Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Things are different, after the mountain.

Geralt finds him again, walking alone and dejected, and he does not apologize, and things go back to normal. Well, mostly normal. Outwardly, they are the same. Geralt is silent, brooding as ever as they make their way across the Continent. Jaskier still skips along beside him, strumming and humming and talking.

But Geralt spoke on the mountain, and Jaskier understood. He understood it in a way he has never understood Geralt before. He had thought, before, that they were at an unspoken understanding, the kind between good friends. Geralt would insult him, secretly fond. Would degrade his music, his abilities, just teasingly, a sort of inside joke between the two, because they were close enough that he could say those kinds of things and Jaskier didn’t take it to heart. But, as had become painfully apparent that day, there was no secret affection or joke hidden beneath Geralts words. Jaskier had just imagined it, wanted it so badly, had wanted a friend, had wanted Geralt for so long, he had blatantly disregarded the signs.

When they would share a room, curled close on a tiny bed, and Geralt would grumble about lack of coin. When he would give frustrated sighs at having to treat Jaskiers wounds when he trailed too close to a beast Geralt was fighting. He had thought… well, he had thought a lot of things.

But he knows now, Geralt has made him know clearly where he stands. He is not a friend, but a burden. As much as it gnaws at his heart and churns his emotions, he is working on making peace with it. Making the burden a little easier for Geralt to bear, now that he knows. He has a plan to make himself more useful. He cannot let Geralt dismiss him again, nor can he let Geralt keep him along when he apparently contributes nothing. Theres little he can do about some of the shit hes shoveled, the Child Suprise or… or any of that. But there are things he can fix. He can fix himself, it will just take a little effort on his part.

And so, things are different.

He performs more at taverns, in the squares of towns, until late night when his fingers are raw and the crowds thin. But his purse is heavy, enough so to afford two rooms and not one. When Geralt returns in the night, he stitches his hand and leaves him be, retreating to his own room. He is tired enough from his performance, he doesnt have time to mourn Geralts warmth beside him. He is asleep as soon as his head meets the pillow.

He gets better at providing for himself. He learns to set traps, bringing his own rabbits to the fire so Geralt doesnt have to share. He cant afford medical ingredients, nor would he know how to assemble them, so he can’t treat his own wounds nearly as well as Geralt might do, but he’s gotten quite good at stitching and bandaging over the years. When he’s hurt, having wandered too close to a riveting battle with a griffin and getting a mild gash to the thigh, he retreats to a stream, or to his separate room at the inn, and he handles it by himself, biting down on a cloth to hold his cries while he cleans the wound. When his feet burn with blisters on the road, rather than whine and complain theatrically as he would once have done, he pushes through the pain.

He quiets down, too, no longer chattering so excessively now that he knows Geralt truly, actually hates the way he delightedly points out the flowers on the path or composes little odes to Geralts hair, or to Roach’s beauty. He knows, now, that when Geralt tells him to shut up, he means it. He’s having to tell him less and less, because Jaskier is getting a handle on it, truly he is. It helps that his throat is raspy from late nights performing, and he’s exhausted from walking on his bandaged leg without asking for breaks. He hardly has it in him to put together words, not when he’s breathing heavy and labored and his legs shake slightly in exertion as they plod along. Thank gods Geralt is going slow today, probably to go easy on Roach as the road is rocky. He feels something sticky on his leg. Looking down, red blooms bright through the blue of his doublet. Oh, fantastic, he must have reopened the wound. He grits his teeth and runs smack into Roach’s leg as she stops abruptly.

Geralt dismounts.

“We’re making camp here.”

It’s only midday, Jaskier notes with a sigh. The only reason they would be making camp now is because he’s smelled the blood and feels obligated to stop for Jaskier. Jaskier hates how his body sags in relief, completely exhausted. He hates it. Hes still being a nuisance, even now that he’s trying so hard.

He slumps against a tree, trying hard to look casual, like he doesnt feel on the verge of passing out. His feet hurt. He feels a little out of it, to be honest.

A hand is on his shoulder and he flinches. Geralt has approached with a frown, hiking his pants down to look at the bandaged thigh, and Jaskier tries to come up with a sexy quip about it, just a little one, just annoying enough that he’ll leave it alone and go make a fire or something so Jaskier can deal with this, and they can go on like normal. He can’t think of anything at all.

He’s holding a familiar little bag, the one full of potions and salves and medical things. Jaskier shakes his head. He has his own bandages, he doesnt need Geralts charity here, it’s fine, really. He just needs a second.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, It’s dark. He is lying on a bedroll by the fire, leg freshly bandaged and blisters salved. Great. Fantastic. He feels a bitterness run through him.

He’s just going to have to try harder next time.

Chapter Text

Geralt was beyond relieved that things had gone back to normal between them, that he had somehow gotten Jaskier to return to him after his stupid outburst. He hadn’t apologized, not in so many words, but Jaskier always understood what he meant without having to say the words. He had collected him from the roadside, given him an extra helping of meat that night and stopped for more breaks than usual and hadn't told him to shut up all day, and Jaskier knew what he meant. It was one of the reasons they were so close, why he could trust Jaskier with nearly anything.

But something is different, now.

At first he cant put his finger on what it is. The two of them are as they have always been, traveling place to place.

And then Jaskier starts sleeping in a separate room when theyre in town. The first time he leaves, Geralt thinks he must have just found someone to sleep with, and lies awake waiting for him to come back. He always returns after he leaves, to curl up in the bed together, Jaskier wanting the warmth and Geralt needing him close to fall asleep. But he doesnt return, and Geralt does not sleep.

He’s different still when they leave town. He wont let Geralt bring him food, wont let Geralt look at his injuries even when he can smell the waves of pain radiating off of him. Its uncomfortable, not being allowed to care for Jaskier in the only ways he knows how. He’s a terrible conversationalist and knows nothing of music nor art, and now he’s deprived of even the little kindnesses he can give Jaskier, the only ways he knows how to express his affection.

He likes doing things for Jaskier. He likes that there's someone who will let him close enough to do little favors, to be needed and trusted. And loathe as he is to admit it, he needs it too, especially now that everything else in his life has gone to shit. Jaskier is constant. He needs Jaskier to need him back, especially now that he knows Jaskier can and will leave him behind if he acts like a complete cunt. He learned that on the mountain, on the way down, as for the first time he had to seek out and follow Jaskier, instead of the other way round. Deservedly.

So he’s going to work on it. It’s harder than he thought, for the simple reason that Jaskier has gotten colder with him, no longer as affectionate, never invading his space to toy with his hair, or begging incessantly for a snack at the market until Geralt caves and gets it, or any of the other little ways he got under Geralts skin before. It should be a relief, and at one time, it would have been. But not anymore- he doesnt want to travel with anyone but Jaskier, and this is not Jaskier.

But he doesnt want to push. Jaskier usually comes to him eventually when he has a problem, usually the same day, unable to stop himself from blurting out whatever it is on a rush of words, and Geralt will act put-upon for show before he helps him, unable to really refuse anything Jaskier asks of him. But it’s been weeks now and if anything, he’s only gotten more reticent, talking only a fraction of his usual chatter. Geralt is concerned, he will admit that. He doesnt even tell him to shut up anymore, Jaskiers voice so rare it feels like a blessing each time he does speak, and Geralt doesnt want to encourage the silence.

He looks dead on his feet. Geralt offers to let him ride Roach for awhile, hoping he'll look delighted and surprised at the unusual gesture as he has each of the few times Geralt has offered.

but he refuses wearily, breathing heavily from where he walks beside them. Still, Geralt keeps Roach at a slow pace so he can keep up. Maybe he’s getting ill. Maybe his wound is hurting too much- but he’s never hidden anthing like that from Geralt before. Why would he? Surely he knows Geralt would stop as long as he needed. Geralt has a sinking thought. Maybe he’s distancing himself because he’s tired of traveling with Geralt. It would makes sense. He’s been a horrible fucking friend to him, recently. Fuck. It would serve him right, if that’s really what this is about, but he doesnt know why Jaskier wouldn't just say so aloud. It's frustrating, the silence. Is this how Jaskier feels when trying to talk to him?

The smell of blood pierces the air. He waits for Jaskier to ask for a break, holding his breath in anticipation, for him to just ask, to please just say a single word so Geralt can stop worrying.

Jaskier says nothing.

This is not normal. This is... this is wrong. Something is very wrong. Geralt stops Roach- they’re making camp here, roght now. And then Jaskier leans against a tree, faux casual, and disturbingly convincing. If Geralt couldn't smell the pain rolling off of him and see the blood from his thigh, he wouldnt even know.

Jaskier shakes his head frantically as he applies the bandage. But hes let Jaskier dodge his concern for too long, and there’s no reason he should be acting like this; Geralt’s applied countless bandages for him, and he for Geralt, because they share everything. And then Jaskier passes out, slumping as the tension leaves him looking soft and vulnerable. Geralt looks him over when hes done bandaging, takes off his shoes and salves the ugly blisters there that Jaskier hadn't mentioned, takes in the dark circles under his eyes.

Hours later, when he’s lain an exhausted Jaskier down to warm him by the fire, and cooked dinner, fretted, refilled their water and put new socks on Jaskier and generally worried himself sick, Jaskier finally wakes. He comes to sit across from him, a smile placed uncomfortably on his face, sickly.

“Whats going on, Jaskier?”

“What? Nothing’s going on.”

“You never talk anymore.”

“I thought you hated my talking,” he says jokingly, but theres a nervous, vulnerable undercurrent to the words that strikes a chord in Geralt. Maybe because he already feels fraught from the past weeks, from all that happened on the mountain and before, where it felt like he lost everything. It feels like it's happening again, and he cant let it, and hes ready to comfort Jaskier in any way he'll allow even if it means being honest about how he feels, out loud. Jaskier has always been the one to reach out to him, maybe he should start pulling his weight.

“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t hate it. I dont mind it at all.”

Jaskier smiles then, a shy and genuine smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

And just like that, Jaskier is talking again, weaving a little tale and song out of their recent adventure and another about a cat he saw in the last town. Geralt feels himself relax in increments as the words wash over him, and Jaskier feels closer to him than he has been in weeks. Perhaps he wont lose him after all.

Geralt fusses over the wound as they prepare to set off the next day. Jaskier reluctantly allows it, discomfort palpable. But hes talking again, and tha’s all Geralt can ask for. He composes on the road, Geralt keeping Roach at a snails pace as he spins rhymes, and they travel, and things are back to normal, he tells himself, it will all be alright now and things are fine.

(Except that they still aren’t, and he doesn’t know what to do.)

Chapter Text

"Geraaaalt," Jaskier whines, strumming his lute with a pout as they walk together on either side of Roach. “Please tell me about the harpy, I'm begging you.”

“I fought it and it died." His lips twitch. Hes missed bothering Jaskier with non-answers. He gets so riled up over it.

Jaskier huffs in annoyance, but his eyes are laughing. “Come on, now, it's for your own benefit to spill the details. I know I’m mostly useless to you, but what do you think pays for those separate rooms you like so much? So let's have some cooperation, huh?”

He blinks, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Oh, so you’ve forgotten about the concept of monetary currency? You see, when a girl money and a boy money love each other very much, our purses get extremely fat-”

“No, you- you arent useless.” And he doesnt fucking want separate rooms either, he never sleeps well in town anymore without Jaskier there. He has no idea what's given Jaskier that idea. Jaskier tuts at him good naturedly, his tone directly clashing with what he says next.

"You dont have to say that, I got the message. 'Shoveling shit,' and all.” Jaskier chuckles lightly. “I didnt even realize you thought that, before then. I guess that’s why it made me so upset that day."

He says it so casually, like hes talking about the weather, and not a day filled with regret and pain, of one of the cruelest things Geralt ever said to him. This isnt Jaskier, who wears his heart on his sleeve. This isnt right.

"Don't worry, I've been working on it and I'm… I'm getting better at not being a bother. I'm glad you told me." He smiles bright and Geralt feels sick.

He knew he had hurt Jaskier that day, but he didnt think it was like this. That Jaskier would see what he said as anything more than a shitty outburst after a shitty day, as anything besides entirely Geralts fault.

Jaskier is looking at him like this is all fine, as if he expects Geralt will just nod and agree and they'll go on with their days. His stomach sinks, self loathing swelling to take its place.

He doesnt know how to fix this. Hes fucked up with Jaskier before, but this time he was too pigheaded, too caught up in his own problems, to even apologize properly. He was just so ready to believe they were fine again that he let it go.

He runs the past months events through his mind and suddenly a lot of things are making sickening, horrible sense.

“Geralt?”

He becomes aware that he hasnt said anything, just fixing Jaskier with a disbelieving glare as he tries to process.

"Jaskier," he grunts, desperate to make him understand. "I'm serious. You arent useless. I didnt mean-"

Jaskier cuts him off with a laugh. "I'm serious too. And I'm telling you now its okay. it's no different than what you've been saying since we met, right?"

Jaskier waves him off again and hes skipping to the next topic fluidly, so casually that it might go unnoticed if Geralt weren't paying attention. "Speaking of saying things, tell me about the harpy- could you at least give me some specifics on how it looks? I didnt get close enough to really see."

Its a dismissal if hes ever heard one. A deflection after weeks of deflections.

"Not until we talk-"

"Please, I-"

"Listen," he snarls.

Jaskiers eyes flash, looking all at once indignant. Good, he should be. He should want to leave Geralts side immediately, if he truly believes he meant what he said on the mountain.

"I dont want to talk about it anymore. I already told you I'm trying! You're just being cruel, now."

He speeds up, stomping angrily past Roach to walk several paces ahead of them on the path. However, the exertion does him no good. The air stinks of copper, hes reopened his wound again and shows no sign of stopping to bother with it. Geralt paces ahead to grab him, and sets him on Roach, squirming and protesting.

“Why are you putting me on Roach?!”

“You’re hurt.”

“I can handle-”

“I don’t want you to handle it. Stop squirming or she'll throw you.”

They're approaching a town, maybe he can get Jaskier to rest for a few fucking hours there, whether he likes it or not.

Jaskier sulks the rest of the ride into town. But he does sit still.

Hes almost grateful hes refusing to talk to him, because it gives Geralt time to think before he has to speak. Before he has to address the world-consumingly large issue at hand. Maybe he can end his track record of destroying every single thing he touches, if he just has some time to think.

Or not. Probably not.

Geralt composes in his head, trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say.

We are friends, we have always been friends, and I've said it for years without actually saying it. But I know your language is words and it’s not fair to you to expect you to know when I never say it. You are useful to me. I like taking care of you. If I am still worthy to do so, I would be honored to continue doing so.

He says it over and over in his mind, but he still cant see how the words will fit in his mouth, how he will speak them convincingly. He does not possess Jaskiers ease with language.

When they arrive at an inn, it is near dusk. Jaskier dismounts and apparently thinks Geralt doesn’t notice his wince as he attempts to walk on his own.

Geralt lifts him again, eliciting a yelp, and holds him easily in one arm while he ties Roach up in the other. Jaskier tentatively wraps his arms around his neck without further complaint.

With Jaskier nestled into his neck like this, he can feel how his hands tremble with exhaustion, and Geralt feels his self hatred grow.

He clutches him tightly as he pays thw innkeeper for one room. He glances down at Jaskier when he doesn’t argue, and his head lolls against Geralts shoulder, fast asleep.

In the room he lays him gently on the bed, changes his bandage again. Jaskier stirs, eyes bleary, and mumbles confused nonsense.

Now is the time. He should speak. He sits on the edge of the bed, tense. Why is this so difficult? Just say it. I’m sorry. We are friends.

“Sorry friends,” Geralt blurts. He wants to punch himself in the face.

Jaskier is clearly fighting sleep, blinking furiously as he sits up with a frown.

“What?”

He clears his throat awkwardly. “We are friends. I thought you knew.”

"Stop."

He huffs, frustrated. This is not going how he pictured. He presses on.

“You're useful and I like taking care of you. I like you. And if you let me, I’ll continue. Doing so. If you- you know. Want," he rambles weakly. He decides to shut up.

“Geralt that was so… verbose,” he chokes, eyes shining. “I- you dont have to-"

"I know I dont have to. I wouldn't lie about this."

Jaskier looks down, uncharacteristically shy. He peers up at Geralt through his lashes, sleepy and vulnerable. Something primal and protective spreads through Geralts entire being. "You're serious?”

He nods so fast it makes his head spin. It should be embarrassing, how openly desperate he is for Jaskiers forgiveness. He's supposed to want nothing, it's what he is. But he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of that, only at how poorly he’s cared for his best friend. Jaskier taught him how to want.

“And it’s not some kind of pity thing?”

“No. Never. Please.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore but something shifts in Jaskiers demeanor and all of a sudden his lip is trembling and he looks so small and weak and relieved, and Geralt longs to take care of him, to strip away his own layers of cynicism and defense to hold Jaskier close until he believes it, because he deserves someone who can care for him properly.

And Geralt must care for him properly, because he can’t let this happen again, cant let that expression of resignation cross his face ever again.

Geralt has never initiated a hug between them, always too hesitant, too afraid of rejection, of what it would mean about him for daring to love someone like Jaskier. But Jaskier has chosen him, and he will choose Jaskier.

He leans forward to press Jaskiers head into his chest. Jaskiers hands wrap around his back and he lets Geralt hold him, a blessing he can't ever let go again.

They remain in town for a week, as Geralt insists they wait for Jaskiers thigh to heal fully. He also wants to make up for lost sleep, spending a large portion of the week cuddling up beside Jaskier in the bed. When they depart, Jaskier is bright, well rested and loud as ever.

Not all is as it has been. Things are different now. Jaskier still needs reassurances that Geralt still wants to listen to him talk, that he's wanted, and he refuses to ask for breaks on the road until he’s about to fall over. But he does ask, eventually, and Geralt stumbles over himself to fulfil each hesitant request, and it’s a start.

Other things are different, too. Geralt pays more attention. Hes working on taking initiative more, giving Jaskier ample, casual attention instead of letting him beg for scraps.

Hes taken to letting a hand rest protectively on Jaskiers shoulder whenever they're in town, or around his waist, to see Jaskier flush red in delight at the public display of affection. It's just good practice, anyway, so people don't get the idea that they can bother Jaskier.

When he sees Jaskiers eyes flicking to his hand wistfully for the fourth time in as many minutes, he allows himself to thread their fingers together. When they sleep, Jaskiers face presses into his neck. No one else could ever occupy that spot and make him feel safe, so easy to rip out with a gnashing of teeth or well placed blade. But Jaskier does. It's easier than expected, letting Jaskier into his space.

He tries to use his words, too, ineffective as he is at it. A few compliments go a long way with Jaskier, when he looks especially lovely in the sunlight or does something particularly reckless and brave to defend Geralts nonexistant honor. And he smiles so brightly every time Geralt mentions it, radiating happiness like a beacon. Geralt wants to say more, tell him he loves him in a way that'll make him absolutely believe it, but hes not built for speaking. Hes working up to it. Really he is.

They sit by the fire with fur blankets, Geralt inching unsubltly closer to Jaskier until their hands touch. Jaskier leans his head on Geralts shoulder and sighs. Geralt smiles. Jaskier has gradually begun initiating contact again, and each time relief floods him at the knowledge that Jaskier will still touch him, will still reach for him.

In all their history, they have never done this kind of touching outside the bed of an inn, outside the guise of saving coin and sharing warmth. Here there is no excuses to be made, Geralt has played his hand. This is unfamiliar territory.

He brings a hand up to stroke Jaskiers hair, grazing the soft warmth of his cheek. Jaskiers eyes flutter closed. He glows in the fire light and Geralt is struck with the urge to kiss his forehead.

And he does, tilting his head down to place a feather light brush of lips on his brow. Jaskiers cheeks go red and he looks up at him, head still resting on his shoulder.

"You dont have to," he whispers, breaking the quiet of the night. It feels like a question, the answer to which will determine the future. The fire is in his eyes, twin mirrors displaying the flickering flames.

"I know. I want to."

"Why?" His voice quivers, unsure still even after Geralts reassurances over these weeks.

"You know why. You always know."

"I thought I did, I think I do, but…" he shivers, pulling the fur up around his shoulders. "I need you to tell me."

"I," he chokes. He has to say it aloud. Say it. Say it. Say it or this will be broken forever, you'll hurt him again. "Its just you." He kisses him again, pulling him closer. He will show it. "I need you." He will show it until Jaskier can believe it again. They will face this together, as they have done with everything.

"Do you want me?"

"I want you."

"And I'm not a bother?"

"No. No. It wouldn't matter if you were, I would still want you."

Jaskier whines and shifts to sit in his lap, nuzzling into his neck. Geralt breathes him in, tenderness blooming in his chest and spreading to warm him.

Jaskier will stay. He holds him close, carding fingers through his hair and thanking whatever god or luck has gifted him another chance.

Things will be different, and they will be alright.