Chapter Text
Jaskier dangled his feet over the edge of the broken bridge, contemplating the dilapidated remains of what once must have been an imposing courtyard. He could picture it in his head -- a sprawling keep, full of life. The sound of training swords clashing together, the yelled instructions of a supervising Vesemir, little feet sliding on the ground, twirling, skipping, spinning -- learning the dance of death. Now there was only cold rubble and piled snow. It was a saddening sight. It would make for a saddening ballad. Perhaps he would write it... perhaps he would not -- some wounds were better left to scar in oblivion.
He looked back, catching a glimpse of the couple at the foot of the bridge. Geralt was speaking to Yennefer in hushed tones, too far for Jaskier to make anything out. Ciri had returned to the keep a while ago. Jaskier should probably get going as well. He had to gather his possessions, measly as they might be -- his new lute wasn’t much to look at, especially when compared to the one he’d gotten at Dol Blathanna, but it was the best he could afford after that business in Oxenfurt. It was time he left. It seemed the disorder and trouble had settled, and that familiar feeling of being superfluous had begun to return. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome.
If he waited any longer, Yennefer might leave the landing as well though, and then he’d have to acknowledge Geralt -- talk to him. Jaskier didn’t feel like doing that. He didn’t feel like doing that at all.
He thought the feeling of betrayal had passed, that he could pretend like the last months hadn’t happened and go back to the way it was before, but that was proving to be harder than expected. He wanted more. Wanted to feel recognized and appreciated, wanted a long heartfelt apology, even if his gut instinct was still to make things easier for Geralt. Sure, he saw that the witcher had felt remorse over the way they’d parted on Caingorn -- he had even admitted to missing Jaskier, to needing him. The euphoria of hearing that aloud had fueled Jaskier for many a mile. But Jaskier didn’t want some implied concession, he didn’t want to return to his role of annoying companion, trailing along after a laconic and impersonal witcher. He wanted Geralt to care enough to want to apologise, lengthily and earnestly. He wanted Geralt to do it without demand or request. He wanted him to ignore Jaskier’s lame and falsely jesting attempts to change the topic.
He pushed himself away from the ledge and stood, meaning to pass by the couple unawares. It seemed Jaskier had been too late in his intentions to leave, though. Geralt glanced at him from the foot of the bridge, eyes bright and yellow in the falling dusk, and said something to Yennefer. The sorceress replied and glanced at him as well, a solemn expression gracing her face, before turning her back and walking back into the great hall.
And now Geralt was looking at him. Fuck.
Jaskier pursed his lips, swallowed, and walked forward. No use in prolonging the inevitable.
“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was soft and gentle, like the breeze that fanned his hair, and his eyes seemed like molten gold in the low light.
He came to a stop, just a couple feet away from the witcher. A good distance, he decided, not too close.
“I... can we talk?”
“Aren’t we already?”
Geralt seemed to wince, as if wounded by his reply, and Jaskier felt a smidge of guilt. He’d been perhaps a tad too brusque in his delivery, overly sharp-tongued. He contained a sigh and gentled his stance.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“I wanted to thank you. For coming. And for looking after Ciri,” Geralt said, words somewhat stilted and awkward. “I needed someone I could trust, and… I trust you.”
“Of course,” Jaskier replied easily, genuinely, letting his mouth curl into a faint smile that was a little more forced. “What are friends for, after all? I’m glad I could be of assistance.”
He bade Geralt farewell with an acknowledging nod and started to move past him, assuming the conversation to be over, or hoping it so. He didn’t get far.
Geralt took hold of his arm, not too hard, just enough to halt him, and blurted, “Wait.”
Jaskier looked at him in surprise, feeling the light pressure of the hand just above his sleeved elbow in a rather acute manner. For a second, he thought Geralt would deny it, that he would go back to the old and worn insistence that they weren’t even friends.
“You’re more than that, Jaskier. You’re-- You’re important to me.”
The wind blew. Somewhere inside the keep, Lambert was complaining loudly about something, his voice carrying over the halls. Jaskier blinked, head running momentarily blank. He stared at Geralt, absorbing the words, understanding their shape, discerning the meaning.
“When I came to find you, Yen told me you’d gotten into trouble, because of me.”
Jaskier shuddered, despite himself. The memory of that fucker and his flaming hands burned vividly in his mind, and in his scorched fingers, his still tender ribs. There was a scar on the inside of his mouth from when his teeth had dug in hard and deep, during a punch. He ran his tongue over it, reflexively and compulsively, feeling the raised edges.
Geralt’s hand was still on his arm.
“What happened?”
Jaskier found he couldn’t stare at Geralt anymore, the sight was burning his pupils, making his eyes water. He looked at the mountain peak that was half-hid behind the ramparts to his right, the one that looked like an arrowhead.
“Why are you asking?” The words seemed dry and stale in his mouth.
Geralt didn’t answer straight away, perhaps waiting for Jaskier to meet his gaze again. He didn’t. A bird of some sort, possibly an eagle, was circling the mountaintop, diving and soaring between darkened clouds.
“Because I care,” Geralt finally replied, weary and sad. “When Yen first told me, I thought nothing had come of it. I thought he’d asked a couple of questions and she’d chased him off. But now she said-- Jaskier, please look at me.”
Jaskier ground his teeth, a knot forming deep in his throat. He didn’t want to -- Gods, he didn’t want to. Melitele knew he was hanging on by a thread. But Geralt had asked. And when was the last time Jaskier had managed to refuse anything Geralt had asked of him?
He looked.
“What happened?” Geralt’s eyes were sad and almost -- if Jaskier dared to say it -- tender. Hell, his whole face was a picture of sorrow.
It was too much. Jaskier found, to his horror, that his cheeks had grown wet. He wanted to avert his eyes again, wanted to run away, but somehow, that gentle hold on his arm kept him in place, frozen.
Geralt made a noise deep in his throat, a half-groan half-growl of sorts, and pulled him closer. Jaskier offered no resistance. It was somehow familiar, and alien all at once, to be here, in the witcher’s arms, with his cheek pressed to the cool leather of his chest plate, just above where his heart would be.
A sobbed ripped out of his throat, between clenched teeth, and jerked his body. He scrunched his eyes shut, pressing his face harder against the witcher’s chest. The centring pressure was gone from his elbow, but now there were arms around him, holding him close and rubbing softly along his back, and that was better.
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier muttered wetly, pitifully. He wasn’t quite sure what for, but maybe it would make him feel better.
“No.” Geralt bit out from above, almost angrily, hands freezing on his back. Jaskier flinched, stomach dropping at the reprimanding tone, and the arms returned to their soothing motions at once. “No, Jaskier. Don’t apologise. I’m the one who fucked up.”
Jaskier sniffled, embarrassingly, fingers clenching emptily on the leather plate where they were trapped between their chests.
“I’m so sorry,” Geralt said, his voice quite strangled and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Jaskier wasn’t sure how long he stood there, weeping in the arms of his witcher. But when it was over and they finally slipped apart, he found that the weight he’d carried with him since Oxenfurt, that dreaded load that drained his spirits and threatened to crush his lungs at times, had lifted a bit. And maybe that creeping feeling of being unneeded and unwanted had abated some. Even more so when Geralt asked him to stay the winter.