Archive of Our Own

Finding Jaskier after that fateful day on the mountain had filled in the last missing piece of the aching chasm of longing in Geralt’s life. Finding Ciri had helped, surely, and mentoring the young girl as his own spurred on emotions he surely thought he’d never have the capability of feeling.

Geralt felt it a rather caustic move to seek out Yennefer only after he watched Ciri’s instinctual magic nearly fall an entire forest after a particularly violent night terror. Geralt is certain that had Yennefer been capable of doing so, she’d have struck him down with her gaze alone when he knocked on the door of the manor she’d been occupying. But one look at Ciri, well, the mage’s walls came crumbling down into dust. It took time for her icy demeanor towards Geralt to thaw, but after some rather lengthy discussions-some of which were little more than screaming matches-Yennefer finally found the capacity to forgive. Never forget, the djinn made sure of that. But forgiveness: it opened the door to a shared future.

Ciri had a teacher and Yen, the child she could never conceive.

Their budding relationship did little to quell the agonizing longing that kept him awake at night, counting the cracks in the ceilings of old inns and taverns. Being back on the path was familiar to him. The lack of companionship was not. So, he did the only thing he knew would settle the aching grief pressing into his lungs so hard he could barely breathe some nights: he sought after his wayward bard.

Geralt found him in the Oxenfurt town square, playing at the foot of a beautiful marble fountain. The witcher found himself entranced for a moment; frozen to the spot as he watched Jaskier, looking the same as he did the last Geralt ever saw of him, backlit by the brilliant sun, haloed by the crisp, brilliant water falling from atop the fountain.

After, it felt like the world was finally back on its axis. There was a lot of righteous indignation on Jaskier’s part, and Geralt accepted it graciously; knowing his bard well enough that when Jaskier had things to say, they would be said, no matter how long it took.

Geralt was honest in return, spilling words out with fervor in a desperation quite unlike himself. But he knew he needed the right words: words were everything to a poet, Jaskier especially. And Geralt knew the only way to avoid losing his friend forever was to perfectly articulate every bit of the grief, guilt, longing, and regret that had made a place in between his very bones the second he’d hurled those words out on that mountain and broke Jaskier’s heart so deliberately and thoroughly.

So he did. Confessed to his hurtful words, his lack of self-control, and his inability to reign in his ire. Apologized for lashing out like he did, for taking the bard’s loyalty and devotion into his hands and crushing them like the seeds of a dandelion bulb before scattering them into the unfettered win.

Jaskier was silent as he spoke, and it unnerved Geralt: that quiet. But he knew the burden of conversation was on his shoulders this time. When he had finished, he could not look the younger man in the eye, instead kept his head bowed in penance.

Then Jaskier had stood, walked to him, and embraced him tightly. And that had been that.

Ciri took to Jaskier’s staying with them immediately, having already known him from the times he’d visited Cintra when she was a young girl. Yennefer took a while longer to become comfortable around the rather loud, obnoxious man, but now all Geralt hears amongst their barbed insults is fondness. He’s even seen it in her eyes on occasion when he watches Jaskier teaching Ciri how to play the lute, though when she catches him staring, he’s on the receiving end of an impressive glare and a powerful gust of magic that knocks him on his ass.

Now he and the bard walk the path together again, today on their way to an abandoned manor where the alderman had informed them a banshee was seeking refuge. The spirit had apparently killed two local men, and the spring harvest had, as the alderman stated, been cursed. Geralt confirmed the dead crops were definitely a result of magical interference, and resigned himself to a very average contract. The two of them have stopped for the night and begun unpacking camp, planning to reach the manor by afternoon the following day

So engrossed in his thoughts, he is caught completely unawares when a pinecone hits his right shoulder. He casts an unimpressed look to the bard who threw it.

“So am I correct in assuming you’ve not heard a single word I’ve said in the last five minutes?” Jaskier’s voice breaks through the heavy cloud of meditative peace Geralt had reveled in amongst the duration of whatever tirade Jaskier had surely been on.

He was, in fact, not listening the last five minutes, nor the two hours before that Jaskier failed to mention in his clipped little chastise.

“Your silence speaks volumes, Witcher.”

Geralt’s mouth pulls up on one side in the barest hint of a smile.

“Perhaps that was my intention,” he replies.

Jaskier squawks in dramatic outrage.

“Fine you witless barbarian, see if I ever open up to you again. Roach is my conversational companion now,” he says, stepping beside the mare.

He gives her a thorough scratch behind one pointed ear, and Roach turns her head towards him, nuzzling gently at his hair.

“See,” Jaskier says pointedly, “already so much more amicable.”

Watching Roach play so tenderly with the bard warms something inside Geralt. His horse has always been a remarkable judge of character, and she’s never once hesitated around Jaskier-even when Geralt himself kept him at two arms’ length after they’d first met.

“It’s only because you spoil her,” Geralt mumbles.

Right on cue, Jaskier retrieves a large sugar cube from a stringed pouch.

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” he says innocently, holding his hand steady as Roach gratefully accepts the treat; lipping softly at the bard’s fingers.

Geralt shakes his head in a way he refuses to describe as fond. He kneels to begin setting up their firepit for the night. Opposite him, Jaskier starts organizing the rest of the camp: tasks that are a long-established part of their practiced routine.

“So,” Jaskier says as he smooths out a bedroll, as always unable to endure more than a five-minute gap of silence. “A banshee.”

Geralt hums in affirmation.

“Should be an easy fight.”

“Splendid! Then there is by no means any reason I cannot accompany you!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, readying himself for a long night of whining, begging, and bargaining: another routine of theirs, though one Geralt holds much less esteem for.

“Material, Geralt!” Jaskier proclaims, throwing his arms outward. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you hunt the beasties, I write the songs, and we get the coin. I can’t exactly do my part when all you offer me are half coherent mutterings of ‘we fought, I killed it, it’s dead’!”

Geralt clenches his teeth, unrelenting.

“You said it yourself: an easy fight! It’ll be like the equivalent of spectating one of your witchery sparring matches with your brothers.”

“My brothers don’t actively try and kill me during a fight, Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

The bard waves him off with a flippant gesture.

“Of course not, but what’s one wailing ghost compared to you?”

Geralt frowns at the roaring fire. A banshee is a rather simple hunt. Geralt has faced dozens-could even fight them one-handed: an exaggeration once brought to fruition when he’d fallen wrong after being thrown across a clearing by one such spirit. He’d broken two of his fingers and had to finish the fight yielding his sword with just his right hand.

To him, a banshee may be a minor, inconvenient creature, but it-along with every other beast he has faced-is a danger to the bard. One small mistake, one wrong move, and Jaskier’s fragile life could be extinguished in a single, terrible moment. The very thought of losing the man to Geralt’s own inability to protect him roils inside his stomach like a potent poison. The sheer agony of just imagining having to continue living after something like that-he can barely stand it.

Geralt looks up into shining blue eyes and finds his resolve waning. The hope and trust alight in that gaze threatens to bring him to his knees. Geralt huffs.

“Fine,” he grinds out, and it’s almost worth the unfettered joy on Jaskier’s face.

“But,” he continues. “You do as I say exactly as I say, and if I tell you to run, you run.”

Jaskier is already vigorously nodding his head in agreement before Geralt even finishes his sentence.

“I promise,” he says brightly.

Geralt waits a beat before nodding and standing.

“Going to go hunt dinner. Don’t get into any trouble.”

“Truly, Geralt, ye of little faith,” Jaskier scoffs and crosses his arms. “What trouble could I possibly find out here?”

“Hmmm…you’d find a way.” Geralt turns, then pauses to look over his shoulder. “Roach is in charge.”

Jaskier gasps in outrage and the witcher turns back so the bard can’t see the satisfied smile on his face.

Geralt trudges into the woods, Jaskier’s indignant grumbling about being ‘bardsat’ by a horse fading amongst the wind blowing through the leaves.

A good hour later, Geralt has procured two large hares for supper. Satisfied, he begins the trek back towards their camp. He can hear the sounds long before he arrives: a crackling fire, a soft heartbeat, the gentle lull of Jaskier’s singing.

About twenty feet away, Geralt stops short, caught by the reflection of soft, ethereal firelight upon his bard’s face. There are words that dance among the fireflies, caught in the light breeze.

Have you ever wanted something, so badly you cannot breathe?

Have you ever loved someone, madly?

Jaskier’s fingers dance skillfully across his strings: a melody so light and lovely it might as well fly away on the wind. 

I’ve held my breath since I saw him, I’ve tried to look away, but I can’t resist.

I know every detail of him, I made a list.

I can’t tell you how long I’ve thought about him, I’ve kept everything he’s missed.

He’s gonna laugh at the one that brings him love like this.

The words are so soft, so full of love they seem fit to burst outward in a flurry of sparks that will reach upwards to the heavens; hanging amongst the brilliant stars like wishes.

Somewhere, deep in the confines of his battered and weary heart, he knows the words are for him. He is hidden among the closest copse of trees, engulfed by shadows, but he has never felt so exposed and vulnerable; pulled open gently by the soft timbre of his bard’s voice.

Geralt has had plenty of experience putting back together broken pieces of himself; pieces lost to the blows dealt by a life so full of loss and grief. But right now, in this moment, he’s never felt so whole; so solid. Like this gentle, silly light of a man has taken his fragile heart and nestled it safely behind the strongest walls.

Jaskier’s voice floats, lilting on the warm wind.

Have you ever wanted something, so badly you cannot breathe?

Have you ever loved someone, madly?

Geralt feels certain Jaskier did not intend for him to hear this song; that some force-perhaps destiny, he muses with irony-must have wanted him here for this moment.

In lieu of ever respecting destiny’s wishes, Geralt waits a few minutes in silence as Jaskier finishes his song. 

Once the younger man settles his lute back into its case, Geralt steps fully into the camp, revealing himself and their catch for the night. Jaskier’s face immediately lights up the second he enters the small, lit confines of their accommodations. Geralt feels something important swirl within his chest, something big and warm and all-encompassing.

Something for Jaskier.

A sudden, mad urge to propel himself forward into the stark firelight and simply say exactly how much he feels in return for the bard, well…it overwhelms him. Geralt has had the lesson of avoiding the weakness of vulnerability beaten into him. Attachment is foolish, only serving to divide one’s attention and loyalty. Better to serve the path alone and unwanted.

But then Jaskier had come stumbling into his life, all youthful exuberance and too-long limbs, having just grown with him out of boyhood. Geralt had no idea what to make of the strange, exuberant creature that dogged his heels like a lost pup looking for adventure.

Somewhere along the way, he’d grown used to the bard’s larger than life presence-denying to his grave of course any form of enjoyment he may have taken from their relationship.

Now though, after countless nights of soft hands carding through filthy hair, of silent smiles and gentle touches, of secret wishes whispered amongst the campfire like a prayer: Geralt feels as though no one ever has, nor ever will, understand him better than Jaskier.

But Geralt looks at the bard: his youthful face and shining eyes. A heart ever full of love and trust. How could someone who inspires so much happiness, so much hope, ever truly feel something for someone like him?

He knows the words his bard sings are true.

But how can he ever be worthy of someone like that? How could he confess something so sacred, so humbling, in a way that wouldn’t invoke immediate pity? Jaskier deserves someone who will gift him soft words, soft lips in the middle of the night beside gentle candlelight. Not a witcher whose hands have long since been dyed the color of ichor.

Against all that, though, Geralt wants to: wants to confess, to lay his heart bare and say every thought that has been rattling restlessly within him since the moment he’d reunited with Jaskier. He could say something. Right now.

He could say exactly what he’s thinking, feeling, and all the world would come to rights. It would be good. It would be perfect.

As it is, Geralt simply settles into his bedroll after supper, wrapping his arm around the younger man pressed tightly against his side, and pulls him close. He falls asleep to the comforting smell of love, contentment, lavender, and chamomile.

Geralt is going to kill the fucking alderman. How the brain-dead idiot mistook a wraith for a banshee was beyond him, and now, not only is he woefully underprepared for a difficult fight like this, he also has Jaskier to worry about.

Geralt would have never even deigned to consider letting the bard get anywhere near a creature as dangerous as this. Wraiths are ruthless. Unpredictable. Borderline unkillable without the right weapons. But Geralt had no idea; how could he have known?

He had only relented to the bard’s pleas because the aforementioned fuck head of an alderman had assured him it was simply a howling specter haunting the abandoned ruins of this manor. Jaskier could have easily observed from a safe distance, and Geralt would have dispatched the spirit long before it would ever have had a chance of getting near the bard. 

But now, as Geralt stares into the inky blackness of the wraith’s eyes, he feels genuine fear. He stretches out an arm, motioning for Jaskier to stay back. Thankfully, the younger man does as instructed: stopping just a few feet behind. They are on the opposite end of the large atrium entryway from the spirit, but even that distance feels too incredibly close for comfort. The wraith stares at him from beneath long strands of stringy, frayed black hair, the lower half of her body consumed in tendrils of suffocating smoke. She levitates just a few feet off the ground, arms extending into long, clawed appendages hovering at her sides. 

“Witcher,” she hisses, voice like shards of glass. Her gaze cuts quickly over his left shoulder, a sickly smile pulling at her wrinkled, cracking skin in a way that would have looked painful if she weren’t already dead. “And friend.”

Geralt grits his teeth; squeezing his drawn sword so tightly the leather of his gloves creaks. The sound draws her attention back to him in a snap, her smile disappearing. 

“You’ve come to best me, have you?” 

Black smoke swirls around her in torrents, slowly inching towards them. He has to act fast if he is going to get them out of here alive. 

“You’re not welcome here,” he growls. “Killing the locals, destroying their harvest. It ends now.”

“Amusing you believe I’ll surrender so easily. I’m not so easily cowed, mutant.” 

She lifts a hand, a tendril of smoke flying into the air and solidifying. She thrusts her claws forward and the tar-like vine strikes out like a viper at him. He dodges, rolling to the side and quickly crouching into a defensive position. 

“Jaskier! Out, now!” He orders, rolling again as a second vine nearly pierces his chest. 

“But Geralt-”

“Now!” He roars, turning his head toward the bard. He knows he must look a sight, paper-pale skin and eyes like voids, but if it makes the message that much clearer, so be it. 

Jaskier hesitates for only a second before nodding and turning to sprint off towards the front entrance. 

Geralt turns his attention back to the wraith, both of her hands now directing vines like a morbid symphony. He charges forward and slashes once, twice, but she vanishes in a swirl of smoke, rematerializing behind him in an instant. He feels a tendril wrap around his middle and suddenly he is airborne, crashing into a wooden table and splintering it as he falls. Groaning, he picks himself up just in time to see Jaskier reach, and nearly escape, out the front entrance, only to pull up short as a forceful gust of smoke snaps the doors shut. The bard startles, letting out a sharp yelp before stumbling back.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls. 

“I have no interest in this game, Witcher.”

The wraith summons the full force of her tarry vines, poising them to strike. Geralt braces himself for the onslaught, sword at the ready. 

But just before she sends her tendrils flying at him in a violent ambush, her eyes snap just slightly to the right. Geralt, witcher of over a century, instincts honed to perfection, knows with absolute certainty what is about to happen. But he’s just a moment too slow.

He lunges forward, sword slashing, but it is too late. She sends the vines careening forward, and Geralt watches, helplessly, as they reach Jaskier and violently snake around him: ankles, torso, arms-instantly pinning him in place. Jaskier struggles as best he can, but barely manages more than to wiggle furtively in place. 

“Fuck!” The younger man yells, panicked. He continues to struggle, but the vines only squeeze tighter, and he groans from the pain of it. 

“Release him, now!” Geralt roars.

“If you insist on killing me, I will ensure I take your friend with me,” the wraith hisses. A promise.

“Then let him go, and we will leave this place.”

She scoffs, the sound sharp and piercing like a razor blade.

“Do not pander to me Witcher, I know you have no intention of leaving me alive.”

Geralt snarls, taking a step forward.

“Stay back!” She screeches. She quickly curls one long finger and Geralt watches as a vine slithers up Jaskier’s neck, wrapping around his throat and tightening until he is gasping for air.

Geralt bares his teeth, halting his advance immediately.

“This will only end one way, Witcher. Surrender, and I’ll give you the mercy of a quick death.”

Geralt does not respond, only continues to stare down the spirit, desperately trying to formulate a plan. 

Unimpressed with the lack of response, the wraith opens a claw wide, her cracked nails extended toward Jaskier, and then slowly starts to close it into a fist. 

Geralt watches black veins not unlike his own begin tracing up and down the bard’s paling skin, the blackness a sickening contrast as they slowly crawl up his neck and onto his face. Jaskier is still struggling to breathe, but his strength begins to wane as his life force is slowly drawn from him. His eyes begin to lose focus and his head gently lolls forward-eyelids flickering-the bard no longer having the strength to hold himself up. 

“He’s stronger than I gave him credit for, but he can’t fight me forever. Your answer, witcher. NOW!”

“Alright!” Geralt screams. “I will surrender. But you will release him and allow him to leave unharmed.” 

The wraith tilts her neck with a sickening crack, considering. Geralt can only hear the weakening gasps from Jaskier as his life continues to fade. They are out of time, and Geralt screams again. 

“Well?!” 

The wraith hums, and then smiles, sharp teeth dripping black ooze. 

“No. I think forcing you to watch him die before I devour your soul will make your agony that much more delicious.”

With a feral yell, Geralt grasps for the silver knife in his belt and launches it at the cackling specter. It goes cutting through the air, straight into the wraith’s eye. She cries out in agony, vines seizing as she reaches up with both hands to remove the blade. Geralt watches in horror as the wraith retracts the vines binding Jaskier, but not before flinging him violently across the room where he collides with the floor, rolling a few times before coming to a stop on his side, motionless. 

Geralt roars, charging at the wraith. She is still preoccupied trying to remove his dagger from her punctured eye socket, and he swings his silver sword, the blade singing as it cuts the air and then her. With a wailing cry, she bursts into a brilliant ball of light, the force of it knocking Geralt onto his back. 

When he looks up, there is nothing left but a few wisps of smoke curling gently into the air. His chest is heaving, tangled hair falling across his face. He quickly turns over and pushes himself to his feet, sprinting across the room to where Jaskier lay, still in the same position he came to rest at. 

Gently, ever so gently, Geralt rolls the bard onto his back, taking in the sight of closed eyes, ashen skin and blue lips. The black veins have begun receding, but no color has returned to his face. Geralt’s own heart nearly stutters to a halt when he realizes he can’t hear Jaskier’s heartbeat. 

“Fuck!” 

Geralt jumps to his feet and sprints for Jaskier’s dropped bag, discarded where he’d been standing before the wraith had seized him. 

He fumbles frantically through the bag, desperate to find the xenovox Yennefer had gifted him before he left on the path. He hasn’t had to use it until now, and he prays that it will work. 

Finally, he finds it, and he rips the small device out from under all the other potions and items on top of it.

“Yennefer!” He all but screams into the thing. “I need a portal now!”

He stands with the box in hand, practically flying back to where Jaskier lay. 

Quickly, and with utmost precision, he begins pumping Jaskier’s chest, desperate to get his heart working again. He then switches focus, one hand on either side of his face. The bard’s skin is ice, no warmth. Geralt seals his mouth over Jaskier’s and blows one, two breaths, the younger man’s chest rising and falling with the motion. He begins alternating between the two, entirely focused on bringing his bard back. 

“Come on you bastard. Not now. Not like this,” he says through gritted teeth. 

The silence is fucking deafening. His hands never shake, but now each time he lifts them off Jaskier’s chest to grip his face, they wobble with fervor.  

Geralt’s whole world has tunneled. There is little else but the movement of his hands and the feel of his lips on Jaskier’s as he forces air into unmoving lungs.

The weight of what it would mean to lose Jaskier crashes down on him with all the force of an unbridled wave. It snakes around his chest and squeezes like a vice, constricting his very breath. 

He keeps pumping Jaskier’s heart. Keeps breathing for him. This feeling of…of absolute helplessness is agonizing. The bard remains motionless, long eyelashes fanned across porcelain skin.

“Please, Jaskier” he all but whispers. A rib snaps beneath the force of his movement but he continues on. “Please.”

As he seals his mouth over Jaskier’s for what must be the dozenth time, Geralt hears the telltale gust of a portal flaring to life. He doesn’t look up, but hears heeled boots clack quickly against the stone floor and soon Yennefer is kneeling across from him on the other side of Jaskier. 

“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. Ciri intercepted your message, I was out. Fuck, Geralt,” she says, breathless, wide eyes roving in fear over the bard. “What happened?”

“Wraith,” Geralt pants, completely out of breath. “His heart’s not beating. I’ve tried but I-” 

He growls, squeezing his eyes shut against the heat he can feel pooling there, pricking at him like needles. 

“Get back,” she orders. She lays both hands on Jaskier’s chest, and Geralt feels the air start to crackle with electricity as purple energy swirls beneath Yennefer’s fingertips. With one almighty breath inward, the mage forces her hands down against Jaskier’s chest, pushing the energy into him.  The younger man’s back arches slightly, but he falls still again. Growling, Yennefer repeats the same motion with the same disheartening result. 

“You stupid fucking bard. Breathe, damn you,” Yennefer orders, hissing like a feral cat.

She sends another pulse of energy shooting through the bard. Geralt notices he’s got one of Jaskier’s hands unconsciously gripped so tightly in his own that he feels the bones creaking. He lets up, but doesn’t release it. His other hand comes up to cradle the side of Jaskier’s face. 

“Please, Jask,” he whispers. Begs.

With an echoing yell, Yennefer sends one last burst of sizzling magic into Jaskier’s chest. Her hands remain glued there, her hair falling in long strands from where they’ve escaped her braid. She’s panting, head bowed forward from the strain of it all. 

Geralt grits his teeth, eyes squeezed shut as angry, hot tears escape the corners of his eyes. He’ll never forgive himself for this, never forgive himself for endangering and losing the best part of his life for the past…fuck, the past two decades. This wasn’t supposed to happen, how could he have known? How could he- 

And without ever telling him how he felt. How he had heard those words last night by the campfire under a sky full of glittering stars and realized with absolute certainty he felt the same. And now he’d never-

He lets out a low, keening noise that reverberates from his fucking soul.

“Geralt,” he hears Yennefer say, but it’s far, far away. He’s lost to the ocean of grief and self-loathing currently threatening to consume him. 

“Geralt!” she snaps, insistent. 

He looks up and he glares, but she’s not looking at him. He tracks her gaze to Jaskier’s face, and that’s when he sees it. That’s when he hears it.

Thump thump. Thump Thump. 

The bard’s chest is rising slowly, so slowly he can barely track it, but he’s breathing again. Geralt releases a choked laugh, hands coming up to cradle Jaskier’s face. The skin is still icy to the touch, but the grey pallor is gone; a small, heavenly bit of warmth slowly returning to the apples of his cheeks. 

“I’ll open a portal home, we can help him better there,” Yennefer says, standing. 

Geralt nods, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face. He carefully arranges the bard in his arms, scooping him up as gently as he’d cradle Ciri on the way to her bed after she’d fallen asleep. The bard’s head gently lolls against his shoulder, and Geralt allows a brief moment where he presses his cheek against the soft fringe of hair falling across Jaskier’s forehead. 

“I’ve got you,” he promises. I’ve got you.

Geralt paces furiously in the kitchen, banished by Yennefer a little over four hours ago. She’d said she needed focus to concentrate her magic enough to heal Jaskier.

“The wraith’s magic was potent. His body is under extreme stress trying to heal itself. I can help it along, but not if you’re breathing down my neck every time I so much as lift a finger. Get out.”

She’d slammed the door in his face and that had been that. Now he’s walking across the same spot so hurriedly he’s fit to wear a hole through the wood.

“Geralt,” a soft voice calls through the storm of anxiety he’s currently adrift in. He turns, sees Ciri standing in the kitchen entryway, rubbing at one eye tiredly with a closed fist. “You okay?”

Geralt doesn’t answer, but ceases pacing, opting to instead fall into the nearest chair, exhausted.

“Not really,” he eventually replies.

Ciri hums and moves to sit beside him, one small hand coming to rest on his knee.

“Yennefer said he’s alright.”

“He almost wasn’t,” Geralt says, voice soft, his words barely above a mumble.

“I know,” she agrees, giving his knee a small squeeze. “But he pulled through. He’ll be okay. And so will we.”

Not for the first time, Geralt can’t help but revel in awe of the emotional maturity of his child. Deep down, he knows it’s because of the loss and grief she’s suffered through, but he can’t help smiling in pride, his heart so very full of love for this exceptional young girl. He nudges her chin softly.

“Why aren’t you in bed? It’s late.”

“Same as you,” she sighs. “Had a nightmare. Jaskier, he…well, he didn’t. You know.”

Geralt nods. He knows.

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she leans into it without hesitation.

“Like you said,” he whispers, placing a small kiss on her head. “He’ll be okay.”

They sit there, huddled together before the warm hearth, until Geralt hears the soft, even breathing that means Ciri is asleep. He gathers her up gently and takes her to her room, laying her down and pulling the blankets all the way up to her chin. She unconsciously snuggles deeper into them. Satisfied, Geralt takes his leave, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

Steeling himself with a long inhale and exhale, he turns to make his way down the hall to Jaskier’s room.

Within a few feet, he can hear a murmured voice. Voices, he jolts with the realization. His first instinct is irritation: Yennefer promised to find him the moment Jaskier opened his eyes. But as he draws closer, he hears more clearly a conversation behind the closed door.

“I’m assuming Ciri and Geralt are asleep?” Jaskier asks, voice oh, so soft and weak. Geralt’s heart sings at the sound of it.

“Ciri most likely,” Yennefer replies. “I assume Geralt is awake downstairs, pouting. Had to ban him from this room, the insufferable nightmare. I could barely think with him in here.”

Jaskier laughs softly, and Geralt leans his forehead against the door, sagging with a weighty relief he’s rarely known.

“Sounds about right,” Jaskier agrees. “He never can sit still when he feels the need to do something.”

“An absolute brooding pest,” Yennefer says. Geralt might feel offended at another time, but right now, his heart is so full just listening to the two banter; even if it is at his expense.

There’s a pause after that, and Geralt is just beginning to raise his hand to knock when Yennefer hums, seemingly displeased.

“You look unnervingly contrite. What’s wrong?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond right away, and Geralt imagines the bard is pulling nervously at his sleeves, searching for frayed ends to toy with on an expensive shirt that will never have them; though not for his lack of trying.

“I…I really messed up, Yen,” he finally admits. “I almost got both of us killed, useless twit that I am. It’s a wonder sometimes that he puts up with me at all.”

Geralt’s heart aches hearing those words. Surely Jaskier understands that neither of them had any way of knowing what would happen? The bard even listened to instruction when Geralt ordered him to run. No fault lay on his shoulders for a wraith’s actions.

“I’m a mild inconvenience at best and a deadly liability at worst,” he continues. “Something I demonstrated spectacularly today.”

Yennefer hums.

“I don’t like seeing you humbled, bard. It’s unsettling.”

“As is your soft voice and kindness, witch.”

Geralt hears Yennefer sigh and then a small rustle of movement before the bed squeaks as the mage takes a seat beside the bard.

“I don’t suppose you’d listen to a word of me trying to convince you this was not your fault?” She asks.

“You know as well as I that if I hadn’t been in that manor, that wraith would have had no leverage over Geralt in a fight,” Jaskier replies, sounding so…resigned. And defeated. It stirs something sour in Geralt’s stomach to hear it.

“Perhaps,” Yennefer concedes. “But from what Geralt told me, you two were ready for a banshee, not a wraith.”

“I don’t really think there’s a diff-”

“Banshees are uncoordinated. Most act on instinct, not intelligence. They’re also much less deadly in a fight. Wraiths on the other hand…Well, do you really think Geralt would have let you come had he known what he was heading into?”

There’s a few second pause.

“No,” Jaskier whispers.

“I’ve only ever seen Geralt that desperate twice,” Yennefer says softly. “Once, the night we met after the djinn. And then tonight. I’d encourage you to identify the common factor in both those instances. He may have all the emotional tact of a turnip, but he cares for you deeply. I know it, and deep down, I know you know it, too.”

Jaskier laughs wetly, and the light smell of salty tears finally hits Geralt’s senses. Something snaps: he’s done waiting. He forgoes knocking and reaches for the door handle, but pulls up short.

He feels the brush of Yennefer’s mind against his own and knows he’s been caught.

It’s quite rude to eavesdrop, Geralt. Vesemir never taught you basic courtesy?

Geralt growls but doesn’t respond. He can feel Yennefer’s amusement.  

He’s only just woken, so be gentle with him.

Geralt bites back another growl, as if he’d ever be anything but with Jaskier. He can practically see Yennefer’s eye roll.

 It’s not an insult, Geralt, just a reminder. He’ll need rest again soon, too. I’ll come back with supper in a bit.

Geralt grunts in agreement.

Verbose as ever, witcher.

Geralt hears the rustle of Yennefer’s skirts as she stands.

“You appear to have another visitor,” she informs the bard, quite amused. The click of her heels against the floor draws closer until the door swings open. Geralt looks into amethyst eyes and his expression softens.

“Thank you, Yen," he says earnestly, hoping it expresses just how grateful he is for what she's done tonight. "For everything.”

Yennefer smiles softly before waving him off.

“Yes, yes, my skills and intelligence know no bounds. I’ll be back soon.”

And with a flourish, she brushes past him down the hall.

He watches her go before inhaling deeply and turning back toward the door, stepping into the soft candlelight of the room. The sun has already been gone for some time, but the abundance of magically burning candles that will never extinguish light up the room well.

Geralt’s eyes immediately lock onto his bard.

“Jaskier,” he whispers as he walks until his knees nearly hit the bed, the name on his tongue like a benediction. The man has definitely looked better: his skin is still stark pale, the color in his lips not quite returned. His hair is endearingly ruffled with sleep and Geralt resists the urge to reach out and smooth it back into place.

“Geralt,” Jaskier replies, smiling up at him in that way that always makes Geralt’s heart stutter. Suddenly, he doesn’t think. He only acts on instinct. Before he knows it, he’s settled on the bed, pulling the bard into an all-encompassing embrace; one hand reaching around his back and the other cradling his head, fingers threaded gently through his soft hair. 

Surprised by the sudden movement, Jaskier hesitates for a beat before returning the hug in equal fervor. Geralt doesn’t squeeze as hard as he wants to, still mindful of the bard’s recovery.

They stay like that. For how long, Geralt does not know. But he finally finds it in himself to let go, and even then, he still rests his hands on the sides of Jaskier’s arms: an anchor for himself. Reassurance the bard won’t disappear under his grasp.

Geralt watches the bard’s eyes rove over his rumpled clothing, messy hair, and no doubt dark circles beneath his eyes.

“You’re looking quite well,” Jaskier taunts with a smirk, then frowns, looking down at himself. “Though I suppose I don’t fare much better.”

Geralt uses one curled finger to gently lift Jaskier’s chin.

“I heard you talking to Yen,” he says, and Jaskier scoffs.

“Shame on you, spying on others,” he teases, clearly deflecting in the face of what is to come.

“I don’t blame you for any of it, Jaskier,” Geralt promises. “If anything, I blame that cockhead of an alderman, whom I’ve already had a lengthy discussion with on the differences between banshees and wraiths.”

Jaskier laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world right now.

“I’m sure that now he’s quite well educated on that subject,” he says.

Geralt hums, then continues.

“Yennefer is right. Had I known I’d encounter a wraith, I never would have brought you along. I would never act so recklessly as to endanger you like that.”

Jaskier stays silent, shinning eyes locked on his.

Geralt swallows, a tight lump in is throat.

“She was also right about something else: I care for you, Jaskier. I care for you so much that sometimes I don’t even know what to do with all of it.”

Jaskier gives him a small, grateful smile, his eyes crinkling with it; but Geralt knows it’s not enough. He’s wasted too much time, risked too much in almost losing his bard today. He will say what he needs to say, gods be damned.

“But it’s more than that,” he whispers, briefly looking away. It’s Jaskier this time, who puts a hand to the side of this face and pulls his gaze back to him. Geralt closes his eyes and exhales before opening them again, eyes not leaving Jaskier’s.

“I want you. More than anything. Only you,” he finally confesses, and it feels like a waterfall of repressed emotion and hesitance comes flooding out of his chest. There’s no other feeling to describe letting those words fly on the wind other than contentment. A weight is gone: he breathes in deeply, tasting the words as they float between the two of them.

“You want me?” Jaskier whispers, voice quite unsure of what he’s hearing.

Geralt nods.

“Sometimes…so badly I cannot breathe.”

Jaskier inhales softly, eyes widening.

“You heard…”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jaskier asks, gaze gentle and open.

“I was scared,” Geralt admits. “Terrified. That I wasn’t capable of loving you as much as you love me. As much as you deserve.”

He continues on, determined.

“But today showed me how much more terrifying it would be to live in a world without you in it. I realize I’ve wasted enough time trying to bury myself under indifference.”

He takes a breath.

“You are what pleases me, Jaskier.”

The same words, the same love, from what feels like a different life; though he hopes now they can still convey how deeply, truly, madly he feels.

“You are what pleases me,” he repeats: a soft whisper as he raises one hand to hold the side of Jaskier’s face, his thumb gently tracing his cheekbone. He leans in slowly, so slowly it feels as though no time is passing. The younger man mirrors his action.

He meets his bard halfway, and something in him alights the moment his lips meet Jaskier’s.

It is a soft, gentle thing. But it is more.

It is the soft wind in the meadow he crosses leaving Kaedwen each spring.

It is the twinkling stars that guide him along the path when the light has long since faded.

It is the sun: fierce and bright and warm and so very safe.

It is love.

It is everything.

It is perfect.