Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They're setting up camp in the Blue Mountains when Jaskier comes back with a bundle of branches, letting it tumble messily out of his arms and into the small circle of rocks.

Several smaller sticks tumble out of the circle and Jaskier has to scramble after them. Geralt, bent over his whetstone, rolls his eyes.

He's surprised when something's dropped unceremoniously to his feet, just in his eyeline - a bundle in an old rag. He nudges it with his boot, exposing a collection of vibrant red flowers in bloom. Beggartick. "Did you find a hag out there to romance?" Geralt rumbles.

"You picked that kind before." Jaskier sounds a little touchy. "To make that oil you goop onto your sword. When we were hunting ghouls."

When I was hunting ghouls, Geralt thinks archly. You were following me. "We're tracking down a golem. I don't need this."

"You can't - those potions don't keep?" Jaskier sounds irritated, like Geralt should have been thankful. These things must have been hard for a human to spot in the dark, with all the other brush around, but Geralt didn't ask for him to explore his herbalist side. He didn't ask for anything but firewood. "Some of those bottles are so dusty I fig... you know what? Never mind. Forget it." And Jaskier arranges the fire and starts it.

And Geralt does forget, for quite a while.

**

They're on the road when Geralt realizes Jaskier isn't just composing a song, he's composing one for his horse.

"A quiet companion, a noble friend! / Has no compunctions 'bout biting your end!" Jaskier stops, frowns, and repositions his fingers on the lute's neck as if trying to work something out.

"Are you singing to Roach?" Geralt asks, leaning over the saddle horn. "I'm not hallucinating?"

Jaskier looks up and smiles brightly, cheeks pink from the sun. Something in Geralt... doesn't like this. "Well, you do take excellent care of her, but a little praise can go a long way, you know."

"She's perfectly fine without your caterwauling."

"Why'd you name her after a fish, anyway? She's got big lovely brown eyes, not those... creepy beady red ones." Jaskier's nose wrinkles a little as he gestures at a completely imaginary fish.

Geralt straightens, looks forward, and huffs before giving Roach a gentle squeeze to let her know to pass the asshole. (And preferably kick up some trail dust as she does so.)

"Hey!" Jaskier shouts behind him. "Hey, I didn't mean there's anything wrong with - red's a fine color, just, the fish, they're very beady - will you slow down already!"

**

They've just squeezed into an inn room in Burdorff when Jaskier drops his bag on the floor, sets his lute more carefully in the corner, and... immediately grabs one of the two chairs at the small table.

"You've been bitching for hours about wanting to fall straight to bed," Geralt says. Because if he had to listen to all that bitching, it at the very least should have been true.

"I will." Jaskier is, Geralt realizes, fitting the chair against the door, jamming its back up against the doorknob to bar entry. He backs up and inspects his work, giving it a light kick to make sure it doesn't budge. "Those fellows downstairs mentioned night robberies the last few... nights... right. Now I'm collapsing."

Geralt takes the other chair and prepares to meditate as Jaskier throws himself with far too much drama onto the shitty mattress. Jaskier must have noticed Geralt bar the door this way several months ago, in Tretogor. It would only buy time against someone determined - the door looks like it's on its way to dry rotting - and, really, there's nobody in this city Geralt couldn't cut down before they were done walking across the room.

But it's better than nothing, Geralt supposes. He has enough time to register that Jaskier has already started snoring into his pillow before he takes a few slow, calming breaths, and begins his own rest.

**

In a barfight in Zavada, Jaskier kicks a broken stool across the floor, temporarily tripping up the brigand leader that turns out to be bribed by the alderman's nephew. It doesn't turn the fight or anything, but it... was smart, and kept Geralt from having to fend off four attackers instead of three while there were so many civilians around to avoid harming.

When the leader finally reaches Geralt, his footing is off, and Geralt has already brought down two of the other three. It wasn't necessary, but it helped.

"Decent work," Geralt says, half an hour later when they're finally bedding down for the night, and Jaskier's head snaps up so sharply and so instantly that Geralt knows this is going to become A Thing.

"I- what?"

"Nothing," Geralt says, knowing it's too late.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier says, voice pitching upwards, "did I just hear VERBAL ACKNOWLEDGEMENT that I ASSISTED in-"

"Go to sleep," Geralt interrupts.

"-those VILLAINS, cleverly using my surroundings to help you-"

"You did it quietly," Geralt growls.

"You take all my help quietly," Jaskier counters. Geralt isn't even sure what that's supposed to mean.

"Shut up and sleep," he growls, low and dark, a warning. He didn't expect to have to fight humans today, thought he'd been done after the drowners, and one of the widows of those idiots had shrieked plenty at him before he'd gotten back up here for some peace. He's done with noise.

And Jaskier is quiet, after that, but Geralt would swear if he didn't know Jaskier that the man was manifesting some sort of supernatural presence in the room, a manifestation of disappointment and judgement, and Geralt snarls at nobody in particular for a few moments before looking over his shoulder.

Jaskier is on the bed, turned away from him, but his breathing has not evened yet. He's still awake.

Geralt turns back and begins his meditation.

**

They're in Petrelsteyn when Geralt has to completely disarm to gain entry into the banquet. Half an hour later, when they're creeping through a hallway trying to find the cursed duke, Jaskier stops suddenly and starts unbuttoning his doublet.

Geralt can't believe Jaskier sometimes. "I'm sorry, do you need to get more comfortable?" He hasn't the faintest idea why Jaskier didn't just elect to stay behind with the food and the rich women.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, tugging the tight sleeves down halfway and fumbling an object out of the stupid puffy space at his shoulders. It's - his small boot knife, wrapped in a scrap of leather.

"They searched everyone," Geralt rumbles, but he already knows the answer before Jaskier says it:

"They searched you. Down to every inch. They gave me an overly friendly pat, but I don't look dangerous." He holds the knife out (sideways, lightly gripping the hilt, like someone who hasn't had a lick of training in their godsforsaken life.) "Well? Take it. If you're waiting for a short sword stowed up my arse, I don't have one."

**

When Geralt makes it back to the edges of... gods, where is he now, Windley... most of the fires are put out and the injured have been brought indoors. One of the guards spots him and jogs forward.

"Did you get it?" The young man looks him over, worried. "Where's the supplies?"

"I killed the devil. The merchants had holed up in the barn down the road... they'll make it, but their horses are gored. You have to collect your own fucking stuff." Geralt pulls out a small coin purse, jingling it in illustration. "I just took the amount agreed upon."

The young man looks annoyed, and of course he does, humans expect him to be able to carry three chests of gold and jewelry and other nonsense and lug it all half a mile uphill, of course they do - "It's safe there? There was just one devil?"

"Yes," Geralt grits out.

"Right. Right." The guard gestures to some of his comrades. "Get some horses together! It's all at the barn!"

"My horse," Geralt begins.

"We put her in the stable on the east side, there's nothing burnt there." The man is already distracted, looking to see who's kitting up.

"My bard," Geralt continues.

"I think he was... James, mate, come on, get a cart!"

"Focus," Geralt snaps, causing the man to straighten. "The bard. Green tunic."

"Uh. Uh." He seems to at least put some effort into remembering now. "Last I saw him he was helping carry people? So, the healer's?"

Geralt trudges to the stables first, making sure Roach has hay and fresh water. She seems content to stay another night. Then it's to the healer's, where he can barely walk in without stepping on someone.

"New wounded are going in the baker's living room," an old woman shouts from the back. "Next door."

"I'm fine," Geralt mutters. He looks around the dimly lit room of bodies, slashed and stabbed and stomped trying to defend their possessions, and - there. Jaskier's familiar silhouette is bent over someone near the window.

Geralt picks his way over the mats until Jaskier looks up, hands still pressed against an old man's rib cage. There's a fresh bandage there, already blooming red in the center. "Geralt!"

"It’s dead," Geralt says.

Jaskier nods, as if is a given. Geralt supposes it is. "That, um, that coagulating potion thing, in the blue squarish bottle? Is that... could we..."

"It would burn a human's skin off," Geralt interrupts. Something about the question is odd, but he doesn't know what.

"Ah." Jaskier looks down apologetically at the old man, who mumbles something in response. "Well, glad I asked instead of just rummaging for it myself, hm?" The man mumbles something else. He sounds half delirious with blood loss. "Geralt, you're fine?"

"Yes."

"Right. I'll meet you at the room, I'm going to spend a bit more time here."

Geralt looks at him. Looks at the bandages... something's odd about them. He turns and walks out, stepping over the bodies.

He's walking up the stairs when he realizes that the bandage was tied off like he was trained to do it. Jaskier must have watched him do it enough to figure it out.

He's shutting the door behind him, leaving it unlocked, when he realizes that Jaskier's gotten shallow cuts and abrasions plenty of times, and never asked for that coagulation potion.

Chapter Text

They're in the Kestrel Mountains when everything goes to shit.

Armored arachas in cave networks aren't unusual, but this was looking like it would be more complicated. From what he could glean from the asshole mage's notes back in the tower, it wasn't clear if the beast had just been manipulated into attacking on command, or if it had gotten other... upgrades... as well. Frustrating news for a man who wanted to prepare as much as possible. Jaskier was no help, of course.

"So if it looks like a snail fucked a..."

"Bug. Sort of."

"But, big."

"Yes, bard. Big." Geralt peers into the cave entrance, maybe seven meters high, before sighing. Anything should be better than this rain. "Best case scenario, it only bites and spits venom."

"Venom, so, poison, so..." Jaskier trails off a moment. "That's the golden whatsit, then?"

Golden Oriole? When did the bard learn that? Geralt lifts an eyebrow. "Going to settle down and start an herbalist's shop? Save me some migraines?"

"Ha," Jaskier says flatly. He sounds annoyed, but as always, Geralt smells very little fear on him. The witcher gave up long ago trying to work out how much of that was due to trust in Geralt, and how much of it was Jaskier being a damn fool. "Well, you're sure it's this one, right?" He pulls the crude map out of his pocket, flattening it against the wall and cringing a little when the damp makes it stick in place. "Ew. Okay, big tree, northwest, cave entrance not facing a brook, I think we're actually where we're supposed to be!"

Geralt taps the sketch of the cave-in about a kilometer inwards. "And it's just a straight shot now. You couldn't get lost in here unless you left out this way and went in another entrance."

"I won't," Jaskier says, even flatter. He's had an offended tone to his responses recently that seems ... more tired than it used to be, less of the start of a bickering row and more like someone who's facing the possibility that things aren't going to change.

Which. As Geralt only has so many methods to keep Jaskier from trying to get closer or too comfortable, he has to keep using what he has, doesn't he? Besides, comfortable out here means dead.

"I'll set up camp around the bend," Jaskier says, testing his footing and then walking a little deeper in. His voice begins to take on an echo. "Far enough in to keep the wind from - oh, yes, the ceiling's very high here, the smoke won't be a bother."

"Don't start a fire yet," Geralt says. "Don't unpack. Give me an hour in there. If I take longer, or if you hear something coming out, you get your pack and run."

**

Geralt remembers taking a swig of potion, feeling his gut turn slightly as the chemicals took effect. He remembers Jaskier saying something else. He remembers walking into the darkness, eyes adjusting, and following the sound of slowly trickling water deeper into the cave.

**

He doesn't remember spotting the arachas. He remembers when he blocked a swipe to his face, but couldn't block the bite that came after. His neck burned with cold heat, then felt like nothing at all. He wrenched back and took a defensive stance. Something was wrong.

He remembers a struggle. He remembers the feeling of the dead beast crushing him from above, the sword in its gut and hilt digging into Geralt's side. His movements were becoming sluggish. His breathing was worse. He remembers leveraging himself against the stone, knowing he was losing time, pushing just hard enough to squirm out from under its weight. Where was he? How long had the fight been? The ground underneath him was cold, steeply angled, and trying to push himself up only made him slip further. The brook. Ice. Choking.

Sit up. It's shallow. Sit up.

He doesn't remember the rest.

**

Someone is hauling him out of the water by the shoulders. He can feel his heels dragging against the loose rocks. Someone is talking - their voice is echoing against the cave walls. They sound a little frantic.

**

Geralt is on his back. The stone ground is cold underneath him. He can feel the pool of water growing underneath him, wet hair plastered to his face, every piece of his clothing waterlogged.

He's... trembling. He knows he should feel alarmed about this.

Someone's fingertips press against his forehead, clearing the hair from his face. His boots start to get pulled off roughly. He coughs and inhales, chokes a little, and is suddenly grabbed at the hip and turned onto his side. He coughs out more water. He can get air again. His mouth tastes like minerals and blood.

**

He's on a bedroll now. It still smells like the caves. Someone is patting his body down with dry fabric. Most of his skin is exposed, prickling from the freezing cold. A man is speaking to him, voice coming closer, and then a vial is being pressed to his lips. Geralt is sure he coughs back more than he swallows, but someone is hauling him up to sit, patting his back, talking more. He can see a vision of him as a boy, sick and being cared for, but it's gone as quick as it came, and his consciousness blurs again.

**

Geralt is waking up in a brothel. He breathes in deeply. Wood smoke. A human. A... cave? Water is trickling somewhere behind him, and a storm is raging distantly outside. The familiar texture of his bedroll is underneath him. Why did he think this was a brothel?

Someone's lying perfectly still on top of him.

Geralt realizes with a bolt of suppressed panic that he can't move. It's not the weight, it's the... it's something in his blood. Weight. The armored arachas was on top of him. It isn't now. This is something soft and warm, something not leaking viscera onto him.

He breathes in again. Human. Male. Sweat and fear. Underneath that, familiar musky tones. Familiar. Another image comes unbidden to his mind, of carrying Jaskier to the healer as he choked from the djinn. Jaskier's on him.

"Are you-" Jaskier lifts his head from Geralt's shoulder. His voice thrums from his chest to Geralt's, only the pendant and Jaskier's stupid chemise between them. It feels uncomfortably intimate. There's a shuffle under blankets and two warm (blessedly warm) fingers press against his throat. "Okay, that... that feels almost fast enough to be normal, which means you're awake, right?"

Geralt tries to get his voice to cooperate. Get off me, or What happened, or, from some dark small place in the very back of his mind, Help. There's a long silence, broken only by the crackling of a small fire.

"Okay, well, you're not dead." Jaskier sounds more anxious for not having been answered. As Geralt comes back to himself he understands where he is - the blankets, the shared body heat. He'd been in the freezing water. Now he can feel his body bracketed in by the other man, bent legs on either side of his own, forearms on either side of his biceps. Now that he can feel it he can't feel anything else. Those places, and the section of skin from his navel to his breastbone, is markedly warmer than the miserable clammy flesh that makes up the rest of him. "I - I gave you more of the Golden Orioles, you sort of spat out the first one so I gave you another, and you don't seem so, er, stiff now. And your breathing's deeper. So, um, next on the list was staving off you dying of cold."

What had been wrong with his breathing? What had that mage done to that fucking arachas to make its paralytic venom so strong? He feels his cheek move, unbidden.

"Oh!" The body above his shoots up, torso coming away from his, hands smacking the ground on either side of Geralt. "You are awake! Yes! That was an angry twitch. I know that twitch."

Come back, he thinks, miserably. It's several moments of fussing before Jaskier actually does so. He can feel Jaskier taking his pulse again, and then putting a calloused thumb above his eye and tugging it open for a moment - Geralt gets a muzzy sort of flash of a pale pink face, dark hair, and a fire to his left, but it's gone just as quickly.

"Right. Well. You're shivering less, and the log's taken now, so that should do a good deal of work too, soon. Just, um. Sit tight." And, carefully, almost apologetically, Jaskier lowers back down and crowds Geralt in again, cheek to his shoulder, now sending his senses into overdrive. He must be fully awake now, in some way or another, because the flesh doesn't just feel warm, now, it feels soft, with gentle inhales and exhales, with smells, fuck, he can smell everything.

Lugging Jaskier up and down the map had been manageable. It had been awful, actually, both for the worry and the effort of... keeping a distance. But. He had had something more important to focus on, he had something to do. He had been moving. Now he's trapped under the man, and he can't see his eyes or his face, but there's more than enough for him to not be able to ignore. Jaskier's hair is soft against his jaw and neck. Jaskier's warm-gentle human smell, some musk, some traces of the ale they had this morning still on his breath, is completely surrounding him. They've been lying like this for a while, Geralt can tell, and even if he could turn his head he'd still be enveloped in it. Jaskier's breath is luxuriously warm against his shoulder, nervous short breaths. Jaskier's heart is... rabbiting, a little. He's scared.

"Um, I know you're full of horrible monster venom right now and might be fighting for your life, but." Jaskier swallows. The vibrations of the smaller man's chest make Geralt want to tense and twist away. It's so much. It's not his. "If you could even, um. Just do one of your usual grunts. A small grunt. Just to sort of say, 'I hear you, Jaskier, the poison didn't take my ears,' that would really be a comfort to me right now."

Jaskier braved going further into the tunnels to find Geralt and fish him out of the water. He's currently keeping him from certain hypothermia. Geralt puts serious effort into taking in a breath and holding it, in pushing it out into some kind of vocalization, but his body is disconnected and isn't cooperating. Jaskier squirms above him (stop) and gives him a little breathing room, literally. (Come back. Please.) Geralt's breath stutters at the thought of how badly he suddenly wants Jaskier closer, to move more, how afraid he is that his out-of-control body is going to betray something.

Jaskier's breath gusts softly over his face. Fuck.

Chapter Text

"Um." The bard's voice is quiet. "Well, your breath changed, and you've got a tiny bit of the annoyed line between your brows, so I think that's. Signs of you making an effort to grunt." Jaskier sighs, and Geralt feels as much as hears it. "Alright. Alright. Just as soon as we can bring you up to... something above cave temperature, and not a big grouchy block of ice... hold on, let me..." He leans to the left, reaching for something... Geralt hears the fire being stoked, branches and a heavier log moving around. "We've got one Golden Oriole left, but I want to wait until you can maybe swallow it properly. You're much better than half an hour ago, so maybe another half an hour..."

Geralt wonders how much time he lost in the brook, and is in the beginning of doing the math for how long he could have been completely or just partially submerged without drowning when Jaskier sets a wet branch down on the cave floor and huddles back in. Geralt can feel the fabric of his blanket, of his cloak, and an unfamiliar texture - Jaskier's blanket? - brushing against his bare calves. Geralt realizes with a jolt that he must be in his smallclothes.

Of course. My trousers must have been completely soaked. In his mind's eye, he can see a nervous Jaskier, effectively alone in this wilderness, hovering uncertainly over Geralt's unconscious body. The bard's hands making aborted movements toward the last layers of clothing, over and over again, as he steels his nerve. Geralt feels a rare twist of something like regret. Perhaps shame. This man, irritating as he can be sometimes, is probably saving his life, and Geralt knows with bone-deep surety that Jaskier expects to be barked at for something or other as soon as Geralt has a voice to do it.

Jaskier's breath puffs against Geralt's shoulder, a quiet anxious tell. The fire crackles and he lifts his head a little, monitoring it, before relaxing again and going lax. Geralt can feel Jaskier's eyelashes brushing lightly against his skin. Fuck.

Don't do this to him. Don't make this more complicated for him. Fortunately, his body seems to have the will but not the ability; Geralt doesn't feel himself stir.

"You must be twenty stone," Jaskier mumbles into the cold air. "I couldn't believe how heavy you were. I'm sure a lot of it's your gear, and all the cave water, and the guts, but I got most of that off you and you were still a nightmare to shuffle around."

At least the complaining is something familiar and libido-neutral.

"If only the path here hadn't been such a narrow winding mess. If Roach were here, she..." Jaskier takes a stuttering breath, and something in Geralt wonders with alarm how cold he's making the human in this exchange. "...I mean, she's not one for tricks or cuddling, but I'm sure if I brought her in here and showed you to her, she'd lay down on her side and let you use her for a pillow. She'd be a much better bed warmer than me."

Geralt wishes he could respond.

"Smellier, though."

Jaskier sounds exhausted.

"I want to fall asleep but I'm worried I might not wake up if you get colder or something. For the record, I put us close to the fire as I could without risking setting the blankets alight. Or melting my right side clean off."

Slowly, Geralt feels strands of hair tickle his throat, where the arachas bite had been. He's not sure if it healed on its own or if Jaskier dug through more of his potions. He wants to ask. He wants to grunt, even, like Jaskier asked him to earlier.

Geralt has put so much effort into keeping the bard at arm's length, a constant recalibration after Jaskier barreled into his life and practically into his bathwater when they met, and after everything Jaskier has just. Never given up on him.

Jaskier, who gathers up the vegetables thrown at him by plastered bar patrons and picks out the best ones to offer Roach before he goes up to bed down.

Jaskier, who puts up with hours-long stakeouts in pitch black night, which he can't even see in, because Geralt has to do it and Jaskier doesn't want to leave him alone.

How many of those stupid outfits has Jaskier had to replace because they got so ruined by tearing and gore? Geralt even saw some thread that might match the bard's usual colors, once when replenishing his own black thread, and elected not to buy it in case Jaskier made too big a scene over it.

This line of thinking may actually be a very effective way to keep him from getting worked up.

Jaskier's body is becoming more relaxed on top of him, a comfortable weight. His breathing is evening and the scent of fear is less than before. Maybe he is falling asleep. Geralt's mind conjures up a scenario before Geralt can stop it: of Jaskier moving in his sleep, dragging his hips gratifyingly along Geralt's. A soft moan, perhaps, and then the arms around him tightening a bit -

Geralt is definitely the worst.

You've told him his singing is rubbish to try to get him to stop singing around you. Because you hate remembering the songs when he's not there. Because then you miss him. You miserable git.

Jaskier has begun snoring softly.

What you said to him after Yennifer walked away was fucking infantile. You were mad at him for being another thing you wanted and couldn't have.

When Geralt breathes in, he can smell the soap on Jaskier's scalp. The sweat on his skin, the smoke of the fire that he's actually starting to feel the warmth of. The log pops. Jaskier snorts and stirs, mumbling into Geralt's skin and drawing a cupped hand against Geralt's bare shoulder.

You deserve this.

If his nethers had had any inclinations to misread this situation, his mood has soured enough to squelch them. He breathes in more mingled scents, listens to the fire, feels the rhythmic expansion of Jaskier's chest with his breaths. He's never once asked this man to join him on these journeys, but he also hasn't had a right to treat him so dismissively when Jaskier clearly has some human quality of devotion that he can't understand. Geralt would have been no more in the right to kick a puppy that had started following him down the road out of town.

Jaskier's body warmth, pressed to him and cocooned in the blankets from escaping, is starting to have its effect. He realizes that he can feel his fingers and that he couldn't feel them before. He wants to curl them, to make sure there's no damage, but he gets nowhere after a few minutes of concentrated effort. Jaskier sighs in his sleep and almost nuzzles deeper into his shoulder, trying to burrow, before stilling again.

If this is a situation Jaskier can sleep in, who is neither a soldier nor an outdoorsman, he must be truly exhausted. In between bouts of trying to get his toes and fingers to curl, Geralt makes some plans.

Chapter Text

It's the better part of an hour before he can close his hand into a fist.

Part of the trouble is honestly staying awake - once his body temperature starts to rise back to normal, his recovery gains momentum, and then his situation isn't all that uncomfortable. Jaskier's body is a pleasant sort of pressure, like a heavy blanket. There are still damp patches on the bedroll underneath him, but he's slept through worse. Geralt's trying to remain motivated by reminding himself he gets some personal space before he falls asleep and regains his movement when he can't stop himself from doing something stupid.

Jaskier's little snores have faded away as the man has found deeper sleep. Geralt wants to see if he can slip out from under him without waking him.

In another twenty minutes, when the fire is past its crest, Geralt can bend his arm at the elbow and flex his feet. He feels confident that he can do more, but Jaskier's got him well guarded on all sides. Geralt turns his head instead, vision slightly obscured by the mop of dark hair, and looks at the fire. The dark shapes around it clarify into his armor, most of his clothing, and most of Jaskier's clothing and spare outfits. The bard must have used all the fabric he had to get Geralt dry. That part makes sense. What surprises Geralt is how everything is arranged, grouped and angled toward the warmth of the fire just so.

Jaskier must have seen Geralt do it countless times after coming back to an inn and stripping down after fighting a drowner or other beast that got him soaked. Another thing to add to the list of what Jaskier's been paying attention to.

Most of that clothing may actually be dry enough to put back on now. It's a motivating thought. 

Geralt's original plan to slip out from under Jaskier is dashed when Jaskier won't give up his shoulder and bicep, fingers tightening as he lets out a frustrated puff of air. Geralt elects instead to bring his hands up, take Jaskier's arms, and roll him slowly onto his back. It's done in increments, over more than a minute. When Jaskier finally lets go so he can curl back toward the warmth of the center of the bedroll, Geralt exhales and moves away before his legs give out.

And after a quick inventory, it's clear his legs aren't the only thing that aren't completely back to normal. Sitting upright is taking more effort than he can explain, and he has to scoot himself back to the far wall of the cave and take a few moments to stretch his limbs. He watches Jaskier over the remaining embers of the fire, the huddled lump that's started to reach and and paw and tug at the edges of the blankets to keep more of the cold out. Further away from his scent now, Geralt feels tempted to just crawl right back over.

He looks over his belongings, noticing that one of his swords is still missing - it must still be in the arachas. When he's more sure-footed, he'll walk back and tip the damn thing over to get that back. For now, trousers would be a good start, followed by boots. He reaches for each in turn, biting back some choice words as his grip turns out to be less reliable than he assumed.

There are rustling and patting sounds on the other side of the fire. Geralt looks up a few times but is trying to rouse enough core strength to lift his hips to get his trousers up. He feels like an invalid.

"Mnnng," Jaskier protests across the fire, a half-mumbled sort of sound that Geralt can't make sense of. Geralt finally wrestles the trousers past his hips, trying to stay quiet. "Huh." Movement catches Geralt's eye. Jaskier is reaching out from the cocoon, as if trying to find something in the dark, in his sleep. The hand is getting dangerously close to the burning-

"Jaskier!"

Jaskier shoots up like a bolt, hands planted on either side of the bedroll and then immediately skidding akimbo from the thin layer of moisture on the rock. He fumbles and draws himself up on his knees, looking across the fire at Geralt with the fresh bleariness and terror only possible when someone has been yelled awake.

They stare at each other for a moment.

"Your hand," Geralt says, stomach sinking as he lowers his voice from the shout. "You were about to reach out and burn yourself."

Jaskier stares at Geralt's face a few more seconds before looking down at the flames between them, nodding slowly. "Well, that... does sound like something I'd do." He swallows and looks back up. "Are you? Better?"

"Mostly," Geralt rumbles, lip curling a little in impatience with this healing process. But, no. This is when he should be - "I'd be dead, though, if I were still in that water."

There's a stunned silence for a few moments. "Well, I'm. Glad you're awake, now. Had me scared for a bit there."

Geralt forces his voice to cooperate. "The other Golden Orioles probably helped. I don't know what the fuck that mage did, but. I'm getting my strength back now."

Jaskier seems to light up at the last bit. "Good! Good. We can go back tonight, if you want, I think the..." He trails off, looking toward the cave turn that leads to the mouth. "It doesn't sound like it's raining anymore, does it?"

It's still raining, several kilometers off. Geralt can hear the rain bouncing off the lake in sheets. "Not here, no." He starts to fumble his laces closed, eager to get some semblance of normality. At least he's not a human, or he'd probably still be freezing half-naked leaning against this rock wall. "...are you all right?"

Another silence. "Yes," Jaskier says finally, as though trying to play along with a game he doesn't quite understand yet. "Could do with some dinner, but, you know, things are pretty in perspective for me right now, I could've had a worse day."

Geralt nods, leaning forward and grabbing the nearest boot. "Give me another ten minutes and I bet I can go get my sword back. Then we can pack up and head back."

"Wait, what? Are you mad?" Jaskier gets to his feet and pads over, visibly regretting his decision when his bare feet make contact with the cave floor. "Not two hours ago you barely had a pulse."

"You said there's one Golden Oriole left, right? Dig it out and hand it over." Geralt finishes the first boot and leans around Jaskier's legs to grab the other, not making eye contact. "I'm hungry too. And I've had enough of this cave."

**

The walk down the mountain takes three breaks, each more silently embarrassing for Geralt than the last. Jaskier makes absolutely no comment on it. He simply sits and looks up at the clouded moon, humming, swinging the bag with the arach head against the rocks with a suspect amount of vigor. The bard probably has his own frustrations about today, and Geralt sees nothing wrong with his method of venting.

"I'm going to walk Roach out to that little pasture by the side road before I tuck in tonight," Jaskier decides as they start to walk again. Geralt glances over and gives him a questioning eyebrow. "Well, I promised her I would when we came back, and I don't think she's going to care that we were waylaid. I don't want her thinking I go back on my word, she already barely tolerates me."

"She barely tolerates anyone," Geralt rumbles. "You're fine."

"Well, I'm still going to see to it she gets some fresh grass. One of us should have a pleasant day today."

"It's well past nightfall."

"You're back to your contrary self. That's relieving, honestly."

**

True to his word, after shadowing Geralt's delivery to the alderman and seeing him upstairs to the inn, Jaskier turns right back around to head to the stables. Geralt unpacks some of the filthier kit that he didn't have the patience to clean before packing up in the cave. He sits, looking out the window as he waits for the bath to be brought in.

Even after he's bathed and used the cold water to scrub down most of his gear, Jaskier still isn't back. Geralt is beginning to wonder if he should start worrying when he hears familiar boots on the stairs. Jaskier comes in, reeking of hay and Roach and dewy grass, making an acknowledging gesture to Geralt before stumbling across the room and dropping himself onto the bed. It's usually done with a lot of feigned drama, but this time it does look more or less like Jaskier ran out of energy just in time to drop onto the soft surface.

"You didn't call a bath?" Geralt asks.

"W'll in th' m'rning," Jaskier explains into his pillow.

Geralt grunts and lets it go. "Good night, then." He sits at the table and counts out what coin is left after paying the innkeeper, sighing at the meager amount before stowing it away in his coinpurse. He takes a last glance at the door (Jaskier did lock it) before getting comfortable on the chair and preparing to meditate.

"Good... night," Jaskier says back, awkwardly, much after Geralt said it, and it is then that the witcher realizes with cold alarm he has probably never said those words to this man as long as they've known each other.

He stares woodenly forward into the middle distance for a few minutes before he can push it out of his mind and begin to rest.

**

Geralt has seen enough ruins, fresh and new, to know how nature takes that land back. Nostrix ivy likes to creep into any wall left unattended, harmless wisps at first, filling any niche or gap they can find. It then grows and sets root and becomes difficult to cut away. If given time, the wall beneath will crumble under the the load, crushing half the vines in the process. The nostirx doesn't care. It begins again over the top of the mound.

When he first met Jaskier, there was no sign that the grip would become stronger, threatening. That something would... invade. Something that felt solid and deeply important within Geralt no longer felt stable. He didn't know what to do but to reinforce the wall and cut away any growth he could find.

He feels like he's letting it happen now. Widening the niches, watching the ivy grow. It feels dangerous and stupid and also a little bit freeing.

Chapter Text

They leave Barefield and begin to make good time to Hengfors. Geralt has a contract there for whatever's killing the farmers, and Jaskier seems excited to go somewhere with decent musical supplies.

"I've always wondered." Geralt cants his head, fingers curled lazily around the reins. "Do they make lute strings from fresh sheep guts, or do they dry them first?"

Jaskier's nose instantly wrinkles in disgust. "Strangely, Witcher, in my entire in-depth musical education, it's never come up."

"Hm." Seems like the sort of thing one should know, if their instrument is their life and coin.

"Oh, and I suppose you could forge a new sword if your two broke."

Geralt lifts a brow. "I couldn't," he admits easily. "But your strings seem to need replacing a lot more often than I meet something that could break my weapon."

"Don't say that kind of thing, it invites Fate to - Roach, honestly!" Jaskier dodges a second nip to his sleeve, swatting vaguely in her direction without any intent to actually make contact. "Geralt, tell her I've done nothing wrong."

And he hasn't. "Roach." He draws her up to a stop and looks sternly at the back of her head, watching as her ears turn and remain focused on the bard. "If he had something you'd want in his pack, I'd smell it too. Leave him be."

Roach gives the brief snort of a creature who is not giving up their focus. She begins to nose at his boots, causing him to stumble backward further.

Geralt rolls his eyes and gestures behind him at the clouds. "And if we stop and take a rest, the storm will be on us, is that what you want?"

Jaskier looks a little guilty. "She's being dramatic. I'm fine for another hour or two."

Geralt takes in the man's posture and does the math. They did leave early this morning after a light meal, and these things weigh much heavier on a mortal than the same trip on foot would weigh on him. "Roach, are you going to cooperate?"

"Whhm," Roach promises.

Geralt nods and swings his leg over her, hopping down just as Jaskier's hands raise up to push him back up. "No," Jaskier begins, "we really will get rained on, and not to bring up sore spots, but I think we're both very tired of rain. Didn't you also mention thunder, earlier?"

"Lots of it." Geralt jerks his thumb over his shoulder, where he can still hear it several kilometers off. "So get up. Or do they not teach riding in Oxenfurt?"

Jaskier's face goes through a journey of confused, offended, hopeful, and then suspicious. "Of course I was taught to ride. What is this? You never let anyone else ride her."

"Roach never lets anyone else ride her," Geralt corrects, only slightly lying. "Hurry up, before she changes her mind. She's mercurial."

Jaskier peers at his face a moment more before walking around him, slapping a hand on the saddle horn and getting a foot into the stirrup. "Mercurial," he's muttering under his breath, possibly under the impression that Geralt can't hear. "Oh, don't mind me, just using my big academic words to tell you to get on the big angry horse that scares nearly every stableboy she comes into con- oof!"

Geralt watches on with amusement as Jaskier gets the reins just in time. Roach has, predictably, decided to begin to walk on without waiting for Jaskier to collect himself. "You just need to hang on, I think."

"You're loving this," Jaskier complains, struggling his far foot the rest of the way into the stirrup and looking back and forth between said foot and the road. Then, briefly to Geralt's face: "Oh, fuck off. You are loving this."

"We'll beat the storm now," Geralt points out.

"Roach, would you ple- Roach! I know you can understand me, gods damn it!"

"Heels down, bard. Stop choking up on the reins."

Jaskier throws a vicious glare his way. "Oh, I'm back in riding class, now? Lovely."

"I'm surprised you had a riding class."

"You're smiling," Jaskier accuses.

"Sit up straight."

"You've been possessed."

"That almost never happens."

"To you, or in general?"

"In general. Seriously, sit up straighter, she'll be happier with you."

**

Apparently Hengfors hasn't had any good entertainment for quite some time, so they're very happy to receive Jaskier when they see his lute. They mention the last performer to come through was a slip of a woman with a very nice harp but a very unfortunate falsetto.

"I might have studied with her," Jaskier confides under his breath, accepting the free first ale with a big smile to the barkeep.

"They accept anyone at Oxenfurt, I suppose."

"Absolutely untrue." Jaskier takes a sip and smiles, already relaxing a bit into the bench. "The admissions process is rigorous and has several tests on music reading, performance, and voice. " A beat. "Failing those three, of course, a few students manage to squeak through every year by having their parents pay for a new music hall or what have you."

Geralt snorts. Of course. "And your family could have bought several halls, from what you've said."

"And needed to buy none." Jaskier tilts his chin up a little, with a more serious kind of confidence than he normally shows. "I was very successful in my studies, not that you'll be surprised. And I'm still quite popular back home if I'm not mistaken."

Hm. "So why aren't you there?"

"What?"

"We got lucky here. They haven't heard of you but they're happy for anyone. Why not stay where you're already wanted and liked? Easier money, better audiences?"

Jaskier gives him a funny look. "And what would I sing about?" he asks. "The same campus, the same town surrounding it, the same people doing the same things?"

"I suppose." Geralt considers it as he drains his ale. Lighter than he'd like. "Or the classics. They taught you loads of those."

"An awful thought." He sounds genuine. "I'd be bored out of my skull. And worse, I'd never get any better. I'd never make anything new. I'd see the same people over and over. Talk about nothing but music."

"Gods... forbid?"

Jaskier rolls his eyes and leans in, as if confiding something deeply important. "No, you don't understand. Music isn't about the academic stuff. That's all means to an end. I didn't learn about music so I could recite all the different kind of metres. I wanted to learn music to tell stories about people and things that happened, and - have you ever met someone who wants to talk for three hours about whether they should be a soprano or a mezzo-soprano?" He studies Geralt's face. "Of course you haven't. Well, trust me, it's boring as bollocks, and those people are everywhere and they always want an ear to bend."

"They should be more like you, and focus on the coin you can make."

"I beg your pardon!"

"And on whose bed you can get into," Geralt adds fairly.

"This is a lot of lip coming from the person whose local reputation is about to be buoyed by my hand-crafted, personally-performed songs."

"Mmhmm." Geralt smirks into his mug. "And what are you treating us to this evening?"

"I haven't decided." Sufficiently distracted, Jaskier looks to his lute case and drums his fingers on it, contemplating. Geralt doesn't let his gaze linger too long on Jaskier's hands. "What with all the farmers around here getting ripped in half, I'm trying to avoid anything that mentions 'rolling fields' or the like. You know, to be respectful."

"What about the old one about the birds?" Geralt leans back. "You never finished that one back in Dillingen, but I don't think it talked about places much at all."

"The old one about the -?" Jaskier squints at him. "Oh, The Wolf and the Rook?"

Geralt nods. "And there was another bird, I thought. They found one."

"An orphaned swallow, yes. They raise it together. It's an oddball, but the melody's good."

**

Geralt kills the water hags that night. Jaskier sees most of the battle, which involves a lot of magic and silver weapons searing into flesh. Geralt expects this to be appropriately dramatic for his literary needs.

"I'm going to have to really bend the truth on this one," Jaskier says, watching Geralt hack into the second one's neck to get down to the bone. The skin is much tougher than it looks at first glance.

"I'm sorry," Geralt grits, "that wasn't enough of a show?"

"They look like horrifying huge old women," Jaskier hisses. "They look like someone dipped a fat grandmother in oil and stuck a snake in her mouth."

Geralt rolls his eyes, standing straight and driving his boot down to disconnect the bone. Jaskier, as always, tenses up at the crunching sound. "One of them knocked you down the hill earlier, are you all right?"

A confused beat; there have been more of those lately. "Yes." Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest and hugs them tightly to himself, eyes still on the bodies. "Just scuffs. Geralt, honestly, that one looks like it's going to offer me cookies and then eat my face."

"The second part's right." Geralt kicks the second head into the bag. "They eat human flesh. They'll eat dead bodies, but they much prefer living."

Jaskier shivers in a violent, dramatic fashion and then shakes his hands away from his body like something disgusting got on him.

"You see horrible beasts all the time now."

"Yes, but these ones look like nudists with grandchildren!" Jaskier scowls. "Don't laugh at me, this is traumatizing."

"I'm not laughing at you," Geralt feels the knee-jerk reaction to lie and decides to dismiss it. "It was funny."

**

Now, when Jaskier complains of sore feet, Geralt - with Roach's blessing - will occasionally give Jaskier a turn. The bard is much lighter but still a terrible rider in comparison to Geralt, who is sure he says "heels down" at least four times an hour every hour that Jaskier is riding. Jaskier talks to her almost as much as Geralt does, which seems to sate Roach's constant need for acknowledgment. Jaskier also thanks her every time he does his awkward hop out of her saddle. Geralt isn't sure why this makes such an impression on him.

**

Jaskier's voice is pleasant. He is trim, more toned now for his more frequent traveling, and he has a comely face. None of this is new, but something about Geralt working to undo his habits that keep him at a distance... the bard's qualities are clearer than before, as if Jaskier is literally closer.

Jaskier's fingers are clever even when he is not playing an instrument. Tapping on surfaces, gesturing expressively. His voice is pleasant even when he is not singing. (Geralt has learned he prefers the smaller venues, which pay worse but in which Jaskier has to project his voice less. Even pleasant sounds become unpleasant when too loud, which is something he's never been able to accurately convey to the man.)

Jaskier's lips draw him in. Geralt knows his hair and skin to be soft to the touch. Sometimes Jaskier will bend over, or stretch, or... Geralt isn't really sure what he does to trigger it, sometimes.. and Geralt will be back in the cave, feeling the shape and weight of the other man on top of him. Breathing in his smell. Soaking in his heat.

And Jaskier's eyes are bright and look curious at times, searching. It is uncomfortable to be the focus of this. He doesn't know what Jaskier sees.

Chapter Text

They're at a campfire when Geralt asks for Jaskier's damaged clothing. Jaskier says and does nothing at first, then hands over the trousers and doublet, sliced in several places from the brambles he'd hid in. (Better than to have stayed in the reach of the drowner.)

Geralt pulls out his repair kit, pulling out the bottle green thread he'd picked up in Hengfors. The trousers will be first, as the tear is up the seam, and a simple ladder stitch should do.

The fire crackles softly and Geralt, miraculously, finds himself working in pleasant silence. He's tying off the knots when he hears the quiet rustling of Jaskier moving closer.

"They only usually teach girls this," Jaskier murmurs. His eyes are on Geralt's hands.

"It's not so different from sewing up wounds." Geralt sets the trousers flat, tests the repair in a few directions, and then hands them back over. Jaskier puts them in his lap but doesn't move away.

"These will take longer," Geralt says, finding himself uncomfortable by how close Jaskier is but not wanting to tell him to move away.

"I want to see." Jaskier's voice is quiet. "When'd you get colors?"

Fuck. "They're new." Geralt sets his focus on the tear at the shoulder first, a tiny hole that will expand if left alone. He thinks about the ivy again.

Jaskier has no idea how good he smells. Especially here, away from the stale beer smells and the other humans, with wood smoke and fresh grass and a hare on the spit. Geralt eases the needle back and forth through the fabric, drawing the tiny hole closed, reaching through the neck of the jacket to flip it round and check the back. The interior of the garment smells even more of him. Of the sweat of the day, gathered up. Geralt closes his eyes.

"I appreciate it," Jaskier says, breaking Geralt out of his contemplation.

"It's nothing." This feels... dangerous. He wants to say something about how any seamstress worth her salt has a waiting list several days out, and they're never in town long enough for that. He can't find the words quickly enough to reroute the conversation:

"That thread is perfect for this outfit, now that I look at it." There's a hint of a smile in the words, causing fear to shoot through Geralt. Jaskier is backing him up against a precipice, and he knows it. "And - can I see that tin?" He leans across him, indicating the kit. His scent is so present in Geralt's nostrils now, impossible to ignore. "That wine color looks like what I wore yesterday, and I think the turquoise is-"

"You're welcome to fumble your own way through mending your fucking clothes." Geralt barely hears himself say it, but the flinch and expression on Jaskier's face - it's open and scared, a flash of something, and then Jaskier is backing up, finally giving him room to breathe. Geralt watches him scoot back on his hands a few moments before getting up to his feet, wiping his palms on his trousers and looking over his shoulder.

"I - sorry. I'm just, I'm going to go. Check on. Roach."

Geralt watches him leave the clearing.

Several seconds pass. He looks away from the place where Jaskier disappeared, down to his work. In his temper he's pierced his own fingertip, not quite deeply enough to draw blood. He hadn't even felt it.

A few meters off, where Roach had found a mound of clover she had refused to budge from, Jaskier is speaking softly to her. Geralt can't make out the words. He draws his tongue over his teeth and rights the needle, working a few more stitches before making himself set it down and think.

Jaskier's face hadn't matched what he thought he understood from his voice. The lilting tone, the half-smile, it had seemed like... Jaskier was catching him out. Was amused, most painfully. But when Geralt had knocked him back, Jaskier's expression had been something else. Like a man who thought he just put down a winning hand in cards, only to be told he'd cheated.

Geralt had seen malice where there'd been none. But in the absence of that, he can't work out what was going on. Everything still smells so much of the bard. The fabric in his hands, the air around him. Not far off, his voice was gentle and tender, indecipherable but unmistakably his.

Well, he fucked up. He knows that much.

**

In penance, Geralt forces himself to allow corrections and suggestions.

**

In one village, a young child runs up to Geralt and hugs him as tightly as his small body can manage. Geralt can only assume the boy's father was one of the ones kidnapped and assumed dead until today. To his left, Jaskier is waving his arms wildly - once noticed, he mimes bringing his arms in and returning the hug. Geralt thought allowing this sudden and overly familiar act was more than enough, but he stifles a sigh and bends down a little, patting the boy on the back. He is sniffling loudly and smells of a henhouse.

"That didn't used to happen," Geralt says, a few hours later when they're paid and leaving.

Jaskier shrugs. "I soften your image." He reaches up absently, petting Roach's neck. This never used to happen. "Just as a general note? If a random squirt ever dashes toward you with their arms out, just hug them back. If nothing else, it's great for your reputation."

**

On the rare occasions a local will pay for their meals, Jaskier now subtly brings his boot under the table to knock at Geralt's. It's never meant to be painful, only a reminder.

Geralt does not say thank you, but he does look over to the local and incline his head, and Jaskier seems more than happy with that.

**

As more of these incidents pile up, Geralt ruminates on how they never feel like he expected them to; as if he were allowing someone to give him orders. He has so many memories of his youth in Kaer Morhen, but none of them simmer up around Jaskier.

He decides to push himself harder.

**

They're in Rinde when Geralt realizes his wounds are worse than he originally thought.

"Right, so we need to find more towns where aldermans have guilty consciences." Jaskier is practically bouncing along the road back to the town square, jingling the coin purse with double pay. "How long do you think he knew that those disappearances were connected?"

"Since the third one, probably." Geralt takes a breath and suppresses a wince against the cracked rib. His back feels numb and burning at the same time, which isn't good. Now that the stream-bath-turned-fight is well behind him, the adrenaline is faded.

"It's about lunch time, do you want lunch?" Jaskier stops mid-step and frowns at his face. "You look... hmm." His mouth twitches down; a sign of worry, Geralt's learned. "Not often you have to fight without any armor. Maybe we get a room, first - ooh, or rooms - but, we get some number of rooms, and you can, you know, do your gauze business."

"I'll be fine," Geralt says automatically, but he is also turning toward the nicer inn. "We'll get some rooms."

"Rooms!" Jaskier echoes with enthusiasm. He's already following. "Lovely. No offense, but I find you're far less grumpy if you wake up from real sleep in a bed rather than sitting about in a chair."

Meditating, Geralt corrects mentally, but doesn't really want to put breath behind it. The old man at the bar looks at him with a worried frown as they walk in. Word about the Leshy probably hasn't gotten round yet. "Work's already done," Geralt says, because Jaskier likes it when he puts the townsfolk at ease. "Two good rooms."

The man's eyebrows rise up a little, leaning on the bar to stand from his chair and walk to the keys. "Good rooms, sir, we have one good room left. Two beds, though."

Fuck it. Fine. "And two baths brought up."

"Yes, as you say." The man puts the key down before even naming the price, which is one of the new and strange things that has been happening in the last few months. Geralt pays out of the contract purse, with more than he'd hoped left over.

The room isn't spacious, but it's clean, and barely smells of its previous tenants. Geralt lets out a relieved sigh and leans against the far wall, starting on his arm guards as Jaskier breezes through and begins a running commentary on the decorations and the town in general.

"-but I suppose if all you ever see is fields and rivers, you know, I don't think it's too much to ask that you paint those two things well. Still, better a rubbish painting on the wall than a poke in the eye, and I can-"

As he removes the rest of his armor, he can feel some caked blood come away with the leather, and that's more or less what he expected. Until the bath comes, Geralt will have to make do with the small basin in the corner by the equally small mirror.

"-might be a cow in the foreground. It could also be... a log? A very big log. Massive. A log brought here from a tree that grew somewhere else-"

Geralt feels a warm dampness at his back, something that hasn't healed yet. He turns and twists until he can see it in the mirror. Well, shit. That's deeper than he thought it was, and damn near his spine, too.

"-or a carpenter of some kind would want a great amount of exotic wood, have it brought from somewhere, but why one piece? No, a sculptor would-"

He takes a breath. "Jaskier."

"Hm? Yes?"

Back when they had first met, Jaskier more or less insisted on helping Geralt with his wounds. Geralt had been so out of his depth by the demands to be allowed to help that he'd... allowed it. The ointment to his lower back had almost immediately been rewritten in history as chamomile on his arse, and that had been the end of letting Jaskier tend to him.

"Would you." He sets his jaw. "Help. With this."

He hears Jaskier turn in place, presumably to look at the wound. A few beats of surprised silence. Geralt's used to that part by now. "Yes," Jaskier says in a funny voice, as if trying to pretend this is normal. He's not trying to make a big deal of it, either the needing help nor the asking, and honestly, Geralt couldn't be more thankful. Digging out a clean rag, the healing salve, and some bandages, Jaskier then pulls a chair from the table and directs Geralt face backwards in it.

"I can just stand."

Jaskier gives him a look. "You've earned a sit-down," he says, clearly not wanting to raise Geralt's ire but also not giving in.

Geralt crosses the room, takes the chair, and settles in it with his arms crossed over the back. Jaskier pulls the other chair up behind him and begins to rifle through his tools.

He rinses the wound clean without using so much water that it drips down Geralt's back to his trousers. He pats the salve on so gently that Geralt barely feels it go on the exposed wound.

The room is very quiet.

Finally, Jaskier clears his throat. "I've seen you do this to yourself, but I think you'll have to tell me if it's too loose or too tight." He's unwinding a length of bandage. "I've done it a couple times now, but it's always me or some other sod who isn't... a brick of muscle."

Geralt thinks back to the healer's house. "I'll tell you." He leans back a little, making room for Jaskier to pass the roll around his torso several times. When he begins to fasten it, Geralt already knows. "Tighter than that."

"Won't it hurt, any tighter than this?"

"To keep it from slipping." He keeps his breathing even as Jaskier begins adjusting it. "Good."

"That definitely looks too tight."

"It only has to stay until tomorrow morning or so." He holds still as Jaskier digs out the shears and cuts off the remaining cloth, rolling it up to save for later. Say it. "Thank you."

The beat is shorter this time. "Of course," Jaskier says, and it's quiet and sincere and makes the tips of Geralt's ears redden.

He's not used to anything being of course.

"Are you up for getting dressed and getting some mutton?" Jaskier claps his hands together. "Oh, or goose. I saw a goose on the way in and, oh, I could go for one of those heartless bastards. Maybe some roast potatoes next to it."

Geralt gets up, pulling his shirt over his head in a slow motion. He thinks back to the coin purse, heavier than usual. "Goose could be alright."

Chapter Text

Several evenings later, Jaskier plays to a happy audience and earns some coin himself. A young woman with long lashes and a coy smile talks with him by the window for a few minutes, leaning over to him as she speaks and laughing softly at his jokes. Geralt isn't surprised when Jaskier trots over to where he's seated in the corner:

"Would you, um, would you mind leaving the door unlocked tonight?"

By habit, Geralt's eyes flicker over to the lady. There's no ring, but perhaps more importantly, there's nothing there that's his business. Geralt drinks another swallow of ale and grunts in the affirmative.

"Thanks, um, I'll - I'll see you later tonight. Or tomorrow morning? I'll be back soon." Jaskier pats the table and whisks off, back to the girl who's blushing and grinning.

A night of quiet isn't an unwelcome idea to the Witcher. And, if he's honest, making the most of his time alone might help to take the edge off. 

**

And it is infinitely frustrating, an hour later, to find he cannot seem to take himself in hand.

The images of Jaskier and the woman are difficult to wave away. His focus on how Jaskier would look, flushed and holding her tightly, eager to please - but speculating on what they're doing for his own pleasure seems wrong, somehow, and the ideas of himself and Jaskier are... well. More invigorating but probably much more wrong.

Jaskier gasping for breath as he's pinned against the table, bent over it, looking back at Geralt in a mix of lust and impatience. Does he talk during sex, or does he just make sounds?

His stomach pools with heat, but the guilt is keeping his cock from getting anything past half hard. Geralt mutters a curse into the pillow, trying to think of Yennefer - worse, definitely worse - and then of some previous whores.

There had been a woman with fantastically strong thighs, firm and slick with sweat as she'd ridden him. When she drew her nails over his chest, she'd nearly drawn blood, smiling as if she'd known all along how he'd like it.

There had been a woman who laughed when he'd taken his trousers down, loud and delighted, and pinned her hair back while she smiled at him. He'd never seen someone suck him down so fast, and there was something in how proud she was to be as good as she was, in the way she reached between her legs and pleasured herself in quick little strokes as she'd swallowed him down.

And.

Geralt doesn't often think back to his experiences with men. There have only been two. One was in his much younger days; a blacksmith who had easily been a head taller than him. The man hadn't been much older than him, but he was strong and sure and something about the way he held himself made Geralt want to find out where that confidence came from.

The man hadn't been bad in bed, nor had he wronged Geralt in any fashion. But the way he touched Geralt, held him and guided him, was like a man working to tame a wild horse. A man trying to win something. Geralt had come against his stomach, making a mess of the thick chest hair and causing the other man to groan in pleasure beneath him. Geralt had had no experience in sucking cock but tried anyway, motivated to see if he could knock this man off kilter in some way, strike down some of that smugness. The man had groaned and cursed and barely lasted long enough for it not to be embarrassing for him. Yet, Geralt never felt satisfied by it. He hadn't wanted a competition.

Many years after that, Geralt had tried a male whore. He'd looked handsome downstairs; a strong jaw, long lashes, full mouth, wide shoulders, strong arms. If Geralt had known he was going to douse himself in perfumes the second he got up to his room, he wouldn't have bothered. The man arched theatrically underneath Geralt's body, pitched his voice up whenever he cried out, making a competent performance of something that Geralt had never asked for. His reactions had been much more earnest when Geralt had turned him over and taken him, but he decided nonetheless that he had much more luck with bedding women.

The door handle is turning.

Geralt starts and throws the blanket over himself. The candles aren't lit - Jaskier stumbles in and shuts the door behind him, darkening the room again, none the wiser.

"Witcher," Jaskier whispers loudly, like he's trying to quietly shout. His breath smells of a woman's sex and dark liquor.

"Hm?"

"She was-" The bard laughs, stumbling his way across the room in a little spin. In the dark and unseen, Geralt can see the silhouette of slim hips, rumpled clothes, the long stretch as the smell of his recent completion fills the room. "Melitele, she knew what she wanted."

Geralt feels his cock stir and silently curses the gods. Perhaps he can throw his blanket over his nose tonight and save himself too much of this. "You must be tired now."

"Yes," Jaskier laughs, delighted and sated. He sounds younger. Unburdened by care. "Her family- did you know there's a distillery here? Anyway, there's this spot by the lake, it's got a lovely view of the water and the stars, and she... mm. She had the most wicked smile while we were talking..."

For all Jaskier gets up to, he rarely provides many details. Unlike many men Geralt has encountered, Jaskier never seems to have any interest in bragging afterward with friends. But the liquor on his breath is strong and something in him is forgetting his usual interest in not revealing too much about his bedmates' private moments. Geralt would probably be able to figure out a kind way to tell him to shut up if he weren't frustratingly hard right now.

"...pushed me down by the shoulders, and - you know when someone just, uh," Jaskier giggles, a little shy now and lowering his voice, "puts you where they want you?"

Geralt's eyes widen as he stares up at the ceiling. "Jaskier."

"Hm?" Jaskier is sitting on the edge of his bed, making it creak, kicking his boots off.

"You normally don't..." He swallows, fingers twitching on the blanket as he feels a bead of precome start to drip down his cock. "You said, once. About keeping a woman's privacy."

"Yeah," Jaskier agrees distractedly, then seems to realize what he said. "Oh. Oh, fuck." The silence hangs in the air for a while as Jaskier considers this. "Sorry. She had this flask of the most wonderful gin... I think I'm a bit dru-"

"You are," Geralt interjects.

Jaskier giggles again. Geralt hears him stumble over to the side of the bed, fumbling his way under the covers and letting out a long sigh. "I'm glad we're still together." The comment seems to come from nowhere.

"What?"

"I don't know, just." Jaskier spends a few moments wriggling around until he's on his side, facing Geralt. Geralt glances over - with the room this dark, Jaskier probably only sees a rough shadow. Geralt can see the dopey smile on Jaskier's face, the way his hair is mussed against the pillow. "You know how you used to be. We traveled together off and... off and on for, um, years! And I got used to you saying we weren't friends, because I guess Witchers aren't allowed to have them, or something, but." There was supposed to be more, Geralt's sure, but Jaskier goes quiet and seems to lose his train of thought. 

"Are you ready to go to sleep?"

"I really thought, on that mountain after we met that dragon." Jaskier's quiet, mumbling. "That maybe you were finally fed up with me."

Fuck. Geralt looks down at the floorboards, the space between them, feeling almost like he's been physically injured. He can barely work out how to talk about things happening now without giving too much away. Those months ago when he'd said that, having seen Yennefer walk away and feeling truly alone, feeling like a monster who'd done this to himself...

Had that been when he'd begun to truly resent Jaskier for being another thing he couldn't have?

"Geralt?"

"What?"

"You're thinking very loudly." A beat. "We can talk about something else, if you want."

Is that when he started keeping Jaskier even further away? Making a point of rejecting every kindness? He doesn't know how to say the words. The walls feel like they rise up further than he can see. "I... I don't know when I started building so high."

"Sorry?"

"You can forget how big the walls actually are until you... have to start clearing the rubble. Stone by stone."

Jaskier blinks at him a few times. "...are you drunk, too, Geralt?"

Tonight is the worst. At least his cock gave up a while back. Maybe he can roll over and get some rest. "Go to sleep, Jaskier. You'll feel better in the morning."

The bard mumbles something as if he's trying to work up to a counter argument, but he quiets down. "Alright. Good night, Geralt."

At least he knows this part. "Good night."

Jaskier doesn't actually fall asleep for quite some time, but Geralt waits until he hears the familiar sound of even breathing and, soon after, a soft snore. Geralt watches the man across from him, mouth slightly open and long lashes fanned across his cheeks.

And he falls asleep that way.

Chapter Text

There have been good changes recently. Jaskier's handled several aldermans who tried to worm their way out of paying contracts. He's much better at sweet  talking, and when that doesn't work, he excels at performing 'shaming songs' in town squares, loudly singing about the adlerman's hypocrisies and likelihood to alienate any future helpful mercenaries.

Jaskier's riding is also... less terrible now, which means he no longer gives Roach a sore back. And they've settled into a routine, now, where Geralt can mention a particularly bad wound after a battle and Jaskier will offer to help bandage it. All the parts of Geralt's body that he can't easily reach himself are now healing much faster than they used to, with this help. Jaskier never makes any comments or teases. Geralt always makes at least an effort to say he's grateful afterward.

Geralt needs to remind himself of these things because in the next four towns they've visited, there have been four more women.

Geralt has known that Jaskier's talents and reputation have both been on the rise, but this side of it is starting to take its toll on him. The salt on the wound is that Jaskier feels obligated to 'check in' with Geralt every damn time, no matter how apologetically. And if Geralt is honest with himself, Jaskier does need to let him know when he's going to disappear for a few hours at night. Because without context, it's not unreasonable to worry that he's fleeing a beast, or, worse, someone's husband.

"I need - I'm sorry, I need a little help on this one." They're in Windley. Jaskier is sliding up next to him at the festival hall table, lute at his side and trying his best to look casual.

For such a charismatic man, Geralt doesn't know how Jaskier can be such a terrible actor. Geralt side eyes him. "Mm?"

"So you know how you're looking for a werewolf, and we think it's a local? Who's been cursed?"

"Yes," Geralt confirms. Does Jaskier have a lead? "The victims seem chosen. They seem personal." Jaskier's expression is strange. "Do you know something?"

"What? No, no. I just, is there a way to... telllll?" He leans in a bit more, slightly into Geralt's personal space. Geralt doesn't know what kind of expression he makes, but it causes Jaskier to lean right back out of that personal space. "If someone's secretly the werewolf, that is."

"They'd smell of the blood of the herbalist," Geralt says. "And of the apothecary. It's a distinct set of odors."

"Right." Jaskier nods several times. "Smells. Lots of smells. We know where the werewolf's been, and it's smelly." More nodding. Geralt narrows his eyes, letting his impatience show through. "Just, if you could give a quiiick sniff to, um,"

Geralt follows Jaskier's eye line before he can finish speaking. It's one of the woodsmen who works to the south of the village - Geralt remembers him from when they were shown the first attack site in the glade. The man's posture is one of suppressed nervousness, but that's not enough evidence in a town where people are currently scared of being picked off one by one. His clothes don't look disheveled, although his sleeves are rolled up and his hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. It appears to be his everyday appearance and not indicative of a struggle. "Did he say something? What did you overhear?"

"Nothing, I, I only meant that... are you looking at him? Stop that, quit-" Jaskier swats ineffectively at Geralt's bicep. "Stop," he says, quieter.

Geralt turns his gaze back to Jaskier, whose ears are red, and scowls. "Then explain what the fuck you're talking about."

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth several times, for some reason unable to do so. Geralt makes an annoyed noise and scans the festival hall again. Not letting his gaze linger too long on the woodsman, he notices that the stranger is looking around too, brow creased, as if he's lost someone.

The woodsman is... not unattractive. His eyes are flint grey, sharp under dark brows, and his forearms show the effort of his work. Geralt can't see every detail with all the people between them, but he fills his clothes out nicely.

Geralt levels a look at Jaskier.

"I - I'm just... trying to be safe."

"Safe would be not bedding down with strangers in the first place," Geralt rumbles, an old favorite rolling off his tongue. Damn. He hadn't meant to say that.

"Yes, well, I c-" Jaskier cuts himself off. "Just, I know neither of us are getting any more singing or witching done tonight, so, I figured..." Jaskier's voice rises and fades into the distance as Geralt gets up from the table and walks toward the man. "Please don't do whatever you're about to do," Jaskier his hissing behind him, but it doesn't matter.

Whatever he's about to do. He's not sure. Geralt stands in front of the man, who is nearly his own height and not much lighter in build, and lifts his chin.

"Witcher." The woodsman straightens a little. He doesn't have the aura of a predator, and when Geralt lets his nostrils flare a little, he smells of little more than freshly cut wood. "I'm glad you get some time to relax among us after journeying here to help."

Geralt allows his lip to curl a little. "Ale could be better."

The woodsman, unaware of what he did to offend, shrinks back a minuscule amount. "I'm sure you've... had the best, in all your travels."

"Hm." Geralt looks him over once more, feeling something dark and clawed in the back of his mind. Entreating him to be let out. Geralt dismisses it. And walks away.

He weaves through the crowd until he's at the other corner of the room near the hall doors. When he turns around, Jaskier is already looking at him, a mixture of mortified and waiting. Geralt makes a dismissive gesture - no threat - and excuses himself from the festivities, into the cold air. He keeps walking until he's clear of the light streaming out of the hall windows, until the clamor of voices are faint and indistinguishable.

Geralt takes a few slow breaths, waiting for the distance to calm him, but no serenity comes. Geralt snarls and begins to pace a route around the village, hand on his hilt in case a distraction blesses him with an appearance.

Ten minutes. No luck.

Geralt may as well try to work this out.

The woodsman didn't seem like someone to mishandle Jaskier. So, what has Geralt unsettled, if not a possible risk to Jaskier's well-being?

Geralt had enough time to ruminate over the women to decide that clearing his mental blockades in order to treat Jaskier decently has had its cost. It's harder not to see and feel more clearly, now, even when he'd prefer not to. And while the women caused some kind of stir in him, water shifting under ice... this feeling is more like an undertow.

Geralt has known that Jaskier, who gives his affections away so easily, takes men to bed. But seeing it, now that Geralt has begun to exchange his clarity of mind for a gentler nature? Seeing a man Jaskier chose is... different, than it was before. Something about this stranger's small similarities to Geralt sparks something within him, some clearer, harder-to-quell voice of 'it could be me'.

If he could figure out what has Jaskier romancing more people as of late, maybe he could do something to curb it. Not scare them off, or - that wouldn't do. Staying camped outside of villages would technically work, but Jaskier would be miserable in no time at all. But if he could keep Jaskier distracted... perhaps, by something else that pleased him.

They aren't far from the coast. Or Oxenfurt, if Jaskier wanted to return there and see old friends. In Jaskier's many lectures about how Geralt should learn to enjoy the finer things in life, he mentions the accommodations they'd receive there, and the good food they could enjoy at the expense of this old classmate or that old friend. Until now it sounded boorish, with events to attend and people he'd have to be polite to. Now he wonders if the excitement and nostalgia it could hold for Jaskier might keep the man distracted. At least, for long enough to Geralt to get his senses together, and figure out if he needs to change tack or work out how to approach the bard himself. Without fucking everything up.

Geralt's just made the turn to walk along the port when he hears it.

"Oh, that's wonderful."

Something in his blood rises at the exact same time that his stomach drops.

"You like that, pet?" The woodsman's voice is husky and low, fond. Geralt can tell, now, that they must be in one of the boats. He stands stock still, hearing only the soft knocking of the bumpers against the docks, until there's another sound:

"Oh, that's - that's better -" Jaskier sounds like Geralt has never heard him before. Swept up, ravished, mischievous. "Jakub."

The name turns Geralt away immediately. He's moving before he even realizes he's doing it, back the way he came, away from the docks, the sounds, to cut through the housing district instead and continue patrolling to the west without getting any closer.

"An entire town to find a hideaway," Geralt rasps, "and I have to - gods damn it, him and water."

Hearing his own voice makes him realize how affected he is. This is becoming ridiculous. Geralt can't allow himself to become so worked up every time his... his... every time Jaskier tumbles into someone's arms. Part of him wants to run back and dig the two out of their boat, to hurl the woodsman into the water. Part of him wants to run, fuck the contract, just take Roach and ride away tonight. He's left with as little notice before.

Yes, you could be a coward again.

He'll tell Jaskier. Say that he would do his best to please him, but that he can't promise he won't need to travel on his own, still, sometimes. That Jaskier can still do as he likes, give his affections to whomever, as he always has. And that if Geralt's read things wrong, that if Jaskier has no interest in taking his offer, that he'll never speak of it again, and they can continue on. And Geralt will... he will handle it.

And if we try this? And if I do something Jaskier decides he can't forgive, as a friend would?

The cleared rubble within him has become its own hill at this point. Crumbling into smaller pieces, treacherous to add to. Any wrong step feels like it will cause the whole thing to tumble apart, a rock slide, destroying everything around it.

Chapter Text

But he can't go on like this. Perhaps if he knew Jaskier had seen enough of what he was like to know he wasn't interested, Geralt's mind would stop ruminating on it. And if Jaskier does say yes... Geralt breathes deeply, remembering the quiet sounds of the cave, the soft warmth above him, trusting and gentle and only ever afraid for Geralt, never of.

He'll finish the patrol and go to the stables to talk to Roach. He'll brush her down, work out what he'll say, and calm himself down. Then he'll return to the festival hall and make sure there hasn't been any news.

This is his working plan until a large, snarling werewolf impacts into his left side and knocks him into the side of a building.

Geralt can feel a sharp claw snag on the armor over his ribs, cutting into it almost deep enough to reach flesh. He rolls to the side and dodges another swipe. Whoever this asshole is doesn't expect him to be able to draw his sword very quickly, because he blocks the next attack with his blade, wedging first into the thick fur at the wrist, dragging in inches up the forearm as they lean in harder.

"Hrrrrrr...." The beast's mouth is nearly frothing, but Geralt's been doing this job long enough to see the intelligence behind its eyes.

"Fuck off," he spits. "I know you're in control of yourself." His opponent's eyes widen and then narrow. Geralt uses the emotional reaction's bare seconds to change his foot's positioning, disengage fast enough not to get hit, and drive a silver knife into the werewolf's side with his newly-free off hand.

The werewolf howls in agony and rage. Well, that should be more than enough of an alert to tell Jaskier to get his clothes back on and run back to the hall.

"Witcher," the beast growls darkly. "They deserved it."

"Doubt it." He falls back before the werewolf finishes lunging, bringing his feet up and using his boots to propel the beast with its own inertia into the glass window on the other side of the street.

It doesn't buy him much time, but it buys him enough. He has a fresh silver dagger to throw by the time the thing clambers back out, and his sword is ready for another attack.

"You," the werewolf says. "You also. Deserve this."

This idiot is stupid, but they - he? - is fast. Geralt doesn't dodge fast enough, feels teeth sink into his upper bicep. He tries to pull away but the wolf is holding fast - Geralt steels himself through the pain enough to roll them both into the cobblestones, positioning his sword as they move so it drives into its neck as they fall.

It doesn't kill him, but he lets go. He's coughing and spitting blood, now, pulled out of his rage by the sudden fear and reality of his own death. The two smaller blades still lodged in him, bleeding him out slowly.

"There may be a cure for you," Geralt pants, pulling his long sword free so he can get some space and take a defensive stance. "Wolfsbane can-" The werewolf scrambles to its feet and pounces again, claws slashing lightly over Geralt's neck as he sidesteps the attack. "You know what? Never mind." He feints, lets the werewolf give an impressive swipe across the thickest part of his armor, and uses that opening to strike under his extended arm, into the thick hide and into the rib cage.

Geralt holds the blade fast as the beast struggles on it, snarls, gasps. Begins to go limp, pale, hairless.

The dead man on Geralt's sword isn't familiar to him. He has dark hair to his chin, bloodshot blue eyes, and a small nose. A beer gut.

A man behind Geralt screams in terror. Geralt rises up, grateful for a potential witness: "I hope you saw him before he looked like this?" he asks, eyes widening a little as he recognizes the woodsman.

"I-" The woodsman's eyes are locked on the corpse. "I saw him... gods preserve us-"

Why is he here alone? "Where's Jaskier?"

The woodsman takes a moment to process this, looking up at Geralt with a mixture of confusion and alarm. They stare at each other a moment until there are footsteps running from the direction of the festival hall. Jaskier leads the group, panting, clothing askew as several guards follow him with weapons and terrified expressions.

"Oh, good," Jaskier pants, leaning down until his hands are on his knees. "It's already... good."

Jaskier could be mistaken for someone who's simply run to fetch help, but Geralt knows better - his hair is mussed and he smells like sex. Something in how Geralt is staring at him causes Jaskier to be brought up short, face reddening further as he looks from Geralt to the woodsman, from - from Jakub -

"That's Jan," someone's shouting. "That's the apothecary's husband. That's Zofia's husband."

"He was a beast," Jakub is shouting, pointing. "I saw - it was - he was massive -"

"I'll collect my fee in the morning," Geralt announces, wiping his blade clean before he sheathes it. He bends down and begins collecting his daggers out of the corpse as well, grateful that at least none of these onlookers seem upset with him disturbing the body. More townsfolk are even pouring down the road from the hall, some with hushed voices and some louder.

Jaskier is approaching him. He looks... complex. Geralt can't read it all. Worry is in there.

"You're fine, right?" Jaskier's voice is low so the others can't hear. "The bites, the blood...?"

"It doesn't work like that," Geralt rumbles, watching Jaskier's shoulders drop in relief. "But I want you to come back to the inn. With me."

"Fuck Jan," someone is saying over Jaskier's shoulder.

"Wh-" Jaskier's eyes track confusedly over Geralt's expression, and then his shoulder, the slashes across his armor, but then he just nods, not seeming to need a full explanation yet. He turns on his heel, face already a mask Geralt has seen many times before. "Your Witcher, good people of Windley, Geralt of Rivia! The White Wolf! Normally we'd deliver a beast's head to your alderman, but in this case, we leave you to bury your shitty townsmember, or, deal with his remains... however you see fit."

"Fucker owes me money," the same voice says in the back of the crowd.

"Can't handle that one for you, my friend. Good night! Sleep soundly!" Jaskier does another theatrical spin, heading toward the inn and slowly parting the crowd as he does so. There are a few awkward claps as he and Geralt pass, up the cobblestone roads to the lighted windows at the edge of town.

The wind isn't as strong as it was, but it's enough to make Jaskier cross his arms across his chest and bristle a little. Geralt realizes then that he's wearing the wine red doublet he wore on the mountain that one day. His nostrils flare and he looks away, trying to work out what he's going to say when they're finally alone.

The innkeeper is not at his post, which is fair enough considering the festival and then the commotion. Geralt heads straight for the stairs and is unsurprised when Jaskier makes a detour to grab a bottle of something from behind the bar before following him up.

The room. The candles have burned down. The one window overlooks the river, a dark ribbon with slashes of moonlight reflected and shifting as they travel. Geralt's pulse still feels high, as if he's still in a fight. He shuts and locks the door after Jaskier gets in and tries to find somewhere to look.

"You weren't lying, were you, earlier? You really aren't at risk of... of infection?"

"Werewolves are cursed, not infected." Geralt tilts his head, acquiescing a little. "Unless they're born with... it's complicated. Don't worry about it." He keeps his focus on a spot to Jaskier's left.

"Right, good, then-" Jaskier moves toward him and makes a small gesture that Geralt, simultaneously turning away, can't translate. "What's wrong?" A moment passes and Jaskier's voice gets small. "Did Jakub say something to you?"

What? Geralt narrows his eyes. "What would he have said?"

"I don't know, you just look..." Another gesture in Geralt's eyeline, this one much larger. Geralt is more familiar with this motion: the bard is exasperated. "You're not turning into a monster and he didn't say anything, so I don't know why you're... you just, you looked at me, strangely, earlier, and then you tell me to come here, and now you're. Not looking at me at all."

Without the wind, Geralt can smell spiced ale on Jaskier's breath. The constant familiar notes of his warm skin, his hair. The faint traces of Jaskier's previous arousal... and that of the other man. The room is dark and quiet and he's overstimulated all the same, pulse pounding in his skull.

"You reek of him," Geralt grits out.

Jaskier is quiet and still for a few moments. Geralt grinds his teeth, knowing what that was - one large, misshapen rock tumbling down the veritable mountain, directionless and destructive. Why can't he calm down and think properly?

"I didn't-" Geralt turns and makes himself look at Jaskier, shocked to see that most of the hurt on his expression has actually shifted into indignation. "You're right to be angry."

Jaskier's eyebrows fly up. "Oh, I'm right?"

Geralt flounders mentally. His hand curls into a fist at his side. "You should bed whoever you like." And he means that, even if there's... a much larger, unspoken part of it. A hope.

"Obviously." To his credit, the bard has never been apologetic about his whims or habits. It's one of the things that Geralt has always admired about him, even when it becomes incredibly annoying in practice. "Well, with that clearer, now..." Jaskier sits on the edge of his bed, beginning to work the cork open on what looks like a very expensive bottle of red. "I'm sorry I asked you to sniff him. I didn't. Mean to make you so involved in my goings-on. You clearly weren't happy with that, and I apologize."

That's not where Geralt meant for this conversation to go. He's trying to work his way up to... "Don't." He catches Jaskier's exasperated expression. "I'm bad at this," Geralt snaps, defensive.

"What, talking? Yes, actually. You are." Jaskier takes a long pull from the wine bottle and sets it down. When he huffs, Geralt can smell the traces of blackberries and smoke. "Fortunately for you, I can talk plenty for both of us. I don't know how many years we've been friends, now, and - and, you know? Never mind that you spent half an age insisting we weren't friends, traveling together back and forth through every godsforsaken swamp and one-horse village this land can offer, and I got through that, I did. As much as people who don't know your kind shit on you, saying you have no feelings, it's clear someone in that awful Witcher school you went to taught you to bottle them all up next to your potions."

Jaskier pauses to look up at Geralt, irritation clear, and Geralt can only stare back, unmoving. Jaskier apparently still has plenty of inertia left, because he continues.

"And when you told me to get lost after Yennefer - yes, I am going to mention her tonight - after she told you off, honestly, I was almost as sad for you as I was hurt. Because it's normal, you know, to feel upset and lash out after some lovely thing has walked away from you. And it wasn't my fault that you made that wish about her, and it certainly isn't my fault that Yennefer's crazier than a bag of cats, but at least I knew why you were treating me like shit."

Jaskier takes another pause to take another pull on the wine bottle. Geralt just continues to hold perfectly still.

"And I know what I'm like. I do. I come from a very privileged life but I wanted something else, I still like the nicer things, my goal in life has always been to sing songs and make people happy. How romantic." He makes a face, rolling his eyes. At himself? "I'm opinionated. I like to fill silences. I know that's not for everyone. I know that's not always for you. I'm not done." Geralt shuts his mouth again. "But when you tell me off and I can't even work out why, that's what still burns a little. Because sometimes it feels like you talk to Roach more than you do me. And of course you talk to Roach, she's lovely, and she's always with you, and who is she going to tell? But it's been years and years and I know you can't stand how useless I am with some things, but I do wish you'd trust me with whatever's going on in that head of yours."

He stops and takes another drink, this time not even looking at Geralt, knowing he doesn't have to tell him he's not finished.

"Because sometimes I know exactly and sometimes it seems like you just push me away for the sake of it. But you don't. Sometimes when you really get mean you'll have this constipated look later like you're honestly trying to figure out how to apologize and I know you didn't mean it, at least not completely. And, fuck it, at least you let me help you when something stabs its claws into your spine, now, or something else you can't reach. But it still feels like I'm only let at arms length and given half the story and..." Jaskier looks at Geralt, then, demanding his eye contact. "Why don't you trust me enough to let me closer?"

Tell him.

"Geralt?"

"Because." Geralt's voice is gravel as he makes himself keep looking him in the eye, feeling his pulse quicken again. This is the 'fight' his body is in - fight or flight, an urge to run from this, an urge to shout it down and not let it be discussed. He steels himself. "Because I want too much."

Jaskier's brows come together immediately, confused, unsure. Geralt makes himself close the distance, telegraphing his movements, gently taking the bottle from Jaskier's grip and setting it on the end table. He can't put the words in the right order, can't capture all of it the right way, but he can do this at least, making it clear without taking a liberty.

Slowly, he reaches out, gloved fingertips reaching for Jaskier's cheek.

The room is completely still for a moment.

Geralt cups Jaskier's cheek, watching a flush bloom there and rise to the tips of his ears and down his neck. His eyes look huge, locked on Geralt's, disbelieving.

"I'm. Not handling it well." Geralt withdraws his hand-

-only to have it snatched at the wrist, in an almost iron grip, and pulled back to Jaskier's skin. The bard holds it there, staring up at Geralt defiantly. "...who says it's too much?"

Chapter Text

Geralt stares at him, shocked, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to stand up. There was hardly space between Geralt and the bed Jaskier was sitting on, and now they're nearly chest to chest, and Jaskier hasn't let go of Geralt's hand. Without the glove Geralt is sure he'd be able to feel Jaskier's skin burning.

"The people I care for," Geralt says, fumbling for the words. Because Jaskier deserves an explanation. But Geralt doesn't know how to talk about Renfri. Or how trying to keep Yennefer close ruined everything. "I always do something to lose them."

Jaskier looks upset by this. "So you thought if you just kept insisting we weren't... even friends... that... Geralt, how many times have you... do, do I seem like someone who's easy to get rid of?"

Geralt grimaces and looks away. He can't explain this. The feeling of it, the fear of experiencing it again.

"Geralt?"

On a mountain, watching Yennefer walk away. In Blaviken, watching Renfri go cold on the ground.

Much longer ago, on a dirt road, looking for the cart.

"Geralt."

"I don't want that," he manages. "I don't want you to be hurt. Or decide you'd rather never see me again." It feels terrible. Worse than anything. "But I haven't been fair to you."

Say it.

He shuts his eyes. "I'm sorry." That. That is what he needs to say. For handling this wrong, for pushing Jaskier away, for not trusting him more. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." It's easier when he doesn't have to look at Jaskier when he says it, when he can just say the truth in the dark. "I'm so-"

Geralt's eyes fly open as he feels softness against his mouth, silencing him, Jaskier is - Jaskier is kissing him, his eyes are shut, he's frowning as if concentrating, Jaskier's scent is everywhere, warmth and familiarity and fresh arousal, his skin is burning hot where it touches Geralt's, his mouth on his, Jaskier's palms on his cheeks, holding him still as if he might flinch away. Geralt can't move, one hand crushed between them as Jaskier pushes even closer, along the length of his body. Jaskier pulls back an inch, but only to get a breath - he comes back and kisses him again, a firm and unyielding press of his mouth, the equivalent of shouting. Geralt tries to think of what this means, what he should do, and then Jaskier's hands are wrapped in the straps of his armor, pulling him forward as Jaskier falls back onto the bed.

"Shut up," Jaskier says, breaking away for breath one more time as he hauls Geralt bodily on top of him on the faded quilt. Geralt can only follow as he's directed, following the scents and Jaskier's body, soft and warm and firm and demanding and grabbing at Geralt's shoulders, his hips, arranging him until he's settled between Jaskier's legs where he's apparently supposed to be. "Just."

Geralt stutters in a breath. Dressed as he is, he can barely feel Jaskier's inner thighs on either side of him, his body laid out underneath, but he can stay close, lips just brushing against Jaskier's as he talks, nose bumping his and that, that is so much, that is everything he can handle, until Jaskier decides what else he wants.

"Kiss me," Jaskier whispers, and so Geralt does. He leans forward on one forearm, cups Jaskier's face with his other hand - Jaskier liked that, earlier - and kisses his mouth open, slowly, tasting the ale and the wine and Jaskier himself. He groans and Jaskier's hands suddenly clutch at his shoulders, like a reaction to the sound itself. Geralt licks in deeper, along Jaskier's tongue, trying to map out every part of this, until he can tell Jaskier needs to breathe, to pull away, so Geralt moves back just enough that he can kiss Jaskier's soft cheek as the other man pants for air, can nose down his neck and breathe him in even more deeply. He finds a rabbiting pulse at his throat, kisses it, feels Jaskier's body arch up underneath his.

Damn this armor. He brings his hand to his mouth and bites down on the edge of his glove, pulling it free, throwing it heedlessly across the room and then wrapping it gently around Jaskier's neck, fingers pushing up into his hair, and Jaskier whines, leaning into the touch and eyes fluttering closed. Geralt can feel his cock filling, pressing insistently against his armor as Jaskier gives him a helpless look like Geralt's pinned him.

"More?" Geralt rasps.

"What -" Jaskier looks like he's not sure what Geralt means, and then decides he doesn't care. "Get more off," he says instead, now tilting his head so far into Geralt's touch that Geralt finally gets the message, curling his fingers and letting them tangle just a little, and when Jaskier moans this time his hips rise up to meet Geralt's.

It's hard to let go of Jaskier right now. His skin is warm and flushed, beautifully flushed, but the very least Geralt can do is what he's told. He rips off his other glove, his first bracer, jerking a little with surprise when he feels a clumsy hand latch on to the fastening at the side of his chest piece and begin to work it loose. Geralt watches the other man, eyes full of lust but still dead set on focusing on his work, get one entire side loose until Geralt can pull it up over his head, wrestle the second bracer off, and -

They freeze, for a moment, Geralt to see if this is what Jaskier wanted, Jaskier with a dreamy, hungry sort of expression. I'm still wearing my shirt, Geralt wants to point out, but he can't - the words are so difficult, right now, and in a flash Jaskier's hands are sliding under the black fabric of Geralt's shirt, skimming up his abdomen to his chest, raising gooseflesh and making Geralt roll his hips, growl, bend back down and reclaim Jaskier's mouth. He tastes so good. His sounds are - Geralt gets both hands into Jaskier's hair, now, tangling and tugging at the scalp until Jaskier pants and shivers and his hands curl up to grab at Geralt's back. Like he needs to hold on.

Jaskier's squirming underneath him, now, realizing that Geralt has no plans of letting him go, pulling gently and then a little rougher, easing off, scratching down his scalp and beginning again. Geralt can't stop watching Jaskier's face, his reactions, until all of Jaskier's moving about aligns their cocks and when Geralt presses down, testing, Jaskier's eyes flutter open and he says "Geralt" and Geralt can't think anymore.

He can feel soft buttons under his fingers, and then the embroidered neckline of Jaskier's shirt, and then that's gone, too, and Geralt is pinning him down properly now, holding him still to kiss him, and the only fight Jaskier is putting up is with Geralt's shirt, trying to figure out how to pull it up over Geralt's head without them breaking away.

"Shr," Jaskier protests against Geralt's lips. He sounds breathless.

Geralt moves away to let him breathe, mouthing at his neck, scenting him. He brings his arms up to let Jaskier do as he likes, taking his shirt off, and - that was a good idea, he realizes, as he can lower himself down onto the bed, resting some of his weight on the bard, and feel the press of their bodies, feel how hot Jaskier's skin is, it's delicious. When Geralt rolls his hips now Jaskier whines in response, he can feel how hard the other man is, the fabric is hardly anything when they're this close. Geralt starts a rhythm and licks over Jaskier's pulse, mingling their scents, Jaskier is writhing under him. Jaskier is talking again, saying... saying something-

"...so fucking good, fuck, just bite down already, mark me, please, show me - oh -"

Geralt sinks his teeth a little deeper, holds him there, feeling Jaskier tense and shudder underneath him. Geralt's almost mindless with how badly he wants to rut into the other man at this point, but he'll be damned if he hurts him in a way he doesn't want, so he lets go, surprised when Jaskier lets out a little regretful sound. "You want it rough?"

"I-" Jaskier's gasping for air. "I want you," he says instead, pitched up and desperate, like that answer needs to be enough.

Him. Geralt's not sure on the right way to deliver on that, but. He can figure something out. He sits up and leans back, working off Jaskier's boots and then his own, hand moving to Jaskier's trousers next and pausing over the laces.

Jaskier looks at him like this was the most unnecessary moment of hesitation that has ever existed in written history. Geralt makes a show of rolling his eyes as he grabs the ties and undoes them, grabbing unceremoniously and shoving Jaskier's trousers down as he squirms and lifts his hips. And - actually, although Geralt's seen Jaskier several times in tubs and streams and lakes, seeing him like this is... nothing like that. Even with Geralt's hands stilled on the fabric that's bunched at Jaskier's thighs, the sight of all this skin in the warm, intimate light of the inn is... different. He looks different. Breathing hard, still, with some sweat at his temple and... Geralt's seen glances of Jaskier's cock before, but never erect, never red and thick and smearing precome into the light sprinkling of hair on his abdomen, he looks like a mess. Geralt can't stop drinking it in.

"I don't, um, know if it wasn't what you expected, but..." Jaskier's looking from his own cock to Geralt's face, back and forth, nervous now.

And it's then that Geralt figures out what he wants to do.

Jaskier makes a surprised sound as Geralt moves on the bed, making it creak a little as he scoots down until he's facing Jaskier's cock, one arm propping him up and the other reaching to grasp it - "Will you talk?" Geralt says, a quiet rumble.

"Wh-what?"

"Like before." Geralt leans forward and tastes the tip of him, how wet he already is, and feels Jaskier's cock twitch against his lips. The salty tang isn't what he's accustomed to, but he doesn't much care. "When I was at your neck."

"I'll - yes, if you, if you want I can - oh, fuck." Jaskier bows up a little as Geralt takes him in hand, stroking up, making another bead of precome bloom at the tip. Geralt licks him clean, then moves his cock out of the way and does the same to Jaskier's stomach, thorough, while Jaskier tenses and squirms. "Fuck, the first time you ask me to talk and - yes, fuck, your mouth, it's so fucking hot and I can't st- fuck, are you really going to get every bit of -" Geralt feels Jaskier's fingertips on his scalp, and pulls back a bit.

"You can," Geralt murmurs. Jaskier sounds like he's about to ask for clarification, but then Geralt's mouth is running along his pelvic bone, determined to find every last taste of Jaskier, and the bard trembles and lets his hands tangle into Geralt's hair, undoing the tie in the back.

"Please," Jaskier gasps, "please please suck me off. Please. Because if I come before you even suck me off or even stroke me off I don't think I'll - ah - ever live it down-" Geralt mouths at the head of Jaskier's cock ("Oh,") gripping it at the base. The taste isn't bad at all. People who complain about it must be far too delicate. "Oh, fuck." Geralt begins to lick from root to tip, making sure everything he does is gentle. He can't help from feeling like he should have some better idea of how to do this after being a recipient so many times, but his worry dissipates when he feels Jaskier's hands start to tangle into his hair, petting and stroking almost fervently.

"I'm - I'm usually, usually I can hold on, I'm, I can, the other person gets to come first, usua, oh, oh..."  Jaskier is trembling, now, and the babbling is going straight to Geralt's cock. Unable to be patient anymore, Geralt reaches down with his free hand and gets himself out, giving himself a quick squeeze before focusing on Jaskier again. He's not Geralt's size, but he still seems too big to swallow down... Geralt takes in as much as he can, slowly, pulling off when he feels his throat start to protest. Another try.

"Nnngh," Jaskier says warningly, and Geralt understands. Geralt eases off, lips and tongue lingering at the slit until Jaskier's tangled fingers give a very very small tap to the back of his head. "Seriously, Geralt, I'll come if you-"

Geralt pulls off with a lewd pop. "Isn't that the point?" He looks at Jaskier across the length of his body, watching the bard's chest rise and fall with heavy breaths. He looks... determined, although mostly he just looks debauched. "Alright." Geralt climbs back up, reclaiming Jaskier's mouth. It's incredible, Geralt thinks, that he knows what to expect now: Jaskier's taste, the softness, the heat, the way Jaskier's tongue swipes across his lips when he comes back after a breath. He captures Jaskier's lower lip and drags it out a little as he moves his lower body, lining them up and starting to grind against him. Jaskier's stomach has muscle to it, but there's a pleasing layer of softness overtop, inviting and warm and sweat-slicked. Everything about Jaskier feels so good.

"Geralt," Jaskier says again, which only makes Geralt quicken his rhythm. When Geralt bites Jaskier's shoulder, feeling Jaskier's legs start to tense and flex against his in response, that's when he knows he's close.

"Like this?" Geralt lets go to ask, because Jaskier seems to have some sort of preference. Jaskier gives a shuddering, lilting sound in the affirmative, letting go of Geralt's hair to cling to him with both hands. Geralt huffs against the reddened skin, hips pistoning against the wet slide of Jaskier's sweat and precome. Gods, he wants to stay here forever. Jaskier's nails are dragging against his back, trying to get purchase, and he won't stop moving - Geralt reaches down and grabs Jaskier's arse, gripping tightly and digging into the flesh to hold him at the right angle.

"FUCK," Jaskier shouts, back arching off the bed as he comes. Geralt props himself up a little higher, wanting to see, and the way Jaskier's hands are scrambling at him, the helpless and utterly debauched look in his eyes, fuck - Jaskier's body rises up to meet Geralt's, and soon he can feel the swell of his own climax coming. Geralt buries his face back into Jaskier's neck, breathing deeply until all he can smell is Jaskier, Jaskier's sweat, his come still spurting between their bodies as he trembles, and it's not hard to give in to that, not at all. Geralt feels his orgasm almost as an impact, pushing him harder against Jaskier's body, driving the breath out of both of them while he snaps his hips, again, again, desperate to chase down as much of this feeling as he can reach.

Jaskier's still whimpering, wavering and hoarse. Geralt is still caught up in it, covering Jaskier's chest in come and continuing to rut against his stomach. Jaskier's hands link shakily behind his neck, mouth open and wanton as Geralt ruins him further. It goes on longer than Geralt expects, the aftershocks and spasms, and when he is finally spent, he lets himself drop down onto his forearms, keeping most of his weight off the other man.

Jaskier's chest is heaving under his, clearly exhausted. Geralt feels a pang of - something. Protectiveness? - and cages the other man in again, saying nothing for now. The warmth of Jaskier underneath him is more than satisfying enough.

"Geralt," Jaskier says finally. Geralt grunts, not wanting to get back into words just yet. "You're enormous."

Geralt begins to shift onto his side, off of Jaskier, but the other man grips his arm.

"No, stay. I mean. Your cock, is. Huge."

Geralt rolls his eyes and rolls onto his side anyway, taking Jaskier with him until the smaller man is positioned comfortably on top. Jaskier seems perturbed at first, but after spreading his legs a little wider and scooting down so he can tuck his head under Geralt's chin, he seems to decide it's fine.

There are several minutes of extremely pleasant silence. Their scents have co-mingled in the room, and when Geralt tucks his chin a touch and looks down the length of their bodies, the moonlight from the window casts pleasant shapes across Jaskier's back, arse, and legs. Geralt enjoys this while it lasts, and knows Jaskier's about to start talking when he starts fidgeting.

"We're going to end up glued together if we don't do something."

"I haven't heard the innkeeper come back," Geralt rumbles. "Get a cloth and the wash basin, that'll do for now."

Jaskier seems to consider this. "We are covered in sweat."

Geralt feels a smile curl at his lips. "I never knew you were so disgusted by sex, Jaskier."

The bard mutters something against Geralt's pectoral and squirms closer. "Well, in a moment, I'm going to go get that cloth, and we at least have to do something about our. Chests."

"Mmm," Geralt agrees, and leaves his arm as it is across Jaskier's lower back, an iron bar.

"Just as soon as my legs work again."

"Mm." Geralt could get used to this weight on top of him. One can save a lot of money, buying rooms with one bed instead of two. And it would keep them warm when they're out camping.

"Geralt." Jaskier's laughing.

"Hmm?" He presses his nose into the other man's hair, breathing deeply.

"I drank all that wine from downstairs. At least let me go take a leak."

"In a moment."