Healing Heart Headquarters

Chapter One

Dandelion was singing and playing at a royal banquet, and as it happened, Geralt had been invited too — his least favorite kind of occasion. It started because his employer, a farmer, was in a good mood and announced that as long as he was employing a witcher, he felt responsible for making sure the man ate and drank well. Geralt wanted to thank him properly, but only after getting the job done. The employer, however, wasn’t in any hurry.

He hadn’t expected to run into Dandelion here. The mess in the Valley of Flowers had happened not long ago, and he’d thought he wouldn’t see the troubadour again for at least half a year. Yet here they were.

Geralt feasted at the table, making no pretense at manners. Just as he was about to enjoy a glass of wine, Dandelion somehow made his way over mid-song and launched into a bit of improvisation with him. The guests around them cheered and urged him on, but Geralt just kept drinking. Then Dandelion returned to the stage, finished his piece with a deep bow, and the whole hall erupted in applause.

After the performance, the troubadour finally had some free time. He walked over to Geralt, took the untouched glass of wine from his hand, and downed it in one go.

“My throat’s about to catch fire from all that singing.”

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I, Witcher!” Dandelion threw his arms around Geralt, who patted him on the back. “I’m guessing you didn’t come willingly? Work?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Geralt sighed.

“Now that you’re here, you might as well enjoy it,” Dandelion said, leaning against Geralt and stealing a piece of steak he’d just cut.

“What about you?”

“I happened to be passing through, and the hosts were so enthusiastic they just swept me right in.” Dandelion’s mouth was stuffed full, his words muffled. “Got a place to stay tonight? Let me crash with you.”

Geralt nodded — his employer was covering lodging too.

“Great… let me have another bite…” Dandelion bounced excitedly. “What’s the job? Tell me.”

“The farmer said he kept hearing a clacking noise around his mill after midnight. I searched for days and couldn’t find a thing. Then we found a human corpse there. I compared it to every monster wound I know—” Geralt took a sip of wine, leaned close to Dandelion’s ear, and lowered his voice. “Whoever killed him looked more human.”

“Whoa!” Dandelion glanced around warily, confirming no one was near, then let out a hushed gasp. “That’s fascinating. I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“Hey, we just went through life and death together not long ago.”

“That’s exactly why — no.” Geralt pulled a key from his pocket. “Go on, Dandelion. Wait for me in the room. If I’m not back by morning, come find me.”

Chapter Two

The air was damp. Dandelion woke up stifled on a hard mattress, tugging at the collar of his doublet — he’d drunk too much the night before and passed out as soon as he lay down.

“What time is it?” he muttered to himself, scratching at his tangled curls. Through the fogged-up window, he couldn’t see the sky, so there was no way to tell the hour by the sun.

He fumbled his way to the door he’d accidentally locked from the inside. Fortunately — or unfortunately — Geralt hadn’t come back last night. Damn it! He clumsily shoved the key into the lock, slung his lute over his back, and dashed down the stairs, snatching a piece of bread off some poor soul’s table as he ran. A string of curses erupted behind him.

“Damn you, Geralt, and your cursed jinxes.”

When the troubadour arrived, his timing was perfect — just in time for the mob. They were gathered around a large banyan tree. Geralt, his neck in a noose tied to the trunk, was drenched in blood.

Dandelion squeezed into the crowd to find out what happened. One woman didn’t want to talk at first, but the moment she saw it was Dandelion, she lit up.

“Shh — they just dug up a corpse nearby! He’s the murderer.”

Dandelion rolled his eyes, thanked her, and swung his lute around to the front. He raised his clear tenor voice, strummed the strings, and instantly drew every eye. Only Geralt kept his head down, staring blankly at the ground.

The song rang out, the melody sweet and sorrowful. Dandelion sang of their first meeting at the edge of the world, but he’d twisted the story beyond recognition — in this version, Geralt was a hero to humanity. The woman he’d spoken to earlier burst into tears, and others pulled out handkerchiefs to dab their eyes. The men carrying hoes muttered among themselves and gradually dispersed.

Dandelion fixed his gaze on the farmer standing beside Geralt, and a suspicion crept into his mind: maybe this whole thing had been a setup from the start.

The farmer listened patiently. When Dandelion finished, he even applauded. Most of the crowd had drifted away, but the ones who remained were either the farmer’s men or perhaps onlookers — or perhaps not.

“Master Dandelion! To hear your performance is truly a blessing I don’t deserve,” the farmer said with a bow. Dandelion returned the courtesy politely.

“I heard Geralt speak highly of you at the banquet! So how did things come to such a dreadful pass between you two?”

Two burly men had quietly moved behind Dandelion, but he pretended not to see. The farmer clasped his own hands, still smiling, but when he stepped up to Dandelion, his face suddenly changed.

“I advise you not to meddle. I don’t care who you are, troubadour — if I dare kill a witcher, you’re no different.”

Geralt shook his head and sighed. Then he turned around, leaving only the rope swinging in the air. The witcher kicked the man behind Dandelion on the left square in the chest, sending him stumbling to the ground. The man on the right had just drawn back his fist to punch Dandelion’s face when Geralt blocked it and slapped him so hard his head twisted. Dandelion raised his lute to smash it over the farmer’s head, but the farmer stomped on his toes. The troubadour yelped in pain and fell flat.

Two more men rushed forward. Geralt picked up a fallen cudgel and stood in front of Dandelion. The two men stopped short. The farmer screamed in fury: “Get him, you cowards! What are you afraid of? We beat him half to death last night!”

The witcher twirled the cudgel in his hand. The weight felt good. The farmer’s shouts grew louder, but the two men never dared step closer. Some ran, some backed away. Geralt strode over to the farmer, his face dark, and brought the cudgel down on his head. Just knocked him out, nothing more.

Dandelion picked himself up and dusted off his clothes. Geralt had his back to him.

“Let’s go. We shouldn’t stay here.”

Passersby pointed and whispered. Geralt walked in silence to the stable, where Roach was calmly munching on hay. Dandelion wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. He watched Geralt wipe his face with his hand, pull a ragged cloth from the saddlebag — dark red blood soaking through the fabric, loose white hair covering most of his face.

Roach was led out. Geralt swung into the saddle and reached down a hand. Dandelion grabbed it and climbed up behind him.

He wanted to ask: Geralt, are you all right?

But the other would surely say fine, so what was the point?

“Do you want to hear me talk?” Dandelion said.

“Not really.”

“All right, then —” Dandelion shut his mouth.

Geralt spurred the horse and left the village behind.

Chapter Three

Geralt washed his wounds simply in the stream. Dandelion sat by the campfire, scratching his head, trying to figure out what was wrong with Geralt. Normally, he wouldn’t be this gloomy over a little misunderstanding — and he hadn’t even killed anyone.

Dandelion reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He’d been planning to collect his payment today — he hadn’t gotten his fee for singing at the banquet yet — but seeing the state Geralt was in, he hadn’t felt right asking the witcher to wait a bit. Then he found a leaf in his pocket and tossed it onto a pile of identical leaves.

Geralt was bare from the waist up, river water and blood dripping down in droplets. Dandelion swallowed hard and pulled a big roll of bandages off Roach’s back.

“Damn it, how did you get hurt this badly?”

He wrapped Geralt’s arm first. Soon the yellowish cloth was stained red. Then the abdomen, then the shoulder. The witcher suddenly frowned. Dandelion thought he’d hurt him.

“Are you okay? Am I pressing too hard?”

Geralt turned his face away and shook his head. He pressed his hand to his brow, the one still intact. Dandelion tied off the bandage and stood up.

“All right, you rest for a bit. I’ll go see if there are any fish in the river. Hey, I’m about to starve anyway.”

Geralt nodded slightly. There was something in his golden eyes that Dandelion couldn’t read.

Dandelion took off his coat and shoes, rolled up his trousers, and stepped into the water. The icy cold shocked him into a shiver. Soon he spotted a decent-sized bass circling in the current. Carefully aiming at the small fish, he lunged the next second — the freezing water slammed against his heart, and in his flailing he accidentally kicked the fish onto the bank.

Geralt hauled him out of the water. The troubadour coughed and spat out a mouthful of bitter river water. He thought Geralt would mock him mercilessly. But the witcher didn’t. He just helped him steady himself.

“Go dry off, Dandelion. It’s cold here.”

“Cough, cough… all right, you go cook the fish,” Dandelion plopped down on the ground. “Let me catch my breath…”

Geralt didn’t even make a joke? Didn’t so much as smile? Dandelion sneezed.

The witcher picked up the flopping fish and started to clean it.

The troubadour stripped off his wet clothes, dried himself, and wrung out his dark-gold hair, which the river water had stained. At least now they’d have a little something to fill their stomachs — since that piece of bread in the morning, nothing else had gone into his gut.

When Dandelion returned to the fire, the bass was already cleaned. Geralt handed him half of it on a stick. The remaining half he didn’t seem to intend to cook.

“Wait, Geralt, there’s no way you’re not hungry. Eat up — we’ll share.” Dandelion took the stick, tore off some freshly cooked fish with his fingers, yelping at the heat. He blew on it, then held it up to Geralt’s mouth.

“Dandelion.”

“Eat, Geralt.”

“If someone called you a traitor, do you think I’d believe them?” Geralt caught Dandelion’s wrist and bit the meat from his hand.

“Traitor? What would I want from you? What do you have that’s worth betraying?” Dandelion shook off Geralt’s hand dismissively and wolfed down his fish. He didn’t notice the strange tone of Geralt’s voice or the strangeness of the question. “If you don’t want to cook yours, I’ll do it for you after I finish mine.”

Geralt said nothing. He took the remaining half, skewered it on a stick, and set it over the crackling, sparking fire.

Chapter Four

Dandelion was sneezing violently in the cold wind. He opened his eyes weakly. The forest had gone completely dark, the dense leaves blocking out the sky. Apart from the faint glow of the dying fire, there was almost no light.

The troubadour rubbed his shoulders for warmth, sat up, and threw a few more sticks onto the fire. Falling asleep with his hair still wet had left his head throbbing. He looked around and couldn’t see Geralt — his heart jumped — then spotted the witcher’s silhouette by the lake and breathed a sigh of relief.

He was about to lie back down when the sound of snapping twigs and water being stepped into reached his ears. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over himself, and ran to the lake. He grabbed Geralt around the middle, clutching right at the witcher’s wounded abdomen. The two of them tumbled into the water with a huge splash.

“What the hell are you doing, Dandelion? Have you lost your mind?!”

Dandelion flailed in the water. Geralt lifted him up and threw him back onto the bank. The troubadour’s hair, which had just dried, was soaked again.

“Damn it, I finally got my clothes dry!” Geralt roared. “And my wounds, you idiot!”

Dandelion lay on the grass gasping, his head spinning, shivering with a few more sneezes.

“I should be asking you what you’re doing standing by the river in the middle of the night!” Dandelion touched his burning cheek — this wasn’t good. He forced himself upright and looked Geralt straight in the eye. “I’m done tiptoeing around your fragile little feelings. Tell me right the fuck now — what happened last night? Tell me everything about that contract, or I’ll push you back in the water.”

“You dare threaten me?” Geralt raised his hands.

Dandelion gritted his teeth, stepped closer, lifted his chin, and said haughtily, “Save those tricks for the bastards who fall for them!”

“Don’t worry. I’m not so low as to use them on you. I was thinking — let’s go to the fire, if you don’t want both of us to freeze to death.” Geralt walked right past him.

They sat down again by the campfire.

Dandelion struggled to keep his eyes open. The splitting headache made him miserable, not to mention the occasional gust of cold wind in the midnight forest. The witcher, clearly tougher than him, didn’t so much as wince from the cold or the pain.

“I don’t tell you things, that doesn’t mean anything. Just like that question I asked — nothing special to it.” Geralt shrugged. “You’re a troubadour. There’s hardly anyone in the North who doesn’t know your name — you’re a king’s favorite, a drinker’s delight, a woman’s dearest friend. I’m a witcher. There’s hardly anyone in the North who isn’t afraid of my name — I’m a king’s tool, a drinker’s scorn, someone women cross the street to avoid.”

“That day in the Valley of Flowers, I saw your courage. I saw that bravado you put on, just for show. And I thought — wouldn’t it be good if I could die with you right then? I wouldn’t have to be a witcher anymore, a job even a dog wouldn’t want. And I could keep the memory of you, the you willing to sacrifice yourself for me, forever — so I’d know that there really was a human who truly loved me.”

“Fuck, what the hell are you going on about?” Dandelion staggered to his feet, nearly pitching headfirst into the fire. “You goddamn cursed idiot — they really did beat you senseless, didn’t they? Are you sure they didn’t take a club to your head too?”

“I could also tell you that I’m the best student Oxenfurt ever had, the most admired professor. I’m the greatest Dandelion, envied by countless troubadours. I’m also Viscount de Rautenburg. That’s right. And you’re just a mutant.” Dandelion pointed at Geralt’s forehead, looking down at him from above. “But so what? So I ‘condescend’ to catch fish for you, bandage your wounds, and generously share half of the fish I caught. They tell you all that, and the reason you can think of for me doing this is — I have an angle? I’m just playing with you? That one day this Dandelion, this pleasure-seeking troubadour, will get bored and toss you aside, and if it suits me, write a song spreading your story as a joke?”

“I never said that,” Geralt muttered.

“That’s what you were thinking!” Dandelion bent over. “You’re no witcher. I’ve met witchers before, and they aren’t as fussy and broody as you.”

Suddenly, Dandelion felt the world spin, and then his eyes wouldn’t stay open anymore. He collapsed onto Geralt. When the witcher reached out to catch him, his hand nearly got blistered from the heat.

“Dandelion!”

Chapter Five

Dandelion dreamed of a gentle, beautiful woman. Her smile was soft, her figure light, and she hummed a sweet melody in his ear — one of his own songs, no less.

The troubadour reluctantly bid farewell to the beauty in his dream, vowing that when he woke up, he would write a poem for her.

He pried one eye open with effort. The first thing he saw was Geralt’s weathered face, white hair spilling down to the ground.

Dandelion sprang up like a shot and slammed his forehead straight into the witcher’s nose.

Geralt finally sucked in a sharp breath of pain. “Shit…”

“So this is how you treat the man who saved your life,” Geralt said, rubbing his hopefully-unbroken nose. He ran a finger under his nostrils — good, no blood.

Dandelion held his forehead. Beneath his palm, he could still feel the lingering warmth of the fever that had broken. The campfire from the day before was nothing but dark embers.

“You’ve been taking care of me?” Dandelion wiped his face. “Oh right, I passed out last night!”

“Not last night. You’ve been out for two days.” Geralt reached out and suddenly pinched Dandelion’s ribs. The troubadour jerked reflexively, then went stiff and flopped back onto the pile of grass like a dead fish. “At this rate, you’ll die before you ever get the chance to die with me. You’ll just kill yourself first.”

“Fuck you! Did you have to pinch that hard?” Dandelion winced, gasping, clutching his shirt.

Geralt looked at his own hand. He honestly hadn’t used much force — or rather, he hadn’t felt like he used much force.

Dandelion slowly sat up, shaking his messy golden curls. A few dry leaves fluttered down from his hair.

“So then, what’s your plan?” Dandelion asked.

“What plan?”

“A plan for where you go next. Unless you want to keep wallowing in that self-pity from the other night—” Dandelion tilted his head.

“Thank you, Dandelion.”

Dandelion sighed, opened his arms,

“Come hug me, you idiot.”

Geralt didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, slipped his arms under Dandelion’s, and held him.

“That’s right, good. See? A hug solves everything.” Dandelion patted him on the back. “Now let go.”

Geralt had no intention of letting go. Instead, he tightened his arms, scooped Dandelion clean off the grass pile, and settled him on his lap.

“Hey! Most of the time when I do this, it’s with a one-night stand!” Dandelion struggled to get up.

“You said it yourself — you’re not a one-night stand, so it’s fine.” Geralt rested his chin on Dandelion’s shoulder. The blond hair tickled his nose. “Mm… you smell like fish.”

“Bullshit. I never said that.”

It took the troubadour another few minutes to get the room to stop spinning long enough for any remaining nausea to leave him and enable him to look around. The room was unfamiliar, but that itself was not particularly unusual. His days at Oxenfurt had often led to a similar discovery come morning, and there had been countless nights where he'd woken up in tavern rooms that he'd barely remembered paying for the night before. With a long, heavy sigh, Dandelion pushed the mess of flattened locks from off his face and blinked some more, trying to ascertain where the fuck he was. 

It was run down to say the least, even for a tavern or village in the middle of nowhere, and judging by the lack of bustling city noises from the world outside they were, in fact, in the middle of nowhere. There were cracks in the walls, and mildew creeping along the brick work. The windows were shattered, leaving shards sticking out precariously from the frames, and the furniture was minimal - a small chest at the end of the bed, some shelves and a singular rackety-looking chair around an old barrel that seemed to serve as a table. It was also incredibly cramped. By the looks of it there was only one room in the building - hut? He was going to call it a hut but that was quite frankly generous as far as Dandelion was concerned. 

"Hmmm," he murmured to himself, licking his lips at a desperate attempt to stave off the cracking and the itch of dehydration. "Dearest Melitele, what are we doing here?" 

That was when he noticed the note. The parchment was crumpled and stained with - he sniffed it - fuck knows what. It looked like a scrap that had been living in the owner's pocket for far too long. With a cock of his head, Dandelion flipped the paper over, absent-mindedly twisting a lock of hair between his long fingers. On the back was looked like a contract of some kind, the sort one might find on those notice boards in town. 

Don't Panic

You'll find a anti-grog potion on the shelf next to you and a waterskin in the chest. 

And sure enough, there was a familiar smelling hangover-be-gone potion on a shelf to his right which Dandelion didn't think twice about downing. Relief washed over him as the headache faded and his stomach stopped lurching and twisting. He felt like he could breathe again. Pulling the sheet around his waist more securely, he crawled to the end of the bed and quickly found the waterskin. Oh how he was tempted to pour the whole damn thing over his head, to wash away the grime and drunken sweat from the night before, but in the end, his thirst got the better of him, and he drank gleefully, spilling the last mouthful down his chin. Feeling more human and alive than he'd felt all morning, Dandelion turned back to the note. 

Where am I?

 In an old hut on the outskirts of Oxenfurt. I found you wandering along the banks of the river singing, too drunk to be left alone. There are bandits and drowners in the area, but you refused to go back into town and you couldn't remember any of your friends' names. 

Where is my -

Lute: Next to the door. I put it back in its case for you.

Jewellery: In the lute case. You had a lot of rings and they didn't look comfortable to sleep in

Clothes: Hanging up outside. You were sick. I cleaned them. It's warm out so they will be dry by the time you wake up. Probably.

What now? 

I don't care, bard. Sneak out. Get drunk again for all I care, but try not to make a fool of yourself. Again. 

Dandelion let out a peal of laughter. Gods knows who wrote this note, but the dry humour was endearing. He grinned to himself as he padded softly across the room, the sheet dropping to the floor as he hugged his lute to his chest. "Chivalry, it seems, is not completely lost. Thank you kind stranger, whoever you may be." 

All the rings were accounted for, and once they were safely back on his finger, he felt much less like a doppler and more like the famed bard of Oxenfurt that he was. 

"It truly is a wonder. They live like this, and yet not a single thing stolen. How strange?" Dandelion pondered to himself. "And my lute is probably worth more than this whole bloody building." He huffed, putting one hand on his hip and blowing his hair from his face. "Not to mention, you've absolutely done this before, kind stranger. The paper might be shit, but who leaves a list for drunken strays? and the potion! Gods, this man is a saint, and a lot better than my sorry excuse for friends" 

He idly wondered what had happened to them. If he'd been drinking in Oxenfurt, then he hadn't gotten that drunk by himself. Valdo Marx had to be involved. There was no such thing as "One more drink" with Valdo Marx, especially if Essi or Priscilla were there too. And yet. None of them had ended up dancing by the river. "Well, I suppose I should better get dressed and find the bitches." He muttered with a roll of his eyes. "I just can't believe they would leave me like this." 

Clothes. The note had said they would be outside, which made perfect sense given the size of his temporary accommodation, but they were outside and he was naked. 

"Ah fuck it." 

Anyone that saw him would really be receiving a gift! Nay! A blessing. Well, they would be if he didn't feel quite so gross, but with drowners in the river, there was no choice but to wait until he was back at his lodgings to clean up properly. So he strode, brimming with confidence that only a troubadour could manage, straight out the door. 

And straight into a wall of a person. No. A witcher. 

Golden eyes peered down at him, cat-like pupils thin in the bright sunlight. Long moonlit hair cascaded down his shoulders and dear gods he was beautiful! And Dandelion looked like a drowned rat. He whined stupidly and raced for his clothes. 

"Sorry! I'm normally. Well. I don't. Oh bollocks!" 

"It's alright, Dandelion." The witcher's voice was rough and low, turning Dandelion's heartstrings into wilting flowers as he melted inside. "We've all been there." 

"Yes. Well. I do prefer to make better first impressions. Especially on such handsome men such as yourself." He added with a wink before he could stop himself and then it clicked. "Hang on. You're Geralt of Rivia!" 

"And you're the famous troubadour, Dandelion," Geralt agreed. "Glad to see you on your feet again." 

Dandelion felt his cheeks warm, and he all but preened under the praise, as he began to pull on his mostly dry silks, pouting as he saw the state of the feather in his hat. It was truly a mess, spindly and thinning, not everything had survived the washing.  "Ah yes. Thank you, Geralt. Truly. If you're ever in town then please, it would be an honour to play for you. Perhaps, get some stories of your adventures? I'm always looking for a new muse, but I really must be off. The bathhouse awaits" 

Geralt hummed in response. "I'll keep it in mind. Stay of trouble, bard." The words were accompanied by a small smile, barely noticeable, that made Dandelion grinned brightly in return. 

__

Jaskier was terrified in a way that he never had been before. He was used to a world filled with colour and beauty, and now there was only darkness. Somehow he’d managed to get some more sleep after his initial panic by the fire, and when he’d woken up again he’d desperately hoped it had all been a horrid dream, but there was no such luck. He was still surrounded by darkness. 

Thankfully, Geralt seemed to be actually giving a shit about it. Normally, the witcher would just grumble and grunt, letting Jaskier tend to his wounds if he had any, and they’d settle down for the evening in quiet companionship, or as quiet as Jaskier ever was. 

Their friendship was a peculiar one, and one that no one seemed to understand, but it worked for them. Despite his complaints, Geralt was lonely, and Jaskier knew that he helped ease some of that pain. He was hope for a man that saw very little light in his life, and Jaskier was more than happy to shoulder that burden.

And well, Geralt was his world. 

Geralt was warmth. Geralt was adventure. Geralt was freedom. 

But more than anything, Geralt was love. 

It was an unrequited love, but Jaskier was okay with that. He had a large heart and plenty of love to give so it wasn’t like he had all his eggs in one basket, nor would he ever want to, even if Geralt did love him back. No, Jaskier was not wanting for lovers. It was just that Geralt was his greatest love, the one he always returned to regardless of Geralt’s own feelings. If Jaskier could continue to be Geralt’s best friend then he would be happy. 

Only with the darkness came a sort of tenderness that caught Jaskier off-guard. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice sounded from his right, accompanied by a touch to his shoulder. 

Instinctively, Jaskier turned towards the sound of Geralt’s voice. “Hmm?”

“I made you breakfast,” the witcher said softly. “Here.”

Geralt’s fingers pressed against Jaskier’s hand, gently moving his palm so that he could take the bowl. It was rough against his skin, and there was a heat emanating from the bowl. Jaskier leaned forward and sniffed. Porridge maybe? Jaskier looked up again to where he thought Geralt’s face was. 

“What is it?”

“Oatmeal,” Geralt said, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions. “Sorry I didn’t have any honey or spices.”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Jaskier hated porridge. The texture was weird and often made him gag without some sort of added flavour, but it was food and he was hungry. Still, he grimaced as Geralt pressed a spoon into his hand. 

“There’s some stale bread but try this first.”

Jaskier nodded glumly. “Yeah.”

It didn’t go well. Without his sight, the texture seemed to be even worse. It was gloopy and sticky. Jaskier grumbled his way through several mouthfuls before the bowl was pulled from his hands. Shortly after a mug pressed against his fingertips. 

“Careful, it’s hot.”

Jaskier sniffed again. Tea! Unsweetened like the oats, but hopefully it would wash away the unpleasant texture in his mouth. With Geralt’s help, the mug was lifted to his lips and he drank eagerly, not caring that he burned his tongue. 

Once they were done with breakfast, Geralt helped Jaskier into the thicket so he could take care of his business. It was humiliating. He felt helpless. After years of travelling together, Jaskier would like to say he was pretty self-sufficient on the road, bar the killing of monsters and bandits, he could hold his own, but not anymore. The darkness had stolen that from him. All those years fighting for his independence away from his parents and their fortune, and now he was as useful as a newborn babe.

What sort of man couldn’t even shit without help?

“Take me to Oxenfurt,” Jaskier whispered as he was lifted onto Roach. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Not that he knew what he would do at Oxenfurt. It wasn’t like he could work like this. He couldn’t write, he couldn’t mark tests or assignments, and he’d probably not even be able to find his way from his rooms on his own. 

Fuck. 

Gods, he hated this. 

“You’re not a burden, Jask,” Geralt’s voice murmured, his hand resting on Jaskier’s knee. “We’ll figure this out.”

“But what if we don’t? What if I’m stuck like this?” whined Jaskier. “I can’t keep travelling with you like this!”

Geralt hummed. “Why not?”

“What?”

“There was a witcher, a cat, when I was younger. He was blind, but he was still one of the most skilled fighters I’ve ever seen. I never managed to defeat him when we sparred,” Geralt told him. His fingers stayed on Jaskier’s leg even as Roach started to walk, never leaving him. Steady and constant. “You’ll learn to adapt and I’ll be here to help you.”

Tears welled in Jaskier’s eyes and he reached out for Geralt with both arms. He didn’t have to wait long before Roach came to a stop, and he was lifted back to the floor, into Geralt’s warm embrace. The scent of leather washed over him as he pressed his nose into Geralt’s chest. 

“Thank you, dear heart,” he mumbled, listening to the slow and steady beat of Geralt’s heart. 

_

The next few days were more of the same, lingering touches in the dark, a brush of fingers as they walked side by side, Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the void. Things did get a little easier. Jaskier got used to relying on his other senses just as Geralt said he would, but he still felt helpless. Playing his lute for the first time had been a mess. He hadn’t realised just how much he relied on quick glances at his fingers whenever he changed chords, and not being able to write anything down was frustrating him. There were so many ideas buzzing around his head, stuck there and forgotten by morning. 

He sighed as he listened to the fire crackling, the warmth tickling his skin. Geralt was sharpening his swords next to him as he described the latest drowner hunt in great detail. It was strange to hear Geralt talk so much and so freely, but he was grateful. If Jaskier concentrated hard enough, he could almost picture the scene. 

But it wasn’t the same as seeing it through his own eyes. 

He sighed again, looking up at the sky. Well… not looking. He wondered whether the stars were out tonight. There was a chill in the air and the day had felt warm, the sun beating down on them from above. That would suggest that there were very little clouds but what did it matter? Jaskier couldn’t see them anyway. 

“Jask?”

The scrape of stone on steel stopped, and there was a touch to his shoulder before he felt Geralt’s fingers press against the back of his hand. 

“Hmm?” he answered. 

The next touch startled him as Geralt cupped his cheek. There was a whisper of warmth as Geralt’s breath tickled against his lips. The scent of onions lingered from their dinner. Jaskier froze, his heart thumping in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time that Geralt had been this close to him. 

Had he ever? 

All the feelings that Jaskier had pushed down over the years came rushing to the surface. It wasn’t fair. He’d done such a good job of accepting Geralt’s friendship without needing more, but there was no denying this weird energy that suddenly existed between them. 

In the darkness, everything seemed so much more. 

The rush of Geralt’s breath only seemed to get closer, and Jaskier could feel his fringe moving against his forehead. It felt like Geralt’s lips were ghosting over his, tingling, lighting up his skin, but then he was gone. Jaskier’s cheek was cold once more, and a few seconds later, he heard the scraping of Geralt’s sword resound around the camp again. 

Jaskier stared blankly, frowning into the black void that surrounded him. For a moment, he’d been so sure that Geralt was going to kiss him, but it must have been his imagination. Wishful thinking. Why would Geralt try and kiss him? They were friends. Friends. There was no weird energy. Right? 

“Right,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, even knowing that Geralt could hear him regardless how loud he spoke. 

But Geralt didn’t acknowledge his word. Probably for the best. With a deep sigh, Jaskier turned back to the glowing heat of the fire. The lash of flames against the air prickled against his skin, tingling as his fringe brushed softly against his forehead. The heat of surrounding air created a draft around them and Jaskier sighed again, louder this time, a huff of breath that exploded from his lips in a pout. He wanted to write, to play, to laugh… and sing. 

Well, he supposed he could still sing. Even if his fingers were clumsy on lute strings. He began to hum, a melody that had sprung up in the darkness that now enveloped his every waking breath. It was melancholic, yearning despite the lack of lyrics. It didn’t take a musical genius to hear the pain in his heart, in the soft crying notes that rumbled in his throat. After a few minutes, he could feel the damp of tears on his cheeks, the low hums breaking into a soft “oh” as he worked through the days of darkness, the yearning that he felt towards his friend, the heartbreak that he felt day in and day out but never truly let himself grieve. 

The brush of Geralt’s thumb on his cheek startled him. The note he’d been singing broke into a garbled mess and he almost fell backwards off the log he was perched on. Almost. Instead, Geralt caught him in his strong, witchery arms. For a moment, Jaskier allowed his pain to flood from his body, focussing on the feeling of being home, kept tight in his witcher’s embrace, before he shook off the daze and steadied himself back in his seat. 

“Ah, thank you Geralt. What would I do without you?”

“Shine brighter than the evening stars,” came the reply, blunt and brilliant and blinding; more blinding than that damned light had ever been. 

So naturally he scoffed, waving his hand in dismissal. “You flatter me. I was a layabout wreck when I met you. At least this way I was able to have a career, to make music that was even remotely worth anything.” 

“You’d be safe,” Geralt whispered, so quietly that Jaskier barely heard him. “At Oxenfurt,” he continued, louder this time. “Or Lettenhove, or even fucking Nilfgaard. You’d be safe.”

Jaskier smiled sadly. There was a grain of truth to the witcher’s words; he couldn’t deny that. “But I wouldn’t be free. I wouldn’t have you.”

Silence. 

Gods Jaskier hated the silence. He always had, except now it was a thousand times worse. At least before he’d been able to pick up on whatever minute facial expressions Geralt was making, or judge his mood from his body language. The silence was deafening. He’d adored the closeness his blindness had given him, the touches, the guiding hands, the quiet ramblings of the witcher as he went about his day, but dear gods, he missed everything it had taken away. 

The sob that bubbled from his lips came unbidden, escaping him like a wraith bursting from her grave. His fingers gripped into the folds of his breeches as he fell forwards, the tears falling freely now. “I wouldn’t have you,” he choked again through broken breaths. 

Geralt’s hand rested on his shoulder, a gentle warning of the embrace that quickly enveloped him. The arms around him were holding him tight, keeping him grounded as, exhausted, he collapsed against Geralt’s chest. Much like his song just moments before, he allowed every moment of pain, uncertainty and unrequited love to flow through his tears. Fucking hell, he’d been doing such a good job of keeping it together before that. Every time he felt himself wavering, he reminded himself of Geralt’s cat witcher friend, or the hundreds of people he’d met over the years with all sorts of disabilities that had functioned in the world. 

But he’d never imagined it would happen to him.

Why should he be allowed to grieve his sight, when so many people, fantastic, brilliant people, had never even seen the colours of the Continent? 

He felt useless; he felt guilty. 

He felt… exhausted. 

By the time his tears dried up, Jaskier had nothing left to give. Sleep was cast over him like an enchantment, and he fell to dreams curled up in Geralt’s arms. 

—- 

When morning arrived, Jaskier’s head hurt like a bitch, but Geralt was still behind him, snoring gently as Jaskier sighed contentedly. They’d shared beds before when coin was running low, or when arsehole innkeepers wouldn’t let the witcher have his own room out of petty prejudices, but they rarely awoke like this. Geralt had always seemed careful to keep his distance, and Jaskier had always assumed that it was because Geralt didn’t want to encourage Jaskier’s obvious infatuation anymore than he already did. Now it seemed it was Jaskier’s turn to be careful. If he woke the witcher then the bliss of their embrace would end and Jaskier may never get the opportunity to be held in Geralt’s arms again. 

If only he wasn’t incredibly thirsty and kind of needed the toilet. 

“Lillith’s sake,” he grumbled as he reluctantly wriggled free. 

Or at least he tried to. 

At the first sign of movement, Geralt’s arms locked in place and he nuzzled the back of Jaskier’s neck, letting out a quiet sigh. Jaskier froze. Maybe the witcher thought he was Yennefer? No. Geralt would recognise Yennefer’s scent anywhere. Melitele only knew that Geralt never fucking shut up about lilac and gooseberries. Unless dream Geralt miraculously couldn’t smell and- 

“Stay, Jask.” The words were nearly inaudible but they still startled Jaskier and he let out a small yelp. 

“Ah, Well. Yes. I would love to except I really need the toilet.” Gods, he was mad. He should just suffer the consequences and continue cuddling. 

No. Jaskier. Don’t be gross.

“Hmm,” came the disgruntled reply as Geralt finally relented to release his hold on Jaskier, but only so long as it took him to also stand up. 

Before Jaskier could get lost around the camp, Geralt’s hand was on his arm, guiding him gently towards the bushes. Yet another humiliating toilet run for Jaskier he supposed, but it was at least becoming the new normal and if Geralt was to be believed then eventually this would start getting easier and he would be trusted to relieve himself in peace - sooner rather than later if he had any luck. Maybe he’d even be allowed to help with the cooking again. He could have something better than flavourless porridge and tea for breakfast. Oh, how he craved a good old fashioned fry up again. They would have to go to a tavern as soon as they reached the next village or town. Still, he dutifully forced the oats down and gratefully sipped his tea, listening carefully as Geralt sat close. The sounds of quiet chewing and the scraping of a wooden spoon against the bottom of his bowl. 

“Geralt?”

“Hmm?” 

“Did you mean it?” Gods, he sounded pitiful even to his own ears.

The scraping stopped and Jaskier felt a hand on his knee. “Mean what, bard?”

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair, tugging too tightly as his scalp pricked with pain. He let his tongue run across his lips as he considered his thoughts. “I’m not a burden.” 

The hand on his knee squeezed, and a low growl rumbled in Geralt’s throat. “Of course not.”

“Then. Ah. Um. Why would you- Yesterday? You said I’d be safer in Oxenfurt, but before you said I could stay and well-”

He wasn’t able to finish the sentence as he was pulled into a hug and his bowl clattered to the floor. Geralt’s words came soft like a summer’s breeze in his ears. “You would be safer. But that is just as true with or without your sight. If you’d been in Oxenfurt then you’d still be able to see.”

It was more words than Geralt ever said in one go and it left Jaskier a little stunned. The emotion behind each word stole Jaskier’s breath as his heart thundered in his chest. “Oh. Yeah.”

“You have me, Jaskier. You always have.” His voice was closer now, just as it had been the night before, warm and inviting against Jaskier’s skin. It felt like they were sharing breath, each inhale shaking Jaskier’s lungs, his fingers gripping the fabric of his own breeches to stop him from clinging onto his witcher. 

“Do I?” More pitiful questions… when had he ever been this uncertain around his lovers? Perhaps it was a sign that Geralt was and always had been something more. 

Geralt didn’t answer in words. No words were needed when his lips pressed against Jaskier’s, warm, cracked and insistent; nothing like the soft kisses from his lovers in the cities. He tasted like hot tea and smelled… well, unpleasant from their days on the road, but it was Geralt and it was perfect. Jaskier melted against the witcher, grasping onto his shirt and pulling him closer, if that was even possible. Stubble grazed against his cheek and Geralt’s hand cupped his neck, possessive in a way that had Jaskier’s heart singing with the melody of a thousand lovers. A soft whine escaped him as Geralt started to break the kiss, making the witcher laugh against his lips. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Jaskier, and neither are you.” Geralt’s voice was rough, the kiss obviously affecting him just as it had Jaskier. “If that’s what you want?”

“I want!” Jaskier squeaked all too quickly.