That one word already shakes Jaskier's entire world, but then Geralt keeps talking, saying he's earned more and-- by Melitele's tits, he uses the f-word. And not the one he likes so much.
Jaskier's smile could light up the entire fucking inn.
Forget the bitterness - Jaskier smells sweetly now, happiness exuding from every inch of his body, eyes twinkling like the stars, grin almost splitting his face in two. He's still sore so he doesn't enter his dramatics mode, but it's obvious that a general bounce has returned to his limbs.
And before Geralt gets away, because he knows that face, knows the conversation has become too much for him, Jaskir leans in and hugs the hell out of him.
"I forgive you, old friend." Gods, it feels good to be able to say those words once more. Makes his heart beat to the rhythm of Toss a coin again. "And thank you. For saving me, and for taking care of my wounds." He pulls back and this time his little smirk is more of a teasing kind. "I won't apologize for the pillow, however, I shall carry that success with me. Your cloak is mine now too."
Okay, the cloak part he doesn't mean, not really. But he still grabs it and wraps himself in it, enjoying having this little piece of Geralt protecting him. He was too hurt, both in the emotional and the physical sense, to appreciate it on the ride here. Now though? Now he doesn't let go of it, moving to lie down on the pillow that is left on the bed. See, he's being a good boy!
"Let us sup, then, my dear witcher!" Congrats, Geralt, you've earned some extra terms of endearment. Jaskier pats the spot next to him. "Come, Geralt. Bring the tray and sit with me. Let us share food like the old times. Then I'll promise I'll rest - I am tired and I don't want to stay here for too long either."
Where is he going, he has no idea. But they can figure that out in the morning. Now he only wants to cuddle against Geralt's broad back, just like he used to do while sharing bedrolls and rooms with only one bed.
Jaskier, he thinks, forgives too easily-- with just a few words, he casts off his anger and reluctance like an unwanted cloak, the bitter tang of it disappearing from his scent. He smells sweet and light and welcoming, a familiar thing that had followed him for twenty years, and there's a part of Geralt that wants to fall forward and push his face into the bard's neck and just breathe. He shoves the impulse aside, of course; Jaskier is injured and their renewed friendship is only fledgling. That kind of contact would be too intimate, friends do not bury their faces against their friends' bodies to memorize the nuances of their scent.
He's caught in a hug before he can move out of Jaskier's reach, however, and though the bard is covered in bandages and his old cloak, he's still very much undressed. The scent of him is inescapable, mixed with Geralt's from wearing his clothes, and that combination is something that he has to steel himself against-- heady like sweet wine on an empty stomach. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he settles for patting the bard gently on the side, like he would pet Roach's flank after a long ride.
When finally released, Geralt grunts in lieu of a verbal response. Jaskier can keep his apologies and the witcher's cloak besides, Geralt will be fine without it. It's only practical that the bard switch from his flashy, attention-seeking doublets to something more subdued, anyway, and even as the weather gets cooler as autumn sets in, Geralt will manage without the cloak. And if Jaskier agrees--
Well. Geralt hasn't even asked yet, and it's not something that he has to do tonight. The bard might not even want to winter in Kaer Morhen, where his only company will be a bunch of witchers and a child surprise, holed up in a decaying fortress until the spring thaw. He would likely prefer the comforts of Oxenfurt or Novigrad, though it would pain Geralt to have to leave him there.
He fetches the tray while Jaskier gets comfortable; the mattress is decent and the sheets are clean, which is about all that anyone could ask for. The food is... serviceable, some cheese and bread and pottage, the now lukewarm cider, but Geralt can't really complain. Jaskier is far better at charming nicer fare from the cooks than he is, especially at this time of night.
"Eat."
He pushes the tray towards him on the bed. Jaskier can eat whatever he wants from it; Geralt will finish whatever is left over. The bard needs sustenance more than he does after his captivity, and a witcher can go for days longer than a human on little to no rations.
A pat on his side. Oh, Geralt. It makes Jaskier chuckle - would he kill for a proper hug? Absolutely. Jaskier could spend a whole day just touching Geralt, platonically or not, and nothing would make him happier than Geralt returning the sentiment. They're nowhere near that, sadly, but Jaskier is still glad for that little pat: it proves Geralt is already keeping his word. He's trying. And that makes him all warm and fuzzy inside.
Fine cheese and wine Jaskier may love, but he's also spent many years on the road, be with Geralt or alone. Coin isn't always available to eat the best of the best, Melitele knows they've stayed at some really crappy inns in their time. That added to the his recent time in captivity? It makes this tray look and smell like the most delicious banquet.
The cup of cider is the first thing he picks up, closing both hands around it to protect and receive its warmth as he takes a deep sniff and lets the aroma wrap around him. That aroma ends up going straight to his head - a lightweight he is not, but his stomach is empty and his mind tired. So he ends up picking up some cheese and bread first.
"Geralt." He says in between bites, giving the witcher that looks like says I'm about to ask something from you and it won't be up for discussion. "I told you to sit with me. Please. I want-" Your presence, your warmth, to feel safe next to you, I've missed sharing tiny wobbly beds with a witcher larger than a bear. "To hear about you and Princess Cirilla. Living image of Pavetta, is she not?"
To be fair, it's not a complete lie, he does want to know about that too. But right now what he needs the most is comfort. And while Geralt is not at a point where he's offering his hugs (yet?), bumping shoulders would already be enough.
Geralt would prefer to stand-- in fact, he'd prefer to stand with his sword at his side in front of the door, ready to cut down any man who'd try to enter. This would do nothing to help the reputations of witchers, of course, nor would it be particularly subtle for him to skulk around the door like a surly guard dog, but his desires don't always line up perfectly with what is prudent. And what Jaskier is asking of him is a small thing-- just so sit with him, like friends. To talk like they used to, or, maybe, not how they used to, since Geralt would rarely talk. Better than they used to.
The witcher sits on the edge of the bed, but only after moving his swords so that they lean against the wall in easy reach.
"You've been back to Cintra."
It's not a question; Jaskier knows the princess' name and what she looks like. He must have seen her at some point to know how much like her mother she is, and, really, it's unreasonable for him to assume that Jaskier would stay away from a well-paying job just because he wanted to give Cintra a wide berth. There were times that they had separated. Jaskier just had the foresight to plan his trips to Calanthe's court at times when Geralt would not be with him.
"Ciri is more like her mother than you'd think," he says. "She has her gifts, too. It's why Nilfgaard wants her so badly."
Not a question, and it isn't scolding either. Just stating the fact. Jaskier hadn't been sure how Geralt would react to him working in Cintra, considering how badly he had wanted to stay away from the place, but it seems he doesn't mind. Good, that's what supportive friends do. After eating another piece of bread and cheese, Jaskier finally takes a sip of his cider and oh, it does wonders to his weary body. The alcohol helps his muscles relax, makes his stomach warm and puts his mind at ease. Although the last point is more Geralt himself than the drink.
"Queen Calanthe said that if she had to hire a bard for celebrations, then she wanted the sassy one." He explains with pride in his voice. "I never hesitated to mouth off the nobles, and I think she found entertainment in that. The pay was good as well."
The edge of the bed? Damn. Well, he'll have to work with that. Jaskier puts down his mug on the tray, then drags it and the pillow with him as he crawls until he can rest right next to Geralt. This close and not distracted by emotions anymore, he can tell the man is smelling of onions again, because not even with a princess at his side he'll take care of himself.
Mental note: bathe him with oils soon.
And isn't that an amusing thought? Tonight he's the one being taken care of, yet he's already falling so easily back into his old nurse-for-the-witcher role. Geralt truly has a tight leash on his heart, and that should be a scary thought, but honestly? Jaskier likes to think this is a sign that he's needed, and basks in it. Starting right now, with the fact Geralt hasn't picked any food yet. Jaskier pushes some bread and cheese into the man's fingers before picking the pottage for himself, and he sips it idly as he lets his body slack against his friend's side. Sensing those hard muscles against him make the whole thing more real (it's happening, we're together again) and adds a layer to that feeling of safety Geralt always wraps him with (nobody is going to get me tonight).
"Poor girl. So young and already lost it all, already carrying a power greater than she is. I'm pleased to hear you've taken her under your wing, my friend, no place is safer." A pause to yawn. With food and alcohol in his belly, he's getting drowsy. "Where is she now anyway?"
A bit like onion, yes, and also a bit like blood. Geralt had had to kill more than a few men to get to Jaskier, and that kind of thing is never a clean business. The combination is probably not a pleasant one, but he had been more concerned with getting Jaskier cleaned up than he was about himself. And before that--
Well. He'd never kept the oils with him, and Jaskier's the one who knows the ratios and which scents can be combined into something that wouldn't irritate his nose. And if Geralt tried to approximate it and didn't get it right, then he wouldn't smell right and it would undoubtedly put him into a foul mood. So... onions and horse it is, and everyone can just live with it.
Jaskier is tucked up against Geralt's side, a long line of warmth against him, and that's... normal. He pushes bread and cheese into his hands-- less normal-- but he's taken the pottage for himself, so the witcher is satisfied that he'll be well fed.
"Kaer Morhen. It's too early in the year for any of the other witchers to be back yet, but Vesemir never leaves. He's watching over her." Geralt rips off a piece of the bread and some of the cheese. "My old fencing teacher."
The closest thing, really, that Geralt has to a father.
"The trail up to the keep will be impassible after the first snow, so it will be the safest place to train her until the thaw. I'll have to be on my way by mid-autumn, or I won't be able to make it back."
And that threshold of no return is fast approaching. With Jaskier or without, Geralt will have to make it through Morhen Valley before the snows.
Kaer Morhen - the Wolf School headquarters. The closest thing Geralt has to a home. A place of stories and legends. Can't deny it, Jaskier is jealous that Cirilla gets to visit it, to live there. To see and learn everything that made Geralt who he is today. It makes sense, he knows, she's his Child Surprise - his daughter in all sense of the word. She gets privileges he'll never get access to - and isn't that an ironic thought, because Jaskier already has unique access to a mountain of things regarding Geralt. Like rubbing chamomile on his lovely bottom.
But he can't help it, he's ambitious and in love. When it comes to Geralt, he wants it all.
"The man responsible for your breathtaking use of the sword? She's as safe as she can be, then."
A bit of a generic answer, he knows, but his mind is now lost in the rest of what Geralt said. He forces himself to finish the pottage, not matter how hard his stomach is turning right now. Separating when winter comes isn't news to them, they've been doing it since they met. Jaskier to Oxenfurt, Geralt to Kaer Morhen. It's tradition by now.
They just reunited, though. Jaskier doesn't want to part so soon, not after a year of heartbreak. He wants to stay by Geralt's side, catch up with his adventures, get him all tidy and pretty again, sleep to his side and dream to the unique rhythm of his heartbeat, he wants--
Whatever you want.
All. He wants it all. When he was a child, Jaskier was't allowed to want many things outside of what was viscount appropriate. Jaskier promised he would never be shackled by those chains again, and here is Geralt, offering him the world.
The pottage bowl is put down and Jaskier drinks a good amount of cider before speaking again, a hand reaching to hold onto Geralt's sleeve.
"Whatever you want, you said. Did you really mean it?" He rests his head on Geralt's shoulder, eyes closing. "I know how our winters usually go, I remember the routine. But I can't do it again so soon, Geralt. I just got you back."
Kaer Morhen would, by all metrics, be the safest place for Jaskier to be. He had always wintered in Oxenfurt, in the comfort and familiarity of the Oxenfurt Academy, surrounded by his friends and colleagues. He would tell Geralt about it, when they met again in spring, about the songs he'd composed and the nights he'd spent at any number of taverns, drinking and singing until his voice gave out.
Geralt's jaw tightens. He had said whatever you want, but he has a responsibility to Ciri, as well. Leaving her with Vesemir for a time while he went to find Jaskier was necessary, but he couldn't leave her alone all winter to stay with the bard. He couldn't abandon her again, not after he had spent so many years running away from his duties to her.
"Jaskier..."
If he brought him to the keep, Vesemir might not approve at first, and his brothers might not enjoy having another outsider in their home, but so long as Geralt takes responsibility for him, he'd be able to stay. The issue is that there are so few reasons for him to want to-- the company wouldn't be nearly as lively or entertaining as in Oxenfurt, and the library is full of witchers' texts and monster manuals, not poetry. The fortress is aging and drafty, and there are areas of it that are inaccessible from the ravages of time and disrepair. The larders and pantries would be well-stocked, but with food that could last an entire winter, and there wouldn't be any of Jaskier's accustomed delicacies.
"I can't stay in Oxenfurt all winter. Ciri will need me."
Geralt seriously needs to stop saying his name like that, it'll drive him crazy. A shiver runs down his spine, and it has shit to do with the temperature. The fire is still burning, and between the cloak and Geralt's body against him, Jaskier is more than warm. In fact, he's cozy, and he wishes the circumstances that brought this were different, because this could make for quite a lovely memory.
That answer though... Jaskier frowns, not knowing if being frustrated or flattered. Geralt isn't even considering the idea of Jaskier joining him, and that hurts a little, even if he knows there must be rules at Kaer Morhen about visitors. That's not what he said, though. In fact, what Geralt's saying is that he can't because of Ciri. Which implies, to Jaskier, that Geralt would indeed spend winter with him at Oxenfurt if it wasn't for his Child Surprise.
Isn't that a world shaking thought.
Geralt, in a city filled with scientists and artists, in an university where he's considered a muse, putting up with noise and cheer for Jaskier. The marvelous bastard did mean "whatever you want", huh? It's an intoxicating idea, to have this power over Geralt, to know he's allowed to ask for things. Even if they can't be reality, Geralt seems to be open to discussion.
Feeling brave now, the hand on Geralt's sleeve squeezes his whole arm instead. "...take me with you then."
Geralt would... absolutely hate being in Oxenfurt for the winter, to be completely honest. A ton of scientists and artistic types, and all of them painfully, horribly aware of the fact that he is a muse for one of their most prominent bards. He could only imagine the questions that he'd be asked, the things they would want him to do or pose for.
But he would endure it, if Jaskier asked him to. He'd absolutely have to go and find some contracts in order to keep himself sane, even if it was just drowners in the sewers or something, but he'd endure it.
But that isn't what Jaskier is asking of him-- he wants to come to Kaer Morhen. Or, at least, he'll take going to Kaer Morhen if he can't have Geralt at Oxenfurt.
"You... want to go to Kaer Morhen?"
He looks down at Jaskier, his face carefully neutral. Or, well, more neutral than his brick wall of a face usually is.
"The Witchers' Trail is not an easy one, Jaskier. And even once you travel it, you'll be trapped at the keep until spring. There won't be any way down the mountain until the thaw, no matter how tired you are of it." No amount of complaining or whining would make a path through the deep, dense snow and ice. "And the only company you'll have are witchers and Ciri. It will be cold. Kaer Morhen is not a place meant for humans."
He had thought about asking Jaskier to go to Kaer Morhen with him for years before-- but it had never seemed appropriate. Jaskier had been happy in Oxenfurt, and Kaer Morhen was no place for a lively bard who wanted to sing and compose songs and drink with his comrades.
That... is not the kind of reaction he has been expecting. It's almost like Geralt is already saying yes. Really? So easily?
"Geralt? Why do you sound so surprised?"
Frowning, he raises his head from the spot on Geralt's shoulder and tilts it at him, obviously confused. He can't help thinking there's a gap in logic he's missing here - witcher logic, probably. Fuck, Geralt, what conclusions have your weird mind jumped to this time?
"It's like you don't know me at all, old friend. Visiting the mythical Kaer Morhen would be an honor by itself - that's both history and legends, wrapped in an intricate pattern of stone and snow. Spending winter with you would be lovely, no matter the place, because you're my best friend in the whole world." Lets's ignore the other pesky feelings that go with it, Geralt being his best friend is still not a lie. He'd also love to do all the dramatic gesturing this explanation requires, but as soon as he tries to moves his arms, he drops them. Still sore. "I've always wanted to try, but I know you would hate Oxenfurt with passion. Getting to meet other witchers? What an opportunity! More stories to hear, more songs to write! Getting to know your home and your family it's getting to know you more! And Princess Cirilla, gods bless her, I -more than anyone- can understand the background she comes from, I can help her transition--"
And then it hits him - what worries Geralt.
"Bollocks. You think I'd hate it because it's not fancy." He would put his hands on his waist, but there's no much space in his cloak cocoon, so he crosses his arms instead. "Geralt, the day I met you, I had bread in my pants. How many nights have we spent on the road, eating whatever you were able to hunt? How many shitty inns have we slept in? How many days have we spent without a proper wash? I do enjoy the finest pleasures of life, but at the end of the day, my dear witcher - I enjoy adventuring with you a thousand times more."
"This isn't adventuring, Jaskier. There is no comfortable inn waiting for you at the end, with silk sheets and fine wine."
There's just a witchers' keep, with its cold hallways and drafty rooms, its beds kept warm by furs instead of lovely silks. And Jaskier would be expected to put in work, as well, towards the general upkeep of the place; that means hauling firewood, or mucking out stalls, or doing some other kind of physical labor. Jaskier would hate doing physical labor.
"You won't be turned away, though, if I vouch for you."
Which is as close to a yes as anyone would ever get, probably.
Geralt frowns, the furrow returning to his brow. If he keeps doing that, he'll probably get wrinkles on day.
"Did you meet Ciri, when you were at court in Cintra?"
A little bit of a topic switch, but Geralt's main focus now must always be his child surprise. She's his daughter, in every sense but the purely biological. She has no other family to speak of but him, and he's only hers because of the law of surprise. Hardly the best way to get a father-figure.
"She is..." Having a hard time, he might say. Screaming in the night from terrors that Geralt doesn't know what the fuck to do about, he might say if he's honest. "She may find comfort in having someone around that she knows."
"Silk sheets and fine wine? You and I remember Posada very differently."
It does sound like a yes, but a very hesitant one. Geralt is still having doubts, Jaskier can tell, and his suspicions are confirmed when the topic switch comes. Part of him wants to call out the bullshit, but he decides against it - this can be used in his favor. A nod.
"In a way. As you may imagine, a bard isn't exactly allowed to mingle with a princess. But I've introduced myself to her, offered the mandatory courtesy. I sang at her birthdays. I don't think she knows I'm your bard, however. Queen Calanthe had forbidden any mention of you after the betrothal. I wasn't allowed to sing about the White Wolf while in Cintra, not even the ballad I wrote for Dunny and Pavetta."
Your bard. That's what the entire Continent thought of him, which is something that bothered him the past year, but he's adopting back so easily now. Geralt truly has him wrapped around his little finger, doesn't he? He should be bothered by the thought, because the concept does sound like the kind of shackle he would hate - but sharing his life with Geralt has been nothing but freedom.
Is Cirilla able to feel that? A newfound freedom? She probably still misses her grandmother - Jaskier wouldn't blame her, he still misses his own after more than two decades.
"It'd be my honor to help you with your Child Surprise. I can share my own experience with her - I may not understand what losing everything feels like, but I can offer her comfort and a guiding hand to the scary world outside palace walls. Someone may need to help her with her hair, too, because I don't trust any of you with it, silly witchers."
A little joke, but he also means it. Jaskier remembers what a shock it was to start living in the real world, his bones still carry the memory of the first time he slept in an inn. Whatever Cirilla may need to transition into this new life, he can offer, even tutoring lessons that don't include swords and potions.
"I'd like her to know she doesn't have to give nice things to be a witcher, unlike someone I know." His tone is teasing, but his eyes are kind - being on the Path shouldn't have to equal not enjoying fine wine and aromatic oils, a lesson he's been trying to get into Geralt's head since they met. "Unlike her, however, I've already gone through my rite of passage. I made a choice, Geralt." A shivering hand is raised to grab Geralt's chin, and Jaskier's voice becomes more determined than ever. If mentioning his childhood doesn't show how serious he is about this, nothing will. "When I was her age, I chose not to live in luxury every day of my life. And I do not regret it. I still enjoy the finest pleasures of life, and I won't give them up entirely. But I can survive without them for a season, just like I was able to survive sleeping on the ground and eating squirrels for-- however long we spent on that spooky haunted forest in the east."
If they never go there again, Jaskier will find it a blessing.
"I ask you, my dear witcher, to make a choice too. Forget about food and wine, forget for just one moment about your brothers and your daughter. I want to go with you, and I choose to follow you. Do you want me to spend winter with you?"
While, certainly, Jaskier wasn't living in luxury when he had just started out as a bard, he's now renowned throughout the Continent. He's made a name for himself-- which was the reason why he was in such a mess with Nilfgaard-- he could play at almost any court that he wants, and Geralt knows that he'd been offered positions. He'd just turned them down. Following his muse, he'd said to all the lords and ladies that had wanted to keep him. If he wanted to, he could take a position as some king or lord's court bard and have those silk sheets and fine wines, live luxuriously and never have to eat squirrel roasted over a campfire ever again.
And yet, here he is.
Jaskier's hand grasps his chin, turning it towards him. Like he has so many times before, the bard is making a choice-- with, apparently, full knowledge of what he will have to give up. And as little as he wants to ask for help, Geralt knows that there are so many places where he lacks the proper knowledge to raise Cirilla, that she needs things that he doesn't know how to give her. He doesn't know what to do when she wakes crying in the night. He doesn't know how to raise a child. He can train a witcher, he can teach her how to use a sword and a crossbow and how to kill monsters. He can teach her the difference between a ghoul and an alghoul. If she was just another orphan brought to Kaer Morhen, maybe that would've been enough.
(It would not-- Geralt's childhood was filled with endless days of training, then Trials and death, then more endless days of training. Then he was a witcher, and he has been nothing else ever since. He would not wish that on his child surprise.)
Ciri will need more. And between himself and Yen and Jaskier, maybe they can do more than just prepare her for survival.
But putting all of that aside, Jaskier is asking him a difficult question. Geralt has not let himself want for things.
"I want you to be safe and content. I've wanted that for many winters, but you've... preferred Oxenfurt."
There's a slight hesitance at the end of that sentence; Geralt is starting to think that he may have been wrong in some of his assumptions about Jaskier's preferences.
What is it that Jaskier said before? You haven't shut me up in twenty years, you won't start now? Well, turns out he was wrong. Jaskier has fallen in shocked silent now.
Is... is he understanding this correctly? Bloody hell. Jaskier's eyes widen, his jaw drops. There's so much to unpack in that little sentence. The fact Geralt wants him to be "safe and content", which makes his heart skip a beat- no, hundreds of beats. The fact Geralt doesn't allow himself to want things, to ask for them, part of the whole witcher bullshit, and that always hurts him to hear.
And frustration, of course, over Geralt assuming to know what Jaskier wants. So this can only mean one thing: yep, there goes the other pillow, hitting him on the back of his head.
"You never ASKED, you horse's arse! I thought I wasn't allowed in Kaer Morhen!" Bump, bump, the pillow continues to come. The aim is far from perfect, considering the fact Jaskier is both tired and emotional, so now it's more hitting Geralt's back than his head. Barely causing anything on that body made of bricks, but damn, it's so satisfying. "I thought you didn't want to share, because guess what, you imbecile wolf, getting you to tell me anything about yourself was like pulling teeth, I didn't even dare to ask about invading your home! You thick, inarticulate witcher, this is why people use words!"
His arm drops when, once again, the anger that fuels him slowly fades and his body remembers how sore it is. Jaskier is panting, so he takes a deep breath and concentrates on the fact Geralt wants him safe and content. Which feels fucking nice, not gonna lie.
"New rule!" He says with a wagging finger. "Not assuming what I want. No taking bloody decisions for me! That's the kind of horseshit that made me run from my parent's house, Geralt. I like my freedom to choose, and you've always respected that. You allow the songbird to travel on the wolf's back, but you've never caged it. It's one of my favorite things about you."
Jaskier is surprisingly quick at swinging pillows, especially considering that he's injured and really shouldn't be swinging anything around at all. It hits him in the back of the head, rocking him forward slightly and messing up his hair. The witcher would be annoyed at the fact that he's getting beaten with some stuffed bedding, except that it really barely affects him. Jaskier's aim gets poorer the longer he beats his witcher, until he's hitting Geralt's upper back and those blows do practically nothing at all. It's more amusing than anything, trying to chastise a brick wall of a man by hitting him with a sack of feathers.
There's something about the fact that Jaskier didn't want to overstep a boundary, which, considering that they had started traveling together because the bard absolutely refused to acknowledge any kind of boundary, was surprisingly considerate of him. The consideration may not have been necessary, though, not when his brothers had expressed interest in the bard who both wrote the song that got them so much coin and also had somehow managed to get Geralt looking tidy and smelling like something other than onion and horse. They might tolerate this particular outsider in their mountain home for the winter, if only to sate their curiosity.
He tolerates the finger wagged in his face and lets Jaskier speak until he's through; trying to talk over him is always an exercise in futility.
"You assumed that you wouldn't be welcome in my home."
"Yeah, well..." He huffs. Damn, he's been caught. Is he pouting? Yep, definitely pouting. "You haven't even allowed me to ride with you on Roach. So I learned to pick my battles when it comes to you. And I know you're probably thinking that's utter horseshit, but trust me, I bother you a lot about hundred of other things to make up for the five or so I know I mustn't push for." A pause. "Like the one scar I'm not allowed to sing about."
It's about Blaviken, he knows. Geralt hasn't said so explicitly, but it's not hard to put two and two together. And that's one topic Jaskier knows to stay away from, even if he's dying to know the true story for many reasons: his own curiosity, to know more about Geralt, and because it would be the best tactic to fight the Butcher reputation - fighting the lies with the truth.
And now he's remembering the punch to his stomach that he received all those years ago. He truly should know better.
"...but sorry. For assuming things too."
All his moving undid his lovely cocoon, so Jaskier wraps the cloak around himself properly again, feeling the tiredness, soreness and alcohol setting in. It's amazing how he's been able to ignored them, but that's how his emotions work, they fuel him and keep him going on pure adrenaline.
Whatever you want. No more assumptions about what we want or not. Welp, if that's what Geralt claims... then he won't mind Jaskier wanting something better than a (now wonky) pillow, right? After pushing the tray away, Jaskier curls in on himself and lowers his body until it's resting on Geralt's lap. A daring move, he knows, he's nervous about it and Geralt probably can tell from the beating of his heart or the tension of his muscles. But damn if it isn't warm, comfortable and soothing. This has to be his new favorite place to nap at.
Geralt makes a mental note for himself-- let the bard ride Roach every once in a while, if it means so much to him. But, really, if they're going to make the trek to Kaer Morhen together, Jaskier will need his own horse. Not even just for riding; Roach won't be able to carry the supplies for two grown men and Geralt's weight, and if he just loads Roach with their things, their pace will be slowed considerably. Another horse is a significant expense, and he can't let Jaskier pick out his own because he knows the bard won't be able to tell good horseflesh from bad, but it'll be worth it.
He hums at the apology. It's not particularly needed and Geralt isn't looking for one. The bard bundles himself back up in the cloak and he assumes that he's had enough, that his emotional outbursts were the last straws on the back of his failing stamina. The bed's decent and clean and the pillows will be fine once they're put back into shape--
But Jaskier apparently wants nothing to do with the pillows anymore, and instead rests his head on Geralt's lap. This is... new. Geralt is nearly a century old, but the bard has managed to surprise him again. His head is a warm weight on the witcher's thigh and his heart rabbits in his chest, too quick for him to be truly relaxed. It slows, though, the longer he lays there, and Geralt can only assume that it's because his presence is a comfort to Jaskier.
He just doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands.
After Jaskier's heart and breathing have slowed enough that he's certain that he's asleep, Geralt pulls some of the blankets over, covering him in more than just his cloak. He lets his hand rest on the bard's shoulder, then closes his eyes and settles into meditation. He could have tried to sleep, but his mind is too restless for it, filled with concerns about Nilfgaard and the trail to Kaer Morhen.
He is pulled out of his meditation some time later by movement on his lap and a soft, distressed noise. His eyes open to the dark room, empty save for the two of them; his hand had been halfway to his swords, an unconscious reaction from years of having to defend against dangers in the night. There are no external dangers here, though, that he can cut down with steel.
"Jaskier?" His hand tightens on the bard's shoulder. "Jaskier, wake up."
Sleeping comes quicker than he expected. He's nervous at first, not knowing how Geralt would react. But once he senses he won't be pushed away, that this form of contact is welcome, then relaxing is incredibly easy. The witcher's presence is indeed very comforting - Jaskier feels safe and cared for, human contact being exactly what a touchy person like him needs to calm him down.
Now if only Geralt would pet his head... too tired to do something about it now, but next time he needs to be sure to put the witcher's fingers on his head before falling asleep. Whatever he wants, right?
Sadly, sleeping comes quick but doesn't stay calm. Emotionally exhausted as he is, the reality of his captivity comes back for more. In his nightmare, the Nilgaardian soldiers are half monsters, and they don't only hurt Jaskier, they hurt the people he loves too - somehow they have captured some of his Oxenfurt friends, and suddenly Princess Cirilla is in there too, and right after that Geralt also enters the picture. They thank him for providing the information they've been needing and that hurts worse than the blade that comes for his throat--
The hand on his shoulder wakes him up just as he's about to scream. He groans in pain instead when he suddenly pulls his sore body away from the monster hands... except they aren't monster hands. It's dark, but he'd recognize that broad silhouette anywhere.
"...Geralt?" He asks between pants, his heart racing and his scent reeking of fear. His cheeks are wet from tears and damn, for once he wishes the witcher's eyes weren't so good in the darkness. This is embarrassing to say the least. "You're alright."
A hint of relief in his voice, the nightmare still livid in his mind.
Jaskier wakes with a start, pulling away from Geralt until his injuries stop him. He puts a hand on Jaskier's chest to steady him and keep him from moving any further; he'll pull everything open if he's not careful, and then they'd be back at square one. He smells salt, sees the wet trails on Jaskier's cheeks. His voice has that wet, slightly congested tone of someone who has been crying.
A nightmare. It's a similar story with Ciri-- waking in the night with wet cheeks and frightened eyes from dreaming about the destruction that Nilfgaard can wreak. The second person that Geralt cares for who has been left in terror from them. Ciri, though, usually finds comfort in curling against Geralt's chest and letting him hold her until she stopped crying. She's a twelve year old girl, though, so would the same tactic even work with a grown man?
"Of course I'm all right," he says. Strange, for Jaskier to be worried about him after a nightmare. "It was just a dream."
He still reeks of fear and anxiety, though. Geralt sighs; if it works for a twelve year old girl, it may very well just work for Jaskier.
The hand on his chest is an anchor that keeps him from panicking farther, the familiar voice helps him remember he's safe, even if he doesn't feel so quite yet. His mind has trouble understanding what Geralt is asking of him at first - after all, climbing in his lap isn't exactly part of their usual sleeping routine.
When the answer clicks, however, Jaskier doesn't hesitate. He'll be amazed at the fact he gets to cuddle Geralt in the morning, right now he needs him. Cloak wet with sweat, Jaskier drags it with him as he sits across the witcher's lap and puts his arms around that wide chest, hands holding onto black cloth as if his life depended on it.
"There were--- there were other people there with me." It comes out muffled, because he's burying his face in Geralt's chest. "Friends they used to make me talk. And then-- and then Cirilla was there too, and you, and they thanked me for the information, and there was a sword coming for me because I wasn't of use anymore..." His whole body trembles, his voice cracks. Not a single big word used in chopped sentences, that's how shaken he is. "I didn't tell them anything, Geralt, I swear..."
There's little difference, really, between holding Ciri and holding Jaskier; the bard is larger, certainly, but he curls up in much the same way that she does, shoves his face into Geralt's chest. His arms clutch at him and his fingers bunch his shirt up at the back. Ciri always calmed faster when he held her tightly than when it was a loose embrace, so hopefully Jaskier would be the same. The bard's heart is hummingbird fast in his chest, his breaths quick, his limbs shaking even as they're holding on. He doesn't like it.
Jaskier tells him about the dream, how Nilfgaard found the people he cared for and used them to make him talk, so that they could find Ciri and himself. It's awful, mostly because so much of it rings true-- they would have done whatever was necessary to get information about Ciri's whereabouts, and they would have killed him once his usefulness was over. The worst part is what he says afterwards, his voice tremulous and desperate-- I didn't tell them anything, I swear-- the fear in it, and the loyalty. Even if Jaskier didn't know where he was or where he had taken Ciri, he still knows so many other important things about him. He could have told them about his potions, the places he liked to stop, friends and allies that he would go to. He's far too shaken to lie, and even if he wasn't, Geralt would have still believed him. Jaskier is loyal even when Geralt doesn't deserve his loyalty.
"I know," he says, and sets one large, calloused hand on the back of Jasker's head. "It's all right, you're safe now. I won't let them touch you again."
It's a promise that he probably shouldn't make-- he'll have his hands full with protecting Ciri, nevertheless adding Jaskier, a bard exceptionally prone to finding trouble, to the mix. But, well, it's his fault that the bard's in this kind of trouble, he has a certain obligation to keep him out of any more of it.
A tight embrace is definitely the way to go - it helps him feel shielded from the outside world. Jaskier takes a deep breath and tries to center himself, concentrating on the fingers on his head and the sound of Geralt's slow heartbeat. His own slowly starts to calm down, and the shaking of his body becomes a lesser tremble.
A forty years old man, being cradled because of a nightmare. Part of him is embarrassed, especially because it's happening in front of Geralt. But the part of him that feels emotions freely and craves human touch reminds himself that there's nothing wrong with this, that adult men should be allowed to express themselves with dramatics as well, and the fact Geralt is supporting him instead of pushing him away means he isn't being judged. It speaks highly of their relationship as well. They're comforting thoughts.
"I know. I'm always safe with you. Even after a year away, you found me. I trust you with my life, Geralt of Rivia."
It's wild to be saying these things when mere hours ago he had been throwing a pillow and a string of insults at Geralt's face. What can he say? When Jaskier loves, he loves with all his heart, until that love itself consumes him. Besides, Geralt has been making up for it with both actions and words that Jaskier would've never expected. Whatever you want.
No assumptions. No anymore.
"...would it be fine by you if I slept like this?"
A forty year old man who had just been taken from the grasp of torturers, so perhaps a little neediness could be forgiven. And there aren't very many people that Geralt would have even considered doing something like this for-- just Ciri, really, and Jaskier. Yennefer would never ask him for something so vulnerable, and the idea of any of the other witchers needing this? Absurd.
Just a twelve year old girl and a middle-aged bard.
A middle-aged bard who had followed him across the Continent for two decades and, apparently, trusts Geralt of fucking Rivia with his life, despite all evidence that he shouldn't. But in time, maybe he could prove himself worthy of Jaskier's trust.
"Yes. Go to sleep."
He shifts, bringing Jaskier with him as he does, so that he can lean back against the headboard of the bed; it'll be a more comfortable position for him to maintain and an easier angle for the bard to lay at. He's forty, after all-- going the whole night with his neck in an awkward position will just make him stiff the next morning. Geralt tilts his head towards Jaskier's, the bard's hair brushing against his nose--
floral oil, lute wax, parchment--
"I'm here." His voice is a low rumble in his chest. "You're safe."
And he would still be there in the morning, when Jaskier woke up-- in no small part because he literally can't get out from under the bard without waking him.
It's the perfect position. Jaskier nuzzles Geralt's chest, wide and warm and oh so comfy, smiles against those strong muscles when he feels the rumbling of that (very sexy) voice against his musician ears, together with Geralt's slow heartbeat, an unique rhythm of his own. He lets those simple yet powerful words wrap him in safety and comfort, and suddenly he finds himself humming, remembering what Her Sweet Kiss was originally about before the disaster that was the dragon hunt happened.
"I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance..." He mumbles as he slowly falls asleep again. "Gorgeous garroter, jury, and judge..."
The nightmares don't return.
Jaskier wakes up to the sun on his face, but the warmth that surrounds him isn't coming from it. Did he butter any biscuits lat night? A quick look up after rubbing his eyes tells him no, this is the one biscuit he's tried to butter for years with no success. The events of the evening slowly return to him, and he has to swallow before his heart even tries to start spilling feelings all over the witcher's lap.
He stayed. And he let Jaskier sleep cuddled against him. Whatever you want - Melitele please have mercy.
"Geralt..." The man is meditating - he shouldn't be too sudden with his movements. And that's his excuse for cupping Geralt's face, and no the fact he's dying to touch more. No sir, not at all, just looking out for the witcher. "Good morning, my friend. Have you meditated all night?"
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Jaskier's smile could light up the entire fucking inn.
Forget the bitterness - Jaskier smells sweetly now, happiness exuding from every inch of his body, eyes twinkling like the stars, grin almost splitting his face in two. He's still sore so he doesn't enter his dramatics mode, but it's obvious that a general bounce has returned to his limbs.
And before Geralt gets away, because he knows that face, knows the conversation has become too much for him, Jaskir leans in and hugs the hell out of him.
"I forgive you, old friend." Gods, it feels good to be able to say those words once more. Makes his heart beat to the rhythm of Toss a coin again. "And thank you. For saving me, and for taking care of my wounds." He pulls back and this time his little smirk is more of a teasing kind. "I won't apologize for the pillow, however, I shall carry that success with me. Your cloak is mine now too."
Okay, the cloak part he doesn't mean, not really. But he still grabs it and wraps himself in it, enjoying having this little piece of Geralt protecting him. He was too hurt, both in the emotional and the physical sense, to appreciate it on the ride here. Now though? Now he doesn't let go of it, moving to lie down on the pillow that is left on the bed. See, he's being a good boy!
"Let us sup, then, my dear witcher!" Congrats, Geralt, you've earned some extra terms of endearment. Jaskier pats the spot next to him. "Come, Geralt. Bring the tray and sit with me. Let us share food like the old times. Then I'll promise I'll rest - I am tired and I don't want to stay here for too long either."
Where is he going, he has no idea. But they can figure that out in the morning. Now he only wants to cuddle against Geralt's broad back, just like he used to do while sharing bedrolls and rooms with only one bed.
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He's caught in a hug before he can move out of Jaskier's reach, however, and though the bard is covered in bandages and his old cloak, he's still very much undressed. The scent of him is inescapable, mixed with Geralt's from wearing his clothes, and that combination is something that he has to steel himself against-- heady like sweet wine on an empty stomach. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he settles for patting the bard gently on the side, like he would pet Roach's flank after a long ride.
When finally released, Geralt grunts in lieu of a verbal response. Jaskier can keep his apologies and the witcher's cloak besides, Geralt will be fine without it. It's only practical that the bard switch from his flashy, attention-seeking doublets to something more subdued, anyway, and even as the weather gets cooler as autumn sets in, Geralt will manage without the cloak. And if Jaskier agrees--
Well. Geralt hasn't even asked yet, and it's not something that he has to do tonight. The bard might not even want to winter in Kaer Morhen, where his only company will be a bunch of witchers and a child surprise, holed up in a decaying fortress until the spring thaw. He would likely prefer the comforts of Oxenfurt or Novigrad, though it would pain Geralt to have to leave him there.
He fetches the tray while Jaskier gets comfortable; the mattress is decent and the sheets are clean, which is about all that anyone could ask for. The food is... serviceable, some cheese and bread and pottage, the now lukewarm cider, but Geralt can't really complain. Jaskier is far better at charming nicer fare from the cooks than he is, especially at this time of night.
"Eat."
He pushes the tray towards him on the bed. Jaskier can eat whatever he wants from it; Geralt will finish whatever is left over. The bard needs sustenance more than he does after his captivity, and a witcher can go for days longer than a human on little to no rations.
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Fine cheese and wine Jaskier may love, but he's also spent many years on the road, be with Geralt or alone. Coin isn't always available to eat the best of the best, Melitele knows they've stayed at some really crappy inns in their time. That added to the his recent time in captivity? It makes this tray look and smell like the most delicious banquet.
The cup of cider is the first thing he picks up, closing both hands around it to protect and receive its warmth as he takes a deep sniff and lets the aroma wrap around him. That aroma ends up going straight to his head - a lightweight he is not, but his stomach is empty and his mind tired. So he ends up picking up some cheese and bread first.
"Geralt." He says in between bites, giving the witcher that looks like says I'm about to ask something from you and it won't be up for discussion. "I told you to sit with me. Please. I want-" Your presence, your warmth, to feel safe next to you, I've missed sharing tiny wobbly beds with a witcher larger than a bear. "To hear about you and Princess Cirilla. Living image of Pavetta, is she not?"
To be fair, it's not a complete lie, he does want to know about that too. But right now what he needs the most is comfort. And while Geralt is not at a point where he's offering his hugs (yet?), bumping shoulders would already be enough.
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Better than they used to.
The witcher sits on the edge of the bed, but only after moving his swords so that they lean against the wall in easy reach.
"You've been back to Cintra."
It's not a question; Jaskier knows the princess' name and what she looks like. He must have seen her at some point to know how much like her mother she is, and, really, it's unreasonable for him to assume that Jaskier would stay away from a well-paying job just because he wanted to give Cintra a wide berth. There were times that they had separated. Jaskier just had the foresight to plan his trips to Calanthe's court at times when Geralt would not be with him.
"Ciri is more like her mother than you'd think," he says. "She has her gifts, too. It's why Nilfgaard wants her so badly."
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"Queen Calanthe said that if she had to hire a bard for celebrations, then she wanted the sassy one." He explains with pride in his voice. "I never hesitated to mouth off the nobles, and I think she found entertainment in that. The pay was good as well."
The edge of the bed? Damn. Well, he'll have to work with that. Jaskier puts down his mug on the tray, then drags it and the pillow with him as he crawls until he can rest right next to Geralt. This close and not distracted by emotions anymore, he can tell the man is smelling of onions again, because not even with a princess at his side he'll take care of himself.
Mental note: bathe him with oils soon.
And isn't that an amusing thought? Tonight he's the one being taken care of, yet he's already falling so easily back into his old nurse-for-the-witcher role. Geralt truly has a tight leash on his heart, and that should be a scary thought, but honestly? Jaskier likes to think this is a sign that he's needed, and basks in it. Starting right now, with the fact Geralt hasn't picked any food yet. Jaskier pushes some bread and cheese into the man's fingers before picking the pottage for himself, and he sips it idly as he lets his body slack against his friend's side. Sensing those hard muscles against him make the whole thing more real (it's happening, we're together again) and adds a layer to that feeling of safety Geralt always wraps him with (nobody is going to get me tonight).
"Poor girl. So young and already lost it all, already carrying a power greater than she is. I'm pleased to hear you've taken her under your wing, my friend, no place is safer." A pause to yawn. With food and alcohol in his belly, he's getting drowsy. "Where is she now anyway?"
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Well. He'd never kept the oils with him, and Jaskier's the one who knows the ratios and which scents can be combined into something that wouldn't irritate his nose. And if Geralt tried to approximate it and didn't get it right, then he wouldn't smell right and it would undoubtedly put him into a foul mood. So... onions and horse it is, and everyone can just live with it.
Jaskier is tucked up against Geralt's side, a long line of warmth against him, and that's... normal. He pushes bread and cheese into his hands-- less normal-- but he's taken the pottage for himself, so the witcher is satisfied that he'll be well fed.
"Kaer Morhen. It's too early in the year for any of the other witchers to be back yet, but Vesemir never leaves. He's watching over her." Geralt rips off a piece of the bread and some of the cheese. "My old fencing teacher."
The closest thing, really, that Geralt has to a father.
"The trail up to the keep will be impassible after the first snow, so it will be the safest place to train her until the thaw. I'll have to be on my way by mid-autumn, or I won't be able to make it back."
And that threshold of no return is fast approaching. With Jaskier or without, Geralt will have to make it through Morhen Valley before the snows.
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But he can't help it, he's ambitious and in love. When it comes to Geralt, he wants it all.
"The man responsible for your breathtaking use of the sword? She's as safe as she can be, then."
A bit of a generic answer, he knows, but his mind is now lost in the rest of what Geralt said. He forces himself to finish the pottage, not matter how hard his stomach is turning right now. Separating when winter comes isn't news to them, they've been doing it since they met. Jaskier to Oxenfurt, Geralt to Kaer Morhen. It's tradition by now.
They just reunited, though. Jaskier doesn't want to part so soon, not after a year of heartbreak. He wants to stay by Geralt's side, catch up with his adventures, get him all tidy and pretty again, sleep to his side and dream to the unique rhythm of his heartbeat, he wants--
Whatever you want.
All. He wants it all. When he was a child, Jaskier was't allowed to want many things outside of what was viscount appropriate. Jaskier promised he would never be shackled by those chains again, and here is Geralt, offering him the world.
The pottage bowl is put down and Jaskier drinks a good amount of cider before speaking again, a hand reaching to hold onto Geralt's sleeve.
"Whatever you want, you said. Did you really mean it?" He rests his head on Geralt's shoulder, eyes closing. "I know how our winters usually go, I remember the routine. But I can't do it again so soon, Geralt. I just got you back."
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Geralt's jaw tightens. He had said whatever you want, but he has a responsibility to Ciri, as well. Leaving her with Vesemir for a time while he went to find Jaskier was necessary, but he couldn't leave her alone all winter to stay with the bard. He couldn't abandon her again, not after he had spent so many years running away from his duties to her.
"Jaskier..."
If he brought him to the keep, Vesemir might not approve at first, and his brothers might not enjoy having another outsider in their home, but so long as Geralt takes responsibility for him, he'd be able to stay. The issue is that there are so few reasons for him to want to-- the company wouldn't be nearly as lively or entertaining as in Oxenfurt, and the library is full of witchers' texts and monster manuals, not poetry. The fortress is aging and drafty, and there are areas of it that are inaccessible from the ravages of time and disrepair. The larders and pantries would be well-stocked, but with food that could last an entire winter, and there wouldn't be any of Jaskier's accustomed delicacies.
"I can't stay in Oxenfurt all winter. Ciri will need me."
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That answer though... Jaskier frowns, not knowing if being frustrated or flattered. Geralt isn't even considering the idea of Jaskier joining him, and that hurts a little, even if he knows there must be rules at Kaer Morhen about visitors. That's not what he said, though. In fact, what Geralt's saying is that he can't because of Ciri. Which implies, to Jaskier, that Geralt would indeed spend winter with him at Oxenfurt if it wasn't for his Child Surprise.
Isn't that a world shaking thought.
Geralt, in a city filled with scientists and artists, in an university where he's considered a muse, putting up with noise and cheer for Jaskier. The marvelous bastard did mean "whatever you want", huh? It's an intoxicating idea, to have this power over Geralt, to know he's allowed to ask for things. Even if they can't be reality, Geralt seems to be open to discussion.
Feeling brave now, the hand on Geralt's sleeve squeezes his whole arm instead. "...take me with you then."
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But he would endure it, if Jaskier asked him to. He'd absolutely have to go and find some contracts in order to keep himself sane, even if it was just drowners in the sewers or something, but he'd endure it.
But that isn't what Jaskier is asking of him-- he wants to come to Kaer Morhen. Or, at least, he'll take going to Kaer Morhen if he can't have Geralt at Oxenfurt.
"You... want to go to Kaer Morhen?"
He looks down at Jaskier, his face carefully neutral. Or, well, more neutral than his brick wall of a face usually is.
"The Witchers' Trail is not an easy one, Jaskier. And even once you travel it, you'll be trapped at the keep until spring. There won't be any way down the mountain until the thaw, no matter how tired you are of it." No amount of complaining or whining would make a path through the deep, dense snow and ice. "And the only company you'll have are witchers and Ciri. It will be cold. Kaer Morhen is not a place meant for humans."
He had thought about asking Jaskier to go to Kaer Morhen with him for years before-- but it had never seemed appropriate. Jaskier had been happy in Oxenfurt, and Kaer Morhen was no place for a lively bard who wanted to sing and compose songs and drink with his comrades.
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"Geralt? Why do you sound so surprised?"
Frowning, he raises his head from the spot on Geralt's shoulder and tilts it at him, obviously confused. He can't help thinking there's a gap in logic he's missing here - witcher logic, probably. Fuck, Geralt, what conclusions have your weird mind jumped to this time?
"It's like you don't know me at all, old friend. Visiting the mythical Kaer Morhen would be an honor by itself - that's both history and legends, wrapped in an intricate pattern of stone and snow. Spending winter with you would be lovely, no matter the place, because you're my best friend in the whole world." Lets's ignore the other pesky feelings that go with it, Geralt being his best friend is still not a lie. He'd also love to do all the dramatic gesturing this explanation requires, but as soon as he tries to moves his arms, he drops them. Still sore. "I've always wanted to try, but I know you would hate Oxenfurt with passion. Getting to meet other witchers? What an opportunity! More stories to hear, more songs to write! Getting to know your home and your family it's getting to know you more! And Princess Cirilla, gods bless her, I -more than anyone- can understand the background she comes from, I can help her transition--"
And then it hits him - what worries Geralt.
"Bollocks. You think I'd hate it because it's not fancy." He would put his hands on his waist, but there's no much space in his cloak cocoon, so he crosses his arms instead. "Geralt, the day I met you, I had bread in my pants. How many nights have we spent on the road, eating whatever you were able to hunt? How many shitty inns have we slept in? How many days have we spent without a proper wash? I do enjoy the finest pleasures of life, but at the end of the day, my dear witcher - I enjoy adventuring with you a thousand times more."
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There's just a witchers' keep, with its cold hallways and drafty rooms, its beds kept warm by furs instead of lovely silks. And Jaskier would be expected to put in work, as well, towards the general upkeep of the place; that means hauling firewood, or mucking out stalls, or doing some other kind of physical labor. Jaskier would hate doing physical labor.
"You won't be turned away, though, if I vouch for you."
Which is as close to a yes as anyone would ever get, probably.
Geralt frowns, the furrow returning to his brow. If he keeps doing that, he'll probably get wrinkles on day.
"Did you meet Ciri, when you were at court in Cintra?"
A little bit of a topic switch, but Geralt's main focus now must always be his child surprise. She's his daughter, in every sense but the purely biological. She has no other family to speak of but him, and he's only hers because of the law of surprise. Hardly the best way to get a father-figure.
"She is..." Having a hard time, he might say. Screaming in the night from terrors that Geralt doesn't know what the fuck to do about, he might say if he's honest. "She may find comfort in having someone around that she knows."
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It does sound like a yes, but a very hesitant one. Geralt is still having doubts, Jaskier can tell, and his suspicions are confirmed when the topic switch comes. Part of him wants to call out the bullshit, but he decides against it - this can be used in his favor. A nod.
"In a way. As you may imagine, a bard isn't exactly allowed to mingle with a princess. But I've introduced myself to her, offered the mandatory courtesy. I sang at her birthdays. I don't think she knows I'm your bard, however. Queen Calanthe had forbidden any mention of you after the betrothal. I wasn't allowed to sing about the White Wolf while in Cintra, not even the ballad I wrote for Dunny and Pavetta."
Your bard. That's what the entire Continent thought of him, which is something that bothered him the past year, but he's adopting back so easily now. Geralt truly has him wrapped around his little finger, doesn't he? He should be bothered by the thought, because the concept does sound like the kind of shackle he would hate - but sharing his life with Geralt has been nothing but freedom.
Is Cirilla able to feel that? A newfound freedom? She probably still misses her grandmother - Jaskier wouldn't blame her, he still misses his own after more than two decades.
"It'd be my honor to help you with your Child Surprise. I can share my own experience with her - I may not understand what losing everything feels like, but I can offer her comfort and a guiding hand to the scary world outside palace walls. Someone may need to help her with her hair, too, because I don't trust any of you with it, silly witchers."
A little joke, but he also means it. Jaskier remembers what a shock it was to start living in the real world, his bones still carry the memory of the first time he slept in an inn. Whatever Cirilla may need to transition into this new life, he can offer, even tutoring lessons that don't include swords and potions.
"I'd like her to know she doesn't have to give nice things to be a witcher, unlike someone I know." His tone is teasing, but his eyes are kind - being on the Path shouldn't have to equal not enjoying fine wine and aromatic oils, a lesson he's been trying to get into Geralt's head since they met. "Unlike her, however, I've already gone through my rite of passage. I made a choice, Geralt." A shivering hand is raised to grab Geralt's chin, and Jaskier's voice becomes more determined than ever. If mentioning his childhood doesn't show how serious he is about this, nothing will. "When I was her age, I chose not to live in luxury every day of my life. And I do not regret it. I still enjoy the finest pleasures of life, and I won't give them up entirely. But I can survive without them for a season, just like I was able to survive sleeping on the ground and eating squirrels for-- however long we spent on that spooky haunted forest in the east."
If they never go there again, Jaskier will find it a blessing.
"I ask you, my dear witcher, to make a choice too. Forget about food and wine, forget for just one moment about your brothers and your daughter. I want to go with you, and I choose to follow you. Do you want me to spend winter with you?"
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He'd just turned them down. Following his muse, he'd said to all the lords and ladies that had wanted to keep him. If he wanted to, he could take a position as some king or lord's court bard and have those silk sheets and fine wines, live luxuriously and never have to eat squirrel roasted over a campfire ever again.
And yet, here he is.
Jaskier's hand grasps his chin, turning it towards him. Like he has so many times before, the bard is making a choice-- with, apparently, full knowledge of what he will have to give up. And as little as he wants to ask for help, Geralt knows that there are so many places where he lacks the proper knowledge to raise Cirilla, that she needs things that he doesn't know how to give her. He doesn't know what to do when she wakes crying in the night. He doesn't know how to raise a child. He can train a witcher, he can teach her how to use a sword and a crossbow and how to kill monsters. He can teach her the difference between a ghoul and an alghoul. If she was just another orphan brought to Kaer Morhen, maybe that would've been enough.
(It would not-- Geralt's childhood was filled with endless days of training, then Trials and death, then more endless days of training. Then he was a witcher, and he has been nothing else ever since. He would not wish that on his child surprise.)
Ciri will need more. And between himself and Yen and Jaskier, maybe they can do more than just prepare her for survival.
But putting all of that aside, Jaskier is asking him a difficult question. Geralt has not let himself want for things.
"I want you to be safe and content. I've wanted that for many winters, but you've... preferred Oxenfurt."
There's a slight hesitance at the end of that sentence; Geralt is starting to think that he may have been wrong in some of his assumptions about Jaskier's preferences.
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Is... is he understanding this correctly? Bloody hell. Jaskier's eyes widen, his jaw drops. There's so much to unpack in that little sentence. The fact Geralt wants him to be "safe and content", which makes his heart skip a beat- no, hundreds of beats. The fact Geralt doesn't allow himself to want things, to ask for them, part of the whole witcher bullshit, and that always hurts him to hear.
And frustration, of course, over Geralt assuming to know what Jaskier wants. So this can only mean one thing: yep, there goes the other pillow, hitting him on the back of his head.
"You never ASKED, you horse's arse! I thought I wasn't allowed in Kaer Morhen!" Bump, bump, the pillow continues to come. The aim is far from perfect, considering the fact Jaskier is both tired and emotional, so now it's more hitting Geralt's back than his head. Barely causing anything on that body made of bricks, but damn, it's so satisfying. "I thought you didn't want to share, because guess what, you imbecile wolf, getting you to tell me anything about yourself was like pulling teeth, I didn't even dare to ask about invading your home! You thick, inarticulate witcher, this is why people use words!"
His arm drops when, once again, the anger that fuels him slowly fades and his body remembers how sore it is. Jaskier is panting, so he takes a deep breath and concentrates on the fact Geralt wants him safe and content. Which feels fucking nice, not gonna lie.
"New rule!" He says with a wagging finger. "Not assuming what I want. No taking bloody decisions for me! That's the kind of horseshit that made me run from my parent's house, Geralt. I like my freedom to choose, and you've always respected that. You allow the songbird to travel on the wolf's back, but you've never caged it. It's one of my favorite things about you."
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There's something about the fact that Jaskier didn't want to overstep a boundary, which, considering that they had started traveling together because the bard absolutely refused to acknowledge any kind of boundary, was surprisingly considerate of him. The consideration may not have been necessary, though, not when his brothers had expressed interest in the bard who both wrote the song that got them so much coin and also had somehow managed to get Geralt looking tidy and smelling like something other than onion and horse. They might tolerate this particular outsider in their mountain home for the winter, if only to sate their curiosity.
He tolerates the finger wagged in his face and lets Jaskier speak until he's through; trying to talk over him is always an exercise in futility.
"You assumed that you wouldn't be welcome in my home."
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It's about Blaviken, he knows. Geralt hasn't said so explicitly, but it's not hard to put two and two together. And that's one topic Jaskier knows to stay away from, even if he's dying to know the true story for many reasons: his own curiosity, to know more about Geralt, and because it would be the best tactic to fight the Butcher reputation - fighting the lies with the truth.
And now he's remembering the punch to his stomach that he received all those years ago. He truly should know better.
"...but sorry. For assuming things too."
All his moving undid his lovely cocoon, so Jaskier wraps the cloak around himself properly again, feeling the tiredness, soreness and alcohol setting in. It's amazing how he's been able to ignored them, but that's how his emotions work, they fuel him and keep him going on pure adrenaline.
Whatever you want. No more assumptions about what we want or not. Welp, if that's what Geralt claims... then he won't mind Jaskier wanting something better than a (now wonky) pillow, right? After pushing the tray away, Jaskier curls in on himself and lowers his body until it's resting on Geralt's lap. A daring move, he knows, he's nervous about it and Geralt probably can tell from the beating of his heart or the tension of his muscles. But damn if it isn't warm, comfortable and soothing. This has to be his new favorite place to nap at.
"Winter together at Kaher Morhen it is then."
And that's final.
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He hums at the apology. It's not particularly needed and Geralt isn't looking for one. The bard bundles himself back up in the cloak and he assumes that he's had enough, that his emotional outbursts were the last straws on the back of his failing stamina. The bed's decent and clean and the pillows will be fine once they're put back into shape--
But Jaskier apparently wants nothing to do with the pillows anymore, and instead rests his head on Geralt's lap. This is... new. Geralt is nearly a century old, but the bard has managed to surprise him again. His head is a warm weight on the witcher's thigh and his heart rabbits in his chest, too quick for him to be truly relaxed. It slows, though, the longer he lays there, and Geralt can only assume that it's because his presence is a comfort to Jaskier.
He just doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands.
After Jaskier's heart and breathing have slowed enough that he's certain that he's asleep, Geralt pulls some of the blankets over, covering him in more than just his cloak. He lets his hand rest on the bard's shoulder, then closes his eyes and settles into meditation. He could have tried to sleep, but his mind is too restless for it, filled with concerns about Nilfgaard and the trail to Kaer Morhen.
He is pulled out of his meditation some time later by movement on his lap and a soft, distressed noise. His eyes open to the dark room, empty save for the two of them; his hand had been halfway to his swords, an unconscious reaction from years of having to defend against dangers in the night. There are no external dangers here, though, that he can cut down with steel.
"Jaskier?" His hand tightens on the bard's shoulder. "Jaskier, wake up."
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Now if only Geralt would pet his head... too tired to do something about it now, but next time he needs to be sure to put the witcher's fingers on his head before falling asleep. Whatever he wants, right?
Sadly, sleeping comes quick but doesn't stay calm. Emotionally exhausted as he is, the reality of his captivity comes back for more. In his nightmare, the Nilgaardian soldiers are half monsters, and they don't only hurt Jaskier, they hurt the people he loves too - somehow they have captured some of his Oxenfurt friends, and suddenly Princess Cirilla is in there too, and right after that Geralt also enters the picture. They thank him for providing the information they've been needing and that hurts worse than the blade that comes for his throat--
The hand on his shoulder wakes him up just as he's about to scream. He groans in pain instead when he suddenly pulls his sore body away from the monster hands... except they aren't monster hands. It's dark, but he'd recognize that broad silhouette anywhere.
"...Geralt?" He asks between pants, his heart racing and his scent reeking of fear. His cheeks are wet from tears and damn, for once he wishes the witcher's eyes weren't so good in the darkness. This is embarrassing to say the least. "You're alright."
A hint of relief in his voice, the nightmare still livid in his mind.
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A nightmare. It's a similar story with Ciri-- waking in the night with wet cheeks and frightened eyes from dreaming about the destruction that Nilfgaard can wreak. The second person that Geralt cares for who has been left in terror from them. Ciri, though, usually finds comfort in curling against Geralt's chest and letting him hold her until she stopped crying. She's a twelve year old girl, though, so would the same tactic even work with a grown man?
"Of course I'm all right," he says. Strange, for Jaskier to be worried about him after a nightmare. "It was just a dream."
He still reeks of fear and anxiety, though. Geralt sighs; if it works for a twelve year old girl, it may very well just work for Jaskier.
"Come here."
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When the answer clicks, however, Jaskier doesn't hesitate. He'll be amazed at the fact he gets to cuddle Geralt in the morning, right now he needs him. Cloak wet with sweat, Jaskier drags it with him as he sits across the witcher's lap and puts his arms around that wide chest, hands holding onto black cloth as if his life depended on it.
"There were--- there were other people there with me." It comes out muffled, because he's burying his face in Geralt's chest. "Friends they used to make me talk. And then-- and then Cirilla was there too, and you, and they thanked me for the information, and there was a sword coming for me because I wasn't of use anymore..." His whole body trembles, his voice cracks. Not a single big word used in chopped sentences, that's how shaken he is. "I didn't tell them anything, Geralt, I swear..."
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Jaskier tells him about the dream, how Nilfgaard found the people he cared for and used them to make him talk, so that they could find Ciri and himself. It's awful, mostly because so much of it rings true-- they would have done whatever was necessary to get information about Ciri's whereabouts, and they would have killed him once his usefulness was over. The worst part is what he says afterwards, his voice tremulous and desperate-- I didn't tell them anything, I swear-- the fear in it, and the loyalty. Even if Jaskier didn't know where he was or where he had taken Ciri, he still knows so many other important things about him. He could have told them about his potions, the places he liked to stop, friends and allies that he would go to. He's far too shaken to lie, and even if he wasn't, Geralt would have still believed him. Jaskier is loyal even when Geralt doesn't deserve his loyalty.
"I know," he says, and sets one large, calloused hand on the back of Jasker's head. "It's all right, you're safe now. I won't let them touch you again."
It's a promise that he probably shouldn't make-- he'll have his hands full with protecting Ciri, nevertheless adding Jaskier, a bard exceptionally prone to finding trouble, to the mix. But, well, it's his fault that the bard's in this kind of trouble, he has a certain obligation to keep him out of any more of it.
And the whole... friends thing. That, too.
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A forty years old man, being cradled because of a nightmare. Part of him is embarrassed, especially because it's happening in front of Geralt. But the part of him that feels emotions freely and craves human touch reminds himself that there's nothing wrong with this, that adult men should be allowed to express themselves with dramatics as well, and the fact Geralt is supporting him instead of pushing him away means he isn't being judged. It speaks highly of their relationship as well. They're comforting thoughts.
"I know. I'm always safe with you. Even after a year away, you found me. I trust you with my life, Geralt of Rivia."
It's wild to be saying these things when mere hours ago he had been throwing a pillow and a string of insults at Geralt's face. What can he say? When Jaskier loves, he loves with all his heart, until that love itself consumes him. Besides, Geralt has been making up for it with both actions and words that Jaskier would've never expected. Whatever you want.
No assumptions. No anymore.
"...would it be fine by you if I slept like this?"
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Just a twelve year old girl and a middle-aged bard.
A middle-aged bard who had followed him across the Continent for two decades and, apparently, trusts Geralt of fucking Rivia with his life, despite all evidence that he shouldn't. But in time, maybe he could prove himself worthy of Jaskier's trust.
"Yes. Go to sleep."
He shifts, bringing Jaskier with him as he does, so that he can lean back against the headboard of the bed; it'll be a more comfortable position for him to maintain and an easier angle for the bard to lay at. He's forty, after all-- going the whole night with his neck in an awkward position will just make him stiff the next morning. Geralt tilts his head towards Jaskier's, the bard's hair brushing against his nose--
floral oil, lute wax, parchment--
"I'm here." His voice is a low rumble in his chest. "You're safe."
And he would still be there in the morning, when Jaskier woke up-- in no small part because he literally can't get out from under the bard without waking him.
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"I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance..." He mumbles as he slowly falls asleep again. "Gorgeous garroter, jury, and judge..."
The nightmares don't return.
Jaskier wakes up to the sun on his face, but the warmth that surrounds him isn't coming from it. Did he butter any biscuits lat night? A quick look up after rubbing his eyes tells him no, this is the one biscuit he's tried to butter for years with no success. The events of the evening slowly return to him, and he has to swallow before his heart even tries to start spilling feelings all over the witcher's lap.
He stayed. And he let Jaskier sleep cuddled against him. Whatever you want - Melitele please have mercy.
"Geralt..." The man is meditating - he shouldn't be too sudden with his movements. And that's his excuse for cupping Geralt's face, and no the fact he's dying to touch more. No sir, not at all, just looking out for the witcher. "Good morning, my friend. Have you meditated all night?"
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