Jaskier wakes to darkness, and for a moment, he feels inexplicably sad at the loss of the suns. Except—suns?—it is the beginning of winter, he hasn’t truly seen the sun in all its glory in months, so how—
“Jaskier?”
The bard blinks at the head suddenly over his face, staring blearily up at the witcher. Geralt’s face is twisted, brows furrowed, hair only half in his usual ponytail as his eyes dart over Jaskier’s face, the bright golden orbs—
Oh. Ohhhhh. Huh, maybe that fever had gotten a bit worse than he realized. Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of the grumpy witcher being described as sunny, the very notion enough to have him almost grinning. Except the laugh quickly turns into a harsh, achy cough that has him struggling to breathe until Geralt puts his hands on his back and the nape of his neck, helping him to sit up.
Jaskier was so busy trying to get air into his lungs, to force back the black spots creeping in at the edges of his vision, that it took him a second to notice that he was in an actual bed. A bed that was in a room with wooden walls, that wasn’t Kaer Morhen, that he and the witcher were the only ones in the room—
“—breathe, Jaskier, that’s it, take it easy. I’ve got you, don’t worry about holding yourself up, just breathe.”
And that was—Jaskier let himself, tentatively, relax, practically collapsing into the witcher’s hold as he focused on inhaling greedily. It was both easier and harder, with the witcher’s aid forcing himself to truly focus on just how painful the air was grating on his throat, the aches he felt all the way down to his pinky toes.
Finally, after what felt like an age, he was able to find a balance between getting enough air in to not feel lightheaded, but not enough to set him off on a coughing fit.
Still, even with his breathing under control, the witcher didn’t immediately pull away. He rubbed his hand up and down Jaskier’s back, the motion simultaneously warming and soothing through the thin material of Jaskier’s chemise. It was a movement that Jaskier had seen the witcher perform for the princess only days ago, and the bard…honestly wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
But speaking of the princess—
“Ciri?” Jaskier croaked, voice all but gone.
The witcher frowned, pulling his hand away from the bard’s neck to grab for a mug on a table Jaskier hadn’t noticed until now. The witcher brought it to Jaskier’s lips, tilting it in small increments to allow the bard to swallow the lukewarm…tea? It had some sort of herbs in it, that much he knew, but he wasn’t quite sure which—
“You didn’t tell us you were sick.”
Jaskier blinked, watching as the witcher placed the empty mug back down before dragging his pack over. Jaskier tried to watch as Geralt pulled things out, but it was difficult to see what the witcher was doing, until Geralt started piling every piece of clothing he owned behind the bard. It took a second longer for Jaskier to understand what was happening, and he had to force back a snort, well aware now what would happen if he did laugh.
“Geralt, I can lie back down. Really, I—”
The witcher’s eyes found his again and—oh, okay, Geralt was in a mood. The bard couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d seen the witcher look so angry, so furious, and that was—it wasn’t nice, but it made sense. He’d delayed their climb up to Kaer Morhen, and now he’d gone and opened his big mouth, so Geralt was probably going to cut his losses so that he could at least keep Ciri safe. Which made sense, truly, he—
Jaskier flinched as the warm hand on his back was replaced by a cool pillow that had been strategically placed angled against a pile of clothes. It would have been funny, honestly, if not for the way Geralt was still looking at him liked he’d kicked Roach. For Melitele’s sake, it’s not like he meant to get sick! How was it his fault—
“Jaskier.”
The bard forced himself to focus entirely on the witcher now sitting beside him on the bed, which, honestly, still didn’t make sense—
“Jaskier.”
Right, okay, focus.
“Yes?” Jaskier prompted, voice still horribly scratchy but not quite as weak as earlier.
“You didn’t tell us you were sick.”
Jaskier blinked, wondering briefly if his fever was still so bad that he was starting to imagine things. But no, that sentence was exactly what the witcher had said earlier, the bard was sure of it. Said witcher was currently intently watching the bard, actually, as if he’d just asked Jaskier a rather important question and was awaiting a response.
But there wasn’t a question, so Jaskier just lifted his shoulders as much as he could before letting them drop.
The witcher’s frown grew, and honestly, Jaskier didn’t have the energy to deal with this anymore. The coughing fit earlier had taken a lot out of him, and now that he was no longer in danger of drowning on his own saliva, he found his eyelids were horribly heavy. He’d just woken up, but truthfully, a nap sounded lovely—
“Why?”
Jaskier tried to focus, knowing if Geralt was actually using his words for once, this must be important.
“Why what?”
The witcher clenched his jaw tightly for a moment.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were sick?”
Ohhhh, right, that. Jaskier tried to think, to remember why he didn’t whine or complain at all. He rather liked whining, liked when the witcher (and mage, though she’d never admit it) got all soft and and gentle when he was sick or injured. So why, why, why—oh, right! How could he have forgotten?
“Ciri was sick.” Jaskier said, feeling rather proud of his answer. Concise, just how Geralt liked it. Now he could just let his head fall back—
“What does that matter?”
Jaskier blinked, feeling rather like his brain had been dipped in honey, all the connections and such moving so slowly, surrounded in the sticky substance as they were.
“I can’t—be sick. When Ciri is.” Jaskier said finally, feeling so very tired. Honestly, what wasn’t the witcher getting, it wasn’t that complicated—
“What does that mean?”
Of course. Leave it the witcher to ask questions the one time Jaskier doesn’t want to talk.
“One Roach.”
Geralt outright growled this time.
“I know there’s one Roach, Jaskier, what—”
Finally, Geralt seemed to be understanding. Though he didn’t need to look so upset. Although two Roaches would be fun, Jaskier got the feeling they would not get along at all, always fighting over apple slices and sugar cubes and—
“Jaskier, you know you—we would have worked something out. Both of you being sick, while not—ideal, would have been fine.”
Jaskier shook his head, getting frustrated. What didn’t the man get, he just wanted to sleep, he was so tired—
“Ciri—” Jaskier said, reaching out far on his lap, before moving his hand a little closer. “Yen, Geralt, Roach, Jaskier.” The bard finally finished, his hand now back in his lap. He glanced up, hoping the witcher would let him sleep now—
Jaskier blinked sluggishly, trying to understand what was happening. The witcher was saying something as he held Jaskier, arms wrapped around him, but the bard didn’t care. The witcher was so warm, and Jaskier couldn’t help but lean into the hug. He was in a bed, and not coughing, and he was pretty sure there was something in that tea, but all he cared about right now was finally closing his eyes and giving in to the call of sleep.
~•~
(Jaskier and Geralt have a long overdue conversation in the morning about needs and, to the bard’s and witcher’s clear discomfort, self-worth. Geralt does his best to explain that Jaskier should always say something if he is sick, hurt, Melitele help him, even sad, regardless of if someone else in their group is also struggling.
The bard nods at the appropriate times, but Geralt isn’t a fool. He sees how Jaskier is just placating him, clearly believing the witcher is acting out of a sense of guilt. And Geralt doesn’t…can’t blame the bard, not for this. Not when he can look back at all their years spent together and find so much merit in Jaskier’s claim last night, painful as it is to admit.
And for as much as the bard loves his words, he needs actions, too, so Geralt commits himself to a winter of making sure the bard is as well fed and warm as possible. Yennefer and Ciri left days ago for the keep, Geralt buying a room at an inn to care for the bard as he was ravaged by fever for the last three days. The path has frozen over, and that means he and Jaskier will need to make do, somehow.
Geralt nips the bard’s guilt in the bud, when he hears Jaskier say he should have left him behind and gone with the other two. It takes Geralt a few seconds to realize that Jaskier is serious, that the bard thinks that was an option that Geralt might have even considered.
Melitele’s sake, how did he miss this? How did he fail to see that for all of his posturing and theatrics, the bard truly thought he would ever leave him alone while on death’s door? That Geralt would toss him aside like a sack of potatoes that have molded and should be left to the animals of the forest. It makes Geralt feel sick, makes him want to tug the bard close to him until the care he is unable to put into words somehow seeps into the other man.
It is then Geralt realizes, truly, how difficult this is going to be. How challenging the next weeks, months, maybe years will be on the witcher until he can finally convince Jaskier of his worth, just like the bard had been doing for him for the past two decades.
For now, he’ll take it slow, making sure Jaskier eats the majority of the food he’s bringing up, a simple stew with freshly baked bread. The bard needs it, thin as he’s gotten from his illness. And when it’s time to leave (because they’ve eaten through all of their savings on medicine and a bed for Jaskier to convalesce in, not that he’d ever tell the bard), Jaskier will be riding Roach out of the town. They’ll travel south, finding work where they can before looping back around in the spring.
And if Geralt sniffs the bard at night when Jaskier is sleeping, if he starts saving up what he can to buy a second horse, if he carefully preserves the pelts of the animals he catches to sew together into a blanket, well.
Geralt’s gone into hunts hundreds of times, where there are two, three, four monsters instead of the one he was told. He figures, if he can handle that, he can figure out how to balance providing for all of the people Destiny has seen fit to bless him with, to be cared for by and care about in return.)
do i have other prompts and ideas that i ignored to do this? yep. am i doing this to procrastinate doing my psych final? hell yeah. have some good ole geralt projection and dont @ me lmaooooo
Warnings: geraskier, big sad geralt - alludes to past manipulative relationships/how society at large treats witchers, crying jaskier, emotionally illiterate geralt lmao, could be read platonic or romantic
_________________
Geralt frowned when Jaskier called him ‘his witcher’ to the innkeeper. He didn’t want to belong to anyone, as much as he’d been desperate for it when he was younger. He had agency on his own, for the most part, and no symbiotic relationship was ever going to have enough benefits to make him give that up.
But Jaskier wanted him.
He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted him as a trophy, or a muse, or a bodyguard, he just knew he was wanted and he didn’t know why. The uncertainty made him nervous.
When they made it up to their room, Geralt was still frowning, but now it was because he was thinking too hard.
“You’re upset. Why?” Jaskier tossed his pack on the bed and set his lute down before turning to him with his hands on his hips and a tired expression.
“Not upset.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes, his response dripping with sarcasm, “Yes. And I have massive bouncing breasts!”
Geralt gave him a wry smile as he set his own bags down, “Really? How do you fit them in your doublets?”
“What’s wrong?” Jaskier’s lips didn’t even twitch towards a smile. Usually he found Geralt’s sarcasm ‘refreshing and delightfully dark’.
Busying himself with unpacking, Geralt grunted, “It’s nothing.”
“For fuck’s sake Geralt! I swear to Melitelle, I am not scared of you. According to you I’m the only human who isn’t scared of you. Will you fucking let me in?! Please!?”
Geralt paused for a moment, still bent over his pack, before he stood and turned to face Jaskier, “Why?”
Jaskier had the gal to look offended, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his weight back, “Wh- Why?! Because I thought after a year of travel together we would be friends at the least! Because I just want to see if I can help you? Because I want to make sure you’re okay? Because I want to fucking know what’s wrong with my behavior this time?!”
He didn’t process this all at once, no. Little bits landed at a time as Geralt stood there with his head tilted to the side and a look of confusion on his face. This was new and he couldn’t decide if he needed to be outright angry or defensive.
Finally, Jaskier couldn’t stand the silence anymore, “I’m not scared of you. You don’t have to hide from me.”
Geralt swallowed hard, fighting the little voice in the back of his head to run, “That. That’s why.”
Jaskier froze, probably from shock that Geralt actually responded, “You want me to be scared of you?”
“No,” Geralt snapped, rubbing a hand over his face and frantically searching for the words, “I- people don’t want to be near me.”
“Yes, you go on and on about the whole witcher nonse-”
“No. That’s not what I mean,” Geralt held up a hand mainly to buy himself time to iron out his sentence. When he finally figured it out his voice was all but inaudible and sounded far too small to be coming out of his own mouth, “The… the only people who aren’t been scared of me want to use me. I don’t want to be used anymore.”
Geralt looked at the floor, waiting for Jaskier to get angry or start on a rant. It never came. He didn’t hear anything for seconds that dragged on like eons.
When he looked up there were tears on Jaskier’s cheeks and his arms were uncrossed. He took a hesitant step closer, holding out his hand, “I don’t want to use you,” he whispered.
Geralt glanced at his hand then back at him, “Then… why?”
Jaskier smiled sadly and a fresh wave of tears fell from his eyes, “I like your presence. And humor and how much you care and the way you talk to Roach. I’m not going to use you. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Hesitantly, Geralt reached out and took Jaskier’s hand, feeling a little tug behind his eyes that he hadn’t felt in years as he whispered, “I don’t remember what that’s like...”
Jaskier squeezed his hand, “I’ll remind you. It’s not as scary as you think.”
“M’not scared,” Geralt grunted.
Jaskier nodded, his smile getting closer to his usual cheerful expression, “Of course not, darling… Of course not…”
Hey everyone, a little up front, this is a major character death fic and nearly 4k long. Be advised. Content warnings include: Bloody and Injury, Fatal Injury, Major Character Death, and Implied misuse of potions. Please be advised before reading! Thank you!
~
There had been no warning. Only the sound of a sword being drawn above him woke Jaskier from an already fitful sleep. He just managed to roll out of the way, Geralt’s name already on his lips.
A firm arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him down to the ground as a volley of arrows whizzed overhead, close enough to ruffle his hair. His heart hammered as they stood, each taking defensive positions.
It hadn’t been the first platoon Nilfgaard had sent for his witcher and it wouldn’t be the last, but Jaskier would die on his feet before he let anything happen to Geralt. His own short sword connected with flesh and he yanked it back again before swinging for the next soldier. His form had gotten better and he had learned to fight, not just slash and hack under Geralt’s tutelage.
He wasn’t a witcher though. He wasn’t able to hear the notch of a bow and the release of an arrow as it flew through the throng and buried itself into his thigh.
Jaskier cried out but kept his feet. He still fought though he was growing faint and the hot wetness that was soaking the outside of his trousers was too much too fast. They needed to get away.
“Geralt!” He yelled and the witcher was there, his arm wrapped tightly around Jaskier’s middle, pulling him close.
“Hold on,” Geralt breathed against his shoulder. Magic vibrated in the air around them as Geralt let loose an aard, sending soldiers flying back from them and then another wave of magic as Jaskier broke the talisman around his neck.
A one way portal dropped them into another clearing miles north of where they had been. Jaskier fell to the ground, gasping as his fingers fumbled for the arrow that was still buried in his leg.
“Geralt, fuck, help.” He shook as he looked down. There was far too much blood. Even Geralt seemed to go pale as he looked down at the damage. Most of their packs were back where they had been ambushed. The only thing left to them was what Geralt had grabbed, Jaskier’s own pack with only his notebook, a spare shirt, and a salve for minor cuts.
“Hold on, Jaskier, hold on.” Geralt moved quickly, making quick work of the spare shirt, tearing it into strips and tying above the wound. “Here, take my hand,” he whispered, his voice gentle, his eyes wide with fear.
“Geralt- Geralt, dear heart. Listen…” Jaskier swallows and takes Geralt’s hands, lacing their fingers and squeezing as tightly as he can. “If I don’t make it, if you have to go on-”
Before he could finish his thought, Geralt pulled the arrow from his leg in one smooth motion. Jaskier screamed through clenched teeth, his body shaking from it. Geralt was quick to bandage him up, all the while murmuring softly to Jaskier.
“There’s an oversized bed with your name on it at the keep, you just have to stay with me,” Geralt said, his eyes never leaving the wound.
Jaskier took back Geralt’s hand after it was done with the bandages and squeezed it again, this time barely having the strength to press down into that firm palm.
“Always, dear heart, always going to stay with you.” He licked his lips and gave a wet laugh. It was now or never or he was going to go to his very early grave regretting it.
“I know where we are. This is the tail end of the path into the Blue Mountains. We’re so close I can smell Eskel’s goats.” Geralt was worried. He only talked like this with sick children and shriveled old women he couldn’t save.
Jaskier only swallowed and nodded. They set camp that night and in the morning began the long and painful trek into the mountains.
~
Three days. They had been on the move for three days. Every hour, Jaskier could feel his strength leaving him and every hour he tried to make Geralt face him, to hear the words he needed to say before…
Jaskier sat against a cave wall, shivering as sweat soaked through his shirt. His leg had been itching like mad since he had woken up and he feared that there had been more to that arrow than just steel. He wondered if Geralt had smelled it on him, if that was what was causing the Witcher to climb as quickly as they could into the mountains, to where there might be safety.
He looked across the small fire where Geralt cooked two winter-thin hares. He looked haggard with the closest thing Jaskier had ever seen to true fear on his witcher.
“Geralt?” He croaked, his voice cracking.
“Hmm?” Geralt didn’t even look up, seeming to instead find anything else to look at than Jaskier’s fading body.
Jaskier gave a sad smile and weakly patted the bedroll next to him. “It’s going to be cold tonight. Why don’t we have those for breakfast and you come get some sleep?”
Geralt looked up at him then, his face drawn into something he couldn’t interpret but took the rabbits off the flames and nodded.
He crossed the small space and slipped in next to Jaskier, pulling him gently down until they were tucked in the bedroll, his arms winding around the bard with barely a word. He felt rigid and unsure under Jaskier’s hands as he shifted, careful of the wounded leg.
Jaskier pressed in close to Geralt’s chest and timed his breathing to the sound of the witcher’s heartbeat under his ear. Geralt, for his part, wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him close, burying his nose into his hair. He thought with a faint chuckle that he must have reeked but Geralt didn’t seem to mind, only pressing in closer.
Sleep came for Jaskier sooner than he thought it would. He did not dream, nor did he really notice the pain. All he could feel as he drifted off were warm, though chapped, lips pressing to his forehead and words he couldn’t quite catch.
They sounded like “Stay with me”.
~
When morning came, Jaskier couldn’t explain what he was doing standing near the entrance of the cave, looking in where Geralt was still huddled with his back to him. His head felt foggy like he couldn’t quite remember what it was he was doing.
“Jaskier?” Geralt called suddenly, “Jaskier!”
“I’m right here,” Jaskier took a step towards Geralt and found that his legs felt sound under him.
“Jaskier…” Geralt sat up, leaning over something in front of him, his shoulders shaking. “No, no no, you fucking idiot, no. Not like this, Jask, please.” There was panic in Geralt’s voice and he was on his knees leaning down.
Jaskier stood frozen behind him as he watched over Geralt’s shoulder, where he, Jaskier, lay, pale and blue-lipped.
Geralt leaned down, trying to breathe life into his body, Jaskier's name a chant on his lips between every curse and promise he could make. Jaskier touched his own lips as they seemed to tingle for a moment but then the feeling was gone.
Geralt only pressed against his chest a few times but seemed to quickly give up before gathering Jaskier into his arms, his nose pressing back into his hair.
“Jaskier, no. I’m sorry, I’m so… I…” There was a choking sound echoing in the cave and Jaskier realized it was broken sobs as Geralt only held his lifeless body closer.
“Geralt, dear heart, I’m still- You don’t have to be sorry, Geralt. You’re safe, that’s all I could ask for.” Jaskier came around the other side and dropped to his knees, his hands reaching out for Geralt as he sat there, rocking back and forth on the frozen stone floor. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this. We weren’t supposed to end like this.” He wanted to scream.
“You were supposed to stay, Jask. You were supposed to stay with me.”
“Always,” Jaskier promised, “I’m always going to be here. I’m not going anywhere, Geralt. I love you, I’ll stay.”
Geralt laid his body down gently, bringing the bedroll they shared over Jaskier’s face. “I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I got you killed.” He looked away, swallowing, tears streaking down his face as his eyes slid right over where Jaskier’s ghost knelt in front of him. “I love you. I’m sorry I never told you.”
Jaskier was sure if he still had a heartbeat, it would have skipped right before he shattered into a million pieces. There was nothing left for him to do but to keep his promise. He followed Geralt from that cave, watching as Geralt cast an aard that closed the entrance, burying Jaskier inside, his face completely void of any emotion as he did so.
The rest of the journey to Kaer Morhen was quiet, Geralt barely stopping to eat or sleep until he had finally reached the keep. Jaskier trailed behind him in the halls, catching the looks that Geralt missed from his brothers, from Vesemir, from Yennefer when she showed up with Ciri not three days later.
He followed his witcher into his rooms and watched as he drank himself into a stupor that still couldn’t bring him sleep.
“You don’t have to do this to yourself, Geralt. I’d die for you a thousand times if it kept you safe,” Jaskier whispered. He couldn’t brush back the silver hairs that fell into Geralt’s face as he slumped over his writing desk.
He looked down at the book that was open and recognized it as his journal. He was sure he’d blush if he could. It was a page towards the back that Geralt had opened to, where Jaskier had done a rough sketch of Geralt grooming Roach. It hadn’t been his best work, but he kept it with him anyways.
“Oh, you were never meant to see that,” he winced, sliding up onto the desk beside Geralt’s outstretched arm. He reached down as if to grab his hand and sighed when his fingers only managed to slide through it without so much as a twitch.
“Should have protected you, should have saved you. Always losing you,” Geralt slurred, his eyes closed. “Always losing the ones I should have protected.”
“Oh, dear heart,” Jaskier leaned his elbow onto his knee, wiping a hand over his face. He wondered how long he would be like this, not that he was complaining. He had promised. He was still going to follow his witcher.
~
The years slipped past them, Geralt witchering, Jaskier following. The only difference seemed to be that Geralt had finally found it in himself to start talking to Jaskier, only when Jaskier couldn’t respond.
That first season out, Geralt found a contract on a notice board.
“Looks like a cockatrice, Jask,” he murmured quietly, reading over the paper. “They’ll swindle me for sure, always with fucking cocatrices.” He gave a small smile looking up. “You know, the only time they didn’t was when you’d come flying at the alderman like a cockatrice yourself, all color and spit and barbs.”
“You always stopped me though.” Jaskier leaned against the board, his head resting on the worn wood as he watched Geralt fondly. “I worry you’ll never see a proper payment again unless you find another bard.” The idea twisted something where his chest used to be. Geralt travelling with anyone else always seemed to do that, even before his untimely demise. “But at least now I can follow you into battles without you having to worry about me getting hurt, eh?”
Jaskier followed Geralt like he always had, trailing behind him as he met with the alderman, to his room at the inn, watching as he checked over his potions.
“Come back in one piece.” Jaskier winced at the old habit that hadn’t seemed to die with him.
“Stay out of trouble while I’m-” Geralt turned and frowned at the empty room. “Right then.” He only growled and slung his swords over his back before stalking back out of the room.
They had stopped on the edge of a ravine and Geralt looked down the craggy face, scowling. He downed his potions without a second thought and began the climb down.
And then-
Jaskier was suddenly back in the room at the inn, Geralt with his back to him, grunting as he curled in on himself.
“What the fuck just happened?” Jaskier asked. He came around the other side of Geralt. There was a nasty cut along his arm but it wasn’t anything Geralt couldn’t handle, he knew.
“Bollocks! Really!? Finally, a way to follow you into battle and, what? I can’t? Why?” Jaskier threw his arms in the air in frustration.
Geralt made a low sound, the needle shaking in his hand as he stitched his arm. His eyes kept flicking up to his potions, lined across the low table. Jaskier looked him over, watching the last of the toxicity fade from his veins.
“You know, I keep asking why am I here, but I’m starting to wonder.” Jaskier tried to run his hands through the muck that still clung to Geralt’s hair, sighing as his fingers simply faded through him. “Am I here because you’ve chosen to let me haunt you?” He clucked his tongue. “Foolish witcher, let me go. You don’t need to punish yourself.”
“Hmm.” Geralt stood, crossing to the basin to wash away the remaining blood on his arm and hands.
Jaskier climbed into the bed and waited for Geralt to take his usual position beside him. He sang quietly as his witcher drifted off into his usual restless sleep, Jaskier’s name never far from his lips.
~
And so it went for several seasons, Geralt fighting battles Jaskier could not witness, only able to linger beside him when the nights grew quiet and Geralt would try to drown himself in women and liquor and the desperate pace of travel.
After one fight, Jaskier returned to find Geralt hunched over his potions, muttering to himself as he pulled one from the bag with surprisingly shaky hands.
“What are you doing? Did you not kill the beast?” Jaskier was kneeling in front of him, unable to reach out, unable to be heard. He looked between the bottle and Geralt’s face and frowned.
“I see,” he whispered softly.
It had been a long time at this point and Jaskier was realizing that the only time he was not with Geralt was when Geralt didn’t think of him, so far only when he gave himself over completely to his witcher senses and instinct.
“Does thinking of me hurt you so deeply, Geralt?” If he were able to cry he would. Instead all he could do was look on as Geralt slowly uncorked the bottle. “I do not blame you for wanting to outrun your ghosts, but please. Not like this.”
Geralt brought the bottle to his lips and for a moment it felt like his eyes had flicked to Jaskier’s, wide and wounded. He pulled the bottle away, corking it and shoving it back into his bag.
“You’d think me a coward, I know.” Geralt pulled out his flask instead, taking a hard pull of the White Gull he kept with him constantly now.
“Still the bravest man I know.” Jaskier smiled sadly.
~
As years went on, Jaskier noticed he was starting to lose time. Slowly there would be a day missing where he started with Geralt in one place and ended up somewhere else completely. Usually when he would appear again, Geralt was already settling into a room or brushing down Roach, idle things that let the witcher’s thoughts wander.
“Would you have written new songs by now? You’d be what, sixty?” Geralt hummed. “You’d hate old age, vain as you are- were.”
“Oh, back to this are we? Haven’t been insulted in a while. Though kind of you to say sixty. I think we’re coming up on eighty easily, dear heart.” Jaskier murmured fondly, leaning against the stall to watch Geralt work.
The time between these moments was clearly growing. Every time he saw Geralt he looked more worn, more weary. New scars were cropping up between his visits. He especially hated when he came back to find Geralt sewing himself back together after a particularly bad fight or when he was being chased out of various towns.
It felt like that was when he thought of Jaskier the most, when there was no one there to defend him. No one to care for him. He showed in the moments Geralt felt most alone in the spaces Jaskier used to fill. His gaunt face still holding the same disappointed scowl it always did when villages turned on him. Jaskier knew it made Geralt feel like a monster. It filled him with a rage so powerful, it nearly vibrated the medallion on Geralt’s chest.
“You’re not, Geralt. I know you’re not! I wish you listened to me then or could hear me now.” Jaskier pleaded, pacing in front of the witcher, his arms thrown wide. “You’re still a hero.” He would have wet his lip the way he used to if he could feel it. “Still my hero, witcher.”
“Maybe they’re right. I just bring death wherever I go.” Geralt murmured as he set up camp.
Jaskier felt himself slowly fade, flickering as Geralt knelt for meditation, every breath blurring his vision until the void took him again.
~
It was dawn or maybe dusk, but all Jaskier knew was that it had been a long time since Geralt last thought of him. There were too many scars along his wiry arms where his sleeves were pushed up, his feet dangling into the water of a stream. He sat on the edge of a rock, his head in his hands.
Jaskier went to say something and found that he couldn’t, his mouth opening and closing but no sound came forward.
“A hundred years,” Geralt swallowed. “A hundred years and I’ve forgotten the sound of your voice.” He sounded wounded, his voice cracking with sorrow and age. “I’d give every single one of them back if I could just… remember.” He pressed his palms over his eyes and shook. “The world keeps changing, and you’re still gone and I’m still here.”
Jaskier dropped to his knees beside Geralt, his hands reaching out to touch the man that would not let him go.
It was his hands that caught his attention. They were barely shadows at the ends of his arms. Jaskier looked down in silent panic as he realized he was fading. Geralt was forgetting him. A mixture of relief and agony tore through him. All he wanted to do was scream but all he could do was sit there in silent horror as he watched Geralt fall to pieces.
Rest, witcher. He thought, swallowing down the silent tears he was no longer able to shed. Rest, my love, your path is almost at its end. Do you know all the good you’ve done?
Geralt took a steadying breath, looking up and out over the river, his once brilliant yellow eyes dulling around the pupils.
I’ll stay, Geralt. I promise. As long as you’ll have me, I’m going to stay. Jaskier silently promised. He leaned forward as though to press his forehead to Geralt’s shoulder. He could have sobbed when the world tilted and he simply passed through him, unable to even comfort him from the other side.
Beside him Geralt took another breath before pulling his feet from the stream. He turned and gathered his swords and once more, there was nothing.
~
Time had lost meaning. There had only been brief fleeting moments where Geralt seemed to remember his bard, unable to perceive the ghost that followed him still. Jaskier’s own memory was starting to grow fuzzy. Why was he here? Why did he want to protect this man sitting alone by the fire? Where was his voice?
He remembered having a lute and a book of songs and an amazing adventure filled with heroics and heartbreak, with destiny and death. He could remember the taste of wine and the smell of sea salt and the feel of a calloused hand cupping his cheek as he laid in a cave decades upon decades ago.
Jaskier stood in the door of a dusty stone room, the window overlooking a mountain range he could not name.
“Toss a coin to your witcher,” came a voice, cracked and ancient and so very very tired.
Jaskier followed the voice to a pile of deteriorating furs. He knew that face, scarred and weathered as it was. He knew that song. Something in him flared as he reached out with almost solid fingers.
“Geralt?” He whispered.
The pile rose with a shaky breath and then the man, the witcher, his witcher, drew no more breath.
“Oh dear heart, you took so long.” Jaskier chuckled sadly. “I’m so glad you thought of me. I’d never be able to live with myself if you died alone.”
“Can’t live with yourself anyways,” came a rumbling voice from behind him.
Jaskier whipped around and gasped. Geralt stood only a few strides away. His body whole again, the scars faded to fine silver lines, like threads of moonlight caught under his skin. Around him was a warm glow and it called Jaskier home like a beacon.
“Geralt!” Jaskier stood frozen on the spot.
“You stayed.” Geralt hummed, taking a small step forward.
“You asked me to. Besides, what was I going to do, let you go on without me?” Jaskier laughed, his arms itching to reach out, to see if he could just…
“Stubborn,” Geralt growled but there was no heat to it as he stalked closer.
“Yes you are, dear heart. Come here.”
“Two hundred years, Jaskier.” Geralt took another step, his chest seeming to heave.
“You took so much longer than I thought you would.” Jaskier shot back but he was grinning.
“Jaskier.” It was the same old warning bite that Geralt used when he was treading on thin ice.
“Hello.” He was beaming. The room around them had been dim when he appeared but now it seemed to glow.
“Hard-headed.” Geralt surged forward, his arms wrapping solidly around Jaskier, lifting him easily as he buried his face into Jaskier’s neck.
“Are you going to kiss me, witcher or just keep throwing-”
He was cut off when Geralt pulled back just far enough to crush their mouths together, warm and perfect and bright as the sun.
“Absolute bastard.” Geralt smiled as he pulled back, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth.
Jaskier laughed, throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck. “I’ve missed you too.” He felt tears, actual tears slide down his cheeks as he clung to Geralt. The room around them seemed to vibrate as they clung to one another, filling with a warm light once more before falling forever dark again, the wind whipping through where they once stood.
They say deep in the Blue Mountains, if you are brave enough, there is a keep that once belonged to the witchers of old. For many years, they said it was haunted by the ghosts of all the ones the witchers had lost.
They say Jaskier had stayed. He had stayed and waited, doing in death what he had done in life; following his witcher. That only when his witcher followed was he able to finally leave, hand in hand.
But that is only if the stories are to be believed. The ghosts of the witchers have long since departed, only staying as long as they were needed.
Jaskier moving on with a handsome young elf who’s a very skilled warrior. He’s also very protective of Jaskier(especially regarding Geralt). Geralt falling for Jaskier after the bard moves on and can’t really do anything about it but feel sad about it. Jaskier inviting him, Ciri and even Yennefer to their wedding. Jaskier asks Geralt to be his best man even(idk how weddings worked back then but that’s how it’s gonna go XD) and he can’t turn down Jaskier. The day on their wedding, Jaskier comes to sit beside Geralt after dancing so much. He’s dressed in a dark blue outfit with a flower crown on top his head. He looks beautiful. He confesses to the Witcher that he used to be in love with him and that makes Geralt freeze. He also tells the Witcher despite everything that happened between them, he’s happy that their still friends and that he cherishes Geralts friendship. They both watch as Ciri dances with Jaskiers new husband. He may hate that he has Jaskier but he knows he’s good for the bard. Geralt does not confess of his love for the human but says something he’s should’ve said for a long time. “I’m glad that you’re my friend Jaskier.” That makes Jaskier smile and Geralt watches as the love of his life walks off to join the party once again. Despite this probably being the saddest moment of Geralts love life, he decides from now on, he’ll never disregard what he has with Jaskier ever again.
-
I was writing a more detailed Ver of this when I thought I could make a shorter Ver and it still turns out to be a very long paragraph. 😂 also I like imagine Jaskier ending up with an elf.
Nope! But I'm all too happy to write it!
13. the hug to hide your tears
This one got a liiittle sad, but that is what happens when I decide to go Post Mountain. There are many kind of tears to hide, but this is what I went with. Please enjoy <3
"Warnings": Slightly open ended? Post break up mountain scene. Sad Geralt, Lovely Roach, uh... Hints of Yenralt and Geraskier, but it is a little up to you :*
Send me a hug prompt?
On Ao3 Hug prompt collection
Geralt descends the mountain alone. The dwarves are there with him, yes, but not his-…. not the sorceress nor his-... the bard.
He fucked up.
It sucks to admit, but there is no way around it. Shame and guilt and anger boils inside him, seeping all the way out into his fingertips.
He finds Roach, saddles her up and leads her away. He can’t bring himself to ride, he needs the motion, needs the movement to not sink too deep in his head.
Last time he felt anything like this was after Renfri. It’s been a while, he realizes. Were he in any other mindset he would have seen the change had come after Posada.
All he knows now is that the feeling is back, and this time it… just might be his fault. If he wasn’t such a fucking ass. If he hadn’t lashed out. If he hadn’t laughed at Yennefer, if he hadn’t blamed Jaskier for… for everything.
Geralt is alone.
Just him, and Roach, and no one else.
Fuck.
It takes Roach tugging at the reins to realize he has stopped walking. He lets them slip between his fingers and she dives for the sparse grass on the forest floor.
What is with him? Why does he always push the ones he cares about away? Why does he hurt them, mock them, shove them….
Geralt puts a hand on Roach, feeling her warm fur against his fingers. Somehow, through it all, she is still with him. He steps into her space, leaning his forehead against her neck. His eyes sting.
He is all alone, but still he wants to hide. Fuck.
He pulls in a shuddering breath, tangling his fingers in her mane, giving in to the urge and wraps his other arm over her neck. It’s not the first time he seeks comfort with her.
“What should I do, girl?” He mumbles, voice wavering.
Geralt has no idea how to fix this. No idea how to set things right, where to even start.
“I hurt someone again,” Geralt whispers his confession, but Roach doesn’t reply.
“Now that I know you won’t die before me – might outlive me – it’s … different. I was just so scared of losing you before.”
“Even if I was going to grow old and die!” Jaskier said, shrill. “Even if that was the case, it still doesn’t make what you did justifiable. It doesn’t excuse anything!”
“I never wanted –”
“Intent doesn’t matter when the result is not the same,” Jaskier said, harsh. “From my standpoint, it sounds like you were saving your own ass. You were protecting yourself. And that’s not what I have a problem with. What I can’t let go is that you hurt me in the process. Hurting people is a choice, and you chose to hurt me.”
Geralt’s eyes were wet, and Jaskier deflated, anger settling down to a simmer. He only felt tired, now.
“No matter what would have happened, people come and go. Mortality, or immortality, doesn’t change that. That is the way of life. It’s give and take, Geralt. It’s balance. You’d think someone over a century old would have learnt that.”
Thank you to @wannastayugly for let me use her art and for the beta-reading to this aaand, let's go!
We always see posts about Jaskier falling in love with Geralt and developing Hanahaki, BUT, what if it's Geralt instead? What if it's time for Geralt to fall in love with Jaskier but he doesn't tell him 'cause he doesn't believe Jaskier will return his feelings, because he hates himself, and he also thinks he's a monster and that Jaskier deserves better than him.
So, he keeps his feelings buried deep inside his heart even when the petals turns flowers, the roots start to tangle in his lungs and he vomits bouquets of dandelions.
He tried to throw that love away with a distraction in form of a Enchantress called Yennefer, tying their destiny with a desperate desire, but Yennefer doesn't stay like Jaskier does, she isn't a constant in his life like the bard, so even though he loves her too, it isn't like the way he loves Jaskier.
And when he was on the mountain, when he shouted and accused Jaskier for being the reason of all his misfortunes and saw Jaskier's expression, he was sure that was it, that Jaskier would never love him back, that if before he had the most little chance, now he had none at all, and so the disease develops almost leading him to death.
BUT, Jaskier comes back, he won't accept that end in their relationship. He gets back to yell at the Witcher, but then he sees him, how bad he is, and can't figure out why.
So then, he sees the flowers, then the blood, and the petals is his mouth, and he just knows, he knows what it is, but he comes to a wrong conclusion: he thinks it's for Yennefer. He thinks Geralt is in love with the Enchantress, and choking his own flowers in his throat, he runs to the Enchantress for help before she leaves, but when she tells him what to do, he doesn't understand.
"Just tell him you love him, and he will be fine."
He thinks he can't do this, mainly after what the Witcher said to him, he knows Geralt doesn't love him back. And by the time Geralt says that to him, he’s going to die suffocated with his own yellow chrysanthemum.
But he will do this, he will do this if it's for Geralt, if it's to see him well, he will die with pleasure if it's for the man he loves.
However, when he tells the Witcher the three little words, Geralt doesn't look at him disgusted, he doesn't look at him like someone who doesn't like those word, he's just confused, and asks him to say it again.
"I love you." He says, and Geralt drops a little breath and:
"Fuck, bard, I love you too." And then he's in Jaskier's personal space, gently holding his face in both hands and finally managing to do what he wanted for years now, which is to have Jaskier's lips sticked to his.
