Archive of Our Own

Contrary to popular belief, Witchers weren't heartless monsters. They still had their emotions, no matter how hard rumors tried to say otherwise. They were muted, yes, but were very much still there. They still felt joy, anger, hope, frustration, guilt.

Geralt had been feeling quite a lot of guilt as of late.

He was no stranger to it, of course. There were many moments in his long life where things went wrong, where he said the wrong thing, where he was too late. But he got over it. But this guilt felt different. It felt sticky like tar, covering his insides and tainting his thoughts.

There were many things that happened on the mountain, two in particular that stuck with him, but one specifically that was the cause of his inner torment.

"If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands."

The look of utter disbelief and hurt that crossed the bard's face had been too much to handle. Even now, that one second of expression Geralt had caught before turning around haunted him.

He tried to busy himself. He wanted to forget Yennefer, his Child Surprise, how much the lack of music was getting to him. He just wanted to go back to how it was before. Eat, sleep, hunt, repeat.

But slowly it got harder to ignore. Coming back to an empty camp, not having to answer any questions, no soft looks and lewd jokes.

Geralt missed Jaskier. It wasn't hard to figure out, but not something he expected. He thought he could get over it and go back to how things were before. The makeshift peace he procured for himself all those years ago eluded him. Peace to him now was fancy outfits and lute strings.

He started searching for Jaskier two months after the mountain. He didn't know what he could say, but wanted to try. He had to. An apology was the least of what Jaskier deserved.

He caught word of the bard heading to a town nearby and spurred Roach over as quick as he could. Geralt left Roach at the nearest stable and started his search. It didn't take long to hear the familiar voice in an inn nearby, one that sent an immediate jolt through his nerves.

"Ladies and gentleman, you have been the most beautiful audience! Remember to toss a coin if you can. If anyone needs me I'll be at the bar."

Geralt found himself stuck in place in front of the door, hand hovering just over the knob.

Jaskier was here. Right through the door, singing a song Geralt hadn't heard before.

More emotions piled up within him. Relief that Jaskier still found the heart to make music, joy at finally hearing his voice again, and of course the ever-present guilt of remembering—though "remembering" implied he ever forgot, so perhaps not the right word—just how bad Geralt hurt the bard.

Though he may not ever admit it to anyone aloud, Geralt enjoyed Jaskier's never-ending singing and prattling as they journeyed on the path together. And the idea of finally getting that back, even after only two months, had him longing for simpler times.

Geralt grasped the knob and steeled himself, mentally preparing for whatever Jaskier may want to say, or may want the Witcher to say.

"After everything we did, we saw. You turned your back on me!"

His blood turned cold.

"What for d'you yearn?"

His breath caught in his lungs.

"Watch that butcher burn!"

He let go of the knob like it burned him.

"At the end of my days, when I'm through, no word that I've written will ring quite as true as burn!"

Something heavy and horrible clawed at his stomach as he backed away from the door, the word "butcher" ringing in his ears, the venom with which Jaskier sang it searing his skin like acid.

Jaskier deserved an apology, yes, but who was Geralt to say whether the bard actually wanted one? This song had to be evidence to the contrary. Jaskier had spent years trying to erase that title from Geralt's many names. He sang his praises, debated with bigots, and even got into brawls on behalf of Geralt's honor.

And yet here he was, using that same name in one of his own tales.

Geralt wanted to feel betrayed and hurt, but he knew he had no right. This was one song of Jaskier's that was one hundred percent true. After everything, Geralt turned his back on one of the very few people that considered him a friend.

And one of the very very few he considered a friend as well.

The music and cheering had died down as Geralt was lost in thought, his enhanced hearing picking up on the last few ragged words from Jaskier.

"Watch me burn all the memories of you."

Geralt quickly turned and headed back to the stables as the townsfolk cheered from inside. He couldn't stay here. He refused to open a wound still so fresh and aching for the bard. If he wanted to be angry, then alright. If he wanted to forget the Witcher, so be it. Geralt may not be able to apologize, but he could at least stay away from Jaskier.

It was safer that way.

"Master Witcher!"

Geralt didn’t stop, but he did slow down. He was just on his way out of town after finishing a contract, and he couldn't be happier for it. It was obvious the people weren't too fond of Witchers, despite being in need of one. And while it wasn't the whole town, it was enough of them for Geralt to know it was well time to leave.

A young boy, probably no older than thirteen, hurried to his side. "Your friend was here. The bard?"

"He's not my friend," came the automatic self-trained response before he even registered what the boy said.

"He tried to get a room," the boy continued, either not hearing the Witcher or ignoring him, "but his instrument got broke, and Miss Marley—she owns the inn. She's as rotten as they come, I tell you—says music's got no soul without instruments, and she didn't want none of his singing around town."

Geralt honestly almost chuckled at that. He could only imagine Jaskier's affronted reaction to such a claim.

"And your bard had no money for a room, you see, and not a thing to play for coin, so he left. Heard him talking to himself, I did. About spending the night in the forest before walking to the next town. But that's more than a couple days by horse. I doubt he'd last long on foot." Geralt stopped just at the path leading out, the boy adding, "Friend or no, I figured you'd want to know about it."

Geralt sighed heavily. Even without tagging along on hunts or jumping into beds he didn't belong in, Jaskier still managed to find ways to get himself into trouble.

The forest surrounding the small town was safe enough, so Geralt wasn't too worried about anything attacking the bard in the middle of the night. And Geralt had taught him quickly how to fend for himself when it came to water and food. He wasn't the best at it, but he could make do.

What Geralt was worried about was the town itself. It was well known of Jaskier being dubbed "The Witcher's Bard". And with how hostile they already were with Jaskier, on top of their deep seeded dislike for Witcher's, he wouldn't be too surprised if someone tried to harm him or even kill him in the middle of the night.

He was probably just overreacting. And yet…

Geralt finally looked at the boy. "Do you know where I can find a horse?"

—

It ended up costing him all the coin he just earned, but Geralt was now trudging through the forest with a new mare in tow, Roach left tied to a tree for the time being.

He felt ridiculous. But also weirdly pleased. He knew Jaskier didn't need him, let alone want him, but at least now he could help in some way. It was small, and it would never make up for the horrid things he said while blinded by frustration, but it was something at the very least.

He heard Jaskier before he saw him.

"Stupid town with their stupid rules," the bard was grumbling to himself for what Geralt could only assume was not the first time. "'Singin' ain't music without somethin' to play with.' Ha! She wouldn't know real singin' if a Goddess screamed hymns right in her wrinkly old hag-ly face."

There was a long sigh, then a few moments of silence. Geralt moved slower, not wanting to make himself known. Luckily the horse didn't seem too keen on make any noise either.

"No water, no food, no lute, no coin. What a day." Another pause, then a humorless laugh. "And now I'm yammering to myself like a crazed loon… well, Geralt talks to himself."

Geralt halted, almost tripping when his name was said.

"Though he technically talks to Roach. But she's a horse, so I don't think that counts. He also fights monsters like a maniac and has hit his head enough times to be concerning. So he's probably a loon too."

Another pause. Another sigh, this one heavier, shaky; weighted with an emotion that made Geralt's chest clench.

Not wanting to dwell on that in the slightest, he slapped the mare's rear, letting her take off toward Jaskier's voice.

"What—woah, woah! Easy, girl, easy." The mare was huffing, stamping in place. Jaskier caught her then. Good. "Where did you come from? Oh, what's this?"

Geralt didn't want to risk Jaskier still deciding to wait before furthering himself from the town, so he left a note under the nose strap of the bridle and wrote a single word.

LEAVE

Whether Jaskier saw it as helpful or threatening, Geralt didn't care. All he wanted was for Jaskier to heed it.

"Ah, well that's… ominous." A stretch of silence, then the sound of things shuffling as Jaskier gathered whatever it was he still had to his name. "Right, well, let's not see what happens if we stay, hm?"

Geralt, mission completed, hurried back to Roach as quietly as he could, then set off full gallop. He didn't want Jaskier to run into him when he and his horse made it back to the Path.

He was also hoping the wind in his ears would drown out the sad sigh playing on repeat in his head.

It didn't.

Humans have said for centuries how cruel a mistress Fate was, and Geralt knew this to be true more than most. But now more than ever was he reminded of that fact.

How else could he explain how he used to go years without seeing Jaskier, silently longing for the bard's endless prattle, only to run into him twice in no more than a month when Geralt is trying to actively avoid him.

A cruel mistress indeed.

He reminded himself—not for the first time, nor the second—that it was for the best. Jaskier was safer not tied to a Witcher. Before they met he could come and go as he pleased to backwater Witcher-loathing towns like the one Geralt currently found himself in. (They were the least bit welcoming, but found themselves in desperate need for aid regardless)

After he began to sing the praises of the White Wolf, however, that changed very quickly. Jaskier was run out of town side by side with Geralt, being associated with a Witcher more than enough reason to be on the receiving end of rotten fruit and stones. And even then, he never left. He would simply scoff and wipe himself down and mutter about stains and this is fine silk, Geralt, it'll never wash out!

But he never left.

But now, with Geralt having made the decision for him, things should get easier for the bard, especially with his new ballad about burning butchers. Word would get around of their "break-up" and things would go back to the way they were before.

Not ideal, but… for the best.

And yet, as stated before, fate was cruel and relentless.

Geralt was heading to the alderman's house to collect his payment, Roach following dutifully behind him with a leshy head strapped across her back, when the sounds of a tussle reached his ears. Rude words being thrown at some poor sod by some drunkards. Geralt continued forward, not wanting to draw anymore attention to himself than necessary.

Then he heard the next insult. One that was, horribly and unfortunately, familiar.

"You're kind ain't welcome here, Witcher's whore."

Geralt stopped in his tracks. Out of all the things Jaskier had to deal with for being associated with him, he hated that the most. The way Jaskier's face turned beet red the first time he heard it, embarrassed beyond words, Geralt nearly started a brawl.

Neither of them talked about it then, or the next several times it was said again, but Jaskier's face flushed every time. Geralt couldn't blame him for the reaction. Being associated with a Witcher was one thing, but being thought of as a bedding partner for one must be nothing short of insulting for the bard.

Cruel indeed, he thought as he sighed and followed the voices.

Jaskier spit and laughed, the sound poisonous. "That, my dear men, is further from the truth than normal. I can assure you, we don't travel anymore. I'm not with him."

"Still sing those bloody songs, though."

"Whatever keeps me fed. Obviously didn't read the room well enough this time before—"

"Still defend them," the man continued. "Still praise them, the filthy monsters."

Geralt found the group easy enough, tucked between the inn and another building. He stayed just around the corner, not wanting to make a scene just yet. Jaskier, despite being a magnet for trouble, knew how to take care of himself. So long as he kept his mouth shut and his head down.

He, unfortunately, wasn't very good at either of those things.

"They aren't monsters." Jaskier said firmly.

The man laughed. "Aren't they?"

"They are not," he reaffirmed, voice loud and absolute, growing in volume as he spoke. "You lot love throwing that word around, when in actuality you are more monsters than the beasts they fight. For you, might I add. They are far more human than you sad sopping sacks of shite could ever even hope to dream of being!"

The familiar sound of fist hitting jaw, quickly followed by even more strikes, pulled Geralt from around the corner. Even when he hated Geralt, Jaskier was still defending Witchers; even to his own detriment.

Idiot.

Geralt called out a warning to the men, but it went unheard. There were four of them, all wailing on Jaskier who was now curled up on the floor, arms raised to cover his face. One got off a particularly bad kick to his head, resulting in a cut-off yelp and Jaskier going limp, head lolling and arms falling.

Geralt saw red. He unsheathed his sword. "Enough!"

The men finally turned, went white as sheets, and took off running like cowards. Geralt had half a mind to give chase, public opinion be damned, but the battered bard before him kept him tethered.

Geralt sheathed his sword and knelt down, ever so carefully turning Jaskier over. He brushed his hair out of his face to get a better look.

Jaskier did well with protecting his face. Other than the first blow—a painful bruise already blossoming along the left side of his jaw—he was mostly unmarred. The rest of him couldn't be said the same. Geralt could smell the pain radiating off of him, the blood laying underneath skin where more bruises lay, the fresh blood from broken skin along his arms and legs.

Geralt once again contemplated hunting the men down.

Jaskier groaned and shifted, eyes opening to slits and wandering, merely looking through Geralt instead of at him.

Something hot and sharp settled in Geralt's gut. This was the first time actually seeing Jaskier since the mountain. Where he was normally clean shaven, he was now sporting stubble. Where his hair was normally short and styled, it was longer and loose. Where he normally dressed ostentatiously, he was dressed down in comparison save for a bright red leather coat. He looked like a completely different person.

Geralt knew he was at fault for this change.

Jaskier's eyes didn't stay open for long, his head lolling once more with a whine. Geralt carefully felt around his head, earning another whine when he located the injury that knocked him out. A decent sized bump, but luckily no dents in the skull or bleeding. Geralt pulled back his lids next. One pupil was bigger than the other.

A concussion. While not surprising given the circumstances, it was still concerning for humans.

Geralt sighed heavily and adjusted his stance, placing a hand behind Jaskier's shoulders and under his knees, and lifted him easily. The bard moaned, but stayed unconscious.

Geralt selfishly felt glad. He wasn't sure he could handle a reunion just yet, especially with Jaskier in such a state.

He whistled to Roach and headed to the healer, knocking on the door with his foot.

The healer, a short elderly man, took one look at Geralt's eyes and tried to shut the door again. Geralt slammed his boot in the way before he could.

"Leave, Witcher!" The old man snapped. "I don't serve your kind. To hell with your contract!"

"I'm not here for me. I'm here for him. He's human."

The door opened again, though not all the way. The healer looked between Jaskier and Geralt suspiciously. "What'd you do to him?"

Geralt had to stop himself from tightening his grip. "I didn't do this. A group of men did, just outside the inn."

The old man hummed, not looking convinced. Geralt prayed he wasn't the musical type, that he didn't know Jaskier as the Witcher's Barker.

Luckily the man didn't seem to recognize him. He made a noise halfway between a sigh and a snarl and opened the door the rest of the way. "Set him down inside."

Geralt took Jaskier into the small building and laid him on the first bed he saw, careful to set his head down as gently as possible. "He has a concussion and bruising. Might be some fractures as well."

"Don't be thinking I'll be doing anything for free, now," the man said, gathering herbs and supplies. "I'll be expecting payment."

"The alderman has my payment for the contract. You can use that." Geralt needed that coin desperately, but Jaskier needed healing more. He'd just have to make do until the next town. "I'm heading there now."

"Good. Then scram." He shouldered him away from Jaskier and set his things down on a table near the bed. "I'll get the coin from the alderman myself, so don't come back."

Geralt clenched his fists and allowed himself a final look at Jaskier.

How horrible it was that seeing the bard hurt was a normal occurrence.

Another reason to keep his distance.

Geralt left Jaskier in the hands of the Witcher-hating healer and prayed the bard could keep his mouth shut long enough to get better.

Geralt was planning to use the coin from his last contract—it came from a small village, one that still praised his work and paid him his worth—to treat Roach to a nice few days in a stable getting pampered. She had a close call with a griffin they ran into and he felt he owed her a reward for handling it so well.

But when they reached the next town it was deserted. His guard was raised instantly and he pulled Roach's reins, urging caution.

The air was taut and thick, heavy with something he couldn't quite place. The tension was palpable.

"No!" A young girl, looking to be around twelve, ran out of a large building in front of them. "Stay back! Leave! There is sickness here!"

Geralt halted Roach as the girl waved her arms desperately. "What kind of sickness?"

The girl stopped, her eyes widening. "A Witcher! Oh, please, Mister Witcher, I beg for your help! A terrible sickness has spread across the entire town. My sisters and I are all that's left, but we—"

"Elise!!" another girl called from within the building. "We need you!"

Elise ran back inside, beckoning Geralt to follow.

Geralt dismounted and tied Roach to a nearby poll, not wanting her to get too close. "You'll have rest soon," he promised, running a hand down her neck before following inside.

The stench of sickness was stronger inside, the air sharp and sour from fever and vomit, more stifling than outside. Men, women, and children alike were laid on the floor in rows. Some curled up, some prone; some moaning from fever, some eerily silent.

All sick.

Three girls, Elise and two others, were fighting to keep a man down. He was screaming nonsense, eyes glazed over, his mind lost to the throes of fever. He begged for help, yelling at things that weren't there. He luckily tired quickly and sagged back down, sobbing twice before falling silent.

The girls sagged themselves, panting and ragged. One of them, no more than nine, was crying. The other, the eldest, probably in her late teens, was consoling her.

They didn't get to rest for long before someone else started wailing, this less crazed and more mournful.

And terrifyingly familiar.

Geralt followed the voice, down a hall and to a separate room. There were people here as well, but only a handful, all of them on cots.

One of them, weeping and muttering, was Jaskier.

His hair was still grown out and his stubble was several days unkempt. Face flush with fever and chest heaving, he was stripped down to a loose shirt and braies.

Something ached inside Geralt as he looked at the bard, once again in pieces before him.

The girls piled in after him, pushing him out of the way as if he wasn't a Witcher.

"These ones have higher fevers than the rest," the eldest explained, wetting a rag and wiping a moaning Jaskier down. "The sickness is worse with them. We thought it might help to separate them, but…"

"This one cries a lot," Elise said, holding Jaskier's hand. "He helped us for a while, but the sickness got him too. The fever comes and goes, but he just won't wake up. None of them will. Not fully, at least."

The youngest checked the other occupants, replacing rags on foreheads and wiping down those needed. "Our parents are sick," she sniffled, "the healer is sick, and now Eleanor is showing signs—"

"Eliza, stop, I'm fine," the eldest snapped.

"Mister Witcher, please help us," Eliza begged, pulling on his sleeve with round, watery eyes. "It's just us three. We can't keep this up. We ran out of herbs days ago. The townsfolk are dying. It's all we can do to keep their fevers down and try to feed them without them choking."

All three girls stared at him, expressions desperate and not at all fitting for that of children.

On the cot Jaskier twisted, whispering and whimpering and, "Don't leave me…"

Something twisted in his gut.

"What do you need?"

—

Geralt pushed Roach hard through the entirety of the next day, moving from location to location. The list given was lengthy and high in demand, herbs of all kinds, some nowhere near each other, but all needed desperately.

Jaskier's voice played on repeat as he searched, "don't leave me" seared into his brain.

Geralt did this to him. Not directly, but it was his fault Jaskier was in this town to begin with and not with him; his fault Jaskier was gritty and dark instead of the bright and clean that became his personality; his fault Jaskier was singing of heartache and betrayal instead of jaunty tunes and adventurous tales; his fault Jaskier irreparably hurt.

Even when traveling with Geralt, the bard was getting hurt on his account. At taverns, on hunts, even in the streets or the Path. All because he insisted on following Geralt and telling the tales of the White Wolf. All because Geralt allowed him to, selfishly hoping for the change the bard promised him, the change that slowly came true.

He should have tried harder to get rid of him.

—

Eliza was sobbing when he got back, Eleanor having developed a fever overnight while two other people succumbed to theirs. Jaskier was not among them.

He helped Elise and Eliza mix what was needed, giving some to Jaskier first while the girls focused on their sister. He did his best to keep the bard from choking on the medicine, rubbing his throat to help him swallow, then wiping him down to lower his still too-high fever.

"Do you know him?" Elise asked, coming in to tend to the others.

"He's…" A stranger? An acquaintance? A friend?

Something more?

Geralt didn't have an answer. Elise didn't press.

Together they helped the rest of the town. Eleanor woke first alongside a handful of others. By mid-day a third of the townsfolk were awake. By evening, it was half. By nightfall two of the worse-off patients woke.

Jaskier was one of them.

"Geralt?" was said from the other room, soft and slurred and oh so hopeful.

Geralt was gone before Elise could fetch him.

The next time Geralt saw Jaskier, because of course there was a next time, was merely a couple of weeks later.

Geralt just got back from a hunt, though calling it that wasn't correct in the slightest. Where the town thought there was a monster terrorizing their borders and scaring away business, was in actuality just a haggle of young boys causing trouble. It was easy enough for Geralt to stop them, having only need to stand there for them to take off crying.

He'd be lying if he didn't find it just a little satisfying.

He steeled himself in preparation for denied payment, as was often the case with contracts ending in human wrongdoings instead of monsters slain. There wasn't much to be done about it.

Geralt turned a corner, then stopped in his tracks.

Jaskier, only a few feet away from him, stopped as well.

The bard's smile, one built on drinking if his swaying and scent was anything to go by, dropped instantly, brows knitting together. "Didn't think I drank that much," he muttered to himself. "I just can't get away from you, can I? Witcher."

He threw the word like a dagger, said with venom. It hit its mark dead on, cutting into Geralt.

Geralt stayed silent. He knew now there was nothing he could say to fix the hole where their friendship once was. His voice was probably the last thing Jaskier wanted to hear anyway.

Jaskier sneered. "What? Nothing to say? You're normally so talkative." He stumbled closer. "Always yapping, always guilt-tripping, always there. It's my own fault technically, I know that, but it's still because of you." He laughed, a humorless and grating sound. "I tried so hard to forget, so hard to move on. But then you show up, again and again. It's just so—"

Jaskier raised his fists to beat on Geralt's chest, but stopped short, hitting the air just above instead before running a hand down his face.

"Wouldn't do any good, I know, but Gods do I want to." he muttered.

You can, Geralt wanted to say. If you think it will help. If you think I deserve it. We both know I do.

Geralt stayed silent.

Jaskier raised his head. He stared at Geralt, eyes boring into him.

Geralt stared back. When was the last time he saw Jaskier this close while conscious, he wondered. He soaked up every detail he could, his heart racing for reasons he wasn't sure he wanted to figure out.

He took in the bard's still unshaven look, his still growing hair, his still darker attire. Still so different, still so unlike the Jaskier he traveled with for decades and grew to care for. Even his eyes were different. Still the same shade of blue, still those of a bard that took in everything they could, but no longer filled with an unyielding optimism; no longer bright and hopeful and always so kind when they landed on Geralt.

Now they were darker, colder, and so very hurt.

Blue eyes searched gold as if looking for something. Anger turned to resentment and sorrow.

"This is worse, I think," he whispered.

Geralt didn't understand.

Geralt stayed silent.

Jaskier moved past him.

The Witcher stood alone, then continued to the alderman, heavier than before.

In the months following the mountain, Jaskier threw himself full force into Earthly pleasures. Sing songs, get drunk, bed someone, wake up and do it all again. It was very fulfilling, he told himself. Very fun. Everything he could ever want.

He also started hallucinating Geralt, too. Which was arguably less fun.

It started after a particularly heavy night of drinking, memories he'd much rather forget playing on repeat, followed by more drinking. Geralt was in his room when he managed to stumble back, berating him more than he had on the mountain.

At first Jaskier had been frozen with fear and shame, the words ringing far too true in his mind. But even dead-on-his-feet-drunk, he could tell it wasn't really Geralt. He traveled with the man for two decades. Despite how secretive the Witcher tried to be, Jaskier knew his mannerisms.

This Geralt was not Geralt. The way he spoke, the words he used, the body language he displayed; it was all wrong. Not to mention, Jaskier couldn't touch him. He tried to hit him once, then twice. Both times left him emptier and angrier than before. So he ignored the flashes of silver in the corner of rooms, the gruff insults hissed in his ear, even the sad and silent look he got once.

That one was the worst in Jaskier's opinion. No talking, no screaming. Just golden eyes flooding with regret, but no apology or comfort to give.

Jaskier cried himself to sleep that night for not the first time.

What made it all worse was their paths had crossed since the mountain, Jaskier knew. Folks loved to gossip, and seeing a Witcher was always cause for a stir.

The Butcher bringing a wounded bard to the healer, or the White Wolf tending to a sick town.

And yet, Geralt never stayed.

It fueled the anger he tried so long to let go. All that work to help him, to save him, more than once at that, and he couldn't leave so much as a message; couldn't wait for Jaskier to wake up and offer a simple apology.

That was all Jaskier wanted. A simple "I'm sorry". The bare minimum was all he needed to forgive and move on. Or pretend it was all fine, at least. Fake the okay-ness until it really was okay.

Jaskier was forgiving, especially when it came to Geralt. He knew little of Geralt's past, but knew enough of him to not expect much conversation from him. Which never bothered him all that much. Jaskier could speak enough for the both of them. And despite his gruff tone and callous demeanor, he knew Geralt enjoyed his company as much as Jaskier enjoyed his. They were friends, even if Geralt refused to say as much in twenty years.

Then the mountain happened and Jaskier wasn't so sure anymore, those two decades crumbling in a matter of seconds. They argued plenty, and had more than a handful of spats that ended with them parting ways. But this felt different. It felt like Geralt actually meant what he said, and Jaskier truly didn't know what to do with that.

So he turned to his lute to heal and vent. He wrote scathing songs and poems during the first month, and belted them through the second. It didn't take long, however, for him to realize how much damage he was doing to the Witcher reputation in general, not just to Geralt. His songs were fueling his audience, humans ever quick to rage and blame. He really should have expected it, but he had been too blinded by hurt to think of the ramifications of his words.

No matter how angry he was at Geralt, he didn't wish harm or hate to him or his brothers.

So he put the songs to rest, only performing them when requested, and sang their praises once more, hoping to undo the damage. It got him kicked out of towns—his own fault for bringing the Butcher moniker back—and roughed up on more than one occasion. But he'd rather be punched and kicked then let the slander of good men stand. Even if Geralt was still a right bastard.

Jaskier was starting to find peace now, or the beginnings of it at least. He eased his drinking after nearly dying in that small town, started writing new songs, and accepted the few performance invitations he still got from high society. He was on his way to one now, traveling with like-minded company: a family of traveling musicians heading to the same city. The wife, Francesca, wasn't too keen of him, but the husband, Rodrick, was welcoming and the children warm, though shy. He'd been traveling them for days, comfortable and fed and on a deadline to get to the banquet on time.

He hadn't realized just how much he missed traveling with others. They sang together, ate together, and traded stories of their lives. The two children asked about Geralt in the beginning, but were thankfully aware of Jaskier changing the topic and let it drop.

They'd been on the Path for hours now in silence, the children sleeping in the wagon and Jaskier next to them, idly plucking his lute. The forest was alive around them, birds and squirrels chittering and chirping. The sun shining on them through the leaves, a nice breeze from the soon to be winter air, but still nice enough to not need to cover up. It was peaceful.

Then, with Jaskier's luck, it wasn't.

Something burst through the foliage to their left, spooking the two horses and waking the kids. Jaskier pulled them close instinctively, craning his neck around Rodrick and Francesca to see what was now after them.

Rodrick pulled the reins as the steeds panicked. "Blasted horse," he said sourly.

It wasn't his own horses he was talking about. Another horse, riderless, a broken branch tied to the reins, had sprinted through the brush, but was now stamping restlessly in front of them, huffing and squealing.

Jaskier knew this horse, and the saddle strapped to her.

"Roach?" he called, almost unsure, but he knew it was her.

Roach neighed louder, almost bucking.

"You know 'er?" Rodrick asked as Jaskier jumped out of the wagon.

He didn't answer, approaching Roach carefully with raised hands. "Easy, Roach, easy." He caught her reins and ran a hand down her muzzle when she was close enough, shushing her stomping.

He inspected her closely. Roach was a Witcher's horse, resilient and brave, not easily spooked. It was bizarre to think of what could get her so riled up.

Then he saw the blood on her flank in the shape of a smeared hand print.

Something cold dropped in his stomach.

Geralt.

"Jaskier, we are on a schedule," Francesca snapped impatiently. "Are ye' coming or not?"

Jaskier, after everything Geralt said and did, should have hesitated.

He did not.

"No," he said, running back to the wagon and grabbing his things. He threw them over his shoulder and rounded to the front, offering Rodrick a firm handshake. "Thank you for everything, but this is something I cannot ignore."

Rodrick frowned but didn't question him. "May the Gods follow ye'."

"And you." Jaskier ran back to Roach and mounted her with a speed he wasn't used to, his skin buzzing. Reins in hand, he kicked her flanks. "Take me to him."

Roach took off at a gallop.

So many thoughts were racing through his mind as branches whipped him endlessly. He refused to give any of them attention. He had no idea what he was walking into and couldn't risk falling apart with panic.

It took a while—far too long in his opinion—before Roach stopped at a small clearing. There was a pair packs to the side next to a log, a bedroll, two swords, and an extinguished campfire.

On the other end of the clearing was Geralt, facedown in a pool of blood.

"Shit." Jaskier leapt from Roach, nearly face planting with how quickly he ran to Geralt, dropping his pack in the process. He slid to the ground and let out a loud yell of adrenaline, turning the Witcher over with an ease a bard shouldn't possess.

A swath of poorly put on bandages covered his chest, soaked completely with red and black. There was a scent of sour permeating them, yellow and green spotted along the cloth.

Infection.

Jaskier swore again and pressed an ear to Geralt's chest, uncaring for the blood that clung to his hair and cheek.

For one long, horrible, terrifying moment, there was nothing. Then—

Ba-dum.

A heartbeat, far slower than it already should be. It barely looked like the man was breathing. He was radiating heat, pale face flush with fever. Steeling his resolve, Jaskier pulled at the bandages and cut carefully with the dagger he kept on him, one Geralt gifted to him years ago. He needed to see the damage underneath. He cringed as the cloth stuck to the wound at the edges, but Geralt didn't react to it pulling his skin.

When he finally pulled back the bandages, Jaskier nearly puked.

An enormous gash welcomed him, stretching from his right collarbone down to his bottom left rib, black veins stretching along either side, puss and blood still flowing.

Jaskier had no idea what could have caused this. It reminded him of a ghoul, but he only knew of bites, not this.

Regardless of the beast, he had to act fast. There was no telling how long Geralt had laid here, slowly but so very surely dying.

Geralt was dying.

The realization seized his heart, turning him into a flurry of motion. He looked through Geralt's pack and swore. There were so few bandages left, not nearly enough to regularly change them. But with the state of infection Geralt was in, he couldn't extend them by reusing. He glanced at his own pack and frowned. Geralt would owe him a new wardrobe after this.

He pulled everything he needed closer to Geralt, including the bag of the Witcher's vials. Glass clinked like chimes as Jaskier rifled through it, months away doing nothing to impede twenty years worth of memorization. He learned the names and uses for Geralt's elixirs quickly when they first started traveling, wanting to help patch him up after bad hunts. And while this was definitely the worst he's had to fix, Jaskier was determined to fix him all the same.

He grabbed a dark vial and uncorked it with his teeth, spitting it to the side. He quickly poured the contents onto Geralt's chest, the wound hissing and bubbling.

Geralt's brow twitched, but otherwise didn't react.

Jaskier struggled to keep his nerves from fraying.

He uncorked a second, the wound too large for just one, and poured more of it on as well. When there was a little more than a fourth left, he carefully lifted Geralt's head onto his leg and tipped the liquid into his mouth, massaging his throat.

A cough, a sputter, a grimace, then a swallow.

Jaskier let out a shaky breath. His entire body was shaking, he realized, hands trembling as they coaxed hair away from Geralt's closed eyes.

"Oh, Geralt," he whispered, suddenly feeling the need to cry.

His tears would have to wait, though. He had work to do.

—

Geralt enjoyed the heat. Used to the long and grueling winters in Kaer Morhen, heat was a change he almost always welcomed gladly.

The way his body currently burned both inside and out was not welcome.

His ribs were made of fire, but his skin felt chilled. Ice everywhere except his chest where a long line of agonizing flames ran up and down, stinging and biting. It made an unholy mix that left him shivering in bursts while panting and sweating.

Head swimming, he tried to make sense of the sensations, tried to piece together how he ended up in such a state, but failed. He tried to open his eyes but found them glued shut. He groaned, frustrated and confused.

Something touched his face, a gentle caress along his cheek. He'd have flinched had he the energy. The brim of a cup was brought to his lips, something cool and bitter hitting his tongue. He had just enough wits about him to swallow, grimacing. It tasted like some sort of tea, one that surely was not meant to be enjoyed cold. But Geralt drank it regardless, lest he choke.

Fingers ran through his hair, working out knots carefully. There was the whisper of words he couldn't understand.

Geralt slept, uneasy.

—

Geralt woke upset. His heart felt heavy, though he knew not why. Then he heard why. A soft humming fell over him from nearby. He knew the song well, had had the lyrics thrown at him like knives while being chased out of villages.

The words, while not spoken, rang through his mind regardless, burning him more than he already was. He writhed against the noise, trying desperately to escape it.

The humming stopped.

Geralt let out a breath.

Then it started again, louder, but hesitant. He groaned and tossed his head. He tried to growl out a warning, or maybe beg for mercy; he wasn't quite sure.

The humming stopped again.

Then, once more, started, but a different melody. This he also knew well. It was familiar and safe, a song of bards and tossing coins. A song of simpler times.

He didn't deserve it, but Geralt let the voice ease the tightness in his heart, grateful; let long passed memories wash away melancholy and guilt.

The humming cracked, stuttered, then continued strong.

Geralt slept easily.

—

Humming turned to singing, the voice soothing Geralt's confused, racing mind. There was always a song when he came to. Songs of forget-me-nots, of marbles, of hiding under covers, all slow and gentle. Some were duets, though only one part. Geralt didn't mind. The single voice was all he needed.

It reminded him of Jaskier.

There was a sudden silence.

"…Geralt?"

His heart stopped. Or maybe it soared. "Jaskier?" he tried to say, but his tongue wasn't cooperating.

Shuffling along the grass, glass clinking, then a hand lifting his head, a cup pressed to parched lips. "Here, drink."

Geralt did so, face twisting at the cold, sour taste.

"It will help with the infection," the voice said, the voice that couldn't possibly be Jaskier. Jaskier hated him. He wouldn't be here tending to him, singing to him.

The cup was taken away and his head lowered. Geralt wanted to open his eyes. A damp cloth cleaned his face, painfully gentle. Geralt desperately wanted to open his eyes. The humming started again.

Geralt opened his eyes.

Cornflower blue, frayed brown locks, pinched brows, a smile that wasn't a real smile.

"Jaskier," he said again, more sure this time.

Jaskier stared at him intently, eyes flicking. "Still glassy," he murmured to himself, still running the rag over his face. "How are you feeling?"

"You're here," Geralt whispered instead of answering, because it didn't make any sense to him.

The ministrations stopped, Jaskier leaning back. "I am. Lucky thing, too. I'm sure you'd be dead by now had I not found Roach. Or, well, she found me, really. You can thank her when you're better."

He should ask what happened, ask how Jaskier was feeling, but all the words were stuck in his throat. He should take stock of his body and surroundings, but his mind was solely focused on the fact that Jaskier was there in front of him, real and whole. His eyes weren't filled with hate like they had been last they crossed paths. There was… something mixed with the ever-present hurt, but he couldn't name it.

"You're here," he said again.

Jaskier's not-smile dropped for a moment, something sad crossing his eyes. He suddenly looked so very tired. He ran a hand through silver hair, fingers meeting no resistance. Geralt's eyes slipped shut.

"Rest, Geralt."

He did.

—

Geralt woke feeling wrong. Something was wrong. Where was he? What was happening? He sat up, grunting at a sudden burning pain in his chest. Was he hurt? How did it happen?

Why was it so hard to think? Why was it so hot? No, cold. No, hot. He was blistering with fever. Was he poisoned?

Something rustled in the bushes. Not too far and far too close.

Sword, his mind screamed.

Geralt launched to his feet, swaying and dizzy. The world was blurry but he could make out Roach, tied to a tree dozing. It was night, a fire roaring next to him. There were three sets of packs next to it.

One did not belong to him.

The rustling got closer. Footsteps, he put together.

He bit down a growl and stalked unevenly toward the sound, sword raised and heavy in his hand.

He didn't remember grabbing his sword. When was that?

Someone stepped from the brush. Geralt grabbed them by the front of their shirt and slammed them into a tree, holding them in place with his sword at their throat. He couldn't make out their face, his vision spotting.

"Geralt," the stranger said, shaky, hands raised. "Hey, it's alright. It's just me."

Geralt did growl then. He was confused and hurt and nothing was making sense. None of it was right. Who was this person? He knew their voice, but from where? How did they know him? Were they the one to poison him? They didn't smell of fear, even when at sword point. Not the sort he was used to, at least. There was fear, but it was for Geralt rather than of him.

His head throbbed.

"Toss a coin to your Witcher," the stranger sang, voice quiet and unsure. "O' Valley of Plenty."

The words nagged at Geralt, the fog clearing marginally.

"Toss a coin to your Witcher," they continued, "a friend of humanity—this isn't very friend of humanity, is it, dear?"

Geralt blinked heavily, the face coming into focus.

Jaskier.

The bard pushed the sword away slowly, gently. "How about we lower the big pointy sword, hm?" He spoke like Geralt was a wild and wounded animal. It didn't feel too far from the truth.

The sword fell from his grasp, thudding against the forest floor. Geralt swayed dangerously, suddenly so so tired.

Jaskier grabbed his arm, his hands cool against Geralt's feverish skin. It felt nice.

"Alright, let's lay back down before you fall over. I really don't want to have to carry you." He walked slowly, leading him back to the fire.

"Sorry," Geralt grunted.

"My fault, truly. Shouldn't have left with your fever still so high."

"No, I'm—Jaskier, I'm sorry."

"I know."

"Jask—"

"Geralt, stop." He sat him down, eyes hard. "You've been saying it on repeat for hours. I know. It's fine."

Oh. Had he? He didn't remember.

"I'm sorry," he said again, because he needed Jaskier to understand it was true.

Jaskier didn't answer that time. He laid the Witcher down and started wiping him down with a wet cloth, the water cold. That felt nice too, but he didn't deserve it.

He said as much, the dizziness getting worse, the world fraying at the edges.

Jaskier sighed, so much emotion packed into such a small action. "Yes, you do."

"I don't," Geralt groaned, shutting his eyes against the kindness. "Don't deserve you. Or your songs. Any of it. Never have."

A breath. "Oh, Geralt," he whispered, soft and delicate and sad. A hand caressed the crown of his head, thumb rubbing against his forehead soothingly. "You deserve the world. The world and so much more."

Geralt slept, heart heavy.

—

Geralt woke with a gasp, freezing and thrashing, arms holding him down in water.

"For fuck's sake—Geralt, stop! I need to get your fever down!"

Water splashed over him, soaking his hair and leaving him sputtering.

"Geralt! Fucking hell—stop fighting me!"

"Get off!" he roared. His fist connected with something hard, a sharp yelp coming from it.

"Geralt, stop! It's Jaskier! For the love of—"

Singing. Strained and scared, but familiar and known.

Geralt relaxed.

Geralt slipped back under.

—

Crying. Heat. Confusion.

"Please don't die," someone said, sobbed, begged, holding his hand tightly. "I won't ever forgive you if you do."

Geralt didn't understand. He tried to open his eyes but couldn't see more than an inch in front of him.

Something cupped his cheek, a thumb stroking. It felt nice; safe.

"Geralt? Can you hear me?"

Geralt dragged his eyes to the voice, vision unfocused. He could just barely make out blue eyes. It reminded him of Jaskier.

Everything reminded him of Jaskier as of late.

"Yes, it's me." Something moved against his lips, opening his mouth. "Drink. Please."

Geralt's mind was swirling, almost causing him to choke, but he came back to himself enough to swallow.

"Good. That's good." A sniffle, then a sob, the hand trembling.

"Wha's wrong?" Geralt tried to say, his tongue heavy and uncooperative.

Another hand appeared, stroking his hair. "You, you idiot. You look like death. And your fever just won't stop rising and nothing I do—" Jaskier sobbed again.

The sound felt like daggers to his heart.

Was Geralt dying? It would explain the numbness, the heat, the confusion; the way Jaskier was crying over him. He wasn't surprised. He knew death would come to him eventually. He just… wished he would've said the things he bit down for so long.

Maybe this was his chance.

Geralt tried to lift his arm, only succeeding in dragging it along the floor, bumping into something warm. The hands left his face and picked it up.

There were so many words he needed to say, but didn't have the energy, didn't have the time. He'd just have to say the important ones first. Which one though?

Jaskier leaned forward, his face coming into focus. His eyes were wide and wet, shining against firelight. He looked tired.

He looked beautiful.

"Geralt?" His voice was scared, but still soothing to Geralt's mind.

Something slotted into place.

Oh.

"Love you," he rasped, trying to squint past the fog.

Jaskier stiffened. "What?" he breathed.

"I love you," Geralt repeated, louder. "Have f'r… a long time."

The hands tightened again, bruising in grip. "You… you fucking—" Another sob, something wet falling on his hand. "You can't just… fuck, Geralt!"

Geralt wanted to say more. Say he was sorry. Say he liked Jaskier's singing. Say he was glad to have met him. Say he was important to him. But his mouth refused to move, his eyes sliding shut. He felt like he was dying.

He was dying.

But it was okay. He said what needed to be said. Jaskier knew now.

He wondered what song the bard would make about his death.

Jaskier dropped his hand, cupping either side of his face. A kiss was planted to the crown of his head, firm and cool. "Tell me again when you wake up. You can't just say that like this, do you understand me?" The hands tightened, shaking and wet. "You get better, and you tell me again. Promise me."

I love you, Geralt tried to say again.

His mind faded.

—

Geralt woke slowly, senses coming back one by one.

The scent of herbs and firewood tickling his nose. The feeling of cloth beneath his fingers. The shine of sunlight behind his eyelids. The taste of something sour on his tongue.

The sound of singing. It was low and hoarse, an elvish song he'd only heard a couple of times in the past. It put him at ease in a way he couldn't describe.

It sounded like Jaskier.

His eyes opened, a bright blue sky in front of him. Clouds floated lazily along, periodically covering the sun. It was past midday. An autumn breeze set in, ruffling his hair. He felt cold.

The singing got closer—Jaskier got closer. Because it was Jaskier. He could see him now, cooking something over the fire and scooping it into a bowl. Still singing, voice shot like he had been for days, and looking it too. Dark and deep circles hung under his eyes, his facial hair unruly like it had been when he was sick. There was also a bruise along his left cheek, bright and blooming.

He looked downright exhausted.

Their eyes met and Jaskier's voice cut out.

For one long moment, they just stared.

Geralt broke the silence. "Jaskier?" His throat was dry.

Jaskier put down the bowl and moved over, kneeling down. He put a hand on his forehead. Geralt's stomach flipped.

He leaned back.

Something ached in Geralt. He ignored it.

Jaskier took a deep breath. "Are you actually with me this time?" His voice sounded awful, like he'd been eating gravel.

Geralt didn't fully understand the question, but nodded anyway, piecing it together. He wasn't well, that much was obvious. His body felt weak, his head throbbing, his bones aching. There was the pull of bandages along his chest when he shifted, the skin underneath burning. When he looked down, though, he was met with bright blues and greens tied to purples and reds.

Fine silk. Jaskier's clothes.

"What…" He touched them gently, more confused than before.

"I'll take that as a maybe," Jaskier sighed, moving back to the fire. "You didn't have much supplies left, so…" he shrugged. "You owe me a new wardrobe."

Geralt didn't know what to say. He knew how important Jaskier's clothes were to him, or at least how important they used to be. And yet he used the fine items as bandages for Geralt, no doubt leaving them beyond salvation.

How long had Jaskier been caring for him?

"Aware or not, you woke at the best time!" Jaskier came back, bowl in hand again. "I made supper. Lunch?" He glanced at the sky and shook his head. "No, supper."

Placing the bowl to the side, Jaskier wrapped an arm around Geralt's shoulders, avoiding his right side more. "Let's sit you up. I'm sure you're famished."

With Jaskier's help he managed to sit up, the bard moving Roach's saddle behind him to have something to lean against a little. His wound pulled painfully, but not enough to impede him.

Geralt was famished indeed, scarfing down the first bowl Jaskier gave him, then the second. It tasted far better than anything he made for himself the past few months.

He finished gulping down some much needed water when he finally asked, "What happened?"

Jaskier, eating his own bowl of stew slowly, lowered it to his lap, shifting uncomfortably. "Was hoping you could fill in the beginning bits," he said. "Ran into Roach and she brought me to you. You were… in a bad way. Near death, fighting infection, laying in a bed of your own blood. It was…" A breath. "It was a lot. You've been out for days. Almost a week, I think? I've lost track of time."

Geralt, not knowing how to feel about Jaskier nursing him back to health for so long, tried to remember what happened before everything. "There was a contract," he said. "For… ghouls. But there was just one. Abnormally large. Never seen one like that before." His hand grazed over the silk bandages, hiding carnage underneath. "It's… blurry after that."

Jaskier hummed, which cracked and led to a short coughing fit. Geralt opened his mouth to ask if he was alright, but Jaskier waved him away before he could say the first word.

"I'm fine," he sputtered, taking a drink of the stew and wincing. After putting the bowl down on top of Geralt's empty one, he clapped his hands, a fake smile on his face. "Right! Well, you're no longer at Death's door, and I can no longer see straight, so I am going to take a much much much needed nap." He left Geralt's side, something aching in the Witcher again, and moved to his own bedroll on the opposite side of the fire.

The distance felt like a chasm between them.

"You're still healing, so I'd suggest the same."

Geralt frowned. "Jaskier, I wanted…" He huffed, unsure of his words. "Can we talk?"

Jaskier spoke before he even finished his sentence, glaring as he pulled off his boots. "Geralt, I haven't slept for more than a minute in days," he said pleadingly. "Can't it wait?"

No.

"Yes."

"Good. Goodnight. Er, evening. Or day, or what have you—you know what I mean." He laid down, his back to Geralt, curled underneath the red coat Geralt still wasn't used to.

Silence, then, oh so quiet,

"I'm glad you're alive."

Geralt didn't know what to say.

That seemed to be the running theme as of late.

—

Jaskier was stalling, avoiding the talk they so desperately needed. Every time Geralt started to bring it up, Jaskier had one reason or another for why they couldn't.

"We haven't eaten yet."

"My voice is still shot."

"I need to check your wound."

"I'm tired."

Always something. It was beginning to grow irritating, though Geralt knew logically this was Jaskier's form of protecting himself. But after a day and a half of excuses, Geralt was at his wits end. So when Jaskier got back to camp—"We need more water," he had said, despite it not being true—Geralt sat up straighter.

Jaskier was already smiling that fake smile, already making another excuse. "I was just about to make some lunch."

"Jaskier—"

"Geralt, you can't expect to have a conversation on an empty—"

"Jaskier!" Too angry, too much bite.

Jaskier flinched, eyes darting down, shoulders hiked, then raised his head and glared.

Geralt sighed through his nose. "Jask—"

"You don't get to say my name like that," Jaskier interrupted, voice hard and still hoarse. "You do not get to speak to me that way again."

"I know, I just—"

"No, you want to talk?" He threw the water skins to the ground. "Let's talk. Let us start with the obvious, shall we? How you left me on a mountain."

"Jaskier—"

"No!" Jaskier snapped, taking a step and pointing a finger at him. "Don't fucking 'Jaskier' me! You wanted me to talk, so I am talking, and you are going to fucking listen for once!"

Geralt clenched his jaw tight.

He had thought previously of how this talk might go, fantasized the things Jaskier might say, ran through lines of what he himself could say and how Jaskier would react. But in the end, they were just fantasies, paling in comparison to the real thing.

Jaskier was far angrier than Geralt had ever seen him. It wasn't resentment of having his songbook stolen, or frustration at some rude slight against Witchers, or vexation of high society gossip. This was true, unfiltered rage, all zeroed in on Geralt alone.

He reminded himself he deserved it.

But, just as Geralt steeled himself for scathing words fitting those of a bard, the anger left Jaskier as fast as it had come, turning to something far worse.

Sorrow. Anguish. Grief.

Hurt.

"I waited for you!" he yelled. "I thought it was just another fight. What you said was awful, but you've said awful things before, haven't you?"

To Geralt's horror, Jaskier's eyes glistened with unshed tears, his lip trembling.

"But you never came back! You found me, multiple times, and kept leaving before I could find out! Before I could even say anything!"

Geralt felt cold, the soft breeze suddenly biting into his skin. "You knew?"

Jaskier's mouth turned. "People talk, Geralt. A Witcher comes to town, people gossip. Of course I knew! I know you brought me to a healer. I know you saved my life and the rest of that town."

A tear broke free, slipping down Jaskier's face.

Something clawed at Geralt's stomach.

"And I know that each time, you still chose to leave me! And now you want to say you're sorry? Now, after so many opportunities, you want to apologize?"

"I—"

"I am still fucking talking!" Jaskier roared, face red, voice raw. "Do you have any clue how terrifying this all was? Finding you like that? Hearing you call my name as you went mad with fever? Watching you nearly choke on your own vomit? Hearing you apologize again and again. Do you have any idea how close you came to actually dying?" Another tear fell. "Extremely! Extremely fucking close, Geralt!"

Jaskier let out a large breath, sounding almost like a sob. "Do you know how hard it is to stay mad at you when you're actively fighting for your life?" His voice was quieter now, but no less strong. "When I didn't know if you'd see the next morning? When the sound of my voice was the only thing that would calm you down? When you say you—" He cut off, jaw tightening. "Extremely. Extremely fucking hard."

Jaskier stared at him for a few moments, breathing heavily. Geralt held his gaze. The bard looked at the sky, sniffing hard, then wiped his face down. He got to the floor, leaning elbows on bent knees and hanging his head. For a while they sat in silence, Geralt unsure if he could speak just yet.

Jaskier finally sighed and sat up straighter, wiping his face more thoroughly. "Right. Well. Your turn."

Geralt suddenly felt unprepared, despite the one wanting the conversation to begin with. He thought over his words carefully. He never was very well-versed when it came to talking about feelings, or just talking in general, but he knew he needed too. Jaskier poured his heart out to him, even the ugly parts. It was only fair Geralt did the same.

He took a measured breath. "I looked for you," he started, something aching at the way Jaskier's eyes widened a fraction. "Two months after… everything happened. And I found you. I wanted to apologize, but… I heard you singing. Your… new song."

Guilt flashed across Jaskier's face. He took a breath, mouth opening, then snapped it shut and averted his eyes.

"I thought you didn't want me to find you," Geralt continued, lowering his gaze to his hands. "And after hearing the men in the alley, I could only think of how worse off you've been since meeting me. I thought it was the right choice to stay away. I thought you'd be safer."

"The bruises I woke up with say otherwise," Jaskier muttered.

Geralt frowned. "Word would get around that we aren't… together anymore. People would leave you alone eventually."

Jaskier breathed in like he was about to say something, but let it out in a huff, biting his tongue.

"Every time I ran into you, it just reminded me of the damage I did. You looked so different from before. Still do. So…"

"Ruggedly handsome?" Jaskier offered, always quick to humor to defend his heart.

Geralt met his eyes. "Sad."

Jaskier looked away.

Geralt sighed deeply. "Jaskier, I'm sorry."

"I know, Geralt—"

"No, you don't. I can't take back the things I said, but know I never meant them. You… you are my friend, Jask. I should have said it sooner. You're important to me too."

Jaskier's eyes glistened again.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier. Truly, I am. I have no reason to expect your forgiveness, and that's alright. You deserve an apology either way. I'm just sorry it took so long to give it."

Jaskier looked up and, again, just stared. He looked like he was searching for something in Geralt, though the Witcher knew not what. He must have found it though, because he, to Geralt's amazement, smiled. It was small, but still real, still there.

"Firstly, the fact that you think I'm safer without you is inane. I'm a bard. That already puts me in the middle of all kinds of trouble. Not only that, but it's me we are talking about. With you or not, I'll always speak out against assholes being assholes. If there's oppression, I'll be there fighting against it."

Geralt knew that. Logically, he knew Jaskier would always have a target on his back for the sin alone of being a kind human. But he thought—hoped, really—that he'd have an easier time without a Witcher by his side.

"As for your apology," he continued, "I already forgave you."

Geralt blinked. "You… you have?"

Jaskier wiped his eyes, moving closer to sit in front of him. "Yes, you bastard. You were delirious with fever and all you could talk about was how sorry you were. You were very emotional about it. I'm still rightly pissed, and will be for a while, but I forgave you at the first hundred apologies. I'll get over it." He offered a shrug. "The yelling helped get most of it out of my system, too. I expect you to make it up to me, of course, starting with my new wardrobe, but…" His smile widened. "I forgive you."

"Oh." Geralt didn't know what to say. "Are you sure?"

Jaskier chuckled, the sound sweet like honey despite the gruffness. "You sound like you don't want my forgiveness."

"I don't deserve it," he said before he could stop himself.

Jaskier's smile turned sad. He took Geralt's hand in his own, holding it like it was made of glass. "You deserve the world, Geralt."

Something rang in his mind, a memory blurred by fever. "You've said that before."

He nodded. "I have." He paused, calloused fingers tracing the scars on his skin, then asked, "How much do you remember? Of the past few days?"

Geralt stared at their connected hands, thinking back. "It's… faded at best. I remember your singing. Cold tea. Crying?" He looked up. "You were crying?"

"I thought you were dying. You were dying. But then your fever finally broke. It was just a waiting game after that." He squeezed his hand. "Anything else?"

Geralt closed his eyes, thinking harder. There were flashes of cold water, of soft touches, of wet clothes. Vague notions of conversations, either one-sided or fever-driven. None of it made much sense to him.

He shook his head. "Not much else, I'm afraid."

Jaskier, for a split second, looked crushed. Then it was gone, hidden behind a smile. "Well, probably for the best. It wasn't a very fun adventure."

Geralt wanted to press, but Jaskier was already moving away toward the fire pit. "Well, now that all is right with the world once more, I wasn't joking about needing to eat. Hungry?"

Geralt let it slide.

—

In the days following their conversation, Geralt knew there was something important he was missing, but couldn't remember for the life of him. He tried to ignore it, let the new but familiar peace between them stay, but it continued to nag at him.

It was easy to see Jaskier was still upset, no matter how many jokes and smiles he tried to hide behind. He was updating Geralt on the last few months, and there was a sharp edge over the words, like he wanted to say them but they clawed at him as he did so.

"Oh, I had a horse too! She was a real beauty."

"I know, I gave her to you."

His eye twitched, scoffing a laugh. It didn't quite hide the emotion. "Of course you did. Well, I had to sell her recently. Needing to eat to survive and all of that. Found a nice family for her though. Now Cricket has a sweet little girl to dote over her."

"Cricket?"

"A little homage to Roach. I thought it was nice."

"Fish."

"Pardon?"

"Roach. She's named after the fish. Not the bug."

Jaskier stared, huffed, then laughed. Then he kept laughing, getting louder, bordering on hysterical. Then, to Geralt's horror, it morphed to crying, cut off sobs that he tried to bite down.

Geralt reached toward him. "Jaskier?"

Jaskier covered his face, furiously wiping his eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't—fuck. I don't know why I'm crying over this, it's stupid."

"Was it something I said?"

"Yes. No. It's—" He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He looked at Geralt, eyes red. He sniffled. "I just… never knew that."

"I…" Geralt dropped his hand, unsure what to say.

"I've known you for years, for decades, and you never told me that." He wiped his face again. "I know so little about you, even after all this time. The things I do know I had to piece together myself. Hell, you've told me more about what Roach likes than what you like!" Another deep breath. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to get upset again. My head's a mess right now. I'm just…" He trailed off, staring at Geralt.

He was searching again, something the Witcher caught him doing on more than one occasion since their talk. And each time, Jaskier seemed to leave empty handed.

This time was no different. He got to his feet and cleaned his face off with his sleeve. "I'm… going to go check the traps. See if we caught anything."

"Do you… need any help?"

"Oh, absolutely not. I will not have you getting another infection or opening that wound. You stay right there." He paused. "And I just… need to be alone right now." He offered a small smile. "I'll be alright."

Jaskier left the camp without another word.

Geralt sighed, hopelessly confused. He knew Jaskier was still upset at him, even if he did forgive him, and it was to be expected. But there was something else, something Jaskier seemed to be almost holding against him.

Jaskier looked nothing short of heartbroken when he learned Geralt couldn't remember anything. It was only for a second, yes, but it was enough. There was something important he was forgetting. Something Jaskier wanted him to remember, but didn't want to bring up.

He huffed, thinking harder, trying to replay the events in order.

The fight with the ghoul, struggling to Roach, darkness. Then tea and soft touches; Jaskier. Singing, songs he knew and songs he didn't. A vague memory of speaking, saying something to him. Apologizing, maybe?

He looked around the camp, hoping to find pieces of the past to put together. His eyes landed on his swords and his fingers twitched. Mind plagued with fever and confusion, he held that sword against Jaskier.

The memory of it made him itchy with unease.

But Jaskier, ever daft, ever trusting, had taken it in stride and talked him down easily. It was followed with more apologizing and self-deprecation.

"You deserve the world, Geralt." Words whispered in his ears like phantoms. "The world and so much more."

His chest felt warm and honey-coated.

Then there was water, cold and icy. Jaskier's desperate attempt to bring down his fever. His knuckles tingled and he frowned. He remembered thrashing. Had he hit Jaskier during the frenzy? That would explain the bruise.

Could that be what Jaskier was upset about? No, it didn't make any sense. There had to be something else.

Next was… crying. Jaskier was bawling, begging Geralt not to die. Even now, after everything was sorted out, the sound filled him with a need to fix. And he did fix it. Didn't he? His fever had peaked, the memories hazier than the others. He struggled to put it all together.

No, he didn't fix it. Jaskier stopped crying, but started again. It was over something Geralt said. What was it?

"Tell me again when you wake up," rang through his ears. "You get better and you tell me again. Promise me."

What the hell did he say? It made Jaskier upset, but he wanted to hear it again? It made no sense.

Geralt snarled and ran a hand through his hair, freezing as his wrist pressed against the crown of his head.

An echo, the ghost of a kiss.

Geralt's eyes widened.

Oh.

Geralt swore and launched up, grunting against the pain, but careful not to undo any of Jaskier's careful, makeshift bandaging. He swayed, but kept his footing, stumbling in the direction the bard went. Luckily Jaskier bathed recently, still using his ridiculous soaps and fragrances, so his scent was not hard to follow.

Of course Geralt said it. Of course, after years of not knowing, and months of avoiding and denying, he had to confess on his deathbed under the throes of fever the second he realized. No wonder Jaskier was mad about it.

It was easy to find the bard, tutting over an empty trap and muttering to himself about "stupid rabbits". When he turned and saw Geralt, his expression turned stormy, eyes red and puffy.

"Wha—Geralt! I told you to stay! What the hell do you think you're—"

Geralt grabbed him by the shoulders when he was close enough, holding himself steady.

Jaskier's ire died down. "Geralt?"

Geralt, just like before, was suddenly so unsure of himself. Was this the right thing? Would it be better to stay silent and pretend he didn't remember? Jaskier hadn't reminded him. But he asked Geralt to say it again. But what if he changed his mind?

Jaskier put one hand over Geralt's, the other against his forehead. "Geralt, are you alright?" Soft, worried, caring.

Promise me.

"I love you."

Jaskier pulled his hand away, eyes wide. "…You—"

"You told me to tell you when I woke up." Geralt swallowed hard. "I love you, Jaskier. I think I have for a long time. I just… didn't realize it until recently."

Jaskier's hand hovered in the space between them, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You remembered."

Geralt tightened his grip, desperate to understand. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jaskier let out a puff of breath. "You were delirious. I didn't want to get my hopes up if it turned out to just be fever-driven nonsense."

Geralt's heart skipped a beat. "Get your hopes up?"

Jaskier smiled, face turning pink. His hovering hand moved forward and cupped Geralt's cheek. "You are horribly dense, you know? I've been infatuated with you nearly since we met. Obviously so."

Geralt's mouth twitched. "Only nearly?"

A shocked laugh burst from Jaskier. He pulled his hand back, smile wide. "Oh, you have jokes now! That fever must've knocked the stick out of your ass."

Geralt hummed, smiling with him. He moved his hands from Jaskier's shoulders to his waist. It felt like they belonged there. "I'm sorry it took me so long to realize."

"If I hear you apologize one more time I swear I'm taking Roach and leaving you here." Jaskier's smile turned sad, then faded. He put a hand on Geralt's collarbone, avoiding the bandages on his chest. Not pushing, just sitting there. "Besides, I believe it's my turn to apologize now."

"What for?"

"For the awful song I wrote. Ah ah, don't give me that look. You did not deserve that, nor did any other Witcher. When I wrote it I was angry and… heartbroken. I wasn't thinking clearly. And I ended up bringing your reputation back down to how it was when we met. I'm sorry, Geralt."

"I won't lie and say it didn't make things… reminiscent of how they were before we met," Geralt put his hand over Jaskier's, squeezing, "but I suppose you'll just have to write new songs to make up for it."

Jaskier's smile came back, wry and giddy. "Oh, you like my songs now, do you?"

Geralt hummed, not denying it.

"Well, if my dear Witcher demands some new music, how can I refuse?"

Something soared in his chest. "Your Witcher?"

"Yes." Jaskier learned forward. "Mine."

Geralt closed the distance, their lips meeting. It was slow and careful, testing the waters. Jaskier's lips were soft, his beard scratching against Geralt, sending tingles down his spine. He'd been with men before only a few times, but none were like this, nor were women. All his past relations, even Yennefer, with her mystical beauty and sharp edges, all paled in comparison.

No one was quite like Jaskier.

Jaskier was the one to pull away first, something desperate in his eyes. "Promise you won't leave me again," he whispered.

Geralt kissed him again, short and quick. "I promise."

Jaskier searched him again, eyes crinkling in satisfaction of what he found. Then they went wide and he gasped, pulling at his arm. "Wait, don't you go distracting me—you're supposed to be laying down right now!"

Geralt laughed at the sudden mother-henning, but let himself be dragged back to camp. He let Jaskier push him back into the bedroll, let him check the bandages, and let him lecture about you're still healing, you need to be careful, love confession be damned!

Geralt let it all happen, feeling complete for the first time in his life.

They explored each other over the next few months, both mind and body, Geralt even going so far as to invite Jaskier to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter. Jaskier fell head first into the change, asking any question under the sun and reveling in the answers given like they were made of diamonds. Geralt still huffed and grumbled about quiet, but they both knew it was in jest.

They started traveling together again. Geralt thought Jaskier was going to burst into tears when he asked, saying there was nothing he'd want more.

Things were different, but in a good way. A very good way.

Jaskier was lying next to Geralt, their bedrolls pushed together and his head on the Witcher's chest. They were sweaty from a long night together under the stars, but relaxed and sated. Jaskier was running a finger along the large scar across his chest, tracing it back and forth idly.

Geralt felt him smile against his skin, a small laugh running through him. "What?"

"Just living in the moment." Jaskier looked up at him, beaming, eyes crinkling. "I sometimes am hit with the realization of just how much I missed this. How happy I am to have you back."

Geralt knew what he meant. There were times he still believed he was dreaming, that all of this was from fever, his brain still melting in that clearing. There were times he was dreaming, nightmares of Jaskier leaving him again, of refusing to forgive him.

But then he'd wake up with a bard clinging to him, snoring loudly, drooling on his arm, and he'd relax again.

It was real. It was hard to believe, but it was real.

He wasn't used to being wanted, let alone needed. He wasn't used to someone falling apart from his absence. He wasn't used to someone choosing to stay, no matter what happened, no matter what he said or did. There was once a time where the idea revolted him and filled him with dread.

But now? Now he couldn't think of a better fate than this.

He wrapped an arm around Jaskier's shoulders, pressing a kiss into his hair. "Me too."