Imagine if Jaskier self-soothes by singing to himself. He does it after nightmares, when heâs sick, when heâs hurt, and itâs always the same lullaby his nursemaid who raised him used to sing to him (until he was five and his parents decided he could look after himself, that he was too old for comfort).
He remembered the warmth behind the words, and though itâs not quite the same, singing the song to himself isâŚgrounding, at least. It reminds him that, at some point in his life, there had been someone to care for him in his pain, to make him feel safe.
And then he is tortured for Ciriâs whereabouts, and the lyrics play in his head like a wheel, round and round, his mind trying to provide solace while his mouth is occupied by wordless screams. It helps, and it keeps him together, prevents him from breaking.
It isnât until he gets to Kaer Morhen that he has a nightmare filled with flames and his nursemaidâs voice in the background, that he realizes what heâs done. He wakes with a shriek in the back of his throat, heart thudding out of his chest, and he opens his mouth only for nothing to come out.
There is nothing left that has not been tainted by fear, pain, hopelessnessâ
And Geralt is oblivious about many things, but he sees the way the shadows under Jaskierâs eyes grow darker, how his bandaged fingers tremble with exhaustion. So when the bard almost passes out in his stew at dinner, he forces himself to stay awake in his room once everyone has gone to bed, listening intently to the inhabitant of the room next to his.
He is unsurprised to hear the frantic rustle of sheets not two hours later, and wonders idly what is haunting Jaskierâs dreams. He frowns, though, at the lack of singing, waiting for seconds, minutes, hours for a sound that never comes.
Geralt tells Jaskier the next day that he can sing his lullaby if he wants to, that the others wonât judge him for it. He doesnât miss the way the bard flinches, as if the witcher had slapped him, before nodding and hurrying away. Geralt doesnât know what to make of it though, and finds himself feeling intensely unsettled when there is rustling the next night but again no song.
It isnât until the third night, when Geralt hears heavily muffled cries, that he finds himself knocking on the bardâs door, barging in when thereâs no answer.
And Geralt has seen the bard in manyâŚcompromising, positions, but stepping into the freezing room to find the man tucked into a trembling ball under the furs makes Geraltâs heart ache in ways he didnât know it could. He lights the fireplace with an igni, followed by a quicker aard at the noiseless panic Jaskier exudes at the sound of the fire.
He carefully slides into place behind Jaskier, sharing heat with him as they have often done on cold nights under the stars. He holds him close, uncaring for the wet patch slowly growing on his shirt, his mind screaming wrong, wrong, wrong at the noiseless sobs wracking the younger manâs body.
The next morning, it takes more prodding than Geralt has ever had to use to make the bard talk, before he gets the full story. And Jaskier, fearing judgement, is pleasantly surprised when the witcher simply pulls him into a fierce hug.
But acknowledging the problem doesnât make it go away, and so the following night, when even Geraltâs embrace isnât enough to lull the bard back to sleep now that heâs not so utterly exhausted, wellâ
Jaskier finds out the white wolf could have easily been singing his own praises for the last twenty years, if he so desired. And the bard may or may not fall asleep wondering just what heâs got to do to make this a repeat occurrence.
