Chapter Text
Geralt shoved through the crumbling remains of the door, stumbling into the space that the portal had just been. He clenched his fists in the air as though if he could pull hard enough, he could drag Ciri back to him. The air hung heavy in the small space, the nauseating scent of ozone and smoke clinging in his nostrils, overwhelming to his head already hazy with adrenaline. He panted, grinding his teeth, and shaking his head in frustration and confusion.
They were going to come back. Once Yennefer realized it was safe, that the mage was gone, once she had waited long enough, she'd send a message, she'd find him again and bring Ciri back to him, and things would be okay again. She had to.
His mind raced with thoughts, doubts, fears. Ciri was wanted... wanted by so many people, for her abilities, her lineage, her blood, her power. He hadn't seen Yennefer since their parting on the mountain, mourned her apparent death, embraced her in her miraculous return. He'd like to think that he knew her, knew her heart, that she wouldn't...
But Ciri was... something, and Yennefer was… something else. If she knew, knew what Ciri was, what she stood for, what she could do…
No.
He couldn't let himself think that. She wouldn't. With all Yennefer's talk of wanting a child, that maternal desire he’d derided so cruelly, he couldn't think that she would do something to hurt Ciri.
But the look she'd given him as she'd walked through that portal, when he'd called out to her not to go… it fanned the growing spark of doubt in his chest. He couldn't shake the growing panic that Ciri was now in more danger than ever. That Yennefer wasn’t just going to come back.
And he was never the kind of man to sit patiently and just wait for things to happen. And especially not now when the child he’d finally taken responsibility for was on the line.
Assuming now that Yennefer was not just going to pop back into this room any second, he needed to find her, needed a plan, information. And he needed help.
There was someone, someone he knew, at least according to Yennefer, that had seen her recently, someone he trusted. The mere thought of him sent a painful ache of regret through his heart. Regret over the actions that had separated them in the first place, regret that this is what it took for him to finally work past his shameful avoidance of the man, and to try to make amends. There was a quiver of fear there, underlying the regret, that he might be turned away, that maybe Jaskier had moved on, was past whatever affliction he’d had that had allowed him to tolerate spending so much time by his side and was happy and thriving with someone else, doing something else. It was what he had hoped for Jaskier, that finally being rid of the sour-faced, grumbling witcher had turned his life around, but now facing the possible reality of that, Geralt felt the sting of loss. His concern for Ciri outweighed all the possibilities. If there was even a chance Jaskier knew something about what Yennefer was planning, he would take all the much-deserved ranting and scolding from the bard, only hoping that Jaskier would have enough forgiveness to at least hear him out afterwards.
He let out a heavy sigh as Nenneke came around the corner, putting out the flames still clinging to tapestries, and glanced around at the toppled furniture, the charred marks on the walls, and the bloodied bodies on the floor. He could hear several pounding heartbeats lingering at the edges of the hall, no doubt curious about the events that erupted into chaos before suddenly quieting again. Nenneke scowled at him, the weight of her expression bringing him back to the scoldings he'd received from her as a younger man. He'd brought violence into this sanctuary, a place meant to be free of the bloodshed of the outside world.
He shook his head. “I didn’t know that we’d be followed. I don’t know who those men were… how they found us.” He glared down at the slain corpses on the floor behind them. Nenneke raised an eyebrow.
“And yet, they did,” she said firmly. “Geralt-“ She started and Geralt could hear the lecture coming, and quickly cut her off.
"You don't have to say it. I know. But I couldn’t let them hurt her. If there had been some way to avoid this, I would have done it.” Geralt clenched his sword in his fist, his thumb rubbing some of the excess energy pumping through his body into the hilt. She eyed him carefully, giving a stiff nod. She looked past his shoulder at the empty room and narrowed her eyes.
“The girl?”
"Yennefer took her," he said carefully, his voice stiff.
Nenneke looked back at him, her sharp eyes taking him in. She'd known him too long, could see through him as easily as one sees through glass, and she was dangerous, the weapons she wielded were not ones made of metal, but the wisdom and insight that she had carefully honed and sharpened over years.
"Does Yennefer know about Ciri? Her abilities? Her power?”
“I don’t know. I’d not seen her in over a year, and we didn’t exactly have a lot of time to catch up. But if she doesn’t know, the longer they’re together, the more of a chance that she will.”
“You believe Yennefer could be a danger to her,” she said, less of a question than just speaking the words that were swirling in Geralt’s mind.
Geralt waited a moment before giving a stiff nod, and then a noncommittal shake of his head. "I don’t trust anyone with Ciri but myself right now. Even if she isn't intentionally endangering her, people are still after her, that mage got away, Nilfgaard is looking for her, and Ciri doesn't have control over her power yet. I know Yennefer is capable of taking care of herself, and Ciri managed to find her way to me from Cintra, but there’s too many factors at play right now. I can’t trust that Yennefer will keep her safe.” He let out a heavy breath, shaking his head. “Until I have her back under my care, she is in danger." Nenneke watched him carefully, giving a soft laugh under her breath, her lips curving up slightly on one side. Geralt frowned, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
Nenneke shook her head. “Knew you’d take to this fatherhood thing quickly.”
Geralt grunted, giving a stunted roll of his eyes before looking across the room. “It’s my destiny to protect her. She doesn’t deserve any less,” he said firmly, his thoughts buzzing around the fair-haired princess, worries about what Yennefer could have done, where she would have taken her.
Nenneke hummed, continuing to watch Geralt another moment before nodding towards the debris around them. "I suppose you'll be leaving this mess to me then?" She raised an eyebrow, looking back at him.
Geralt tightened his lips. "I am sorry for tracking my troubles into your sanctuary, Nenneke. I will make it up to you."
She rolled her eyes and gave a soft breathy laugh, resting a gentle hand on his forearm. "I'll hold you to that, Geralt. Just find that girl. Keep her safe." She started to turn away, pulling her hand back, but Geralt patted her wrist, keeping her attention for a moment longer.
"If I could ask one more favor...?"
Geralt groaned as he stumbled out onto the side of the dusty road, waving away the heavy odor of magic, breathing tightly against the twisting turns of his stomach.
Fucking portals, he thought bitterly.
After a minute, he stood from his hunched position, moving his hands off his knees, to look up at the walls of Oxenfurt in the distance in front of him.
Yennefer's words slid through his head as he walked towards the gates, his cloak pulled up over his head.
I ran into Jaskier in Oxenfurt. He was in some kind of trouble… This fire fucker was after him. A mage. I don't know who he was. He was looking for information. About you. He's looking for Ciri.
They hadn't had time to go into more detail than that and having had the unfortunate experience of running into the fire fucker himself, his worries about what Yennefer meant by trouble were roiling out of control. Surely, if the mage had found Jaskier, she would have said, if he’d been hurt, if he’d been… killed. She would have said something. But if she was lying, putting him on edge enough to worry, to distract him, but not enough to take Ciri and leave immediately… if she was hiding something to get to Ciri…
He ground his teeth against the doubts in his head. He just needed to find Jaskier. To make sure he was safe.
Some kind of trouble. As he walked up to the gate, his mind wandered. With Jaskier, trouble could mean... literally anything, especially trouble as defined by Yennefer about Jaskier, what with their tendency towards antagonism towards each other. Geralt had spent the past twenty or so years on the Path dragging Jaskier away from bar fights, saving him from angry husbands, wives, brothers, fiancees, after he'd slept with the wrong person yet again, picking him up out of the gutter when he'd gotten a little too liberal with the drink, and bailing him out after being arrested for things that were most definitely his fault despite his complaints stating otherwise. Jaskier bounced back quickly, the lessons learned never quite seeming to stick and he'd always end up falling into some other nonsense he trusted Geralt to inevitably help drag him out of, and despite Geralt’s groaning, he usually did his best to do so.
But the ferocity of that mage, the so-called fire fucker, Geralt was sure that this trouble would be more of the other kind Jaskier got himself wrapped up in. The kind that got Geralt’s stomach twisting with concern and guilt and that nauseating tinge of fear. The ones that left him with lingering memories of his hands coated in Jaskier's blood, nimble fingers weakly grasping at Geralt’s wrists as he hissed at the pain as his skin was stitched back together again. Hunts gone wrong, accidents on the Path, angry and hateful people in villages that weren’t too keen on having a witcher-praising bard in their midst. He recalled an incident years ago; Geralt had been out on a hunt and returned to find Jaskier in the alley behind the inn they were staying in, beaten half to death by a group of men who’d apparently been stewing over the popularity of the coin-tossing ballad, just waiting on their chance to show the bard that birthed the song exactly what they thought of it. Their opinions about witchers were certainly not improved by Geralt’s actions upon coming across that scene, but he found he cared very little about his reputation as he carefully carried Jaskier’s whimpering, bruised and bloodied body halfway across town, leaving behind the men moaning half-dead on the ground. They'd been lucky enough that the town's healer had been the one that put out the contract that Geralt had just fulfilled and agreed to take the small amount of coin that they had left to help heal Jaskier’s injuries. Geralt shuddered to think what would have happened if they'd had to travel to the next town for help, the idea of losing Jaskier because of who Geralt was, because of his involvement with Geralt, too much to even bear the thought of.
And now, even after pushing Jaskier away, trying to extricate the bard from the toxicity of his life, Geralt was still dragging him back into his problems, subjecting him to the merciless violence of a destiny that didn’t care who it hurt.
The guards at the gate gave him tight looks, demanding he pull down his hood, but they ultimately let him pass after seeing the round curve of his ears. One of them huffed and spat at his feet as he walked away, and he heard him mutter something about mutated freaks that Geralt chose to ignore. He clenched his jaw, focusing on finding Jaskier, letting the words he'd heard so many times before slide off his thickened skin.
He realized very quickly that he didn't have much to go on as to where Jaskier could be. The numerous times over the years that he'd visited Jaskier when he'd been in Oxenfurt, or they'd stopped in the city for a while, Jaskier had spent a lot of his time near the university, catching up with peers, holding guest lectures, drinking and performing and shopping. Geralt was loath to admit it, but he did enjoy visiting with him here, seeing Jaskier in this different element, a separate part of his identity, still just as comfortable sharing his knowledge and intelligence and skill as he was being on the dusty trail with Geralt or strumming his lute on an ale-sticky tavern floor. He supposed if Jaskier still had some of his trusted colleagues in the city, he may be hiding out with one of them while trying to avoid the mage, if he hadn’t been found already. Geralt recalled enough of their faces, that he was fairly sure he could track at least one of them down to get some information.
His journey through the city towards the university took a detour when he found himself tangled up in the familiar, but waning scent of the bard. It was faint, just the briefest tinge of lavender, rosemary, cheap ale, and musk that immediately rang a bell in Geralt's head. He frowned, glancing back towards his initial path, and went with his gut, turning down an alleyway to follow the scent. He made his way through the streets, hanging in the shadows and ignoring the strange looks from passerbys, and ended up standing outside the side door of what he assumed to be a tavern given the odor of alcohol-laden piss wafting up from the ground. Even under the nauseating smell, this place reeked of Jaskier. If he wasn't inside, then he had been recently and for a long enough time that his scent had worked its way into the very walls of the building. It was when the metallic tang of blood hit his nose that he shouldered in the door, splitting the lock away from the frame with a resounding crack.
He heard a sharp gasp of a woman, her heart racing, the shuffle of her legs on the floor. A pair of wide eyes looked up at him from the middle of the room, fear emanating from her as she tossed the scrub brush in her hand aside, cowering back against the column behind her.
"Please! No! Don't hurt me!"
Geralt would normally try to have more patience in these kinds of... delicate situations, but the overwhelming smells in this room, Jaskier's blood, his fear, the nauseating scent of burnt flesh, that lingered in the heavy air consumed any tolerance he had for this woman. He clenched his jaw tightly and stalked forward, close enough that he could see the red patch on the floor in front of a chair, a chair with slashed ropes wrapped around the arm rests and pooled at the foot of it.
It had to be the mage. He’d found Jaskier after all.
Geralt growled, turning his eyes back on the terrified woman, still shaking on the floor. She shook her head at him, hiding her face in her hands, the salty scent of tears seeping into the air.
"Where is he?!” He demanded through his teeth. His fingernails dug sharply into his palms. He could still see the dark stain on the floor, the metallic scent coating his nostrils and swelling in his lungs, and felt the need growing in his chest, the need to track and find and hold and protect, to tear apart whatever was in his way until he found Jaskier.
"I-I-" The woman was holding back tears now, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. Geralt held back another growl, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He forced himself to take a steadying breath, focusing as the air passed out of his nose, willing his anger to calm enough that the woman wouldn’t completely lose herself to her fear. He took a step back, giving the woman space, and held his hands up in an attempt at a placating gesture.
"Please," he said, his voice still coming out hoarse and strained, but slightly softer. He took another deep breath before continuing. "Please. Jaskier? Is he alive? Do you know where he is?” Geralt spoke softly and the woman seemed to calm, just slightly.
Her expression hardened, her eyes narrowing at him. He noticed the subtle shift of her hands, curling into fists as she watched him.
"You're not the one that did this to him, are you?"
There was a note of protectiveness in her voice that made Geralt like the woman a lot more, that Jaskier had someone that would stand up for him against a witcher. Geralt shook his head.
"I'm an old friend. I wanted to make sure he was alright," he swallowed tightly. "Do you know where he is? Is he still in the city? Did someone take him?”
She cocked her head, her eyes lingering on his medallion in a way that made Geralt shift on his feet.
"You're that witcher, aren't you? The one he was always singing about?" She asked, the pounding of her heart settled enough now that Geralt could hear himself think.
He swallowed, giving a stiff nod. He could only imagine what Jaskier had been saying about him since... their parting. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, at least not until he'd heard it from Jaskier himself. The woman's expression told him enough about what she'd been hearing that he knew they weren't the most complimentary of songs.
Geralt sighed. "Despite what I'm sure he's said, my intentions are not to hurt him. I just want to make sure he’s safe.”
The woman studied him carefully another moment, her heart rate slowing to a steady pace. He wondered what she was seeing in his expression that was calming her, if she had a similar resolve as Jaskier for tolerating the presence of a frightening witcher. She blinked once before letting out a heavy breath, her arms wrapped protectively around her knees that were folded up to her chest.
"I don't know. I wasn’t here when all this happened. The guards have been lurking around… we’re usually open already, but I can’t very well open our doors with all this here, you know, so I’ve been trying to clean up as quickly as I can.” She waved her hand at the bloody stain. “Only reason I figure it was Jaskier’s blood is because usually he’d have been passed out behind the bar trying to sleep off another hangover.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “That and the talk from the gossips across the street that he’d run out of here with some woman in a purple cloak, looking beat to hell.”
Yennefer, Geralt thought, not interrupting the woman as she continued speaking.
"I assumed that someone found out about..." She clamped her mouth shut, her heart starting to race again.
"Found out about what?” Geralt said. He knew the mage had been looking for information on him and Ciri, but if there was something else, if Jaskier had somehow ended up in another sort of trouble after being tortured…
The woman’s heart was racing again, and she glanced at the windows and the back door. "It’s nothing,” she lied. Geralt glared, taking a step forward.
“What was Jaskier involved in? Please, I need to know.”
“If word got out, we’d all be executed. I can’t,” She said, shaking her head.
Geralt frowned. Of course, the bard had gotten himself into something that he could be executed for… So much for trying to keep him out of trouble by keeping his distance.
"I have no desire to turn any of you in, and most people don't take the word of a witcher for shit." She considered that for a moment and Geralt continued. "I just need to find out where he went, so any information you have that could lead me to where he is would be helpful."
She sighed, pressing her lips together. She studied his face, her heart rate calming again before she gave a stiff nod. "You didn't hear any of this from me."
"Of course," he said, kneeling down to her level on the floor. She leaned towards him, lowering her voice to barely a whisper, her eyes flicking to the doors and the windows.
"Have you heard anything about the Sandpiper?"
Geralt walked back out of the tavern about twenty minutes later, not much closer to figuring out where Jaskier was now, but with a greater understanding of what he’d been doing the past year, his pack laden with what he could fit of Jaskier's meager belongings from the small room he had upstairs. He'd flipped through his notebook, thinking there could be some hint as to where he would have gone, but was met with a significant amount of scribbled angry lyrics primarily focused on a certain bastard witcher, and had quickly flipped it back closed. Jaskier had always been very protective over his writing and Geralt could almost hear the scolding as he shoved the notebook into his pack.
The question, now, was where Jaskier would have gone after escaping from the mage. If Jaskier had run out with Yennefer, then it would have made the most sense that he would leave the city with her, but he hadn't come with her to the temple, and she hadn't mentioned anything about where he'd gone. He’d obviously been injured, the scent of his blood and the burnt flesh still sticking in Geralt’s nose. Yennefer was capable of healing wounds, so it didn’t seem likely that they would have needed to seek out a healer, unless he was so injured that Yennefer hadn’t been able to manage it, or perhaps she’d been so concerned about the mage finding Geralt and Ciri and left Jaskier behind to recover or hide. Not that that fit with his doubts about Yennefer now, if she cared so much to come in and help Jaskier, who he knew she had very little affection for previously, why would she put Ciri at risk by kidnapping her now?
Geralt shook his head, pulling off the open street and into the shadows of an alleyway, rubbing his hands over his face. Maybe he should have just stayed at the temple. Maybe Yennefer would be coming back. Maybe Jaskier wasn’t even in Oxenfurt anymore, if he was smart, if that mage knew he was here and had taken him hostage and tortured him who knows how long, he would have left, fleeing when he had the chance. But… while Jaskier was smart in his own ways… he was also incredibly stubborn and attracted trouble like nothing and no one Geralt had ever seen before. Something the woman in the tavern mentioned stuck in his head, a comment that he’d disregarded in the moment.
“Honestly, he’s probably ended up back in the jail, even if the guards didn’t find out about the elves, he’s always getting himself dragged in there. Sometimes it’s because of his business at the docks, causing trouble so he can get folks onto the boats any way he can, but most of the time, it’s because he’s drunk on the streets, and they lock him up for the night to sober up.”
His stomach tangled into a knot of guilt at the woman’s words, that Jaskier had apparently been drinking so much that he’d been regularly passing out on the floor of the tavern, or causing disturbances in public enough to constantly get arrested. It was so unlike the Jaskier he had known before. He’d always appreciated a good drink and a healthy buzz, letting himself loosen up to a certain extent, but very rarely to excess, usually limited to the few times he was licking his wounds after a particularly difficult heartbreak. He had always gone on and on about the importance of moderation, that being a bard, he had to think about the health of his vocal cords and the way the alcohol slogged down his nimble talented fingers.
Geralt couldn’t imagine that what had happened on the mountain had affected him so much for so long. They’d been apart more than a year, so the excessive drinking must be due to… something else. The war, the Sandpiper-ing, some lovely woman breaking his heart… Geralt ground his teeth together, shaking back to the present. Getting lost in the past wasn’t going to help him, Jaskier, or Ciri now.
The jail was a slim chance, but it was as reasonable a theory as anything else, and he was wasting time just standing around thinking in circles. He sucked a deep breath in through his nose as he walked across the city towards the jail. He tried to narrow his focus as he walked, sticking still to the shadowed alleyways, and out of the bright open streets. Cities were hell on his heightened senses, not designed to be friendly to those of his kind, the smells and sounds and sights, all of them giving him a headache, and as much as he wanted to meditate to drown it all out, he needed to keep his attention open in case he came across Jaskier’s trail again. He turned a corner, and the jailhouse building came into view at end of the road.
A voice that he would know even if it had been decades since last hearing it resonated out of one of the barred windows, sending a wave of relief over his body.
“Oh, fuck,” Geralt breathed out, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension in his muscles slipped away.
He’s alive. He was alive and he was here and well enough that he was still singing some horribly annoying song, that Geralt wouldn’t admit sent a fond warmth through his chest at the sound of it. The fact that he was singing didn’t really mean a whole lot because Geralt was sure that even if every bone in the stubborn bastard’s body was broken, he’d still be crooning on about some nonsense. He bit back the smile that threatened to crawl up the edges of his mouth and made his way to the jail.
It only took a few minutes to sneak and fight his way through the jailhouse, using the sound of Jaskier’s voice to guide his path. He was motivated and the sleepy-eyed guards, complaining to each other about the fucking loudmouth in the back cell that they were close to beating the shit out of, were surprised enough that they didn't put up much of an issue.
Geralt clenched his jaw, waiting beside Jaskier's cell when he heard the last remaining guard threaten to cut Jaskier's tongue out if he kept singing. He nearly surged forward right then to punch the man in the face, but instead rolled his eyes fondly when the threat didn't deter Jaskier at all, almost immediately picking his song back up again. The guard shoved out of his chair in a huff, his bad day turning worse when he turned the corner and was blindsided by several hard punches and dropped to the ground in less than a minute. Geralt ran his hands over the unconscious man, unclipping the ring of keys from his waist, as Jaskier started to shout indignantly from the cell.
"Bloody hell! We are trying to rehearse in here!" Jaskier huffed. "Gentlemen, give me a moment while I deal with this guard's complete lack of decorum."
Geralt turned the corner and unlocked the cell door, watching as Jaskier continued his scolding of who he thought was the guard, as he pushed himself stiffly from the floor. They both froze when Jaskier's eyes fell on him,
“-Geralt,” Jaskier said, the name slipping from his mouth, his voice cracked and strained with emotion held back only by the fragile silence that they fell into.
In that moment, it was almost like time held still. Geralt took in the sight of his friend, his keen eyes flicking across Jaskier’s body in less than a second before he could process all the details. He could still remember the last time he’d seen him. And now, the differences and the similarities to the man that he had left behind all that time ago flashed through his mind. The way his hair hung near his chin, limp and heavy, lacking the usual bounce and sheen from his expensive oils and soaps, the bruises on his face and barely visible dried blood under his nose and mouth, the deep shadows under his eyes and prickle of facial hair on his usually carefully shaven chin. He looked thinner than he had the last time he traveled with Geralt, and there was an exhausted slump to his shoulders. He was clad in clothes unlike those Geralt had seen him wear before, his frilly chemise peeking out from his partially unbuttoned vest revealing a bright patch of blood.
Geralt couldn't help himself, taking the responsibility for all Jaskier's hardships the second he saw him. If he hadn't pushed him away...
Jaskier's eyes were bright, clinging desperately to the corner of the cell to the left of Geralt, like it was far more interesting, far safer to look at than the witcher. Geralt could hear the pounding of his heart, the nervousness and anticipation from his sudden presence. Jaskier shook his head, finally looking back at him.
"Fuck it," Jaskier breathed out, his feet pulling him forward, arms wrapping tightly around Geralt’s shoulders, clinging to his back, the tension draining out of him the moment they connected. Geralt matched the embrace, the warmth of Jaskier seeping into his chest despite the layers of leather separating them. So close, he could smell the cloying scent of blood and sweat, tinges of throbbing pain and fear wafting off his skin, that stink of burnt flesh and an overwhelming cloud of cheap ale, but underneath it all, he smelled like Jaskier, like lavender and rosemary and musk, and Geralt hadn't realized how much he had missed that, the way he occupied that missing space Geralt had reluctantly carved out for him over the decades.
"I missed you, too," he said softly as Jaskier broke apart and took a step back. Geralt fought the urge to reach out and pull him back again, wincing internally at the distance, and clenched his fists at his side. Jaskier stood, his muscles stiffening again, fingers fidgeting, the open desperation of his expression fading into suspicion. He blinked his eyes firmly, staring at the floor before meeting Geralt’s eyes.
"What are you doing here?" He asked, his voice tight. Geralt frowned. He knew their time was limited; guards were going to come looking very soon. He needed to prioritize here. Most important things first.
"Are you alright?" Geralt asked firmly, keeping his ears trained on the door, listening for the stomp of boots in the hall. He looked Jaskier over again, trying to scan for any signs of injury.
The widening of Jaskier's eyes told him that wasn't what he was expecting Geralt to say. He frowned, shaking his head incredulously. "What?"
Geralt huffed. "Are you hurt? That mage found you, right?” His eyes fell on Jaskier's right hand, the briefest glimpse of cracked red skin before Jaskier noticed him looking and hid his hand behind his coat, his heart pounding. Jaskier winced, giving a sharp shake of his head, narrowing his eyes.
"How did you- I’m fine. It’s nothing," Jaskier said, looking back to the cell walls again, grinding his teeth. “Why are you here, Geralt? You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be here.”
Geralt took a tentative step forward, ignoring the question again and holding out his hand, looking at Jaskier with concern.
"Let me see your hand." It was familiar, those routines that they went through. Jaskier would get hurt, say he was fine, and Geralt would push through Jaskier’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge he needed help and Jaskier would huff, but give in because he knew Geralt was only trying to help. Except Jaskier didn’t follow the script this time.
He glared, taking a small step back and crossing his hands over his chest. "I can take care of it myself,” he huffed loudly. "And I am managing just fine, on my own, just like you said that you wanted, remember?! Or do you not recall what you said to me up on that mountain? The one that you left me on? If life could give you one blessing and all that? I don’t need you holding this over me in another twenty years, Geralt, thank you very much.”
"Jaskier-" Geralt said, dropping his hand. The reminder of the words he had said out of anger lashing back against his face like frozen whips cutting into his skin.
"Don't fucking Jaskier me!" he stepped forward, pointing a finger in Geralt’s face, a blaze of anger wafting off of him. "You don’t get to do that, turn up and… pretend like its… I’m not… you can't just be here… like nothing-“ he huffed, his teeth grinding together in his mouth so loud Geralt could almost feel it. "-I am fine, and you... you..." He shook his head, heart pounding as he glared down at the floor like he was trying to get his words in order, like they were skittering across the floor like the mice racing into the corners of the cell.
Geralt hesitantly reached out, resting a hand on Jaskier's shoulder. He flinched at the contact and Geralt almost retreated, concerned by the wave of fear that came off him, but Jaskier quickly eased into his touch, the fear replaced with a look of tired resignation. He shook his head, making a soft whimpering sound in his throat, still staring down at the floor.
“I know. I'm sorry, Jaskier. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I am sorry it took so long for me to come find you to apologize,” Geralt said, and Jaskier tentatively flicked his eyes up at him before looking back down. “I was angry. Overwhelmed with… everything that had happened.” He took a deep breath, unraveling the words he had tried to rehearse in his head many times since their parting. “That doesn’t excuse me saying what I did, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I am sorry,” he huffed. Jaskier tensed, peeking up again carefully, his eyes shining.
Even if Geralt couldn't see them, he could smell the slight salt in the air as the tears filled Jaskier’s eyes, and then the bard laughed, a soft, beautiful sound, giving a shake of his head, running his eyes back up Geralt’s torso, pausing for a brief moment on his stomach before traveling the rest of the way to his face, cocking one eyebrow up.
“That was quite a lot of words, Geralt. Don’t hurt yourself now,” he said, rolling his eyes, a slight smirk curving his lips. Geralt pressed his lips together, shaking his head slightly. “But honestly, I don’t know how you expect me to take you seriously when you come in here after a year… wearing that.” He took a step back, motioning to the molded abs of his chest plate, his smirk growing wider.
Geralt rolled his eyes, fighting the smile at the familiar teasing. “It’s… functional.”
Jaskier barked a laugh, shaking his head. “For what?! Geralt, where in the hell did you find someone to mold abs into your armor!? Melitele, save me, you spend a year away from me and all sense of aesthetics just gets tossed out the window, doesn’t it?”
"Hmm," Geralt said. “Guess it’s good that I found you when I did then?” He added tentatively, his eyes trained on Jaskier’s reaction.
Jaskier swallowed tightly, the smirk smoothing back out, the lightness of the moment passing quickly. He cocked his head to the side with a slight nod. “Suppose it is,” he said quietly, his voice low, looking around at the cell, and then back at Geralt. “Can we get out of here? I think I’ve quite worn out my welcome with this audience, and, for once, I am really not looking forward to giving an encore.”
Geralt looked him over carefully, still trying to determine the source of his pain, wishing they had more than a moment to address his injuries. "Will you be able to walk alright? It will probably be best for the both of us to leave the city as quickly as possible, but if you need a healer-"
Jaskier waved a hand at him, rolling his eyes. "Nothing life-threatening, just a few bruises. I'm fine. I'll walk you through the whole happy tale once we’re far from this place.” He huffed, rolling his eyes at the foul-smelling cell.
Geralt nodded, reluctant to push too much. He listened at the door as Jaskier said his goodbyes to the group of mice sitting atop a bucket in the cell, and then they quickly and quietly made their way out of the jailhouse, stepping over knocked out guards as they fled.
Once they were a few minutes away, sneaking through the alleyways and avoiding the eyes of the guards marching the streets, Geralt expected Jaskier to start into his usual rambling, but he simply followed quietly behind. It was strange, unsettling, glancing back at the stiff movements, the tight seriousness in his expression, so unlike the loud, noticeable bard he used to travel with. As they crept through one of the darker alleyways, Geralt heard Jaskier’s footsteps slow, and turned to see him leaned up against the wall, holding his chest and panting. Geralt walked back, noting the wheeze of pain, as he tried to wave Geralt away, stumbling slightly as he tried to keep walking. Geralt reached out, grabbing under his arm, and guided him back, leaning him against the wall again and checking that they were mostly out of sight of passersby in the shadow of the alley before turning back to him.
Geralt didn't speak, his eyes dropping across Jaskier’s body, lingering on the patch of blood soaked into the front of his chemise. He reached out, running his fingers over it, pulling it up enough to see the skin underneath was smudged with dried blood, but was unwounded. He could see the edge of what looked to be a dark bruise but couldn’t pull the collar open enough to get a good look. Jaskier huffed, batting his hands away.
“Get a couple drinks in me before you start trying to take my clothes off, would you?” He said, trying to keep his voice light, but his breath was shallow and shaky as he tried to work through the pain. Geralt rolled his eyes, easily pushing past Jaskier’s hands and trailing to the bottom of his shirt which was tucked loosely into his trousers, and then paused, looking back up at Jaskier, leaving the obvious question unsaid.
Jaskier rolled his eyes, and then gave a noncommittal shrug, dropping his hands, clenched into fists, to his sides. Geralt gently untucked the shirt, lifting it carefully, revealing a spattering of bruises across the entirety of his chest. Geralt bit back a growl, carefully running his fingers over the bruises, pressing gently over the tender skin, feeling for broken bones. It should have been a relief not finding any, but Jaskier still looked as though he’d been trampled by a horse. He tried to steady his own breath, biting his tongue at a flare of anger, and was unable to soften his glare when he met Jaskier’s eyes that flinched away when he looked up.
“The mage did all this?” He asked stiffly, grinding his teeth together. Jaskier huffed and nodded, pulling his chemise out of Geralt’s hands, dropping it back over his battered torso.
“You would think being able to use magic, the fucker wouldn’t have been so liberal with his fists… but… well… as you can see from my poor beautiful body, you would be quite incorrect in that assumption,” Jaskier said with a bitter sing-songy lilt. He huffed, his voice lowering, tone more serious. “You know he was looking for you, right? You and your... your child surprise. For some reason, he seemed to think that I had some insider knowledge as to where you were.” He met Geralt’s eyes, misreading the anger there. “I didn’t tell him anything... not that I had much to tell, given I honestly had no idea where you were anyways.”
Geralt shook his head, his expression softening. “You know enough.” He swallowed thickly. “Thank you.” He pressed a gentle hand over Jaskier's waist, telling himself it was just to provide some comfort to his injuries with his touch. Jaskier relaxed into the warmth of his hand. “But that is the least of my worries now. This should never have happened to you and I’m sorry it did.” Jaskier let out a soft sigh and Geralt let his eyes fall closed, letting Jaskier's shaky breaths loosen the tight anger curled in his gut. The anger darkened, becoming something new, growing heavy and oozing, seeping waves of guilt through his body. This was his fault. If he hadn’t have pushed Jaskier away, then maybe he would have been able to keep him safe, keep Jaskier from-
“Hey,” Jaskier snapped. He was frowning at Geralt. “Stop that." He rolled his eyes. "I can practically smell you blaming yourself. This-" he motioned to his chest, letting his other hand grip around Geralt's wrist that was still resting on his waist. "-is not your fault. It’s not like you told me to build my entire career off your life story. In fact, I quite remember you telling me to do the literal opposite… for most of the decades we’ve known each other. I chose this, chose… you… and I knew the danger that aligning myself with you could bring.” He let out a shaky huff. “Besides, your witch made sure I got away from that fucker alive, and… well, somewhat unscathed… if you could believe it. Wasn’t in time to save my poor hand completely though.” Jaskier brought his other hand up, now willing to reveal the damage to Geralt. He could see the pale skin, once calloused from his lute playing, now marred, painful red burns licking across his fingers, heat radiating into the air. Geralt gently brought his hand underneath Jaskier’s, not holding, just resting below, his thumb stroking lightly across the side of his hand. Jaskier’s breath caught in his chest, and his eyes flicked up to Geralt again.
"Next time I see him, he’s dead," Geralt growled under his breath. Jaskier frowned, raising an eyebrow.
"Next time? He found you?” Jaskier asked, frowning. He glanced down the alleyway, his eyes narrowing in thought before he turned back to Geralt, cocking his head. “Hang on, how did you know about the mage?”
Geralt huffed and nodded, lowering his voice. "He found us at the temple.”
Jaskier's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “What?” Geralt could hear his heart pounding louder now.
“He showed up this morning when we were there, attacked us, tried to take Ciri.” Geralt shook his head, raging at himself for not being able to separate the asshole’s head from the rest of his body when he had him in the same room. He let out an involuntary growl, clenching his jaw. “He got away.”
“Fuck," Jaskier breathed out and swallowed tightly. "Geralt, I swear I didn't say anything about the temple, I didn't tell him-" Jaskier was close to tears again, his injured hand clenching into a tight fist despite the pain stinging in Geralt's nostrils. Geralt reached out, gently pulling his hand back open and smoothing over the unmarred skin, shaking his head. He forced his anger towards the mage down, lowering his voice, so when he spoke it was gentle, reassuring.
“Jask, he didn't take her. It's okay. She’s… well, she’s not exactly safe, but he didn’t take her. I know you wouldn’t have said anything if you could help it." He frowned, looking down at Jaskier's hand, stroking carefully over the edge of his hand where the skin was still unburned. Jaskier nodded, watching the movement carefully, his heart racing. “Ciri made it out... with Yennefer. She’s the one that told me what happened to you, or some of it. They-“
“Wait, Yennefer?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head, frowning. “How? She was just here... yesterday? The last I saw, the guards had her, and it really did not seem like she was going to get away from them." He shook his head.
"Well, she wasn't exactly forthcoming with the details. It did seem like she was hiding something the whole time she was there."
Jaskier snorted and rolled his eyes. "Now, why doesn't that surprise me at all? I don’t understand though. Why did you come here? Why didn’t you go with Yennefer and Ciri when they left?"
Geralt huffed. “I don't know where they went, and I don’t know what she’s planning. I don't know if I can trust her to be able to keep Ciri safe. She’d mentioned seeing you here, and I thought maybe-“
Jaskier’s heart stuttered, and he slipped his hand out of Geralt’s hold, dropping his arms to his side, the softness and concern in his expression hardening, just slightly. “Oh,” he said, the sound sticking in his throat. “What, and you think she’s going to… eat her or something?” He heaved a breath, shaking his head. “You knew she’d seen me, and you thought I would have some idea what she had planned. That’s why you came to find me.” He bit at the insides of his cheeks, leaning back against the wall the extra inches between them feeling like miles.
Geralt frowned, shaking his head. “That’s not the only reason. When she said that you were in trouble, I-“
“Just… it’s fine. I get it,” he said, his voice dripping with the bitter resignation that Geralt could see dulling the brightness of his eyes. “You don’t have to explain. It’s just… convenient timing…”
“I needed to know you were alright.”
Jaskier laughed humorlessly, holding up his burned hand. “Sure… you know, I’d be more inclined to believe you if you’d actually given a shit before, but… well-” He huffed, shaking his head and pushing away from the wall, stepping further away from Geralt. “Yennefer didn't tell me anything. We weren’t meeting up to plan your demise or share kidnapping plans, okay? I was moving on from you, she had her own shit she was dealing with, then she saved my life, we got separated, and that’s all I know," he said sharply, waving his hands out to his sides and shrugging with a shake of his head. "So, was that all? Stopped by for your quick apology and interrogation?" He snarled shakily, starting to walk down the alley. “Or was there something else you needed from me?”
"Jaskier, I wasn’t-“
"You know you brok-“ his voice cracked, and he swallowed tightly, shaking his head. “You… hurt me? When you left me up on that stupid fucking mountain?" He turned back to Geralt with tears in his eyes, his voice quivering with emotion. Geralt felt his chest tighten, an ache consuming him for the pain he'd caused. "We were… friends, Geralt. Even if you were loath to admit it, we were friends. Twenty years of my life, I spent by your side, and you just… “ Geralt could hear his teeth grinding together as he paused, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. “I waited for you, like the Continent's biggest idiot. You know, and I thought... 'It’s fine. Geralt's just upset. Once he's calmed down, taken a couple hours, he'll come around, he'll apologize and I'll apologize, and then things will go back to normal, just like we usually did. It's not like he's never said things like this before.'"
Jaskier pinned him with a steely glare, and Geralt already knew what was coming. Jaskier drew in a shaky breath before he continued.
"But you didn't come back. And after I waited... much longer than I am willing to admit, I stumbled down that mountain, alone, totally unprotected-“ he said pointedly. Geralt opened his mouth, wanting to interrupt, but Jaskier continued. “-In these fucking boots, boots that were not designed for mountain climbing, mind you… and I reach the bottom, and find that, oh look, Roach is gone, no sign of Geralt... but you know... he still has my things shoved away in his packs, and if he still has my things then that means there's still a chance that he'll cool off and come back, give me a chance to..." He trailed off, shaking his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. "But... then that stable hand calls out to me, passes me this bundle of all my things you'd pulled out of Roach's packs-” he lowered his voice, putting on a rural accent. “-‘Witcher left this for ya’, bard.’” He drew in a shaky breath, clenching his jaw, his voice pained and shaky. “And that was it. You were gone. And I was there, and… that was it." Jaskier shook his head, looking down at the ground.
“You weren’t alone,” Geralt said, his voice hushed. He heard Jaskier’s heart skip, and his bright eyes turned back up towards him, his brows furrowed in confusion.
“I think I would fucking know better than you if I was alone or not. The dwarves left and I-“
“I wouldn’t have left you unprotected, Jaskier.”
Jaskier bristled, the confusion turned back to anger. He crossed his arms over his chest. “But you did. You weren’t there, I waited. I waited for hours for you, and you never showed up, and I walked-“
“You took the longer way back down the mountain, the dwarves showed you before they left where to go since the walkway on the side of the rocks had broken. It took three days to reach the bottom. You barely slept.”
Jaskier’s lips parted with a strained gasp, heart rate picking up, and he shook his head. He swallowed tightly, his eyes filling with tears, his brows furrowing. “You… no… you left. I was… I was alone.”
Geralt hesitated, eyeing Jaskier carefully before shaking his head. “I followed you.”
Jaskier made a strangled noise in his throat, wrapping his arms around his chest tighter, looking away from Geralt. He shook his head again. Geralt could smell the salt of his tears sharp in the air. He muttered under his breath, the words just loud enough that Geralt could hear them. “Fucking… bastard.” Geralt took a hesitant step forward and Jaskier turned his eyes up, pinning him with the tearful gaze. “Why? Why wouldn’t you just… I thought I was… you left, and I thought… I thought I was going to die trying to get back down that mountain… why would you…” He huffed, scrubbing his uninjured hand over his face, the tears spilling over and down his cheeks. “Did you want me to hate you?” He asked, the words thick with emotion.
Geralt didn’t know what to say. He could feel it, that part of himself that lingered deep and rooted strong in his mind. The part that had kept him from returning to Jaskier all those months ago. The part that was hateful, spoke with the voices of the people that called him Butcher, that threw stones, that pushed him out of their villages. It told him that as much as he tried, he would always be the monster that people saw. That it was time that he forced Jaskier to see it, to accept what he was too. It was fear, guilt, insecurity, shame, harsh whispers that said that Jaskier didn’t deserve to be stuck by his side, that he was worth more than what a poorly socialized witcher could offer to him. Geralt was fodder for stories and songs, and Jaskier could write about anything and anyone. He was built for softness, perfumes, for fine clothes and fine wine, for gentle words whispered in the middle of the night, and all Geralt had to offer was rough hands and cruelty, horsehair and sweat, unintelligible grunts and disappointment. If Jaskier stayed with him, he'd be left bloodied and ruined in the end, so the pain of their parting had been worth it, the cruelty of his words, of leaving just the assurance that Jaskier would stay away. Jaskier needed to hate him.
It should have been enough, enough to keep Jaskier safe.
And yet.
It hadn’t been. Geralt’s mark was permanently etched into the bard, branding him for life, making him a target for his enemies to go after. And Geralt hadn’t held up his end. Jaskier had stayed away, maybe out of necessity, out of the need to protect himself, out of hurt, but Geralt had come back, had dragged himself back into Jaskier’s life again without a thought of what it would do to the bard he’d already caused so much pain.
“Geralt?” Jaskier said softly, bringing him back out of his thoughts. He was watching him carefully, the tears bunched in the corners of his eyes, the anguished expression softened to an aching understanding that hurt to look at. Geralt swallowed looking back down at the ground.
“I shouldn’t have come back. I’m sorry… I should-“ Geralt turned around, trying to force himself to walk away, to make that break that Jaskier deserved, to rip himself out of the bard’s life. But he had underestimated how much he missed Jaskier, how much his scent filled an aching part of his chest that he hadn’t realized had been empty, the comfort it gave him to see him alive and breathing and speaking. He’d underestimated how much his body would refuse to leave him once he was back in his presence.
“Geralt, stop. Don’t go, please,” Jaskier said, with a gasp. His footsteps echoed across the cobblestones as he made up the distance between them. Even if Geralt had been able to move, he would have frozen solid at the plea. Jaskier’s hand wrapped around his arm as he ran around to the front of him, staring up with wide desperate eyes. Geralt looked to the side, unable to keep from getting lost in his expression. “I don’t… just… I want to understand why you-?”
“I’m sorry,” Geralt choked out, softer, so soft he wasn’t sure Jaskier could hear it, even with how close he was. He should stop talking, stop trying to make this right; it’d be safer to let him go, to just keep pushing him away, even if Jaskier hates him, if he’s not with Geralt, he’d forget about this, he’d live, he’d survive. But that wasn’t true either, was it? Geralt’s influence had already hurt him even when they were apart, even tearing himself away hadn’t been enough to save the bard from being burned by destiny once again. And Geralt did need him, and he knew it was more than that, a deeper something that stung when he got too close to acknowledging it. He couldn’t even say why he had stayed, why he had spent three days trailing in the shadows after Jaskier on that mountain, why the very mention of his name had him racing back to Oxenfurt, why the thought of leaving him behind now made him want to tear something apart with his bare hands. Geralt felt the pit of anger and helplessness in his chest digging deeper, anger at himself, at his own stupid past self for pushing everyone away, for letting people in, anger at the consequences of his actions, at being unable to protect the people that he cares about most, anger for Jaskier, for Yennefer, for Ciri, for Roach… for Eskel.
Jaskier let out a strangled noise.
Geralt’s eyes shot up, blurred in the dim alleyway. He heard Jaskier gasp, a shaky and aching sound. Jaskier’s hand squeezed on his arm. Geralt wanted to reach out, ask if he was okay, his quivering breath filling Geralt’s ears.
But the words wouldn’t come, his mouth moving with the sound of Jaskier’s choked breaths. Jaskier moved closer and he could hear his soft rambling words coming out at the same time as the shaking gasps for air. The gasps that were too loud, close… Too close to be Jaskier...
Oh. Jaskier wasn’t the one making those sounds.
Geralt choked on air, his teeth grinding together so hard he was sure that they would shatter, every sensation around him too much.
Except Jaskier’s hand was pressing against his cheek, even as Geralt tried to move away, clenching his jaw to get the wave of emotions back down into the pit of his stomach. Emotions he wasn’t supposed to show, that he didn’t want Jaskier to see. Jaskier’s fingers smoothed across his skin, wiping under his eyes where tears would have fallen if he’d been more human. Geralt could make out the crinkles of worry at the edges of his eyes, his brows pushed up and together above the bridge of his nose. Jaskier frowned, pushing in closer.
“Geralt-“ Jaskier said softly, letting out a sigh and shaking his head, his eyes shiny again. Geralt tried to pull away, to hide his face, to hide the vulnerability that he couldn’t let anyone see, but Jaskier had always had a knack for drawing things out of him that he didn’t want anyone to know, and he couldn’t seem to get his muscles to cooperate, the feel of Jaskier’s hand on his cheek warm and comforting.
“You should hate me, I wanted you to hate me, so it would be… easier,” Geralt said, his words quivering irritatingly out of his mouth.
He remembered, years ago, before that banquet, before destiny bit him in the ass.
I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.
And yet, here we are.
And yet.
There was so much he wanted to say, wanted to convey, but the feelings buzzed around in his body, vague and unable to be changed into words. He bit down against them as they swelled up in his chest, feelings he hadn’t dared to allow himself, that he couldn’t, because he had to keep going, keep fighting, keep pushing, on and on and on, but then Jaskier was here, and looking at him with those bright blue eyes, the eyes that saw too much, that cut too deep, that knew him too well, and he couldn’t help but grab Jaskier in his arms and drag him into his chest, careful of his injuries, shoving his nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him buried beneath the filth and blood and sweat and fear. And Jaskier held him back, his uninjured hand tangling under his hair, scratching over his scalp, his other hand fisted against his back.
“I don't,” Jaskier said sadly. “I never did. I couldn’t even when I wanted to. Even when I thought I was going to get torn apart by some monster trying to get off the mountain. Or when that mage was taunting me, when he was going to kill me if I didn’t betray you. I never hated you.” Geralt could feel the words vibrated through their connected chests, soft next to his ears. “I should have. I wanted to hate you. Fuck, I wanted to hate you so much. I wanted to forget all of it... wrote a few… I wrote a few awful songs. I thought if I wrote it all down, how angry I was, how much you hurt me, I could make myself hate you. I could convince myself that it was something that I knew how to do, but… I couldn’t. And I hated singing that bloody song more than I could ever manage to hate you.” His body shook where they were pressed together, and Geralt ran his hands over the smooth surface of the leather jacket covering his back. “I’ve never been a smart man, Geralt. You were forgiven even before I reached the bottom of that mountain.” Jaskier said, almost whispering. He sighed, the strokes of his hand through Geralt’s hair smoothing the rough and tender edges of his emotions. Geralt shivered against him, breathing in the heady scent letting it fill his nostrils and drown out the rest of everything. Jaskier drew in a breath and swallowed hard. “But… if I come with you now… I can’t… you can’t keep pushing me away. I couldn’t bear it. Not again.”
Geralt pulled back, letting his hands drop from Jaskier’s shoulders and drift down, loosely holding his wrists. His eyes rested solidly on Jaskier’s face, holding his gaze, and he shook his head. “You should stay in Oxenfurt. It’s too dangerous.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I already got hurt here. That mage knows where I am, and if he finds out you came to find me, he’s going to come back. Honestly, I’d feel much safer with you.” He licked his lips, looking away a moment, his expression taking on a tightness that made Geralt’s chest ache. “But… I… I suppose I’d only slow you down… and I did mean it when I said I didn’t know anything, so I don’t really have anything to offer that could help you…”
“Jaskier,” Geralt said, cutting off his rambling insecurities. Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut, and he looked back up. “I do need you,” Geralt said softly. Jaskier looked away, the doubt written across his face. Geralt chased his eyes, pulling his chin back towards him with a gentle finger. He could hear Jaskier’s breath catch in his lungs. “I do, and I want you to come with me again, but I… I just… I’ve lost so much. I don’t want to risk losing you too.”
Jaskier’s eyes sparkled, his heart racing in his chest. He loosely shook his head.
“Then don’t push me away. I can take care of myself. I’ll find some way to be of help. I can’t really earn any coin, can’t play for our room for the night since my lute’s in pieces somewhere by the harbor, and, well, my hand...” He held up his injured hand between them, trying to step away. Geralt snorted, taking his hand gently, shaking his head with a glare. “But I could-“
“Didn’t seem to keep you quiet earlier in the jailhouse,” Geralt smiled softly, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to argue when Geralt continued. “You’ve always been much more than your songs, even if I do enjoy them,” he said, and Jaskier raised an eyebrow. Geralt huffed. “Alright, well, some of them. The songs aren’t the reason I kept you around all those years,” he paused, taking a breath. “Why I wanted you around. Why I want you around now.”
Jaskier kept his eyes on his hand, breathing slow and careful, staying quiet, though Geralt could hear his heart racing. He swallowed thickly. Geralt clenched his jaw. It put him off-balance to be the one in this position, needing to reassure, needing to speak. Jaskier always was so much better at that, and his off-putting ability to know what the witcher was trying to say before he said it, somehow reading the expression on his face, made things easier, but he could tell that Jaskier wasn’t going to give him the easy way out this time, and he’d actually have to use his words.
“You make it easier,” Geralt started, feeling the words tumble awkwardly from his mouth. Jaskier looked up at him hesitantly, waiting for him to continue. “This… life. Even if, for you, you just hung around me to write your songs and build your name, it meant something to me." Geralt shook his head, letting out a sigh. Jaskier frowned, narrowing his eyes. “And I don’t know what is going to happen with Ciri, with Yennefer. But… before they left, before she took her, I could already feel Ciri pulling away from me. She’s… been through so much, and she needed me to be more than I could be for her. Someone that could talk to her and make her feel safe. You know I’m not good at talking. I suppose if you’re with me… maybe you could help. With her, with Yennefer. With… dealing with this. Keep me from… fucking everything up.”
Jaskier raised an eyebrow, snorting a soft laugh through his nose. “We’ve been apart way too long, Geralt. You think I could help with not fucking something up? You’re sure you came to the right man?” He shook his head, holding up his hand in front of Geralt’s mouth. “No, don’t answer that, I don’t need you coming to your senses and realizing you’re making a big mistake.”
Geralt shook his head, a subtle motion, as his eyes softened. He pulled Jaskier’s hand away from his mouth, holding it gentle and firm between his fingers. Jaskier swallowed, his throat bobbing hard, drawing Geralt’s eyes down to the bare expanse of his neck. He shifted and Geralt felt the touch of his other hand on his wrist, warm and tentative, just the softest brush of his fingertips on his skin. His eyes flicked from the blue shine of Jaskier’s eyes, to the slightly parted lips letting out shallow breaths, and back up to his eyes. Geralt didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing, too focused on the way Jaskier’s gaze trailed down his own face. Jaskier swallowed again, blinking hard and flinching back with a deep shaky breath.
“We should go,” Jaskier said softly. “Don’t want to get stuck in here when night falls.” He gave a hesitant smile, removing his hand from Geralt’s wrist and stepping away. Geralt felt the loss immediately, letting his eyes linger on him before moving back into action.
They continued down the dark alleyway, quietly making their way past the buildings of the city until Geralt could sense that they were nearing the edge of the city. There was an openness in the air just out of reach beyond the walls he couldn’t quite see yet. He turned to check on Jaskier, immediately frowning.
Jaskier was panting again, his face clenched as he breathed against the pain Geralt could smell throbbing out of his nerves in aching waves. He was trying to hide it, subtly hiding the way he had his arm wrapped around his chest. Even if it was just bruised ribs, nothing broken, it was still going to cause him enough pain that walking the trail with him was going to be increasingly uncomfortable until they healed, and that was if the hand and his chest were actually all that had been injured. Despite how much he wanted to keep Jaskier close, to keep him in sight, to keep him safe, maybe it would be better to leave him in the city. Find some healer, someone Jaskier could trust to hide out with until he was better. He glanced up from the small patch of skin peeking out of the unbuttoned top of Jaskier’s chemise to find his eyes watching him, glaring sharply.
"You're not leaving me behind."
Of course. Fucking Jaskier and his stupid ability to read every thought on his face. Geralt huffed and opened his mouth to argue, but Jaskier cut him off.
"I am not staying here. That was more words than I have probably ever heard you speak...ever, so no. I am fine, and I am not staying here,” he said firmly. “Seriously, Geralt, they're just bruises. I’ve had worse. You’ve seen me when I've had worse," he added, and Geralt knew Jaskier remembered how guilty he felt for those times, given the smug knowing expression on his face. Geralt glared at him sharply.
"Jaskier-"
"You really just want to leave me here, totally unprotected?" Jaskier said, his eyebrows raising, a curve at the edge of his lips. Geralt frowned, narrowing his eyes. "What if you leave and that fucker just comes back and kills me… or kidnaps me… or I don’t know, chops my hands off?" Jaskier said, his eyebrows lingering near his hairline, and his arms waved out to the side. Geralt gave an irritated huff. Jaskier was way too dangerous with his intelligence and words, just as Nenneke was, and all he had to try and fend against them was his sour face and stupid metal swords. Not much of a fair fight.
"I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?" Geralt started, the smug determination on Jaskier's face cutting chunks out of his resolve to argue, the fear that Jaskier was right, and he would be in more danger staying here. And he really didn't want to push him away again, didn't want to insult his free will to be able to choose what he wanted to do with his life and time and energy.
Jaskier's mouth curved into a sly grin. "Well, what use is getting tortured if I can't use it to guilt you into something?" Geralt flinched at the reminder.
Geralt huffed. "It's going to be dangerous. You’re already hurt... I don’t know if I can keep you safe." Jaskier rolled his eyes.
"It's always dangerous, my dear.” Geralt flinched at the affectionate tone, the term of endearment he didn’t deserve. Jaskier cocked his head, continuing. “Besides, I have been absolutely bored to tears here. There's only so many nights of tavern performances and espionage a man can bear." Geralt stared at him down, and Jaskier sighed, keeping his eyebrows raised high.
Geralt knew he was going to regret this in some way, but the ease of having Jaskier back by his side after so long, his willingness to come along, the notes of forgiveness lingering in his voice, were too seductive to say no to. And it did make him feel a little better to have him with him, at least knowing that he was alive. The thought of leaving him here and not being able to know if he was safe, if the mage was coming back, if Jaskier was getting himself into more danger because that’s just what he does, made him grind his teeth and itch to grab his swords.
"Fine," he growled and Jaskier grinned, nudging Geralt's shoulder with a soft hum of victory. Geralt glanced back at him again, mentally taking stock of the ingredients in his pack, the meager amount of coin he had left, the lack of any potions fit for humans. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, obviously getting curious as to the delay in their escape.
“What’s the hold up?”
Geralt hummed. “I don’t have any potions you could take for your injuries. I might still have some salve left, but I don’t know how long it’ll last.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I told you, Geralt, it’s fine. Besides all the apothecaries in the city are absurdly expensive… or at least they are for me. No appreciation for our famous artists. Seriously, I spent all my coin from one night’s performance on the smallest vial of hangover cure I’ve ever seen. Granted I really needed it, but those bastards absolutely take advantage of the desperate and needy.”
Geralt noted another mention of Jaskier’s drinking with a frown, saving the discussion for later once they had dealt with the more pressing matters, but still felt a pit of concern curling in his gut.
“Hmm.” Geralt was reminded once again of his lack of coin. There was barely enough for even the ingredients to make the potion himself, let alone buy one, even if he wasn’t in the city. He frowned but nodded. “You’re probably right.”
Jaskier’s smile brightened. “I am right,” he said, nudging Geralt’s shoulder again. “Come on, we’re almost at the gates, and the sun is getting lower.”
It took another couple of minutes to reach the gates. They paused in an alley with a slightly obstructed view and Geralt narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his senses on the guards leaned up against the walls of the gate. He could make out muffled conversation, their hassling remarks to passing travelers about the shapes of their ears, but nothing related to a jail break or a white haired witcher they were looking out for, which left another question. He frowned at Jaskier.
"What did they arrest you for anyways?"
Jaskier hummed and cocked his head. "Ah, yes, that would be ‘peeping in the whorehouse.’" Geralt huffed and rolled his eyes, and Jaskier let out a dramatic sigh. "And not for the obvious reason, Geralt-" He whacked Geralt's shoulder. "-I am a respectable man… sort of. That was where the guards were holding Yennefer after they caught her. I was trying to put together an expert break-out plan when they pulled me for looking in the window, and then she obviously managed to get out somehow… otherwise… well, you know, then she found you shortly after... which, if I’m really thinking about it, is honestly, quite odd because… Geralt, are you even listening to me?” Geralt was focused back on the guards at the gate, and he nodded once. Jaskier huffed, following his eyes.
"Do you think they'll recognize you?" Geralt asked.
Jaskier shrugged, cocking his head and looking back over at him. "Who wouldn’t? I mean, I am a famous, world-renowned bard. Recognition comes with the territory." He paused, waiting for Geralt's eye roll, and then continued. "And to be fair, it's far from the first time I've been arrested in Oxenfurt. They seem to be quite particular about policing the behavior of very, very slightly intoxicated individuals wandering in the streets.” Geralt frowned at yet another mention of his drinking, but didn’t say anything, Jaskier continuing his speech. “So... is it likely they’ll recognize me?” He made a show of thinking before giving a stiff nod. “Yes, sure, of course. But really, the question you should be asking is, will they care enough to stop me if they do?” He cocked his head, quirking an eyebrow up. “If I’m being completely honest, they'll probably just be glad that I'm finally leaving." Geralt clenched his jaw, glaring back at the guards. He strained his ears, listening for footsteps, heartbeats, scenting for additional dangers. The weight of his swords on his back gave him reassurance that even if a casual walk out of the gates didn't work, they always had the option of the alternative… not murder, just… relying on his ‘intimidating grumpy witcher face’ as Jaskier had once put it.
Geralt nodded and pulled his cloak up over his head, turning to Jaskier and looking him over. "Stay close."
Jaskier’s lips pressed into a tight line as he returned Geralt’s nod and took a deep breath.