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It's a silly, silly thing, to keep the first coin Geralt gave him.
It's a foolish, sentimental show of whimsy to hold onto a bit of metal that the witcher likely forgot about the second it left his hand.
There's no point in keeping it. None at all. It would be absurd to hold onto it when it could be better spent on ale or bread or doublets.
Jaskier sews it a special pocket in his bag.
He's sentimental at the best of times, and the day he got this coin is the same day his entire life changed. He likes to think that even the most logical stoic would want to hold onto something to remind themselves of such an occasion. (He doesn't have the nerve to ask Geralt, the most stoicest of stoics that he knows, to test his hypothesis). Jaskier, then, lovable fool that he is, has every right to hold onto it as a special reminder. It would be contrary to his nature not to, after all.
He tucks it away in his bag with a friendly pat and returns to rub his fingers over it occasionally. With time, it becomes a new outlet for fidgeting for him, and the coin often rides around in his pocket during the day, where he can run his fingers across it more easily. Each night, he returns it to its special pocket and in his head thanks it for another day of luck, for another day of living a life he never dreamed of having.
It’s possible he’s assigning a bit too much power to the little bit of metal, but he figures he can be forgiven.
Artistic license, after all, is his profession now.
*
He’s so, so fucking lucky.
*
It's in their fourth year together that he gets the idea to turn the coin into a ring. He's stuck in town while Geralt takes on a contract that has been deemed too dangerous for bards. (He had attempted to sneak after the witcher anyway, but Geralt had caught him in short order and hauled him back by the collar of his doublet, threatening to lock him in the room if he didn't stay where he was told). (Rude). (Jaskier makes a mental note to have his clothes washed with the most aggressively floral soap he can find in revenge). (A few days of sneezing will serve him right).
Left with nothing to do but wait, he takes a very sulky stroll in the hopes of finding an audience to observe how put-out he is about being left behind, perhap to even hear some plaintive ballads about thick-headed, silver-haired men and their inability to appreciate loyal companions who just want to be included. The village in general doesn't prove very sympathetic for his grumpy pout and attempts at mournful tunes, but he does strike up a conversation with a lovely jeweler's apprentice named Helena who is hawking her wares in the market, an assortment of unique things that catches his eye at once. With no witcher there to redirect him, he makes his way immediately to the table of shiny things. At the stall is a smorgasbord of delights, adorable things like a set of whimsical spoons shaped like flowers, a wind chime in the shape of a jellyfish, and a variety of lovely little rings with patterns.
"This one was a coin," Helena says, picking up a thin silver band etched with a row of fish. "I wanted to practice with a limited amount of metal. It turned out pretty great, huh?"
It did turn out pretty great.
It also gives Jaskier an idea.
Helena is more than game when he pulls the coin from his pocket, where he'd carried it around like a lucky charm to make sure Geralt would come back, a superstition that had developed with time. It feels odd to hand it over and makes him feel absurdly anxious to be without it for the first time in years, but Helena's solemn acceptance and appreciation of the story behind it makes him a little more confident in trusting her with such a precious talisman.
He's back the second she's due to set up her stall the next day, and he accepts the smirk she gives him at his clear enthusiasm. She makes a show of looking for it and finally tugs a pouch from her pocket, handing it over. Jaskier thanks her without even looking up, unlacing the little pouch and turning it over, the ring falling into his palm.
It's perfect.
It's absolutely, stunningly perfect.
The outer metal of the band is embossed with a tidy little row of buttercups, and hidden on the inside, away from even the sharpest of golden witcher eyes, is a little wolf, legs spread in a run. Behind the wolf is a lark, following faithfully, free in flight and still choosing to follow the wolf.
Helena is alarmed when Jaskier bursts into tears, and he has to wave her off, laughing wetly at the soft pats she delivers to his shoulder in a way that reminds him of how Geralt deals with him when his emotions boil over. He manages to get himself together after a few minutes and pays her handsomely, along with hugging her in thanks when she gives him permission. He slips the band onto his ring finger of his right hand and feels a tremor of rightness shiver through his body with how perfectly it fits.
He admires his new ring all the way back to the inn, turning his hand this way and that to admire the shine of the sun on the metal. He knows if Geralt saw him, he'd get a comment about being a magpie, but he's too delighted with the lovely thing to care.
Geralt doesn't comment on it, but Jaskier isn't offended. He knows the witcher tends to tune out most of his choices on fashion and accessories. Besides, Geralt doesn't need to hear the promise behind it. Jaskier just needs to live it for him.
*
He wears the ring every single day after that, for years. His other jewelry switches out, but that ring stays in place, a special talisman that only Jaskier understands the significance of. He knows it's superstitious nonsense, the idea that it's a lucky charm to keep Geralt safe and himself at the witcher's side, but he does come from a theatrical background. Besides, it always seems to work. Geralt comes out worse for wear occasionally, but he always comes out.
He always comes back to Jaskier.
*
Up until the mountain, that is.
*
Jaskier thinks a dozen times about doing something romantic and tragic like tossing the ring into the ocean, or into a fire, or into a swamp in the hopes that a monster will eat it and Geralt will find it and have a moment of thinking Jaskier is dead and then maybe he'll regret it and then when he finds out it's not real he'll come back and then Jaskier can-
Well, Jaskier never throws the ring away, is the salient point.
It hurts to wear, but it would hurt more to not wear, so he's stuck with a shining reminder that the best part of his life is over. He still rubs it for luck with his thumb, a fidget he still hasn't broken the habit of after so many years of doing it. When he's waiting to perform or traveling a sketchy area or hunkering under cover with elves waiting to board a ship, he rubs the metal and takes solace in the familiar feel of it. He read once that the strength of gods comes from belief in them, and perhaps the ring will work the same way. Even when what made it special is over, perhaps the ring will retain power on its own.
*
If his theory about the power of his ring is correct, however, it certainly doesn't use its abilities to save him from fire fucker.
He screams when the fire hits his flesh and screams louder when the flames heat the ring into a circle of lingering, white-hot agony, a heat so intense it flickers into almost feeling cold, his body unable to comprehend pain of such intensity. His tormentor uses magic to revive him each time he manages to fade into blissful unconsciousness, and the fire starts anew, the band burning again and again as his flesh sizzles.
He doesn't know how long it is until Yennefer, beautiful, glorious, terrifying Yennefer, comes and saves his ass, but he knows the heat of the ring lingers even as he's hauled into jail, the metal still noticeably warm when he curls up into a miserable, hurting ball, trying to catch his breath and keep his mind together.
*
He doesn't have time to attend to it in the aftermath of the fucking everything his life becomes in short order, but later, tucked away in his assigned room at Kaer Morhen, he manages to down a bottle and a half of wine and use a healthy glug of oil to finally slip it off, gasping with pain the entire time as it slips over swollen, angry flesh. He barks a noise that's half-laugh, half-sob when he sees the damage that's left behind.
The relief in the metal means that the burn was uneven, and clearly distinguishable in the red flesh is the image of the wolf, the lark only half-visible behind, seeming to fade out into nothing from where the ring rested slightly away from the direct heat, the bird seeming left behind and unnoticed, entirely ignored by the wolf who is clearly charging ahead to important matters that don't require a songbird.
He’s heard the planning Geralt and Yennefer have undertaken. He knows they’re forging forward with their little family unit, their plans for raising a child together.
He, of course, hasn’t been invited into those discussions.
His utility, as limited as it was, appears to be over now. What more could his Wolf need him for, after all?
Jaskier throws the ring across the room, hearing the ping as the metal hits the wall and the clatter of it falling. He doesn't track its movement, however, curling into a ball and shoving a pillow between his teeth to muffle the noise as he sobs.
He is such a fucking fool.
*
He jumps when a knock comes at the door before he freezes, as if in a keep full of magic users and witchers he has a chance of getting away with pretending to not be in the room. Another knock comes and shatters his vague hope entirely.
“Jaskier?” Comes Geralt’s voice through the door, and Jaskier gives himself one second to hit the bed repeatedly with his uninjured fist in frustration before he scrubs a sleeve across his eyes. Of course the first time Geralt seeks him out after he’s served whatever nebulous purpose he was collected for would be when Jaskier is having a meltdown.
That’s just how Jaskier’s fucking life goes.
He catches sight of himself in the mirror and grimaces. His face is red and puffy, tear tracks still on his cheeks making it clear exactly what he’s been doing. He lets himself have one more round of beating out his frustrations on a pillow before he gets himself under control. Geralt’s voice comes through the door before he quite manages to regain complete mastery over his emotions.
“Jask, I’m coming in,” he warns, and he does it before Jaskier has a chance to finish getting himself together.
Geralt has probably found him in worse states than hunched over the bed, tear-stained, one fist still extended to give righteous hell to a pillow.
Jaskier just can’t think of any at present.
It’s almost funny how quickly Geralt’s expression of polite interest drops into clear concern, the witcher snapping the door shut and crossing to the bed in three quick strides with his damnably long legs. Jaskier’s breath catches when one giant hand reaches out to rest against his face, tilting it until he’s looking directly into golden eyes.
“Jask, what’s wrong? What hurts?” Geralt’s face is intense, and Jaskier feels pinned beneath the force of it.
“Nothing,” he says weakly, and Geralt gives him an unimpressed look.
“Try again,” the witcher prompts, and Jaskier can’t help but laugh.
“Having a child suits you. You sound just like a parent,” he says, partially because it’s true and partially because he thinks it might fluster Geralt enough to drop the investigation.
Geralt’s face flickers through an incredibly comedic range of emotions in short order, but he still presses forward, now sitting on the bed. He retrieves his hand and curls it into a loose fist on his thigh, at least, so Jaskier at least partially regains the ability to think. Geralt looks down, his brow scrunching slightly in a way that means he’s thinking very hard; Jaskier’s fingers tingle with the urge to press against the lines in the way he always would have before with a tease about wrinkles and frown lines.
“I know I don’t have a right to ask,” Geralt says, and now it’s Jaskier’s turn to frown. “After what I’ve done, Jaskier, you don’t owe me anything, certainly not an explanation.” He looks up then, and his face is so earnest Jaskier almost wants to cry again to do something with how overwhelmed it makes him feel. “But I can help, Jask. Whatever it is. If you tell me, I can help.”
“What makes you think anything’s wrong?” Jaskier asks, trying to deflect. The disbelieving face Geralt gives him lets him know he’s failed.
“Other than the fact that I heard you crying from the hall, and this room reeks of pain and stress?” Geralt states it matter-of-factly, and Jaskier winces. Those godsdamned witcher senses. Geralt takes a deep breath. “Yen said I should check on you.”
“Well, I’m all dandy, I assure you,” Jaskier says, trying to keep the bite out of his voice. Of course Geralt only came because he was sent. It’s stupid for Jaskier to feel hurt about it. It’s sweet enough that Geralt did it. Jaskier’s being a brat in wanting him to have noticed on his own if he was going to notice at all.
The knowledge of how irrational it is still doesn’t let him stop him from feeling it.
“Jask,” Geralt says again. Jaskier is just about to open his mouth to dissuade him and hopefully drive the witcher out to let himself have the space to finish his lovely breakdown with some privacy, but Geralt, with his usual horrific timing, takes that moment to get touchy-feely and rests his hand over Jaskier’s.
The wave of terror overcomes him at once, his heart pounding so loudly it drowns out all other sounds. Bindings. Held down. His hands are held down. His hands are held down and there’s no escape and the fire. The fire will start soon. It’s coming. It’s coming and it won’t stop and Jaskier won’t betray Geralt, he won’t, but the pain is going to take him again and then-
He snarls when the pressure over his hand releases. He’s a feral, trapped thing, and his left hand shoots out before he thinks about it, palm connecting with a face and buying him precious seconds to run, to escape, to-
Oh fuck.
He registers what he’s done in the split second between his hand connecting and Geralt’s nose starting to bleed, the witcher reeling back with a curse, moving to cover his nose on impulse and looking over his hand to Jaskier with disbelieving eyes.
Jaskier opens his mouth to apologize, but his chest is still too tight and the air won’t come out. Shit, he’s not sure it’s coming in, either. He tries to inhale, but it’s a weak, shuddery thing, and another does not come after it. Through the haze of a new panic on top of the lingering terror of before, he notes with distant, detached amusement that Geralt’s eyes go wider than he’s ever seen them before.
The witcher reaches out before he apparently thinks better of it, leaving his hands spread out in a gesture that he means no harm.
Jaskier believes him, knows that Geralt would never hurt him physically on purpose.
Now if only the panic swelling his chest to bursting would get the message.
“Jask,” Geralt says, in the same even tone Jaskier’s heard him use on spooked horses, “I need you to breathe, alright?”
“Can-” Jaskier squeaks out. “Can’t.”
“You can,” Geralt says, voice still soothing despite the alarm Jaskier can read on his face. “I’m going to grab your wrist, is that alright?”
Jaskier’s not sure that’s alright after what he just did, but the witcher carefully reaches out, his grip loose enough to allow for escape with the lightest tug. Jaskier doesn’t try for it and lets his hand be guided to rest on Geralt’s broad chest. Under other circumstances, he would like to make a delightful sex joke about the invitation, but he doesn’t think even Geralt’s delicious pecs are going to do anything about the way Jaskier’s lungs have forgotten how to work. His muscles are a marvel and certainly magical, but even they only have so much power.
“Breathe with me, alright?” Geralt says, nodding once in encouragement before he takes an exaggerated breath, Jaskier’s hand rising and falling with the movement where it rests above the steady thrum of Geralt’s heart.
The first attempt he makes at matching the breath is a weak, tremulous thing, but Geralt gives him a smile like Jaskier’s just done something incredible.
“There you go,” he coaches, and Jaskier registers that he’s going to be horrifically embarrassed once he can feel other emotions again. Still, for now he turns his focus to trying to remaster the whole breathing thing. It seems pretty important. He closes his eyes to better focus his attention, and after a moment he feels Geralt’s hand release his wrist, running up his arm to move back and forth slowly against his bicep. “Easy, Jask. You’re alright.”
Jaskier nods even though he’s not sure about the truth of the assurance, but if Geralt’s nothing else, the man is honest. He wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.
It takes a long, long while, but eventually his breath starts to return without having to mimic Geralt’s excellent example. Once the fear recedes, however, shame takes its place in short order, and he can feel the way his skin flushes pink. He keeps his eyes shut.
“Sorry,” he says, voice tight. “It’s been…” He’s not sure there’s a word to properly capture exactly what it’s been for him recently. “So much,” he manages at last, and he’s at least partially relieved by the quiet huff of laughter it gets him.
“Understatement doesn’t suit you,” Geralt observes, dropping the hand that had moved to Jaskier’s upper back at some point in the breathing exercise.
Jaskier mourns the loss of the soft, gentling circles immediately, but he’s already humiliated himself plenty without adding to it. He tries to open his mouth to come up with a good reason why he just probably broke Geralt’s nose and then lost the ability to breathe properly, but he comes up short.
“Is your nose okay?” He asks sheepishly.
Geralt touches it with an expert’s hand, inspecting the damage. After a moment, he lowers his hand, nodding.
“It’s fine. Nothing broken.”
“Sure?” Jaskier asks, needing to confirm for sure.
“I’ve broken it before. Trust me, I’d know.”
Geralt rises from the bed then, and Jaskier feels a mixed wave of panic and relief at the thought of Geralt leaving. The witcher, however, just grabs a cloth and wets it in the basin on his washstand, rubbing blindly at the blood. After a moment of watching him go at it, Jaskier rises, extending a hand for the cloth.
“Let me,” he offers, and it aches a little, the way Geralt hands it over without hesitation.
He pushes Geralt back over to the bed and sits across from him, nudging the witcher’s head up with a gentle push to his chin. He works in silence for a moment, focusing intently on his work to avoid having to look at the golden eyes examining him with unnerving focus.
“There,” Jaskier says when he’s finished. “Back to blindingly handsome.”
He moves to rise, and he sees the aborted move as Geralt starts to reach for him before he thinks better of it. Still, he heeds the request behind the gesture and stays, fidgeting with the cloth in his left hand. His right is still held out of sight behind his thigh, and he’s desperately hoping Geralt won’t think to comment on it.
“What happened?” Geralt asks, voice as steady and patient as ever.
It makes Jaskier’s heart hurt, and it’s as if it sends an echo of throb to the etching burnt into his finger. It’s foreign, his Wolf turning to examine him for once. He can’t decide if he likes or hates it more.
“Didn’t the witch tell you?” Jaskier tries, but Geralt shakes his head.
“No. I was going to help her find some books before coming to find you, but she said I should come check on you first.”
Jaskier can’t help the way he frowns in confusion.
“You were going to come find me? Why? I thought we were done with cleanup for the day.” Jaskier had been careful to pull his weight with shifting stones and various other shrapnel out of the way, clearing away space from the fight. It had been hard with the injury to his hand, but Geralt’s brother Eskel had been a kind presence at his side, helping him push the bigger things around without asking about why Jaskier wasn’t giving it his all.
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to you, not really.” Geralt says it as though it’s obvious, but Jaskier just frowns more.
“What else is there to talk about?” He asks, confused. He thought he’d had his chance already to talk in the cell and on the way here. Geralt had been eager enough to move on with the mission before. “Did you need me for something else?” Jasier tries to keep the trepidation out of his voice. He’ll help, of course he’ll help because he can’t deny Geralt anything, but fuck his body aches already, and now that he’s addressed it, it seems like his hand has started up throbbing just to make sure he won’t ignore it again.
“No, I-” Geralt stops, clearly frustrated. “I thought about what I said, in the cell. And later.”
That’s an interesting admission, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow in question.
“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says, his voice even, and now both of Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up. “Fuck, Jaskier. You deserved more than that.”
The honesty behind it is uncomfortable, and Jaskier tries to shift focus.
“It got me back, didn’t it?” He tries to joke, hoping the self-judgment doesn’t come through.
“It shouldn’t have,” Geralt says. “What I said on the mountain was a lie. I was angry, and you were an easy target. You didn’t deserve that. You’ve only ever been loyal to me, Jaskier, and I only proved how unworthy of it I was.”
“It’s not about worthy or unworthy,” Jaskier says, throat tight. “I followed you because I wanted to, Geralt. Because I was at my happiest with you.”
The past tense clearly doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I want to earn it,” Geralt tells him. “If you’ll give me the chance. I want to do better by you.”
Jaskier fidgets, uncomfortable at receiving something he never dreamed of hearing Geralt say, and in the process, he forgets about his injured hand briefly and puts pressure on it, immediately hissing in pain. Geralt’s hand moves immediately to investigate, but he catches himself and moves it back, almost vibrating in place with the clear desire to fix and help.
“What happened?” He asks. “Did you get hurt during the fight?”
Jaskier shakes his head, covering his right hand with his left.
“No, uh,” he pauses, bites his lip briefly. “This was before. In Oxenfurt.” He looks up and sees the way Geralt’s face scrunches.
“You got hurt? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had…other things going on,” Jaskier says lamely because I gave you hints and wanted you to ask on your own sounds absurdly needy.
“Can I see?” Geralt asks, extending a hand and keeping it between them, palm up.
Jaskier hesitates, not wanting to poke at uncomfortable truths, but he’s unable to refuse Geralt on his best day.
The witcher hisses in sympathy when he sees the burns, and Jaskier winces at the sight of them. The blistering has gotten worse with time, his flesh angry and inflamed, some parts smooth from damage with the flames and some parts bubbling with blisters, some popped, some not.
“Fuck, Jask,” Geralt says with feeling. He looks up then, and Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so horrified. It’s oddly flattering, in a way, possessing the ability to make a witcher look like that. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I told you Yennefer saved my life,” Jaskier says quietly, feeling foolish.
“Yes, but you didn’t tell me you were still injured. How did this even happen?”
“Fire,” Jaskier says, clenching his free hand into a fist when Geralt moves his right one gently to examine it better.
“He burned you?” Geralt asks, clearly angry. “Why? What did he want?”
Jaskier takes a moment to breathe, already knowing Geralt won’t like what he has to say.
“Information on you and the princess.” He hurries to continue when Geralt looks up sharply. “I didn’t tell him anything, I swear!”
“No, that’s not-” Geralt stops, clenches his jaw for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not like you’re the one who burned me,” Jaskier points out.
“I’m the reason this happened,” Geralt says, clearly already internalizing this for his stores of self-hatred material.
“You’re not the cause of all the evil in the world, you know,” Jaskier tells him. “Sometimes people do shitty things because they’re shitty.”
Geralt makes a considering noise.
“Come on, we should treat this,” he says, rising, and Jaskier tries to remain sitting even as he’s tugged carefully up.
“I can manage,” he tries, but Geralt just gives him a look.
“With what supplies?”
Jaskier takes a look around his room and finds only empty wine bottles, some oil, and a few clothes hastily dug out of storage chests.
“Well, you may have a point.”
*
He follows Geralt to what turns out to be the witcher’s room, worrying the entire time about what Geralt’s going to say if he sees the wolf burnt into the bottom of Jaskier’s finger, close to where it meets his palm. It’s a rather damning injury to have, and Jaskier curses the fire fucker in his head again.
He hasn’t come up with a solution for his conundrum by the time he’s seated on Geralt’s bed, leaning back against the pillows and feeling absurdly reassured by the scent of Geralt that emerges at the movement. He watches the witcher bustle around his room collecting things before he takes a seat. Jaskier extends his hand once more when he’s prompted and makes an absurd wish that maybe Geralt will suddenly lose his focus and miss the wolf.
As per usual, Jaskier’s luck is shit.
He sees the exact moment Geralt notices it, a cloth soaked in disinfectant poised to touch before he squints slightly, bringing Jaskier’s hand up to examine it closer. Jaskier braces himself for the scale of the lie he’s going to have to spin.
“Did he do this, too?” Geralt’s voice is hard, and for a moment, Jaskier considers leaning into the ready-made excuse. Still, he already knows Geralt is going to be flagellating himself about this enough later. There’s no need to add to the pile of things he’s going to needlessly carry around to blame himself for.
“Not directly. It’s from a ring. The metal just got hot, and the etching made it burn like this.” He tries to keep his voice nonchalant.
“You have a ring with wolf inscriptions?” Geralt asks, puzzled. “I haven’t seen that one, have I?”
“You have,” Jaskier says, resisting the urge to lie. He’s just too tired, frankly, to come up with more falsehoods than he absolutely has to. “It’s the one with buttercups on it.”
“The one you always wear on this finger?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier is thrown by Geralt’s knowledge. He’d always figured that Geralt had ignored anything to do with his clothes and accessories.
“Yes. How the fuck did you know that?”
Geralt gives him a look, clearly insulted by the disbelief in Jaskier’s tone.
“I’ve traveled with you for how many years?” He moves to dab at the burns. “This’ll sting,” he warns, and Jaskier grunts at the way the pain flares, resisting the urge to snatch his hand back on impulse. “Why a wolf?” He asks, and Jaskier responds before he thinks about it fully, distracted by the wave of motherfucking ow coursing through his body.
“It’s a symbol,” he says, fighting the whimper that threatens to escape. “Kind of a promise.”
“What kind of promise?” Geralt asks, muttering a sorry when Jaskier does jerk, unable to help it as Geralt carefully cleans a burst blister.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier tries to say. “It’s silly. You know me.”
“I do,” Geralt agrees. “What does it mean?”
“It, ah,” Jaskier falters. There’s no good way to explain away a wolf on a ring that Geralt knows he’s worn every single day. “It’s made out of the first coin you ever gave me. Do you remember?”
“Vaguely,” Geralt says, looking up. “You made it into a ring? Seems like you could just buy one.”
“It was an important coin,” Jaskier defends, flinching again as Geralt begins smoothing on a salve. It stings at first, but it quickly becomes cooling, tingling with relief. Jaskier exhales, feeling himself deflate slightly. “Oh fuck, Geralt. What’s that magic paste?”
Geralt gives him a little half-smile.
“Mint salve with aloe and comfrey.” He finishes with the ointment and reaches for the bandages. “What made the coin important enough to make it into a ring?”
Jaskier can feel himself blushing and hopes that he’s pale enough from pain that it won’t show up too badly.
“It’s the coin that changed my life,” he says, voice soft. “It’s how I met you, after all.”
Geralt pauses at that, his hand freezing slightly before he continues wrapping the linen carefully.
“Is that why you put a wolf on it? Because I gave it to you?”
“It, um,” Jaskier falters, looking away even when Geralt ties off the bandage, unable to look up. Now that the pain has receded so significantly, he finds himself abruptly even more exhausted, his body ready to drop now that the worst of its pains has been addressed. Fuck it, he decides. “There’s a lark on the ring, too, following the wolf. It’s a promise, kind of. That I’d always follow you.” He looks up briefly and sees Geralt’s face perfectly blank. “It’s also kind of a lucky charm,” he hastens to follow up. “That coin started my fame, after all. It’s got good energy to it.”
“You kept it?” Geralt asks, face still damnably unreadable. “Even after the mountain?”
Jaskier nods, trying not to curl up into a ball of embarrassment the way he wants to, looking down as if entranced with the bandages on his hand.
“I was pissed at you, but you know me. I’m too sentimental for my own good. I couldn’t quite manage to just toss it out.”
Geralt is quiet for a long moment.
“You’re more than I deserve,” he says at last, voice soft.
“It’s not about deserve,” Jaskier says, finally managing to look up. “I chose you, Geralt, and all of the shit that came with that choice.” He shrugs. “I like who I am when I’m following you around. I like my life with you. I’ve chose you then, I choose you now, and I will choose you every day after. I don’t know how to do anything else. I wouldn’t want to.”
Geralt doesn’t speak immediately, his eyes studying Jaskier as if memorizing his face. He still has Jaskier’s hand loosely cupped in his palm, and he can’t quite manage to pull it away, even as someone touching his hand makes him still feel the slightest shiver of fear. He forces that part of himself to be quiet. This is Geralt, after all. No matter the sharp edges between them, he knows that he can trust Geralt above anyone to take care with his injuries.
The silence stretches until it’s almost too awkward to bear, but finally Geralt seems to gather himself.
“I love you,” he says, and Jaskier’s entire world freezes for a moment.
“I think I’m having a stroke,” Jaskier says, voice faint. “I think I’m hearing things. Oh fuck, can a fever make you hear things? It sounded like-”
“I love you,” Geralt says again, and Jaskier manages to actually process it this time.
“I don’t want your pity,” he says, trying to stomp down the stupid hope that flutters in his chest. “You don’t have to dangle things like that in front of me. I’ll keep following you without you baiting me along.”
“I’m not,” Geralt says, leaning forward. “Jask, I mean it. I don’t expect you to feel it back, especially after everything I’ve done, and I swear, it won’t change anything. I’ve felt it for years, but I was always too afraid to say it. But you deserve to hear it. I know you don’t feel the same, couldn’t feel the same, but-”
“I love you, too,” Jaskier cuts him off. “Fuck, Geralt, I made a ring out of the first coin you gave me. What the fuck else could I possibly feel about you?”
Geralt exhales a laugh at that.
“You do love your dramatic gestures,” he points out, and Jaskier tilts his head in acknowledgement.
“True, but you should know better than most that I always mean them.”
*
Jaskier falls asleep in Geralt’s room that evening, drifting off halfway through a sentence, lulled by the familiar bulk and warmth of Geralt where he reclines against the witcher’s chest. Before he fully fades, he registers a soft brush of lips to his temple.
He wakes late the next morning to rustling, sitting up and scrubbing at his eyes with his left hand, confused about his surroundings. When he manages to bring himself at least partially to awareness, he finds Geralt on his knees by his desk, digging around in the back of a drawer. Jaskier frowns, confused.
“What’re you doing?” Jaskier says, still not entirely awake.
Geralt sits back then, a small box in hand. He grins when he looks at Jaskier, still clearly sleepy, before he rises, sitting down on the bed and extending the box. Jaskier takes it and fumbles with the sliding latch on it for a moment before Geralt takes pity and opens it for him, handing it back over.
Jaskier lifts the lid, curiosity warring with his lingering tiredness.
“A coin?” He asks, lifting it up to examine it.
Geralt nods.
“Do you remember the first time you performed ‘Toss a Coin’?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier thinks for a moment, trying to clear the fuzz in his head enough to be capable of something like remembering.
“It was in that pub that had peacock something in the name, right? The Peacock’s Flare, was it?”
“Sounds right,” Geralt agrees before he looks back down to the coin. “When you sang the chorus, you tossed a coin at me.” He nods back down to the one in Jaskier’s hand. “I wasn’t expecting it, so I just put it in my pocket and then forgot to move it to my coin purse. I didn’t find it again until we were doing laundry two towns over.”
“And you kept it?” Jaskier asks, mystified.
Geralt does his head-duck blush.
“I wasn’t going to, at first. I thought it was stupid. But you kept singing that song, and it-” He cuts himself off. “No one had ever thought of me the way you sang. It was…nice. To hear someone say those things. I wanted a reminder.”
For when it stopped, Jaskier hears, even without him saying it, and that makes Jaskier bold enough to do something he’d been too afraid to try last night.
He leans in and kisses Geralt.
It’s a quick press of lips, something chaste enough that even a maiden aunt could scarcely clutch her pearls over it. Still, it sends tingles throughout his entire body, and he rests his forehead against Geralt’s until he can manage to gather himself.
“You’re a squishy soft mush,” he accuses warmly.
“Takes one to know one,” Geralt responds, and Jaskier smiles.
“Fair enough.”
*
He moves into Geralt’s room two days after that, packing up his few accumulated belongings to shift them. He’d been unsure about moving forward so quickly with something so new, but Geralt had just given him a half-smile, clearly amused.
“Twenty years together of sharing beds, and now you have your doubts?”
It had been a good point, and Jaskier had dutifully trundled off to his room. It had taken all of five minutes to collect his things. Now, he’s almost finished. He checks under the bed and retrieves a rogue sock, moving to stand up again when a glint of metal catches his eye.
His ring.
He retrieves the band and just holds it for a moment, marveling at the difference in his life and emotional state between the last time he held it and now. He rubs a thoughtful thumb gently along the wolf on the inside, feeling hopelessly fond and fortunate.
After a moment, he slips it onto his left hand. It feels slightly off, wearing it on a different hand for the first time in years, but the first brush over the metal relaxes him, like he’s hugging a beloved relative he hasn’t seen in a while.
“Perhaps you’re lucky after all,” Jaskier tells it.
He returns to Geralt’s room and doesn’t miss when the witcher catches sight of the ring on his hand, his face lighting up with satisfaction. When he lays against Geralt that night, the witcher rests a hand over his own, gently rubbing against the ring.
Jaskier’s never slept so well in his life.
*
“I want to show you something.”
Jaskier tilts backwards at the sound of Geralt’s voice, craning his head back to catch sight of him as the witcher walks closer. He’s been waiting for ages for Geralt to return to the pub after collecting his payment. He’d been just about to set out in search of him.
“In a public place?” Jaskier says, trying to sound sultry even as the position strains his voice. “My, how forward.”
Geralt flicks his ear when he’s in range, but Jaskier figures that’s fair enough.
“C’mon,” Geralt says, with a jerk of his head to indicate upstairs.
The mystery has his interest piqued, and he follows gamely, daring to grab a quick grope of the perfectly presented rear in front of him on the way up the stairs. He dodges a swat for his efforts, but the handful of toned muscle was absolutely worth it. He behaves himself the rest of the way up to their room and gets a kiss at the doorway for his restraint.
“Not that I’m opposed,” Jaskier says between that kiss and another. “But I have seen kissing before.” Another long, slow kiss. “Multiple times with you in fact.” Another kiss, this time with a nip to his bottom lip. “Although, I’m certainly always willing to see what else we can come up with.”
“You’re impossible,” Geralt says, voice fond, and Jaskier grins.
“Impossibly in love with you.”
It gets him the eye roll he anticipated, but Geralt also ducks his head slightly in the way he does when anyone else would be blushing, so Jaskier will take it as the victory it is. It’s impossibly endearing, how flustered Geralt still gets about the words, and Jaskier takes advantage of it as frequently as he can.
He heeds the gentle tug to the bed, but when he moves to flop on his back in anticipation of some fun bed activities, Geralt pulls him up to a sitting position. He goes willingly, but he frowns as Geralt sits down in front of him, legs crossed, back perfectly straight. Jaskier mimics the position, even though such perfect posture is foreign for him. He waits for Geralt to reveal the mystery, but the witcher just looks down, frowning in concentration. After a solid minute of quiet, Jaskier takes pity.
“You were going to show me something?” He prompts.
Geralt takes a deep breath like he does before he faces a particularly tough contract, which does nothing to encourage a sense of calm in Jaskier. The witcher tugs on the chain of his necklace, pulling it up from under his shirt and over his head. Jaskier raises an eyebrow when he catches sight of the ring now resting next to the medallion. He looks for permission before he touches, and to his surprise, Geralt cups his hand in his own, lowering the medallion and ring to his palm.
“Well, you’ve certainly got me intrigued, you man of mystery,” Jaskier says lightly, picking up the ring to examine it. It’s a different color than rings usually are, almost like-
Almost like it’s a coin.
His eyes shoot up to Geralt’s, where anxiety fades into amusement. Geralt nods to confirm the suspicion, and Jaskier tries not to tear up. He looks back down to the ring, and the line of buttercups that match his does nothing to help his attempt to not bawl.
“Geralt,” he says, voice nearly a whisper.
“Look on the inside,” Geralt says, and Jaskier picks up the faintest hint of anticipation in his voice.
Jaskier gives him a puzzled look but does so, one hand flying up to cover his mouth when he makes out the little figures inscribed on the band.
It’s the same wolf and lark as his ring, with one large difference.
The wolf is following the lark.
“Geralt,” he says, voice cracking. He loses his fight against his tears, but the streaks of warmth down his face hardly cross his mind at all as he rubs a thumb over the wolf on the band.
“I choose you, too,” Geralt says, reaching out a hand in offer. He’s cautious, still, of taking Jaskier’s hands in his own, and it’s an attention to Jaskier’s comfort that makes his crying escalate, blurring his vision. Jaskier takes the hand in his own and feels the soothing, gentle circle of Geralt’s thumb against his skin, easing away the residual panic that still sparks after months. “Your Path is my Path, Jaskier. Where you go, I will follow, I swear it to you.”
And well, Jaskier really has no choice after that but to launch himself forward into a hug, Geralt taking his weight easily and moving backwards to rest against the pillows. Jaskier is losing his shit more than slightly, but the massive arms around him are gentle, the motion of a hand massaging at his neck affectionate and patient. Jaskier can lose his shit, he knows. Geralt will wait.
“I love you,” he manages to get out, and he feels a slow line of kisses pressed to his hairline when Geralt shifts his head.
“I love you, too,” rumbles Geralt in a low voice, the words felt as much as heard as they vibrate from his chest.
Jaskier manages to get hold of himself after a moment, sniffling pathetically and trying to laugh. Geralt moves the arm he attempts to scrub the tears away with and cups Jaskier’s face in his hands, rubbing the tears away with his thumbs before pulling him in to kiss his forehead, his nose, beneath each of his eyes. When Jaskier is smiling again, Geralt pulls back, a soft line of amusement softening the corner of his mouth.
“I won’t be able to wear it like you do yours,” he says, sounding apologetic. “It’s too risky on contracts or on the road.”
“Geralt, you could wear it as a cock ring for all I care.” The comment makes Geralt snort, as he expected it to. Jaskier pulls him in for a kiss. “What matters is the having it, love. In case bawling my eyes out just now wasn’t enough to make that clear.”
“It was a pretty useful hint,” Geralt says dryly, and Jaskier bumps their heads together with a little force as a warning about the sass. “I mean it, you know,” Geralt says, evidently determined to make Jaskier cry again.
“I know,” Jaskier says, tucking a lock of silvery white behind the witcher’s ear, using the motion to caress Geralt’s cheek. The witcher leans into the touch, and Jaskier feels so fond he thinks he could just about melt. “We’re saps. You know that, right?”
Geralt makes a considering hum.
“I can live with that,” he says after a moment, a soft, sweet smile on his face. “I don’t mind if it’s you.”
To distract himself from the way that makes him want to cry again, Jaskier pulls Geralt into another kiss, pressing himself close and moving his hips suggestively when he straddles the witcher.
There are worse things than being a silly sap, Jaskier decides, as Geralt slowly flips them, pressing him down into the mattress in a breath-taking display of measured strength. Jaskier makes him pause for a moment to slip the ring from the chain, slipping the medallion back around Geralt’s neck before sliding the ring into place on his finger, pressing a kiss to the metal once it’s there.
He takes Geralt’s hand in his once more as his is guided to rest beside his head on the mattress. When he links their fingers together, their rings click against each other’s. Jaskier grins into the kiss.
What a silly thing it is, to love someone the way he loves Geralt.
What a beautiful, silly thing.