Archive of Our Own

The tavern settles down quickly after Jaskier finishes singing. The cheers dying out as he shuffles to the bar with his hard earned coin. He tucks his hair behind his ear and nods at the barmaid when she hands him some ale. She smiles. He smiles back. And that's as far as he takes it. That's as far as he's been taking it since he hiked down that mountain months ago. He's decided not to dwell on it. 

He takes a large swig of ale and turns, about to head up the stairs to bed when he sees him. His Witcher. No. Not his. Not anymore. But a witcher. Standing near the door. Not moving. Staring right at him. 

Jaskier nearly drops his ale, but clenches his fingers tightly. He moves the cup to his mouth and swallows the rest of his drink in one gulp, staring down the witcher as ale dribbles down his chin. He wipes at it with his wrist, sets his cup as gently as he can manage on the bar, and heads for the stairs. Avoiding the witcher's eyes with determination. 

"Jaskier." His voice is low, hesitant. Jaskier stops on the first step, his fingers wrapped so tightly around his lute strap his knuckles are white. 

"No." Just the one word. He can't say more. He can't even look back at him. Refuses to. Geralt says nothing. Jaskier bites his lip and stomps up the stairs, forcing his eyes not to blink so that his tears don't spill over. He slams his door behind him and tosses his lute haphazardly onto the end of the bed. He splashes water onto his face and looks up into the mirror above it with a sigh.

His hair has grown in the months between the mountain, it's been nearly a year, and now, the ends hang just below his chin. He shakes his head to move the hair away from his face and just looks at himself. He tries to think of a good pep talk. Something to tell himself to prepare him for what's to come. He sees tears welling up in his eyes and walks away from the mirror. He tosses himself back on the bed, his fingers reaching out to touch his lute, out of habit, the only calming thing he has now. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Fuck." He sighs, loud in the empty room, lays there in the low candlelight, and doesn't sleep.

~*~

Jaskier wakes early, after maybe an hour of rest, the sun hitting his eyes through the small window on the wall. He groans and throws his arm over his eyes and rolls over, pulling one of the thin pillows over his head and groaning again. He throws the pillow across the room and rolls out of bed. He pulls his clothes on sleepily, gently places his lute into its case, and walks down to the bar. 

He does his best to subtly scan the tavern, there’s almost no one there, and no sign of Geralt. He sighs, hands the barmaid a handful of coin for the night, and walks out the door. He runs his hand through his hair and makes it maybe ten steps when he hears it. Geralt clearing his throat. He grimaces at himself for even knowing that sound, still, after so long. He keeps walking until a strong grip on his arm stops him, turns him around to face the witcher. Jaskier pulls out his grasp, but doesn’t walk away. Not yet. 

“What?” he’s looking at the ground. Looking at Geralt’s boots. They’re covered in mud, like always. 

“Jaskier.” his voice is quiet again. Softer than he’s ever heard it. Jaskier looks up at him, glances really. And there’s a sadness in his eyes that makes Jaskier feel something, deep in his chest, and he wants to hate him for it. 

“I’m sorry.” the words come out soft, like his name had before. Jaskier looks at him, waits a beat, and raises his eyebrows. Geralt doesn’t say any more. 

“That it?” his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists around the strap on his lute case. Geralt just looks at him. Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“You’re sorry for…” Jaskier prompts, dragging out the words and holding his hand out in front of him, motioning for him to continue. 

“You know what i’m talking about.” his gruff voice grates on Jaskier’s nerves in a way it never used to. 

“Yeah.” Jaskier nods, a tight smile stretching across his face. 

“I do.” he turns away from him, his heart aching in his chest, he wraps his arms around himself and sighs when he hears footsteps, and horses hooves, following him. He walks faster, making it about a mile out of town before Geralt finally speaks again. 

“I said I was sorry Jaskier.” he’s doing that thing with his voice, the one where he sounds amused, like it’s a joke. Jaskier stops abruptly. He spins on his heel and glares. 

“Yeah. You said sorry.” he closes the space between them, his hands shaking. 

“But guess what? That’s. Not. Good enough.” he stabs his finger into Geralt’s chest with each word, as hard as he can. Knowing that it probably barely feels like anything at all to the witcher, he doesn’t care. He looks at him for a moment, Geralt says nothing. Jaskier rolls his eyes, his hands flailing at his side, and turns away again. 

He keeps walking, shaking his head as he goes, the sound of Roach’s hooves following him not annoying him as much as he’d expected. The wind blows his hair in his face and he tucks it behind his ear, rubbing at his neck. He can feel Geralt staring at him as they walk. He nearly trips over a rock and readjusts his focus, picking up his pace. He knows he’ll never out run the witcher, not on his life, but that doesn’t mean he has to walk with him, or talk to him, or acknowledge his annoying fucking precence in any fucking way. He lowers his head, wills his heart to stop beating so fucking fast, and keeps walking. 

~*~

    They make camp for the night several yards away from each other. Geralt had tried to make camp with him, Jaskier had had to get up three times before he finally fucking stayed away. Jaskier pokes at his fire, still feeling rather proud at how good he’s gotten at making them. It had taken him… longer than he’d ever admit. But he was educated, he’d figured it out, and he hadn't gotten poisoned by anything he’d eaten so he was still calling it a win. Despite his memory of several cold nights lying on the ground in the dark. He’d only cried himself to sleep on about half those nights, so yeah, still a win. 

    He tossed his stick into the fire and rolled out his bedroll. He threw himself onto it with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest, looking up at the stars. He can hear Roach grazing nearby, she’d been wandering closer and closer to him all night. Jaskier felt a pressure in his chest, the poor dear was probably so confused, Jaskier not walking with them all day and now he was camping near them. But not with them. Jaskier took a deep breath, frowning and closing his eyes, trying not to let Geralt’s fucking horse make him cry. She didn’t even like him, why should he feel anything for her and her, more than likely imagined, confusion. 

    His fire had died out long ago, Geralt’s camp was quiet as well. Jaskier laid in the dark, his eyes closed with a focus that was nearly hurting his head, star bursts flashing against his eyelids. And then he feels something wet touch his forehead, and decidedly does not yelp and flail in the darkness. He scurries forward clumsily, whirling around to see what had touched him, and falls on his butt, his tailbone hitting a rock, sending a shooting pain up his back. He bites his lip to stifle the pained noise, trapping it in his throat, and stares at Roach in the darkness. 

    She noses around his bed roll for a moment and then mosesies her way over to where he’s sat on the ground, hands behind him, propping him up, legs stretched out awkwardly in front of him. She noses at his foot, the wetness making him shiver in the night air, and moves her way up his leg. She stops at his knee, nose pressed there gently, staring at him. Jaskier swallows hard and reaches for her slowly. His hand presses to her head gently, she nuzzles closer, pressing against his touch and snuffs loudly, her head shaking as she crowds into his space. Jaskier bites his lip, hard, to stop himself from crying. He’d missed her. So much. She was such a feisty creature, he’d never known a horse like her. And, he sniffed, scratching at her chin as she pressed her head against his chest, she seemed to have missed him too. He’d never have guessed that. 

    She leaves after their brief moment, wandering back to Geralt’s camp through the darkness, munching on grass as she goes. Jaskier smiles after her, making sure she stops where he knows she will, right under the big tree Geralt had parked her next to when they’d stopped. Jaskier nods, and crawls back to his bedroll. He stares at the stars for a little while longer, idly wondering if Geralt was awake for all that, he’d not heard him snoring yet. His stomach turns a little, at the thought of being spied on in the dark. He closes his eyes and shakes it off. Thinking to himself that at least the witcher’s horse knew how to apologize properly. He smirks, rolls over, and drifts off into restless sleep.

~*~

Three days he follows him. Two towns, one very rowdy tavern, and three fucking days. It’s hot now, summer finally hitting them hard, sweat drips down Jaskier’s neck, and his back, and drips into his eyes from his brow and he is… irritated. Roach’s hooves clopping behind him have become a calming sound. The huffs coming from the witcher atop her, not so much. He wipes at his head for the millionth time today and screws his eyes shut when yet another huff sounds behind him. 

“Jaskier come on. It’s been 4 days.” 

Jaskier freezes. He hears Roach stop behind him. His hands fist at his sides. That voice. Geralt had sounded… cheerful wasn’t the right word. But it was that exasperated voice he used to use. When he thought Jaskier was being ridiculous. And in the past, yes, sure, he’d been a bit over dramatic about… most things. But this? This was not, one of those times. He pressed his nails deeper into his palms and turned around slowly. 

“Get off the horse.” he can hear the venom in his own voice and wonders how long that’s going to stay there, he’d been so bitter since the mountain, so full of anger. He can feel it welling up, bubbling inside his chest as he watches Geralt slide off Roach. He’s looking at Jaskier with a look the bard had seen many times, though never directed at him. This was a look usually reserved for things Geralt was hunting, the look he gave a creature when he knew it was going to attack him, he just wasn’t sure when. The ball of darkness that had been festering inside Jaskier since he’d been tossed aside, smiled, it’s teeth bared, sharp and ready. 

“It has been. Far longer. Than four days.” his teeth were clenched, Geralt stopped nearly five steps away from him, like he might actually be afraid of Jaskier. 

“Jaskier I-”

“I am not finished.” Jaskier cut him off, glaring at him, daring him to speak again. Geralt was silent. 

“It has been far longer than four days. It has been nearly a year. And you come here. And the only thing you say… is sorry.” Jaskier takes a deep breath, he’s holding the anger behind his ribs in tightly, but he can feel the cage rattling. 

“Sorry. That’s all you’ve said. Not what you were sorry for . Nothing specific . Just ‘sorry’ . And now you’re treating it like it’s a fucking joke. Like i’m a fucking joke.” He points to himself, his finger gently touching his chest and he can feel himself shaking. Geralt opens his mouth to speak and Jaskier feels like screaming, so he does. 

“It’s not a fucking joke!” he shouts. Glaring again. Breathing heavily as he stares the witcher down. 

“I. Am not a fucking joke. Nothing about this is funny . I am not being overdramatic. I know that’s what you think of me. That i’m just some overdramatic bard who can’t fucking do anything right. Just some fucking idiot who follows you around, singing songs. But let me fucking tell you something.” he stalks closer to Geralt, the witcher stays completely still, his face expressionless, Jaskier jabs his finger into the solid chest in front of him. 

“I am not a fucking idiot. Despite all the evidence to the contrary when it comes to you.” he stabbed his finger into him again and turned away from the witcher, shoving his hands through his hair to move it out of his face. The darkness inside him surged, pressing against his rib cage again, and he spun to face Geralt, taking a deep breath, knowing he couldn't stop now. He’d started this and now he had to finish it, he had to let it all out before it devoured his heart inside his chest. He clenched his fists, planted his feet, and let the darkness break through his ribs and claw its way out of his mouth. 

“See because when it comes to you . I am fucking fool. I don’t even know why you’re here. You don’t care. In fact, on several occasions, you’ve made it perfectly clear that you need no one. Said that right to my face, remember!? And then you said I looked like a coward! You used it as an excuse to save me from that angry man at the banquet, but you still fucking said it! And I resent that by the way, i’m not a fucking coward.” he sees the shame on Geralt’s face as he looks to the ground but he can’t stop, the words pouring out of him like a waterfall of built up pain. 

“Oh! And what about that time you fucking Djinn cursed me coz you couldn’t stand me talking! I came to see how you were, and tried to help, and you fucking wished a curse on me!” Geralt looks up at him then, his eyes wide. 

“Oh! You didn’t think I could put that together? You really do think i’m an idiot don’t you? Well I’m not! I am idiot where you're concerned MOST of the time, I'll give you that. But i’m not fucking blind . I knew as soon as it happened. And sure you helped fix it.” He glared at Geralt, not caring that the man was looking completely ashamed of himself now, his shoulders hunched in. 

“But let’s be honest here, that had more to do with your FUCKING GUILT, than it had anything to do with you caring about me ! And then you went and fucked the crazy witch! And you just… kept fucking her, until you pushed her away! And then, ONCE AGAIN, you pushed me away too!! Said the best thing life could do for you would be to take ME, off your hands.” He takes a few steps backwards, holding his arms wide.

“So here I am Geralt. Worlds away from you. Off your hands. And you come sauntering back in, asking me to forgive you with some half assed apology. Well… I’d tell you where you can shove your apology, but you’re a smart guy. Smarter than me right? So why don’t you go ahead and work it out, FOR YOURSELF!” he screams the last words, his voice cracking with the force of it, a tear falling down his cheek. His hands flailing wildly and then falling to his sides. He’s panting as he stares at Geralt. The witcher just stares at him, his eyes wide, and still, says nothing. Jaskier growls and spins around again, tugging his lute strap back into place on his shoulder, wiping at the wetness on his cheeks, and stalks off down the road. 

It takes… longer this time, for the sounds of Geralt following him to reach his ears. But they do. And he hates to admit it but the tension pressing against his shoulders fades a little at the sound. He hadn’t scared him off. That hadn’t been his intention. Not really. Now that he’d spilled all the darkness from inside him he… didn’t feel as… hostile. He was still mad. Very mad. And knew what he’d said had been right. He’d been right to stand up for himself. Not just take the sad attempt at an apology and pretend he hadn’t been hurting still, like he’d always done in the past. He couldn’t do that anymore. He refused to. It hurt too much. It had all just… exploded out of him at once, he’d had no control. And the shame he’d seen swimming in Geralt’s eyes was prodding at his heart now. He clenched his fists and kept walking. 

And Geralt followed. 

~*~

It was strange, Jaskier being in the lead. Setting the pace. Making the decision when to stop and where, and for how long, and for what. He wasn’t used to it. But Geralt hadn’t said anything to him after his outburst. It had been almost a week. They’d stopped a few times, sometimes at taverns, sometimes not. Jaskier hadn’t really felt like performing much, but he’d do a song if he was asked, not wanting to get on anyone’s bad side. Mostly he just sat at the bar and drank, not as much as he had been the past year. But enough. Enough to numb the ache still lingering in his chest. 

Geralt stays away, sitting in corners as he’s always done. But he doesn’t speak to Jaskier, or try to, or even look at him. Jaskier had glanced at him off and on, night after night, and not once had he caught the witcher looking at him, he had, however, caught him scribbling something on a piece of paper. Several times he’d looked over and seen Geralt hunched over, his face a mask of focus and frustration. But every single time Jaskier had tried to subtly figure out what he was writing, the paper would disappear and be replaced with a cup of ale. Geralt sitting, stone faced, drinking, alone, like always. Jaskier’s curiosity was making his fingers twitch. 

It went that way for a few more days, Jaskier drinking alone, Geralt drinking alone. And scribbling something. Jaskier, maybe… not as subtle as he’d insinuated previously, trying to see what he was writing, the paper immediately disappearing like it had never existed. He’d huff, not really feeling the frustration he was projecting, and stomp up the stairs to bed, ready to try again the next evening. And then they’d stopped in a tavern. And Jaskier had sung, on request. And, for the first time in a long time, his performance had ended with things being thrown at his head. He’d ducked most of the food, but a pint of ale had slammed into his head with a thud, the sticky liquid splashing onto his face and down his front. 

His knees buckled beneath him when the cup hit his temple, a yelp escaping him as his knees slammed into the hardwood floor. A few more handfuls of food hit him as he tried to gather his thoughts and pull himself back together. Shouts still filling the air, and laughter. There was laughter ringing in his ears, he felt his face heating up, his eyes and throat burning. And then there was a hand on his elbow, holding his arm gently and pulling him to his feet easily. He let himself be guided through the raging crowd and up the stairs, until he was standing in front of his door. He hadn’t looked up the entire time, but he hadn’t needed to. He knew whose face he would see when he did. And he knew the look that would be there. A soft look. Full of concern. A look he wouldn’t be able to resist right now. So he brushed his fingertips gently against Geralt’s chest as the man let go of his arm, mumbled a thank you, and slipped into his room, his eyes trained on the floor beneath him and nothing else. 

He pressed his back against the door as hard as he could, pressing his hands into his eyes, trying to quell the tears threatening to fall. It doesn’t work, and the next moment his chest is heaving and he throws himself onto the bed in his room. He shoves his face into the pillow, curling up into himself. He can feel the ale in his hair, a few strands sticking to his face because of it. More sobs crawl out of his throat and he pushes and shoves at the hair on his face, drying his skin with his tattered sleeve. He bites his lip hard, hiccupping around his jumpy breathing, and then blows out the one candle lit in his room. 

He’s always prefered to cry himself to sleep in the dark. 

~*~

Geralt sits in the room next door. The walls are thin. And Jaskier has never been quiet. Though lately, he’s seemed to have mastered it. 

He sits.

And he listens. 

Listens to Jaskier cry himself to sleep late into the night. 

He sets his brow, grabs a dagger from his bag, and gets to work. 

~*~

The gifts start the next morning. Jaskier wakes to sunlight burning into his eyes. He crawls out of bed with a sigh and bathes. Washing off the remains of the eventful night before. He opens his door to head down stairs, eager to be out of this place, and he sees it. Sitting on the floor outside his room. 

A flower. 

Not a real flower. Jaskier furrows his brow and picks it up gently. It's made of wood. Delicately carved from what must have only been a small block, Jaskier lays it in the palm of his hand, his fingers moving over the slender stem. It’s a small thing, not even two inches in his hand, but it’s… beautiful. His heart beats fast in his chest as he looks at it. It’s perfect, in every way, the detail in it is breathtaking. The nearly white wood light in his grasp, he curls his fingers around it gingerly, moving his hand to press it against his chest, holding the small wooden thing close. A tear falls down his cheek again, but it’s not a tear of sorrow, or a tear of pain, or embarrassment. It is, after a very long year, a single tear of happiness. 

He wipes at his face, placing the perfectly carved Buttercup into the pocket over his heart, and nearly skips down the stairs.

The days are… easier, after that. Jaskier still doesn’t talk to Geralt, not much. But he walks closer to him and Roach, not pulling so far ahead of them. They camp a little closer. And Jaskier can feel that thing in his chest calming, the thunder beneath his lungs settling more and more with each rise and fall of the sun. 

Night falls fast. Jaskier makes camp, sitting cross legged on his bed roll near his fire. The stars are so bright he can’t keep his eyes off them, his neck is beginning to ache when he hears it. Or rather, hears him . 

Geralt. 

Talking.

At first he thinks he’s talking to himself. He moves his aching neck slowly, just a tad, to the left, glancing over his shoulder to investigate. He bites his lip to stop the smile that tries to bloom there. Roach had wandered over to where Geralt was sitting near his fire. She was nosing at his shoulder, pressing close to him. And Geralt... was talking to her. Having a full on conversation with her. Chatting, if Jaskier was being honest with himself. He longed to sneak closer, to listen to this easy conversation that Geralt was having with his beautiful, odd, horse. But he knew he’d be caught. Geratl’s hearing was far too keen. So Jaskier closed his eyes, let his head fall to rest his neck, and listened to the low rumble of Geralt’s voice in the dark.

Two nights later, they’re camped nearer again, Roach grazing directly in the middle of them, like she couldn’t choose who to graze by so she chose both. Jaskier is watching her, a small smile tilting his lips when he notices Geralt looking at him . He drops his eyes to his lap and clears his throat, feeling awkward, for some reason. He hears footsteps and his heart begins to pound. He looks up when the footsteps stop, Geralt has stayed several feet away. He’s holding a plate of something. And Jaskier can’t lie, whatever it is, smells amazing. Geralt just looks at him for a moment, clearly not sure if he’s allowed closer. Jaskier lifts his eyebrows inquisitively and Geralt takes a few more steps. 

“I thought you might be hungry.” he holds his hand out, offers Jaskier a plate of what looks like-

“I caught a few rabbits.” he shrugs, like it’s nothing. Jaskier reaches for the plate greedily. His fingers wiggling as he reaches, he sees a glint in Geralt’s eyes as he nods at him, and then turns and heads back to his own camp. Jaskier watches him walking away and can’t stop himself. 

“Thank you Geralt.” he says, calling out to the witcher in the dark. He watches Geralt pause, very briefly, and then continue back to his camp. Jaskier eats the fresh meat quickly, savoring it as best he can. The bread he’d been eating the last few nights had long gone stale, and he was more grateful than a simple ‘thank you’ could convey. 

He returns Geralt’s plate in the morning, trying his best to make his smile not strained and tight. It was hard. In the morning light, some of that old bitterness has sunk back into him. He tucked his hair behind his ear, looking at Geralt for too long, he knew, and then turned around, nearly tripping over his own feet, and shuffling back to his own camp. 

He begins rolling his bed roll and then stops, his eyes falling to something on the ground, near where his head had been lying that night. He tosses his bedroll aside, never able to focus on just one thing at a time, and grabs for it. He feels the smooth wood beneath his fingers and can’t help but smile. 

He opens his hand and digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek to stop the laugh that wants to bubble out of him. In his hand, sits a very small, very accurate, tiny wooden Roach. Jaskier holds her closer, looking at the detail in her mane, and her eyes, and her tail, in awe. He runs his finger down said beautiful mane and then gently places her in his pocket, next to his flower. He glances at Geralt and finds him fastidiously adjusting Roach’s reins and feels his cheeks burn. He clears his throat and quickly finishes packing his things. His hands flit about as he gathers everything and begins the day's walk. 

~*~

The next night, in the front room of the inn they’re staying at, it can’t really be called a tavern, Jaskier watches Geralt for a long time. He’s sitting at the table near the only window in the room, scratching and scribbling at that paper again in the dim candle light. Jaskier watches him, and watches him, and then he sighs to himself. He orders a cup of ale, then grabs his own off the bar and moves toward the witcher. 

The paper is gone before he reaches the table. Jaskier frowns, at himself mostly, and is greeted with a look that he's not expecting. Geralt looks… worried. Jaskier wants to hold his hands out in front of him, like you would to soothe a frightened animal, but his hands are full, so instead he holds out the cup of ale. Geralt’s expression softens and he takes the cup, sits it in front of him on the table, rethinks it, takes a drink, and then sets it down again. Jaskier stands there, no longer sure why he’d come to Geralt’s table. Geralt tries not to look at him, Jaskier can see his eyes darting around. He rolls his eyes, at himself, takes a deep breath, and points to the seat across from Geralt, his eyebrows high on his forehead in inquiry. 

Geralt looks at him immediately, his eyes moving from Jaskier’s face to his hand and then back again. He nods. Once. And Jaskier sighs and throws himself down. Glad to be sitting again and not having to make any more decisions for the moment. Unfortunately the silence is too much for Jaskier, always has been, and he’s jittering now. His fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table top as he pretends he can see out the foggy window. He takes a long swig of his ale and turns to Geralt, unable to help himself. 

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you.” he says quickly, the words flying past his lips in a rush. Geralt looks at him across the table, and he swears he sees the witchers lips twitch. 

“I know Jaskier.” he says, his scarred fingers rubbing at the side of the cup in his hands. 

“I’m still extremely cross with you.” he says, pointing his finger accusingly.

“I know Jaskier.” and there’s definitely amusement in his voice now, Jaskier lets it slide. Watching Geralt duck his head, letting his eyes fall to his lap, trying to hide the way the corner of his mouth curled up. Jaskier let that slide too. The warmth spreading in his chest undeniable, and exceedingly more enjoyable than he’d like to admit. 

They sit there for a long time. Well into the night. Not speaking, just, being. Jaskier had missed this. Being so close to him. Being so close to anyone really. But there was something about being close to Geralt. It made him feel safe. And he knew his guard should be up. He’d felt this before, and he knew how it had ended last time. But this felt… different. Jaskier tucked his hair behind his ear and peeked through his lashes at Geralt, he was looking out the window, into the night. As if feeling Jaskier's gaze he looked at him. Jaskier quickly moved his eyes to his lap, heat crawling up his neck. 

This felt… like more. 

~*~ 

Two nights later Jaskier gets attacked. 

Attacked might be a strong word. He gets punched in the face. 

Twice. 

He hadn’t even done anything wrong. Not really. He hadn’t slept with the man's wife, or his daughter... or his mother. He’d never even seen this man before. His only mistake had been his clumsiness. His feet were out of his control as he carried his and Geralt’s food back to the table. He’d looked to his left for one moment, the sound of the piano in the corner distracting him, and walked right into someone. It happens. In crowded taverns. People walk into people all the time. It just so happened that he walked into the wrong someone. 

Their food ended up on the floor. Jaskier opened his mouth to apologize and was cut off by a swift hit right to his nose. He grabbed at his face, crying out as a hand grabbed his doublet and pulled him closer. He yelled again when another hit was delivered to his face, he felt his lip split and pushed at the man holding him. And then, just like that, the man was gone. He vaguely heard a crash across the tavern, in his mind he saw the man flying through the air, his body breaking through a table. And then Geralt was there. Holding him up, his knees shaking as pain shot through his head. 

“Are you alright?” Jaskier had never heard him that concerned. Not directed at him. He nodded, but his eyes were already tearing up. 

“Come on.” Geralt whispered, gently snaking his arm around Jaskier’s waist, helping him up the stairs, and into his room. 

He sat Jaskier down on the edge of his bed. Walking around the room quickly, grabbing a rag, and dipping it in the small bowl of water near the mirror. He knelt in front of Jaskier, his hand coming to rest on Jaskier’s cheek as he began to wipe at the blood flowing from Jaskier’s nose and lip. Jaskier let Geralt do what he pleased. Let him wipe his face. Let him press gently on his nose to make sure it wasn’t broken. Let him take his blood covered shirt and send it to be cleaned. Let him slide one of his own shirts, much too big on Jaskier, but comfortable, over his head. Through all this, Jaskier sat silently. Watching his witcher intently, the look on his face as he took care of Jaskier was hypnotising. Such worry in those bright yellow eyes. 

“I’m so sorry.” Geralt’s voice was a whisper, but it could have been a banshee’s shriek for how hard it seemed to slam into Jaskier’s chest. Geralt was knelt in front of him again, his hands resting on Jaskier’s knees gently, warm and heavy, looking up at him with desperation in his eyes. 

“I’m fine Geralt. Believe it or not I have been punched in the face before. Several times.” his voice was dismissive. But it was also a whisper, as Geralt’s had been. Geralt shook his head, dismissing Jaskier in return. 

“Not for that.” his brow furrowed in concentration. His fingers tightened around Jaskier’s knee and he looked up at him again. 

“I’m sorry for what I said that day. And all those other things I said too. I didn’t mean any of them. Not a word.” Jaskier watched him swallow deeply, like there were more words fighting to get out all at once and he was trying to shove them back down to keep them in order. 

“I should never have called you a coward. Even as an excuse to help you. Jaskier,” more pressure on his knee, 

“You are the bravest human I have ever met. You are not a joke to me. I-” he stalled again, Jaskier licked his lips and kept staring at him, he couldn’t look away. 

“I am so sorry I cursed you. I never meant for that to happen. It just, it came out of my mouth, and then you were bleeding and I- I am so sorry.” his eyes were looking frantic now, one hand moving to Jaskier’s face, he gently pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, settling his hand against Jaskier’s cheek. 

“What I said on that mountain. If I could go back to that day and take it all back... I would. In a heartbeat. I’d take back what I said to you. I’d keep my fucking mouth shut. And let you drag me to the coast. Or wherever. Anywhere you wanted. I’d go with you.” His voice barely makes it above a whisper the whole time he speaks, his thumb wipes at the tears falling down Jaskier’s cheek, that worry stuck in his eyes as he looks up at him. 

“Geralt-” he stops, clears his throat, there’s a pressure in his throat that he can’t seem to shake. 

“Can you forgive me? Please?” Geralt asks, his eyes pleading. 

“I’ll do better this time.” He slips his hand into his pocket and sets something on Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier looks down at it and chokes on a sob. He moves his hand up to Geralt’s wrist, squeezing as hard as he can, tears falling freely nowly. 

“Oh my dear witcher,” he moved his hand down Geralt’s arm, then up to his cheek, mirroring the hold Geralt had on him. 

“You already have.” he was whispering still. But he’d learned, in his many years, that whispers could be the loudest things. Echoing through darkness and sadness like a blessed choir. 

“You already have.” he said again, the fingers of his free hand curling carefully around the wooden lute Geralt had placed on him. He held it tightly, but gently, and then pulled Geralt close, sliding clumsily from the bed onto his knees to hold him. Geralt’s arms wrapped around him firmly, holding him close. The witcher tucked his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, he could feel him breathing deeply, slowly breathing Jaskier in. Jaskier bit into his lip and curled his fingers into Geralt’s shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. 

At some point Geralt picks them both up and moves them to the bed. Jaskier barely manages to get his boots off, his witcher apparently not wanting to let go of him now that he has him. Jaskier settles onto Geralt's chest and thinks that he's oh so very fine with that. If Geralt never let go of him again Jaskier would have no qualms about it. Geralt moves his fingers gently through Jaskier's hair, humming to himself as he does. Jaskier looks up at him, moving as little as possible. 

"You know, when you hum like that? With my head lying here, it sounds like you're purring." Jaskier moves his fingers over Geralt's ribs, pressing into them gently through his shirt. 

"Hmm. I like this." Is the wordy answer he gets.

"What? Me laying on you?" He moves his fingers in small circles over Geralt's chest, his hand moving slowly to reach out for his arm, needing to touch his skin. Just because he can. 

"No." 

A pause.

"Well, yes, that too. I meant this ." He moves his fingers deeper into Jaskier's hair, giving it the gentlest of tugs, sending shivers through Jaskier like he’d been plunged into ice water. 

"My hair? You like it this way?" He's not really asking, Geralt's actions are fairly self evident after all. 

"Hmm." Is all he gets as affirmation. Jaskier smiles against his chest, hums himself, in return, and feels his eyes begin to close as Geralt gently moves his nails against his scalp.

He wakes to the sun in his eyes, once again, and finds it doesn’t bother him nearly as much when he wakes also pressed up against a very warm witcher. He moves to stretch and is immediately pulled flush against Geralt’s hard chest. He yelps when Geralt’s hands grab at his ribs, tickling him as they pull him close. They lie there for almost an hour before Jaskier manages to pull himself out of bed, he tucks Geralt’s baggy shirt into his trousers and pulls his boots on, stopping with one foot in mid air when he catches Geralt staring. 

“Yes?” he asks, giving his boot a yank and letting his foot drop to the floor. 

“Like my shirt do you?” Geralt asks, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Jaskier, a smirk dancing across his lips. Jaskier looks down and pats at himself, the black shirt soft against his skin. 

“Oh yes. Very much. In fact I think I'll keep it.” he smiles at the witcher, not really meaning it as he says it, but that thing in his chest rumbles at the thought of having to give it back. Geralt unfolds his arms and stalks across the room slowly, pressing into Jaskier’s space. 

“Keep it then. It suits you.” He presses forward, his lips, oh so slowly, meeting Jaskier’s for the first time. It’s soft, and unhurried, and utterly intoxicating. He pulls back, brushing his nose against Jaskiers’, giving his hips a gentle squeeze before letting him go. Jaskier watches in a daze as Geralt collects their things. He hands Jaskier his lute case and gives him a gentle shove, getting him moving out the door. 

The barmaid down stairs sees them and makes a beeline to them. Hurriedly apologizing for the events of the evening before and waving away the coin Geralt tries to pay her. She apologizes again as they walk out the door. Jaskier follows Geralt to the stables and greets Roach with a smile. She whinnies and shakes her head at him, snuffling against him as Geralt secures her reins. 

They walk slowly out of town, side by side, Geralt leading Roach gently as they walk, their hands brushing together as they go, neither of them shying away from the touch. 

“Do you think I could get this made into a necklace?” Jaskier wonders out loud as he fiddles with the small, beautiful, lute Geralt had made him, rolling it between his fingers lovingly. 

“I could probably manage that.” Geralt says, looking at him, a smile barely on his lips but shining brightly in his eyes. 

“That would be lovely. I’d like to keep it near my heart.” Jaskier says, and his stomach drops as Geralt stops walking, freezing in place, Roach stops next to him. Jaskier turns and finds Geralt staring at him, a strange look in his eyes, a look Jaskier has never seen before, he looks...hungry. And then he’s in Geralt’s arms, Geralt’s mouth firmly pressed against his. Jaskier moans, shoving his hands into the witcher's hair and pulling him closer, their teeth click together in their frantic movements, hands grabbing at each other. Geralt pulls on Jaskier’s hips hard enough to bruise and Jaskier writhes against him. And then he’s gone again, leaving Jaskier gasping and pressing a hand to his chest. 

“Okay that is unfair!” he calls after the witcher, who has just, continued walking like nothing had been happening. When in fact it had, it had very much been happening, several things, all at once, had been happening. Geralt looks over his shoulder and smiles. Honest to god smiles, his teeth shining at Jaskier through kiss bruised lips. Jaskier barely suppresses a shiver and runs after him, catching up easily and falling back into stride beside Geralt. 

“So. Where to now?” he asks, his fingers once again wrapped around the wooden lute. Geralt glaces at him. And then shrugs. 

“The coast maybe? Somewhere else? Wherever you want.” he smiles again, soft this time, and tangles his fingers with Jaskiers’. Jaskier looks down at their hands, his mouth falling open a little, in awe. 

“I’m following you.” Geralt finishes, bringing their hands up and pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles. 

Jaskier nearly trips over nothing, his own treacherous feet no doubt, but Geralt catches him easily and they keep walking. Geralt’s skin is warm in Jaskier’s grasp. His other hand holding onto the wooden lute tightly. They walk and walk and walk, hands never parting, heading into the sun, Roach trotting next to them, patient as ever with her two, tiresome, humans. The thing in Jaskier’s chest practically purring as Geralt’s thumb brushes gentle circles against his skin, half a step behind Jaskier, letting him lead the way. 

Jaskier walks toward the sun, no clear idea where he’s heading, not caring right now in the slightest. No matter where they end up, he knows Geralt will be there. Knows he won’t push him away again. Not like before. He gives Geralt’s hand a gentle squeeze. Receives one, and a smile too, in return, and he keeps walking. 

Jaskier walks toward the sun. 

And Geralt follows.