Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Geralt of Rivia had a small embarrassing secret.

It wasn’t his visits to brothels, not exactly - those fine ladies earned their coin like any other profession, and there was no shame in indulging in their talents. But, sometimes, when he had coin to spare, he’d press a large tip into the lady’s hands and request she lie with him a little longer. 

Not to fuck a second time - or, more accurately, not to fuck a third time - but to just lie with him. To wrap her arms around him, and put her head in the crook of his neck. He would hold her, then, and lie there with his eyes open until their time was up. 

It was… calming, in a way he struggled to understand. The pleasant pressure of a resting body on top of his. The gentle touch of someone expertly pretending she cared for him, good enough at her job that he could pretend to believe her. The sweet smell of perfume and post-coital body sweat in her hair. It was enough to dull the ache in his bones, to warm his soul. To fill his chest with a strange emotion, half joy and half sorrow, until his lungs nearly burst. 

He craved it, even if it left him bewildered. His skin would be aflame with the memory of the woman pressing against him for days at a time. Sometimes, after a particularly gruesome near death experience, limping to camp alone, battered and bleeding, the memory would return in full force, choking him with a renewed vigor.

But, while he still had a lot of near death experiences, he hadn’t been alone for a while now. Not since Jaskier decided to tag along, for whatever inscrutable reasons, to sing about him . 

And, for reasons inscrutable to even himself, Geralt let him.

It fascinated Geralt how Jaskier seemed to fill more space with his personality than with his body, and not for lack of trying. His personality was loud and vibrant, pulling people by their shirt collars towards him, screaming look at me, look at me, give me attention .

Fitting for a performing bard, but Jaskier was just like that even with his lute stowed away. 

Jaskier seemed to be oblivious to the concept of personal space, which made sense. Some humans were like that with each other.

But, he was also oblivious to the concept of Geralt’s personal space, which was more puzzling. Humans usually gave him a wide berth, half out of respect and half out of fear. But not Jaskier.

He would lean against the witcher when they were at camp, strumming his lute and working out the problems with his latest song. He would stroll in circles around him, monologuing, and then tap him on the shoulder for emphasis.

It was all unconscious, natural. As if Geralt wasn’t a witcher , wasn’t the bridge between humans and monsters, belonging to neither and feared by both. As if he was...harmless. 

Geralt was not harmless. Jaskier knew Geralt was not harmless, he’s watched Geralt slice through monsters like butter. But there he was, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder at the campsite, tuning his lute.

Either he completely lacked any self preservation instincts whatsoever , or he had the unshakeable belief that Geralt would never harm him - and he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, but how could the bard know that? How could he have known that, the first time they met? Especially when Geralt had punched the daylights out of him? There was no way. 

Plus, it was very clear that Jaskier had no fucking self preservation at all. The closest he got to common sense was running to Geralt whenever something tried to hurt him. 

The pressure of Jaskier’s shoulder against Geralt’s arm was all Geralt could think about. Every touch had seared into his memory, outstripping everything else in importance. Jaskier prattled on, fiddling with his lute, oblivious as usual. But Geralt couldn’t focus - humans didn’t touch him in casual conversation, or at all, he wasn’t one of them , couldn’t be embraced like one of them and to think he could was ridiculous and - and yet, here they were.

Jaskier, talking about the right phrasing he wanted to use to describe Geralt’s scary monster-slaying face as he leaned on Geralt so casually, and Geralt, completely lost in thought yet hyper aware of every point of contact between them.

He couldn’t classify whatever he was, unfortunately, feeling. It was… different, a touch that he did not pay for. Less intense, but a lot more common. A lot more common. Geralt found himself fervently cataloguing every errant brush against Jaskier, even when it made no sense to.

“Geralt?”

And, unlike the times he laid with a lady of the night, he wasn’t drowning in those memories when he was battered and bleeding. But, that might be because Jaskier would be there to do his absolute best to help when Geralt was battered and bleeding, making up what he lacked in competence with sheer eagerness. Even when Geralt told him to lay off, that he can handle it. Then he’d just watch, eyes wide, and shove every thought he had straight out of his mouth, wringing his hands, clearly nervous.

“...Geralt?”

It was simultaneously endearing and infuriating, something Jaskier had a habit of being. Even when Geralt said he’d clean his wounds himself, Jaskier would sit near, sneak furtive touches as if to reassure himself that Geralt was tangible, alive if not well, and not going anywhere. The occasional tap on Geralt’s leg as he stitched up a thigh wound. A soft pat on the back as Geralt cleaned out the dirt out of his forearm wound. Perplexing, inscrutable, yet oddly desired. It made no sense - it’s not like it would help him fix his wounds any better, yet he… enjoyed it. He enjoyed it and was annoyed by it at the same time, because emotions never made any goddamn sense. Especially not when it came to--

Jaskier shoved him. “Oi, Geralt ! You’re not listening !” he pouted.

Geralt blinked, snapping out of his reverie. “ Jaskier ,” he growled, staring at the bard, who had gotten up to pace. “I was listening. Your song put me to sleep ,” he said, oddly aware of missing Jaskier’s shoulder touch. He felt off balance, too shocked at what Jaskier did to even process it.

“The nerve! Here I am, refining a masterpiece, giving you the privilege of hearing it firsthand, and that’s what you say to me?” Jaskier gasped with his whole body. Jaskier did most gestures with his whole body, even when he really didn’t need to.

“...Jaskier. The song is about me. I was there .” 

“Oh, oh you were there, huh. Can you write a heroic song about it, then, to make the next inn shower us in coin?” said Jaskier, crossing his arms and tapping his foot.

“I can kill monsters to shower us in coin,” glowered Geralt.

“Oh, really . Enough coin to shower us in ale the whole night, and plenty left over?”

Geralt just glowered. He couldn’t focus on mustering up a reply, not when he was so hung up on something as simple as… Jaskier touching him. Ridiculous.

“That’s what I thought!” grinned Jaskier, resuming his pacing.

Geralt sighed. There was no winning a verbal spar with Jaskier, especially not when he was like this. And especially not when Geralt himself was like...whatever he was like at the moment. Ugh. 

He couldn’t believe Jaskier shoved him. Jaskier. Not that it hurt, or that it was done with any kind of force, but Geralt could break him in half by sneezing on him. He was a terrifying witcher who fought monsters for longer than Jaskier was alive, and Jaskier was a bard who didn’t know which end of a sword to hold. And Jaskier just. Did that, so casually. Without even thinking about it, as usual. Like he was fearless, which Geralt knew was not the case. Like he was fearless… or trusting.

What the fuck, Jaskier.

Chapter Text

Jaskier, damn him, was telling the truth about the showers of ale. The alderman had paid handsomely for the vukodlak pelt, and the pub had welcomed Jaskier with open arms and open purses. He flitted around the tavern, playing his lute, while Geralt sat in a corner with his second pint.

The bard was good at his craft, teasing coin out of the hands of even the stingiest bastards once they had a pint or two in them, playing the crowd. Knowing exactly which song to play. Reading the mood of the room - something Jaskier was, somehow, only good at when he entertained. Once he stepped out of his role as a bard, all bets were unfortunately off.

Geralt wasn’t usually in the tavern when Jaskier sang about him. He found people looking at him during the songs grating. He found Jaskier’s singing - well, no, he didn’t think Jaskier’s singing was grating. He quite liked it, even if the lyrics were wonky, though his response was usually just a grunt of acknowledgement. But he couldn’t just sit right there as Jaskier sang his praises to a room full of people. How full of himself must a man be, to enjoy that?

No, usually he’d wait just outside, leaning against the building, quietly listening to the music filtering out through the windows. He’d hum along, sometimes. 

But not tonight.

Tonight, he had a goal in mind.

So Geralt sat in a corner, eyes tracking Jaskier’s every movement. The strange obsession with the way Jaskier kept touching him had consumed his every waking moment, and so he needed to see if Jaskier acted the exact same way with actual humans.

He kept replaying the moment Jaskier shoved him. How he must have trusted Geralt wouldn’t level him to the ground with a punch. Did he think about it, before he made that decision? Or was it an impulse, with no thought or consideration behind it?

Common sense says he must have thought about it. Jaskier having no common sense to speak of says it must have been an impulse.

Geralt’s frown deepened.

People were watching him, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Crowds of people watching a witcher were never good news, but no one had hissed mutant or monster , and while there was some visible distrust there was no hostility. Which...might have had something to do with Jaskier singing about him, right there. Calling him a ‘friend of humanity’. A friend of humanity . Bah! What a one-sided friendship that was.

Jaskier launched into his latest creation, a dramatic song about the White Wolf besting the local vukodlak. The only kernel of truth in that one is that he did actually best a vukodlak - but it was neither as dramatic nor as difficult as Jaskier portrayed it.

“Two wolves fought on a moonlit path, the monster-wolf faced the White Wolf’s wrath,

Two wolves fought till one met their end, the White Wolf would defend, those the werewolf would rend,

Bloody fangs crashed on a silver sword, the White Wolf had gored, a monster abhorred,

The vukodlak’s might, no match for this fight, the end of the night saw the witcher all right!”

The song came to a screeching halt as a drunk man stumbled to his feet, shoving Jaskier away to shamble towards Geralt.

“Did you do it? Did you kill the vukodlak, witcher?” slurred the man, gaze intent.

“Yes,” said Geralt, simply. His frown eased off his face, as the man didn’t feel hostile, just the kind of off kilter a drunk with emotions can easily get.

The man’s eyes watered, then, and his face twisted in anguish. “That beast killed my son,” he stammered, sniffling. Then, he straightened out, and threw his arms out. “Drinks for the witcher! Drinks for the witcher on me! ”

Geralt didn’t count his drinks, a regrettable fact he realized only when his vision started blurring. He had hoped the ale would dull the phantom burning on his skin, that if he poured enough alcohol down his throat it would stop constricting when he looked at Jaskier smiling for too long. If anything, the drinks made him even more deranged.

He hated it.

If anything, the alcohol made every nerve in his body vibrate, aware of everything touching him and painfully aware that another person wasn’t one of them. He half half a mind to go stumbling into the night to find a monster to hunt, or a lady of the night to bang, anything that would vent out some energy, anything, anything at all. But his legs were liquified and his vision was blurry and the candles illuminating the bar seemed to flicker across his vision, so he did nothing. 

At least, he did nothing until Jaskier passed him by, casually, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Good crowd tonight, eh? I told you my newest song was an absolute masterpiece, have you seen how it moved that man? That’s only something a true master of his craft can do. And, while of course satisfaction of a job well done and heartstrings well plucked is nourishment for the poet’s soul, the free drinks are nourishment for the poet’s body.”

“Hmm.” said Geralt, looking into the middle distance, feeling more and more unhinged the more Jaskier’s hand lingered on his shoulder. Suddenly, the noise of the pub was deafening, the lights stabbed his eyes, and everything grated on his mind.

“Yes yes, quite. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see if the pretty barmaid would nourish the poet’s body in another way,” said Jaskier, and fluttered off.

Geralt couldn’t handle the assault on his senses, and so he staggered to his feet and stumbled out of the pub, hoping the fresh air would bring him to his senses.

It, unfortunately, did no such thing. The sky was clear and full of stars, which swirled in Geralt’s vision - looking up when utterly plastered was a terrible idea. 

He fell back, and his shoulders thumped against the side of the bar, so he just slid down, hating his life more and more by the second. What the fuck was wrong with him? What the fuck was wrong with Jaskier ?

The fresh breeze bit at his face, doing a piss-poor job of sobering him up. However, it did an excellent job of making him shiver. The drinks had made him uncomfortably warm, and he had sweat through his black shirt, which clung to him now like he clung to the memory of Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder. Now, without the warmth of the pub, and without a new drink to fuel him, he fully felt the cold, and frowned at it. 

The wind continued, despite the full force of Geralt’s impressive glare.

He tried getting up, to no avail. His body processed his brain’s request to stand up, and responded with a swift and decisive ‘fuck you’. He was so off balance and his vision was swimming so much, that he did the opposite of what he wanted. He fell to his side.

“Fuck.” said Geralt.

The wind said nothing, but Geralt could feel it telling him to fuck off.

He just laid there, until he heard footsteps approaching, at which point he tried to stand up, and was once again brought low by his bad decision.

“Fuck.” said Geralt, now facedown.

“Geralt?” said - and oh, it was Jaskier, of course it was Jaskier, fate itself truly had it out for Geralt tonight apparently!
“Mmmh,” grunted Geralt, not bothering to try getting up.

“Oh, wow, I can’t believe alcohol was the monster that finally bested you, Geralt,” continued Jaskier, crouching next to Geralt. He, infuriatingly, poked him in the side.

“ Why are you here, Jaskier, ” snarled Geralt, as his mind once again spiraled to it’s new obsession. Being drunk didn’t help matters at all.

“Well, I thought you just went for a leak, but you were gone for an absurd amount of time, so I thought to myself, well, Jaskier, it sure would undo all your hard work singing if the townsfolk found their hero asleep face-down in a ditch, huh, or robbed by thieves while he couldn’t tell up from down, wouldn’t it? And, of course, I was completely correct, as usual. You know, for the longest time, I thought your freaky witcher powers would make it nigh impossible to get drunk, but there you go surprising me again. C’mon, up you go.”

“What,” croaked out Geralt, mind spinning too much to catch even half of what Jaskier had said. He`blinked, trying to focus his eyes, and just saw the bard’s boots next to him.

“I said, up you go!” continued Jaskier, now grasping Geralt’s forearm and pulling .

"My freaky witcher powers," mumbled Geralt, frowning, "don't work that way."

He staggered to his feet, and immediately slumped against the side of the pub.

“Yes, well, you never want to talk about it, do you,” Jaskier said breezily, determined not to let go of Geralt for some inscrutable reason. 

“Whenever I’m like oh, Geralt, how did you learn to do that , or oh, Geralt, how’d you that magic something-or-other, you just respond with a hmm or a grunt or a snort. How can you expect me to know what you don’t say?”

“Jaskier,” growled Geralt, head spinning. He could feel the other man pressed against him, and his freaky witcher heartbeat was determined to catch up to the speed of a human heart. 

“I’m not going to share witcher secrets so you can embellish your songs ,” he groaned, desperately trying to cling to that spark of annoyance, hoping he could fan it into a flame that would consume the parts of his mind screaming about how Jaskier was pressed up against him just so. 

He screwed his eyes shut, because three Jaskiers floating in his vision were too many Jaskiers. Hell, one Jaskier was too many Jaskiers when he started asking questions like that.

“ Oh ,” said Jaskier, entirely too quietly. “That’s not, why I...alright, get up! Oh, you’re entirely too heavy, did you know that? How am I supposed to carry you all the way to our rooms if you don’t put some effort in?”

“ What ,” croaked Geralt again, bewildered.

“What do you mean what, I’m not about to leave you here am I? Come on, you big lug, put some oomph into it!”

“Jaskier,” groaned Geralt, pushing himself off of the side of the pub, staggering. He opened his eyes - mistake, mistake, the ground was spinning, oh he felt nauseous - and was about to fall like a sack of potatoes off a cart when he felt Jaskier grab him desperately. 

“Come on! This is the opposite of what oomph is! The only oomph right now is me desperately trying not to fall over!” complained the other man.

“Mmmrghhyesh,” said Geralt, alcohol overtaking his speech. He leaned on Jaskier as the other man threw his arms around Geralt’s waist. One hand pressed against the side of the pub, the other thrown around Jaskier’s shoulders, they managed to stumble onwards without falling over.

“How eloquent,” quipped Jaskier, turning his head to see Geralt’s losing battle with sanity.

Geralt could smell him, gods, Geralt could smell him. His ‘freaky witcher powers’ as Jaskier put it did include a heightened sense of smell, and it was definitely not helping him at the moment. Though, their heads were so maddeningly close he was certain he could’ve done so even as a human, with a human’s dull senses. A whiff of Jaskier’s floral perfume blended with his natural scent, something he doubted humans could sense - not that he’d know.

He groaned.

“Yes, yes, we’re almost there,” muttered Jaskier, shaking his head. Geralt, head slack, felt Jaskier’s hair brush against his cheek. This is it. This is how he dies. The painful feeling in his chest would shatter, and break him. He felt like he was vibrating out of his own skin, and he gulped for air, shaking. 

Monsters he fought couldn’t do it, men he fought couldn’t do it, but this flowery bastard right here? Would kill him just by existing near him, so freely, like Geralt wasn’t dangerous , like he wasn’t someone to be feared, something to be feared, like he wasn’t…

“Why are you doing this,” slurred Geralt, regaining control over his mouth by the time they made it through the door to the inn. He swayed in the doorway, and it was only Jaskier’s stubbornness that kept him from falling down.

“What?” Jaskier sounded baffled. Then he sighed, and let one hand free of Geralt’s waist to reach up and pat his cheek. 

“Because I am your very best friend, in the whole wide world,” he whispered, in a tone of voice Geralt had no hope of placing while plastered.

Geralt might be going mad, but it was clearly Jaskier who was insane. The witcher drew in a breath, chest seizing up. Does Jaskier know what he’s saying? What he’s wasting his friendship on? 

“Don’t you know who I am,” rasped Geralt as they started the arduous trek up some stairs. Anyone in the world, he could have picked anyone in the world and Jaskier picked the Butcher of Blaviken? 

Jaskier scoffed, then, still careful in the climb but getting Geralt’s attention specifically so he could roll his eyes at him. “Really? Really? I’ve been writing songs about you for how long now? I know listening isn’t your strong suit, Geralt, but this is quite frankly a new low even for you. Had you paid no attention at all to--” 

“No,” interrupted Geralt, desperate to find an answer before Jaskier’s blathering drowns him completely.

“Well, I can see that-- ”

“ Jaskier ,” he snarled - see, a snarl, a terrifying snarl, see what he is, what he can do . Unfortunately, what he can do includes tripping on a step, and could have included bashing his head on another step if Jaskier hadn’t caught him again. “Don’t you know what I am,” he tried again, scrabbling for anything that would make sense .

“Yes, a lout that doesn’t know how to appreciate art,” continued Jaskier, breezily.

Nothing made sense, nothing made sense - but at least they reached the room - simply furnished, just two beds and a wash basin. Jaskier dragged him towards one bed, and Geralt collapsed on it with a startling lack of grace, facedown. The smell of clean linen smooshed directly into his face overpowered the smell of Jaskier’s damn perfume, at least.

Of course, because Geralt was in his own personal hell, the moment Jaskier stopped being wrapped around him is the moment Geralt started… thinking about it. How it was nice, to have him close, and to have him say those words even if he didn’t understand why the fuck he said them.

The room was spinning, and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was because of his drunken stupor or because of Jaskier’s words. Your very best friend, in the whole wide world.

“There,” said Jaskier, and sat down on the same bed. Geralt could almost feel the meagre inch of space between their bodies. “Now, would you like some water? I assume hangovers suck even for witchers, and you’re already grouchy enough as is.”

“No,” mumbled Geralt.

“Are you sure? Because if I have to hold your hair back, I am not going to say anything because I am a noble long-suffering soul, but we will both know I’m thinking ‘I told you so’ very, very loudly.”

What little remained of Geralt’s mind ground to a halt. “If you have to… hold my hair back?”

“Yes?”

“Why.”

“Oh, I refuse to believe witchers can’t throw up when hungover,” said Jaskier, and Geralt could hear the eye roll in that sentence.

“Not that. Why would you hold my hair back, I can do it myself,” he said, headache increasing, room still spinning. 

He feels displaced, like he’s a bit to the left of where he’s supposed to be.

“Why wouldn’t I? It would help keep puke out of it, and really Geralt you have such lovely hair and it’s a modern-time tragedy you don’t do more to take care of it. It frames your face so well and you do nothing with it, you just cover it in monster guts. I mean, just look at it ,” says Jaskier, and reaches out so gently , and touches the side of Geralt’s face, running his fingers through Geralt’s hair like it’s something priceless and treasured. 

And something in him snaps.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Jaskier, what the fuck, do you, do you know what I’ve been through to get this hair, you call it lovely as if it wasn’t a mark of what I am and why I’m nothing like you - how can you look at it and call it lovely - it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter if it gets dirty and I don’t need your help, why do you keep offering what I can do on my own, what I’ve always done on my own, Jaskier, why do you keep touching me as if I can’t rip your arms off, no one fucking does that but you and--”

Geralt hated how his words came out in short bursts, completely without filter. He wants to be in control, all the time, all the time, he’s careful about what he says and when, and he thinks about his words but now they’re pouring out of his mouth like a flood and he can't clench his teeth and clamp his hands over his lips to stop it, he can’t do anything, he’s washed away in the current of his own damn words and he hates it, hates every second of it, but he’s shaking and he can’t stop - he’s drowning and he can’t stop.

Jaskier put one hand over Geralt’s scarred hand - he clutched at the bedsheets without realizing it - and the other one was still in Geralt’s fucking hair, and Jaskier’s voice is gentle as a dream as he says, “I like your hair.”

He moves, then, to crouch next to Geralt’s head, to look him in the eyes, to clasp his hand with both of his. “Do you really think - Geralt, just because you can do something alone doesn’t mean you should. Just because you don’t need something doesn’t mean you can’t want it.”

“I want nothing ,” says Geralt. He’s shaking as he gasps for air, and his mind is reeling. He said too much and he’s drunk and he’s sad and it’s all just too much to bear. He can’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, and not just because he’s so drunk he can’t focus to find them.

“Well, you wanna know what I want? I want to be there. I want to help you.” Jaskier cups the side of Geralt’s face, then. Gently, like holding a treasure, or something soft or delicate .

“Hah,” says Geralt, weakly, his face doing something uncomfortable. “Do you now.” 

In a terrible, crushing moment, Geralt realizes he wants - no, needs to - let him.

“Yes, you massive idiot,” says Jaskier, still crouching there, gaze soft.

“Geralt, I want...hah, you asked me if I knew who you were. I think I know more than anyone else in the world.”

“Do you now,” repeated Geralt. “What do you know, then.”

“Well,” started Jaskier, biting down on his lower lip, “I know you wouldn’t,” and at this part, he let go of Geralt’s hand to gesticulate wildly, “what was it? ‘Rip my arms off’ just for behaving like a normal person around you. Really, how could you even think that? I know you’re a crotchety old bastard but come on . I know you wouldn’t let anything hurt me, much less hurt me yourself. And I know you care about helping people and doing the right thing more than anything else in the world.”

Geralt scoffed, chest aching. “You know how the songs go. Witchers don’t have feelings. Witchers only care for the hunt.”

“I write songs, Geralt. I know exactly how wrong they tend to be.”

Geralt sighed, mouth twisting in an unhappy frown.

“Don’t give me that. You know I’m right. Somewhere under that mountain of muscles and forest of chest hair, lies an actual beating heart. You can deny it all you want, but I know it’s there,” said Jaskier, squeezing Geralt’s hand again.

This time, Geralt squeezed back, and closed his eyes.

Jaskier reached out, then, slowly and gently, and brushed his fingers through Geralt’s hair, letting the white locks twist themselves around his fingers. Geralt leaned into the touch, eyes still closed - a display of trust. And, perhaps, a display of wanting , as close to asking as Geralt could possibly get. A wordless plea.

Jaskier understood. Geralt felt the bed creak as Jaskier climbed in, and pulled the witcher close. He held him with one hand, the other tangled in his hair. Geralt’s head fit comfortably into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, like he belonged there.

His eyes were closed, for fear that opening them would break this spell, pull this moment apart. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier, adjusting so the other man could get comfortable.

Jaskier stroked his hair with one hand, quietly, the other hand a comforting weight on Geralt’s shoulder blades. He hummed, a nonsense tune with no words, and Geralt felt it more than heard it, felt the vibration in Jaskier’s throat. It soothed him, made the uncomfortable feeling in his chest dissipate, leaving nothing but calm. 

Jaskier’s heart, four times faster than Geralt’s own, beat a steady pace, a song of its own making. Geralt wanted to listen forever.

Geralt woke with the sun on his face and Jaskier snoring into his hair. He blinked, and felt a headache hammering behind his eyes - ugh. He groaned in pain, which woke Jaskier with a start - the bard yawned directly into Geralt’s ear, getting a mouthful of hair for his troubles.

“Mmmorning, Geralt,” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Ugh,” said Geralt, eloquently.

“Do you have a headache?” asked Jaskier, making no move to get up or do much of anything. He yawned again.

“ Ugh ,” said Geralt, with feeling.

“See, I told you, you should have had water,” Jaskier was determined to start the day by annoying Geralt, as usual. Except, today, Geralt could forgive him anything in the world. 

“Ugh,” repeated Geralt, a lot more insistently. 

He… strongly considered rolling over off of Jaskier, to drink water or start the day, but. But. He didn’t know how long this would last, or if it would ever repeat, and he wanted to soak in every bit of this moment. Every second he spent in Jaskier’s arms, listening to his heartbeat. So, instead, he grunted again and just...clung to him a bit more. If one was to feel exceptionally bold, one might use the word ‘cuddle’. As Geralt only felt hungover, he chose not to. 

“Ugh indeed,” said Jaskier, conversationally. “Not a morning person, I see. That’s fine.” Jaskier yawned again, apparently also determined to dislocate his own jaw, and with the uncoordinated grace of the freshly awoken, resumed stroking Geralt’s hair.

Oh.

Geralt felt strange - on the one hand, a surge of bliss and joy, and on the other hand, a crushing hangover that made him feel his head was kicked off his shoulders and used as a punching bag.

“Hey, Geralt,” started Jaskier, now idly toying with Geralt’s hair to keep his hands busy - Geralt could hear the other man’s heartbeat increasing. 

“Mnf.”

“Do you by any chance happen to be the kind of drunk that doesn’t remember anything that happens when you’re drunk?”

“No.”

“Ah, I should have thought as much - you’d be a lot more lively right now if you woke up like this with no memories or anything, haha. Well,” and Jaskier paused at this, drawing a breath. “Remember what we talked about?”

“Mnf.” They talked about a lot. All of it painfully embarrassing. Geralt did in fact wish he didn’t remember the details, but they stood out vividly in his memory. He had said a lot of things very rapidly and regretted all of them.

“Well… Did you happen to change your mind, maybe? About the...one thing?”

“Mnf?” Explain.

“You should be thankful I’ve learned to interpret your monosyllabic grunts with such ease, you know.” Jaskier’s heartbeat was a thundering crescendo in Geralt’s ears, almost drowning out the man’s actual words. “You said that you want nothing. Is that still the case?”

“... No.”

“Oh?” 

Geralt had a pretty good idea of what he wants. He had to fight the urge to deflect, to say ‘I want to go back to sleep’ or something equally asinine. He did not deflect. Instead, he took a moment to crystalize his thoughts.

“I do want something. I want…” And how to explain, and succinctly before Jaskier’s heart bursts out of his chest? “...This. In any form you would give it.”

“In... any form?” asked Jaskier, voice as quiet as a prayer.

“In any form,” repeated Geralt firmly.

“Then, you shall have it,” whispered Jaskier, and fished around for Geralt’s hand, so that he could bring it up to his lips in what was probably more dramatic and touching in his mind. As is, he was too sudden and eager, and the end result was more smooshing the back of Geralt’s hand against his face, but Geralt was charmed despite - no, no, because of it.

He laughed, then, and pulled Jaskier closer for a kiss.