Sleep easy, little lark - Geraskier
Summary: Jaskier has been travelling with Geralt for many years now, even up to Kaer Morhen some winters when he feels he can make the trip. Geralt always sleeps easily and frequently for the first few weeks, surrounded by his brothers and his bard. It's how he notices that Jaskier hasn't been sleeping, and he's going to find out why.
Or
5 times Geralt notices Jaskier is in a bad way and the 1 time he does something about it.
Note: Just some Kaer Moron fluff and comfort for our favourite bard. Set after The Mountain fight and reunion, Ciri’s there too.
Do not repost or rewrite any of my work. Minors and ageless blogs get blocked.
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1. A sour smell in the wind.
Geralt was stumped. Jaskier had agreed to come to Kaer Morhen again this year so they started the trip up a few days earlier than normal, not only to avoid most of the cold but there were no contracts for Geralt to take along the way.
And the bard was quiet. Not even a faint humming coming from him as he composed into the snow flurry. Geralt had made sure he’d picked up the essentials for the fragile human; fur lined boots, a heavy cloak, leather gloves and woollen scarf. The Pass was just as difficult to navigate now as it was each year, and the bard was falling behind again as Geralt pushed on next to Roach.
He stopped and turned around, taking in Jaskier’s purple complexion and shivers despite the layering. “Come on Jaskier, we’re almost there.”
When he recieved no response other than the chattering of Jaskier’s teeth, Geralt decided the bard was going to freeze unless he started warming up, and fast.
“Come here, Bard.”
The sour spike that scourned the wind almost burnt out the witcher’s nostril hairs. It was as brief as it was intense, and Geralt couldn’t stop the frown even as Jaskier tried to disguise the scent with suggestive comments and a slightly frozen eyebrow wiggle.
Geralt tilted his head as he tried to source the smell, but could find no obvious injuries on the bard other than the cold.
“Well come on Mr ‘Speed is essential’. We don’t have all day.”
And just like that, the conversation that should’ve happened, was wiled away with the wind of The Killer.
~~
The penny dropped after they arrived and were embraced by the wolves.
Ciri jumped on Geralt as soon as he was in sight and Lambert roughly tugged the bard into him, holding the human as close as possible as if he could tell how much the cold was eating away at him. Geralt did just the same with Ciri, and didn’t let her go until Vesemir was threatening him to be on stall cleaning duty for the next week and tugged him close to scent his pup again.
They switched and Ciri buried her head in Jaskier’s neck, securing themselves together much like Geralt knocking his and Lambert’s heads together. They were safe, home for another year.
As it turns out, Eskel arrived a few hours after them, making his appearance known as he always does. There was a rough embrace of arms and hearty shoulder pats with Geralt and Vesemir, a watered down version of the rough welcome for Jaskier (who still couldn’t feel his hands by the way he could barely grip Eskel’s tunic) and a one-armed hug and kiss on the head for Ciri; and if anyone noticed how he lingered a little longer to breath in her scent, they didn’t say anything.
It was the greeting with Lambert that made a lightbulb go off for Geralt. For whatever reason they were always the roughest with each other, and this was no different.
Eskel had taunted Lambert with a crouch and beckoned “come here” to which the fiery witcher slammed into him and they went sprawling across the floor. Whilst the others watched almost contently at the usual display of oddly presented relief at them all being alive, Geralt couldn’t help but pick up on the acrid stench of fear that permeated the air again.
When he turned to look for the source, he found Jaskier with a twisted expression as he watched the two wrestle on the floor; and the wince that came at Lambert landing a blow in Eskel’s stomach.
That was it. The punch. Fuck, Geralt was so stupid sometimes. It was the same phrase followed by the same violence that he used on Jaskier when they had first started on the path together, when Jaskier had complete trust that Geralt wouldn’t hurt him, then sucker punched him so hard he thought he was going to vomit out his intestines.
And then the mountain. More hurt caused by Geralt. Nilfgaard and whatever they managed to do to him there before Geralt reached him.
Fuck! If Jaskier couldn’t feel safe in the one place that was literally designed to be a safe haven for them, then Geralt had fucked up more than he thought.
So no violence for a while. At least no punching while Jaskier was around. Fine, easy as pie. Though looking at how Eskel currently had Lambert in a headlock, maybe it wasn’t going to be quite so easy as Geralt hoped.
2. No singing fills the room. Nothing at all, actually.
They’re a couple of weeks in and thankfully, Eskel and Lambert have toned it down with the bouts of aggression. If Geralt had to watch Jaskier sink into himself anymore whenever Lambert tackled Eskel over the table or Eskel tried putting horse shit in Lambert’s hair again, he was going to lock his brothers out in the snow.
At the minute, Jaskier is sat quietly by the fire in the main sitting room. His lute sits idly beside him as he works and Vesemir keeps a steadying hand in his hair as he reads in his favourite chair.
Geralt is in the library with Ciri. They had been going over what she’d learnt while Geralt was gone but the child grew tired as she got warmer from the fireplace and was now just dozing with her head in Geralt’s lap and his hand in her hair. The Witcher himself was almost to the state of meditation when he heard Vesemir speak, tuning his ears to hear the soft words shared between his leader and bard.
“You’re quiet this year bard, don’t think I’ve heard you play once.” He said as a starting point, trying to encourage him to get talking on his own. It was a weird occurance in itself, usually all they were trying to do was shut him up for five minutes.
Jaskier shocked the older wolf even more when it took him a minute to answer, trying to fight the feeling that his tongue felt too big for his mouth. Vesemir closed his book and gave the pup his full attention, he felt there was more going on here than just a commotion ontop of a mountain.
“Jaskier?” The hand in his fluffy brown hair tightened only the littlest bit to drag the bard out of his own head.
Once he was ready, Jaskier let out a sigh that said more than words could, and Vesemir sat straighter, tension growing in his shoulders at how lost the young boy’s voice sounded compared to how he was used to it. “I simply have nothing to play.” He shrugged, picking at the calluses on his fingers.
Jaskier could feel Vesemir staring at him, trying to piece together a puzzle that he didn’t even know was missing the corner.
“It isn’t just that pup. You’ve barely said a word to anyone since you got here other than pleasantries.”
Jaskier sighed again and looked straight into the fire so he could use the light as an excuse for the sheen across his eyes. “Geralt likes the quiet.”
The mentioned man frowned. He doesn’t understand. When did he ever- oh. The Djinn.
I just want some damn peace!
Geralt thumped his head back and tried to release his frustration without waking the child asleep on his lap. Of course when he actually said something it had to be that.
Fuck.
“That doesn’t mean we want you to be radio silent, bard. The reason we all enjoy you coming here in the winter is because of your talking, the easiness of it. The wolves are often treated and spoken to with fear, and then you came up here and there wasn’t a trace of it. It’s the only time of year where they relax and we do so love to hear your voice, lark. Don’t make us beg for it.”
Jaskier blinked the wetness away and nodded his head, sniffing aggressively when Vesemir patted his head in farewell and retired to bed.
3. The Witcher lost the lark.
It was that damn sitting room again. Geralt was put on dinner duty with Vesemir and Ciri was out ‘training’ with Lambert, which mostly consisted of him teaching her how to hide Eskel’s things without being noticed.
This left said Witcher in the sitting room with Jaskier, relaxing on the sofa behind where the bard was scribbling notes down only to cross them out again, humming indistinct tunes to himself to try and get the sound he yearned for.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’ve missed your singing this year bard.”
Jaskier huffed through his nose but didn’t turn to face the scarred Witcher to rise to the bait. “Don’t hear that very often.” He mumbled. Well, as much as you can mumble in a castle full of witchers with enhanced hearing.
“Well you’re hearing it now.”
“I suppose I am, dear Eskel, yes.”
He managed to wait a few more minutes before starting up again. “So why the wait? Usually by now we’d be-”
“Yelling at me to shut up? Yes, I remember it well.” Jaskier finished for him. When Eskel didn’t continue the bard knew he was waiting for him to expand.
Jask turned his head just enough to see the Witcher’s face in the side of his vision, yellow eyes glowing as he stared at him in the dark. “I’ve been informed that my singing has had the odd tendency to run people off. S’pose I didn’t want anyone to run anymore.”
The Witcher frowned and tilted his head as he tried to figure out what the bard was saying. Yes they might berate him for being a bit too loud, but he thought Jaskier knew they were only playing around. Eskel took his feet off the sofa from where he was lounged and sat up, reaching in front of him to grip Jaskier’s shoulder tight enough to get his attention.
“We only kid with you Jaskier, about playing too much. We love to hear you through the castle, it gives us something to focus on other than what happened here.”
Jaskier met his eyes from where they had fallen to the floor and nodded. “I know. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Eskel hadn’t the foggiest. For Geralt, it couldn’t be clearer. The fucking Djinn.
“Did you sing to her before she left?”
“I did actually. Why, what are you implying?”
“I won’t run away, if you want to sing.” Was all Eskel could offer.
Jaskier turned back to his spider’s web of lyrics and picked up his lute, turning back to Eskel. “Want to hear something I’ve been toying with?”
~~
Jaskier’s lute is right there. Right fucking there and he hasn’t so much as looked at it while he and Geralt were in the library after dinner.
The wolves had split off after the stew had been demolished and Geralt sought out Jaskier in the library, hoping to talk to him about this cloud of dullness that had overtaken him since he got here. Although that required words, not a forte of Geralt’s.
They had been sat peacefully for an hour and Geralt was loosing his mind. Why wasn’t Jaskier humming or singing or talking or moving or anything.
“You can play if you want.” Subtle.
Jaskier turned to face Geralt with a smirk on his face. “Why is it that the one year I tone it down is the one year everyone wants to hear me?”
“It’s not that.” Geralt rushed to deny. “Just makes for good whitenoise to meditate.”
“I don’t think you enjoy it that much.” Jaskier said, turning back around to face the fire. But there was no playfulness in the sentence, only a sort of crushing honesty that came from criticism.
Geralt resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands and scream.
“How’s my singing?”
“Like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.”
Geralt stood from his chair and walked over to drop himself next to Jaskier on the sofa. The latter raised his eyebrows in question but Geralt just ignored it.
“Sing to me. Please?”
And then Geralt saw a piece of Jaskier that had been missing for the last few weeks, that untamed side of him that knew not of self-preservation or doubt, but only knew the power of his work.
For the next few hours Jaskier played his lute and sang his songs, and the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen released one big sigh of relief and settled in to relish in the sound.
4. Nightmares.
“What are you up to bard?”
Jask spinned almost straight into the redhaired witcher that had been following him for the last five minutes.
“I-I’m thirsty. Was just going to get some water.”
“Horseshit.” The Witcher proclaimed.
The bard was a shit liar. He’d nearly snapped his neck retracting so fast from Lambert. He couldn’t look the Witcher in the eye as his fingers rubbed nervously along his wrists.
Lambert knew the feeling of being a deer in headlights. He also knew what caused the feeling. Nightmares. A consciousness that refuses to let itself be forgotten.
Lambert sighed away the remains of his annoyance and softened himself for the bard’s sake. He stepped forward and placed an arm around the skittish human to lead him to the kitchen.
“Come on, little lark. Let’s get a drink.”
~~
“What do you usually do, when you have a nightmare?”
Jaskier had been drawing shapes into the bench while he sipped his drink, keeping his eyes down and not speaking a word.
“I sleep with Geralt.” He admitted quietly, lifting a hand to cover the back of his neck. “But I know Ciri sleeps in there with him sometimes, when she has nightmares.”
“Let’s go have a look, if she’s there you can sleep in my room.” The witcher told him. Jaskier finally looked up and nodded, straightening from his position and taking his cup with him.
Upstairs Geralt heard the shuffling about and looked over to check that Ciri was still next to him; the girl tended to get jittery if she woke and found him sleeping, not wanting to disturb his rest. He breathed in relief at seeing her back rising and falling steadily, reaching a hand around to brush the hair that had fallen from her braid away from her face and curving it briefly around her nape.
So who else was awake?
The answer soon came when a mop of brown hair peeked through his door and smiled tightly at seeing them cuddled up together, retreating before Geralt could even think of whispering “what’s wrong?”
His bard didn’t get far, pulled back by the collar of his shirt making him release an indignant squawk by Lambert, who copied Jaskier by sticking his head around Geralt’s door and muttered in a voice only Geralt could hear, “I’ll take him.”
Geralt nodded his thanks as Lambert closed the door quietly. When he rose the next day at the sign of light and found Jaskier coddled in his brother’s arms, sleeping like a babe, an odd feeling of fondness filled him. That feeling grew when a familiar yellow eye cracked open and winked at him before closing again.
5. He’ll be going down the mountain, when he comes.
For a few weeks, Jaskier seemed okay. Like he was on track for getting back to normal. He was whining and complaining about the cold, burying against Geralt for his warmth (he secretly enjoyed the cuddle sessions with Jask and Ciri very much, but would rather use himself as bruxa bait than admit that out loud) and somehow managed to wrestle Eskel into washing his hair for him in the hot springs.
And then the pass closed up. And so did Jaskier.
He became jumpy, startled easily and didn’t fall into touches as he normally did. Sometimes it was almost painful for the other Witchers to watch him figure out what to do with himself, walking past the window four times before he chose to pick up his notebook and write something down.
This went on for about a week when Geralt woke up to a churning in his stomach. Something was wrong.
He got out of bed and looked around the keep. Everything seemed the same, everyone was there, but something was missing. Jaskier.
Geralt pelted up to the bard’s room and slammed the door open, almost falling over with how fast he was to try and dispel the growing feeling of dread in his gut.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Eskel appeared behind him, straightening up when he saw the cloak, lute and bard attached to those things missing. “Where’s the bard?”
Geralt steeled himself before answering. “He’s gone down the mountain.”
“Sorry?”
The wolf jumped into action and spun around, nearly knocking Eskel over as he ran out the room and down the stairs, layering up with his cloak and swords, just in case. The Bard was known to get into all types of trouble. The thought made Geralt’s heart clench.
“What’s going on?” Vesemir demanded, watching as his pups wrapped up as if leaving in the midst of a blizzard.
“Jaskier’s gone down the mountain.” Eskel explained, promptly following Geralt out the door and into the snow.
The seconds felt like hours while the keep waited for them to return. Lambert had to go and chop wood to drain his nervous energy, Vesemir was darning every item of clothing with a suggestion of a hole and Ciri viciously chopped meat, potatoes, vegetables and anything she could get her hands on to stop them from shaking.
An unforgiving wind blew through the halls as the front door burst open, Eskel skidding inside and straight to the sitting room, casting an igni to stoke the already burning fire even more. Geralt followed at a more controlled pace with a covered lump over his shoulder, holding it close and whispering words of comfort. He made it to the room and carefully lowered the fur covered body, who Vesemir could now see was Jaskier; blue lipped with a disturbingly grey pallor onto a pile of furs Eskel had gathered in front of the fire.
The two wolves quickly stripped off and did the same to Jaskier, rolling the bard on his side so he was sandwiched between their body heat. Lambert had heard the commotion and came in carrying more blankets, covering his brothers with them and sitting down by the bard’s head, covering it with his hands in hopes to rid his lips of the pale blue tinge they had acquired.
The were silent as Jaskier moaned and groaned and shivered in pain. They reminded themselves that this was necessary, he had to warm up to stay alive and so pressed in closer to try and comfort him as real wolves would. Vesemir kept Ciri out of the room, not wanting her to see the usually buoyant lark in such a state, but also to avoid any accidental exposing when the furs jerked from Jaskier’s spasms.
The night continued much in the same way. Jaskier eventually woke all the way and went straight back to sleep again, Lambert left for a few minutes to grab a bowl of stew and shovel it down, soon joined by Eskel who was getting too hot and needed a few minutes.
Which left the wolf and the bard alone. Jaskier snuffled himself awake, looking around blearily before recognising Geralt led in front of him. The Witcher gave him the softest smile he’d ever seen and loosened his arms to let Jaskier stretch, feeling the muscles burn from exertion and warmth.
“Jask?”
“Hmm?” He lifted an eyebrow to encourage the stoic wolf to speak.
“Why did you go down that mountain?”
Jaskier sighed. “To take myself off your hands.”
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.
“Jaskier.” Geralt sounded wounded. “I don’t want you off my hands.”
The lark looked away to hide the tears in his eyes, but couldn’t hide the tremble in his voice. “I just felt like you didn’t want me here.”
Geralt reached out and hauled the bard closer to him again, pressing their foreheads together and curling a hand around the other man’s nape for good measure. “I’ll always want you here. I always want you on my hands.” He promised, eyes locked with Jaskier’s.
The man chuckled wetly and wiped his nose. “What a poet.” He jested playfully, a good sign he was feeling better. Geralt used the hand around Jaskier’s neck to scratch at the short hairs there, revelling in the eye fluttering it caused.
“Jaskier.” He called once more.
“Geralt.”
“If you ever get the urge to do something as dangerous or stupid as go down the mountain mid-blizzard again, wake me up first.”
“I was 8% sure it would be fine! Wait-”
“Exactly, and we’ve done things on less than that. So you’re not allowed to do anything without me, got it?”
A cheeky smile rose to the bard’s face. “Yes dear.”
Geralt didn’t comment on the obvious sarcasm but pressed his lips to Jaskier’s forehead. “Good.”
At this point the fire had dwindled making the room a more tolerable temperature so Geralt stood to collect their smallclothes and slid back under the furs, both him and Jaskier pulling on their respective underwear.
A soft knock came from the door and Ciri poked her head in with Eskel.
“How’s the bard?” He asked, thinking Jaskier was still napping.
“Fighting fit as always dear Eskel, I thank you for your concern.” Jaskier pressed his head back into the floor so he could smile at the scarred witcher. He shook his head and opened the door further, guiding the young girl in with a hand on her back as she balanced two bowls of soup in her hands.
“I thought you might be hungry?” She suggested.
“Hi little cub.” The bard welcomed her in, sitting up stifly with the help of Geralt who sat up himself.
Ciri passed a bowl to Jaskier which Eskel helped him hold and then gave the other to Geralt, who pulled her in with an unoccupied hand and held her face to his, rubbing their noses together.
He had to release her when Eskel lifted the cub away to rest for the night, leaving the two alone to eat and sleep in peace.
.
1. Stuck like glue.
The bard never felt unwanted again. Everyday he was surrounded by the wolves.
Lambert chased him around the keep, hiding around doors and secret hideyhoes he didn’t know existed, Ciri showed him all the magic and special abilities she was gaining, Vesemir read with him in the library and taught him how to cheat his pups at Gwent and Eskel showed him some basic sword moves in the courtyard between cooking lessons.
But his time with Geralt, that was his favourite. Mainly because it was either filled with cuddles, his music or some great sex.
With the other witchers having taken Ciri on as their own, Geralt wasn’t worried about them being disturbed so Jaskier often found himself being whisked off to one of their bedrooms for a few hours before returning slightly bedraggled and reeking of Geralt even after a bath. But of course, he couldn’t smell that and the others were forbidden to tell him.
That didn’t mean there weren’t days when he still felt off, too tired to talk or small to leave the keep. But he was never alone. One of the wolves (usually Lambert since his room was closest) would come and pick him up, all swaddled in furs, and take him to the sitting room in front of the fire. They didn’t expect the bard to talk on these days, didn’t force him to either. Lambert would pull his head to rest on his shoulder while Eskel fed him some porridge and berries for breakfast; Ciri led across Jaskier’s lap as a weighted blanket with her head resting on Geralt’s thigh as the man moulded himself around his lark’s body.
No matter how much Vesemir loved his pups dearly, he was still too old to contort himself into a position that fit him into the wolf pile so took a seat on one of the chairs, casting a protective look over the vulnerable pack and guarding to make sure no harm touched them.
These days were always easy. No chores or training or rush to fix something in the keep. Just as much calm and relaxation as possible.
Later when the lark felt better and had moved up to Geralt’s room after a much too big bowl of stew and successful game of Gwent (and some slow, euphoric sex) he cuddled in closer to his witcher’s warm body and sighed contently.
“I’ll always want you on my hands little lark, for as long as you’ll have me.”
And they drifted off to sleep easily, wrapped in each other’s arms.
