Work Text:
The Year Before :
Geralt’s boots crunch down against sand and grass as he walks the path toward the familiar cottage, seaglass chimes tinkling in the salty breeze as it whipped his hair back.
He hears a chortle up ahead, followed by a gentle voice.
“Didn’t I tell you, Pegasus? I had a feeling he’d be visiting today. It’s always windier somehow, on days he visits. Well, go on then, don’t be rude, go greet our guests,” Jaskier’s voice floats over, lifting the corners of Geralt’s mouth into a smile at the sound.
A small pat against the horse’s rear and Pegasus (Pegasus the II, actually — larger and more dappled than her predecessor) trots out into view, coming up to greet them with a huff.
“Hello, old friend,” Geralt greets, holding out his hand for her to sniff.
“I hope you’re talking about the horse and not me, Witcher? I’d like to remind you who out of the four of us just had his tri-centennial!” Jaskier says indignantly, hobbling toward him with a smile on his face.
“We’re all spring chickens,” he insists, meeting Jaskier the rest of the way. “It is good to see you, Jaskier,” he says into his ear as he hugs him tight, letting go of the reins so Roach and Pegasus can interact freely.
They stay there in each other’s arms for a minute before Jaskier has to break apart to stifle coughing into the crook of his elbow.
“Are you ill?” Geralt asks, concerned. Jaskier smiles wryly. “These days, when aren’t I? Just a cough, though, nothing to worry about.” He says, patting Geralt on the shoulder. Geralt takes Roach’s tack off so she can graze with her friend and follows Jaskier inside the cottage which had slowly become like Geralt’s home away from the Kaer over the years.
Ever since Jaskier had retired, no longer possessing the energy or stamina to follow Geralt on the Path anymore, Geralt had made it an unspoken rule to return to Jaskier’s seaside cottage in between contracts as often as he could.
As easily as Jaskier following him had become rhythm so long ago, so had visiting Jaskier now that he had settled down. Geralt has grown used to returning to a fire and a home-cooked meal no matter the time of day, knowing he could look forward to a warm bed and someone to share it with, and of course, that he could expect the usual curious hunger for details of contracts he’s been on. It never mattered that they were usually the most mundane and routine contracts, taking out his umpteenth ghoul. Jaskier always listened bright-eyed and eager as if he were hearing about his first one.
Steadily over the years, those eyes grew slightly more cloudy, and his gait a bit more stiff. His hands were often cramped, and with both his slowly failing hands and eyesight, he couldn’t write and play whenever he wanted like he used to. Whenever Geralt came by, it was with welcome relief.
“Thank the gods, you’re here. I tried hiring an assistant from town to come up and transcribe my dictations, but he just didn’t have the keen ear or quick pace that you do, my friend,” Jaskier had exclaimed one such visit.
“So I’m writing down my own stories now?” He’d asked, amused. Jaskier waved his hand. “Your stories, yes, but embellished and retouched by my brilliant mind,” he clarified.
Eventually, Geralt had to insist that Jaskier keep the assistant, if only to make sure he’d have someone to help him take care of things around the cottage when Geralt wasn’t around — clearing his floor of trip or fall hazards, as Jaskier was prone to leaving books and old instruments in stacks that made sense only to him, but then forget about them as he was wandering about (“I have to walk for my constitution, Geralt!”).
Geralt himself isn’t sprightly anymore either. He feels every single year of his age since Ciri has grown up enough to be her own woman and surpassed them all, and especially so since Vesemir’s passing. Every scar and old injury aches when it rains, and he finds the fear he told Jaskier once so many years ago coming more and more to the forefront of his mind; “Witchers only retire when they age and slow down,” he’d growled.
Now, watching Jaskier shuffle around his little table to offer Geralt a drink or something to eat, he remembers the worst part of being a witcher: having to watch almost everyone he loves grow old and die.
He observes with a bit of trepidation as Jaskier turns to the side slightly, stifling a cough with his shoulder in a movement that seems too natural to the bard, before clearing his throat and turning back to him with a smile.
“Fancy a drink? I have nice wine from Touissant I haven’t opened yet, and Nina from the market — you remember her — she sent a fresh honey cake up with Titus this morning!”
“Titus?”
Jaskier shakes his head, snapping a few times before correcting himself. “Tomasz! Ah, who can get all these names straight, I swear they send a different boy up each time and hope I don’t notice. They think I’m senile, see?” He says, tapping his temple. “But I’m still sharp enough to beat Valdo Marx in a poetry competition, stiff hands and all,” he insists.
Geralt sits, helping Jaskier when he lets him but backing off when he gets ornery and wants to do something himself, letting his chatter fill the air.
Coming here, surrounded by waves and his companion’s lilting voice, is more restorative than anything a healer could offer him.
…
The year goes on like that.
Every time before Geralt visits, he worries a little more that he’ll come back to find Jaskier suddenly shriveled and grey with no one to look after him.
Yet, he’s always pleasantly reassured to find Jaskier still very much himself.
A little more wrinkled, slightly more forgetful sometimes, sure, and more often than not these days getting over some bout of illness, but he’s still Jaskier.
It doesn’t stop Geralt from feeling a preemptive pang of loss at the sight of him.
…
In the late summer, Geralt returns one evening to the sounds of Jaskier arguing with Tomasz inside his cottage. He doesn’t bother tying up Roach, instead just entering the house with a knock.
“Jaskier?” He calls out.
He can’t tell who looks more relieved to see him, Jaskier or Tomasz.
“Thank goodness you’re here, Mister Witcher—“
“Ah, good, Geralt—“
“I can’t get him to—“
“Please tell this man that I—“
They talk over each other until Geralt raises his hands. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t get him to take his medicines, sir,” Tomasz answers, looking defeated. Jaskier waves him away.
“And I told him, I don’t see the purpose of meds that are just going to be worse than the symptoms! Surely there’s something better out there? And if not, I’d rather deal with the cough and have a chance at walking around a bit than waste the rest of my life sleeping in my sickbed!” Jaskier yells.
“What are you talking about, Jaskier?” Geralt asks, sitting down next to him.
Jaskier sighs. “I have a teensy weensy cough—“
“Walking pneumonia,” Tomasz mutters.
“—and I’m mostly over it, but the medicines the healers have me on make me sleep most of the day. I don’t want to sleep what life I have left away, Geralt, I want to be awake and enjoy my time. I want to write and play and sing even if it hurts, even if it’s just for a little while, you understand?” Jaskier explains, eyes bright with pleading.
Geralt takes a steadying breath. “Yes,” he breathes out.
Jaskier leans forward, speaking to him quietly. “I’m not ignorant of my health or my age, Geralt. I just don’t want to spend this year waiting around for the inevitable, with some assistant I’ve only known for a few years — no offense, Tomasz.”
“None taken, Master Pankratz,” Tomasz replies, sounding resigned.
Jaskier grabs Geralt’s hand with a strength Geralt didn’t know he still possessed. “I’ve seen enough of the sea. I want to see the Continent one last time. I want to spend one last winter with you and Yennefer and Ciri and your brothers at the Keep. I’m tired of retirement, and I refuse to take death lying down. When I go, I want it to be with you,” he says fiercely.
Geralt nods. “Let me contact Yenn,” he says, and excuses himself to go outside and throw up.
…
The Winter Of :
Jaskier is barely conscious enough for the first few days they arrive at the Kaer for him to enjoy it.
Depending on the region of the Continent, the weather is still considered late fall or early winter; just warm enough for them to make it up the Killer safely without aggravating Jaskier’s illness too much, but cool enough to be a balm for a fever.
Geralt sits him up in bed and gently pats his back, Yenn wiping away the blood dripping from his lips that painfully reminds Geralt of the incident that initially brought the three of them together.
Jaskier had jolted up in bed in a coughing fit, desperately trying to catch his breath when Geralt had come in with a fresh bucket of steaming water, to which he had been adding eucalyptus salts to help loosen the gunk in Jaskier’s chest.
He’d left quietly, not wanting to wake the bard from the first decent sleep he’d been able to get in days. He sat the bucket down and rushed over, helping him sit up and clapping his hand against the back of his chest—when he noticed how warm the bard was.
Geralt checked his forehead and pulse, saw the panic tinging the fevered glaze in the bard’s eyes. “Hey, Shh, you’re safe, you’re with me. It’s alright. Breathe.” He encouraged until Jaskier nodded, trembling body sinking against his chest.
Geralt held him and kept patting his back, feeding him poppy milk for the pain and herbal tincture Yenn brewed for the infection, trying to get him to take sips of cool water or tea that Ciri made.
At one point he helped Jaskier kneel over his knees, patting his back so that his hips were raised above his chest and gravity could help drain the stuff in his lungs. He wiped Jaskier’s nose for him and wiped his forehead with a cool cloth.
To anyone else, it might look like indignity, but to them, they knew it was love.
After a few more days of the witchers taking turns carrying Jaskier outside to sit in the sun and cool air, and sitting with him in the hot springs, he starts to become more awake.
He stops coughing blood, stops coughing so violently he can’t breathe. He’s still ashen and weak and sweaty, but he leans against Geralt and smiles, talking slowly and lowly with a hoarse voice.
The softness he’d gathered in his retirement disappears when his appetite does, so he’s thin and cold and gets exhausted quickly those first few weeks, often falling asleep on Geralt at the table or sitting by the fire.
After a while, his appetite slowly comes back, and he’s finally able to keep down a bowl of broth and even a roll of bread, or apple juice that Yenn conjures. He gets a bit of color back in his face, some energy back.
One day, he even gets out of bed himself to go stand at the window.
In the evenings, Geralt uses the oils and bath salts and perfumes Jaskier likes, brushing and even braiding Jaskier’s longer hair (he’d learned from Ciri).
He helps Jaskier get dressed, keeping him warm, and puts salve on his hands and joints, on all his other aches and pains.
Each time he does, running fingers through scalp or palms across skin, he wonders if this was how Jaskier felt all those decades of doing the same for him.
…
One night when Yennefer went into their bedroom to administer his potions, they fell into their usual banter, like old times.
“Geralt, help, there’s a witch in the room,” Jaskier teased when Yennefer walked in.
“Smile too much and you’ll just deepen those crow’s feet,” she jokes wryly, setting the basket of potions and tinctures on the bedside.
“I’ll have you know my face is a work of art!” He exclaims, coughing slightly as he sits up. Yenn sits next to him. “Alright, old man—“
“You’re older than me by like a century!” Jaskier protests.
“It’s time for your medicines,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Bah! Medicine. I remember when I only ever needed a tincture every once in a while, in the winter. Or est est, now that could clear up an ailment,” he said, eyes far off.
“Est est would make you ill,” she recalled, pouring out a spoonful of liquid and helping him take it.
After he swallowed, her wrist was stopped.
“Hey,” he starts, giggling slightly. “Remember when Geralt and I had to show you how to make an actual tent, not a magic one?”
“Outside Brokilon? That was nearly thirty years ago…”
“And you had just been in battle so you didn’t have all your—“ he does a hand-wavy thing “—magic resources. We showed you how to make an actual tent and you laughed at us, saying it was—“
“Too pedestrian for my tastes, yes.” She sighed, smiling. “But then the sky broke open like Geralt said it would,” she admitted.
“So you ran in and huddled between us like it was no issue at all,” Jaskier continued, smiling, his skin crinkling around his brilliant blue eyes. “It was like a sleepover,” he said. “Have a sleepover with us, Yenn? Just tonight? Like old times. Only with much less rain and much softer ground,” he says, patting the bed underneath him and waggling his eyebrows suggestively, the long ash and grey streaks in the hair adding to his charm.
“Fine, you’ve convinced me,” she says, cupping the side of his face fondly while Jaskier pokes her nose until she wrinkles it, laughing. “I’ll go get a few things, hold on.”
She passes Geralt in the doorway, looking back. “He’s lucid today, and he has some energy. You probably already heard, but he wants me to stay the night with you two.”
Geralt nods. “Anything he wants. Is it too much to hope this trend continues?” He asks her quietly.
She shrugs. “It’s hard to tell if this is because of his treatments, or just a normal uptick in energy — it can get like that in old age for humans,” she explains. Especially toward the end, she doesn’t add.
“Hmm. Whatever it is, I hope it lasts.”
“Me too,” she says softly, patting Geralt’s hand gently as she walks to her room.
She and Geralt aren’t young things themselves anymore — a few more aches and a smattering of grey hairs, and yes, as loathe as Yennefer is to admit it, even a few wrinkles — but compared to a human, they’ve still a long way before they would need to retire from the Path. Their memory remains sharp, they don’t get sick like humans do, and they still have their enhanced abilities.
It’s unfair, she thinks, coming back into Jaskier and Geralt’s room, that such a beautiful light has to go out eventually.
…
The Night Before :
At his best, Jaskier has enough energy to break out his lute and play while sitting down, only once or twice having enough energy to dance around while playing like he used to.
But one night not too long after Yennefer slept in their room, he’s especially lively, joking and laughing and singing like he used to. If it weren’t for the wrinkles and slight tremble and croak to his voice, Geralt would almost think it was like the first night he brought Jaskier to the Kaer, and Jaskier had drunk Lambert under the table while he sang.
He entertains them with You Think You’re Safe when they’re sharing favorite memories, and Jaskier recounted the day he and Geralt met to Ciri.
The other witchers get a kick out of the song, and out of Fishmonger’s Daughter . He plays Toss a Coin for old times’ sake, and a few new ones constructed from the stories Geralt brought to his cottage that Geralt hadn’t heard before.
Geralt goes through the usual routine of bathing Jaskier and helping him get dressed for bed, giving him his meds, and lighting a fire to keep him warm.
“You don’t have to be so gentle with me, wolf,” Jaskier chides as Geralt lays him down, feeling frisky.
They make slow, sweet love, and they talk in the aftermath while Geralt gives them both one last pass with a clean rag, the gentle smell of chamomile enveloping them both.
“If life could give me one blessing,” Jaskier says sleepily, “It would be to spend all my days like this with you,” he says, kissing Geralt’s shoulder, and falling asleep as Geralt mumbles back, “Likewise.”
When Geralt wakes, Jaskier is cold and unmoving, a small smile on his face. Geralt swallows, taking in the sight.
“I love you, Jaskier,” he whispers, kissing his knuckles. “Thank you for our years together,” he says quietly, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s and letting the memories flood him.
He stays as long as he feels the need to, and when he’s ready, he stands up, going to the door to find Yenn waiting.
“I had a feeling,” she said solemnly, her whisper echoing in the hallway. Geralt nods, stepping aside so she can go pay her respects. He tries to give them privacy, but overhears snippets of Yennefer’s low voice talking as she kneels by the bedside. Whispers and admonishments, voice thick, occasionally laughing, “twit,” “idiot,” “friend,” “miss you…”
Geralt leaves, steps heavy but with an odd sense of closure, knowing that Jaskier’s last memories and moments had been shared with him, and that they had been pleasant, just like he wanted.
He walks into the grand hall where Lambert is doling out juice into tankards and Eskel turns to greet him.
“I found the cherry preserves from last winter, I thought Jaskier might want them for —“ he cuts himself off when Geralt simply shakes his head.
Eskel and Lambert abruptly sit down. The hall is silent for a moment.
“Fuck. Well, he lived a hell of a life for a human, huh?” Lambert asks rhetorically, raising his tankard. “To the only bard we’ve ever had in the Keep.”
“To Jaskier,” Eskel agrees quietly, tapping glasses.
Ciri holds Geralt’s hand as he raises his glass.
“To Jaskier.”
…
Twenty Years After :
Every year on the anniversary that he and Jaskier met, Geralt travels to an old tavern in Posada. Sometimes Yennefer and Ciri join him if they can, but it’s no matter if they can’t.
This is for Geralt.
Every year, in the weeks leading up to the anniversary, Yenn helps with the important bit: scouting for and hiring a bard that can sing a fraction as well as Jaskier did, to be at the inn on the requested day and time, singing the earliest songs from Jaskier’s repertoire.
His memories and Jaskier’s legacy of music are all he has now — let the Continent have the books written about him and the popularized versions of his songs, let Oxenfurt have the recovered remains of Filavandrel’s lute kept in a case in their artifact hall, let Lettenhove bear his name on the old Pankratz estate.
Sure, a lot of their adventures were catalogued in song and books.
But what they can’t take or know of is all the quiet private moments they had together, those miles walked when it was just the two of them on empty roads and vast stretches of continent, of the nights they spent under a blanket of stars with only birds and squirrels to bear witness to their presence.
They can’t take from him the nights of returning to inns already paid for, knowing he for once didn’t have to worry about paying or getting food or dealing with the comedown from potions on his own, nor patch himself up: Jaskier’s gentle hands scrubbing viscera out of his hair and delicately sewing his skin back together so that it would barely scar, lowly humming to him and lulling him back to a meditative peace with his hums and melodic voice and the scent of chamomile.
Death can’t touch the feelings and memories of all those moments suspended across time, of all the beds and tents and bedrolls they laid in together, the words they exchanged, and all the words they never needed to.
He knows that Jaskier’s ashes were spread between his cottage and Kaer Morhen, so that the coastal sun and air could keep him warm forever and Jaskier could look over all the witchers that were left.
He knows that there’s a garden of dandelions and buttercups and other flowers that sprout up every springtime on the grounds of Kaer Morhen because of him.
He knows that Jaskier’s oldest lute is kept sacred in Geralt’s room, along with trinkets and keepsakes they’d collected over the years together.
He knows where Jaskier’s tuning fork and necklaces hang on the medallion tree beside their fallen brethren, because after everything, he’d fought and braved and seen as many monsters as the best of them.
More than anything, he knows how he and Jaskier felt about each other.
Geralt thinks of all this, and closes his eyes, letting the ale wash his throat and the singing bring him back to the beginning.
“
You think you’re safe…”