When the door slams shut hard, Geralt looks up from his tablet. He is currently a hundred pages into proof-reading Jaskier’s newest manuscript, a romance novel his husband wants to publish under his penname Dandelion, and Roach is a golden pile of fur on his lap. A glance at the clock tells him it’s past three, not an irregular occurrence in Jaskier’s line of work, but Geralt worries nonetheless. And he always stays up, waiting for him to get home from whatever gig he’s been playing, no matter the time.
Jaskier stumbles down the hallway, past their living room without so much as a glance at Geralt.
“Jaskier?” Geralt calls out, turning off the tablet and putting aside the pen he’s been marking the novel up with – a thirst-fest of hard-packed muscle and glistening skin, tailored to the tastes of Dandelion’s masses of fans. Geralt tries to be constructive, but he gets distracted so easily. “Come now, girl, get down.” He gently nudges Roach and she glares at him, jumps down when he adds ‘pretty please’.
Geralt crosses the length of their living room, bare-footed and in nothing but sweatpants, the way he is most comfortable and Jaskier likes to be greeted. Usually that is. He pops his head through the door frame, just about seeing as Jaskier emerges from their bedroom with a fresh towel and one of Geralt’s shirts. A worn one. Geralt smiles, heart warming at the sight.
“How’d your show go, love?” he asks and Jaskier glances up at him, one hand on the bathroom door handle. His hair is mussed and his glasses hang askew on his nose which is reddened and runny.
“Shower first,” he mutters. “Talk later.” And disappears into the bathroom.
Which is worrying. Usually, Jaskier likes to hop onto Geralt’s lap when he comes home, likes to snuggle up to Geralt and tell him all about his gig. Then he has a shower while Geralt makes him a hot chocolate and they go to bed, Roach already sleep-drooling onto their comforter.
“Fuck,” Geralt says and debates whether to go after his husband. He glances back into the living room at Roach who glares reproachfully at him. “You’re right, you’re right.”
Geralt approaches the bathroom door and gives a slight knock. From inside, he can hear the shower going and steam’s already curling underneath the door. He can also hear Jaskier making some stifled noises. He doesn’t reply to Geralt’s knock though and Geralt sighs.
His shoulders sag as another sob sounds over the hiss of the water, and he slips out of his sweatpants and through the bathroom door, drawing it shut behind himself.
“Jask?”
“Go away.”
Which is how Geralt knows he shouldn’t leave Jaskier alone at all. He pulls back their daisy-patterned shower curtain and steps into the tub where Jaskier’s standing in the spray, motionless. His arms hang limply at his sides and his glasses are still crooked on his nose, fogged up and speckled with water. Underneath, his tears are made invisible.
“Jask,” Geralt says, biting down on his smile. He draws the curtain shut again and reaches out to tug at Jaskier’s glasses, then deposits them with their shampoo bottles. Jaskier’s eyes widen and Geralt melts inside. The poor thing didn’t even realize. “C’mere,” Geralt opens his arms wide for Jaskier to fall into.
“I’m such a mess,” Jaskier wails, hiccupping because he has to laugh and cry at the same time and he buries his face against Geralt’s neck, clawing at Geralt’s biceps.
“You’re my mess.” Geralt buries his nose in Jaskier’s sodden hair. It smells of smoke and sweat. “Bad crowd?”
“No, they were fine,” Jaskier says, kissing Geralt’s collarbone. It’s something he does to ground himself and to help with that, Geralt starts rubbing slow circles over Jaskier’s shoulder blades.
“Hmmm.” It’s an open-ended hum. Either Jaskier wants to talk about it or he doesn’t, Geralt knows to respect that. He kisses the top of Jaskier’s head and draws him even tighter and hopes to be the steady anchor Jaskier needs right now. Gradually, Jaskier’s mangled hiccups subside and he sighs softly.
“I wanted to play a new song,” Jaskier whispers. His grip on Geralt’s arms has loosened and he wraps his own around Geralt’s neck, drawing himself up.
That’s right, Geralt thinks, filled to the brim with pride and love and adoration for his husband. Use me for purchase, stand tall again.
“But I bailed. I wasn’t sure how it had come out and I fucking bailed. I’m so disappointed in myself.”
“You wanna sing it now?” Geralt asks, grinning as Jaskier pulls back a little to bump their noses together. His azure eyes are shot through with red, but a spot of sunshine has returned to them. He’s beautiful and messy and he’s Geralt’s. Geralt still can’t believe that on some days. “Sing it just for me?”
“My favourite audience,” Jaskier laughs. He looks at Geralt, nuzzles his cheek as he starts to hum softly under his breath, then gains confidence. The first verse is a little shaky as a few leftover sobs loosen in his chest. The second one comes out a little flat, the third is all Jaskier. Bursting with emotion and confidence and wit. He’s so witty, his husband, in a way Geralt could never be. By the time the refrain starts, Geralt’s kissing the words off Jaskier’s lips and he has to revert to humming once more. Geralt will listen to the rest of the lyrics later, right now he needs to show Jaskier how fucking much he loves him.
“Thank you,” Jaskier breathes when they part. “I needed this.”
Per Zilean and his role in the League canon, there almost certainly exists a timeline where the events at the cannery in Arcane ep3 where everything went fine and Powder’s monkey bomb didn’t explode her whole family.
