Summary: The Continent had drastically changed but some beacons of the past are still there, wandering in the garden of the academy of Oxenfurt. Elika, a young student, will meet this strange man that never smiles and would change her life, somehow...
This is a true little gem 💎 about old Jaskier still grieving for his White Wolf and for the friends he lost at Stygga twenty years after the events of The Lady of the Lake, but be warned: Bring tissues! 😭😭😭
In which Jaskier is Geralt's human-shaped furnace. (General, 4k ☆ also on AO3)
Fire and ice, Jaskier muses. It’s too cliché for his poetry, but there are no better analogies when they press against each other under the covers, a cold witcher warmed by a human bard.
Jaskier is content being Geralt’s human-shaped furnace. He learned a long time ago that witchers’ fast metabolism means they are prone to running cold. He also learned, at the same time, of Geralt’s tendency of ignoring his body’s demands. He’s happy that, after all the years of being together, his witcher is comfortable asking for help, though never with words. It’s in the way Geralt brushes their hands together when his fingers are numb, or subtly reaches out for a cuddle when the night chill settles in.
The potions make it worse. When a hunt ends and the black veins recede from Geralt’s eyes, the adrenaline drop often leaves him shivering. Warmth helps, so Jaskier prepares a bath and hot tea if they are lucky enough to stay at an inn. If all they have is a camp under the sky, he can only hold Geralt close and rub his arms and back, hoping his body provides enough heat for his witcher.
Geralt gets clingy when it happens, though he’d never admit it. Hiding in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, all he can do is cling. The world overwhelms his senses, the coldness harsh on his skin, and he never lets go first.
Jaskier cannot deny him in times like these, doesn’t want to deny him. He takes Geralt in his arms every time, blowing warm air on his cold hands, murmuring soft, reassuring words. He stays as long as needed, and then he stays even longer.
He needs to make the world less harsh for his witcher, even just a little bit.
And Jaskier’s tendency to run hot is neither here nor there. It’s only a slight inconvenience, one that can be overcome easily. He doesn’t mind waking up at night from being too warm, only to find Geralt has added a blanket to their bed. It only requires some adjusting, keeping the extra blanket on Geralt’s side.
He also doesn’t mind Geralt’s cuddling habits. During the mild seasons, he will even tell Geralt to sleep on the other side of the bed, but the distance between them always closes a few hours later. Jaskier is more endeared than bothered, really, and he can simply extract himself and fall back asleep soon after.
It’s an easy enough system. They are different people, polar opposites, as many might say. It takes a lot of practice to fit their lives together, but a few decades are more than enough time.
It’s easy, to be together, to let fire and ice coexist.
It gets less easy as time catches up to Jaskier.
His hair goes grey, and the laugh lines around his eyes deepen. His body starts fighting him from within. It begins with the rushes of hotness at night. He would wake up at night from nothing, with a dry throat and sweat soaked through his back. The healer says it’s common for his age, and the hot flashes will only get worse before it gets better. It becomes increasingly difficult to sleep in the same bed as another person, especially when that person is prone to sprawling on top of him like an oversized cuddle bear.
Insomnia follows naturally, with his sleep disrupted often. The worry makes it worse. Jaskier thought he was used to sending Geralt away on hunts for days and nights on end, but it’s harder to keep check of the anxiety when his mind is tired and irritated. He’d lie awake on their bed and imagine all the ways a simple hunt could go wrong. Even when he manages to sleep, it’s restless and full of nightmares of blood and vacant golden eyes.
His body is getting old, and with it, his heart.
Still, Geralt comes back to him. He always does. The first light of dawn brings his witcher back with morning dew glistening in silver hair, his hands reaching out for touch. Jaskier ignores the hot lava-like state of his upper body as Geralt rests gently on his chest, grounded by the feeling of skin against skin, by the rhythm of his breathing.
Jaskier’s heart feels too tender in his chest, too weathered for a human bard who’s spent most of his life on the road. He wonders how long he can keep doing this.
But then, a shiver runs down Geralt’s body, and Jaskier forgets all about his self-pity.
The path leads them to a mountain, of all places.
The air feels thinner, adding to the heaviness on Jaskier’s breastbone. They find an inn, where word of a mysterious beast up in the mountain finds Geralt while he drinks. The creature sounds more mythical than real. Geralt hesitates to take the contract at first, but is unable to say no in the end. He’s never been able to, anyway.
Jaskier’s stomach churns with the sense of déjà vu. He throws himself into the performance as Geralt prepares for the hunt. The audience is captivated soon, and before he knows it, he has been encouraged by the crowd into a rendition of Her Sweet Kiss. He’s nearly staggering as the song fades, breath shuddering with worry and past heartache.
Geralt is all packed up and waiting by the door when Jaskier finishes his set. He follows his witcher to the street, and is surprised by the tight hug that envelopes him. Jaskier is flushed hot from performing, his cheeks red and heart racing, but Geralt’s armors are cold in the mountain wind. He returns the hug, lingering longer than usual.
Geralt sees through him, worry mirrored in those golden eyes. Jaskier has felt like an open book around him for years, every shift in his mood caught carefully, but his witcher stays patient. He simply kisses Jaskier on the cheek, looking like he wants to say something. Nothing comes out in the end, and Geralt wordlessly turns away.
And Jaskier waits.
It’s just an ordinary contract, he tells himself, but somewhere in the back of his mind, panic surges out of control. It’s the memory of the last time they were in a place like this, with the wind in his hair and bitterness on his tongue. The fire burns bright in the room, but his heart is away on that mountain with his love.
Geralt returns when the moon is high, eyes still black from the potions and face deathly pale. A deep gash runs down his shoulder, bleeding sluggishly.
“Basilisks,” he murmurs, “two of them. Caught me off guard.”
With that, Geralt’s knees buckle and he collapses right into Jaskier’s arms.
The blood stains both of their clothes with crimson red. Jaskier holds up most of Geralt’s weight and helps him sit down. The process of cleaning, bathing, and bandaging his witcher is a familiar one, his muscle memory working on its own, but Jaskier finds a tremor in his hands. He tries and fails to hold himself steady, and swallows the lump of fear in his throat.
“Hey,” he coaxes Geralt to sit on their bed. “Here, just sit. It’s alright. I’m almost done.”
“Jaskier…” Geralt looks faint, head dropping to Jaskier’s shoulder even before the last bit of the bandage is tied up. A pained groan rumbles out of his chest. “Cold…”
“Shh, don’t worry. Let’s warm you up. I’m here, dearest. I’m right here.”
Jaskier tucks in the bandage neatly before reaching for the blankets on the bed. He lowers Geralt onto the pillow before checking on the fireplace, and adds a few pieces of wood, keeping it burning brighter than is needed for the current weather. With a tired sigh, he finally slips between the sheets, and tucks the blankets around Geralt.
Eyes closed, Geralt’s brow knits together painfully, his muscles trembling. He’s barely awake when Jaskier settles around him, placing Geralt’s hands on the small of his back, where the cold fingers can regain some blood flow. It’s not a comfortable position. With Geralt’s injured shoulder, Jaskier has to lie on his back and support most of the witcher’s weight. He’s trapped like this, the heat gathering under the blanket.
He’s burning, almost, with a whole person sprawled on top of him. Sweat gathers on his skin, clammy and uncomfortable against the shirt.
Geralt drifts off quickly enough, catching some much-needed rest. His breaths come out in gentle puffs against Jaskier’s neck, gradually evening out.
“Stay asleep, love, please,” Jaskier mutters with relief, all the while making the slightest attempt at extracting himself, but immediately, the barest movement makes Geralt jerk in sleep. A whimper escapes his throat, too small and sad for Jaskier’s heart to handle. The arms around his waist tighten almost childishly. Jaskier huffs at the ridiculous sight of the two of them, tangled together like one. “Alright. Hush. I won’t leave, then.”
It must be the bad dreams, caused by the pain and the oversensitivity. Geralt is at his most vulnerable when his mind is muddled, and Jaskier cannot bring himself to deny any comfort he can provide.
“There.” He kisses Geralt’s forehead, accepting his fate. Being wrapped up in a cocoon of heat is a small thing to endure when his witcher is hurt.
He threads his fingers through long silver hair, and counts the moments in the quietness of the night.
Jaskier doesn’t notice falling asleep, but the familiar press of Geralt’s weight lulls him into a fitful rest nonetheless.
Blood stains his dreams, as does the overpowering sense of helplessness. It’s like a roaring flame, threatening to consume, or a ring of fire closing in, squeezing the air out of his lungs. A hot flash comes out of nowhere, radiating from the center of his back, burning every nerve from within.
Distantly, he can hear sounds of distress from his own throat. Sweat soaks through his back, his hair, but there is nowhere to run.
Suddenly, the heat disappears, all restraints gone. Jaskier drifts in and out of sleep, breathing out deeply. He shuffles, pushing away the covers on his upper body, and feels cool air hit his skin. With that, another dream pulls him under easily.
When Jaskier blinks awake after what feels like hours, his head is slow and groggy. His arms are empty and the blankets are nowhere near him. A cool breeze washes over his body like a gentle caress.
He gasps at the absence of Geralt. All sleep is chased out by a surge of panic. Jaskier reaches out for his witcher, ready to call for his name.
“Easy.” A hoarse voice rumbles above him. “I’m right here.”
Jaskier looks up to find Geralt sitting against the headboard, the pillow cushioned behind his back.
“Oh.” Jaskier heaves out a sigh, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s thigh, closing his eyes for a moment.
Another gust of wind washes over his back, loosening his muscles, and Jaskier realizes the source of it. The window next to their bed is wide open, letting in breaths of fresh air. The moon is hanging low. Soon the morning light will shimmer by the horizon. The fireplace is burning to an ember, damped by a mound of ash.
Geralt combs through the hair at Jaskier’s nape, so gently it makes Jaskier’s bones hum. His hand is still colder than Jaskier would like, so he takes it, pressing a small kiss in his palm.
“Are you alright? How do you feel now?” Jaskier blinks, observing his witcher in the low light of the bedside candle. “Feeling cold? Your hands are cold. Why did you open the window? And the fire, do you want me to light it again?”
Geralt is still too pale, the effect of the blood loss, but his spirit seems high. A half-smile warms his golden eyes when he meets Jaskier’s gaze.
“Leave the fire, Jask. That’s silly. You were overheating. Did you not notice?” he says. “You shouldn’t have kept the room so warm.”
Jaskier sits up on the bed so they are shoulder to shoulder. It is nice now, the temperature. He unties his shirt a little bit more to cool off.
“I didn’t want you to be cold.”
“I can cope.”
Jaskier pouts. “I don’t want you to cope.”
“And I don’t want you to have a heatstroke.” A frown knits between Geralt’s eyes. “You were sweating all over. Was it another hot flash?”
Jaskier looks down, absently tugging at the blanket so it covers more of Geralt’s torso.
“I’m fine,” he insists stubbornly. “It’s only one of those nights. It happens, these days. I should be used to it.”
“Hmm.”
The cicadas hum outside the window, signaling the upcoming hot days. Geralt’s eyes place a gentle weight, patient and not demanding.
“It’s just…” Jaskier cuts himself off before starting again, trying to push down the fear in his stomach. “You were in a bad way when you came back. It caught me off guard, is all, and I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Geralt sags a little, catching Jaskier’s hand and threading their fingers together. “I really scared you this time, didn’t I?”
Jaskier doesn’t think he needs to answer. Nothing can be hidden from his face, not from Geralt, who knows every secret in his soul.
“Hey, come here.” Geralt’s voice softens to a whisper with understanding. He squeezes Jaskier’s hand, tugging him close so his head rests on the witcher’s uninjured shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“It was only a hunt. I’ve had much worse.”
Something within Jaskier shudders. “Yes, I’m well aware of the occupational hazard for witchers. That’s the problem. I don’t know how I dealt with it all this time. The terror of it all…” He huffs, self-deprecatingly. “It must be the age. I’m getting old. Too old for the foolish bravado of youth. I feel like my heart is getting weaker these days. Like it could break more easily, somehow.”
A kiss lands on top of Jaskier’s head.
“You are still brave. Foolishly so,” Geralt says, reverently, proudly.
“Never wanted to be brave. Just useful, so I can take care of you.”
Jaskier turns around, so blue meets gold. Despite the lines at his temple, despite the grey hair, he knows his eyes are still the same. He still looks at Geralt the same way as all those years ago, when he was young and stupidly idealistic. They are full of love for the man in front of him. Always full of love for Geralt.
And Geralt is looking at him the same way.
“You don’t have to be useful. Not if it means you need to push yourself too hard.” A hint of guilt tugs at his lips. “I don’t want to break your heart. Never did.”
“Well, that’s the occupational hazard of a poet,” Jaskier teases, wanting to erase the guilt. It has no place between them. “I don’t blame your trade, love. It is who you are. The path, the monsters, the way you scare the hell out of me every other day. I’ve accepted it. Old age be damned. I promised to follow you until the end of my days, and I tend to keep my promises.”
“Jask, I…”
Geralt closes his mouth, and they fall into silence, though it’s a poignant one.
“It’s alright.” Jaskier wants to steer them away from the heaviness of it all. “You should try to rest more. Meditate, perhaps. That wound is not going to heal fast if you don’t—”
“Fuck it, I need to tell you,” Geralt blurs out. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but now… Jaskier, you deserve to know.”
The interruption makes Jaskier blink. Confused, he sits up straighter. “What is it?”
Geralt’s entire posture changes, and suddenly he looks a lot more serious, which is all the more puzzling. He brings Jaskier’s hand to his chest, pulling him closer. All the tiredness from the hunt is gone, replaced by a nameless excitement.
“Jaskier.”
“Yes, Geralt?”
“Don’t worry. It’s good news. At least, it’s good in my head. I think you’ll like it.” When Geralt smiles, a quiet joy lights up his face. It’s Jaskier’s favorite smile of his. It means Geralt is deeply, unreservedly happy, the kind that makes him frightened, even. Like someone could break in and take this happiness from him any moment, so he tries to not show it. “Do you remember that cottage we passed by last summer? The one we saw on the coast in Cidaris?”
The mention of the coastal trip brings back fond memories, making Jaskier’s heart warm.
“Of course. The one on the cliff, with the pretty windows. The old couple lived there for decades,” he says, still not sure where this is going. “What about it?”
Despite the paleness and the dark circles under his eyes, Geralt’s cheek grow pink with a blush.
“Well,” he simply says, “I Bought it.”
Jaskier’s eyes widen.
“What?”
“Technically, Yen bought it for us.” Geralt tilts his head cheekily. “The couple told me they were selling right before we left, so I wrote to Yen. She went to Cidaris and did it, just like that. It’s ours. It’s going to be our house. We can spend as much time there as we want. Every year, every season, if we wish to. If we get restless, the world is still out there, but we’ll have a home to return to. A place to settle down.”
The sound of the world fades away for a moment, replaced by blood rushing into Jaskier’s ears. He notices his mouth is now hanging open, but nothing is coming out. His heart grows like it's too big for his chest.
A house.
Their house. Their home.
“I—”
Jaskier, to his horror, realizes he has been rendered speechless, all the words of a bard stolen by a witcher. He stares at his witcher, his lovely, perfect, thoughtful witcher, who insists on giving him heart palpitation one after another.
“Jaskier?” Geralt softens, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. “What do you think? Say something. Please.”
Tears blur his vision, and Jaskier chokes out a sob.
“I—”
His voice shudders with emotions, but the sight of Geralt being so unsure of himself is so unacceptable that Jaskier finds the strength to overcome himself. The sob turns into a wet chuckle.
“It’s good, Geralt. It’s the best news I’ve ever heard. You… you bought that cottage for us?” Jaskier lets the tears fall freely. Happiness tastes like salt on his tongue. “I never thought you’d ever want to stay in one place. I mean, you always said—”
“That witchers don’t retire?” Geralt catches the tears with a thumb, wiping away the streaks on Jaskier’s cheeks gently. “What else did I say?”
“That you don’t need anyone.”
“Hmm. Another lie. What else?”
Jaskier sniffles, hiding his wet cheek in Geralt’s palm. “That you don’t want me.”
Another string of tears streams down Jaskier’s face, and Geralt catches each and every one of them. He dabs them away with the edge of his sleeve, so carefully as if Jaskier could break with the barest touch.
Geralt presses a kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. It’s only a chaste thing to soothe him, but Jaskier kisses back fervently, desperately. The space between them seems too big. With an arm wrapped around Geralt’s back, still careful to avoid the bandage, he pulls them together. Salt melts between their lips.
They break apart, panting in tandem.
“You are all I ever want,” Geralt whispers, a promise carved upon Jaskier’s heart. “Just you, Jaskier. Forget the lies. I want you. I want… this, for us.”
It takes a while for the storm of emotions to calm down. Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s temple, their bodies rocking together like waves lapping against the shore.
A small cottage by the coast, where the seabirds sing in the sky and the sand is cool between his toes. A place for Geralt to rest, for Jaskier to create, and for both of them to simply be.
The future of their life feels like an old, faded memory. They were always going to end up there from the very beginning. The moment they locked eyes in that small tavern in Posada, they were going to end up there.
Jaskier wipes away the last of the tears, spirit lightened.
“Wait.” He pulls away to look at Geralt, eyes still puffy. “Did you say you asked Yennefer to buy a house for you?”
Geralt winces visibly. “I may owe her a few favors again, but I’m sure she’ll be reasonable.”
“Yennefer.” Jaskier gives a look. “Reasonable?”
“Do you still doubt she has a soft spot for you, especially now that you’ve become less durable? The letters were nice enough. She even offered instructions,” Geralt says. “Told me to bring you back to the coast, make a grand gesture of sort. A nice picnic, she said, before breaking the big surprise.”
“See? Even Yen has more regard for my tender heart. Unlike a certain someone, who will put me through one hell of an emotional turmoil in one night.” Jaskier holds his chest dramatically. “It’s not good for an old man’s health!”
The laugh that Geralt lets out is better than any music Jaskier could ever write. It’s the reason for all those songs in the first place.
“I guess we are heading to the coast next.”
“Are we?”
Jaskier can’t help the grin on his face.
“Mm-hmm. For your health, old man,” Geralt teases. “I hear Cidaris is never too warm in the summer. The ocean carries over cold streams, all the way from the north. The wind is always cool. Sleep will come more easily for you.”
“But how will you cope? Won’t it be cold for you?”
“You are damn right I will!” Jaskier begins his musing. “I’m going to make our home so cozy! Do you remember those rugs we saw at the winter market last year, the ones you said were too impractical for the road? Finally, I can get those, now that we have somewhere permanent to return to. And we shall build a garden for your herbs, and then a library for me. Plants and arts, let’s not forget! Oh, and those velvet robes you like!”
“I never said I liked them.”
Jaskier pokes Geralt on the cheek, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“You don’t need to. Your face betrays everything. You have this look when you see something you desire but don’t think you deserve—it’s how you used to look at me. I should have known you’d be the first one to suggest settling down. You always were the domestic one. The world just didn’t let you think it could be an option.” he pauses, softening. “Something must have changed your mind.”
The fondness in Geralt’s eyes melts into a golden pool of warmth. “It was someone, actually.”
He leans forward, tucking a strand of hair away from Jaskier’s face, fingers tracing the hair at his temple. A warm blush spreads across Jaskier’s face when he’s observed like this, with his crow’s feet and grey hair on display.
“That someone must be amazing,” Jaskier says, proud of his crow’s feet and grey hair when they are loved like this.
“Hmm. I don’t know. He’s very smug.” Geralt squints. “Less so with age. It wised him up, against all odds.”
They smile into another kiss as the morning sun rises, spilling silvery light into their room.
There are many things to plan in the process of building a new home. They will need to travel to the coast, for one, and then pick out all the furniture. Jaskier will insist on filling their life with soft, warm things for Geralt. Blankets, pillows, teas, and then, freshly collected flowers from their garden. Ciri will need a guest bedroom, for the girl to rest her weary feet when the path gets too much for a witcher-princess. And only the gods know when Yennefer will drop by, with her secret soft spot for domesticity.
(@thingr2 you might like this? It kind of has 'birds still sing' vibes. Please tell me if I should stop tagging you in stuff)
"Are you happy?" Geralt asks. He's pretty sure he already knows the answer, but he needs to hear Jaskier say it.
Jaskier's spoon stops half-way to his mouth. Soup is drizzling back into the bowl but Jaskier doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy staring at Geralt like he had just asked him to sell his lute. The steam rising up from the soup fogs up Jaskier's glasses and obsures his eyes, but the bewildered expression is no less effective for it.
"What's brought this on?" The spoon clatters, as Jaskier let's it fall back into the bowl. Some of the soup splashes onto the woolen jumper he's wearing. He hadn't worn the extravagant doublets in a long time, said there's no need for that anymore and that he prefers comfort over luxury.
Geralt shrugs. He wants to avoid Jaskier's eyes, but he had unlearned how to tear his eyes away from him ages ago. It had been even longer since he had wanted to.
"I don't know," he says. His fingers drumm on the table - a nervous habit he had adopted from Jaskier. "It's just. You always wanted to have adventures."
A laugh tumbles from Jaskier's lips at that. He reaches out and takes Geralt's hand; a way to share the laughter with him, even if sometimes Geralt still struggles with laughing as loudly and freely as Jaskier does.
"Oh dear heart, I'd say I had my fair share of adventures," Jaskier says, when his laughter dies away. "All these years you try to tell me not to run after you on hunts and now you want me to go on adventures again?"
"I want to know if you're happy," Geralt corrects him softly.
"And why would you think I'm not?" Speaking makes the wrinkles around Jaskier's mouth even more apparent. They come from years of laughing and singing and loudly proclaiming his love for Geralt and yet Geralt can't help but wondering.
"You always wanted to travel. There is still so much of the continent left that you didn't see."
"There is," Jaskier agrees. With his free hand, he gestures towards the painting of the coast hanging on the wall, the collection of knick-knacks on the window sills, that Jaskier had bought on their travels and the stack letters on a shelf, that Geralt had sent to him over the years whenever he had left their home for a little while. "And how lucky I am that I have someone by my side who has seen every part of it and can tell me all about it."
He lifts Geralt's hand and presses a lingering kiss against his knuckles. He doesn't lower their hands back onto the table again.
"You wanted an exciting life," Geralt says.
Jaskier sighs softly and presses his cheek against their joined hands. "And what makes you think I don't have the most exciting life I could imagine?"
There are so many answers to that. So many ways in which Jaskier could be leading a better life, but the way he is looking at Geralt makes all words die away on his tongue.
"Are you happy?" Jaskier asks, when it becomes clear that Geralt won't reply.
Geralt takes in the small room that is filled with mementos of their life together. And he looks at Jaskier, well-fed, healthy and still smiling despite the way his bones would sometimes creak in the morning.
Yes, he is happy. Of course he is. How could there be any other answer, when he gets to be there by Jaskier's side, as he is growing old?
Unable to put any of that into words or even say a simple 'yes' out loud, Geralt simply nods.
Jaskier's face lights up, just the same as it had that time Geralt had told him he liked his songs.
"See?" Jaskier's thumb caresses a small circle into the back of Geralt's hand. "There you have your answer."
Ahhh, let me dig into this older WIP that is so fucking messy. This excerpt is from a 17k draft in which I am freewheeling everything and don’t have a plot, but it’s all about old Jaskier, his relationship with Geralt, and Jaskier's relationships with children and mentorship when he's retired.
Anyway. I have Geralt/old Jaskier snippets to share. I might have shown them somewhere on tumblr before? Or discord? I can't remember...but now I am excited to tackle this again, omg.
What is your favorite dialogue you’ve written so far?
“I haven’t been arrested for breaking any obscenity laws in a few decades. Why not bend me over right here? This would be the perfect place,” Jaskier said, gesturing at the fountain where they sat and reached down to drag his fingertips across the surface of the water.
“I won’t carry you out of town because you can’t run for your life anymore when the town guard comes after you,” Geralt replied evenly, and he nudged Jaskier’s boot with his heel.
“That’s not a no,” Jaskier pointed out, his bushy eyebrows arching into the wrinkles of his forehead. “What do you say? Shall we put on a show they won’t soon forget?”
“You throwing your back out mid-performance would be unforgettable,” Geralt said, nodding thoughtfully when he glanced around the square. His lips quirked upward when he looked back to Jaskier. “I can hear their applause now.”
Jaskier’s huff of laughter was bright and warm. “We know what kind of stretches I need to do so that won’t happen again.”
“Let’s limber you up behind closed doors. Wouldn’t want to spoil the main event for the people,” Geralt said, bumping his boot once more. Jaskier reached over, fingers draping along his jaw and pulled him into a brief kiss. Geralt hummed against his mouth and moved his hand along Jaskier’s arm and squeezed.
“Now you’re singing my song.” Jaskier said, tapping his lips playfully when he leaned away. He adjusted the collar and cuffs of his doublet and rocked back and forth several times, preparing to haul himself to his feet. Once there Jaskier held out his hand to him, the grin wide and his eyes crinkled in delight. “Come along, my strapping witcher. We’ll have them tossing all their coins at us before the night is over.”
What is the last line of dialogue you’ve written?
My god it’s been so long that I can’t tell what the last line of dialogue was, but lemme share another funny snippet that I don’t think I’ve shared on tumblr yet?? But maybe I have, I honestly can’t remember and I can’t find it any of my tags so…please enjoy (again?)
“Since when do you turn down a swim?”
“Since the water’s still too cold,” Jaskier mumbled.
“It’s not that cold,” Geralt said.
“My balls will freeze and snap off,” Jaskier said and shuddered.
“You’re not using them anyway,” Geralt said, his laugh a quiet huff against Jaskier’s cheek.
Jaskier lifted his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “I might not get much use out of them anymore but I still like my balls, thank you very much. I’ve had them a very long time. Would be sad to see them go. And thankfully I’ve never needed them to bring life into this world.”
“Yes, Father of 10,000 Songs, how could I forget,” Geralt said and that earned him a baleful glare.
“The disrespect,” Jaskier muttered. “My music has been sung from the Buina to the Yaruga, I have published 8 books of poetry, written a seminal text on Northern Redanian folklore. I gave my orphaned babies to Priscilla who raised them into such beautiful plays in ways that I never could. I have as many academic accolades as you have scars, been translated into two languages. They’ve named children after me in Paalbrooke.”
“They named a beer after you, not a child,” Geralt corrected and Jaskier tweaked his nipple.
“You’ve never truly appreciated my work,” Jaskier said.
“A very distinguished repertoire,” Geralt rumbled quietly.
“Hrmpth,” Jaskier said.
“Swim?” Geralt reminded him.
“Only if you promise to fondle my balls and warm me up once we’re done,” Jaskier said, lightly tapping his chest with arched fingers.
“I promise,” Geralt said and Jaskier made a pleased sound as he made the concerted and slow effort to push himself from Geralt’s chest.
What emotions do you expect your readers to feel?
Oh, I hope the readers would feel love and humor, the fluffiness of domesticity in an established relationship of many decades. I have so much I need to sort through with this WIP/series and narrow down the key moments in Jaskier’s life at that age, and how Geralt has grown into his relationship with Jaskier after all the canon events are long over.
ow. ow ow ow why did i sign up for an angst cardddd????? This is ‘memory loss’ for @thewitcherbog bingo event. i hurt myself.
pairing: romantic jask/priscilla, best friends geralt and jask
warnings: memory loss, dementia/Alzheimer's, Geralt comforts Jaskier in his last days as he declines, MCD- major character death and i mean it (also unbettaed)
__________________________
The letter Geralt had received from Priscilla was heartbreaking. The idea of Jaskier losing his memory and not remembering the partner he’d adored so much for so long, even before meeting Geralt, made Geralt absolutely ache for his best friend. But seeing him was much worse.
It had only been a year… right? Maybe two? Geralt coudln’t be sure. He’d never been great with time and he’d always had Jaskier there to help him keep track… But looking at his friend now was like looking at a completely different person. A cousin maybe. Certainly not the bright vibrant bard he knew.
Priscilla had told him Jaskier had asked for him. Asked for ‘that witcher bloke I wrote a song about’ with a cheeky grin. That song was going on sixty years old now and the look on Priscilla’s face said that she was already grieving the loss of the love of her life.
Geralt only nodded and swallowed hard and knelt down next to Jaskier where he sat in a plush chair surrounded by books. Other than looking rather older and a touch too frail for Geralt’s memory, he looked peaceful; just a professor’s brain at work plowing through his favorite books. But Geralt noticed all the titles all too quickly. They were Jaskier’s favorites that he’d talked about over the years, and one or two that he’d written himself.
“Geralt! Hello dear witcher! You look well!”
Choosing to ignore how his friend’s voice wobbled so much more than it should have, Geralt forced a smile and answered like he always would, “And you look pompous as ever. How was your winter Jaskier?”
A wily grin spread over Jaskier’s face as he wiggled his eyebrows, “I think I’ve finally won my dear Priscilla’s heart for good. But I can bore you with the details later. I’ve recently found this book about you-” he held the book up and wiggled it slightly, but Geralt saw Priscilla had scratched out the authors name on the cover, and he assumed on the inside pages as well, “-and this bloke seems to think you, Mr. Cantankerous-And-Broody, are actually rather forthcoming with details. That, or he made a shitload of it up.”
“Probably half horseshit,” Geralt quipped, trying to keep the wavering out of his own voice as he recalled the adventure they had shared that Jaskier had turned into that book.
“Makes me wonder if you’ve collected another bard?” Jaskier played it as a tease, but Geralt knew he was probably hurt by his own writing. That story in particular had been one of Jaskier’s favorites, what he called ‘a turning point in our relationship, dear witcher’.
“Only a straggler with too much vigor and wild whims of fancy.” Geralt forced his words out over the lump forming in his throat. That’s exactly what he’d thought of Jaskier in the beginning, now he was one of the most important people in Geralt’s life. And he knew he’d stay and watch him waste away as his mind slowly left him, even if he had to introduce himself every time he walked into the room. He couldn’t leave his best friend in the world alone in his last days, “I could never replace you, Jaskier. Not ever.”
“Now, now. Didn’t you say that emotions are for drunks and those with time and money to spare? Lets save the dramatics for the tavern,” Jaskier teased, setting a far too frail hand on Geralt’s shoulder, “Tell me how this fool got it wrong.”
And so he did.
Geralt told him every detail he could recall from their twenty-some year old adventure, pulling some from the book in Jaskier’s hands on memory, and some from the first draft he’d thrown back at his friend with an eye roll at how dramatic he’d made it all sound.
He did the same thing every day until Jaskier passed. He had to introduce himself a few times near the end, and for a while that would jog Jaskier’s memory enough to talk like old friends.
But the last few weeks, Geralt would introduce himself and Jaskier would stare at him with a little wonder, but no recognition in his eyes. After the first day this happened where Geralt had to leave and go for a long tear soaked ride, he started asking Jaskier’s help. He would kneel at Jaskier’s side and ask for his esteemed bardic talents to repair a witcher’s reputation. Jaskier would get excited and though he couldn’t form full sentences he would indicate for Geralt to tell his tale. And Geralt would tell him everything.
They spent hours by the fire, Geralt telling story after story of their adventures, of how this delightful and vibrant young bard had changed his life and helped him become a man worthy of the family he had now.
Jaskier’s last day, Geralt spoke of the time they met. How foolishly endearing this bard had seemed, how innocent yet devious, and how wise beyond his years. Geralt left Jaskier and Priscilla’s cottage that day knowing he’d never see his best friend again. But it had been worth all the pain to give back to Jaskier some of the comfort he’d always given to Geralt.
The Kindest Thing (Please Don't Leave Me): Chapter 3
Hi y'all! This has been a long time coming, but here is chapter 3 of this series. Thanks to @natthemess for beta reading my story! I hope you enjoy
CW: Jaskier whump and conversation of Jaskier's mortality
Part 1, 2
A03 link in comments
Jaskier groaned as he came to, his head and body aching like he had spent the night reacquainting himself with Oxenfurt’s pub crawl. Though it had been quite awhile since he’d completed the list of bars in its entirety, he wondered what trouble he must’ve gotten into the night before.
As questions ran amok through his mind, Jaskier kept his eyes firmly closed and took stock of himself. His right knee felt as though it were slightly swollen, but that was nothing new. His knees hadn’t been pain free for at least two decades — a small price to pay for walking the path beside his beloved.
Breathing, though — that was something he did not usually have trouble with. However, as he focused on taking a cleansing breath, he felt his ribs protest at the small movement.
Ah, his ribs were broken. Interesting.
All of this was exacerbated by the pounding in his head that even rivaled the horrible headache Jaskier had endured whenever Valdo Marx debuted a new piece.
What had happened last night?
After taking another moment of darkness’ solace, he opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. The light burning brightly through the windows had him hissing in pain and shutting his eyes against the onslaught.
This was one hell of a hangover.
Now prepared for the pain, Jaskier opened his eyes again and took in his surroundings. He was in a small but clean bed in an unfamiliar room. A washbasin sat on a wooden table in the far corner, a ray of sunshine reflecting on its uneven surface — or perhaps it looked wobbly because he wasn’t wearing his spectacles. He hated those damn things.
Swiveling his head to the right, he found Geralt slumped over in a chair, ensconced in a deep sleep. From the dark shadows underneath his eyes, it was evident that his witcher needed the rest, which was unsurprising after a kikimore—
Shit, that was what happened last night!
Suddenly the events leading to his current situation replayed in his head. The argument he’d had with Geralt about staying behind. The two drowners taken care of and then the appearance of an unexpected kikimore. He’d tried to run, but he hadn’t been wearing his damned spectacles, so he had tripped over a root, twisting his already aching knee. And then Geralt had been thrown backwards into a tree!
Suddenly much more awake, Jaskier sat up, hissing at the shooting pain the quick movement brought about. It hurt, but that did not matter. Geralt was injured and it was his fault.
He should’ve stayed at the inn.
Jaskier was torn out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. “You need to lie down, or you’ll puncture a lung. Your ribs are broken”
“I noticed, dearheart,” he groaned and complied. Geralt was awake. Everything would be alright.
A sudden thought struck him and he tried to move once more, frantically looking around the room. Only Geralt’s strong arms kept him in place. “My lute! Where is my lute?”
Geralt grunted. “Your ribs are broken and you’re asking about your lute?”
“I won’t even dignify that question with an answer.”
With a roll of his eyes, Geralt gestured to the corner opposite of the table he’d noticed earlier. In it sat his lute case, which was a bit more battered than he remembered, but altogether whole.
“Oh, thank Melitele! Thank you, darling. You know what she means to me.”
When he received not so much as a grunt in return, Jaskier stared at his husband, taking in his frantic gaze. The longer he took in Geralt’s appearance, the more he realized that more time must have passed than he’d initially thought. Not only was Geralt’s hair tangled and greasy, but his face looked gaunt, shadows pulling at his handsome features.
“How long have I been asleep?” Jaskier asked, fearing the answer, but needing to know nonetheless.
“A little over a week,” Geralt replied, expertly avoiding his gaze while he busied himself with fluffing the pillows behind Jaskier’s back. The two men remained silent as Geralt gently moved Jaskier into a seated position. Once he gestured that he was comfortable, Geralt returned to his seat, placing his chin on his hands as he stared at his husband.
They sat in silence, Jaskier waiting for Geralt to say something, but when his husband remained silent, he couldn’t stop the onslaught of words.
“What an adventure, wouldn’t you say? I’ll have to write it down for my next ballad: Bard Saves Witcher! No, that doesn’t have a good ring to it—”
“Jaskier—”
“But you can’t blame me for having a bit of trouble with the rhyming scheme! Seems I had a hit on the head. Luckily for both of us, my head is quite hard, so—”
“Jaskier—”
“—everything is fine! Nothing happened, so we can just head on to the next—”
“Jaskier!”
He fell silent as Geralt’s bellow echoed through the small space, filling his heart with dread. He knew what was coming next. It was something he’d been dreading ever since their argument years ago, but he thought he’d have longer.
Geralt looked up, his face made of stone, but his eyes betraying the pain and worry rushing through him. How people could think Witchers had no emotion was beyond Jaskier’s comprehension. Geralt was one of the most deeply feeling individuals he had ever met.
“You almost died, Jaskier.”
The bard sighed, picking at a loose thread coming apart on the blanket covering his legs. “But I’m fine, Geralt. See? I’m alive and breathing and here with you! You saved me, like you always do.”
Jaskier watched as a whole body shudder ran through his husband, wishing desperately that he could walk over and wrap him up in his arms. The best he could do at the moment was to beckon Geralt towards him.
Jaskier’s smile fell as Geralt shook his head. “No, the bed is too small, I’ll hurt you.”
“You could never hurt me, Geralt. Please,” Jaskier pleaded, holding out his hand as an offering.
With a weary sigh, Geralt took his hand and sat beside him on the mattress. “But I did hurt you, Jaskier. I wasn’t fast enough to save you.”
The bard shook his head and placed his arm around Geralt’s shoulder, holding in the hiss of pain that threatened to pass his lips. “Nope. I’m here, alive and well. That’s all that matters.”
A growl floated up to Jaskier’s ear, causing him to frown. He had hoped that he would be able to talk his overprotective husband down, but it was not working. Geralt was far more upset than he’d originally thought.
“Geralt, I’m fine—”
“You’re only alive because of Yennefer! You were dying in my arms and there was nothing I could do to stop it!”
“Yennefer was here? She didn’t happen to leave a bottle of Est Est did she? She owes me one from the last time we met! That was a good year she stole—”
“Jask, I’m being serious,” Geralt said, all traces of humor wiped from his face. “You were dying.”
“I know,” he replied, a heavy feeling settling upon the room. As much as Jaskier loved to ignore the inevitable, the unstoppable current of time kept him in its clutches, always dragging him further away from Geralt. It was what had prompted him to try and run away nearly a decade ago, but Geralt’s reassurances had kept him tethered in place. He’d been able to ignore the signs — the back pain, the matching silver hair, his slower pace — since that conversation, but now it was being dredged up once more, and he wasn’t ready.
He felt Geralt move closer to him, drawn towards his warmth, before he spoke the two words that Jaskier had been afraid to hear for decades: “It’s time.”
Jaskier swallowed down his tears, trying desperately to keep his voice even against the onslaught of emotion. “No, not yet. I still have adventures in me—”
“Jaskier you’re nearing seventy—”
“I am only 65, Geralt, you take that back this instant,” Jaskier protested, trying to cross his arms in protest. He soon stopped the motion when his ribs protested, leaving him pouting like a toddler.
“Don’t move like that! Your lungs—”
“I know, I know! Stop changing the subject, Geralt. I’m not leaving you. We discussed this a decade ago and we agreed that we had more time and that I could ride Roach and—” Jaskier stopped, the tears pricking his eyes and desperation thickening his throat, leaving him momentarily speechless. They were supposed to have more time.
“We do have time, Julek,” Geralt whispered as he carded his fingers through thinning, grey hair. “Just not like this.”
Jaskier’s heart stuttered as Geralt’s words pierced it. “Do you mean— I mean I understand if things have changed for you, but we exchanged vows Geralt!”
Geralt’s eyes widened in shock as he vehemently shook his head and said, “No, no, not like that! I mean not on the path. I will always want you, Julek. You’re my husband.”
A sigh of relief escaped Jaskier’s lips as his body slumped into the pile of pillows keeping him upright. “Don’t you dare do that again, Geralt of Rivia. You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Geralt hummed and leaned his head gingerly upon his shoulder. Good. Jaskier would put up with a little discomfort as long as his witcher was close by.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Geralt said after a long, companionable silence, “I only meant that you deserve to be safe and comfortable, Jaskier. The path isn’t made for comfort. It’s dangerous and rough. You deserve something better. Something soft.” Geralt pressed a soft kiss to his neck, as if to demonstrate what the witcher meant by soft.
Oh, he could see it now. A small house, perhaps in Oxenfurt or maybe by the coast. Although he loved the coast, Oxenfurt would be a more rational option. In a tiny cottage, he would eventually grow bored with nothing left to do. In Oxenfurt, he could teach classes and help to meld the bright young minds of tomorrow. In the city, there were plenty of exciting new things happening with each sunrise. It would also keep him closer to Novigrad and better equipped to keep a better eye on the Rosemary and Thyme.
“Would you stay with me?” Jaskier asked, leaning his head against Geralt’s, their hair blending in as it pressed together. Although he knew the answer, he wanted to hear it from Geralt.
The witcher paused, considering his words before he spoke. “Witchers don’t retire, Jask. You know that.”
Jaskier nodded and turned his head slightly so he could look at his lover. “It wouldn’t be a retirement, love. Just a break.”
At Geralt’s grunt of protest, Jaskier continued. “Darling, listen. You will live far longer than I ever will, even if my few drops of elvish blood give me a surprising few extra decades — which, looking at my mother, seems unlikely.” Jaskier lifted his hand, ignoring the slight tug of discomfort the movement caused, and soothed the furrow between Geralt’s eyebrows. “Taking a break for a few years, perhaps a decade or two, isn’t wrong.”
Geralt sighed and turned to face him, his eyes swimming with doubt as they scanned his face. “There are so few of us now, Julek. It would be irresponsible—”
“Then be irresponsible for me.”
They both sat there in silence, waiting on the precipice of change.
“Perhaps we could stay more local?” Geralt started to suggest tentatively. “You stay and teach your students, I only take contracts within a certain distance. An even trade.”
Jaskier huffed and nodded in agreement. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he had always known that Geralt was not one to be tied down to one spot. There was a reason that they did not stay at Geralt’s vineyard for more than a month at a time. His husband would be miserable staying in a townhouse for a few decades. This was a compromise that he could live with.
“But who will dress your wounds when you’re hurt?” Jaskier asked, already knowing that he would agree to these terms. He would do anything for Geralt.
“Roach,” Geralt answered simply, his lips upturned at the joke they’d shared for the past few decades
“Roach?” Jaskier answered wetly, the scripted answer lying on his tongue. “Roach has many wonderful qualities, darling, but field dressing isn’t one of them.”
“So you say,” Geralt grumbled, gingerly pulling Jaskier closer. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”
Jaskier smiled and pressed his lips to Geralt’s cheek. “It’s enough. You’re enough. Besides, I know who I married, Geralt, and I love you for it, you noble bastard.”
Geralt chuckled and kissed him back. “And I you, Julek. Now let’s focus on getting you better.”
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you want to be added or removed from my tag list:
They find Jaskier in a tavern a few miles outside of Oxenfurt. It’s Yen who spots him first – who sees him across the room, whose eyes go wide with recognition.
It takes Geralt a little longer. He smells him before he sees him – all sweet honey and wildflowers and salt. But he can’t believe his eyes when he looks up.
Jaskier's aged. He’s not old – not even close to being old – but his hair is more white and grey than it is brown, his crows’ feet now undeniable. Geralt was never really sure how old Jaskier was, and Jaskier never told him, but he looks now to be in his late fifties.
He’s still staring at him when the bard, seated at a long table with a gaggle of students, peers up.
There’s a long, drawn-out moment where they stare at each other across the tavern. Geralt feels like his heart has dropped into his stomach and his stomach has dropped into his feet. He feels guilty, suddenly – guilty that so much time has passed of Jaskier’s life without him in it. Part of him wants to rush over there and -
And what?
He doesn't know.
And then Yen is suddenly waving him over, and Geralt hasn’t time to say anything before Jaskier’s sat at their table, a full glass of wine in his hand, his eyes just as blue and bright as they ever were.
Somehow, it’s just like the old days. The little anxious knot in Geralt’s stomach quickly vanishes and he falls back into easy chat. Jaskier’s been travelling, he says, and teaching a little – hence why he’s so close to Oxenfurt. He asks after Ciri, and even asks how Yennefer’s doing – although his voice is still somewhat colder towards her. He’s as much of a chatterbox as he ever was, weaving them the stories of his years away from the witcher.
There's a sparkle to him, now - something Geralt can't place. He's confident and, even after all this time, still a shameless flirt. But behind all that is something else - something almost like fear. Sometimes he laughs at one of his own jokes but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Geralt realises, halfway through a story about a brawl at a wedding, that he's missed Jaskier. He's missed his easy going nature, His ceaseless chatter. Jaskier is - he’s forced to admit - just as distracting as he ever was. Perhaps even more so: he's always been attractive, but the years have been kind to him, and the salt-and-pepper of his hair suits him.
Very little else has changed - save for a pendant dangling on a silver chain from his neck. It's a flower, intricately designed, resting gently against his fine satin shirt. He plays with it absent-mindedly as he talks.
Geralt suddenly regrets not spending more time with him. It's easy to forget how short the lives of regular humans can be. Jaskier isn't ancient, by any means, but he's sped through more than half of his life in the blink of an eye. Soon, the songs and stories and wild, boisterous character will just be…gone.
It won't do. Deep in his cups, Geralt is about to propose that Jaskier join him on his next contract, when the bard seems to have a sudden thought.
"I must go," he says, standing, "I've a room here this evening but I'm off again in the morning, bright and early!" He laughs, but it sounds forced. "I'll… well. See you, Geralt."
As soon as Jaskier's gone, Yen turns to him, eyes steely.
"Something's going on."
"What?"
"Jaskier. Something isn't right. He's up to something."
"Yen, you're being paranoid."
"Don't tell me you couldn't sense it, Geralt. He was reeking with magic."
Truthfully, Geralt hadn't noticed. Yen spots his blank expression.
"God's save me," she rolls her eyes, "Some things never change. If you'd taken a moment to stop staring at him you'd have noticed your bloody medallion was twitching. He's gone and gotten himself involved in… well, in something."
"Yen, really-"
"Don't you 'really' me! Think about it, for once, please. You must have sensed something was off about him."
Geralt concedes. "I… I suppose. Yes."
"Well, then." She says it like the matter is closed. He looks at her, raising eyebrows. "God's, Geralt, go and find out what he's up to!"
"Now?"
"I - yes, now! Or do I have to go up there and twist it out of him myself?"
Geralt sighs. "Fine. I'll go. Wait here."
He downs his drink then heads in the direction of the staircase. He doesn't need to ask which room Jaskier is in - he just blindly follows his smell, almost as familiar as his own, even after all this time.
It's strongest outside the last door on the landing, and he can hear movement inside the room. He braces himself, trying to work out what he's going to say, then grabs the handle and pushes open the door. It's unlocked - years ago, he would have chastised the bard for such carelessness - and Jaskier gives a startled yelp as it swings open.
"Jaskier, we need to-"
He freezes. Jaskier stands in the centre of the room, half undressed. His shirt and doublet are strewn haphazardly on the bed, the new silver pendant thrown on top of them.
He's young again. His wrinkles are gone, his hair no longer streaked with white. He looks just like he did the day they met, like he did the day he was cursed by the Djinn, like he did the day Geralt abandoned him on that fucking mountain. He looks like he did the day they'd parted ways more years ago now than Geralt can remember.
"Geralt!" he says, arms outstretched, surrendering, "Okay, look, you see: the thing is-"
if you're still taking witcher prompts how about a theme of sentimentality and/or nostalgia? <3
ohhh i love that prompt! It brought back my love for old!Jaskier
word count: 1344
"I know I have it somewhere," Geralt said, as he got up from the bench behind their cottage, where soon they would plant a garden.He pressed a gentle kiss on the silver crown of Jaskier's head. "Might take me a while to find it, though. I think it should be with the other books. Maybe with my old bestiaries."
"I would say I'd wait for you until I'm old and grey, but… you know." Jaskier grinned up at him and a wamrth that had long since grown familiar, spread through Geralt's chest. Jaskier's smile was still the same, though the lines around his mouth had gotten deeper with the years.
"You're ridiculous," Geralt said fondly.
"And you love me."
"Yeah. I really do."
"Oh stop it." Jaskier swatted at him playfully and his eyes were soft and warm. "I can see right through you. You just want to flatter me so I'll agree to let you fill more than your half of the garden with herbs."
Geralt raised his hands in surrender.
"You caught me," he lied.
"What do I get as a reward?" Jaskier made to tilt his head back a little more, but halted the movement with a grimace, when it strained his neck too much. Worry shot through Geralt, but he remained quiet. he had learned through trial and error that Jaskier didn't appreciate it when Geralt fussed over "every minor inconvenience" he experienced. More than once, they had laughed over the irony of how their roles had gotten reversed over the decades.
Instead of answering, Geralt leaned down and gave Jaskier a kiss.
"I'll be right back," he said again. He hurried to get inside their home, lest he let Jaskier distract him even more.
The cottage wasn't big, just a kitchen, a cozy living space, a small bathroom and their bedroom. It was more than Geralt had ever thought, he'd get to have and it was all they needed. One would think that it couldn't be too hard finding an old book about herbs in this modest space, but that didn't account for all the knickknacks they had collected over the years. The bookshelves were stuffed with old notebooks and Jaskier's publications. Little trinkets stood on the mantlepiece. Sea shells, woodcarvings, and all sorts of small reminders of their years of travelling together.
Geralt let his eyes roam over all of it, until finally, they landed on one of the wooden boxes Eskel had brought him a couple of months ago and that he still hadn't gotten around to sort through. Life at the coast, though nothing compared to the stressful life they had lead before, wasn't quite as calm as Geralt had feared. There was always something to do and so the box had started to collect dust.
Geralt knelt down beside it and brushed the dust away, before opening the lid. Yellowed letters, empty bottles and rusty knives greeted him. He carefully took them out of the box and set them aside. Useless trinkets they may be, but they had decorated his room at Kaer Morgen for decades. Though he would never admit to it openly, he was a sentimental man and the thought of throwing away his first knife or the letters his brothers had sent him on the path didn't sit right with him. Geralt put the last of the letters aside and paused.
There, grinning up at him, was Jaskier.
Or rather, a painting of him. Geralt's heart jumped and as careful as if he were handling glass, Geralt lifted the framed painting out of the box. With his fingers, he traced Jaskier's smile, the crinkle of his eyes. In the painting, he was younger, much younger than now and he had his arm flung across Geralt's shoulder.
"Geralt?“ The door creaked, as Jaskier entered, his steps accompanied by the rhythmic clonk clonk of his cane. "I know I said I'd wait, but you've been gone for a while and I - oh." Jaskier broke off, coming to stand right beside Geralt. He placed one hand on Geralt's shoulder tonsteady himself and gave it a light squeeze. "I didn't know you still had that."
"Me neither." Geralt glanced up from the painting. "I think we put it away so the sun wouldn't damage it."
"It still aged."
"Yeah. It did." Geralt let go of the painting with one hand to put it over Jaskier's hand on his shoulder, intertwining their fingers. "Do you remember when we commissioned it?"
"Ah…not exactly." Jaskier fiddled with his cane and let out a little laugh. "I remember being really drunk though."
"You were." Geralt grinned. "The artist kept complaining that you couldn't sit still for a minute."
"Oh?" Jaskier gave him a unimpressed look, but his eyes were dancing with mirth. "Actually, come to think of it, I do remember one thing. The artist was also annoyed with you because first you insist on looking all stoic, but then you keep looking at me like-" he gestured to the painting, and the unmistakably fond look in that younger Geralt's eyes, "- like that."
"Hmm. Couldn't help it, even back then."
For a while they both kept looking at the painting, each one getting lost in their own memories. Then, eventually, it burst out of Jaskier: "It looks garish."
Geralt choked on a laugh. "What?"
"That brooch!" Jaskier pointed an accusatory finger at a huge floral brooch hos younger self was wearing. "And that shade of green! Really, why didn't you tell me it looked bad?"
"I'm pretty sure I did," Geralt snorted. "You said i just didn't understand high fashion."
"Oh. Well yes. Sounds about right."
"It didn't look that bad," Geralt offered and it was only half of a lie. If you ignored the terrible outfit Jaskier wore, he did look as handsome as ever, even though he had dark bags under his eyes. He had waited through half the night for Geralt to return from his contract and when he finally had come back, Jaskier had insisted on keeping him company while he came down from his potions.
Geralt himself didn't look much better. The scratched and bruises on his face (-not all of them courtesy of the contract. At lest two of the bruises camr from Geralt walking into a doorframe because he had been unable to take his eyes off Jaskier -) weren't the worst of it. No, that questionable honour fell on the beard covering the lower half of Geralt's face. He had lost a bet with Lambert, so he had to shave it into a terrible style. The only good thing about it had been that Jaskier had liked to scratch it like a cat's chin. Hmm, maybe Geralt should grow out hos beard again.
Jaskier's overly dramatic gasp shook Geralt out of his reminiscing.
"'Not that bad' isn't great considering it's memorialised for all eternity in that painting." Towards the end of the sentence, Jaskier stopped being able controlling his composure and burst into giggles.
"We both look terrible," Geralt agreed. He turned his head to place a kiss on Jaskier's hand.
"We do. And I love it." Jaskier looked down at him softly. "Should we maybe commission another painting? So we have something to laugh at in another thirty year's time?"
A pang went through Geralt's chest and his breath caught in his throat. Thirty years.
He ran his thumb over the leathery skin on the back of Jaskier's hand, crinkled and speckled with age spots.
"Yeah," he said, his voice thicker than before. "I'd love to have another painting."
He doubted, he would look at it and laugh, but he could hope, that he would be able to look back at the reminder of his time with Jaskier and remember the way his beloved's laugh sounded. And maybe that memory was more precious than anything else Geralt could ask for.
One by one, he put his trinkets back into the box and closed the lid again. Only the painting was kept outside of it, aged and ugly and so so beautiful.
