time it feels a hundred times worse - Geralt says less, but this time, he's also holding more of his heart.
All of it, in fact.
'You smell of heartbreak', he told Geralt once. The one smelling purely of that at the moment, however, is Jaskier himself.
So tell me, love, tell me, love, how is that just?
He wants to yell. To cry. To throw something at that stubborn head. But he feels... cold. Empty. Defeated. So much talking about what they wanted, so much yelling and promising and making sure there won't be any more assumptions or other guests in their beds-- all for fucking nothing. When will he ever stop being such a fool? When will he ever learn to stop handing his heart so easily, how many times must he take it back in pieces?
Jaskier's hands shake as crazy as they move to his chest, unpin the wolf brooch and put it on Geralt's fingers before stomping his way out of here. He doesn't know where he's going, but he knows he can't look at Geralt right now.
Garroter, jury, and judge.
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The wolf head brooch is still warm from the heart of Jaskier’s body when he pushes it into Geralt’s hand. Returning his claim to him, an unwanted thing. It feels heavier than it should in his palm.
Then the bard retreats, stomping off and taking his scent of hurt and anger with him. Geralt stands for some long moments in the empty room, his fingers clenched tightly around the brooch until the edges bite into his palm.
Jaskier had stormed off... in the direction of the outer walls, which are in such a state of disrepair that they can’t be fixed by only a handful of witchers. Geralt know this. He knows this, so why does being around Jaskier always turn him into such a fucking idiot?
“Fuck.”
Geralt goes after him, and he’s easy to track because of the scent that he trails behind him. He catches up quickly, reaches out to grab him by the elbow before he gets around the corner.
“Wait,” he says, ignoring the way that touching him makes his skin tingle, even with a barrier between their skin. “It’s not safe any further than this.”
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"Point at the right way and then kindly fuck off."
The fact he even has to say that aloud hurts like hell.
Thankfully Geralt doesn't follow him this time, and so Jaskier wanders. Not because he's lost (well, there's a bit of that too) but because he doesn't know what to do with himself. Usually company and a distraction is what he'd go for, but he's not in the mood to be stared at by golden eyes, even if they aren't the ones that hurt him. And his mood is not something the princess should deal with, especially after what she heard him confess earlier.
Has it been a mistake to have come here after all? Or had it been wrong of him to confess, to ask for this? Should've they stayed friends and do winter on their own like they used to?
Or had the true mistake been to forgive Geralt in the first place? Maybe it's just a giant chain of mistakes.
He eventually makes it to the library, somehow, and Jaskier decides to stay there, in the company of books. Most of them are monster or potion manuals, not his kind of reading, although he's fascinated by their apparent age. Tucked in corner, though, he finds some elven history books, and those capture his attention immediately. Time to brush off that Elder of his. Dinner time comes and goes, and Jaskier decides not to show up for it - not only because he doesn't want to see a single witcher face, but also because his stomach has barely been able to pass the two or three grapes he stole from the bowl Ciri left there earlier, he doubts he'll be able to eat anything else.
With Elder speech on his eyelids, Jaskier falls asleep in the reading chair, dreaming about a twenty year old adventure with the elves at the edge of the world.
It's Cirilla that finds him there late in the morning, when she comes by to do her daily monster reading. She's clearly worried about him, asking him why he didn't show up for dinner and if he is okay. Jaskier doesn't know what bullshit excuse Geralt may've made up last night when his boyfriend wasn't there with him (let's be fair, the coward probably just grunted) but even if he knew, he wonders if he could even say it when the princess looks at him like that, fierce lion eyes demanding him to share and not be treated as a child.
Calanthe would be proud.
The bard's silver tongue manages to dodge the subject and get her to talk about what she heard the day before. Jaskier doesn't want her to feel guilty for what happened to him - it's not your fault, he repeats over and over, I want to protect you as well, if it pleases you. She's not convinced at first, with him being just a bard and all, but he gets her to reluctantly change her mind when he points out hey now, would you like me to tell you you can't protect me because you're just a girl?. It gets him a nudge in return, but she's smiling. Precious girl, she'll be a magnificent woman one day.
"You should talk to Geralt."
Scratch that, she's a little shit too smart for her own good.
With the excuse of her needing to concentrate on her studies, Jaskier leaves the library, wondering once again what to do with himself. He could put all his feelings into poetry like he's done in the past, he supposes, but what he truly needs is a distraction - he doesn't want to be with his alone with his own thoughts right now. Neither Geralt or Vesemir are options, Cirilla would only try to make him talk to her dad again, and-
Ah. Jaskier stops right in front of a window to make sure he's seeing correctly - yep, that's Eskel on stable duty again. That's kinda perfect actually, his company is nice and tending the horses is actually something Jaskier can help with. It takes him a couple of wrong turns to get there, but thankfully he makes it before the chores are over. Eskel nods at him from behind a horse Jaskier doesn't recognize.
"There you are, we've been wondering--" Golden eyes fall on Jaskier's chest - on the lack of brooch. "Fuck. What the hell happened?"
Jaskier shrugs, trying to come off as feeling better than he actually does. Which is stupid, because Eskel can smell his heartbreak. "Your brother is an arsehole."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"How about thank you?"
That catches Eskel off guard, so Jaskier takes the chance to babble away without mentioning or even referencing Geralt even once. Eskel notices he knows what he's doing with the horses and so they fall into an easy, comfortable rhythm of working and chatting. Jaskier apologizes and thanks Eskel for taking care of Cirilla yesterday, and for having been a sweetheart in general, which of course the witcher doesn't know how to take (Jaskier gets a little bit angrier at Vesemir). He promises him his first song whenever inspiration comes (translation: when he's feeling better) and that he'll include that mention of his handsome face - he hasn't forgotten the comment back in the hunting cabin.
"Not because you asked me for it, but because it's the truth."
And just like it happened with the l-word back in the cabin, Eskel doesn't know how to react, so Jaskier once again decides not to let the chance go to waste and hugs the witcher around his waist.
"Everything I said yesterday to Vesemir - it applies to you too." Not only Geralt is implied there. "You deserve kindness. I hope I can call you a friend."
Bad idea? Should he be doing this after the disaster that had been befriending Geralt? Jaskier can't help it, this little afternoon of chatting and sharing stories have reminded him why he enjoys witcher company in the first place. Luckily Eskel doesn't disappoint: he laughs and awkwardly pats him on the back. "I think I can handle that."
It's Eskel's turn to prepare dinner that evening, so after finishing with the horses (which eventually took them to do some cleaning in the stables and surrounding areas) he drags the bard with him to the kitchen under the excuse of having more chores for him but with a plan to feed him before he misses dinner again (because while other, lighter smells peeked into his scent during the day, heartbreak is still the one on top).
They chop vegetables while drinking ale and munching on bread, cheese and ogórki kiszone, sitting side by side on the table while Eskel tells him about his hunt of a cursed pack of wargs. Muscles tired after a day of working and having spend last night on a fucking chair, plus alcohol going quicker to his head because of his emotional state, Jaskier ends up falling asleep on the witcher's shoulder.
Not surprisingly, Eskel is a walking furnace as well.
He doesn't register being picked up or taken somewhere else until a door is slammed near him. Jaskier sits up with an eep, discovering he's on a bed-- and not just any bed, but Geralt's bed in Geralt's room. Fuck. Not only that, Geralt himself is being pushed inside the room by a very serious looking Eskel.
"I don't want to see either of you again until you work things out."
Bollocks.
The door is slammed again before Jaskier can tell him anything, so he's left staring at Geralt instead who-- fuck, is that a bruise? He's two seconds away from picking up their medical kit to take care of it, but the memories of the day before slowly coming through his sleepy mind and he decides to stay where he is.
"Did Eskel punch you?" He asks with a raised eyebrow. "I owe him another one."
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He tends to the western wall with his brothers, and the hard labor is good for his composure, his mental clarity. Hard work is simple and straightforward, a task that he can dedicate himself to completing. He always does better when he has a set goal, even if this one is going to take weeks of labor.
When they go down for dinner that night, Jaskier is nowhere to be found. Geralt eats with the rest of them but keeps an ear out for the bard, and by the strange looks that he gets from Eskel and the questioning ones from Ciri, his absence is noted. Eskel tries to bring it up, but gives up in the face of Geralt’s neutral grunting.
He doesn’t return to the room that night, either. Geralt lets him have the space that he wants, and returns the next day to his work on the wall. The weather has been steadily getting colder, and by the time he comes inside again, his hands ache from both the labor and the temperature.
Dinner is Eskel’s duty tonight, but he’s there in the hall when Geralt comes in from the battlements. There’s a look on his face that’s some mix of anger and frustration, and Geralt knows that it’s for him even though he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it yet. But, gods know, he’s going to find out in a minute.
“What the fuck did you say to him?”
“Hm.”
Eskel scoffs, a rough sound in the back of his throat. “Use your fucking words for once, Geralt! How do you go from being disgusting in the morning to heartbroken by the fucking afternoon?”
Geralt growls and tries to push past him, but Eskel blocks his path with his shoulder. He’s big enough that Geralt would have to work to get through him. He smells like Jaskier, and it sets his teeth on edge.
“I just told you what I said.”
“You just grunted? What the fuck did he— does this have to do with what Vesemir said?”
Geralt hums again, and the annoyed look on Eskel’s face is a petty satisfaction. His brother prods more, trying to get the full story out of a man who has always been stingy with the details, but he’s nothing if not persistent. Eventually, he pries the whole thing out of him, the question that Jaskier had asked of him.
“You’re doing a fine job of replacing me.”
And for a long, level moment, he just looks at Geralt.
Then he punches him.
It hits him straight on the mouth, and he feels his lip split on his teeth. He wasn’t braced for a punch, and he has to catch himself on the wall so that he doesn’t fall over. His mouth tastes like copper.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says, ignoring Geralt’s indignant noise. “Don’t give me that shit, you are. And I’m not dealing with all your fucking stupidity the whole damn winter.”
He grabs Geralt by the shoulder, his fist balling up the fabric, and frog marches him through the corridor like a prisoner going to the scaffolds. His growls and attempts to shrug his brother off go largely ignored, or, once to his obvious surprise, returned.
He is pushed into his own room, where Jaskier waits on the bed. They are told that they’re not to leave until they talk, and Geralt doesn’t doubt that Eskel would keep bringing him back until they work things out.
Geralt grunts in response to the question. His mouth still throbs from the hit. He hates the smell of his brother all over the bard and hates more that he hates it at all. But mostly he hates that he missed Jaskier for the one fucking day that he didn’t see him, and that he wants to go to him and put his head in his lap. Crawl into his arms to satisfy the hungry thing in his skin that’s only smoothed by his touch.
Let it fucking starve. Geralt stays near the door, his face like a thundercloud.
“Another one,” he repeats. “What else do you owe him for?”
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And what is with the question anyway? A pissy Geralt would usually just grunt or tell him to shut up. Why the sudden interest? In another context, Jaskier would've been happy about Geralt wanting to know about his bard and his brother getting along. Right now, however, there's something behind that question that he can't explain yet still bothers the hell out of Jaskier. Which isn't a good thing when he's feeling petty as fuck.
"If I didn't know better, I would say you were jealous." He replies without thinking, the tone of his voice implying how ridiculous is the mere idea of it would be. Seeing as he won't be able to sleep any time soon, he leaves the bed and picks up his lute, taking it with him to the window. "I owe him for being there."
Simply put, yet carrying a lot of feeling - Eskel has been a blessing in the middle of this mess, a touch of spring in a winter storm. Jaskier hopes he can get on writing soon, his new friend deserves that song. Speaking of music, he sits on the windowsill when he reaches it - since searching for comfort in a warm body isn't an option tonight, he'll find it in his other love: music.
There's no singing, at least. But the notes being played by skillful fingers are, without a doubt, Her sweet kiss.
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Jealous. That's ridiculous, isn't it? He just hates that Jaskier smells like his brother, because the mix of Eskel with Jaskier's own scent is jarring and wrong when he's used to it being a mix of his and Jaskier's. It's like someone touching Roach, or his swords, or his potion bag. And, sure, he would let Eskel touch any of those if he needed to, because Eskel is a witcher and knows how to not kill himself with alchemical ingredients or get kicked by Roach. But Jaskier is--
Different.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he's standing near the doorway, glowering at the bard. He just also can't stop. He grunts in response to the accusations of jealousy, because that's the only response something so stupid merits.
"I'm sure he's very good at being there," he says, and the notes of Her sweet kiss feel like-- mockery. I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. Well, that wanting passed quick, didn't it? Moving on to another witcher. Eskel is a better match for him anyway, though, and what fucking right does Geralt have to dictate where he puts his affections? What right does he have to clutch at him? You have always given me freedom, Jaskier had said once. Having that freedom means that he also has the freedom to choose to discard one thing in favor of something better. Geralt for Eskel. It would be a trade-up-- Eskel would be far better equipped to protect both Jaskier's body and heart, because Geralt can't seem to stop breaking the fucking thing.
"I'm sure he'll provide you with plenty of fodder for your songs," Geralt says, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier at last. He moves to the worktable, putting his hands on its surface as though he might have something that he planned to do there. He doesn't-- he just needed to not look at Jaskier. "Come the spring."
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They're truths, but also petty thoughts, things he wants to say just to hurt his heart's garroter the same way he hurt him first. But then Geralt adds the bit about spring, and Jaskier's brain finally catches on.
"...bloody hell. You are jealous."
The music comes to a full stop then. Jaskier wants to be offended at the mere thought of what Geralt is implying, but deep inside, he knows he would've done something very stupid if they had been in a town. Husbands and wives he may've bedded, yet he's never cheated himself - would've it counted as cheating this time, after he handed the brooch back? What are they even anymore? If they're something at all.
So no, he can't indignantly yell how dare you, I'm not a slut, because he knows what path that would take them through, and he isn't in a mood to defend his sex life. He's never made excuses for it since he left Lettenhove, and he isn't going to start now. So his anger attaches to be next best thing to be indignant about instead.
"Unbelievable! For you not to trust my word-- I was a fool, I admit, I should've expected that. But Eskel? Your own brother? You truly believe he would do that to you?"
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"He has done nothing but be a better man. You're not a thing for him to steal from me."
Maybe Geralt is the better witcher of the two of them, better at killing griffons or kikimores or whatever other ugly thing came his way. But that's all he seems to be good for-- swinging a sword and spilling blood and collecting his coin, just as they wanted him to be. Fucking lot of good that does him now, he can't kill this bullshit with a silver sword. He wishes that he could, he knows what to do with some big nasty thing that wants to kill him and a blade. This? This is an unfamiliar battlefield and he's ill-prepared.
Eskel, though, is a gentler, more talkative witcher. That's what Jaskier would want, isn't it? It's what he would've wanted Geralt to be, but he's too old to change his nature. He's not the noble white wolf that the bard sang about so often, once upon a time. If Jaskier had met Eskel those twenty years ago in Posada, he undoubtedly would've had a kinder two decades on the Path with a witcher who treated him as he deserved.
"What can I offer you that he cannot, and better?"
Geralt's nostrils flare, that particular look that these wolf witchers get when they're scenting the air. It's nearly involuntary, because he really doesn't want to have the scent of Eskel and Jaskier burned into his sinuses. He may have to avoid Kaer Morhen for every winter after this, just so that he doesn't have to suffer through four months of inescapable this. It may very well render him the first witcher driven mad by scent alone.
Low and soft and half to himself, he says, "Fuck."
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Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck.
There goes the asshole again, being poetic and respecting him his freedom, all while holding the symbol of their relationship in his hands (because of course the bastard didn't get rid of it, of course). And then he has the nerve to ask what he could even offer! How could Jaskier not love him? No, he isn't what his songs say - he's so much more.
Trying to play the lute again is impossible - his hands are shaking again, he tries two notes (terrible, just terrible) and that's enough to make him close his eyes and bump his head back against the stone of the windowsill. He's emotional, and restless, and he needs to do something to distract himself, not to give in, not to run to Geralt like he so badly wants to do right now to take care of that witcher logic bullshit.
And by the gods, Jaskier hates witcher logic bullshit so fucking much.
Right after his rescue, he told he wanted to forgive Geralt, but there's only so much he could take. How could he know the mountain fiasco wouldn't happen again? Ominous words, he realizes now. He gave in back then, and this is where it's brought him: with the pieces of his heart stuck in his throat. Geralt had promised, had given him his word, and what would happen if he does the same this time? What would make it any different?
Jaskier doesn't know what to do. He wants to fix things, he truly does. But like Geralt himself had said in Oxenfurt: I'm tired of always being in fucking pieces.
One blue eye opens when he hears the cursing and-- nostrils flaring. Ah, right. That's what's bothering him. Jaskier is used to being a touchy person, he hasn't even thought about how that would influence his scent. Because of Nilfgaard, they haven't exactly been out and about being social since they got together.
"I hugged him. We spent the day doing chores together, and I hugged him, and asked him to be my friend. He accepted." A pause as he considers how to word things next - he isn't saying this to placate Geralt's stupid jealousy (although it wouldn't be a bad idea, if they're going to have this talk, they need it free of any stupid assumptions). He's saying it for the sake of his own boundaries. "I woke up here, so I can only assume he was the one to bring me when I fell asleep - because that's what friends do. I have many a friend, Geralt. And I like hugging them. I also like going to taverns or feasts and dance with strangers, enjoy guiding the delicate feet of sweet maidens through the rhythm of a waltz. Human contact is part of my life, Geralt, one that isn't up for negotiation."
A sigh. Hopefully that's clear enough. He shouldn't need to clarify that said human contact is completely platonic - if he should, well. Things may be worse than he thought. Then again, isn't that what has brought them in this situation in the first place? Geralt not trusting his word. That's the topic Jaskier needs to jump on, but he knows Geralt, understands how his mind works. He isn't in the mood to go through the old same reassurances of you aren't the monster they say you are, you deserve kindness when he is feeling like the witcher had been behaving like shit, but if he doesn't take care of this first, they'll never be able to advance the conversation.
"Nobody chooses who they fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants." He explains as restless fingers are tapped on the wood of the lute, a leg getting shaky as well. "What exactly have I asked of you that you think you cannot give me?"
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And he didn't always smell like Eskel after giving back his claim and avoiding him. Not even coming to dinner. Ciri had told him that the bard had been in the library and likely was there all night, based on how he had been slumped over his books. There were plenty of other bedrooms, the bard could have found one that wasn't even anywhere near Geralt, if he had wanted to avoid him so badly.
No one chooses who they love, Jaskier says, as though a heart is a thing that can make decisions on its own, without any input from his head. Not that Geralt would know, all he has for reference are the false feelings planted in himself and Yennefer both by a poorly-conceived djinn wish. It was a choice, even if it wasn't, perhaps, the best one he'd ever made. But it must chafe at Jaskier, a man who loves his freedom and his choices, to not be able to choose who is the object of his love, or to rescind it by his own will when he so desires.
"Then I am sorry," he says, "that I've given you a burden that isn't of your own choosing." Loving a witcher can be nothing else but a burden, and loving Geralt of all witchers, doubly so.
"And that I cannot ease it with reciprocation."
It's a cruel sort of irony that Jaskier, a man who feels love so deeply and truly, would fall in love with a witcher who has had all such emotions stripped from him.
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It's a miracle that he manages to put his lute down against the wall gently when the fury returns, an angry and hurt ball of fire that lights up the entire bedroom when he jumps off the windowsill to pace the room with open arms, calling attention to its heat, its colors, its passion.
(His grandmother called him my buttercup because of his sunny personality - and like the sun, he burns bright and hot, trying to melt every frozen heart around him.)
Geralt's doing it again - doubting his own emotions, Jaskier can understand. Geralt's training pushes him to ignore those, to pretend they don't exist. It's not ideal, and it can get irritating, but he understands. He could be patient to work through them with time. But doubting Jaskier's word? His feelings on the matter? After twenty years of care and songs and friendship? It's like Geralt is spiting on his very face.
"Why would I follow a burden around the Continent for two decades, you cockeyed imbecile? It's as if you didn't know me at all! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, yet no matter how many times I say it, you keep dismissing my feelings! I CHOSE to stay by your side, I CHOSE to befriend you, I CHOSE to give you my youth, and I CHOSE to embrace these feelings instead of trying to-- LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!"
Coming closer is torture, he can feel Geralt's natural warmth coming off him in waves, even in winter. Touching his face is even worse, fingers burning on every inch of skin that makes contact when he grabs the witcher's chin to make him look at him. Blue eyes look up, fearless as always, carrying the same fire that is keeping his heart beating faster than a shot arrow.
"No, I haven't fucked your brother." He almost spits the word, but it feels good to bring it out of the shadows, to stop dancing around it. "And I'll never fuck any witcher, because every time I see golden eyes, I think of YOU. How could you possibly doubt my love after everything we've been through? I don't ask for much, Geralt. I want your trust, which I thought I had, and I cannot believe I had to ask for it again! Is one word from Vesemir truly enough to overthrow what we have? Does it mean that little to you?" The need to emote and flap his hands around is a good one, that way he can let go of Geralt's face before the touch destroys him. "I thought I had been clear back in Oxenfurt - I don't need poetry from you, or an epic confession. I only need your honesty. I only need you to want this because that's what I mean to you. And you SWORE on the trials that made you! Were you lying to me to shut me up?"
He steps back, opening his arms, his voice gaining a mocking tone.
"But you still want to do this? Fine! Let's do this! If you cannot reciprocate, if you cannot feel, then what were you running away from that day in Vizima after the sight-reading contest?"
Stomping and with tears finally appearing his eyes, Jaskier reaches the shelf and grabs the book with the ribbon inside, which he drops on the desk with a blomp.
"THIS isn't lust, Geralt!" He grabs the gwent deck next, same treatment. "THIS isn't lust either! And neither is this!" The wood carving on Roach isn't dropped, but it's put down rather strongly too, noisy all the same, because everything must be dramatic with this bard. "Sir Practicality kept all these, not your cock! My best friend in the whole world went fishing before sunrise so I could have seafood stew, not the monster hunter!"
A pause to breathe, because all the yelling has left him panting. Usually he's excellent at controlling his breathing, thanks to being a performer, but he isn't exactly in control at the moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, letting sadness take over instead of anger to match the words he chooses next.
"It was a brother that lamented the loss of another one of your kind back in the hunting cabin. Because there are many kinds of love and care, and grief is a manifestation of them." He sighs. "So I ask you again, Geralt. What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?"
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Those fingers leave his face sooner rather than later, though, and he feels where they had been even after they're gone, like he had left marks. Geralt wants those hands back on him, even if it's just to pull him. He would want it even if it's just to strike him.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels forward and his voice dies in his throat. He had fled Vizima because he had felt that terrible want all the way to his bones, but wanting isn't love, is it? He has little time to contemplate it before Jaskier turns, stomps off to the bookshelf and retrieves the potion book, the one with the silk ribbon in it. He slams it down onto the desk; then the gwent desk, the horse carving. The little gifts that he'd given Geralt over the years that had made their way to Kaer Morhen, because-- because they were things that Jaskier had given him, and he had wanted them to survive. Was that borne out of lust? Probably not, because the bard had given him that ribbon before he had ever started to notice long legs and blue eyes. It had been blue once, blue like Jaskier's eyes, but sunlight and time had dulled it to a steely gray.
Bringing up the death of Clovis is a low blow, though, and one that Geralt feels acutely-- Clovis had been in his cohort, and, aside from Eskel, the only other one that had been left alive.
What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?
"Love," he replies, and his voice comes out hoarse, throaty in a way that doesn't make Jaskier weak at the knees. "I can't love you, not in the way that you love me. Whatever capacity I had for it was burned out of me in the Trials. Even if I said the words to you, they would be nothing but words."
The word without the sentiment behind it is worse than a lie.
"And what is left over-- they botched me, Jaskier, when they made me."
It's the only reasonable conclusion that he can come to; they made him wrong, when they gave him the extra mutagens. Something went wrong, left him with scraps of emotions instead of scouring him clean. Flaws on the inside instead of the outside, that couldn't be seen so easily. Had the mages known at the time...
"They left me with echoes of what any other man would feel, but nothing more than that. I won't deceive you into thinking that there's something more in me when what I have is too paltry to be worth anything to you."
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And so he finally does.
He throws his head back and just screams, probably making his old singing coaches cringe over at Oxenfurt for what he's doing to his throat, but Cirilla may appreciate it. It's a powerful sound by a powerful voice, no words needed to understand the frustration that fuels it. There's only so much he can take, not even a romantic like him (who sings about love conquering it all) can withstand so much bullshit thrown at him without taking a hit or two. Or three, or a hundred. He's only human after all.
"You're bloody impossible! You aren't hearing a word I'm saying! You don't trust me!"
Reaching the door is easy, opening it is not. His hand freezes on the knob, and Jaskier rests his forehead against the wood as he sighs. He said he owes Eskel one, and he meant it. Leaving right now would equal burdening him with this shit the whole season - Cirilla, too. They deserve better than that.
Fuck his fondness for witchers.
Jaskier drags his feet back to the desk and decides to sit on it, legs crossed and hands going to his hips in his usual scolding housewife position. Even if they don't end up together after this conversation, he decides, they should at least reach some peaceful agreement not to make life hell for the rest of the keep and themselves.
"One!" He suddenly exclaims very seriously. "Stop assuming how I feel about things. If something it's worth keeping or not, that's MY choice to make. You KNOW that, you KNOW how much I hate people deciding my feelings for me. And if something makes me happy, so happy that I can feel my heart bursting, then I'd say that's worth the world. Two!" A hand frees his hip to start counting with his fingers. "Either there's some conversation I must be missing here or you're high in potions, because I never asked for the word love - I never asked for any particular words from you. I asked you to swear that you wanted me to be with you as more than friends. I asked you to swear that's what I mean to you, and you did. On the Path. And it meant the world to me. Are you following me so far?"
He's trying not to speak in riddles, just like Geralt likes it, but it's hard not to when discussing feelings. They're an abstract concept, something that needs to be described by poetry because of their very nature. His points are clear, he wants to believe: if something shakes him to his core, then it's worth keeping. And Geralt has shaken him to his core. It's not hard to add two plus two.
"Three." Another finger raises, but this time his voice softens a little it. Almost-- ashamed? "Back when Vesemir was talking to you, I-- I froze. Right at the beginning. I wanted to jump in to defend you and I couldn't, because--" His hands fall to his lap, so do his eyes. "--the way he talked to you, it reminded me of my father. I'm not saying you and I are the same!" He hurries to clarify, that shame completely taking over. "What's happened to you is atrocious, and I'm just a spoiled brat. What I'm trying to say is-- I felt helpless. Because that's what that logic does to you, Geralt. 'You can't have something because of who you are' takes all power to make choices away from you - I imagine that's what the elder witchers were going for. Don't make choices of your own, just follow the Path."
His voice breaks when he says that last part. Fuck, sitting down like this and going through things methodically is helping him a lot to calm down and remember how fucked up things are for Geralt, to remember why he decided to be patient all the way back when he was eighteen and work on a friendship that felt one-sided for a long, long time.
He's broken, and you are the only one that can help him.
Overwhelmed by it all, Jaskier raises his hand again and this time he cups Geralt's cheek, blue eyes begging for gold to stay with him, to believe his words. He surprises himself by feeling relief over the touch being comforting instead of burning - hopefully that's how it feels for Geralt as well.
"Love... love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape, see, but can you define the shape of a pear? I know I can't, not even with all my poetry. I don't need you to understand it, Geralt, I don't need you to put a name on it. All I need is to know there's something here." His other hand moves to rest on Geralt's very slow heart. "Everything you just told me - you're repeating their teachings. You're repeating what humanity has taught you through stones and insults. But even if you were right, a leftover, botched echo is still a feeling."
A calloused thumb strokes Geralt's cheek and before Jaskier can curse his own heart for giving in again, he pulls to bring Geralt closer and make their foreheads touch. A deep breath - gods, how he's missed this.
"I don't want you to tell me you aren't capable of feeling things, because that's a big pile of horseshit if I've ever smelled one. All your problems were born from you caring too much. Forget about witcher logic and your teachings, forget about Vesemir, forget about the shape and size of love, forget about the Path and the trials and the differences between you and I - how would you feel if I said I'm not worthy of you because I'm not powerful and immortal?" His fingers grab Geralt's shirt, and something sad sneaks into his scent - those are doubts that haunt him all the time. "Forget all that. I'm going to ask again, and the only answer I want to hear has to come from your heart, mutated as it is, because I love it that way. Four."
Another deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"Why did you save a bloody ribbon when I have hundreds of those? Why did you wake up before sunrise to fish for me when we had free food in the kitchens? Why does it matter if I smell of Eskel? Why did you take a moment in the middle of the road, while we were in a hurry, to tell me you won't share me? Why did you run away in Vizima? If it's because of something warm in your chest, something you only feel for me... then that's all I need from you. Nothing else."
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He turns from the door without opening it, though, and sits on the desk. Geralt watches him like he's a kikimore or some other terribly dangerous thing, rather than a bard who probably couldn't do a thing against him. Jaskier starts ticking things off on his fingers, all the ways, apparently, that Geralt is wrong. The witcher thinks he keeps up with the bard's effusive monologue well enough: things that make him happy-- though Geralt's really not sure if he falls into that category at this point-- are worth keeping; he is not asking Geralt for more than he can give, or for words that he cannot say. Jaskier asks if he's following, and the witcher nods.
The bard's hand touches his cheek, and the texture of his skin is familiar-- smooth palm, calloused fingertips. Geralt tips his head into his palm, just a little, almost without thinking about it. No one touched him as kindly as Jaskier, not even Yen.
Love is pear-shaped, apparently, and that only makes sense to Geralt in the sense that their relationship in the past few days has also gone completely fucking pear-shaped. It's not even an emotion that Geralt's sure he can experience, but it sure has gone and made a fucking mess of things. All he knows is that over the past twenty years, Jaskier has inspired enough inexplicable emotion in him to make him certain that he's a botched witcher, that even mutagens and alchemy and everything else they did to him couldn't prepare him for one teenaged bard in Posada. Sure, some of those emotions that he'd felt over the years were new variations on frustration and deep aggravation, but still.
Their foreheads touch. Jaskier's thumb rasps across the day's worth of stubble on his cheek. If he could, Geralt would live in this moment; nevertheless, he'll remember, those times when the world is shit, that there was someone who would put their hands on him gently and kindly as though he was worth more than just his competency at monster-slaying.
The bard throws a lot of questions at him, all of which have slightly different answers, variations on a common theme-- the ribbon and the gwent deck and the horse figure only have value because they are things that Jaskier gave him. The hours digging for clams and fishing in the frigid waters of the Pontar were worth the trouble because Jaskier deserves to have the things he likes, and Geralt wants to provide them for him. Eskel's scent, because he doesn't want to lose this, his warm touches and fond regard and everything that comes with it. Vizima, because the depth of his wanting was a frightening thing.
Defining the shape of a pear.
"You make me feel things that I don't have names for." Maybe it's love. Maybe it's something else. It's only ever been for Jaskier. "Things that I have nothing to compare to."
He blindly gropes for Jaskier's other hand, then brings it up to his throat, to that soft spot under his jaw where his pulse is easily felt; pushes his fingers into it, to his heartbeat that's at twice what a witcher's should be, in the hope that his words and his racing heart will tell him everything that he wants to know.
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I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting
A cute little gasp escapes him when he feels that heartbeat under his fingers, followed by a choked sound, a mix of a chuckle and a sob. The sweetness returns to his scent - not overwhelming as other times, but it's there, mixing with the bitterness. Poets through the ages have put feelings into words, lovers have showed them through gifts, but there's nothing more honest and natural than a heartbeat. No gesture in the world can top this.
"That's it, darling. That's your pear." He says with a smile, fingers stroking Geralt's neck lovingly. The term of endearment isn't planned, but he's too touched by this not to use it. Hope is trying to peek back... "And it's the most romantic pear I've ever gotten. Anyone can toss a coin and buy flowers, but this? This is your body, calling for me. Fuck, I want to kiss you so badly right now."
Yet he doesn't, because while he's ready to let his heart explode with love, to throw himself back in Geralt's arms, he hasn't forgotten this keeps happening. He had been wary to forgive Geralt and that had just been their friendship - how would his heart survive after the final relationship jump?
"If you ask me, Geralt - I think we have something amazing here. And I know this is too new for you, too much. I don't mind reassuring you from time to time, guiding you through it - haven't I done that the last twenty years? With friendship, but the point stands nonetheless. It's my honor that you let me in like this. I want nothing more than having you on the bed between my legs and kissing every single one of your scars, telling you how they only make you more handsome. I can be patient through your witchering ways - I have been for two decades. But I need you to believe it, my dear. To believe in us, in my words, to trust me. Doubts are fine, I have them myself - but please don't put up your walls every time Vesemir tells you too." A sigh. "They go up in a moment but it takes me days to bring them down again. There's only so much I can take - I've said that already, haven't I? Back in Vizima."
He forgave Geralt because he promised to try. And he did - he's been Geralt still, throwing jabs at Jaskier, brooding when he felt like it, but less mean, more accepting of their friendship. Jaskier's hand grabs Geralt chin again, searching those golden eyes for any signs of doubt or honesty.
"I don't want coin or a bodyguard. I want your company - your stories and your pear. Be as a friend, or your significant other. I like you, Geralt. I love you. Do you believe me?"
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If he can trust him with that, he can trust him with whatever the hell all of this is, can't he? With his heart, or what's left of it these days after the Trials burned through him and the world tried to crush him.
Geralt wants to kiss him. He wants to push him down onto the bed and strip off all of his clothes and make the bard smell like nothing but him. He wants Jaskier to do whatever he wants with him; he'd get on his knees again for him, if it would please him. Anything. Anything that Jaskier wanted from him, anything that would please him, would be his with just a word.
The bard grasps his chin again, tilts his face so that he can look into Geralt's eyes; the pupils are dilated, round instead of cat's-eyed. He can constrict them at will, usually, but some things make that harder-- adrenaline, for one thing. Looking at Jaskier, for another.
Do you believe me?
"I don't understand you," he says, and it's true-- he doesn't understand how Jaskier can give him second chance after second chance, "but I believe you. I trust you, Jask."
Perhaps he doesn't have to understand him. Perhaps he would come to understand him, in time. Trust is the important thing, and he has already trusted Jaskier with so many things. When has he ever truly been let down by him for anything that mattered? He'll be far gentler with this soft, weak part of Geralt than Geralt had ever been with him.
The wolf brooch is still in his hand; he'd been holding it this whole time, clutched in his palm until the edges dug in. He uncurls his fingers, offers it back to Jaskier. Both a symbol, and also because it was never Geralt's to begin with. Even if it represents Geralt's claim to him, it's a thing that Jaskier chooses to wear; he is only claimed because he wishes to be.
"This is yours," he says, "if you still want it."
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The mirth sends all the last of the bitterness away, and Jaskier's scent is back to being overwhelmingly sweet. The nickname is back, and he has Geralt's trust. His feelings, too, beating strongly in that broad chest. They have each other, they have trust, and they keep managing to work through their troubles - even if they needed a little push to do so.
They're going to be fine.
They have pears.
Geralt's offering the brooch himself, without Jaskier having to ask for it, that makes him smile from ear to ear. He doesn't grab it though - with his heart beating fast, he reaches for Geralt's face instead, to bring him in for a kiss. It starts sweet and tender but gods, he's missed this, missed him, so Jaskier ends up nibbling on Geralt's lower lip and letting his tongue make a quick peek before finally pulling back, cheeks flushed.
"I do. Go on, my wolf, make your claim. And then you shall start working on making my scent right again." A wink. "I hope you understand I may have to hug Eskel again tomorrow as a thank you for pushing us here, so you better be incredibly thorough."
He's being a little shit, and he knows it. But a possessive Geralt is such a fun Geralt, and going down to breakfast with a purple neck would be the perfect fuck you on Vesemir's face.
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He pulls away far too quickly for Geralt's liking, and the witcher chases his lips, one last quick press before he starts talking. It's too long to be without, though, not when just that relatively tame kiss set a fire under his skin. The only cure for it is the bard's hands on him-- his body, calling for him. A poetic way of saying that he wants Jaskier under him and screaming his name.
A wink and a few coy words gives him all the permission that he needs.
"I'll pin this to you in the morning," he says, setting the brooch on the desk. He'd put it on him now, but there's a lot of fabric between him and Jaskier's skin and so many buttons, and Geralt has very little patience. He kisses him again, getting his arms around the bard and pulling him in, then ducks his head against his neck and breathes. He smells sweet again, honey and happiness, and Geralt bites the pulse point on Jaskier's throat where the smell is strongest.
"How fond are you of this doublet?"
Geralt thinks it might be the worst thing he's ever seen on Jaskier. Hardly flattering at all, it would be practically a favor to get it off of him.
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Jaskier's body react easily to every touch: he throws his head back to offer his neck, groaning at the bite, and his legs close around Geralt as soon as he comes closer. How fond is he of this doublet? Honestly, Jaskier is fond of all his doublets. They're fine silks, not exactly cheap. But tonight is a special occasion, and there's no way they're getting interrupted again thanks to Eskel. He has a whole winter ahead of him to sew and well...
A fantasy to fulfill.
Twenty years of pining and awkward boners... time to fucking celebrate.
His arms are thrown around Geralt's shoulders and Jaskier licks his ear before whispering against it.
"Throw me on the bed and rip it."
If that doesn't show how much he loves him, honestly, nothing will.
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How could Geralt refuse such a command? It's the sweetest one that he's ever been given, though he has no doubts that Jaskier will give him more, and sweeter, ones in time.
He gets his hands underneath the bard's ass and lifts him, carrying him those few feet to the bed before dropping him onto it. It's not the Oxenfurt bed-- and, gods, he still regrets not getting the chance to fuck Jaskier in that bed, with its soft feather mattress and bountiful covers, big enough to fit the two of them and another person besides-- but it'll do. And there is something that Geralt finds very appealing about Jaskier, the bard who loves his finery and luxuries, in a bed piled high with furs and lit only in guttering firelight.
Geralt pursues him, climbing onto the bed after him and grabbing him by the thighs, manhandling him closer. It's easy, both because the bard doesn't resist his grasp and because witcher's strength makes even a grown man's weight insignificant. He pulls the bard's long legs apart and makes space for himself in between them.
The buttons holding the bard's doublet together are small and made of some shiny golden metal, probably bronze, and quite pretty in shape; Geralt thumbs at the one that sits right at the hollow of Jaskier's throat. A shame, then, that he was going to lose so many of them, as Geralt grabs the fabric on either side, bunching it up in his fists, and yanks. The fabric tears in one long stroke, buttons flying off into the dark corners of the room. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise at the results of his efforts, and keeps going-- pulling the silk off of his shoulders and down his arms, eventually tossing the thing away in more than one piece.
"It looks better on my floor," he rumbles, his eyes sweeping over the revealed chemise. He would be tempted to tear that asunder, too, and it would be easier than heavy silk, but he knows that Jaskier likes this one. It's got the silk lace at the cuffs and collar, and little buttercups embroidered on it. So this garment is spared, simply because of the bard's fondness, and Geralt actually takes the time to undo the buttons at his throat before leaning in to leave marks. He hadn't been subtle with his marks in Oxenfurt and he isn't subtle about them now-- he sucks wide, aching bruises into Jaskier's neck, too high up to ever conceal with a collar.
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His blood may be traveling south pretty quickly, but his ego is hitting the fucking roof. And Geralt wanted him to believed he was only capable of 'echos' while bringing him to his most intimate, private space? Hah.
As soon as Geralt's hands touch his legs, Jaskier is opening them himself in a silent invitation, lips being licked at the sight of Geralt climbing on top of him... which causes him to accidentally bite his tongue when he whimpers as his doublet is ripped as easily as it had been paper.
He'll spend the whole day tomorrow searching for those buttons.
Worth it.
"Fuck." It's deep, heartfelt, somehow managing to pronounce every letter naughtily. "I love how strong you are." Jaskier's fully hard now, and his hips thrust up when Geralt descends on him to mark his neck. "Do I look better on your bed as well, my wolf?" He asks as deft fingers start working on the buttons of Geralt's pants. "Do I--ah, yes, mmh, keep doing that-- do I smell of you yet? I want to, so badly-- mmh, fuck-- I want every single witcher in this keep to smell what you've done to me as soon as I leave this room."
Buttons undone, Jaskier slips a hand inside, starting to stroke Geralt's bulge through his small clothes. Usually he wouldn't jump so soon on it, but he remembers the little witcher biology lesson Geralt gave him in the cabin, so he wants to help. Besides, after having to wait for so long, he's simply dying to hold such a powerful cock in his hand and have his way with it all night long.
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The bard smells fucking amazing. Honey sweet, the spicy sharp edge of his arousal, warm and open and so very willing-- good enough to eat. The taste of his skin is almost as good, sweet with a salt tang from his sweat, and Geralt could map every inch of his body with mouth and tongue and still not be satisfied. Maybe he'd never be satisfied, maybe he could glut himself on Jaskier from now until the day he died and it wouldn't ever be enough.
Geralt can smell how hard Jaskier is already without even having to feel his cock. Jaskier's always eager for a tumble but this is quick even for him-- already standing to attention even though the witcher hadn't done much at all. He's almost a little envious of him for that. The bard's fingers get to work on Geralt's trousers as well, his dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons. Bless his irrepressible horniness for giving him the manual dexterity to undo even the fiddliest buttons without looking.
"You'd look better without all these fucking clothes," Geralt growls in reply, and, now that he's marked Jaskier's throat, there's the whole rest of him that demands his attention. He tugs the chemise up from where it's tucked into Jaskier's trousers, then drags it up over his head and throws it aside.
With the chemise gone, Jaskier's hairy chest is bared to him, and there is surprising appeal to running his hands over it, the coarse drag of hair against the callouses on his palms. Geralt thumbs at the bard's nipples, watching how they peak under his touch, then leans in to get at them with his mouth. Teases them and scrapes his teeth over them, moving from one and then to the other. Jaskier manages to wriggle a hand into his open pants and palms his cock, and Geralt makes a low noise against his hairy pectoral-- why is he so hairy, and why does he like it?
"Fuck," he says, eloquently, and bucks his hips into the bard's hand. His heart rate had been up high enough from their argument that his cock is filling a little faster than usual-- still far slower than a normal man, but not quite the glacial pace from when they were in the cabin.
"Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, his nose pressed to Jaskier's chest and filled with the scent of horny bard. "You're going to smell of nothing but me by the time I'm done with you."
His hand gropes for a moment at the front of Jaskier's trousers before he realizes that the damn things don't open in the front and has to run his hand around to his back. The fucking things laced at the small of it, an absurd way to close his godsdamned pants that meant there was this little fucking bow right above his ass, drawing attention to it. He tugs on it now-- which he has wanted to do many, many times before in various contexts-- yanking the bow until it comes undone.
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