#ghostinthelibrarywrites

The office is quiet when he steps in. There is a sort of stillness to the air that Edwin hopes he is simply imagining, the sort that settles at the back of his neck like the fetid breath of a hell hound and brings all sorts of questions to Edwin's mind. The first of them is: where is Charles? There is no trace of him Edwin can see or hear. Crystal was on her way up when Edwin panicked, is it possible she took Charles out for some sort of conversation? If so, whether she will take Charles' or Edwin's side is something of a toss up, and not one Edwin cares to resolve today.

He must talk to Charles, though. Yes, he is distraught by the turn of events and can admit, if only to himself, that his heart still bleeds just to think of what he saw earlier. But the longer he stares at the empty office, the longer he is left to wonder whether Charles will even be willing to hear him out, the more Edwin realizes he will gladly take the wound if it means keeping Charles by his side. He will make peace with his friend's new relationship. He will endeavour to be civil to the the Cat King, and he will keep his darker thoughts to himself forever, just so long as he can--

Someone sniffles.

The sound is so faint it is almost a miracle Edwin hears it over the hum of traffic creeping in through the window, but it makes Edwin's heart triple its size with hope anyway.

Good question. Geralt, suddenly panicked that he’s been caught falling asleep in a puddle of his own sick, opens his eyes— but the laboratory table is thankfully only cluttered with the souvenirs from his night. Emptied bottles stacked against each other and long-forgotten cups tower over small plates of pits and crusts. The real culprit, Eskel, has already fled the scene, but he left behind the remnants of his poison in a few of the bottles. Geralt can’t even remember where he said he’d found the damned stuff, let alone what type of liquor it was. But he had warned them of its potency, and Geralt and Lambert, determined men of science that they were, had been desperate to test out the claim.

He struggles to piece together a good answer for Jaskier. Even though the bard has stunk like a tavern since they first ran into each other again, Geralt still feels embarrassed as he decides how to explain his night. Maybe if he tells him they were mourning, Jaskier will have more sympathy; except they weren’t drinking away their grief, not specifically. Witchers are always mourning, of course, but… it had been a good night. Right up until he passed out alone and stone cold drunk in the cold stone basement.

Geralt supposes he should be lucky it was Jaskier and not Ciri who found him, or Yennefer; he’s sure the sorceress would have some choice words for him. Jaskier should have some choice words for him. A few decades ago, if Geralt had brought the bard to Kaer Morhen and had a party without him, Jaskier would have given him hell for the lack of an invitation. But now he doesn’t complain even a little, just gently working his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” The words spill out before Geralt can catch them and cork them. He twists in his old friend’s grip, suddenly desperate to steal a glimpse of Jaskier’s expression, and in the process his elbow knocks a bottle off the table. It bounces away without shattering but the sound is enough to make both witcher and bard jump, and Jaskier’s strong, soft hands release Geralt.

A little pink— his heart is racing, Geralt’s witcher senses supply— and wide-eyed, Jaskier says, “What?”

“Why are you down here,” Geralt mutters, unwilling to repeat himself. It was a stupid question anyway; Jaskier is mad at him. The bard hasn’t said as much, not since Geralt picked him up from his jail cell. But even though witchers have a famed ineptitude for emotions, it would take the obliviousness of a rock troll to see past Jaskier’s anger. His fury, and heartbreak, are woven into him— stitched into his ruddy skin, his messy hair, his vulnerable eyes, the frippery he drapes himself in to look tougher. His fury is in his scent, how he stinks of booze and… What was it? Heartbreak and heroics? Destiny?

Those vulnerable eyes search Geralt’s for something now, and when Jaskier doesn’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, he blinks and sniffs and clears his throat all at once. “I know there aren’t any windows down here, but up in the world of the living,” the bard informs him, sounding more like his haughty usual self, “dawn has almost broken. You’re usually training at this point— I knew you and the other witchers stayed up late, but I didn’t know you had drank yourself to sleep right on the table. I mean, when I came down here, I thought something had gone horrendously wrong.”

“Something did go horrendously wrong,” Geralt jokes, deadpan. “I drank too much.”

“Yes.” Another sniff. “I think they can smell that from Novigrad. But, I’ve seen you drink an entire bar by yourself before.”

“That was human alcohol,” he clarifies. “This was not.”

“Ah.” Jaskier gives the bottle rolling away on the floor a more considering glance, then stoops to pick it up. Geralt has seen Jaskier sample more dangerous substances but not many, so instinct takes over. He rounds his knees over the bench to spin around properly in his seat, and then rises to stalk over to the bard and— well, he only means to take the bottle and set it down on the table again. But as he misjudges the distance between them, he ends up slamming into Jaskier and knocking him back a few steps.

This time, the bottle does shatter, and Jaskier shouts. “What the fuck! What is— listen, Geralt, just because you’re experiencing a proper hangover for the first time doesn’t mean you get to fucking— whatever the hell you think it is you’re doing!” His hands fly up to grab Geralt by the collar of his shirt, shaking him as best he can. The motion doesn’t sway Geralt as much as the loud sound does; he holds firmly onto Jaskier’s shoulders, trying to regain control of his breathing. “And if you want to know why I’m not mad at you, well, I’ve got a lovely surprise for you, you absolute prick, because I am, in fact, furious—”

“Then why come down here,” Geralt interrupts roughly, sounding as ragged as he feels. “Why keep tabs on me if I’m such a—”

“Keep tabs on you!” Jaskier chokes, incredulous. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck what you do—”

“You watch me train every morning,” he growls. Jaskier’s angry mouth clamps shut at that, and the rush of colour floods his face once more. “Even if I couldn’t see you watching, you just said about as much. Why?”

“Maybe I like seeing you tire yourself out!” There’s that anger, solid as a mountain. Geralt rests against it, almost comforted by Jaskier’s rage even as the man continues. “Maybe it pairs well with my morning tea; such a lovely sight, my boorish, sweaty witcher throwing himself against a training dummy for hours and hours as the sun rises instead of talking out your deep grief and trauma with, oh, hmm, I don’t know, fucking anyone? A friend? Your family? Your sorceress lover?”

“We talked about feelings last night,” Geralt protests.

Jaskier huffs, dropping his grip on Geralt’s shirt. Each angry sentence had been accentuated by him brandishing his fists as if to shake Geralt, like an angry child— in the absence of his tightly curled fingers, there are long lines that will undoubtedly stretch out the shirt. Geralt doesn’t care. Cold as ice, the bard hisses, “Did you now?”

“Oh yes.” Vaguely, at least.

“And how did that go?”

His memories are too vivid for the amount of liquor he consumed. Only a few hours ago, this room felt much smaller. Happier, despite the blips of enormous grief— how had their discussion about feelings gone? He remembers Lambert pretending not to fight back angry tears, hiding his twitching scowl behind his mug after they all fell silent at the mention of an old quirk Diever used to have.

Geralt, in lieu of a good answer, releases Jaskier’s shoulders so as to indicate the broken glass shards littering the floor between them. And, bizarrely, this works. Jaskier’s face falls, and he laughs uncomfortably. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. You’re drunk, and I’m being a prick.”

Instead of insisting that if he was still drunk he would feel better, Geralt steps over the bottle and presses a hand to Jaskier’s shoulder again. “No… you came to check on me,” he reminds the man gently. “Even though you’re furious. No one else has even noticed I didn’t make it to bed last night.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Jaskier mutters. This time he doesn’t shake Geralt, nor does he shake him off. He simply tolerates the witcher entering his personal space, just like how Geralt used to put up with the young bard’s apparent and obnoxious omnipresence. He doesn’t even avert his gaze, staring blatantly instead. “If I really was Yen, I’d be disappointed. You look like shit.”

“You used to bathe me,” Geralt blurts out, emboldened by the closeness and the hangover. Jaskier gapes, but he continues, a boat cut loose from its anchor, drifting further beyond the forgivable pale. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve lived for more than a hundred years, but… I’ll never forget.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, heavily and warningly and desperately.

“You— you could do it again now,” he stammers. His hand rises from the man’s shoulder to the side of his throat; he lines his pointer fingers up under Jaskier’s jaw and feels the bard breathe. Pulse to pulse, the years are easier to forget. “I’d let you. You haven’t changed so much, you know— new coat, new hair… and you reek of wine now, but—”

“Wow—”

“But, your eyes are the same blue as ever.” Geralt traces the curve of Jaskier’s cheekbone, humming. “Vitriol blue.”

“If you’re trying to sound like a poet, comparing my eyes to sulphuric acid is a shitty start.” The protests are less effective thanks to how Jaskier’s voice trembles. He lifts his hand but only to place it over Geralt’s, palm soothing his knuckles. Geralt sways into him, and once more a strong arm circles around his back, keeping him steady. “If you remember this when you’re sober, you’re never going to speak to me again.”

“I’m painfully sober,” promises Geralt, lowering his tone to impress the severity of his sobriety upon Jaskier. “My stomach is killing me. I want to sleep for two days straight, then wake up to a barrel of coffee and a gigantic breakfast, and then I want to poison Eskel for doing this to me.” And Lambert too, for good measure. “But first, I want you to bathe with me.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier shakes his head as his steel grip tightens around the witcher to support him. But despite his stern expression and posture, his voice is soft and affectionate as ever. The laboratory has never seemed smaller. Geralt strokes the bard’s cheek again. “Fuck. Listen to me, my stupid darling witcher. If I take you down to the springs right now, you’re likely to drown and I’m nowhere near strong enough to pull you to safety. Sleeping for two days sounds better, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?”

Instead of pointing out that Jaskier is obviously strong enough to lift him as he’s holding him up right now, he finally relents. “Yes.” The human’s shoulders sink in relief until Geralt pleads, “Take me to bed, Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughs, tense and sharp, and pulls away before Geralt can try to persuade him anymore.

-

Every blow of his steel sword against the rotating iron dummy is a new pin-prick against Geralt’s already fragile skull. He keeps at it anyway, only showing himself mercy by striking at a less vicious rhythm than he might on other mornings. And while he usually doesn’t have to worry about the sun, the early afternoon is almost blinding.

As poor as he feels, he’s in much better shape than last night. The exact logistics of how he made it to bed and undressed have escaped him; he only knows that Jaskier had somehow managed to carry his drunk ass all the way back to his room. Geralt twists to glance up at the high walls of the Keep, his gaze searching for the window to the bard’s room. The little songbird watches him train every morning, just as Geralt had cruelly pointed out last night. Maybe it pairs well with my morning tea.

It’s no longer the morning. The familiar silhouette of his friend is nowhere to be found now.

Geralt strikes the dummy again, stomach roiling— not from his bad hangover, but from bitter, inescapable embarrassment. Over the decades they have fallen into certain roles together. Usually, Jaskier is the one who can’t handle his alcohol, who imbibes too much and makes it the witcher’s problem. Usually Jaskier is the one teetering on the slippery precipice of inebriation, begging Geralt to stay up and chat with him, loudly singing of the night’s exploits, and constantly proclaiming to his captive audience of one how very not drunk he is.

But in all their years of friendship, Jaskier has never behaved like that. Sure, he’s broken bottles, and stumbled up to Geralt stinking of sweat and sin and far worse things than liquor. But he has never pressed himself up against the witcher’s body, never begged to be held or gripped him tightly or traced the outline of his face. Never has Jaskier asked Geralt to bathe him; let alone to bathe with him.

Geralt swings too hard. His shoulder twinges; he beheads the iron dummy. Its vague head-shaped appendage clatters to the ground and the loud noise echoes around the stone courtyard.

Still, Jaskier does not peek out of his window.

Geralt sheathes his steel and stomps back inside, livid with himself. He pushes open the doors to the main hall and strips off the top half of his sweaty armour as he does. When he succeeds in removing his shirt and throwing it to the ground, he sees the very man who’s been on his mind all day standing before him.

If Jaskier is put off by the ugly scowl marring Geralt’s features or by his heaving, bare, oily chest, he doesn’t let it slip. In each of his hands is a clay mug of steaming water; he proffers one now and Geralt accepts it gently, cowed by the kindness. It isn’t in fact water but hot black tea.

In all those times that Jaskier came to him for aid, drunk as a Skelligan or hungover enough to curse the gods themselves, Geralt doesn’t think he ever went to the trouble of brewing the bard tea. He raises the mug to his lips without question; it’s delicious, and instantly calms his aching head. This makes him feel even guiltier. “Thanks,” mutters the witcher.

Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he keeps his musings to himself for once. There is a slightly clipped, nervous edge to his tone as he chirps, “Feeling better?” 

Perhaps he’s expecting Geralt to lunge forward and drop the mug between them and embrace him again. Geralt, mortified, will do no such thing. He answers honestly and bluntly, “No.”

There is the faintest touch on his hand and suddenly he is back in that dark, damp room, back in that chair, wood hard underneath him, rope rough and tight around his wrists, staring at that manic grin, those cold and calculating eyes boring into him, as he does his best to get away.

He isn’t sure how exactly he makes it out of the inn, whether or not he manages to excuse himself politely or whether he simply flees the room like a scared child. He may have said something but he has absolutely no idea what it was, but then his mouth has always been good at figuring something out whilst his mind is elsewhere.

His chest is heaving when he makes it outside, every breath he takes seems to be filled with smoke, and he is helpless to do anything but slide down the wall when he makes it into the alley, his head falling into his hands.

The only noise he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears, so he does not notice the footsteps coming towards him, does not realise he is not alone until a figure crouches down in front of him. He curses himself for falling apart somewhere so public, as he quickly reaches up to wipe his cheeks of the tears he didn’t even know had fallen.

“There’s no need for that bard,” a familiar voice says and he lifts his head to see a pair of violet eyes looking back at him.

It has been a few weeks since he has seen Yennefer, last he had heard she was off training Ciri in some far flung corner of the Continent, so he isn’t sure what exactly she is doing here, with him in this dingy little alley in some backwater town.

“What–” he tries to ask, but his voice is thicker than he would like, so he clears it before trying again. “What are you doing here?”

“Heard there was a performance by a world-renowned bard happening and thought I couldn’t miss the opportunity,” she answers, before adding with a small smirk. “Seems I was misled though.”

Before, that comment would have had his hackles rising, and he would have been thinking of a viscous retort that was ready to wound. But now he can feel the warmth behind it, and he just rolls his eyes.

“Witch.”

She huffs a laugh and comes to sit beside him, and there is a rush of something he can’t quite name as she leans her shoulder into his and takes his trembling hands in hers.

“Truth is bard, I missed you,” she says simply. “It’s been hard, I thought everything would be fixed when I got my Chaos back, and no-one else seems to quite understand it. I need a friendly face.”

And her admission that she is here on purpose, she is here for him, and that she has sought him out is enough to send him spiralling all over again. Later he will blame it on the tiredness and the cold and the hangover, but now he just curls into her shoulder as her fingers brush through his hair and cries.

(And maybe he feels his own hair grow damp with her tears, but if he does, he will not mention it,)

Because underneath the fear of the mage and the fire and being so out of control again, his real fear of being forgotten, being deemed no longer useful, and the community and family he was finally starting to build being ripped away from him.

Eventually his tears run out, and he lifts his head from her shoulder to look into her face, and reflected in it he can see his own fear and worry, about no longer knowing who you are, having to carve out a new way for yourself, into the unknown whilst trying to figure out your place in the world.

And all he can do is lean in and press their lips together, both of them trembling, or perhaps it is just him but it feels right and he can feel the care and relief and togetherness that is shared in that kiss.

The bed dipped under Eskel’s weight as he climbed in several hours after his bard. His armor had been placed down with care as to not wake him, weapons following suit, and the night began to melt away as he scooted closer. The moon was high and bright, far too bright to usually catch much sleep, but Eskel had every intention of burying his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck to shield himself from the rest of the world. He had a way of that, making it all quiet despite his chattery nature, and it was one of the many things that drew Eskel to him like towards a flame in the dead of winter.

Despite his best efforts to not wake him, Jaskier jolted when Eskel’s arm snaked around him and tugged him closer. Eskel started in turn, lips already parting on a soft apology, but before he could get so much as a word out Jaskier had turned and wrapped all four of his long limbs around him. He’d done it with enough force to push Eskel over onto his back, the witcher left blinking up at the ceiling while Jaskier whined pitifully in his arms, squeezing him as tight as his delicate looking form could manage.

Which was, in all honesty, quite tight. Jaskier might look small next to Eskel’s bulk but he was no weakling. Eskel’s face scrunched up but he simply held Jaskier back, wrapping him up and squeezing him with not nearly all of his might. As he ran his hand up Jaskier’s back he drew another soft noise out of him, one that sleep still clung to, and Eskel chuckled as he pressed his lips to the top of Jaskier’s fussed up hair.

“Alright there, love?” Eskel didn’t expect much of an answer but he also didn’t expect Jaskier to squid him even tighter. Jaskier pressed himself as far into Eskel’s soft chest as he could, and when he did answer it was almost lost in-between Eskel’s tits.

Thankfully, Eskel had better hearing than most, and he just managed to make out the absolute incoherent babble that Jaskier had slurred out around a yawn. It took a few seconds to process enough to even laugh about, though when he did it jostled Jaskier enough to make him whine even further, drawn a little more out of his sleep and pressing as far into Eskel as he could manage.

“You thought what had gotten me?” Eskel teased him softly, brushing some of that sleep mussed hair out of his beloved bard’s face, managing to catch a glimpse of that scrunched up, adorable face before it was turning back to press so firmly into his chest he left an indention in the soft layer of fat there.

“Daisies.”

Eskel actually snorted that time as Jaskier hooked his leg around Eskel’s, entangling them so firmly that Eskel knew it would be a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. Not that he really minded. The night was for his hunts; mornings and days were for his love.

“Not sure I see the danger in a bunch of flowers, Jaskier,” he drawled, not ready yet to take pity on him and let him sleep. But he soothed his hands over his back as Jaskier made another soft noise, pressing more kisses to the top of his head.

“Got you,” Jaskier slurred out, his words slowing even further as he sank into the warmth of his witcher. “Took you away. What if they took you for good?”

Eskel hummed, laying his head back and closing his eyes, shutting out the rest of the world and only listening to the steady beating of Jaskier’s heart and the slowing rhythm of his breaths.

“I’ve no need to fear any daisies, love.” Eskel sighed, taking a moment to tug the blanket up over them to keep his bard warm. And though he could tell Jaskier had slipped back off to his dreams he still added, with a caress to his love’s cheek, “My buttercup will keep me safe.”

And he had no doubts that his buttercup would keep him.

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