How much time do you think it takes Geralt to realize that Jaskier is truly gone after the Mountain?
Not just “out running errands” or “out performing for the night”-gone, but gone for good.
Of course, he’s well aware of Jaskier’s absence when he’s walking back down to pick up Roach before trying to find his next contract.
But maybe one day, after a particularly exhausting hunt that’s left him covered in guts and blood with his entire body aching, he returns to his camp, itching to get out of his armour.
It’s when he starts fumbling with the clasps, fingers too slippery from all the gunk, that he realizes that he can’t, that usually by now, agile hands would have started working and gotten him out of there in no time.
It is then and there that he realizes that for the first time in a long time, he’s truly alone. No constant chatter as his favourite background noise, no shared meals and more often than not beds, no one to take care of him when he’s too tired to even lift his arms over his head.
Tears start falling and gods, how he wishes to take those words back. How he wishes for a second chance, how he wishes for another wish—
But there’s no Djinn, there’s no Jaskier.
It is many, many months later, after searching the Continent for Ciri, after Yennefer’s betrayal and all the pain and bloodshed it caused, that Geralt’s standing in the great hall, almost shaking from fatigue. He’s so fucking tired and lazily starts fiddling with one of the leather buckles when—
A flick of the wrist and it’s undone, quickly followed by another one and another one. Before he knows it, his armour falls down from his shoulders, but it doesn’t clatter into the floor, no. Quick hands catch it and lean it against the wall, the same way they’ve done countless times before.
Jaskier is staring at him, dark shadows underneath his eyes and a pained expression on his face. Geralt’s throat is dry, but he can feel the tears welling up, painting the world in a hazy veil.
He’s gone as quickly as he appeared, already halfway down a corridor before the Witcher even has a chance to turn around.
The soft hand that brushes against his as he walks by gives Geralt hope, though.
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