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Jaskier sank down onto the bed in the room he’d been granted. 

He was very careful not to call it his room. 

Not even in jest. 

This was temporary, as all things were. When Geralt left Kaer Morhen, so would his welcome. Hell, even if Geralt remained, Jaskier knew better than to settle. The only person here who seemed interested in his presence was the person with the least leverage. Jaskier didn’t imagine Yennefer’s opinion would sway Geralt the next time Geralt grew tired of him. Nor did he assume his friendship with Yennefer would withstand whatever came next. 

A shame, really, she was a lovely ally . . . and a lovelier friend. 

Regardless, it would be foolish to grow comfortable here. He’d spent the last few nights dressing out of his pack. With no lute to strum and too tense an environment to have considered composing anyway, it wasn’t like he had much use for his notebooks. If he’d brought his own ale he may have unpacked that, but he’d not been so fortunate. So, instead, he raided the keep’s kitchens and stole a few bottles. He’d replace them, he swore. Gods knew he didn’t intend on pissing Vesemir off.  

No. He knew his place, so he sank onto the bed. Not his bed. He looked around the room. Not his room. He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, straightening his clothes out. That was what he had. He could rely on himself and what he could carry. He glanced at the ale, not his ale, but reliable nonetheless. Beer got you drunk whether bought or borrowed. 

Yet, he didn’t move from the bed. It wasn’t that he was uninterested in grabbing the bottle, but that he found himself a bit frozen. Between the pain and the exhaustion  . . . and the crippling fucking guilt, Jaskier didn’t necessarily see his right to the drink hidden away in the dark of the room. 

He’d been bothered when Cirilla had hardly considered him. In a selfish train of thought, he feared that her dismissal came as a reflection of whatever awful reviews Geralt must have given of him when they’d traveled. Upon further thought, he realized it was unlikely that Geralt had mentioned him at all. They had plenty to focus on, and Jaskier aimed not to take it personally. Such consideration allowed him to realize that it likely wasn’t him at all. The poor girl had been through enough. So much that Jaskier was likely the last thing on her mind, and rightfully so. Too much, for his heartbreak to shade his observation of her. He was hurting, of course, but so was she. And she was so, so young. His sympathy forgave the interaction entirely. 

Perhaps, on a less awful day, he’d try again. 

For now, he didn’t seem a priority of her time. Nor did he warrant the attention or introduction to Geralt’s family. Lambert, Coen, and Vesemir were the three that had greeted them at the front gates when Jaskier and the others had arrived. They’d immediately taken Cirilla in, and left Jaskier more or less to his devices. He wondered briefly if Eskel was around, but thought it best not to ask. They too had things to do, and Jaskier seemed the last of their priorities. He wasn’t sure if that meant they failed to see him as a threat or an asset, but they certainly didn’t feel the need to see him for long. Though, considering his performance during that shit show of a battle, he understood. 

Jaskier had spent the last few hours trying to be of some help in cleaning up, but every move he made was an offense to whomever was close to him. He feared disrespecting the fallen witchers and he was too weak to pick up the bulk of the stones which had fallen. So he’d cleared the large boards of wood from the shattered tables and cleaned up what he could. 

“I am just going to go-” He started to excuse himself. No one was listening anyway. He nodded to himself and returned to the room where he sat now. 

‘I need you,’ Geralt had said. 

He grit his teeth and took a deep breath. He felt a residual bitterness in his chest, welling up despite his best efforts. He had meant it when he’d spoken to Geralt for forgiveness between friends. He had forgiven Geralt for his transgressions. It was, in part, for Geralt, but largely for himself. He hated carrying this stone of guilt, sorrow, and anger with him everywhere. He had thought that in forgiving Geralt, it would lessen. And it did, somewhat. Yet, it also grew with each person who seemed to so easily discard him as useless. It grew with each time he felt he proved them right. 

In Oxenfurt it had become something of a small rock. Still present, still an irritant to be kept in hand every waking hour, but tolerable. Lighter. His work there gave him something so much more to feel. Not quite the pride that he felt performing. Similar in gravity, but different. This was reward he’d never be able to earn. No title or recognition came from the operation he ran. It was fulfilling, but felt less like a choice. Of course he had to do this. He looked around his city and he saw terror and violence, he had to do something , and there in Oxenfurt he felt like he was. He felt he was truly doing something. 

Until his plan backfired and it had cost that elf his life. Until he was captured by Rience and it cost Yennefer her trip to safety. Until he was thrown in fucking jail and cost himself his own freedom. 

Before all of that, he had felt . . . the first semblance of control over his life that he had felt in an incredibly long time. A purpose through himself and his own capabilities. One that didn't hinge on someone else as entirely. 

Here though?

‘Jaskier,’ Yennefer had breathed. She sounded desperate, sincere. ‘I need you.’ 

What a fucking joke. 

She had dragged him into a fight he never should have been involved in. He’d served no purpose. Aided no one. He was not so conceited to think it would have been better without him, that combat would have been chaos no matter his participation. Yet, he’d intended to be helpful. He’d intended to do something. Instead, he had hidden under the fucking table, all too aware that he’d gotten himself in over his head.

Fuck.

He balled his right hand into a fist, feeling the stretch of the tight and tender skin. His burns had started to fade, but the last few days of exertion had done him no favors on that front. He could still feel the skin try to tear as he curled his fist tighter. The pain grounded him as he closed his eyes. 

He needed to be practical. Start thinking ahead. The dwarves had left after dropping Cirilla and Jaskier off at the base of the mountain. The climb up had been easier than Jaskier had anticipated, but not exactly a stroll in a courtyard. He knew the climb down would feel easier with gravity at his back, but would be more dangerous. After all, he remembered the last time he’d climbed down a mountain on his own. As well as, he wasn’t sure where he was going to go after this. Oxenfurt was not an option for some time, what with the state of trouble he’d left in. He certainly didn’t care for the idea of going to Lettenhove, though at least he’d have some semblance of notoriety there. He’d be a harder target. Hmm. Perhaps he could start traveling again. Get on the road, buy a new lute, and-   

A knock at the door caught Jaskier’s attention and he glanced up. “Yes?” He replied before realizing that it was just Geralt. He couldn’t imagine Geralt waiting for permission to enter. Though, when he thought about it, he couldn’t really imagine that of any of the other witchers either. 

And Yennefer wouldn’t have knocked. 

Geralt took a short step into the room and glanced around. He frowned slightly, at the dark state, and looked to Jaskier for some explanation. When Jaskier offered none, Geralt cleared his throat. “You know . . . there are torches along your walls,” he said quietly. 

Jaskier nodded ever so slightly, glancing warily at the sticks hung around the walls. “Mhmm.”

Geralt hesitated. He seemed to consider asking why Jaskier had chosen to sit without light, but decided against it, and instead then added, “You’ve not unpacked.” The observation itself seemed neutral, but Geralt continued with a quiet, “That’s good.” It was muttered so quietly, in fact, that Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was meant to be said to him or if he was eavesdropping on some discreet conversation that Geralt was having with himself. 

“How astute of you,” Jaskier muttered. It sounded bitter, even to his own ears. He grew frustrated with himself. It felt unfair to punish Geralt after having dismissed his apologies. Geralt seemed to know there was more to discuss on the topic of their relationship, but he had respected it when Jaskier had not-so-subtly given him a ‘not right now’ sort of response. 

Geralt didn’t seem to take the retort personally, but he also looked far too exhausted to take much of anything to heart right now. 

He realized belatedly that Geralt had just gone through a hell of a worse day than Jaskier had, and he took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he muttered quietly, glancing up to Geralt. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Geralt,” he breathed. He couldn’t bring himself to stand, but the look on his face conveyed his sincerity. Geralt hadn’t exactly had a wealth of loved ones to begin with, and in the last few days he’d lost half of them. Jaskier’s chest grew tight with the thought, and he felt tears involuntarily start to fill his eyes. He looked away so as not to cry them at Geralt. “I am so sorry for all that you’ve lost, my friend. I can only imagine how you must ache.”

The witcher looked over to Jaskier with a small nod, “Yeah,” he agreed softly. 

For a long moment there was silence between them. Geralt did not scoff at the tears which silently rolled down Jaskier’s face, nor did Jaskier push for Geralt to display what torment he was likely feeling. They grieved in such opposite manners, hurt in such different ways, and in that, merely gave one another a moment to feel it however it would come to them. 

When the silence finally did break, with the sound of Geralt clearing his throat once more, Jaskier wiped his face and took a deep breath. “If there’s anything,” Jaskier began, falling silent for another long moment. He had nothing to offer. He had nothing but himself. But fuck it, he would offer it nonetheless. “Anything I can do for you is considered done the moment you ask,” he promised.

Geralt, however, hadn’t the faintest of clues what he could ask for which might ease any of this, but he appreciated the sentiment. “. . . Not the circumstances under which I imagined you visiting my home for the first time,” he admitted, still standing in the doorway.

It was almost laughable to hear such a statement, but nothing was funny. Jaskier smiled tightly and nodded, “Ah, yes, well, that makes two of us.” He remembered the nights in which Geralt told him of Kaer Morhen. Nights when they had sought each other out in a manner, Jaskier had realized was mutually beneficial, not real. And afterwards, Geralt would be a bit softer. Jaskier wasn't sure he even noticed, but Geralt would calm. 

Something about expressing and receiving love soothed him.

Even if Jaskier was just there out of convenience.

Even then, though, Jaskier was never offered an invitation. His presence never requested on the mountain. He hadn't taken it personally, then, as he believed that Geralt's home was somewhat sacred. He wasn't sure if that opinion had changed after visiting. Maybe there was meant to be some rule against guests. Maybe Geralt just didn't think that Jaskier would survive the winter.  

With a look to the window, the sun finally set beyond the point of lighting the room at all, Geralt realized that not only would Jaskier be without light, but the room had dropped considerably in temperature. He took another small step forward and lifted his hand. With a bend of his third finger and a flick of his wrist, Geralt sent a small flame to the nearest torch. It lit the room enough for Geralt to have better sight of the fireplace, and intent on warming Jaskier he didn’t notice the way his company’s eyes grew wide nor the way Jaskier’s heart began to race.

Geralt had to step past Jaskier to get to the fireplace and took Jaskier’s movement as an attempt to stay out of the way. It seemed fair enough, considering Geralt wasn’t exactly intent on lighting Jaskier on fire, but as he repeated it he finally caught notice of the way Jaskier had pushed himself to the opposite side of the bed. 

Fingers digging almost desperately into wood that wouldn’t give, Jaskier’s grip on the bed frame was so tight that his knuckles had turned white. His heart was racing far too swiftly to make sense of its beats, and he found it difficult to breathe. It would seem that the guilt, sorrow, and anger had swirled together to turn the stone in his stomach to one giant boulder of panic which sat directly over his ribs. His eyes trained on the fire, and mind focused on tracking Geralt in his peripheral vision, Jaskier sat rigid. 

Confusion thread through Geralt’s expression and he glanced back at the pit himself. He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but by the way Jaskier had reacted he’d have thought there were demons in the shadows of the flames. “Jask?” Geralt asked quietly. 

Jaskier made no attempt to move. Or perhaps he did. It was, admittedly, difficult to tell what his body was doing presently when his mind had thrust him so suddenly into what it had been feeling not so many days before. He remembered writhing in the restraints. Pulling. Tearing. Trying everything in his power to get out of them and away from that fucking man. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, taking a small step towards Jaskier. He froze when he saw the way Jaskier involuntarily flinched away from him. 

The mage had plenty of time to start his interrogation before Yennefer, bless her heart had arrived to help save him. He had made very good use of it. Jaskier could feel each hit, each cut, each burn. He would have mocked the mage for taking so long to put two and two together. Really, any researched torturer would have started with Jaskier’s hands, after all, he needed them to do what he was most well known for. Yet, the mage had taken quite a while to get there. 

Carefully, Geralt knelt before Jaskier, and raised both of his hands so that Jaskier could see them. Jaskier’s eyes remained trained on the fire, but Geralt knew that he was being watched. “I need you to tell me what’s going on,” Geralt said gently. “Are you hurt?” He asked, keeping his tone even as his eyes flicked swiftly to assess any injuries the dark may have hidden from him. 

Yet again, Geralt’s words prompted laughter, and this time they earned it. Jaskier barked out a quick and panicked laugh, shaking his head as his eyes finally dragged from the flames to Geralt. Well, not to Geralt. To Geralt’s hands. Hands which had sparked fire moments before. 

Jaskier could feel his skin burning as he yanked and tried so hard to get his hand away from the mage.

Geralt’s brow furrowed as he looked at his own hands and then finally seemed to realize what had startled Jaskier. He didn’t know why, after all, Jaskier had seen him cast igni regularly. This wasn’t a surprise. Or at least, he didn’t think it was. “Do you want me to put the fire out?” He inquired, “I can. That sign is reversible.”

Nodding or shaking his head seemed too difficult. How was Jaskier to know what he wanted right now? He wanted the pain to go away. He wanted the chest caving boulder to return to the back breaking stone it once was. He wanted to have fought his way out of the mage’s hold. He wanted- He wanted- “No,” he breathed, trying to force as much resolution into the one syllable as he could. It was a stupid fucking sign he had seen Geralt cast about a million times before. He had to be fine with this.

“Are you sure?” 

Jaskier’s resolve flickered, “no,” he admitted. Closing his eyes and squeezing them tightly for a long few moments, Jaskier took a very slow breath and then opened his eyes once again. This was Geralt for the gods sake. Jaskier was not in danger here. At least, not that kind of danger. Geralt was likely only to hurt him with words and by accident, not with fire intentionally. “Sorry,” Jaskier said, still trying to catch his breath, and still unable to remove his gaze from Geralt’s hands. 

With a bewildered look over Jaskier’s face, Geralt paused. “Sorry?” He echoed quietly. 

“Yes.” Fucking. Shit. Jaskier swallowed hard and slowly tore his gaze away from Geralt’s hands, forcing it up towards Geralt’s face. “Sorry . . . I didn’t intend-” he began, but realized how ridiculous he would have sounded. Of course he didn’t plan to respond in such a way. “I didn’t realize I’d-” He carefully ripped one hand from the bedframe to gesture vaguely to himself, indicating his outburst with as much dismissal as he could. “Thank you,” he pushed out. “For lighting the fire.”

If Jaskier had grown another head, he wasn’t sure Geralt would look at him so strangely. “Thank you,” Geralt repeated once more. “Sorry.” Disbelief coated his tone thickly, until his words were dripping with it. “Don’t- apologize,” Geralt said softly, “Help me understand what the fuck just happened,” he requested. Then, seeming to think better of it, he added, “If you can . . . I mean . . . I just . . .”

Jaskier nodded. He understood what Geralt meant. It wasn’t a demand, but a request born out of urgency. He wanted to assure that it wasn’t nearly as emergent as his behavior made it seem, but he realized that such assurance would only provide more confusion. Carefully, Jaskier pulled in another deep breath, pushing himself back some and prying his other hand off of the frame. His heart was still racing, and he realized that his hands were shaky from the effort. Fuck. That would be painful as the night grew longer. He wasn’t quite as young as he used to be, and found himself far less able to bounce back from such extremes. 

Quite carefully, Geralt stood again and glanced around. He gestured to the bed beside Jaskier, waiting for the affirmative nod he received before sitting down carefully on it. 

“Fire,” Jaskier said abruptly, “Er- A mage-” He tried again, his face scrunching up at the inarticulate manner in which his point was failing to get across, he gestured to Geralt’s hands. “ ‘t was just spontaneous,” Jaskier finally muttered. “Made me think of- nothing, really. It isn’t exactly important,” he tried to dismiss. “Just . . . I think I’d prefer to light the fireplace myself next time if I stick around.”

The attempt to follow what Jaskier was saying was evident by the attentive look on Geralt’s face (eyes focused on the floor but listening clearly), but he seemed to struggle putting it together. “The sign startled you,” he said slowly, “Because of a mage?” He asked. His head tilted as he looked suddenly up to Jaskier, “Fire fucker?”

Another sudden laugh pushed itself out of Jaskier’s chest, though this one sounded just slightly less unhinged than the other. “Ah- yes! Yennefer’s mentioned him, then?” He said, nodding. A movement, it seemed, he couldn’t stop after he’d started it. His head continued to nod as he spoke, growing some. “It is, admittedly, a completely fair alias to give him, I think. In fact, it even has a bit of a ring to it. Though, it does imply that he enjoys having a quick round of pleasure with the flames every now and again, and let me tell you there is nothing pleasurable about what he does-”

Geralt considered interrupting Jaskier, but it seemed pointless as Jaskier cut himself off instead. What had escalated almost into a rock stilled into silence and a complete lack of movement. 

“Yes,” Jaskier stated, “fire fucker indeed.”

Eyes dropping back down to his own hands, Geralt leaned forward, rested his elbows against his knees, and stared at his palms. The sort of signs witchers could manage were comparable only vaguely to what chaos could be wielded by a mage. Igni, therefore, was hardly the same as a mage wielding fire magic. Yet, to an untrained hypersensitive eye, Geralt could see why Jaskier would have made the connection. He frowned, “He interrogated you,” Geralt remembered. More laughter. The ugly kind. The kind Geralt was starting to realize, he sort of hated. “Yen mentioned he was looking for information on Cirilla.”

Jaskier hummed, his eyes also having fallen forward. He stared at nothing in particular, however. “I didn’t give him any,” he promised quietly. 

That, Geralt knew he could trust. “It sounds like . . . he did a bit more than just ask you questions.” It was an open statement. A prompt for Jaskier to expand upon if he chose to, but yet another deniable request. 

“Ah, well.”

They fell silent again. A silence that echoed that of before. Both of them processing something in entirely different manners. 

This time it was Geralt who shattered the silence. “Will you share it with me . . . if you ever want to get it off your chest?” he asked quietly. “I can- I can provide you protection from him.”

Which reminded Jaskier of the boulder. It had slowly begun to grow smaller, at least enough that he could budge it. He carefully pushed it from his chest back to his stomach where it belonged and felt it shrink back towards its regular size. He would need to get a handle on that reaction when he set out again. He couldn’t be rendered helpless any time someone lit a fire near him. Gods forbid someone bump into him when he was unaware. Hmm. “Don’t think I’d like to talk about the details,” he admitted. “Least not yet.”

Gearlt hummed his acknowledgement. 

“If I ever need to, I will remember your offer,” Jaskier promised. 

He said nothing of the second part, which Geralt noticed. “You said . . . if you stuck around.” Geralt recalled quietly. “If?”

“Hmm,” Jaskier responded quietly, borrowing Geralt’s favored phrase. “I meant what I said. Anything I can do,” he started. 

Geralt frowned ever so slightly, and opened his mouth to speak, but Jaskier didn’t pause. 

“I’ll stay until you’ve left, of course. Longer if anyone here needs me, but I don’t see that happening. And I’d heard that you plan on heading out again. I don’t assume I’ll be welcome here when you, the witch, and the princess leave.”

Again, Geralt seemed to want to interrupt. Again, Jaskier persisted. 

“Which is not to comment on the hospitality of your home. I trust you’d secure a place for me here if I needed, but I don’t,” he assured. A great deal of convincing he’d just done, proving himself even more helpless than before. Yet, he meant it. He could be fine on his own once more. Jaskier had survived many a thing on his own. He could survive this as well. “And those who remain here have things to focus on. I am not entirely unworthy of attention, but I will not demand their’s. Not after what they’ve just battled.”

This time Geralt had no words to say.

“Nor will I ask for yours,” he promised. “I’ll move on soon. Just tell me when you plan on leaving.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt admitted. 

Jaskier hummed and adjusted his seat so his posture was better supported by the wall behind him. “That’s alright, you don’t have to,” he insisted. “If you wanted to curl up and hide your princess away for a long few days, I’ll bring you tea, ale, and food,” he offered. “Everyone here deserves some semblance of peace, comfort, and rest.”

“Yes,” the witcher agreed. 

“If I decide I want to share after we’ve parted, I will write to you,” Jaskier said simply. As though he was discussing the dictation of a party or a gathering of the court. As though the details of his run in with the mage could be so easily recorded as someone might write down noble gossip. “Thank you.”

Geralt’s puzzled gaze lifted from his hands, to Jaskier. “You’ve decided then that we must part?” He asked. Another bout of that laughter made Geralt’s confusion turn into an almost displeased expression. “This is funny?”

“Not at all,” Jaskier responded. “Nothing is funny.”

The witcher sat up a bit straighter. 

“Your questions imply a choice,” Jaskier said. “Imply that there’s some possibility we would not have parted.”

“Because there is one,” Geralt retorted, confusion pulling his brow together once more. “You could come with me. Help me take care of Ciri. Help me keep an eye on Yen,” Geralt suggested, albeit a bit awkwardly. “I told you when I found you. I need your help,” he reminded. "I . . . tried to say- . . . "

Jaskier laughed, “Ah! Yes!” He agreed, staring with a manic sort of grin at the wall across the room. “You said you needed me, and I was pretty fucking useless .”

“You weren’t-” 

“I was!” Jaskier insisted swiftly. He grew no louder in volume, but his words became  more firm. “I was utterly useless. And I am not useless! Not inherently. I was your bard. I was a spy. I was useful and resourceful. My plans didn't always work-" He muttered. Hearing that terrified but firm cry ring out in his mind. 'Fuck the north!' "But I served a purpose. I’ve gotten hurt before- I don’t know why- I don’t know what-” the wild grin and awful laughter had faded into something far more sorrowful. Regretful. Jaskier did not cry for himself like he cried for Geralt, but the expression was similar. "I don’t know why I have been so fucking scared and worthless lately, but I have done nothing- nothing helpful, for anyone,” he breathed. 

After a long few moments, in the silence made jagged this time by the sound of Jaskier's labored breathing, Geralt seemed to piece together a few words. “I think . . . we react to pain . . . differently,” he started, “depending on when, where, and how we get hurt.” It seemed a rather fundamental way to get his point across, but he had never really been as articulate as Jaskier anyway. “I don’t know what made this time different . . . but maybe . . . maybe this time your main response is fear. And maybe it will be until you properly deal with what you went through.”

Jaskier’s eyes shifted lower.

With a hesitant pause, Geralt added, “until you deal with all of what you’ve been through.” It was a gentle, if indiscreet, way to remind Jaskier that he needn’t just brush away the strife between them to maintain their relationship. Wherever that relationship stood right now. It used to be something. Geralt had thought they were something. Different than friends. More than? He wasn't certain. He hoped to make sense of it, and better the state of where they were now, but he'd not push for that to be done on his terms. 

“I’d be even more useless if I burdened those around me trying to ‘process’ it,” Jaskier breathed. “Especially when those around me are already hurting.”

It was a fair conundrum. The difficulty behind balancing self preservation and reparations with the desire to grant others sympathy for what they were enduring. Geralt wasn’t sure he had the answers for that. He wasn’t sure if there were answers for that. What he was certain of was, “You do not have to be useful or amicable to be worthy of kindness or company.” 

Jaskier finally glanced over to Geralt slowly. He wasn’t certain if that was something he had said verbatim to Geralt, but it certainly sounded like his own advice. The knowing look on Gearlt’s face suggested it just might have been. 

“I would think, especially not when you’ve been hurt,” Geralt added. 

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed and he frowned slightly, “But you have also been hurt. Far worse,” Jaskier said softly. “I cannot imagine making this pain worse. I know we're-” Estranged sounded too dramatic, fighting wasn't quite accurate. Jaskier shook his head, "But I haven't stopped-" loving "caring for you."

“Comparing tragedy does very little, and your anger does not cause me pain,” Geralt assured. “I am . . .” He fought to find a word to describe how he felt right now. He didn’t know that it existed. “I will need patience,” he admitted. “I do not know that this will be easy . . . But I would like you by my side again.”

Eyes falling back in front of him, Jaskier hesitated. 

“If not now, I understand,” Geralt said. “If there are things you’d like to deal with on your own. I understand. But if your belief that you’ve no choice stems in any way from a belief that I think you are useless or that I believe being useless makes you worthless?” Geralt shook his head. “I just wanted to clarify, that is not the case.”

Jaskier remained silent. 

“And I hope . . . one day, you can see that being useless sometimes does not ever make you worthless. As it is a lesson you spent a long time teaching me.” Something in Geralt’s tone suggested that perhaps it was a lesson he had learned too late. 

Still, Jaskier made no attempt to speak, nor to move. 

Geralt hummed, “Would you like me to stay?” He asked quietly. 

Jaskier nodded slowly. 

“Would you like to talk?” Geralt prompted next. 

Jaskier shook his head. 

“Then we’ll sit and think,” Geralt agreed quietly. 

And fuck, did Jaskier have a whole fucking lot to think about.