#jesskier

Geralt has never scared Jaskier before. He doesn’t think it’s only fear making the man sweat, though— the wrinkle in his forehead between his sharp, thick brows makes him look conflicted. Maybe he wasn’t really going to leave; Geralt has seen him prepare to make much, much stupider decisions and then back out of them at the last second. The witcher enters the room without being invited in, shutting the door quietly behind himself. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really,” Jaskier admits, glancing down at the obvious signs of his departure. One of them will have to bring it up, and it certainly isn’t going to be Geralt— over their decades of knowing each other, he’s learned that the best way to get Jaskier talking is to shut up. But, surprisingly, Jaskier doesn’t mention the packed bag either, just muttering darkly, “Drafty fucking castle. Couldn’t you have picked a warmer climate?”

“I didn’t choose it,” Geralt tells him plainly, even though Jaskier knows that. Sure enough, the bard rolls his eyes. The irritation is familiar enough that it comforts them both, and it gives Geralt the courage to step closer to the bed. “Do you… well. I mean.” He falls silent, embarrassed to have to ask aloud. But it’s the only thing coming to mind that might get Jaskier to stay, aside from an important conversation; and he’s always been shit at those. “I could give you a massage…?”

Jaskier gapes. “What?”

“I could give you a massage,” Geralt repeats slowly, more sure of himself the second time around. Even as Jaskier’s expression contorts into one of increasing confusion, he doesn’t retract the offer, instead doubling down. “That always used to help me calm down when I was stressed. You’re stressed. I’ll rub your back.”

“Fucking hell,” breathes Jaskier, still staring at Geralt as though he’s grown a second head. “I… Are you drunk?”

“No. Lie down.” Jaskier stares, and Geralt realizes the error of his ways too late; Jaskier had always given him massages after he bathed. Often they were both unclothed but Geralt thinks taking off his own trousers might give Jaskier the wrong impression, and he doesn’t want to scare him right out of the keep. He just wants to help him relax. “Take your clothes off, then lie down.”

He thinks Jaskier might pick up his bag of books and toss it at Geralt’s head, but instead the bard just blinks before obeying the instructions. He strips as methodically as he always has around the witcher, first removing his long-sleeved shirt and dropping it off the side of the bed, where it covers his other belongings. Good— let him forget his half-baked plans of leaving. 

His breeches come next, leaving him shivering in his smallclothes. Before Geralt can get a good look at anything Jaskier rolls over onto his stomach, leaving his back and legs exposed as he buries his face in the pillow. He’s still wearing his warm, handmade socks. Looking at those socks, Geralt feels a rush of warmth and desire so sudden and overwhelming that it frightens him— he wants to cover Jaskier in blankets, to cover them both, he wants to sheathe himself inside this man and hold him so tightly that the thought of stumbling down a freezing mountain alone never crosses his mind again. He wants Jaskier to be cozy, and he wants Jaskier to know that Geralt wants him to be cozy. Of all the realizations he’s had in the last few years, this has to take the ridiculous cake; Geralt can’t even think of the last time he used the word ‘cozy’. He thinks perhaps he never has.

“Get on with it,” Jaskier begs through chattering teeth, and Geralt moves over him on the bed so that he can do exactly that. He hovers over the man’s thighs, not wanting to perch atop them how Jaskier once had. The position strains his own thighs but Geralt is a witcher, for fuck’s sake; he can put up with aching muscles if it gets Jaskier to relax.

Geralt casts a quick Igni towards the empty hearth and a small fire bursts to life there. He only meant to make the room more comfortable but he immediately recognizes that it was a mistake when Jaskier tenses even more underneath him, burrowing down into the threadbare mattress and turning his head away from the fire. His bare hands curl up into fists at his sides, and Geralt watches them uncomfortably. Yen had told him about some of Rience’s torture, but he hadn’t thought it would leave lasting psychological damage… Maybe they really do need to have that conversation.

Just the thought is terrifying. Geralt opts to stick with his approach instead, leaning forward to dig his hands into Jaskier’s shoulders. At the very first touch the man jumps as though Geralt has poked him, trying to shy away from the sensation. Jaskier stops squirming quickly but he doesn’t relax, shoulders still tense enough that he could be flexing them. Geralt slowly rubs along the tired muscles there, tracing a path down along Jaskier’s sides before moving to work on the middle of his back.

The small crackling fire is their only ambiance— that and Jaskier’s rapidly beating heart. Geralt hadn’t expected him to feel so tightly wound; even after several minutes, Geralt can’t feel any change. He huffs, nearly self-conscious, “What? Don’t like massages?” 

His bard doesn’t even respond, which perfectly confirms Geralt’s suspicions that he’s somehow doing this wrong. Growing nervous, he leans down until their bodies are nearly flush. Even then Jaskier doesn’t reply, and Geralt finally whispers against the shell of his ear, “Jaskier. You’re so tense.”

“I don’t think anyone could possibly blame me for that.” Jaskier’s response is muffled through the pillow.

Geralt straightens up, rising up to hover over him again. Unable to fully hide the note of concern in his voice, he asks, “Is this not helping? I thought… Is this not what you want?”

And that finally makes Jaskier react, coming alive under Geralt. He turns, unseating the witcher only slightly as he rolls in place and shifts onto his side, then his back. His hair might have grown and he might have lost some mass but his eyes are blue as ever, and they steal Geralt’s breath exactly the same way as they had some twenty-odd years ago. “You’ve never offered me a massage before,” accuses Jaskier, staring up at him.

Geralt’s medallion dangles down between them but he doesn’t move to put it over his shoulder, too transfixed by the strange look in his friend’s eyes— if he can even call the bard his friend anymore. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s on Jaskier’s mind. Usually he wears his feelings on his sleeve, and right now Geralt can’t understand him when they’re less than a foot apart. It unsettles him, and his answer comes out more honest than he’d meant: “I never thought you needed one before. You’re… stressed. I can see it.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Jaskier huffs. “My brilliant, psychic witcher who somehow manages to miss the most obvious evidence before his very eyes! Yes, Geralt, you’ve solved it; I am fucking stressed!”

Geralt chews his lip. “I can put the fire out.”

Some of the tension drains from Jaskier even as he shakes his head. So maybe he doesn’t want the fire gone so much as he wants it acknowledged that the fire is bothering him, and why that might be. Geralt winces; he’s terrible at acknowledgements. “It’s not the fire. It’s—”

“I can take my pants off too.”

“—that I don’t belong here on th… on this, I’m sorry, what did you just fucking say? Yes, please, never mind. Let’s do that!”

“I want to make you feel more comfortable,” Geralt slowly admits through a grimace. One of Jaskier’s tightly coiled fists unfurls so that he can reach up to lightly cup the witcher’s face. His soft touch is a balm on a wound that Geralt didn’t know he had. “I thought I could offer… a massage, or… a… conversation. Whatever it takes. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Geralt—”

“I want you to be comfortable here,” Geralt insists, sagging into Jaskier’s touch as he comes clean. Jaskier’s eyes fly open wide once more but this time his scent isn’t sick with stress, and no sweat is gathering in the crooks of his body. He looks windswept by the declaration but, as a small smile quirks up in the corners of his mouth, he looks happy too. Geralt revels in that happiness, resolving to do whatever he can to prolong it. “Will you try? If I do?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jaskier sniffs, burying his head into Geralt’s shoulder and hugging him tightly. Geralt embraces him back just as strongly, not wanting to crush him but needing him as close as possible. Jaskier’s shoulders shake with a different tension but Geralt doesn’t address it, holding him until finally, finally the wave of stress crests and he starts to relax. When he breaks the silence between them his voice wavers slightly; “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt wraps his arms more solidly around Jaskier, humming softly. “I’m sorry my massages aren’t as good as yours.”

“I’ve had years of experience,” Jaskier dismisses, a smile in his voice. “This… this helps a lot. Just this.”

“Next time I’ll bring chamomile oil.”

The man nearest, one of the ones who had been attacking Jaskier, seemed to be debating whether or not to fight back. The man who had cheered grabbed him by the arm.

“Come on. He’s a witcher. He’ll tear us to shreds. Let’s get out of here.”

The three of them turned on their heel and ran. Geralt would have gone after them – they got out of this far too easily for his liking – but a groan from the ground stopped him. Jaskier lay curled up on his side. Geralt quickly rushed to his side. Jaskier opened one eye.

“Geralt,” he groaned, “they took my money-“

“Doesn’t matter,” the witcher interrupted, “let’s get you out of here.”

The bard was a mess. He had been struck in the face, perhaps several times. There was blood coming from his nose and lip and bruises were forming under his left eye. Geralt gently helped him up and hooked his arm over his shoulder. Together they walked through the back door of the inn. They headed straight for the stairs, ignoring the subtle gasps from the patrons that were deafening to a witcher’s ears. Jaskier had a little trouble managing the stairs as unsteady on his feet as he was. But after a while they made it back into the room they had shared. As gently as he had helped him up, he set him onto the bed.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

The bard could only manage a whine and a shaky nod in reply. The witcher rushed out of the room and back down the stairs. He returned a few moments later with a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. He set the bowl down carefully on the bedside table and sat down on the bed. He soaked the cloth in the warm water.

“Come here,” he mumbled.

As softly as he could manage, he dabbed the cloth over the bard’s cheek. Jaskier’s sucked in a breath but held still.

“Sorry, this is going to hurt a bit.”

“’S’fine,” the bard slurred.

Luckily, Jaskier’s nose and lip had stopped bleeding in the time Geralt had been downstairs. But not so luckily, Geralt wiped away the blood to reveal a nasty split on his bottom lip. The witcher worked silently, efficiently. Jaskier too, didn’t make a sound. He kept his eyes shut tight but slowly relaxed as Geralt worked, leaning into his touch.

When he was done, Geralt set the cloth in the water, now cloudy with Jaskier’s blood. He raised both hands a began to gently press his thumbs on Jaskier’s face, around his nose and cheekbones. The bard flinched back.

“I need to check nothing is broken,” the witcher explained.

Jaskier let him, but complained when Geralt pressed on sensitive skin.

“Nothing’s broken. Just some bruising. It looks bad but it’ll heal.”

Jaskier opened his eyes for the first time since they started. Blue eyes shining with unshed tears met gold.

“I talked to the innkeeper. I can pay for us to stay a few more nights, so don’t even worry about it.”

Jaskier looked confused.

“I thought you were leaving town?” his voice wavered with uncertainty.

“I can’t leave now,” Geralt responded without missing a beat.

Jaskier smiled. Or, he tried to, until he let out an ‘ouch’ and grimaced.

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

The bard held back his laughter but only just.

The last words made Geralt comply. They'd had conversations like this before, especially when they'd not been in a relationship, when Jaskier had tried to help him and he'd refused this help. After some time, Jaskier hadn't backed down anymore, had even picked up this and that to be able to really help him. He'd learned about Geralt's potions, so that he could pick the right one in an emergency. Right now, he would hopefully not need them, but he couldn't be sure right now.

“Take the boots off ,” Jaskier commanded, earning him a smile from Geralt.

“Bossy,” he commented, but took off the boots and put them aside.

“Don't pretend that you don't like that!”

Meanwhile Jaskier got to work on Geralt's armour so that he could carefully take it off his body. Later on, he'd have to patch it up as well, but right now, he had to take care of Geralt's injuries. The tunic, he was still wearing was drenched in blood, but it wasn't only Geralt's - at least a little relief.

“Sit down!”

Geralt did what he was ordered to do, before he raised his arms over his head so that Jaskier could take off his tunic as well. His eyes were cast downward, as Jaskier got to work. Ever so gently, he touched the wet clothe to Geralt's face to clean that first, before he moved further down his body, taking his time. He knew that Geralt wouldn't break, that he didn't have to be so careful, but he wanted to, wanted to treat him the same way Geralt treated him when he was injured.

“You know, you don't have to be so gentle,” Geralt reminded him, slowly looking up.

“I know.” Jaskier raised his hand with the cloth again and dabbed at Geralt's shoulder, careful not to touch it directly to the biggest cut he'd found yet. “But you always take such good care of me, so you deserve the same treatment.”

He did that because Jaskier was more fragile than he himself was. He was human after all, and Geralt couldn't stand to see him get hurt. Whenever Jaskier got badly injured, he nearly freaked out. It was like he was working on autopilot, not really realising what he was doing, it was just automatic what he did.

“Mhh,” he simply gave as an answer and let Jaskier continue.

Once the blood and dirt was washed away from Geralt's body, Jaskier could assess the injuries. It wasn't as bad as he'd first thought, but still not a pretty sight.

“I need to stitch that cut on your shoulder. Everything else will heal in no time, but this is a little nasty...”

Jaskier turned around to grab his equipment before he set to stitching Geralt up. By now, he was rather good at it. He'd taken the time to get taught about this, just like he'd done with a couple of other things that came in handy when he was travelling with Geralt.

“There... all good now,” Jaskier said, conjuring up a smile. He couldn't hide the worry on his eyes, but he could try to lighten the mood a little bit. Geralt was safe now, he was here with him, and nothing would happen right now. “Let me just wash all that out of your hair and then we can go lie down. You need a lot of rest.”

Jaskier had picked up on Geralt's laboured breathing, on the way his hand had snapped up to cover his ribs every now and then. Once in their room, Geralt could get to his potions, and Jaskier had some oil that helped with the bruising, because he could just see where his ribs had been injured.

“I can-”

“-do that myself, I know, Geralt. I know you're that big guy that can and will do everything himself, but just...” Jaskier let out an exasperated sigh, not wanting to lecture him again, tell him that he could help.

“Alright, alright... I'm sorry, Jaskier.”

“Will you let me wash your hair now?”

“Yes...”

No more protesting, no more word, he simply followed Jaskier's lead and sat down again on the chair next to the bathtub and leaned back over it. Jaskier used a bit of the fresh water to rinse Geralt's hair, get most of the dirt and blood out. Then he reached for the soap he'd brought in here as well, lathering up his hands, before he started to put the soap into Geralt's hair. His fingers started gently massaging Geralt's scalp to help him relax at least a little bit, and it worked. The content sigh that left Geralt's lips was proof enough, making Jaskier smile to himself.

With the soap he got rid of the rest of the dirt and blood in Geralt's hair. He finished up with a bit of hairoil, which Geralt never thought necessary, but Jaskier was the one in charge right now, so he'd have to do with that.

“Trousers,” Jaskier said once they were finished with Geralt's hair.

“What?”

“Take them off, clean your legs, and I'll get you some fresh clothes.”

That was something he let Geralt do himself. Not that he didn't want to help him, but he knew that he wouldn't keep his hands where they were supposed to be and that wasn't a good idea looking at the state that Geralt was in right now. So instead, Jaskier went to their room and came back with a change of clothes for Geralt, so that he could get dressed again.

“Good, now that you're clean and smell heavenly, you can come back to our room,” Jaskier said with a grin. Of course he would have taken Geralt with him no matter what, but it was nicer this way.

Without waiting for a response, he took Geralt's hand in his, interlaced their fingers, and led him up to their room, where they had some peace and quiet. Well, as far as quiet went with someone like Jaskier around, but he would try his best to not talk too much, since Geralt needed some rest.

Once the door was closed behind them, Jaskier made his was to the bed, arranging the pillows so that Geralt could lie there as comfortably as possible. When he turned around, Geralt was still standing by the door.

“What is it, dear heart?” Jaskier asked, concern clouding his face as he approached Geralt again.

“How can you deal with all this?” Geralt asked shaking his head. He'd been on the road with Jaskier for years now, but ever since they'd been a couple, he'd asked himself that question. What did Jaskier see in him? How could Jaskier love him? He was a monster, just like people said, and he couldn't understand, why Jaskier apparently looked past all this.

“Because I love you.”

It was a simple and as complicated as that. He'd told Geralt before that he loved it when he didn't understand a reference Jaskier made and that little frown on his forehead appeared. That he loved the way Geralt smiled when he talked to Roach about what had happened while they'd been away. All the little bits and pieces. Still, he understood where Geralt's question was coming from. People still looked at Geralt like he was an abomination, and he'd been treated like that most of his life. Being genuinely loved by someone that wasn't his family was something he wasn't familiar with.

“I love you just like this,” Jaskier said, reaching for Geralt's hand, bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss to Geralt's knuckles. “I love you when you touch me gently like no one else ever has.” He turned Geralt's hand in his and kissed his wrist, looking up at the Witcher. It was true, he'd had many lovers, but none of them had touched him like Geralt did. “And I love you when your hands are bloody and your knuckles are bruised.”

Jaskier raised his free hand to cup Geralt's cheek, run his thumb over it.

“I love you, Geralt. All of you!”

With that, he pulled Geralt towards himself and sealed his lips with his own. Finally, Geralt relaxed beneath Jaskier's touch, because of this kiss and because of the words that had soothed his aching soul.

Once they parted again, Geralt couldn't help but smile, feeling at ease all of a sudden.

“Anything else you want to ask me?” Jaskier whispered against Geralt's lips, resting his forehead against Geralt's.

“No... no more questions.”

“Good, then get in bed. I'll just go and grab us something to eat. You need it.”

Trusting that Geralt would follow his orders, Jaskier turned to head out the door, but Geralt stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“Wait...” he said before he pulled Jaskier back against his own body and kissed the air from his lungs.

“What... was that for? Not that I'm complaining.” Jaskier felt a little light-headed, but couldn't keep the goofy smile from his lips.

“For being you,” Geralt simply said.

“Mmhhh.” Jaskier mimicked Geralt with his reaction, causing both men to chuckle.

“Get some rest, dear heart. I'll be back in a minute.”

This time, Geralt didn't hold him back, and instead went to lie down on the bed. A sigh left his lips, when his back hit the pillows and he closed his eyes. Replaying Jaskier's words in his head, he could only smile. The same goofy smile he'd seen a moment ago on Jaskier's lips.