Hi! I'm Ria

Geralt cursed as he shook the teenager in his arms, wondering what the heck just happened, before he froze at the sharp scent of iron. Except, all of Geralt’s current wounds were far past the point of reopening, and he didn’t feel anything split open, so why—

Geralt hoped, distantly, that this was just a horrid nightmare as he looked down, noticing the splotches of darker material on Jaskier’s maroon jacket. He swallowed thickly as he hauled the smaller teen to the bench, propping him up as best he could before gently easing off the thin layer. Geralt’s jaw tightened at the way the stains—the blood—seemed to seep through half of the back of Jaskier’s long-sleeved shirt, sticking it to his skin. Geralt moved to lift this layer as well, when he was abruptly, harshly shoved away.

Geralt blinked, not having noticed Jaskier was awake, Jaskier who was—was scowling, eyes cold and shiny as he ripped his jacket out of Geralt’s hands. Geralt opened his mouth, then swallowed, willing the words to come. He should apologize, he should offer to help, he should ask what had happened, he should say something, anything—

Jaskier stood, gripping the back of the bench tightly as he swayed a moment, before stumbling away. And Geralt was hit with the sudden realization that if he let Jaskier go now, he might not see the other again. That he might never get the chance again to listen to him ramble about which hot dog vendor was best, or watch him pace as he he lectured about the difference between a cello and a viola, or ever see if Jaskier was as good at playing guitar as he claimed to be. This, this view of Jaskier’s blood-stained shirt might be the last he saw of the other boy.

And for some reason it was that realization which finally pushed Geralt into motion, making him stand from his knees to take ten long strides to catch up with the other. He caught Jaskier’s wrist, his grip gentle but firm, aware now that there may be other hidden wounds.

Jaskier scowled as Geralt apologized, refusing to look anywhere but the floor as Geralt spoke haltingly, the musician even now patiently waiting as the older boy struggled to find the right words. Still, Jaskier didn’t look happy, exactly, as Geralt said he shouldn’t have pushed the other, that he didn’t think Jaskier was just a trust fund baby, that he…liked, hanging out with the other.

Jaskier laughed when he finished, a humorless thing that made Geralt feel like he was doused with ice as the fifteen-year-old said it was okay. That he knew Geralt only put up with him because of the free food and occasional wound care. Geralt felt like Jaskier had sucker punched him as the younger teen reassured him that he’d be back in a few days, once the wounds had re-closed, with double the snacks. As if—as if Geralt only cared about what Jaskier could do for him, what the boy could provide, as if Geralt could care less about the boy himself.

And, Geralt realized as Jaskier tried to carefully twist his wrist free, why shouldn’t he think that? Why shouldn’t Jaskier assume Geralt didn’t see the brunet as anything less than an unfortunate burden, a necessary evil for the sake of whatever Jaskier’s wallet could provide. After all, how often did Geralt leave right after finishing his portion of the snacks? How frequently did he roll his eyes at Jaskier’s rants, glare at the sophomore when he asked probing questions, and shrug off any friendly touches not directly tied to patching up Geralt?

Geralt felt his stomach twist as he realized that, in some way, he’d acted just like Stregobor. He’d taken everything Jaskier had given him, his food, his trust, his happiness, and given nothing but pain and rejection in return. Except, Stregobor never pretended to be anything but what he was, at least in front of the boys he fostered. Geralt was worse, acting like he cared for Jaskier, that he was worried about him, when all he had to show for it was nights spent leaving the younger boy alone in the park, uncaring if he made it home safe or not. He didn’t even know how far away Jaskier lived, if he carried a weapon for emergencies, if he had driven here like Geralt vaguely recalled doing or was just going to try to stumble home and hope he didn’t collapse on the side of the road—

It was this image, of Jaskier’s body twisted, eyes forever frozen wide with the same pain he’d shown earlier, that had Geralt lifting the other into a fireman’s carry. He ignored Jaskier’s squeak, his protests to be put down as he gathered the bags Jaskier had brought in his free hand, turning to walk to his ‘98 brown sedan he’d secretly named Roach. Geralt paused at the door though, realizing that for all intents and purposes, he was kidnapping a fifteen-year-old who likely came from a rather affluent family, though Geralt had no clue how rich they were as he recalled he didn’t even know the teen’s last name.

Still, the realization didn’t stop him from setting Jaskier down on the hood, before asking if the other was safe at home.

And, if Geralt hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed the slight flinch the other gave at the question, the way Jaskier didn’t quite look Geralt in the eyes as he assured the other that he’d be quite alright, that like he said, he’d be back in just a few short days—

Geralt growled, but bit back the noise at the way Jaskier’s shoulders tightened. It seemed the other was still a bit…sensitive, from earlier, and Geralt had to remind himself that even if Jaskier knew he wouldn’t hurt him (not on purpose, never on purpose, Geralt hoped he knew that at least—), he had to be a bit more…gentle. To move slowly, and use his words, like he had with Eskel after—

Mentally shaking that memory from his head, he sighed, pushing his long silver hair back. Jaskier looked confused when Geralt asked if he could bandage his back, but shrugged, seemingly more open to accepting help now that he was fully awake. And Geralt tried not to read into that too much as he gently peeled the material away, why Jaskier had reacted so harshly to someone trying to remove his shirt.

It wasn’t hard to forget that train of thought when the saturated material was completely removed, giving Geralt a full view of Jaskier’s back. Geralt was glad the musician couldn’t see him gape at the dozens of scars, some which must be years old, crisscrossing in a horrible mural across the younger boy’s back. And suddenly Geralt felt very, very stupid, for never questioning after that first night why someone supposedly as spoiled as Jaskier spent his nights at a rundown park with Geralt. Why Jaskier had never once talked about his family, despite Geralt having begrudgingly mentioned having two brothers. Why Jaskier seemed so good at first aid and stitches despite the fact that no matter how talented someone is or how good the video one watches, it takes time to get as good as Jaskier was at helping Geralt. Time and…and lots of practice.

Geralt forced back the vomit in the back of his throat, willing his hands to be still as he reached for the alcohol wipes. He wondered, as he wiped away the blood, being careful to keep his touch light, if Jaskier had done the stitches here with his own two hands. If his flexibility was a natural thing or an acquired ability, so he could treat himself when he had no one else who cared enough to do so.

Carefully removing the popped stitches, he pulled out the needle and thread as he wondered how often Jaskier had shown up and helped Geralt while bearing wounds of his own. How often he’d happily put up with Geralt’s scowls and moodiness after particularly rough beatings while silently suffering injuries that were just as bad, if not worse. As Geralt put the last stitch in, he couldn’t help the guilt he felt at the realization that he’d never even mentioned returning the favor, someday, if Jaskier ever needed it. He assumed the other would never be hurt, that if he ever obtained some minor injury from playing his instruments or something, he would be rushed to the hospital and pampered with all the finer things in life until he recovered.

Wrapping the bandages carefully around wounds that were still sluggishly bleeding, Geralt realized he’d assumed a lot of things about Jaskier. That it was time he started treating the boy like he would any injured…friend, that seemingly spent as much time away from his house as he could, regardless of if he came from money or not.

So Geralt was careful as he eased the baggy sweatshirt he’d pulled from his trunk over the boys head, helping when Jaskier struggled to lift his arms. Geralt noted the way he could count the other’s ribs, setting aside the observation for later as he tried not to feel guilty for not having ever offered to share any of the food Jaskier brought. The guilt didn’t lessen as Jaskier looked between the sweatshirt and Geralt in confusion, rubbing the soft material between his thumb and finger as he stared at Geralt, seemingly lost by the simple gesture. As if he couldn’t understand why Geralt cared whether he had a shirt to wear or not in the near negative degree weather of mid-March.

And maybe it was his wide, tired eyes that made Geralt open his passenger door and tell Jaskier to get inside. Maybe it was his inability to think himself worthy of aid, that made Geralt tell Jaskier, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t care how rich his parents were or what ransom they’d announce, he wasn’t going back to them.

That Geralt wouldn’t let him go back.

Jaskier, who had protested up until that point, claiming it wasn’t safe and that Geralt and his brothers could be held responsible and go to jail, finally fell silent at Geralt’s claim. And maybe most of it was just exhaustion, that had Jaskier giving in as he slumped in the seat while Geralt drove, a blanket over his head to ensure no cameras picked him up. Geralt got the inkling that when Jaskier woke up tomorrow, he would try again to convince Geralt that none of this was worth the risk, that he wasn’t worth the risk.

But for now, Geralt drove in silence other than the soft sound of Jaskier’s breathing as he made small snuffling noises in his sleep. And as Geralt parked in the woods by the abandoned cabin that he and his brothers had claimed for their own, he mentally made some changes to his plans.

He would stop by the cabin, which he and his brothers had named Kaer Morhen upon discovering it five years ago, every day while Jaskier stayed hidden inside. He’d get his brothers to keep Jaskier company when he couldn’t, would ensure that Lambert didn’t put up a fuss about the intrusion in a place that was formerly just theirs.

And when all three brothers graduated in a couple of months (because Lambert was a genius who had mouthed off at the teachers until they let him skip a grade, he thought fondly), they would pack up and leave, just like had always been the plan.

The only difference, he thought as he gently lifted Jaskier from his seat, careful not to jostle him too much, was that there would be a fourth addition to their little pack. Someone else for Geralt to keep safe, that he cared for, even if it had taken rather…unfortunate, circumstances, for Geralt to realize this was the case.

As Geralt slowly lowered the younger boy onto the only lumpy mattress in the place, he texted his brothers that he wouldn’t be back tonight, giving them the barebones of what had had happened. He watched Jaskier shift a bit, before nuzzling into the pillow beneath his head and settling once more with a quiet sigh.

Geralt reflected as he tucked a blanket around Jaskier that it might take…time, for Jaskier to see that Geralt was serious about about his care for him. That Geralt didn’t just want him around for what he could physically provide, which would likely be very little now that he couldn’t rely on his family’s money.

That was okay, Geralt thought as he sat down in a chair at the base of the bed between the piece of furniture and the room’s only door. He’d have time to show the other that he mattered more than what he could buy, that while Geralt had appreciated the food, he’d stayed while he ate for the company.

If anything, it was far past time Geralt started paying the other back for all he’d given him. Geralt closed his eyes, letting himself rest as he ignored the buzzing of his brothers’ texts for now, making a mental list of what Jaskier would need.

Clothes, food, toiletries, and…hmm…

Geralt wasn’t sure why the kid insisted on bugging Geralt at the one place that was his and his alone. The first time the younger teen had shown up, Geralt had thought that perhaps the trust-fund baby had been dared to take a hike to the other side of the train tracks by one of his friends. That the motormouth was a fool that couldn’t keep his pie hole shut even when Geralt pulled his switchblade on the kid and told him to beat it or else.

The idiot took one look at the knife though, and just…sat down on the swing across from Geralt. He actually smiled wider, if that was possible, his perfect pearly whites shining in the faint light of the waning moon. And Geralt may have faltered a bit at that, but he hid his confusion and wariness behind a scowl, stalking away back to his trashy house, ignoring the whiny protests behind him. Geralt may not be as book smart as his brother, Lambert, but he had enough street smarts to know not to get involved with a lunatic that grinned at knives—especially not a rich one.

The problem came when Geralt showed up the next day, and within fifteen minutes the peppy brunet showed up again, this time with a plastic bag in hand. And okay, Geralt didn’t know why the kid was here, but he’d learned a long time ago the importance of setting aside his pride if it meant free food. Plus, the teenager—Jaskier, Geralt recalled hearing yesterday prior to tuning the boy out—seemed to be telling the truth when all he wanted in exchange for the food was his name. And it was a stupid trade, honestly, because Jaskier could easily take a picture of Geralt and just look him up online, but Geralt wasn’t about to point this out as he grumbled the one word response before snatching the bag.

Geralt rolled his eyes at the way the other teen practically lit up at Geralt’s response, testing Geralt’s name softly before continuing his energetic rambling, something about a stray cat he saw on his way here that had a pink tail, of all things. Geralt ignored him as he ate one of the packets of chips, then another, before stuffing the trash back in the bag to take with him. There were a few more snacks left, which he decided to share with his ever-hungry brothers as he abruptly stood up, pretending not to notice both how Jaskier was mid-story and the way the other shouted a goodbye as Geralt left.

After that, it became more common than not to meet the younger teenager at the park after Geralt’s shift at the mechanic shop. Geralt told himself that he didn’t enjoy the other’s company, that he was only there for the food, but he reluctantly found himself growing…tolerant, of the kid. It was hard not to with the way the other smiled at Geralt as if he hung the stars in the sky, how Jaskier made note of which snacks Geralt seemed to like best and made sure to get more of those, and the way Jaskier tried to get Geralt to speak but also seemed content if he didn’t say a word some nights.

He found out, reluctantly, that Jaskier was a sophomore at the private prep school all the rich pricks in the city attended. The kid (who wasn’t really a kid, who was fifteen, even if he didn’t look nearly big enough to be a year younger than Lambert) rambled on about his interests in music, how he played several different instruments but his favorite was the guitar, and how he wanted to be a full-time musician someday. Geralt made the mistake of snorting when Jaskier said that, but he had to hide his amusement at the way Jaskier reacted like a wet kitten, hissing fervent rebuttals and claiming Geralt didn’t get an opinion because he hadn’t even heard Jaskier play yet, the audacity—

It wasn’t long until his brothers cornered him about the extra food, worried he was using his money from the shop to pay to feed them. When Geralt reluctantly explained the situation to Eskel and Lambert, Geralt was left scowling as Lambert cackled about being imprinted on by a baby duck. Still, he took the time to reassure Eskel that Jaskier was harmless, and that Geralt knew what he was doing and would ditch the park for good at the first sign of trouble.

A week later, Geralt was reminded why he could never be as happy and naive as Jaskier when his foster parent came home after being cut off by the bar down the street. Why he both envied and resented the rich pest as Stregobor, who spent too much money on alcohol and not enough on food and clothes for the eight boys he fostered, took his frustration and anger out on Geralt.

Geralt did nothing but stand there with a blank face, reminding himself that he only had six more months until he, Eskel, and Lambert could leave. Until he didn’t have to worry about being split from his brothers again, put into homes where Geralt couldn’t make sure he got the beatings instead of them. He never wanted to see his brothers in a hospital bed again, he wouldn’t let it happen, not after Eskel—

Afterwards, he grimaced at the sight of his brothers in their shared room. He knew what they would say, saw the mix of emotions in their eyes as he stormed out of the house before they could open their mouths. His feet moved on autopilot, and he wasn’t aware where he was going until he ended up at the park again. He sat down heavily on a bench, and was using the faint light from the single lamp that still worked to try prying the shards of glass from his arm when the brunet showed up, chattering a mile a minute. And Geralt snarled, ready to lash out at the other, not in the mood for a night of needling and teasing, when the other froze.

For the first time since Geralt had met the teenager, Jaskier frowned, and stopped talking. He paused as he eyed Geralt’s wounds, then muttered something about returning soon before just…walking away.

Geralt stared at the back of his designer coat, baffled. It occurred to Geralt that this was the first time the other boy had left first, that Geralt wasn’t the one cutting their…visit, short. It felt weird, almost as strange as seeing the boy speechless and frowning.

Perhaps most bizarre, however, was when Jaskier returned with an extensive first aid kit in hand. The way Jaskier handed it over easily, only helping with the injuries that Geralt couldn’t reach, made Geralt feel…something. Confusion, mostly, especially at the way Jaskier didn’t ask about his wounds, or tell him to go to a hospital, or say anything at all, really, besides asking permission to touch Geralt and giving him warnings before cleaning a wound.

And even when everything was patched up, Jaskier didn’t speak, seeming to sense Geralt’s need for silence. It was off-putting, sitting next to the chatterbox in the quiet, listening to the owls and swaying of the trees in the light wind. He still wasn’t sure if it was a good strange or not by the time Geralt left an hour later, muttering a small thanks for the first time.

After that, Jaskier showed up every visit with a bag of snacks and the first aid kit, just in case. Geralt learned the other was surprisingly good at performing first aid, and had even learned how to give stitches from a video online. Geralt was obviously hesitant at first to let Jaskier anywhere near him with a needle, but when the brunet pointed out that it was him or Geralt trying to sew up the gash near his shoulder blade without seeing the wound, he reluctantly lifted his shirt and forced himself to stay still as Jaskier quickly put in four stitches. And when Eskel cleaned the wound the next day, asking if Geralt had been to the hospital, Geralt grunted and reluctantly admitted that Jaskier had a few redeeming skills.

It was eight months after meeting the rich kid, two months until Geralt and Eskel turned eighteen, that Geralt came home from his shift to find Lambert with a black eye. To the realization that Stregobor had been fired from his third job in a year, and had taken it out on the sixteen-year-old because Geralt had worked overtime to save up more money for an apartment for them. Because Geralt would never be good enough, strong enough, to keep his brothers safe no matter how hard he tried, no matter the promise he’d made to his dad before—

And Geralt needed out, he needed to be alone, he needed—needed—

Later, he would reflect that it wasn’t Jaskier’s fault for not realizing the mood Geralt was in sooner. That the light from the new moon wasn’t nearly enough for the young musician to see how Geralt was practically snarling down at the concrete even before Jaskier had started talking about how his classmate had stolen his favorite pen. And maybe it was the way Jaskier always seemed so carefree, how he complained about something as simple as a missing writing utensil, that had Geralt touching Jaskier for the first time, balling his hands in the shorter teen’s jacket.

If Geralt had been paying more attention, he might have seen the way Jaskier flinched at the rough handling, the way his grin became a little more brittle. If Geralt hadn’t started yelling at Jaskier, calling him a worthless rich prick who didn’t have friends because he was too annoying to keep around, that all he was good for was his money, he might have noticed how Jaskier seemed to shrink in on himself, his shoulders rising up to his ears. And if Geralt hadn’t been so pissed with himself, so tired of being unable to keep safe the ones he cared for, he never would have slammed Jaskier against the post of the playground, hard, as he told the other to frick off, for good.

Because Jaskier didn’t want to hear what Geralt was saying, but he couldn’t make himself move. He felt like someone had nailed his feet to the ground, before using said nails to join his lips. So as Geralt spoke of how much he hated Jaskier’s songs about him, the bard gladly welcomed the encroaching floating feeling. It was a welcome reprieve, one he hadn’t felt in…years, if not decades, but as familiar to him as riding a horse or going over the manor’s books for accounting errors.

He blinked at Geralt, whose face he distantly noted seemed rather scrunched up. He blinked again, and there was just blue, such a pretty…blue. And then there was red, and yellow, and—

Jaskier jolted at the loud crackle from the fire, the constriction of his leather pants, the heat of the flames, the weight of arms around his waist, the—

“…with me? Jaskier, please, just—”

Still feeling a bit out of sorts, Jaskier clumsily patted at Geralt’s hand, not quite able to make his dry mouth move. For a second the arms squeezed impossibly tight, and then they loosened as Geralt gently nudged at Jaskier, trying to turn him to face the witcher.

Blinking rapidly, Jaskier rubbed his face as he “woke up”, so to speak, doing his best to reorient himself to being…present? Jaskier had never known what to call the sensation of coming back to his body, how to explain rediscovering the weight of his limbs.

At least it was probably only hours this time that he’d lost, Jaskier considered, rather than—

Jaskier’s train of thought halted at the sight of Geralt’s almost…haunted, expression. Biting his lip, Jaskier considered what to say, unsure how to comfort the other over Yennefer’s rejection. For some reason, he didn’t think assuring the witcher that there were more witches in the sea would help, nor could Jaskier give him a hug and get him drunk like he would his other friends—

“Can—can you hear me now?”

Jaskier blinked, a bit surprised at the question, but nodded.

Geralt slumped, like a weight had been taken off his shoulders, as he gave Jaskier a sharp nod. Which was…a little strange, but not unlike the witcher would do after patting Jaskier down when the bard had a rather more…intimate, encounter, with the monsters Geralt fought than either preferred.

The action was enough to make Jaskier smile a bit as he moved to stand, suddenly feeling ravenous and extremely thirsty—

“What…”

Jaskier glanced at the witcher before looking around the camp, hoping to find a waterskin and maybe—ah, there!

“Going to need a little more than that, Geralt.” He said teasingly, taking a long pull from the skin he’d found before grabbing a handful of dried berries and nuts from their rations. Funny, he would have thought Geralt would want to go hunting, have some fresh meat, but it seemed he’d decided not to tonight. It made sense, he supposed, there probably wasn’t much wildlife as high up as they were—

“You were…gone, Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked, his brows furrowing as he tried to dissect the strange tone in Geralt’s voice. It sounded…well, unnervingly similar to his voice when speaking to those who came to Geralt seeking his help to find their missing loved ones, only for the witcher to bring back what little remained. Those were…Jaskier knew those contracts hurt Geralt a lot more than the ones that left him bloody and bruised.

“I wasn’t—I was just—I’ve never had a word for it, really, but the best way I could describe it I suppose is floating.” Jaskier shrugged, attempting to keep his tone light despite how Geralt was looking at Jaskier like the bard had almost died or something.

“Floating.”

The witcher didn’t seem impressed with Jaskier’s explanation, his golden eyes practically digging holes into Jaskier’s own bright blue.

“Everything just kind of…fades away. Like sleeping, I suppose, but my eyes don’t close.”

“And you can’t be woken up from it.”

Jaskier winced, realizing now why his upper arms felt a little bit sore. “It’s…well, when you put it like that—”

“It’s dangerous, Jaskier. What if you’d—you’d floated, in the middle of a hunt? What if it happened while I wasn’t there to protect you, or—”

“It doesn’t work like that, Geralt, it—” Jaskier ground his teeth, inhaling sharply. “It doesn’t just…happen, out of the blue. If I thought it would put you in danger, I would have told you about it years ago.”

Jaskier sighed, running his hand through his hair. He’d never actually had to explain the…the floating, because the servants who helped him during the episodes knew it wasn’t their place to ask, and no one else ever noticed.

“You…I thought…”

Jaskier blinked, abruptly understanding just what Geralt wasn’t saying.

“Im sorry. I didn’t mean to…to scare you. I haven’t floated since I was…frick, fifteen? Maybe sixteen, so I didn’t think I needed to…you know.”

Geralt nodded, looking into the flames. For a few moments, neither spoke, Geralt processing what Jaskier had said and Jaskier unsure exactly what to say in this situation, for once in his life.

“It…does it…”

Jaskier pursed his lips, trying to figure out what Geralt was attempting to ask. And then he remembered the way Geralt had nodded to him, how the witcher’s eyes had followed him as he moved, as if—

“No, it doesn’t…it doesn’t hurt. It’s like…letting go of the reins and allowing life to continue around you.” Jaskier tapped his chin, that sounded rather poetic, really, maybe he could make that into a song—

“What…what caused…?”

Jaskier’s lips pressed together tightly. That was the question, wasn’t it? Because this wasn’t the first time Geralt had yelled at him, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, as annoyed as the bard often made the witcher. And it wasn’t fair to Geralt to have to lug Jaskier around just because the bard couldn’t handle people yelling at him like a normal person, couldn’t just yell back or leave or take it like everyone else. Melitele help him, he was such a mess, he—

Jaskier flinched sharply at the pressure on his cheeks, relaxing almost instantly when he realized it was just Geralt grabbing him, tilting his head up—

“Don’t…don’t leave again.” Geralt rasped, looking rather like the words pained him to say.

“Please.”

Jaskier swallowed, giving the witcher a tiny nod. Geralt’s rough, warm hands remained for a second, two, three, before he let them fall. Standing from his squat, he walked back to their bags and grabbed…Jaskier’s bedroll?

Abruptly, Jaskier realized it was not his own bedroll that Jaskier was sitting on, which he really should have noticed sooner. Maybe he was a bit more out of it than he thought, but it was nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix, he reflected as he stood and took the roll from Geralt. If he was lucky, Geralt might let him sleep in—

“Over here.”

Jaskier glanced between his usual spot across the fire from Geralt and the spot Geralt had just moved his roll from, which was…well, between the fire and Geralt’s own roll. Which wasn’t that unusual, really, as they often slept near each other when it was cold or they’d layered the bedrolls after a particularly rainy spell.

Neither of which was now, Jaskier mentally noted as he slowly rolled the material out, stopping every few seconds to make sure this was what Geralt meant. Apparently though, this made Jaskier take too long, because the bard soon found himself pulled to the ground with a large, scarred arm wrapped around his middle.

And Jaskier definitely didn’t squeak, he didn’t, really—

“What, uh…”

Jaskier swallowed, biting back what would have been a rather high-pitched giggle at finding himself at a loss for words for once.

“Need you close, in case you float again.”

Jaskier blinked.

“Geralt, that…that’s really not how it works.”

“…”

“Trust me, dear witcher, it’s not…not a fever, that waxes and wanes. I’m right as rain now!”

“…”

“Geralt.”

“…”

Jaskier sighed, shuffling as much as the arm would allow him to into a comfortable position. It seemed he would not be able to convince the witcher that he was fine.

At least he didn’t have to worry about any unsavory creatures making a meal of him, he supposed. And it could be worse—at least Geralt hadn’t left him to float next to the ledge, and just…walked away.

Geralt squeezed the arm around him once.

“Sleep.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes before letting them fall shut.

Yes, perhaps this wasn’t the ending to the day Jaskier had expected when Geralt had started throwing vitriol at him, but it…well. It was remarkably better than the ending he had envisioned, so he couldn’t really complain.

Geralt’s breath tickled the back of Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier had to force himself not to pull away from the chills-inducing sensation.

Much. He couldn’t complain much.

*~*

In the morning, Geralt spends an entire fifteen seconds just staring at Jaskier before nodding again. The witcher mutters an apology for taking his anger out on Jaskier, and Jaskier waves it off saying he doesn’t really remember much of what Geralt said anyways.

Jaskier and the witcher continue down the mountain, and neither of them mention it when Geralt’s eyes linger on Jaskier for the next week or two before things mostly go back to normal. They don’t talk about the floating, and they both kind of forget about it, until Jaskier gets too close to Geralt’s fight with a Leshen two months later and almost gets himself killed.

Geralt starts shouting at Jaskier like usual, and the bard can recognize that he kind of deserves it, this time, and is waiting for a chance to apologize when Geralt just—freezes. Mid-sentence. And—oh. Oh.

“It’s…it’s fine, Geralt. I’m not going to…you know.”

Geralt grinds his teeth so tightly Jaskier worries he’s going to chip one.

“I can’t…can’t lose…”

And that makes something ache in Jaskier, a feeling similar to when the witcher had first gut -punched him all those years ago. Because Geralt had saved him from the Leshen, would always save him from all manner of monster, but even a witcher was no match for a reckless bard. And now the witcher couldn’t even take out his frustration, his fear, the only way he knew how out of concern of…well, hurting Jaskier.

It didn’t really matter that the bard said it was fine, that it didn’t hurt him. Jaskier supposed this was going to be more difficult than he thought. For now though, he stepped forward, placing his hand on Geralt’s shoulder as he apologized and promised to be more careful.

Geralt grunted, and that was that, as he quickly chopped off the head to bring it back to the alderman.

Needless to say, Jaskier had…mixed feelings, about the way Geralt had started handling him with kid gloves. On the one hand, he definitely loved how the witcher was actually explaining his feelings for once. But he definitely didn’t need Geralt stepping in when a drunk started heckling Jaskier a bit, honestly Geralt, don’t get us kicked out—

Jaskier decided the change was certainly a good one, however, when they met Yennefer on the road for the first time months after the mountain. The witch was left gaping as, mid-diatribe, Geralt slapped his hands over Jaskier’s ears and growled at the witch to stop.

Oh yes, Jaskier grinned.

To his parents’ credit, they did actually try to keep him safe and healthy for as long as they could. When he was three, they hired a mage who inked a rune into his skin that let him be more tolerant of temperatures, which helped a great deal. They even got him a pendant made that was keyed to his body, designed to light up for any injury worse than a paper cut. But no matter how much money they spent, or how many mages they inquired with, nothing could be done to help their son feel pain. To be able to operate like a normal child, a normal adult, a normal viscount. And everything they did to protect him only made him more miserable, made Julian ask why life is worth living if he’s not actually living.

And they love him, dearly, so they tearfully let him go off to live how he likes at fifteen, sure that they will never see him again.

Julian—Jaskier—sends home letters every month or so, so that they…well.

Thus, when Jaskier meets Geralt at eighteen, a good decade or so past when he really should have died, he decides he’s had a rather good life. And yes, he’ll probably be eaten by some beastie or other, but oh, what an adventure it will be in the meantime, hmm?

And Geralt doesn’t know what to do with this weird human. The human who has trailed after Geralt for three days without asking for a break, just ambling along beside Roach and pestering the witcher for details about old hunts. It’s as infuriating as it is confusing, especially because Geralt has refused to give the bard any of his food for the past three days, hoping the hunger would drive him away, and yet Jaskier continues to act as if it doesn’t bother him. As if the only thing he needs in life to subside is the occasional drink of water and Geralt’s words. It doesn’t make sense, it’s—

Geralt freezes as the wind shifts, halting Roach. He turns to the bard, harshly asking him where he’s bleeding. And the bard, the utter fool, tilts his head before just—patting down his body. Like he doesn’t know where it is the blood is coming from, what the—

And then Jaskier pulls his flashy, shiny boots off to reveal socks absolutely drenched in blood. The sight and smell, not masked now by a layer of leather, has Geralt cursing loudly as he slides off of Roach, reaching for his bags. He scolds Jaskier as the bard tugs off the red-stained material, revealing large blisters and other bodily fluids that make Geralt frown, aware that such infection kills humans far too easily.

He asks why Jaskier didn’t say anything, didn’t ask for a break, and the bard shrugs sheepishly as he turns away, and that—Geralt blinks, suddenly understanding what about this situation feels so wrong. The witcher is bandaging wounds that would make even the fiercest witcher wince, yet the bard acts like it’s not even his own feet the witcher is touching.

Making sure the bard’s head is still turned, the witcher pokes one of his legs once, then twice, unsure if the lack of reaction is due to lack of wanting to respond or being unable to respond. Finally, a third poke has Jaskier’s head whipping back around, a scowl planted firmly on his face as he bats the witcher’s hand away, saying he can feel that, he just…can’t feel pain.

Which is…that’s not…

Geralt humms, unsure what to say besides that Jaskier shouldn’t be traveling with a witcher if he can’t even tend to his own body. Which clearly isn’t the correct response, as Jaskier’s expression darkens before he states, quite firmly, that if the witcher doesn’t want him to travel with him then he’ll have to kill Jaskier himself, or let some other monster get him.

And that…that’s true, isn’t it? Because apparently nothing short of death or being too, well, unconscious from blood loss or something would keep the bard away.

So Geralt grunts and turns, pretending like he doesn’t care what happens to the bard either way for a while. Besides insisting that the bard eat something every time Geralt does because, now that he’s looking for it, Jaskier almost seems skeletal. And it looks bad, he says gruffly, if a bard traveling with a witcher looks starved.

When he sees the pendant for the first time, it is purely on accident, Jaskier having seemingly forgotten to remove it before taking a swim in the nearby stream while Geralt rids himself of Endrega guts. After a thorough questioning, where Jaskier bashfully admits just what the necklace is for, Geralt insists he stop hiding it underneath his chemise and doublet. Jaskier protests, and they end up agreeing Jaskier will wear it out when it’s just the two of them, but not when around others, which Geralt begrudgingly agrees would only draw unwanted attention.

Jaskier has been traveling with the witcher for two years when he gets so drunk at a very welcoming tavern that Geralt has to physically carry him back to their room before the bard hurts himself. And Geralt knows Jaskier is drunk, but it doesn’t stop the way a pit forms in Geralt’s stomach as Jaskier thanks the witcher for keeping him alive. Doesn’t stop the way a part of him he’d thought had died long ago aches when Jaskier says he didn’t think he’d make it this long. That he wouldn’t have if he’d met a less kind man.

And Geralt wants to refuse that, to demand the bard take the words back, but the bard has fallen asleep and left Geralt with only his thoughts. Which makes Geralt think, really think, about what might have happened if Jaskier had never met Geralt.

For one, Jaskier never would have rested his arm when he’d dislocated it in that bar fight four months ago. He’d put up such a fuss when Geralt had tied the injured limb to his chest, and strictly enforced no moving it for anything. Would Jaskier have had permanent nerve damage that stopped him from playing, no matter how hard he willed his body, if Geralt had not insisted he give his injury time to heal?

And Jaskier definitely wouldn’t be eating enough, would have spent his money on a fancy new doublet sooner than a poor-tasting bowl of stew. Would the bard have had enough wits to realize what he was doing to his body without the hunger pangs to tell him, or would he just have collapsed on the side of the road? Become some predator’s dinner because his body didn’t have the energy to run?

Or…Geralt swallowed, what if he’d come across a different sort of predator? One who had use for a man that couldn’t feel pain, that wouldn’t succumb so easily to…to torture, or experimentation. Because Geralt was not nearly as innocent as he’d been when he first started on the Path, and he knew there were many people out there who would see Jaskier’s lack of pain as a sign to take and take and take until there was nothing of the bard left to give.

And maybe the witcher’s side wasn’t the safest place for the bard to be, but the witcher could admit to himself, in the safety of his own mind, that there likely was no place for Jaskier that would be entirely safe. Unless, perhaps, if he spent his life locked away in some palace court, the bard playing for his room and board all his life and never wanting for anything.

But try as Geralt might to picture Jaskier in such a role, he knew it would never be possible. The other man would sooner give up a limb than let himself be confined to one place for the rest of his life. The bard would likely actually claim that, going so far as to say something or other about preferring to be run through by a Leshen than pander to some noble for the next fifty or sixty years.

(So perhaps…perhaps it would be okay, just this once. To have this…this small happiness. If it was for Jaskier’s good.)

Jaskier was exhausted the next day, and did not understand why Geralt needed to see a mage so badly that they had to leave the inn at the break of dawn. And Geralt was his usual tight-lipped self, no matter how much the bard needled and whined about being up before the roosters.

When Geralt does find a certain witch with violet eyes, Jaskier is twenty and more than a little moved to see Geralt paying a great deal for a pendant that is linked to Jaskier’s, one that buzzes when Jaskier’s own is going off. Geralt mutters something about Jaskier’s inability to not choose the wrong bed and needing more of a warning, but they’re both aware that an injury such as that has only happened once. Which, really, is not a lot in comparison to the many times Jaskier has accidentally injured himself during his sleep or while otherwise unsupervised.

Jaskier is quite pissed off at Geralt when the Djinn happens, though the bard finds it ridiculously sweet how panicked the witcher is and how Geralt goes so far as to buy him a new chemise and doublet after the fact. It helps soothe the ache of Geralt sleeping with the witch, especially because he knows how the witcher would feel if he’d told the man how Yennefer looked at him, when Geralt wasn’t around. The way she eyed him like a particularly intriguing specimen, the same glint in her eyes as the mage his parents had hired when he was eight that insisted Jaskier needed to be taken away for “treatment.”

Jaskier hadn’t been able to sleep for a week after he’d overheard what the man said to his assistant, before he was almost shipped off to his death. He was just glad his parents had believed him, that they hadn’t—hadn’t—

Either way, Jaskier was feeling nothing but bitter when Jaskier and Geralt followed the witch up the mountain. And then—and then—

Well, Jaskier was good at faking pain, helped by the fact that he was actually terrified of having to live the rest of his life without the use of his hands. And then Geralt was there, except he didn’t…didn’t seem to care that Jaskier was hurt. Didn’t even seem to notice.

Which was…it was fine. It wasn’t Geralt’s job to keep track of Jaskier’s body, the witcher had a literal child to care for now. He didn’t need a useless bard that couldn’t even take care of himself following along like some handicapped puppy.

(Jaskier didn’t know that Geralt had his pendant taken from him when he was imprisoned. And the witcher, so used to being alerted via pendant, doesn’t remember he ought to check Jaskier for injuries. It’s been so many years, he’s forgotten what it used to be like, the not knowing and constant worry that Jaskier could be hurting himself or dying and even the bard wouldn’t notice.)

And then Voleth Meir happens, and Geralt is so busy with Ciri and his witch that Jaskier finds himself spending a lot of time with Lambert, of all people. He and the witcher get on like a house on fire, which is…something that hasn’t happened yet, fortunately, but not for lack of trying.

It’s fun, to have somebody else who knows about his…condition, but not baby him or forcefully, silently handle him, like some injured pet. Lambert points out his blue lips, says his coat is on fire after a close call with a bomb, mentions he heard a rib crack, and does he want a hand wrapping that?

It’s…refreshing, to have someone who is so matter of fact about it, who cares enough to help but doesn’t feel the need to smother him.

It’s great, until he comes to breakfast with a wrap around his head after some loose rubble hit him last night. He’s prepared to tell Vesemir that really, the structural integrity of that abandoned part of the keep was already poor, Lambert’s bomb was just the final thread. He’s not expecting Geralt to practically pull him into his lap as he asks what happened, already reaching for the bandage.

Geralt seems stunned when Jaskier slaps his hands away, when Jaskier outright scolds him and says Lambert already looked at it yesterday. Geralt’s face is scrunched up in confusion as he reaches for his pendant, only to look at Jaskier with panic the bard hasn’t seen since the Djinn when the witcher doesn’t find it. Which is…weird. Jaskier thought he’d thrown it away, that he’d—

And Jaskier knows that look in Geralt’s eyes, he just…never thought he’d see it again. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s still in front of what is, for all intents and purposes, the witcher’s family, so would he please stop trying to undress him with his eyes! Seriously, it’s not—okay, and now he’s being dragged away after that, and based on Lambert’s cackles he can only imagine too well what must be going through everyone’s minds right now.

This is…Jaskier can’t remember the last time he was so embarrassed, really—

But then Geralt explains, as Jaskier pulls off his doublet, that he had the pendant taken from him. That he didn’t…didn’t mean what he said. On the mountain.

And Jaskier is so busy trying not to cry, he misses the moment Geralt notices the wrapped ribs and bruises covering a good portion of the bard’s body. What he doesn’t miss, however, is the way that Geralt growls his brother’s name before storming out the door.

Which leads to Ciri watching as Lambert bolts from the table, swearing as he runs away right before Geralt enters, hot on the witcher’s heels, with Jaskier running after a few seconds later in his smalls yelling not to hurt him.

The princess decides the lover’s spat is, arguably, the most normal thing she’s experienced in the past several months, and goes back to eating her porridge as Jaskier leaves the room.

(That doesn’t stop her from waiting until Eskel has taken a bite before asking if he’s sleeping with Jaskier too, in as innocent a voice as she can muster up.

What can she say?

The witcher, usually right on time, could do nothing but watch as his bard was hit with the spell. He made quick work of the mage, but the damage was done. Jaskier was lying on his back, blinking slowly, clearly not fully present.

And then—

“I have a journal at my housing in Oxenfurt that lists every time you’ve insulted me and meant it. It goes from the day we met until six years ago.”

Geralt blinked, freezing in his tracks as the not-quite-there man continued to speak.

“I bought one for compliments too, but it never got any use, so I turned it into my second insult book after the first got filled up.”

This was…what was happening? Geralt stared at the vacant-eyed bard, marching over to him quickly. He tilted the man’s head up, and Geralt’s jaw clenched tightly at the way Jaskier just looked through him.

“Every time I travel on my own, I wonder who would notice first if I was killed or murdered, or if anyone would care enough to bother trying to find me.”

And that was—Geralt bit back a whine, wondering what in Melitele’s name was going on and how to get it to stop, he needed help, he needed Yenn—

“I was assaulted two days before I met you at that inn in Posada. You seemed like a good man, and I figured either I’d die following you or get a very good distraction from thoughts of monsters who don’t take no for an answer.”

Geralt stumbled, almost dropping Jaskier as he made his way out the door. The bard was in no state to walk, clearly not aware he was even speaking, let alone where he was. This was…whatever Jaskier was saying, it couldn’t be true. He didn’t know what spell the mage had performed, but surely this—this wasn’t true—

“My parents hated me so much they tried to kill me with wolfsbane as soon as my brother showed signs of being a better heir. But he stole most of my wine that day and died while I spent a truly hellish night hidden in a barn barely breathing. I left for Oxenfurt the next morning and have gone by Jaskier ever since.”

Geralt swallowed hard, trying to blink back the tears in his eyes as he approached the academy. He’d never been to Jaskier’s rooms before, but maybe—

“I ask people lots of questions but no one ever asks me any. It makes me wonder if people just don’t care about me or assume they know me well enough not to bother learning anything else. Like because I talk a lot no one needs to put in any effort to truly know me.”

Geralt winced, trying to track the old smell of Jaskier’s scent through the winding corridors. He didn’t…Jaskier knew he just didn’t talk much in general, right? He knew—

“I like performing because it makes other people happy, and it’s so much easier to pretend to be happy when other people are. I’ve never quite figured out how to make myself happy, though. Shame.” Jaskier tried to shrug in Geralt’s arms, as if he hadn’t just said one of the most heartbreaking things the witcher had ever heard.

Tune it out, Geralt thought, backtracking as he lost the scent. Just—

“I don’t like Yennefer because she makes me feel so terribly jealous. Her scars are smooth, and cared for, and when I didn’t cut deep enough, I woke to Valdo spitting on me and stealing my songbook. When he won the next bardic competition with my compositions, he told me better luck next time, and to this day I’m not sure what exactly he meant.”

Geralt stumbled on the steps, leaning heavily against the door that must be to Jaskier’s rooms. He couldn’t do this, it wasn’t working, he didn’t want to hear this, please—

“Sometimes I wish that you hated me, because at least then I can tell myself I was too annoying or loud. I’m used to that. But I can’t do anything with apathy, no matter how hard I’ve tried.”

Geralt couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t listen to this, he couldn’t do this, he could feel himself tearing at the seams—

“I’ve never been able to make anyone care. Not if I live, at least. But maybe—”

“Somne.”

The bard’s head flopped over the back of Geralt’s bicep, body going limp in the witcher’s arms. Carefully, Geralt set him down on his bed, clearing away a few papers and a journal to make room—

He barely caught the quill from where it had almost fallen from the middle of the journal to the floor. Opening the book, he put the writing utensil back—

‘If life could give me one blessing…’

Geralt stared at the words. At the ones above the sentence. The ones farther up, the ones on the page prior, the words, the words, the words—

Geralt cleared off the other half of the bed, laid down, and pulled the bard to his chest.

Jaskier opened gritty eyes to a room he didn’t recognize. Rubbing his face, he sat up, wondering where—

“Jaskier…?”

The bard blinked, surprised at the sound of Geralt’s voice. He turned—

“What happened to you? You look awful!”

The witcher’s face didn’t even twitch, which was likely more a testament to the man’s apparent exhaustion than Jaskier’s blurted observation. In Jaskier’s defense, though, the man hadn’t seen the witcher look so sickly…well, ever. The man’s eye bags had eye bags, his face was even paler than normal, and his hair was half out of its usual ponytail in rather uneven chunks.

Overall, it looked rather like the witcher had spent the past three days ill too.

Which reminded Jaskier—

“Sorry, by the way.”

Geralt stared, looking at Jaskier like…well, like he was some sort of striped unicorn.

“I don’t—what?”

Jaskier tried not to wince at how gravelly the witcher’s voice sounded. Clearly the man had been through something while Jaskier was…otherwise preoccupied. A point for later investigation, he mentally reminded himself, trying not to lose his caravan of thought.

“You know, not pulling my weight the past few days. I’ll make it up to everyone though! I have this wonderful recipe from the cook who worked for my family, it makes rabbit taste—”

Jaskier blinked, surprised at the hands that were gently pushing him back onto the mattress he’d been trying to get off of. Honestly, he wasn’t sure whose room this was, but he’d been trying to leave before the owner came by and kicked him out.

When he opened his mouth to say this, however, he soon found himself gaping as Geralt manhandled him into lying back down.

“Geralt, what are you—”

“Quiet, Jask.”

Jaskier’s jaw clicked shut, and he stared as Geralt tilted his head, hand still splayed wide against Jaskier’s chest. He told the bard to breathe in deeply once, twice, and Jaskier found himself doing so, absolutely bewildered.

The feeling didn’t change as Geralt’s hand found his forehead, tension leaking from the witcher’s shoulders at whatever he found there. But then Geralt was smelling his wrist, and this was getting decidedly weird—

“Geralt, I’m fine. Seriously, I don’t know what’s happened to you, but—”

The witcher gave Jaskier the most withering look the bard had ever seen on his face before, even after that one time in Toussaint. Which, Jaskier maintained still wasn’t completely his fault—

“You don’t get to say you’re fine, Jaskier.” Geralt rasped, grip tightening around the hand he still held.

Jaskier frowned.

“Geralt—”

“You almost died, Jaskier!” Geralt growled, voice suddenly vicious in a way that reminded Jaskier far too much of the last time he and the witcher had such a heated conversation on top of a mountain.

For some reason, it was that thought which made Jaskier snap. The idea that no matter how hard he tried, Geralt would always leave him behind, or—or be pissed off, when Jaskier apparently didn’t have the decency to be sick elsewhere.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Geralt. How dare I barge into your home, and demand that you take care of me. How could I beg you to set aside some of your precious time for one measly, useless bard.” Jaskier yanked his hand back, sitting up and resolutely plowing on when he saw the witcher’s mouth open.

“But wait, it wasn’t me who asked to be here, was it? And I certainly didn’t ask you to—to barge into the abandoned room on the other side of the keep I found, and bring me to—wherever this is!” Jaskier waved his hand around the room.

And maybe he could have stopped there. Geralt seemed less angry, and if Jaskier didn’t know any better, the man looked almost…guilty. But that wasn’t an emotion the witcher ever had, not when it came to Jaskier, and that just pissed off the bard all over again.

“So no, I didn’t ask you for help, and I certainly never intended to be such a burden to you. I’m well aware that if you could, you’d have foisted me off on some poor inn keeper or healer if I so much as sniffled.”

Jaskier sneered, expression apparently so violent that Geralt physically took a step back. Jaskier used the extra space to stand, ignoring how dizzy the movement made him.

“Now, I’m going to go start shoveling out the stables. If you need something—Geralt!”

Jaskier growled at the arms wrapped tightly around him, pinning his own down. He squeaked as he found himself dragged backwards, in the opposite direction from the door he’d been walking towards. Seriously, what did the witcher want?! He’d been perfectly clear earlier about the idea of Jaskier lazing about, so why—

Jaskier blinked up at the ceiling, wondering how he’d ended up back on the bed, this time with the witcher underneath him. What was happening—

“I was scared.”

Jaskier froze, brow furrowing at the words.

“I didn’t—Yennefer found you, and you were—if I’d just looked, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad—if I’d just—”

Jaskier blinked, trying to make sense of the Witcher’s mangled explanation. He vaguely recalled purple eyes and—caterpillars? But he wasn’t sure what was real or not, his fever having gotten rather high very early on this time.

Jaskier cleared his throat.

“Geralt, it wasn’t…there was nothing you could do—”

“No, Jaskier.” The arms around him tightened once, before loosening. “You—you tried to tell me, and I just—I ignored you, accused you of being lazy, like you’re not the most hard-working human I’ve ever met—”

“Okay, Geralt, now we both know that’s a bit of a stretch—”

“No, Jask, you’re—” Geralt exhaled heavily out his nose, the warm air tickling Jaskier’s neck. “You’ll complain until I want to stick paper in my ears to find some peace—”

“How rude—”

“But no lazy human can keep up with a witcher, through rain or sun, or start an entire operation to help save a race he doesn’t belong to, or climb a mountain just to help a—a friend, who doesn’t appreciate him nearly as much as he ought.”

And that…Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to start crying right now, not when he was literally still on top of the hulking man that was the cause of said tears.

“I almost…you stopped breathing, Jaskier. I didn’t…a few seconds more, if the fever hadn’t just—just vanished, like it had never even been there—”

Jaskier could hear how ragged Geralt’s own breathing was, and he couldn’t exactly blame the other. It must have been…strange, to see Jaskier go from being deathly ill to perfectly fine within a matter of seconds.

“The three days couldn’t have ended at a better time, then.” Jaskier mused, only realizing he’d said the words out loud when he felt Geralt stiffen beneath him.

“Jaskier.”

“In my defense, I would have gotten sick regardless! And I did try to tell you.”

“Jaskier.”

The bard tried not to shiver at the growl he felt through the witcher’s chest.

“Explain.”

“I, uhm, kind of made a deal. With a fae.”

“…”

“…”

“…Jaskier, you know—”

“In my defense, I made the deal before that incident!”

“Before? Jaskier, when—”

“You remember that time we came across that ring of mushrooms, right before we separated for the winter?”

The witcher’s arms grew tighter as he spoke through gritted teeth, “you mean the fairy ring I explicitly told you to avoid?”

Jaskier winced.

“I repeat, in my defense, you didn’t explain why, so I—”

“If you just listened, for once in your life—”

“You know what? I don’t need to explain myself to you. If you’d be so kind as to unhand me, I’ll gladly make my way back to my room!” Jaskier pushed against the unyielding grip on him. “I can’t grant you your one life’s blessing quite yet, but I—”

“No, Jaskier, you can’t—you’re too weak, you’ll get sick again—”

Jaskier laughed, a brittle sort of thing.

“I assure you, Geralt, you don’t have to worry about me getting sick any time soon. I’ll be out of your hands by the next time I so much as sneeze, so—”

“Jaskier, that’s not what I—”

Geralt cut himself off, inhaling sharply.

“I don’t—I didn’t mean, what I said. On the mountain. I was—angry, and I took it out on you, because—because you’re always fine, no matter what I say or do, but that’s not—it wasn’t fair. To you.”

Jaskier swallowed, mouth dry as he closed his eyes against the prickling sharpness.

“I made the deal with the fae, so that I’d never get sick on the Path again. So that I’d…I’d always be prepared, and not—”

Jaskier listened to the wind beating against the walls of the keep, the crackle of the fire.

“For twenty years, I’ve been fine, Geralt. And I can’t—I can’t do it anymore.”

“Jaskier—”

“No, you don’t—I can’t keep being your—your beating bard, or whatever you want to call it. I am—”

Jaskier laughed wetly, biting back the whine that wanted to crawl out.

“I am tired.” He whispered, as if it was his greatest confession. The admission of weakness made his stomach twist even now, a remnant of the fear he had every time he admitted to being less than perfect to the witcher.

“I am so…so tired.”

Jaskier didn’t dare to even breathe, waiting for Geralt to push him away. To tell the bard he wasn’t worth the effort, even with the coin he earned. Maybe if he braced for the rejection, mentally prepared for it, he could—

“I’m sorry, Jask.”

Jaskier tensed. That wasn’t…what?

Geralt moved his arms, and that made more sense. He was just apologizing for having to get rid of the bard, which…that made sense. And Jaskier could help with that, could at least turn to let the witcher push him off—

Jaskier squeaked as he was pulled back down, this time with his head half-smushed into Geralt’s chest.

“I said no leaving the bed, bard.”

Jaskier glared at the black fabric under him.

“I told you—”

“You haven’t eaten anything in three days. You’re dehydrated. And, while you might not get sick now, it could make next winter worse. Right?”

Jaskier frowned, grunting out an affirmative. It would figure that now, when Jaskier wanted to just lick his wounds in peace, Geralt wanted to talk.

“Well, it’s not like food and water are just going to miraculously appear, dear witcher.” Jaskier snarked, turning his head so that Geralt could hear him.

The witcher grumbled, but seemed to see Jaskier’s point, gently rolling Jaskier onto his back on the side of the bed next to the wall.

Jaskier thought that he’d get a chance to slink back to his room, and was already looking around to try to find where his clothes had gone, when Geralt simply grabbed a bowl from the desk. A bowl which had some sort of soup or broth in it already, that the witcher heated with a quick igni.

Geralt carefully handed him the bowl, only letting go once he was sure the bard had a steady grip. Jaskier stared down at the opaque liquid with small chunks of veggies and meat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so annoyed at being given food.

It was utterly ridiculous.

“Eat.” Geralt urged, looking like he was about to grab the spoon and start feeding the bard himself.

Jaskier took a tentative bite, eating more quickly when he realized that he was a lot hungrier than he thought, and the soup was well seasoned. Still, he was only able to finish half a bowl before he had to stop, which seemed to bother Geralt if his scowl was anything to go by.

“Geralt, it’s fine. I just…haven’t eaten much lately.”

The witcher’s eyes narrowed, and Jaskier looked away, wondering if Geralt knew how long “lately” was. If the witcher was aware that the meals he didn’t show up to, he didn’t bother making up.

Still, Geralt just grunted, apparently accepting Jaskier’s explanation for now as he took the bowl away.

And then Geralt was wrapping him up in furs, practically tucking him in—

“Geralt, I just woke up—”

“And you spent the last three days fighting to breathe with fluid in your lungs and a fever so high it should have caused brain damage. You need rest.”

Jaskier scowled.

“I can rest in my own room, then. Not wherever this is. Seriously, Geralt, whose—”

Geralt gave him a funny look, as if he was second guessing Jaskier not having brain damage.

“Your room isn’t fit to sleep in. You’ll stay in mine, at least until we can find one where you won’t lose your fingers to frostbite.”

And that was…Jaskier rather liked his fingers. Rather needed them, too. He’d just assumed all the rooms in the keep were dreadfully drafty and cold, but he had to admit, this one—Geralt’s, apparently—was much warmer than the one he’d been using. And, admittedly, he wasn’t exactly eager to go back to the frigid space, so he simply hummed in response, glancing around the room with more interest now.

“Sleep, Jaskier. It will be here when you wake.”

…Jaskier definitely didn’t blush as he closed his eyes, not the slightest bit embarrassed at his curiosity. It was just the heat, from all the furs.

Jaskier turned to the right, then the left, trying to get comfortable. He was, unfortunately, still exhausted, but even though his body craved rest, his mind would not be quiet.

What would happen, when Jaskier woke up? Would Geralt try to find a way to break the blessing (curse)? The witcher had apologized, with real words, but would that actually change anything? Could Jaskier bring himself to believe the witcher, or was he just setting himself up to be hurt again. And—

Jaskier’s eyes flew open as Geralt grabbed his hand, looking rapidly between their conjoined appendages and Geralt’s face.

“Rest, Jask.” The witcher leaned forward, calloused fingers reaching out to gently slide Jaskier’s eyelids shut. The bard breathed out as he did so, letting go of tension he wasn’t aware he was holding.

“I’ll be here when you wake.”

And that…it didn’t fix everything. It didn’t erase twenty years of being abandoned and yelled at and ignored. But it was a start. Enough, at least, for Jaskier to relax into the mattress beneath him, drawn to the land of slumber by the pull of exhaustion and the soothing circling of Geralt’s thumb over his knuckles.

It really wasn’t much.

The fae, amused and intrigued by the bard’s request, grants him his desire. However, she rather liked the bard, had found his music quite beautiful, so she blesses him as she goes to make him a bit stronger. Not enough to be very noticeable, but enough for him to survive the foolish wish as long as the bard is even a bit careful.

Unfortunately, Jaskier is 24 and has only a teaspoon of self-preservation. But he, miraculously, learns to manage.

He preps the night before by grabbing water, broth, and any medicine he can get his hands on that he thinks will help. Usually that’s enough, and he spends three days absolutely miserable and struggling to breathe through a stuffed nose and horrible, hacking coughs. Other times…well. The one year he passed through a town with the plague, he’d survived through pure luck, having not even considered he might have been infected and never known. It was the first winter he questioned if he’d perhaps cursed himself to a horrible death alone.

He wondered if it was worth the blessing of never again being abandoned by Geralt at some inn because he was too sick to follow the witcher.

But it was fine! He was fine. It was easier this way, honestly, because at least he never had to worry about losing his voice to illness while traveling. Honestly, what a mess that would be, unable to even earn his keep. Geralt barely tolerated him as it was, and the witcher had shown if Jaskier couldn’t keep up, he’d be abandoned.

Except now he was stuck at Kaer Morhen, and realizing Geralt had never seemed to notice Jaskier hadn’t been sick in the past, oh, 18 years. He wasn’t sure if Geralt even knew how to care for a sick human, actually. Jaskier reminded himself to teach Geralt a thing or two now that he had Ciri before spring came, as he hunted in the kitchen for spare bowls. Sometimes, he was so weak or nauseous he wasn’t able to eat until the the fourth day finally hit, but it never hurt to bring some broth on the off chance he had an appetite.

It took him an hour or two, but he eventually got everything he needed set up inside his cold, small room. He stared at the fireplace for a moment, as well as the extra firewood he’d been able to scrounge up, and hoped this would be a time he had enough strength to feed a fire. There were years he’d not even been able to leave his bed, deliriously hallucinating all manner of things as he went in and out of sleep, and while that was fine for Oxenfurt he didn’t think it would work quite so well at Kaer Morhen.

Oh well, not much he could actually do about it. Now, Jaskier winced, came the hard part.

~•~

The hard part did not go well. Jaskier pulled the single fur he’d been able to find higher up his chest, feeling anxious as he waited for sleep to claim him or the sickness to do so first.

Honestly, he didn’t blame Geralt for not believing him when he told the witcher that he needed to keep Ciri away the next few days, because he didn’t want her getting sick. The other had looked at him, a flicker of—concern, maybe?—passing across his face, before his expression hardened at finding nothing wrong with the bard. Which, Jaskier realized in retrospect, was partially his fault. He should have at least tried to explain the fae deal, because then at least Geralt would know what to expect if he happened to hear the bard coughing up a lung.

Jaskier frowned, turning on his side, remembering how the witcher had told him this wasn’t Oxenfurt, that he needed to pull his weight around the keep. As if Jaskier hadn’t been helping where he could the past three weeks, preparing meals and cleaning the stables and doing laundry. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault he didn’t have a witcher’s strength, that he didn’t have anything useful to teach Ciri like Yennefer did. And while, once upon a time, Jaskier might have given a great deal to have the chance to explore the secret wolf witcher keep, that didn’t change the fact he hadn’t exactly chosen to be here. That he had colleagues, if not exactly friends, he would have gladly spent the winter with if not for the bounty on his head because of Geralt.

Jaskier sighed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. None of that mattered now. After three days, he’d wake up good as new, the stench of sickness and sweat-stained clothes the only sign the nightmarish experience had been real. He could try to apologize to Geralt for his absence then, maybe cook something more extravagant as an apology.

He forced himself to relax into the lumpy mattress, knowing from experience this would be easier if he could sleep as much of the three days away as he could.

Just three days, he reminded himself like always. You can do three days.

~•~

(And like always, he resolutely did not think of the possibility that he wouldn’t make it to the fourth.)

~•~

Jaskier woke to pounding in his head and lungs that refused to inflate. He tried to take a deep breath, suddenly desperate for oxygen, but found himself choking on air, wheezing. He was so dizzy he didn’t notice that the pounding hadn’t just been in his head, until—Yennefer?—came strolling through the door.

“Listen bard, Geralt said you were being stubborn—”

Her voice cut off abruptly, and Jaskier found himself wondering how poorly he must look to have caused the string of curses that came out of her mouth next. Suddenly, Yennefer’s face was floating above him, her dark locks almost tickling his face as her fingers reached for his forehead.

She was saying…something. Her brow looked pinched, two squiggly caterpillars crawling there, so no wonder she seemed upset. Jaskier didn’t like bugs on his face either, and he reached up to try to brush them off, but his hands weren’t working. Hmmmm…that was…why did that matter?

He blinked, surprised to find himself floating now. But the air was so thin up here, with the clouds, the ones he couldn’t see now. He frowned, where were the clouds, tried to breathe—

He wondered if the clouds had made off with the air as their loot. Loot, lute! And—look, his hands! Now—now if only those pesky black dots would go away—

~•~

“—not notice, Geralt?! He—”

“—in years, Yenn. I didn’t—”

“—magic, do what I can—”

“—please, Jask please, don’t—”

~•~

Jaskier stared at the light. It felt warm. He thought he could maybe like it here, if it wasn’t so quiet.

Jaskier had never liked the quiet.

And the light was nice, but it was too…white. Too harsh. Jaskier found himself searching for something softer, more golden.

But it wasn’t here, so he couldn’t stay here, he couldn’t—

Jaskier breathed.

Large, heaping lungfuls of air filled his mouth, his nose, as he stared into the bright golden light he’d been searching for.

“—just breathe, Jask, easy. You’re okay, you’re—”

Jaskier closed his eyes, felt the breeze ruffle his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.

He complained about the dusty roads, the lack of cloud coverage, the way the wind was blowing the wrong way. If there was something to be complained about, any mild inconvenience the bard could find, it would be noted.

Verbally.

And sometimes in rhyme.

With instrumental accompaniment.

Needless to say, it took Geralt the same amount of time to decipher Jaskier’s complaints as it did Jaskier to decode the witcher’s, for lack of a better word, noises.

The majority of Jaskier’s complaints could be ignored. For example, if Jaskier was whining about his clothes or the path, he was usually fine. Likewise with complaints about fair weather, although the witcher did need to make sure the bard didn’t burn himself too badly, sticking to shaded paths on the truly scorching days.

Phrases that were slightly more concerning included claims of numb digits and sore feet. With the first, Geralt had learned the hard way that if he didn’t get the bard warm within an hour-ish of said complaint, he’d be dealing with a bard that wouldn’t stop shivering without the aid of a fire and body heat. Thus, it just made more sense to give Jaskier extra clothing or have him ride Roach with Geralt when the complaint was made, rather than waste time they could be traveling to heat Jaskier up.

Unfortunately, Jaskier’s claim of sore feet was a little more difficult. Sometimes it meant the bard had painful blisters, usually in the spring after a winter spent with little walking. Other times it was a code for Jaskier being too tired to keep traveling, that his vision was literally failing him. Or lastly, it could mean Jaskier just wanted a break, some time to rest and occasionally pick flowers to braid into Roach’s mane, much to the witcher’s ire.

Thus, it was practically inevitable that Jaskier had to physically collapse before the witcher realized that the bard’s words, like a knife, were sometimes used interchangeably for vastly varying situations.

(Geralt had tried getting Jaskier to simply speak clearly, especially after the time he’d turned to find the bard collapsed on the side of the road, but it was a work in progress.

That is to say, Geralt continued to lecture Jaskier, and no progress was made.)

But the two complaints the witcher reacted to right away were of hunger and thirst. It took three years for the witcher to learn that Jaskier was convinced that if food was scarce, it ought to go to the witcher, because it was Geralt who needed his strength most to fight monsters and such. It was an embarrassingly long time to realize that Jaskier, who was startlingly honest outside of his compositions, was very willing to lie if it benefitted the witcher in some way. And, that if Jaskier was complaining about being hungry, it was because he was so lightheaded he could hardly walk straight.

(Geralt was still ashamed that he’d thought Jaskier hungover, that he’d assumed the bard had spent his earnings on ale the night prior due to retiring hours after Geralt. It took the witcher feeling the bard’s ribs through two layers of clothing for Geralt to realize just how woefully he’d failed at—at being a witcher. After all, what witcher missed a human in need of help, sitting across the fire from him for weeks, if not months, slowly wasting away?)

And don’t get Geralt started on the bard complaining of thirst. It seemed, that beyond the bard’s need of water to wet his throat for singing, Jaskier could care less about the liquid most of the time. He was fond of ale, and loved a good wine, but just plain old water? The bard found it dreadfully boring. As if Jaskier could care less about the fluid until he’d sung himself hoarse, or into a cough, and suddenly Geralt was facing a panicking bard who didn’t have a drop left in his waterskin.

Needless to say, Geralt found himself reminding the bard to refill his skin when the witcher did his own. Frequently. Practically every time, really.

The system worked well. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing would be, when you threw together a man who talked a lot but said little and another who could hear everything but struggled to truly listen. When put in that light, it was honestly a small miracle that the arrangement worked as well as it did.

The only thing Geralt hadn’t taken into consideration, unfortunately, was that Jaskier knew about the system. That while the bard didn’t abuse it (well, much), he made sure to keep his phrases somewhat similar, so that the witcher would know what Jaskier needed when without having to actually, well, talk about it.

Which was fine, except for when the witcher knew Jaskier didn’t need the things he was complaining about, which was where the problem started.

Because Jaskier should never have been trailing after Geralt when he went to fight the Drowners. The witcher had explicitly told the bard that he needed to stay at the campsite, because this nest was a big one and Geralt couldn’t keep an eye on the bard and the creatures, and didn’t want to risk Jaskier’s safety.

Well. He’d told the bard to stay put with Roach, at least. The rest was…implied.

So when after the fight Jaskier complained of sore feet despite having skipped around last night and sleeping plenty, Geralt felt even more annoyed. When Jaskier said he was hungry, Geralt continued to ignore him, knowing the bard had rations in his bag and had eaten leftover rabbit mere hours ago. And when Jaskier said he was thirsty, the witcher almost growled, well aware the bard hadn’t even touched his waterskin due to it sloshing around on Roach’s haunch.

Thus, when Geralt didn’t respond to the bard’s third lie, and Jaskier fell silent for a moment, the witcher thought Jaskier was done. That the bard had finally, blessedly learned to be quiet when the witcher was royally pissed off.

But then—

“Geralt. I need help.”

It took Geralt a second to process the words, another to realize how weak the bard sounded, and a precious third to finally turn around—

He cursed, practically leaping off of Roach in his bid to catch the swaying bard before he fell. It took him far too long to notice the three long claw marks across Jaskier’s back, still sluggishly bleeding and staining Jaskier’s blue doublet a deep red.

The witcher made quick work of the wounds, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging them, muttering words of comfort every time the bard twitched or whimpered. He narrated his movements the best he could, well aware how terrifying it was to be unable to see what was being done to your own body.

Thankfully, Geralt had enough herbs to brew a rather strong pain relieving tea, one that helped Jaskier stay calm as the witcher tied his skin back together. The marks were deep, and Geralt knew they would scar, if infection didn’t set in after hours of being untreated and—

It was only after Jaskier succumbed to unconsciousness, and the witcher was setting up camp around the injured bard, that he realized Jaskier had been trying to tell him all day that something was wrong. That the bard, before today, had never actually asked the witcher for help.

Geralt couldn’t help but wonder what it said about their…partnership, that Jaskier only felt like he could ask for help when he was actively dying. The thought didn’t help relieve the pit that had been growing in his stomach ever since he’d turned around and seen Jaskier as pale as a ghost.

It took two weeks for the wounds to finally close. Two weeks of Geralt scrounging around the forest for any herbs that could help the bard, painfully aware that Jaskier needed the help of a healer, but that to move Jaskier was dangerous and they didn’t have the money for one. Not after Jaskier and he had spent the last of their coin in the prior village, to stock up on ingredients for the witcher’s potions that did nothing for the bard, that were useless, a waste, that they shouldn’t have—

And even when the bard was out of immediate danger, Jaskier couldn’t stop wincing every time he played his lute. With the injuries where they were, the bard could barely perform, and was unable to practice while traveling because he couldn’t possibly wear the strap that helped him carry the instrument.

(The lute was left tied to a stray bag on Roach’s back most of the time, every step the horse made eliciting a faint twang from the strings that the witcher could just make out. A noise that was a continuous reminder of the witcher’s failure.)

But the last change, perhaps the most unwelcome one, was that Jaskier had stopped complaining. Oh, he made the usual useless ones, the kind that seemed to flow out of the bard’s mouth without him even realizing they were being said. But none that told Geralt anything.

Geralt knew he needed to say something after he caught Jaskier hiding the food he’d made him in his pockets, likely too nauseous for the dried meat the witcher had provided.

He should have spoken up the fourth time the witcher had to physically lift Jaskier up onto Roach after the other man had pushed himself to the point of exhaustion.

And Geralt definitely shouldn’t have stayed silent when the witcher realized it had been hours since he’d seen Jaskier drink from his waterskin. When Geralt wanted to hit himself for not realizing the bard was too weak still to climb down and back up the small hill that led to the stream.

The breaking point, though, was when it took Geralt smelling the other’s blood to realize the bard had partially reopened one of the wounds, enough time having passed for a large smear of red to form on the man’s linen shirt. And…and Jaskier hadn’t said a word. He let himself be manhandled, the injury cared for as he complained about not passing any berry bushes lately. Like Jaskier could care less about the damage to his body, or as if…as if he thought such complaints would go unanswered.

The witcher grabbed Jaskier’s shoulders and told him, voice steady and low, that Jaskier needed to start complaining again. That the witcher was—was sorry, for not understanding before, and that he would listen. He’d not ignore Jaskier again, not when—not on purpose. Never on purpose.

Jaskier bit his lip, nodding. His eyes shined wetly as Geralt pulled him into a quick, gruff hug, the witcher’s hands mindful of the wounds he’d just re-bandaged.

It wasn’t a perfect system. The first time Yennefer and Ciri had traveled with the pair, the two women had a very long conversation (rant) about men and their inability to communicate. But it seemed to work for them, and that was really all that mattered—neither Yennefer nor Ciri were rather keen on trying to understand either men’s strange way of thinking.

But that didn’t stop their looks of confusion when Ciri calmly shouted that she needed Geralt’s help, and the witcher came sprinting through the shrubbery, eyes darting wildly around the clearing. It wasn’t until Jaskier grabbed the witcher’s arm, telling him Ciri just didn’t know how to skin the rabbit the witcher had caught, and that everyone was fine, that Geralt finally started to relax.

Ciri, feeling guilty at causing the witcher such panic, tried to apologize. But the witcher brushed it off gently, grabbing his knife and going to help her, leaving the foraging he was doing for later.

And if the witcher frequently glanced between his child surprise and the bard fiddling with his lute across the fire…well. Jaskier was making a rather catchy ditty about the horrible smell of the mushrooms Geralt had found last night, comparing them to the reek of a sweaty pig.

The song had Ciri laughing, and Yennefer rolling her eyes, and Geralt nodding imperceptibly to Jaskier, a motion the bard returned with a small, painless smile.

So, no. It wasn’t perfect. But it was, much like everything else in their lives, good enough for them.

It takes Jaskier only two time loops to realize he is not, in fact, dreaming. It turns out being eaten alive by griffons is a very memorable experience, and is not one he would like to live for a third time thank you very much.

So Jaskier takes a different path down. Except, this time, he runs into a Hirrika. Well, an entire pack of them, actually. It turns out the one they’d found had apparently just…gotten lost? It doesn’t really matter, in the end. It turns out that around twenty very hungry Hirrika will, if necessary, widen their palette, so to speak.

Jaskier lets out a full-body shiver as he stares at Geralt’s back. He wonders what would happen if he just…didn’t talk. Maybe Geralt would be fine with him following the witcher around then?

Except the witcher all but explodes at Jaskier when the bard trips and almost falls only an hour or so later. And then the bard is left behind, again, only this time farther from the bottom of the mountain and with the intimate knowledge that no matter what Jaskier does, it seems Geralt will always hate him.

Jaskier isn’t even surprised when the Wyvern makes its appearance just as the sun is setting.

Jaskier lives the loop another twenty-six times before realizing he’d never leave this Melitele-forsaken mountain. Griffons, Hirrikas, Arachas, a Wyvern, a Leshen, a Myriapod, and, well…one or two things he doesn’t remember Geralt ever mentioning.

It feels like Jaskier hasn’t slept in weeks. He wonders, as he stares at Geralt’s back, if this is more of a mental or physical exhaustion. As he stares some more at the witcher, who looks so horribly tense, he realizes it doesn’t make a difference. Either way, Jaskier is about to get yelled at, abandoned, and killed.

And then, apparently just ticked off at Jaskier’s breathing, the witcher turns and says his three —four?—sentences, before turning his back to Jaskier again.

And for the first time, Jaskier actually considers Geralt’s words. And he is so, so tired. He stares at Geralt’s back, and this time, he doesn’t mutter a reply and crawl away with his tail between his legs. He refuses to try to walk back down that mountain again, only to be—to be shredded to pieces, and Melitele help him, he can’t do this, he can’t keep—keep pretending, he can’t, he won’t—

Jaskier, already breathing heavy at what he is about to do, stumbles forward.

Silver for monsters, steel for men. And look, a perfectly good steel sword, strapped to the witcher. Maybe—maybe the loop only continued if something else killed him. Maybe this time—

“Jaskier, what are you—no, don’t—”

Jaskier almost cries, when the sword is torn from his hands before he can figure out the right angle to pierce his own heart. It’s not fair, he just wants this to be over, why can’t he—

Jaskier struggles to breathe at the force with which Geralt wraps his arms around the bard. And Jaskier, held so tightly he thinks he might bruise, breaks.

The noises that come out of his mouth are ones he’s never made before, loud, wounded things that have Geralt shushing him gently. Jaskier’s legs are soon shaking, as he, for lack of a better word, weeps into the junction between Geralt’s shoulder and neck.

The witcher supports Jaskier as he guides them to the ground, leaving Jaskier sitting in Geralt’s lap like a small child. The bard is too far gone to care though, fingers clenched tightly into the witcher’s leather straps. As soon as he has the breath to speak, he mutters apology after apology, begging Geralt not to leave him again.

He does his best to explain the time loop. He gives descriptions of his deaths, of the creatures he’d never heard of from Geralt, hoping the witcher will believe him. He’s tried doing this on his own, and he thinks if he has to be eaten by one more monster, torn limb from limb or left screaming as he watches his own intestines be eaten, he will lose his mind.

Jaskier is describing the Aracha’s venom (liquid ice running through his veins, his heart frozen solid), when Geralt tells him to stop, voice rough and broken. But—but Jaskier needs Geralt to believe him, he needs it so badly he can’t help but whine, breathing picking up again—

Geralt doesn’t let him go though, or call him crazy. Instead, the witcher runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, muttering apology after apology for—for yelling at him, and leaving the bard defenseless. For not being there.

The words make Jaskier go limp in the witcher’s arms, body and mind giving out now that the rush of adrenaline and fear is gone. He’s—Geralt believes him, and he’s safe, and he can finally—

Jaskier wakes up to bright, morning sunlight for what feels like the first time in years. His eyes prickle hotly, and he has to swallow hard at the lump in his throat as he realizes the arms around him are heavily scarred, and Geralt—he didn’t leave him, he’s still there.

It takes them two days to make it back down the mountain. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to point out which paths have which monsters, and while the information seems to almost physically pain the witcher, he thanks the bard for every detail given.

If Geralt is a little more violent than usual, more feral in his destruction of the Arachas on the path they’ve chosen, no one could blame him. Not when the witcher could imagine Jaskier writhing on the ground, paralyzed and yet feeling every time the monsters must have bitten into him with their pincers. How the two Arachas must have fed on him for minutes, maybe hours, before his body finally gave out.

(It’s been decades since the last time Geralt has thrown up after a fight. This time, he doesn’t even bother trying to keep down the little that’s in his stomach.)

Neither the witcher nor the bard remark at how Jaskier cries at seeing Roach again. No words are spoken when Jaskier stares long and hard at the mountain one last time before decidedly turning his back on it.

Geralt finds himself waking Jaskier from nightmares for weeks, months, long after the bard had burned the clothes he'd worn that day and gotten new ones. Long after any scrapes the bard had sustained from shrubbery had healed.

(Geralt never asks Jaskier what he sees, when his eyes are closed. The witcher finds himself wrapped around the bard every night, the only way either of them get any restful sleep these days.)

Geralt doesn't say anything when he takes his first contract after the mountain, and Jaskier doesn't ask to come with him. Doesn't beg for details to use as inspiration for a new song, either, when the witcher comes back after dealing with the monster that had been eating the town's sheep.

(When someone in the next town recognizes Jaskier, and the tavern goers request song after song about the White Wolf's conquests, Jaskier can do naught but comply. They need the coin, after all.

The bard is unspeakably grateful for the witcher's presence as Geralt sits in the corner for the entire night, gaze fixed firmly on Jaskier and his wide, fake smile. His arms are just as firm when they wrap around the bard that night, holding him together on the small bed until Jaskier cries himself to sleep.)

Time doesn't heal the wounds, not really. But it turns gouging, festering injuries to scabs that re-bleed on dark days. Time shows the witcher and bard how best to not provoke the wounds, and life goes on.

(Neither know what caused the time loop, if it is perhaps a sign that Jaskier is immortal, unable to be killed by any unnatural means. Neither are especially eager to test the theory, though, so it remains a mystery.)

By some unspoken agreement, the time loop goes unspoken about by the witcher and bard for months. It likely would have never been brought up, if Geralt hadn’t brought Jaskier to Kaer Morhen that winter. If Geralt had thought a little bit more ahead, before having the bard sit with his brothers that first night they were all back, drinking and exchanging tales of the Path.

Jaskier doesn’t quite flinch as Lambert shows off a new scar from a Wyvern, the mark an ugly twisted thing on the back of his forearm. The motion is enough to catch the witcher’s attention though, and the man, who doesn’t understand why the bard is here, finds himself smirking as he asks Jaskier if he’s ever even seen a dead Wyvern. Tells Jaskier he only asks because no bard would be able to face one and live to tell the tale.

Jaskier does flinch, then, and Eskel is punching the younger witcher who swears and protests, but the bard doesn’t really notice. He doesn’t notice, either, how Geralt has grabbed his arm, trying to ground him as he whispers his name—

“You’re right.”

“—being rude, I—what?” Lambert blinks at Jaskier, whose eyes have gone distant. The witcher finds the look…unnerving. It’s the stare of a warrior whose mind is stuck in battle, but that—no bard should have that look—

“If a bard were to face a Wyvern, they should hope the venom in the tail kills them. It—the venom burns like a thousand suns, spreading so quickly that you’re left writhing on the ground almost before you feel the pain of the sting. And you—you think your body will give out, that you couldn’t possibly survive another second of the agony, but then—then you do. If you have a strong enough heart.”

Lambert swallows, his mouth dry.

“Bard, I didn’t—”

“But if the venom doesn’t get you, if you’re too young still, for your heart to stop so easily, the Wyvern will play with you. It likes to—to poke, at its prey.”

Jaskier, still staring at the far wall, gestures with his fingers to his shoulder, his thigh, his upper stomach. None of the witchers were sure if the action was a conscious one or not.

“They like to drink the warm blood. They—a Wyvern will put pressure around the wound, until more oozes out. Death follows quickly, then, if the Wyvern hit an artery or—or something important.”

Jaskier tilts his head, brow furrowing a bit.

“But if—if the venom doesn’t get you, and you don’t die of blood loss, or—or the shock, of it all, Wyverns—Wyverns have rather sensitive ears. They—it gets tired of the screaming, and will finally use its large, long teeth. A sharp, new pain, and then—”

The crackle of the fireplace makes Jaskier inhale harshly, the sound seeming to echo in the darkened room. The flame formed shadows across the bard’s slack face, reds and oranges dancing wildly across wide, empty eyes.

“Jask…”

The bard shakes his head, finally looking back at Lambert. The grin plastered on Jaskier’s face has the witcher’s stomach dropping, and he opens his mouth to say…something, but he doesn’t get the chance before Jaskier continues.

“So you were right, Lambert. No bard would ever—could ever, survive a Wyvern. No rock or—or sharpened branch is enough to kill one, and no bard would ever carry around a silver sword.”

Geralt tries to grab more of Jaskier, to pull him into a hug, but the bard has already stood on shaky legs, climbing off the bench. The witchers watch as he walks away, back to the bedrooms, but then the bard turns—

“And I can’t say I’ve ever been lucky enough to—to see a dead Wyvern.”

And then he’s gone. His footsteps echo in the witchers’ ears long after he is out of sight. Even when he’s too far to hear, though, no one speaks for a long moment.

“I didn’t mean to…”

Geralt humms, moving to stand.

“Geralt, what…?”

The witcher purses his lips, wondering what explanation he could possibly give his brothers to describe what Jaskier has gone through. The pain the bard had suffered for weeks on end.

But nothing he can think of could adequately put it into words, and Jaskier needs him, so he says—

“Sometimes, dying is a mercy.”

And follows after the bard. He knows that, at least, his brothers can understand.

It has been a dark day. But hopefully, the witcher can make the night a little brighter. A little less painful, and long.

The monsters are gone, and if Jaskier needs a reminder of that, to have the words whispered in his ear every hour until dawn comes, then he will do so.

It sounds impossible. Jaskier would love to be able to explain it, to be able to make sense of it, but it’s a rather taboo topic in the family. Apparently a great-great-something made some sort of magical deal to allow for his family to better train the war horses their estate was known for breeding. Obviously the specifics weren’t hammered out clearly enough, and, well, no noble family can be thought of as able to associate with an animal. That’s no better than being animals themselves!

So Jaskier is kept far away from all manner of horses as a child, and doesn’t really interact much with them, until Roach.

Jaskier gets really excited at first, when he sees Geralt whispering to her, thinking maybe he can talk to them too? Maybe it’s a mutation? But, no, because Geralt clearly doesn’t understand that his mare is quite sick of green apples and would like a red one instead next time, please, would some variety kill him? Obviously the witcher doesn’t understand that concept for himself, hence his clothes, but she has needs—

And Jaskier snorts, isn’t able to help himself, really, although he acts appropriately sheepish when the witcher turns to glare at him. But the knowing look Roaxh gives him, smart thing she is, speaks volumes.

From then on, it’s not uncommon for the bard to be found talking with Roach, who it turns out is a much better conversationalist than her owner. The witcher does not like this development any more than he likes the bard following him, but apparently Roach has decided the young man is here to stay. Meaning the horse refuses to leave a city or town without the bard, and also is suddenly incapable of more than a brisk walk despite the Witcher’s insistence on pushing her to a gallop.

The witcher grumbles about the behavior for weeks, completely missing the looks that Roach and Jaskier share, the duo suitably entertained. Honestly, for the first few years, it is the sassy Roach Jaskier is following, not the witcher. What can he say, he enjoys the insightful conversations he has with her when the witcher isn’t around, the details she’s able to provide from the hunts the witcher refuses to take him on still.

(The look on Geralt’s face when he introduces a song based on the witcher’s last fight with a Leshen is priceless. The man’s jaw just about hits the table with the vast amount of detail provided, which Geralt had purposefully withheld in the hopes it would finally make the bard take the hint.

Jaskier almost plays the wrong chord when he spots the look, and again when he turns back to see the witcher scowling in confusion down at his ale some time later.

Roach will definitely be getting sugar cubes tomorrow. She’s earned them.)

But the witcher does grow on him. Eventually. He does make for an excellent muse, and he can be…well, kind, for lack of a better word, when he’s not too busy impersonating a gargoyle. Honestly, if he just put a bit more effort in—

So when Jaskier parts with the witcher eight years into their…acquaintanceship? for the winter, and finds him in spring with a new, younger Roach, he sticks around. Eventually he finds out the original Roach was killed by a kikimora, that she didn’t survive the encounter. And Jaskier doesn’t care if Geralt insists on calling this horse Roach too, doesn’t care if the emotionally constipated dung beetle of a man can’t possibly understand why such a thing would upset him. It’s not as if it was his horse, not as if it was a person, which is—he can’t—

It is only Jaskier’s knowledge that Geralt truly did care for Roach, in his own hidden way, that keeps the bard from lashing out. That, and the fact that this new horse agrees to go by Sally (short for Salmon, of course—Jaskier can respect the theme), after the sad tale of her predecessor is told.

Geralt has no clue how the bard does it. But after three weeks of trying to train the horse to answer to Roach, he eventually gives up. It seems this horse loves Jaskier just as much as his last one did, and that once again, he’s stuck listening to the bard prattle both at him and his steed.

Sally is sweeter than Roach was, a little softer around the edges. She is quick to lie down next to Jaskier on cold nights, and appreciates the flowers he likes to braid into her mane. It’s not the same as with Roach, but that’s partly because he isn’t the same, either. He doesn’t need Sally to remind him which berries are poisonous, or to check the lakes he swims in for Drowners. He’s not the same bushy-tailed bard he was when he first joined Geralt all those years ago, for better and for worse.

He and Sally do have a blast together though, and she is very accommodating with his plans when she hears what horrible words the witcher yelled at him on the mountain. It turns out that while she was sweeter than Roach, she was also, perhaps, a bit more…vindictive, for lack of a better word.

Which Jaskier only realizes when Geralt shows up at the tavern he’s playing at three weeks after he’d climbed down the mountain, looking like he’s been tossed into every single mud pile between there and here. Maybe repeatedly, honestly, how did he get mud so far in his ears—

And so it is that one rather stunted, but genuine apology finds him back with his favorite horse and witcher. Life is back to normal, mostly…kind of…sort of…not really at all, okay—

Jaskier still isn’t sure how he ends up stuck at Kaer Morhen, surrounded by witchers who look at him like he’s a slab of rotten meat. Honestly, it’s not like he asked to be here! It’s not his fault he got dragged into this mess, all because he chose to associate with Geralt.

That being said, he’s happy to pitch in where he can, and soon finds himself mucking out the stables and feeding the animals every day. And the way the others still won’t talk with him after he’s been nothing but pleasant for the last two weeks should bother him. Well, okay, it still does, but he finds that annoyance pales in comparison to the delight of hearing stories from Scorpion and Lambert’s horse (which he never gave a name, seriously, how rude). Honestly, the gossip is better than anything he’s heard from the dozens of banquets he’s played at, which is saying something!

So while Jaskier is pissed off at the treatment he’s been receiving, especially with the passive aggressive remarks from a certain loud-mouthed wolf witcher, it’s fine. He’s fine. He’s not bothered at all by the fact that Geralt has been ignoring him, too, in favor of spending time with Ciri and Yennefer. And he doesn’t need the witcher to stand up for him, or ask his brother to stop, Jaskier is a bard. Words are his weapon of choice.

Except, he really doesn’t want to piss anyone off. Winter has fully set in, and he knows the likelihood of him surviving the trek back down the mountain is slim, if they do kick him out.

But there’s only so many times Jaskier can handle being told how useless his profession is, how useless he is, before he decides enough is enough. It’s not like Geralt would actually let them hurt him (he thinks…hopes?), and worst comes to worst, he knows all of the lovely horses will avenge him. And, most likely, try to guide him down the path, sweet things they are.

So when Lambert asks him again exactly why Geralt keeps him around, the bard tilts his head and smiles.

“Oh, you know, I’m good at keeping away the…well, vermin, quite frankly. I’m like a cat, keeping away all those pesky people that don’t take well to anything they see as other.”

Jaskier’s smile turns to something downright feral.

“Cats are great, aren’t they? I once knew one with black fur and bright, yellow-green eyes. He was a bit of a fighter, had scars here and here—” Jaskier gestures on his face where Lambert’s horse had mentioned the cat witcher was marked, watching in satisfaction as the wolf’s eyes widen in shock.

“But oh!” Jaskier shakes his head in faux disappointment. “I forgot. Witchers and cats don’t really mesh well, especially wolf witchers. That’s my bad.”

And—okay, was riling up the hot-headed witcher Jaskier’s best idea to date? No, not really. Did he expect to get some sort of reaction from the man? Well, yes, hopefully. Did he anticipate the man lunging across the table to fist the bard’s shirt, practically foaming at the mouth? Can’t say he did, honestly, the temper on this one—

Although the rough handling was definitely worth it for the way Vesemir tore the young witcher a new one, furious at him for flying off the handle at what was seemingly a harmless mistake.

The way Lambert’s shoulders slumped as he was scolded in front of the whole table almost made Jaskier cackle.

And yeah, was it wrong for Jaskier to put Lambert’s secret at risk like that? Maybe. Did the man have it coming after how he’d been treating the bard ever since he’d met Jaskier? Most definitely.

Still, Jaskier didn’t want the man to actually think he would out the other like that, so he forced himself to relax when the witcher sought him out later while he was brushing down the horses. It certainly wasn’t easy though, not with the scowl the other man had as soon as he entered the stables.

“Look, your secret’s safe with me, okay? I’m not in the habit of making witchers’ lives any harder than they already are.” He says, giving Sally one final brush before moving on to Lambert’s horse after a kiss to her forehead.

Lambert grunts, marching over to Jaskier and ripping the brush from his hand. He moves to shove the bard away from his horse, only to find himself suddenly on the ground.

He gapes, glancing between the bard and horse, both of which seem to be laughing. What the—

“You should treat your horse better. Also, give her a name—she deserves one, having to lug your butt all around the continent, not to mention all those disgusting monster heads.” Jaskier shivers, nose scrunching up in disgust.

“She doesn’t—how do you know she doesn’t have a name?” Lambert asks, squinting at the bard as he stood up.

And, well—Jaskier wasn’t exactly a noble anymore, was he? Not in any way that mattered in terms of reputation. Plus, maybe this could be fun. He got the feeling that he and the other witcher could have a blast, if Lambert wasn’t so insistent on verbally lashing out at the bard.

“A secret for a secret?” He proposes, studying the witcher’s reaction closely.

Lambert frowns, and for a moment, he thought the other would just storm away. Which would be…fine. Jaskier didn’t need to talk to a human for the next two months. He would cope, somehow. He just really, really didn’t want to—

“Fine. But if it puts anyone here in danger, the agreement’s off.”

Jaskier blinks, a bit surprised at the man’s simple terms, then nods.

“The horses are really fun to gossip with.”

Lambert stares at the bard. Looks at his horse. Then back at the bard.

“Please don’t make me talk about what happened in Toussaint last summer. I will, if you need proof, but for both our sakes—”

“No, that’s—no.” Lambert gives his horse a betrayed look, but she she just shakes her mane with a whinny, clearly unbothered.

“I mean, it could be worse. It’s nothing compared to what Roach and Sally have told me over the years.”

It takes a moment for Lambert to process the words, but when he does, the grin he gives Jaskier is all teeth.

Jaskier matches it easily.

“Now, don’t you see the merit in having a bard?”

Lambert leans against the stable wall, crossing his arms.

“I’m certainly starting to see the appeal.”

(Geralt lasted two days before he broke, practically commanding Jaskier to stop spending time with Lambert. The bard and younger witcher looked at each other, before continuing to sing about the time Geralt had mistaken the town elder for a ghoul and been chased away by the half-blind woman swinging her cane wildly.

The witcher wasn’t sure if he was more frustrated or confused, because Jaskier wasn’t even there for that!

He didn’t think…?

Either way, he was starting to realize that if he left Jaskier to his own devices, he would be stealing his brother next. Or Lambert would be stealing his bard.

Geralt growled as he yanked Jaskier away from his brother, muttering something about Ciri needing him as Lambert cackled at his retreat.

He was just worried what might happen with Sally if Jaskier did leave with Lambert. That’s all.

Jaskier wakes to darkness, and for a moment, he feels inexplicably sad at the loss of the suns. Except—suns?—it is the beginning of winter, he hasn’t truly seen the sun in all its glory in months, so how—

“Jaskier?”

The bard blinks at the head suddenly over his face, staring blearily up at the witcher. Geralt’s face is twisted, brows furrowed, hair only half in his usual ponytail as his eyes dart over Jaskier’s face, the bright golden orbs—

Oh. Ohhhhh. Huh, maybe that fever had gotten a bit worse than he realized. Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of the grumpy witcher being described as sunny, the very notion enough to have him almost grinning. Except the laugh quickly turns into a harsh, achy cough that has him struggling to breathe until Geralt puts his hands on his back and the nape of his neck, helping him to sit up.

Jaskier was so busy trying to get air into his lungs, to force back the black spots creeping in at the edges of his vision, that it took him a second to notice that he was in an actual bed. A bed that was in a room with wooden walls, that wasn’t Kaer Morhen, that he and the witcher were the only ones in the room—

“—breathe, Jaskier, that’s it, take it easy. I’ve got you, don’t worry about holding yourself up, just breathe.”

And that was—Jaskier let himself, tentatively, relax, practically collapsing into the witcher’s hold as he focused on inhaling greedily. It was both easier and harder, with the witcher’s aid forcing himself to truly focus on just how painful the air was grating on his throat, the aches he felt all the way down to his pinky toes.

Finally, after what felt like an age, he was able to find a balance between getting enough air in to not feel lightheaded, but not enough to set him off on a coughing fit.

Still, even with his breathing under control, the witcher didn’t immediately pull away. He rubbed his hand up and down Jaskier’s back, the motion simultaneously warming and soothing through the thin material of Jaskier’s chemise. It was a movement that Jaskier had seen the witcher perform for the princess only days ago, and the bard…honestly wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

But speaking of the princess—

“Ciri?” Jaskier croaked, voice all but gone.

The witcher frowned, pulling his hand away from the bard’s neck to grab for a mug on a table Jaskier hadn’t noticed until now. The witcher brought it to Jaskier’s lips, tilting it in small increments to allow the bard to swallow the lukewarm…tea? It had some sort of herbs in it, that much he knew, but he wasn’t quite sure which—

“You didn’t tell us you were sick.”

Jaskier blinked, watching as the witcher placed the empty mug back down before dragging his pack over. Jaskier tried to watch as Geralt pulled things out, but it was difficult to see what the witcher was doing, until Geralt started piling every piece of clothing he owned behind the bard. It took a second longer for Jaskier to understand what was happening, and he had to force back a snort, well aware now what would happen if he did laugh.

“Geralt, I can lie back down. Really, I—”

The witcher’s eyes found his again and—oh, okay, Geralt was in a mood. The bard couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d seen the witcher look so angry, so furious, and that was—it wasn’t nice, but it made sense. He’d delayed their climb up to Kaer Morhen, and now he’d gone and opened his big mouth, so Geralt was probably going to cut his losses so that he could at least keep Ciri safe. Which made sense, truly, he—

Jaskier flinched as the warm hand on his back was replaced by a cool pillow that had been strategically placed angled against a pile of clothes. It would have been funny, honestly, if not for the way Geralt was still looking at him liked he’d kicked Roach. For Melitele’s sake, it’s not like he meant to get sick! How was it his fault—

“Jaskier.”

The bard forced himself to focus entirely on the witcher now sitting beside him on the bed, which, honestly, still didn’t make sense—

“Jaskier.”

Right, okay, focus.

“Yes?” Jaskier prompted, voice still horribly scratchy but not quite as weak as earlier.

“You didn’t tell us you were sick.”

Jaskier blinked, wondering briefly if his fever was still so bad that he was starting to imagine things. But no, that sentence was exactly what the witcher had said earlier, the bard was sure of it. Said witcher was currently intently watching the bard, actually, as if he’d just asked Jaskier a rather important question and was awaiting a response.

But there wasn’t a question, so Jaskier just lifted his shoulders as much as he could before letting them drop.

The witcher’s frown grew, and honestly, Jaskier didn’t have the energy to deal with this anymore. The coughing fit earlier had taken a lot out of him, and now that he was no longer in danger of drowning on his own saliva, he found his eyelids were horribly heavy. He’d just woken up, but truthfully, a nap sounded lovely—

“Why?”

Jaskier tried to focus, knowing if Geralt was actually using his words for once, this must be important.

“Why what?”

The witcher clenched his jaw tightly for a moment.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were sick?”

Ohhhh, right, that. Jaskier tried to think, to remember why he didn’t whine or complain at all. He rather liked whining, liked when the witcher (and mage, though she’d never admit it) got all soft and and gentle when he was sick or injured. So why, why, why—oh, right! How could he have forgotten?

“Ciri was sick.” Jaskier said, feeling rather proud of his answer. Concise, just how Geralt liked it. Now he could just let his head fall back—

“What does that matter?”

Jaskier blinked, feeling rather like his brain had been dipped in honey, all the connections and such moving so slowly, surrounded in the sticky substance as they were.

“I can’t—be sick. When Ciri is.” Jaskier said finally, feeling so very tired. Honestly, what wasn’t the witcher getting, it wasn’t that complicated—

“What does that mean?”

Of course. Leave it the witcher to ask questions the one time Jaskier doesn’t want to talk.

“One Roach.”

Geralt outright growled this time.

“I know there’s one Roach, Jaskier, what—”

Finally, Geralt seemed to be understanding. Though he didn’t need to look so upset. Although two Roaches would be fun, Jaskier got the feeling they would not get along at all, always fighting over apple slices and sugar cubes and—

“Jaskier, you know you—we would have worked something out. Both of you being sick, while not—ideal, would have been fine.”

Jaskier shook his head, getting frustrated. What didn’t the man get, he just wanted to sleep, he was so tired—

“Ciri—” Jaskier said, reaching out far on his lap, before moving his hand a little closer. “Yen, Geralt, Roach, Jaskier.” The bard finally finished, his hand now back in his lap. He glanced up, hoping the witcher would let him sleep now—

Jaskier blinked sluggishly, trying to understand what was happening. The witcher was saying something as he held Jaskier, arms wrapped around him, but the bard didn’t care. The witcher was so warm, and Jaskier couldn’t help but lean into the hug. He was in a bed, and not coughing, and he was pretty sure there was something in that tea, but all he cared about right now was finally closing his eyes and giving in to the call of sleep.

~•~

(Jaskier and Geralt have a long overdue conversation in the morning about needs and, to the bard’s and witcher’s clear discomfort, self-worth. Geralt does his best to explain that Jaskier should always say something if he is sick, hurt, Melitele help him, even sad, regardless of if someone else in their group is also struggling.

The bard nods at the appropriate times, but Geralt isn’t a fool. He sees how Jaskier is just placating him, clearly believing the witcher is acting out of a sense of guilt. And Geralt doesn’t…can’t blame the bard, not for this. Not when he can look back at all their years spent together and find so much merit in Jaskier’s claim last night, painful as it is to admit.

And for as much as the bard loves his words, he needs actions, too, so Geralt commits himself to a winter of making sure the bard is as well fed and warm as possible. Yennefer and Ciri left days ago for the keep, Geralt buying a room at an inn to care for the bard as he was ravaged by fever for the last three days. The path has frozen over, and that means he and Jaskier will need to make do, somehow.

Geralt nips the bard’s guilt in the bud, when he hears Jaskier say he should have left him behind and gone with the other two. It takes Geralt a few seconds to realize that Jaskier is serious, that the bard thinks that was an option that Geralt might have even considered.

Melitele’s sake, how did he miss this? How did he fail to see that for all of his posturing and theatrics, the bard truly thought he would ever leave him alone while on death’s door? That Geralt would toss him aside like a sack of potatoes that have molded and should be left to the animals of the forest. It makes Geralt feel sick, makes him want to tug the bard close to him until the care he is unable to put into words somehow seeps into the other man.

It is then Geralt realizes, truly, how difficult this is going to be. How challenging the next weeks, months, maybe years will be on the witcher until he can finally convince Jaskier of his worth, just like the bard had been doing for him for the past two decades.

For now, he’ll take it slow, making sure Jaskier eats the majority of the food he’s bringing up, a simple stew with freshly baked bread. The bard needs it, thin as he’s gotten from his illness. And when it’s time to leave (because they’ve eaten through all of their savings on medicine and a bed for Jaskier to convalesce in, not that he’d ever tell the bard), Jaskier will be riding Roach out of the town. They’ll travel south, finding work where they can before looping back around in the spring.

And if Geralt sniffs the bard at night when Jaskier is sleeping, if he starts saving up what he can to buy a second horse, if he carefully preserves the pelts of the animals he catches to sew together into a blanket, well.

It sounds rather bad, when put like that though. Makes the bard sound like a fool who can’t take care of himself. In some respects, that might be true, he’s man enough to admit that. He can’t swing a sword around like Geralt, will never be able to defend himself from monsters of any sort like the witcher can. But that’s not the reason he doesn’t say anything.

The reason he doesn’t say anything is that twenty-two years ago, when Jaskier had first started following Geralt around, the witcher had sat across from him with one squirrel on a wooden stick and watched as Jaskier played his lute to distract himself from his hunger. There were few animals to hunt, and the witcher was willing to share his food if there was enough, but Jaskier was a stranger. He had no money to buy the food with, and it’s not like he would die if he skipped a meal. It made sense to the bard, that the witcher was putting himself first.

Years passed, and Geralt started to share his food, even when there wasn’t much to be had, and Jaskier felt equal parts guilty and happy. Guilty because he didn’t want the witcher to go hungry, but happy because, well, this meant the witcher cared for him. Right? Jaskier had bought Geralt hundreds of baths, hundreds of rooms at inns, and surely this was the witcher’s way of saying yes, I’m putting your needs first too. It must be, the witcher had to—

Jaskier had stared through the window at the witch and the witcher and known. Known in the way a blind man is sure the sun is there even if he can’t see it, that this would change things. The witcher would always be put first in the bard’s life, but now—now he stood no chance.

For what is a bard compared to a witch?

And it was…fine. I wasn’t ideal, but it was fine. He’d never been somebody’s first, never been the person someone would choose to spend time with over everyone else. Even his parents didn’t think he was good enough, he saw it in the way his father looked at him every day, how his mother had child after child, girl after girl, hoping, hoping, hoping—

So it was fine. He was used to it. Really.

(And if, one night, he bought a woman’s time while Geralt and the witch were on one of their…trysts, and spent the night drinking with her, it wasn't a big deal. He’s allowed to complain about the witch, especially because she always leaves Geralt all grumpy the next day, which then the bard has to deal with, which was so not fair.

The girl—woman, perhaps, but barely—had a knowing look in her eyes as she spoke of her three younger siblings. As she told him about how her mother sat her down each time and said that she would not love her any less when the new one came, that there was enough love in her heart for all of her children. Which was a nice sentiment, truly, but what good was that capacity for love in the face of limited commodities such as time, money, and food?

And Jaskier wasn’t a fool, he knows how women come to work at these establishments. So he sat and he listened and he made sure her glass was never empty. He even left her a tip in the morning before he walked out the door.

He may not have felt any pleasure in her company, but his pain was halved, and that was worth far more than 50 crowns.)

And then the witcher, son of a half-troll, rat-eating, munge bucket that he was, managed to relieve himself of both witch and bard within one handspan. It’s rather remarkable, really, and Jaskier would be more impressed if he didn’t find it bitterly ironic that the witch had taken the witcher away from him again, and didn't even realize it. Not that it’s her fault, really. He knew this, just as he knew then that the witcher will never be able to care about Jaskier like Jaskier cares about him. That while Jaskier has no one else, really, for as often as the witcher claims he is alone, he is surrounded by those who care for him and for whom he cares for in return.

So when he wakes up one morning in late autumn, chest tighter than usual and with a pounding headache, he says nothing. Not when Ciri wakes up whining with a runny nose, and Yennefer and Geralt instantly set to fussing over her. Not when they place the girl on Roach and set a brutal pace to the nearest town, insistent on spending nearly all of their coin on medicine for her. And certainly not when she is given the extra blanket that night, shivering with a mild fever despite being surrounded by the warmth of Yennefer and Geralt.

(Jaskier has long learned to stuff his shirt sleeve in his mouth, to dull the sound of clacking teeth. Has moved away all the dead leaves from underneath him, claiming they’re uncomfortable, disguising the fact that their insistent crunching would give away his shivers despite the harsh whistle of the autumn wind.

He thinks of the girl forced woman he met so many years ago now, wonders if she’s still alive. He thinks about his parents, and all his little sisters, and wonders too if he has a little brother now as well. He thinks of all the times he was told that he was too loud, too annoying, too talkative, too much.

How strange it is, to be too much and yet never enough.)

He wakes the next morning to frost and breaths that come a little harder. He knows they need to be quick, now. That with Yennefer unable to make a portal due to the risk of it being tracked, they have less than a week to make it to the Killer before the path is frozen over for the winter. And they need to make it to the keep, they can’t afford to leave Ciri unable to move freely due to winter storms, so Jaskier swallows down the harsh cough climbing up his throat.

He puts one foot in front of the other, hides his face and hands in his warm winter gear to hide both his pale visage and the scent of sickness he knows he gives off, only masked to the witcher by Ciri’s own illness. It is an old trick, one he picked up on when he realized the smell of his harsher perfumes could hide the scent of the bloody blisters on his feet. For as good as Geralt’s nose is, the wind blowing this way and that makes it difficult to tell exactly where the stench of sickness is coming from, aided by the fact that the witcher assumes it is from Ciri

He can tell it confuses the witcher when, four days later, Ciri claims she is feeling much better. It should worry him more, the way the witcher’s nostrils flare as he tilts his head, listening to Ciri’s clear breathing and staring into her alert eyes. It would, truly, but everything has been a little…hazy, since he woke up this morning. He thinks it was this morning, at least. Or maybe it was yesterday, that he woke up feeling like he was drowning on dry ground. No, no, no, yesterday was when he felt like he’d swallowed shards of glass, right?

It hurts to think, though, so Jaskier stops, content to watch the man in front of him frown. It should look fearsome, but it just makes him look so put out, all pouty and sad. Jaskier wonders at how that makes his stomach feel funny, and then wonders if this is perhaps just a new little thing, like the wheezing and the coughing and the lightheadedness. It’s like a little party, all these lovely hurts cropping up one after the other, like buttercups in the spring.

Oh, how he misses the spring. The white is so lovely, truly, but—

Jaskier blinks, vision filled suddenly with gold. It reminds him of the sun, and oh, how he misses the sun! It’s been so long since the sun said goodbye, surely this is it coming back! And it’s got a friend now, so he will be double as warm as he was before, with both suns warming him up.

He runs and he runs, only to arrive at a scene that he’s sure will haunt him for the rest of his life. To the view of a curved beak with—with cords of intestine, of Jaskier’s intestines, no—

He makes quick work of the monster, with a fury the likes of which he’s never felt before and is sure he’ll never feel again. He drops to his knees, bracing his head on the edge of his sword, taking great heaving breaths. He can’t bring himself to look at Jaskier, not yet.

Not when the only heartbeat he can hear is his own.

He digs into the dirt with his bare hands, until his nails are torn and bloody and the hole is deep enough for him to—to—

He gently closes the bard’s eyes, unable to bear the look of agony and terror a second longer. It isn’t until Jaskier—the body—is completely covered that Geralt lets himself drown in the knowledge that this is his fault. That he’s lost the one spot of happiness destiny fit to bestow upon him because he was such a monster he couldn’t even see what he had until it—until he was gone.

Geralt isn’t sure how he falls asleep that night.

What he does know, however, is that he wakes up exactly where he was the morning prior, like it was all a horrible nightmare. He stumbles to his feet, eyes darting violently around the small campsite, but it is exactly the same as it was.

Without giving himself a chance to think about it, he starts running down the mountain the same direction he did yesterday, at a much quicker pace than he would usually go. It had to have been a dream, none of this made sense, but he couldn’t risk it, not with what was on the line.

He wasn’t sure if he was surprised or not to find the griffin in the same place as before, with no Jaskier in sight. It was the work of mere seconds for the griffin’s head to go flying, and Geralt can’t help the way his shoulders slump in relief. Jaskier was safe now. He would be fine, everything was—

Geralt froze at the very distant sound of a scream.

No. No, he’d killed the griffin, it was supposed to be fine, it was—

Geralt almost threw up when he finally made it to the nekkers and found what was left of the bard. He screamed as he slashed and stabbed until finally, horribly, there was blessed silence in the clearing, only his own harsh breathing to be heard.

He pounded his fists on the ground, once more pushing back his tears as he cursed. It didn’t make sense, Jaskier hadn’t run into nekkers yesterday, so why—

Geralt swallowed hard, feeling foolish even though he’d had no way of guessing, no way of realizing—

The bard was stuck in the loop, too. And Geralt had no idea what path he would try next. And every single death, every single time a monster got him, Jaskier would remember—

Geralt lost what little was in his stomach to the pile of dirt from the grave he’d begun to dig.

He swallowed hard against the burn of bile, picking up another handful of dirt. Even if tomorrow was today, if Jaskier came back, he needed to—

Geralt dug.

~•~

It took the witcher 2 days to figure out Jaskier was also stuck in time.

At 5 runs, Geralt realized Jaskier only cried out right when he was about to die.

On the 11th try, the witcher realized never once did Jaskier cry out for Geralt’s help, as if the bard believed even facing his death the witcher wouldn’t—

On the 16th time of repeating the day, Geralt makes it to Jaskier before he screams. The monster killed, Geralt turns to the bard, who is busy stuttering about how happy he was Geralt was there, that the witcher wouldn’t believe—

Geralt cuts him off by tugging the bard into his arms, cradling his body to his chest—his whole, warm body—muttering apology after apology into the brown locks that, for once, held not a speck of blood.

Jaskier tries to reassure Geralt that he’s here, that he’s fine, and the witcher’s voice cracks as he says that he wasn’t. That this is the first time in 16 days he’s not had to give Jaskier up to the earth.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything for a long moment, before impossibly tightening his grip on the witcher. Because that’s something he can do, and Geralt doesn’t have to just cling to a lifeless body anymore, and—

At first, it was because Jaskier didn’t want the witcher to have yet another reason to push him away. It was bad enough the man didn’t think a human should be with him on the Path, that Jaskier wasn’t able to keep up with a witcher. Knowing Geralt, if he found out he’d probably try to drop him off at the coast in some misguided attempt to return the bard where he belonged.

And then years passed, and well, the bard thought it was actually kind of funny. How had the witcher not noticed how much water Jaskier drank, or how often the bard would throw himself into a river or lake to wet his unnaturally dry skin? Better yet, how had Geralt not realized that Jaskier didn’t age?

So, it became a sort of a one-sided game, after a while, to see how long it would take Geralt to notice. Surely he’d figure it out before someone pointed it out to him, honestly, it’s not like Jaskier was being secretive about it anymore! He had even started singing in Mer at their campfire some nights, and yet, Geralt never even looked up from skinning the animal he’d hunted or sharpening his sword.

It was absolutely ridiculous, and part of the reason he’d suggested going to the coast. It seemed he would have to transform for the first time in years, just to show the witcher, because at this point Jaskier was convinced even if he told him Geralt wouldn’t believe the bard without visual proof.

The very thought of it filled Jaskier with a nervous sort of energy, and had him rambling, and then—

Well.

Then Jaskier had been too focused on making his way down a very dangerous, very dry mountain, before he died of dehydration, starvation, or preyation. And yes, he knew that last one wasn’t a word, but he was very pissed off right now and—

Jaskier wasn’t sure why he went back to Oxenfurt instead of just going to the ocean by himself. It would have been simpler, surely. But noooo, he had to get involved in helping elves, and then being…being burned, which was, well, also very, very bad. While dimeritium was dangerous for a witcher, fire was a mermaid’s worst enemy, a fact Jaskier had forgotten somehow with how often he spent the night next to one.

And the wound wasn’t healing nearly as well as it should have, but there wasn’t anything Jaskier could do about it, not without transforming somewhere to help along the process. But he was on a freaking mountain, in a witcher’s keep, and it was winter now and he couldn’t leave—

And then, while eating the rather horrid stew that had been dinner for the last four days, he heard a witcher mention hot springs. Underneath the keep. That apparently were so deep even a witcher couldn’t hold his breath long enough to explore the underwater cave system they connected to.

And Jaskier had a horribly wonderful idea.

Because honestly, no one seemed to care if he was there or not. And maybe he could just sneak away, at least for a few hours, in the middle of the night. If he was very, very sneaky. It would help heal his hand, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about being so terribly cold in his room that didn’t have enough blankets, and maybe he could even find something to eat that was palatable for someone who wasn’t a witcher.

(Seriously, how was it fair that Yennefer and Ciri somehow ended up with honeyed kasha and hot rolls! If Jaskier was in his other form, his fins would be flared as he hissed at being so obviously slighted.)

So Jaskier waited until he thought everyone was sleeping, and then snuck downstairs the best he could in the pitch dark, following the call he had to any body of water large enough to transform in.

And oh, Jaskier had found heaven on earth, and he was not going to give it up anytime soon. The witcher who had spoken was right, and there were twists and turns, with one cavern being filled with the most delicious bluegills Jaskier had ever tasted, and another displaying jewels that sparkled from their place in the ceiling like little stars, and yet another being shaped just right that when he sung it echoed so beautifully—

So, maybe Jaskier had spent a while longer down in the caves than he thought he would.

A few days longer, actually.

Which really wasn’t his fault, honestly, had he mentioned the bluegills? The delicious, not tasting like horrible witcher stew, fat, juicy bluegills?

Still, he knew he couldn’t stay here forever, if only because it would look very strange if he just…popped up come spring, like his namesake, after being absent all winter.

So it was with extreme reluctance that he used his hearing, better as it was in this form, to check if anyone was at the springs before grabbing his clothes and making his was to the surface. He wished he had a shirt and pants that weren’t sopping wet, but was still grateful for having something to wear, and that he’d had the forethought to bring his clothes with him so that no one would get rid of them while he’d gone for his “swim”.

Still, he was very grateful when he made it back to his room and he found the clothes he’d stashed under the mattress, stolen from some unused part of the keep. Jaskier didn’t like stealing, especially not from his fearsome hosts, but it’s not like the bard had anything else up here besides what he’d been wearing when he arrived, so honestly, it wasn’t his fault. If anything, his hosts were the ones—

Jaskier shrieked as the door slammed open, quickly pulling his head the rest of the way through his shirt, turning to glare at—

The air was pushed out of his lungs in a small oomph as he found himself pulled into a very tight hug. Which lasted…well, a lot longer than he thought a hug from Geralt ever would, if he’d ever gotten one from the man, which he hadn’t. So this, this barging into the room he’d claimed in the middle of the night, almost knocking him to the ground with his….enthusiasm, was, well, weird. To say the least.

And then Geralt was pulling away, and checking him over for injuries (which, unfortunately, was not quite so weird) and stuttering something about following his scent (and oh, Jaskier hadn’t even considered that) to the hot springs only for the scent to—only for Geralt to find—

Jaskier pursed his lips, this time pulling Geralt into a bruising hug, as he did his best to explain he’d gotten a little carried away when he went for a swim. Which, with the way Geralt was now looking at him in disbelief, clearly wasn’t going to suffice for an excuse or explanation.

That was fine. Honestly, the bard was a little tired of the game.

(And the stew. Definitely the stew. Honestly, what were they putting in it—)

And it turned out that, half-human or not, Geralt was still more focused on the bard finding trouble than anything else. The witcher blinked once, twice at his mer form, before launching into a lecture about exploring underwater caverns that could be filled with monsters by himself and not telling anyone where he was going. The words had Jaskier’s fins plastered flat against his skull, and before he could too heavily debate the merits of just swimming down to get out of the scolding, he found himself yanked out of the water, a knowing look directed at the bard from the witcher’s scowling face.

Rolling his eyes with a huff, Jaskier whined about the jewels and the acoustics and the bluegills—

(seriously Geralt, I cannot eat that stew one more time—)

—as the bard turned back, not even noticing he was fully in his human form until Geralt was motioning for him to lift his arms and gently tugging his shirt over his head. Blushing fiercely in the dark cavern, he snatched his pants from Geralt before the witcher could get any ideas, getting dressed and then letting himself be corralled back upstairs and into the witcher’s own room.

Which was, blessedly, much warmer, even if Jaskier found himself keeping a wide distance from the fireplace. The bard barely noticed he was still being manhandled, until he blinked and realized he was somehow lying on Geralt’s bed, which had a lot more blankets, and was quickly heating up with two bodies in it, and—well. Jaskier was fast asleep before he could even question why he wasn’t freezing the night away in the bed he’d claimed, not that he he would have complained.

The next morning was…well, awkward, to say the least. At breakfast, Geralt made up some excuse about Jaskier getting lost that the others clearly didn’t believe, but didn’t bother to question. Not that the bard noticed much, busy running his spoon through yet more stew, and wondering if the witchers would let him help in the kitchens. Honestly, he wasn’t a great cook, but anything he could pull together was better than this.

No matter what though, he was done eating the stew. He didn’t care what Geralt said, or if it earned him yet another scolding, if his choices were between stew and that delicious, flaky fish, there was no way—

Jaskier blinked, surprised to find the bowl in front of him being replaced with a plate of oladyi, the same as Yennefer and Ciri had. Jaskier watched as Geralt placed the bowl of the horrid stuff in front of himself instead, giving Jaskier a look that had the bard wondering if it was only Yennefer who could read minds.

Grinning unrepentantly, the bard hummed under his breath as he cut himself a bite, the tune one he’d sung enough for the witcher to remember, if the way he titled his head was anything to go by. Jaskier munched happily on his new meal as Geralt’s eyes widened, before he groaned under his breath, rubbing his forehead.

The bard struggled not to choke as he bit back his laughter, finding it hilarious that Geralt had finally realized what language the bard had been singing in for years.

Oh well.

The bard thinks this is it for him. That he will be whisked away at the young, young age of 24, never to be seen or heard from again. His poor witcher, poor Roach, never knowing what had happened to him, fruitlessly searching for years and years—

Jaskier almost snorts at that, clutching his lute to his chest a little tighter as he is rather forcefully guided into a…nursery? With a rather tempestuous infant, wow, the lungs on the thing almost make Jaskier jealous—

“Play. Sing.”

Jaskier blinks, looking between the lanky fae with large, black eyes who had kidnapped him, to the slightly slimmer fae holding the screeching baby.

Oh. Oh.

Jaskier was quick to softly strum the beginning chords to one of the few lullabies he knew, and from there, he let his fingers and voice take over. He wasn’t sure how long he played, wasn’t able to tell time with the strange double sun thing going on wherever he’d been taken to, but Jaskier’s fingers felt like they were going to start bleeding by the time the little devil finally settled.

Jaskier almost relaxed, and likely would have, if it wasn’t for the hand now on his shoulder guiding him out of the room.

“You are the first bard to have success in lulling our young to sleep. We will come for you if we have need for you again.”

Jaskier stumbled through the portal he was—well, frankly, rather gently shoved through all things considered, and found himself back in his room at the inn. Which, he’d not been in before, and he had no clue how the fae knew where he was staying, what the—

Jaskier took one staggering step to his bed, managed to semi-carefully set his lute on the floor, and promptly passed out.

~•~

It happened several more times, that Jaskier was kidnapped for a private performance. The bard probably should have told the witcher, but well, he knew how the man felt about anything magical in nature. Plus, he wasn’t sure how Geralt would fare against the fae, and he wasn’t about to risk the witcher’s health when he wasn’t actually being hurt.

(Okay, and maybe he felt a little bit bad for the fae. They might not be the same species, but surely the dark splotches under their eyes were a universal sign of exhaustion. Not to mention the parents (probably? Hopefully?) looked so relieved every time their baby fell asleep, that Jaskier felt too guilty to say anything. Melitele help him, it’s not his fault he had a heart!)

The little one grew rather quickly, til one day, the bard was grabbed through a portal to find the young toddler…already sleeping?

“Your music is no longer required.”

Oh. Okay, that was—good. So why…?

“In return for your service, you shall be blessed with the ability to put to sleep whosoever you desire.”

…hang on, what?

“What do you—”

“Thank you, bard.”

Jaskier shuddered at the feeling of…buzzing, within him. It felt like eating something so cold it burned your mouth, sending strange tingles all over his body, and by the time he recovered he was once more back in his room.

Well frick.

He really should have told Geralt about this. The witcher was never going to let him live this down when he found out.

Well.

Hmmm…

If, he found out.

The bard grinned

If was good.

Jaskier almost jumped as Geralt came through the door, covered in Drowner guts and with a scowl on his face. Jaskier watched the wolf medallion as the the witcher took his armor off, exhaling shakily as he plastered a smile on his face and started rambling about the lovely barmaid downstairs.

The medallion wasn’t shaking, so clearly everything was fine. No need to worry the witcher uselessly. The weird tingling feeling was probably nothing.

…definitely nothing.

~•~

It wasn’t until Jaskier was patching Geralt up two months later, the witcher flinching violently against his will every time Jaskier came close to the gaping wound he was trying to stitch, that Jaskier realized what that tingly feeling had been.

“Geralt, I know you can’t help it, but—”

“Bard, just get it over with! They don’t need to be neat—”

“You have enough jagged scars! I’m just trying to—”

“Get on with it!”

“Alright, alright! Melitele’s sake, someone needs to sleep—wha—Geralt!”

Jaskier grunted, holding onto the witcher tightly and guiding him to the forest floor. That was…had Geralt just passed out?! Yes, he’d lost a decent amount of blood, but nowhere near enough to make the man lose consciousness. At least, not enough for a witcher to lose consciousness.

And he’d not even been slurring his words, Jaskier thought, hurrying to finish the stitches in his now slack patient. It was such a strange reaction, almost like—

Jaskier froze, looking down at the bandages in his hands. No. It couldn’t be.

The bard cursed under his breath.

“Okay, no need to panic, we’re not panicking. Just a little nap, it’s fine,all fine! Please be fine. Please wake up—”

The witcher bolted into a sitting position, hand reaching for a sword as Jaskier threw his arms around Geralt, being careful to avoid the stitches in the man’s lower back.

“You just—just fainted, and I—”

Geralt hummed, awkwardly patting Jaskier before gently pushing him away as the bard wiped tears from his eyes.

“We should get moving.”

Jaskier blinked. Did…did Geralt not realize what had happened? He seemed…embarrassed, almost, like he didn’t want to talk about it with Jaskier. Which was…okay, Jaskier wouldn’t want to talk about it either if he passed out, he didn’t exactly blame the witcher for wanting to stay silent.

The bard hurried to wrap the man’s wound, cleaning up the supplies he’d used afterwards. This was his chance to come clean, to finally confess everything, but…what would Geralt say? Would the witcher ever trust him again, if he knew he could knock the man out with his words? Maybe even just a thought?

No, Jaskier shook his head as he placed the medical bag back over Roach’s haunch. Better if Geralt never knew. Jaskier couldn’t bear the thought of the witcher leaving him, all because of a gift he’d never asked for.

He’d just…never use it. It was fine. The witcher never needed to know.

~•~

Okay, so Jaskier had used it once or twice over the years. But only for good reasons! Like when Geralt was fishing for a Djinn, or those robbers had tried to take his lute, and that one time the woman’s husband came back early and looked like he wanted to skin Jaskier alive—

Okay, mostly good reasons.

Jaskier peaked out from underneath the table at the chaos that was currently happening outside. He could see what looked like a basilisk head, maybe, as well as what looked like an arm.

…just, an arm.

This…seemed like a very good reason.

Melitele help him he was going to get himself killed, one of those horrible creatures was going to eat him, he was going to—

“Cirilla, sleep!”

And—oh, thank you thank you thank you, he did not think that was going to work, oh he needed to figure out how to send those fae a thank you gift, really—

Jaskier blinked, realizing that while he’d been busy mentally recovering from all of…that, everyone now had their eyes on him. Including Geralt, who was carrying a passed out princess, a flabbergasted Yennefer, and far too many witchers eyeing him skeptically. Which, okay, rude, but fair.

“Well, looks like you’ve got this settled! I’m just going to—”

“Jaskier.”

“Oh come now, Geralt, surely this conversation can wait until morning? I—okay, yeah, not a Doppleganger,” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes at the silver sword that he carefully pushed away from his neck. “It’s honestly just a small gift, nothing to worry about!”

“Gift?” One of the witchers growled, eyes narrowed.

“I mean, kind of? I didn’t ask for it, and I can’t get rid of it I don’t think, so I’m not sure if that’s the right word for it. I think the fae called it a blessing, actually—”

Jaskier flinched back at the chorus of swearing that filled the room. Honestly, what was—

“You’re telling me you met a fae, and that instead of—of dying a gruesome death, or just being whisked off to their kingdom to be their pet, you received a blessing?!”

Jaskier stared at Yennefer, who looked…well, quite frankly, even more bedraggled. And suddenly, he realized he might have been very, very lucky, if the expression on her face was anything to go by. But, honestly, the panic could wait, he wanted to see how badly that left eye of hers could twitch.

“They needed a bard, and I have and always will be an excellent performer. Honestly, the first time was a bit scary—”

“First time?”

“—but after that it was very…well, boring, quite frankly. They were rather polite, but not the best conversationalists, unfortunately.” Jaskier pouted a bit, wondering once again why he always seemed to end up with the quiet ones. “The two suns thing was honestly the most interesting part of the whole affair.”

“Hang on, you—”

“Two suns—”

“You saw—”

Jaskier faked a yawn, which then turned into a real one as he realized he actually was, in fact, quite tired.

“As lovely as this has been, I think I’ll be finding my way back to my bed now. And don’t worry about her—” Jaskier gestured to the princess. “She won’t wake up until I want her to.”

And—yes, those wary glares were back now. Hm. Not ideal, truly, to be on the receiving end of such looks in a witcher’s keep, but there wasn’t much he could do about it right now.

He’d panic about it in the morning.

Maybe even write a ballad about it! The princess doomed to slumber, all because of the Deathless Mother…

It’s meant to be a very somber night, made bearable by white gull and company. And it usually was, truly, but—

But then Jaskier came along, and, well…he would like it be known that this was in no way, shape, or form his fault. If he’d known what was going to happen, he would have begged off being included in the ritual, said something about being unusually tired and just gone to bed. But now it was, unfortunately, a little too late for that.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier took a long sip of the mulled wine he’d been offered in place of the witcher beverage, wondering how this had gone so horribly wrong so quickly. He hadn’t even done anything this time! At least, not right now. It wasn’t his fault that when Vesemir asked if anyone had seen a—

“Ain’t no way your pretty boy bard saw a Siren and lived to tell the tale, Geralt.” Lambert rolled his eyes with a sneer that made Jaskier want to bristle. “I don’t care if it doesn’t smell like a lie, he probably just saw a bit of driftwood and seaweed and he was running away before he could be eaten.”

The witcher laughed meanly, and Jaskier didn’t bother to hold back his scowl this time, marching over to see the drawing in the book.

“I did too! It looked just like this! It—oh.” Jaskier frowned down at the drawing, realizing it was a bit different from the Siren he’d seen.

“See? It’s okay, little bard, not everyone’s cut out to hunt monsters.”

Jaskier pushed the sword-callused hand off his shoulder, tilting his head as he looked at the drawing again. “I mean, it looked quite a bit like that, though. But the drawing says the tail was green, and the one I saw had a deep purple tail, almost black. Oh, and she had these extra fins where a human’s thighs would be, along with this sort of crown of—”

Jaskier looked up, about to motion with his hands the strange fins that fanned out around the siren’s head, only to realize that the other witchers were now all staring at him, eyes wide, mouths practically gaping.

“…what? I didn’t—is that not a siren? I just—woah! Geralt, what—”

Jaskier floundered as he was pulled roughly into the other man’s chest, a low rumble vibrating through Jaskier from where Geralt was holding onto him for dear life. Melitele help him, the witcher was acting like Jaskier had just tried to walk off a cliff or something, what on earth—

“You—you saw a Siren Queen? How did you—” Vesemir shook his head, a look of what Jaskier was now realizing was awe flickering across his face. “No one’s ever gotten close enough to—to see the details, and record them, not for…” the older witcher shook his head, and Jaskier felt his stomach twist a bit, realizing he might have—well, to put it frankly—

“What happened?” Eskel asked softly, amber eyes searching.

Jaskier bit his lip, shifting minutely from where he was practically seated in Geralt’s lap, the arms wrapped around him still as tight as a rope and not likely to loosen any time soon it seemed.

The bard sighed. “I…well, in my defense, I didn’t know she was dangerous. I was playing my lute, you see, and then I just—she was just there! Honest!” Jaskier gestured emphatically, knowing he probably wasn’t doing the story justice, but still a little panicked at how close he’d apparently come to death.

“And she just—” Jaskier shrugged helplessly, as well as he could at least while still in the pseudo-hug. “She wanted to listen, I think? And so I showed her some songs, and she seemed to like the mournful romance ones, so I played her a few more of those, and then she left.”

The others blinked at him, and for a second, Jaskier thought that would be it. It was true, really. The beautiful Siren had left after he’d sung for her, and he’d gone off to the little cottage he’d found for the night as well.

It was just, well—

“Jaskier.”

He froze, unfortunately recognizing the tone that Geralt was using. It felt like he was practically burning under the unseen force of his bright gold eyes digging into the top of Jaskier’s head.

“What? She left! What more do you want me to say? Would you like me to articulate how large of a splash she made as she dove back into the sea, the way the sunlight caught on her raven tresses—”

“Jaskier.”

The bard pursed his lips.

“…so maybe I went back the next day—”

“You—”

“Of all the—”

“Why—”

“Jaskier—”

“Oh, don’t you ‘Jaskier’ me!” He hissed, turning sharply up and out to look Geralt in the eyes. “I had no clue she was this—this monster to end all monsters, because you never tell me anything unless I pry it painfully, bit by bit, out of your practically nailed-shut-jaw!”

Jaskier yanked one arm free from the man’s grip, pushing his finger forcefully into side of the witcher’s face.

“And excuse me for seeking out the company of a willing audience! How dare someone like my music, appreciate my skill for more than the coin it brings to our purse. So yes, I came back the next day, and the next, and the next, until she told me she had to move on, some sort of—seasonal migration, or what have you!”

Jaskier huffed, losing steam now that Geralt seemed to feel a bit guilty. Still, he couldn’t help adding, “she actually gave me this ring, as a thank you—” he pulled out the simple gold band on his chain. “Because unlike some people, Shelly—”

“Shelly?!”

“—thought my playing and singing was beautiful, and not like filling-less pie.”

Geralt actually flinched at that, looking more remorseful even than that one time he’d accidentally elbowed Roach while grabbing something from his bag. The witcher let out another rumble, something softer this time, and Jaskier turned resolutely away. He was not going to fall for those down-turned lips, or that rough hand pressing insistently on his cheek, or those big, round, puppy eyes—

“I’m sorry, Jask. I’ll be…I’ll talk, more. And it’s…I didn’t mean it. Truly.”

Jaskier squinted for a moment, letting him stew in his guilt, before rolling his eyes with a small smile.

“I’ll be holding you to that, you know. Winter has barely started, and I’ve got this brand new journal I’ve been itching to fill—”

“Okay, hold on. That’s it?”

Jaskier blinked, turning back to Lambert.

“What do you mean?”

“You just—she just—there was no fight?!”

Jaskier frowned.

“No, of course not. I mean, did you see her teeth? Her claws? There was no way I’d have won against her.” Jaskier laughed, the very idea of going against Shelly amusing to him. It would have been like fighting a sword or something, impossible and just plain foolish!

“And she actually gave you the ring?”

Jaskier nodded at Eskel, smile growing a little wider. “I think she saw my other ones—” he said, waggling his fingers. “But it was a bit too big for me, and—”

Jaskier paused, realizing just then that if Shelly was the—the monster, that the other witchers thought her, then the ring on his chain—the one he’d been wearing for years, right over his heart, it was—

“Easy, Jask.” Geralt rubbed his back, which helped soothe some of the sudden nausea, the wine settling uncomfortably in his stomach.

“Geralt, I—”

“You didn’t know. And it…maybe she just found it.” Geralt suggested lightly. “I’m sure there’s lots of sunken treasure at the bottom of the sea, from shipwrecks and such.”

Jaskier nodded shakily, appreciating the sentiment even if he didn’t need a witcher’s nose to tell Geralt didn’t believe in his own words. Still, it helped him calm down a bit, and he found himself melting back into the strong hold, feeling strangely chilled all of a sudden despite his warm clothes and the roaring fire.

The other witchers were kind enough not to comment, which Jaskier was immensely grateful for. He forced himself to relax as Vesemir turned the page, glad the topic was at least shelved for the night.

“Fae.”

Jaskier was about to laugh, when he noticed that, no, the other witchers weren’t playing a joke on him.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though Eskel had caught his change in expression, if his widened eyes were anything to go by. Jaskier tried to signal to the man to keep his mouth shut, to forget about it, but that just seemed to bring Lambert into the loop. The man swore loudly, and Jaskier sighed, letting his head thump back onto Geralt’s chest.

“They were nice! Again, all they wanted was a bit of music! Their fingers were just too tiny to play, and they looked so sad!” Jaskier protested, remembering how their large, black eyes had seemed to fill with tears. “Plus, they even enchanted my lute for me as payment!”

Geralt squeezed his upper arm once.

“…Jaskier, when you say—”

“Oh, come off it, Geralt! You know what I mean.”

The witcher remained silent behind him, and Jaskier realized, abruptly, the man did not, in fact, know what Jaskier meant.

“Geralt, how do you think it is that my lute isn’t scuffed and scraped and warped to high heaven, what with all the roughing it we do? Not to mention that it just seems to magically reappear every time I lose it to some—some marsh, or bandit, or what have you!”

Jaskier didn’t even need to look at Geralt to know he was stupefied. The sharp grin Lambert had on his face was evidence enough that Geralt had somehow never noticed the magical properties of the bard’s instrument.

“I—whatever. That was truly one performance, honest! I don’t think the townsfolk liked that I performed for them much, something about the fae playing tricks on them I think, so I only spent the one night there. Didn’t want to overstay my welcome, you know how it is.” Jaskier said. He thought back, wondering now if the tricks might have been a little more…harsh, than he’d initially assumed.

He winced.

Okay, so maybe he’d accidentally been fraternizing with the enemy. Gosh, no wonder the crowd at the tavern that night had been so quiet—

Jaskier blinked, the sound of Vesemir turning the page bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Leshen.”

Again, a chorus of groans filled the room. The other witchers glanced at him a moment, and Jaskier shook his head in answer to their silent question.

Lambert nodded, for once looking serious. “It’s a good thing, bard. Fairly sure your singing wouldn’t do much good against one of those. It takes at least two or three witchers to bring a Leshen down, and that’s if you have the right tools.”

Jaskier nodded again, slower this time.

“I don’t…at the risk of sounding foolish, what exactly is a Leshen?”

Vesemir turned the book to face him, and Jaskier winced.

“Oh, yeah, no, those look absolutely terrifying.”

“Oh, so that’s where you draw the line, little bard?” Lambert drawled, seemingly amused. “Needle-like teeth and the ability to make you dance to death doesn’t do it, but the skull is where those self-preservation instincts of yours finally kick in?”

If Jaskier had his arms free, he would have been crossing them. As it was, he just jutted out his chin, saying, “I said they look terrifying, little Lamb. But honestly, give it a flower crown and it just ambles on away.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

Geralt keened.

Jaskier sighed.

He really should have just called it an early night. Something told him this conversation was going to have consequences that lasted long after the wine and White Gull were gone.

He yanked an arm free of the grip that had gotten impossibly tighter, trying not to jar the head that was now tucked on top of his own as he reached for the bottle.