Archive of Our Own

The thrill of being in Kaer Morhen, a witcher sanctuary, an old keep dripping in history and stories, is temporarily paused due to murderous witch spirits and magical beasts and possessed princesses. It’s a bit hard to enjoy the fulfillment of of a long-held dream while also trying not to fucking die. 

Bit distracting, that. 

Still, after the dust settles and cleanup begins, Jaskier can’t help but feel at least a little excited. It’s not the time to needle stories out of anyone, he knows this, but he’s practically vibrating with the impulse anyway. 

(It’s also possible that has something to do with residual adrenaline). 

(Jaskier’s decided not to think about it). 

(It’s something he’s gotten increasingly good at). 

He jumps into cleanup with the rest of them, even though he’s horribly aware that he’s not quite up to snuff with only one functional hand. It’s awkward, at first, trying to make overtures of friendship to men who don’t know him, but he flatters himself that they warm up soon enough. With enough years of battering ramming his way through Geralt’s defenses, he’d like to think he has a few tricks up his sleeves, mainly through sharing bawdy drinking songs and embarrassing tales about a mutual party (it’s possible that he’ll pay for the stories he’s telling about Geralt eventually, but that’s a problem for future Jaskier). 

After a couple of days, he even gets pats to his shoulder after a long day, and on the fourth, Lambert even ruffles his hair. It’s a gruff sort of affection–more shoulder bumps and shoves that almost knock him over than he would strictly prefer–but he dares to let himself feel like he could belong here one day, if he just tries hard enough at it. 

There is one element of his time at Kaer Morhen that remains a problem, however: his room is fucking freezing. 

Jaskier sets his teeth and wraps his arms tighter around himself, curling inwards as if that’ll provide him with more warmth. He’s already beneath every layer he’s been able to gather, wrapped into a ball of sheets and blankets and furs. He’s even pulled on two pairs of thick wool socks borrowed from Kaer Morhen’s stores, but he can still feel the tingle of chill in his toes. He tries to think of warm things: hot toddies, mulled wine, summer sunshine, sharing beds with-

He cuts himself off. 

He clenches his eyes shut and tries to flex against the shivering that wants to take over his body. It doesn’t work, and he shudders once. His fingers are stiff, and it’s almost a relief to have the burns numbed, but he imagines it probably isn’t good. 

After a minute of shuddering, he gives up on trying to wait it out. He eyes the neat stack of wood next to a basket of tinder and a flint and briefly contemplates trying for a flame. Then he remembers how lighting a candle two days ago sent him into a spiral that made him hide in a closet with his hands pressed over his mouth until he could get his shit back together. He could give it another go, here in the privacy of his own room, but he has the sudden horrible vision of flames leaping out of control, snaking through his room and sending it up in- 

No fire then. 

He tries curling up even tighter, but eventually he has to admit that it just isn’t going to happen. The nights have gotten steadily colder, and this seems to be the coldest one yet, frissons of ice lacing across his window. When he raises his head to see if perhaps he’s managed to shiver through the night and the sun is rising, his breath comes out in a cloud, illuminated by the moonlight pouring through the window. It’s still late at night, and it’s only going to get colder. 

Well, desperate times. 

He gives himself a minute to gather himself before he practically leaps from the bed in a flurry of motion, almost tripping himself on a sheet that wraps around his ankle but managing to right himself after a few hops on one foot. The floor is so cold he can feel it through both layers of his socks, and he would put on boots if that wouldn’t mean taking off one of his precious layers or delaying longer and potentially talking himself out of his new plan. 

He pokes his head into the hallway and checks that the coast is clear. He doesn’t really want the rumor to go around that he lurks the halls at night, and he definitely doesn’t want to invite any questions about why exactly he would not just make a fire in his own room when he has everything he needs to do so. 

It’s embarrassing enough that he’s going to have to figure out what to tell the one witcher he is seeking out about why he’s gone in search of warmth instead of making some for himself.

*

He regrets the knock as soon as he does it, immediately wanting to dart away, but the door swings open before he gets a chance, and he finds himself eye to eye with the one person he knows better than anyone, the person who now feels like a stranger. He should say something, he thinks, should speak up and actually give a reason why he’s darkening the witcher’s doorstep in the middle of the night. The words, however, don’t come, and he just shudders, once, before he can control himself. It makes Geralt’s brow furrow, and Jaskier finds himself pulled into the room, letting out an exhale at what feels like a decadent amount of heat on his skin. He carefully doesn’t look towards the fire in the hearth, banked low but still sending off toasty waves of heat. 

Distracted by the relief of warmth, Jaskier just sways for a moment and doesn’t notice when Geralt’s hand presses to his cheek until the witcher curses and shoves him towards the bed, wrapping a blanket around him that smells distinctly like Geralt and still carries his body heat. Jaskier shivers, slightly, at the sensation of warmth on his cold skin, and Geralt begins frisking his hands along Jaskier’s arms. 

“How the fuck are you so cold?” Geralt asks, voice gruff but with an undercurrent of what Jaskier desperately wants to call concern. Before the mountain he would have been able to say it was just care hidden underneath all of Geralt’s gruff, but he’s not entirely so sure, anymore. “Didn’t you have wood in your room?”

The answer to that question is yes, but it also requires explanation that Jaskier doesn’t really want to give. 

“Didn’t check,” he says and shrugs when Geralt gives him a look. “What? I woke up cold and decided to seek shelter in more comfortable places. Seemed more sensible than fumbling with flint for an hour.” It seemed more sensible than trying to start a fire and screaming loud enough to wake the entire keep at the first spark is the real truth, but that’s going to remain Jaskier’s sexy little secret. 

Geralt snorts. 

“Now you’re sensible?” He asks, reaching to grab another blanket. It brings his chest in thrilling proximity to Jaskier’s face, and he has the mad urge to press his cheek to it, to feel the thrum of Geralt’s heartbeat. He resists, and Geralt pulls back, wrapping another blanket around him. Jaskier can’t help but smile, faintly. 

“Planning to embalm me?” He asks, and it gains him the briefest flicker of a smile from Geralt before his features go severe once more. 

“Hypothermia can kill,” he says, disapproving, and it makes Jaskier want to duck his chin down. Part of him is offended at being scolded like a child, but a pathetic little part of his heart likes the idea of Geralt worrying about him. 

“A little chill wouldn’t do me in,” he protests anyway. 

“It would if you caught pneumonia,” Geralt says, dropping down to sit next to Jaskier, one hand still rubbing friction along his back. 

“So dramatic,” Jaskier says, “one little chill won’t give me pneumonia.” 

Geralt hesitates for a moment, a pause of all motion, before he resumes his frisking, which is starting to feel perilously close to stroking, which would do Jaskier’s heart in once and for all. 

“It might if you’re already not well,” Geralt says carefully, and Jaskier stiffens before he thinks about it. 

“I’m perfectly well,” he says sharply, terrified suddenly that he’s now going to give Geralt reasons to send him off under the excuse of his own good. It’s snowing now, freezing them in, but if Geralt asked, Yennefer would probably pull up a port-

“Are you?” Geralt asks, cutting off his train of thought. Jaskier flicks his eyes to him briefly before refocusing on the blankets on his lap, giving their contrasting textures more focus than they really need, strictly speaking. 

“What wouldn’t I be?” If Geralt just tells him, then Jaskier will know what to avoid doing in the future. 

“You’re thin,” Geralt says, blunt as ever. “And you don’t eat as much as you should.” 

It’s not an easy thing to dismiss, and Jaskier doesn’t imagine that Geralt will want to hear that he isn’t sure he can eat as much as he wants because he doesn’t know if he’s pulled his weight enough to earn his fill. Even if it’s true, part of him wants to believe that Geralt is too kind to say so, and he doesn’t want to challenge that hope. 

“Haven’t been hungry recently,” Jaskier says lightly. “Besides, the waifish look is very fashionable right now, I assure you. If we were in a city, I would have people falling over themselves to complement the sharpness of my cheekbones. You’d need one of your swords to beat them off.” 

“I like you softer,” Geralt says, and Jaskier turns to look at him so quickly it makes his head spin for the briefest second. From the way Geralt presses his lips together and looks away, studying the fire, it doesn’t look like the witcher actually meant to say that. “Besides,” he says, voice more brisk, “it’s winter. It’s better to be bulkier.” 

Jaskier decides to save Geralt from himself and pokes him in the side. 

“Well, rather hard to aspire to such things when I can’t out-bulk the rest of you,” he teases. 

Geralt moves with the poke, and Jaskier sees the slightest hint of amusement around his eyes. He’s rather proud he can still find it so easily and wishes he didn’t have a little voice at the back of his head telling him he’s making it up. 

“You’re fine how you usually are,” Geralt says, and Jaskier doesn’t know how to respond to that. His first instinct is to flirt, but that still feels too risky. His other impulse is to redirect, but he doesn’t want Geralt to circle back to questions Jaskier doesn’t want to answer. It makes him sad, suddenly, the amount of thinking he has to do when he’s around Geralt now, remembering how easily he fit with the witcher before. 

Then again, maybe he never fit at all. 

“Are you…” 

Jaskier looks up at Geralt at the words, but the witcher is frowning at the fire, evidently deep in thought about what he wants to say. 

“Am I…?” Jaskier prompts, daring to lean into Geralt’s warmth when he’s distracted. It gives him a little thrill of rebellion, of stealing something he doesn’t really have a right to, but fuck if it doesn’t make him feel comfortable to feel Geralt’s bulk at his side. 

“Are you…alright?” Geralt decides at last, looking back for a brief moment before he looks away again. 

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asks, trying and failing to convince himself to sit up straight again. Still, Geralt is a comfortable resting post, and he finds himself yawning, bringing one hand up to cover his mouth and then smiling sheepishly when Geralt looks at him. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. What did you mean, am I alright?”

“I-nevermind,” Geralt says, shaking his head. “You’re right. It’s late, and you probably want to get back to your room. I can start a fire for you,” Geralt starts to rise, but Jaskier manages to excavate his left hand enough to grab the witcher’s wrist. It makes him feel a little shiver of something, the way someone as strong as Geralt heeds the motion so easily, as if he couldn’t keep walking and drag Jaskier behind him. 

“It’s too late to bother,” Jaskier says lamely, and Geralt gives him a disbelieving look. “Really, I’ll just stay here a while and warm up and then head back.” A pause. “If you don’t mind.” 

Geralt studies him for a long moment, and Jaskier desperately wishes he knew what he was trying to find. Whatever it is, though, he apparently reaches a satisfying conclusion, because he sits back down fully. 

“You want to stay?” He asks, in a tone Jaskier can’t quite read. 

An honest answer would involve saying, ‘Fuck yes, please, I haven’t slept well since the last time I got to sleep next to you,’ but even Jaskier has a little too much pride for that. 

“If it won’t bother you,” he hedges, but Geralt just gives him a soft little smile, something fond that makes Jaskier return it on reflex. 

“We’ve shared enough beds,” Geralt says, nudging at Jaskier until he scoots back, taking the spot between Geralt and the wall. He lets out a shuddery little breath at that, trying not to cry at finding himself back in a position that he’s missed like oxygen. Geralt gives him a concerned look at the noise, but Jaskier just shakes his head with an embarrassed grin. 

“Just tired,” he excuses, rubbing his cheek over the pillow briefly and closing his eyes, enjoying the scent of Geralt so close to his face, rosemary soap and leather and a little bit of horse. It’s a smell that feels like home now, and oh, how Jaskier’s ached for it. 

With his eyes closed, he doesn’t see Geralt lay down, but he feels the shift in weight as he does so. As in everything, Geralt is a decisive man when it comes to sleeping. In contrast to Jaskier’s wiggling and adjusting, Geralt picks a position and stays in it. It had been unnerving when they’d first set out together, Geralt laying still like a statue, but Jaskier had gotten used to it in time. He smiles to himself, a little, remembering the slow transition to suddenly not being able to share with bed partners who moved around too much, too accustomed to a witcher who shifted maybe twice in a night. 

“Goodnight,” Geralt’s voice is a low rumble, and even without looking, Jaskier knows his eyes are already shut, his face softening in sleep. 

“Goodnight,” he says, tucking his face more deeply into the pillow. 

He falls asleep in almost no time, secure and comfortable and warm. 

*

When Jaskier wakes up, he snuggles forward without thought, trying to get closer to the firm warmth in front of him. He’s not sure what the source is, but it feels too good to let go of. He wraps an arm tighter around it and manages to move even closer, tucking his chin over part of it. He sighs happily, smiling to himself. What a lovely sensation to awaken to. 

And then he opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is strands of white, and that’s more than enough to tell him exactly what’s going on: he’s spooning Geralt. 

He freezes on impulse, and Geralt moves slightly, mumbling under his breath, apparently in reaction to the tension. When Jaskier dares to peek, he finds Geralt still asleep, eyes closed and breathing deep and even. That allows him to relax ever so slightly and start to form an escape plan. A light tug of the arm around Geralt’s chest just gets the witcher holding on more tightly, which also makes Jaskier feel a quick shiver of terror at having it trapped. He knows that logically he’s in no danger from Geralt, that the witcher would chop a limb off before he did anything to hurt Jaskier, but that only does so much when another tug just gets his arm held tighter. 

Well. Fuck. 

Deciding to make the best of a potentially terrible situation, selfish, stupid little fool that he is, he lets himself press close for a moment longer, to take in a few more stolen moments of touch. Geralt’s body is as solid and warm as he remembers, and snuggling close feels like slipping under a childhood blanket, something safe and secure and comfortable. If he closes his eyes and presses his face to the back of Geralt’s head, he can even imagine a pretty dream, if he tries hard enough. He can imagine they do this every morning, that Geralt could just as easily turn around and hold him-

“Jask?” Geralt’s voice is rough, a horribly attractive rasp so early in the morning. 

Jaskier immediately shuts his eyes and focuses on slowing his breathing down. He won’t be able to keep it up long, but hopefully he can buy himself enough time to let Geralt release him and never bring it up again. 

For the briefest moment, Geralt increases the pressure on Jaskier’s arm before he lets go. Jaskier feels his arm carefully lifted and rested off of Geralt, and then the witcher is rolling off of the bed. Jaskier hears rustling as he dresses and the brush of the door as it opens and closes. 

He counts to fifty and rolls on his back, exhaling a long breath of relief. 

(Only relief, he tells himself). 

*

The next night, Geralt knocks on his door before he’s even laid down. He answers the door and tilts his head in question, mildly concerned he’s about to be drafted into fighting another evil witch with the power of a fucking rock, but Geralt shifts his weight awkwardly, and Jaskier is reassured they’re not in mortal peril at present, at least. He smiles, a little, at how wrong-footed Geralt looks when he was the one to start the interaction. 

“Come to say goodnight?” Jaskier offers with a smile, moving to lean against his wall but misjudging the distance and flailing for a moment. He hits his right hand against it, and his world goes blank with pain for a moment. He drops to one knee and curls over it, trying not to throw up from the pain. When he manages to refocus on everything outside of the throbbing, he realizes Geralt is touching him, one hand on his arm and one gently but firmly trying to pull his chin up. He grants the motion and curses that he can feel his eyes watering. 

“What happened?” Geralt’s voice is urgent, and it’s almost sweet, how nearly frantic he looks. 

“Just banged my hand,” Jaskier dismisses, jerking it closer when Geralt moves to reach for it. The witcher frowns for a moment at the motion but pulls his hand back. “You needed something?” Jaskier prompts, trying to redirect. 

Geralt grunts, sitting back on his heels. He looks to Jaskier’s fireplace when he speaks. 

“I thought you might not have lit your fire yet,” he says, finally looking back to Jaskier. “It’s already late, so I thought…” He pauses, and in the silence, Jaskier knows he’s getting a hint to fill in words that Geralt can’t quite find. At this point, however, he’s learned the danger of making assumptions about the blanks the witcher leaves. 

“Thought…?” Jaskier repeats, and Geralt’s shoulders slump a little, like he’s disappointed he’ll have to say the words. Jaskier feels like he’s failed, somehow. 

“Thought you might just want to share my room again,” Geralt says. At Jaskier’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates. “My fire’s already lit, so the room’s warm.” 

“Do you-” Jaskier cuts himself off, trying to decide how he wants to respond. “You don’t mind?” That’s the crucial thing. Above all, Jaskier can’t stand to get on Geralt’s nerves again, not if he can help it. 

“No,” Geralt says easily. “I’ve shared enough with you. It doesn’t bother me.” 

Jaskier thinks he can pick up a faint ‘anymore’ at the end of that sentence, but he decides to push on anyway. He knows he should refuse, shouldn’t impose on Geralt and Geralt’s space any more than he absolutely has to. He doesn’t want to risk wearing out his welcome any faster than he’s afraid he already is. 

Still, it was so nice to be warm…

“If you’re sure,” Jaskier hedges, pretending not to see the hand Geralt offers him when he stands up, instead rising on his own. 

Geralt hums a response and steps back, and Jaskier follows him back to his room. It’s as toasty as it had been the previous night, the fire banked nicely so that the flames are easily ignored. Jaskier lets himself have the indulgence of not thinking about the situation anymore, scrambling into bed and wriggling under the blankets. For someone normally immune to cold, Geralt has a lovely collection of heavy wool blankets and furs. Jaskier burrows further, until only his face is poking out, and he sighs happily. A noise like a soft laugh catches his attention, and he looks up to find Geralt looking down at him with a small smile. 

“Warm enough?” He asks, clearly amused. 

Jaskier blushes a little, but he figures he’s done enough throughout the years that wrapping up like a caterpillar can be forgiven. 

Geralt doesn’t comment further and just strips his shirt off, which gives Jaskier a small heart attack. On the road, Geralt tends to sleep in loose clothing but still clothed, but Jaskier is gathering that he likes to sleep looser when he’s in the safety of Kaer Morhen. 

It’s a detail Jaskier tucks away to reflect on when he’s got some alone time. 

He waits until Geralt has laid down and wiggles a bit more, sparing two of the blankets from the top to fling partially over the witcher. 

“So generous,” Geralt says dryly, looking pointedly at the difference in their coverings. 

“Well if that’s how you’re going to be,” Jaskier says, pulling the blankets back. “Fine. No blankets for you,” he says primly, curling himself back up into a wrap. 

Geralt gives him a challenging look and reaches over to tug at a few of the layers. Jaskier laughs and rolls to trap the witcher’s hand underneath, blankets securely tugged into place. Geralt growls at him, a low, playful noise, and then he’s rolling over, practically straddling Jaskier and reaching his other hand over to try and get another edge to grip. Jaskier laughs again, rocking and trying to tuck himself tighter. Their playfight lasts until he decides to call an end to it, flopping onto his back and letting Geralt tug a larger share of covers for himself. That the sharing means he has to press closer makes the hardship a little easier to bear. 

“Happy?” He asks, making his tone tart, although he knows he’s ruining it more than a bit with a smile he can’t quite contain. 

When he shakes his hair out of his eyes, the look on Geralt’s face takes his breath away. It’s a foreign look, directed at him, something warm and sweet. 

Something he knows he shouldn’t think too deeply about. 

He buries his face in the pillow, snuggling down into the blankets to give himself a little more cover. 

“Goodnight,” he says, voice muffled slightly by the layers. 

Geralt hums, closing his eyes and settling. 

*

Jaskier wakes the next morning with pressure against his back and side, pressing him down deliciously into the mattress. He stretches, slightly, enjoying the contrast between the looseness of his muscles and the weight over his body. When he rouses more fully, he realizes that the weight is Geralt, partially on top of him, a leg thrown over his hip and an arm around his chest, pulling him close. It takes him a moment, but eventually he registers soft vibrations moving through him, and he realizes Geralt is purring. 

He flushes slightly in mixed embarrassment and pleasure. He’s heard the purring before, but only when Geralt was drunk or potioned out of his mind, and once when he had lost enough blood to be worrisomely loopy. Out of those contexts, Jaskier doesn’t entirely understand what could be causing it, but it’s nice, soothing and slightly flattering, the idea that Geralt feels comfortable enough while holding him to purr. It gives him the wild idea of petting the witcher, and it’s probably a good thing that he’s pinned into place by Geralt’s strength before the impulse can win. 

He feels when Geralt starts to rouse and goes loose and relaxed, feigning sleep once more. It evidently takes Geralt a moment to come to as well, because Jaskier is squeezed once, Geralt’s purring deepening, until he’s very abruptly released. 

“Shit,” Geralt hisses under his breath, his weight immediately leaving the bed. 

If it hurts, Jaskier just channels it into a fake snore until Geralt leaves the room. 

*

The next night, Geralt is kept late whispering with Yennefer in a corner in the common room, and Jaskier makes do as long as he can in his own room before he has to seek warmth somewhere. He approaches Geralt’s door but pauses when he hears the susurration of two voices within. 

Yennefer’s inside. 

Unable to help himself, Jaskier leans in, trying to keep his breathing quiet as he presses his ear to the door. 

“-tell him already, Geralt!” The witch’s voice sounds exasperated, even as she’s evidently trying to maintain some attempt at controlling her volume, and Jaskier is glad he isn’t the one on the receiving end of whatever this scolding is. 

Geralt’s voice is too low for Jaskier to catch most of it, but he picks out his own name along with “didn’t want” and “last night.” 

Jaskier’s blood runs cold. 

“Then tell him!” Yennefer’s voice comes again. “If you won’t, I will. This is fucking ridiculous, and it’s making you intolerable. It isn’t fair to him, either, to keep pretending like this. He should hear it from you.” 

Jaskier backs up from the door as quietly as he can, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat. 

Geralt doesn’t want him in his bed. He just hasn’t been able to tell him. Jaskier’s been imposing on him, making himself a pest once again. Oh fuck, he’s been sharing Geralt’s bed when he could be sharing it with Yennefer. He’s lucky, he tells himself, that at least he found out before he pushed Geralt into yelling him away again. It’s good, that he found out this way, so he knows to stop now. 

Jaskier sets his jaw and returns to his own room. 

*

When a knock comes at his door around an hour later, Jaskier feigns sleep, straining his muscles so he won’t shiver. If he can just be still enough, then maybe whoever it is will just go away. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls softly, and the noise of the door opening follows. 

Due to soft witcher footsteps, Jaskier can’t actually hear Geralt come closer, but he senses the proximity. A warm hand descends on his shoulder, and Jaskier has to try hard not to react to it. 

“Jask?” Geralt asks again, shaking him softly. 

Jaskier rolls over and fakes a yawn, stretching. He rubs a fist over his eye–his left, his right still hidden beneath the blankets–and squints up at Geralt like he’s been woken up and is slightly grumpy about it. 

“Geralt?” He asks, making his voice scratchy. 

“It’s me,” the witcher confirms, like Jaskier couldn’t tell that from the moonlight rimming his hair in silver. “It’s cold in here. Did you want to share?” 

Jaskier’s chest feels tight. Is he that pathetic? Geralt is still going to keep sharing with him, even when he doesn’t want to? 

“No,” he says, rolling back over before his face betrays anything he doesn’t want it to. 

“Are you sure?” Geralt asks, and his voice sounds slightly confused. “I could stay here if you don’t want-” 

“I’m sure,” Jaskier cuts him off. “Seriously, go enjoy your bed to yourself.” 

“It’s cold, though,” Geralt says, sounding fretful beyond his confusion. “Your fire still isn’t lit, and you’re-” 

Jaskier intercepts the hand that slips beneath his blankets, evidently trying to temperature check him. 

“I’m fine, Geralt.” He says, voice tight. “Really. I’m a grown man, I can sleep on my own. Go enjoy having your bed to yourself.” ‘Or to yourself and your witch,’ he doesn’t say. Geralt still doesn’t move, and Jaskier resists the urge to huff an annoyed breath. If he has to keep doing this, he’s going to cry, and that’s the last thing he needs. “It’ll be nice to sleep on my own again. I’ve missed it.” 

At that, Geralt does stand, slowly making his way back to the door from what Jaskier can hear. Once he makes it to the door, he evidently pauses. Jaskier squints his eyes shut, commanding himself not to cry. 

“Goodnight,” Geralt says at last, before he leaves, shutting the door behind himself softly. 

Jaskier counts to a hundred before he lets himself cry. 

*

The next morning is a little awkward at breakfast. Having struggled with his bandages, running to the end of his clean supply and unsure how or where to get more, he had taken longer to wrap his hand than he had before after sorting through the bandages he does have. He’s also been making due with a little pot of beeswax and something oily he’d found somewhere to try and keep the skin supple, but he doesn’t think it’s working. The skin is still blistered, tight and red and shiny. A few places leak fluid that he tries very hard not to think about. 

He stuffs a bit of blanket between his teeth and then pours some vodka over his hand, muffling his scream in the material. His head spins, as it always does when he does this, and he flops backwards onto his bed, trying desperately not to pass out. Once his ears aren’t ringing so loudly, he pushes himself up, searching through his laundry in search of the cleanest bandages. The ones he finds aren’t exactly pristine, but they’re still better than nothing. He slicks on some of his mystery salve and wraps his hand, tucking the end in as securely as he can manage. 

By the time he makes it down to breakfast, everyone else has already taken their places, and half of the food is already gone. In some ways, it makes it easier. With everyone eating, there’s no one to really notice when he measures out his portion of things. It’s smaller than what the witchers all take, but given that he’s not feeding enhancements, that probably works out. He also isn’t on heavy labor anymore. Most of the cleanup has been completed, and Jaskier has taken on the role of librarian, selecting out books with damage to repair and organizing and dusting the rest. 

He eats his breakfast quickly and exchanges a few jokes with the gathered witchers before he takes his leave. He notices Geralt looking at his plate like he’s been doing recently, and he snatches it up, carrying it to the wash basin and dropping it in. It’s a small blessing he hasn’t been on washing up duty yet, and he’s mildly nervous about when it’s going to be his turn. For now, however, he makes his get-away, seeking solace in the library. 

He breathes deeply the second he enters, leaning back against the door. He knows the witchers are all well-read, but they tend to wander in and out with their books rather than remaining to read, other than Vesemir on occasion. As a result, Jaskier usually has the entire place to himself, working and singing to himself to his heart’s content. It’s engaging work, and he’s happy to have it. He has some issues grasping some of the bigger books with only one good hand, but he manages well enough, tucking it beneath his arm and carefully working his way down the ladders for the walls with larger shelves.

He loses himself in his work and jumps when he hears the door open. 

“Hello?” He calls, and after a moment, Geralt appears around the side of a bookshelf. 

Jaskier’s first urge is to come up with an excuse to leave, but he doesn’t really want to be chased out of here to go do nothing. He remains where he is, leaning back and trying to look nonchalant. 

“Funny seeing you here,” he says, managing to grin. “What brings you to my humble abode?” 

“Lunch,” Geralt says, tossing a bundle onto the table. For all that he’s careful not to hit any of the books, Jaskier still moves it automatically to keep it away from the pages. His stomach growls when he smells it, rich pastry and meat, and Geralt snorts at the sound. Jaskier flushes. 

“That late, is it?” He says, picking at the knot. He’s still not as dextrous with his left hand, but he manages with a minimum of fumbling. He has to swallow around the saliva that fills his mouth when he sees the meat pie, a golden crust stuffed full. He rips it in half and offers part to Geralt, but the witcher just shakes his head and hooks an ankle around a chair, pulling it closer and taking a seat. 

“All yours,” he says, resting his chin on a fist and fixing Jaskier with a piercing golden stare. “I already ate.” 

It’s a hefty portion, more than enough to fill him until he’s stuffed. 

His stomach flips a little at the idea. 

He pushes the half at Geralt with more force. 

“Really, I’ve just been playing librarian all day. I’m sure you’ve been off twisting and turning and doing all sorts of impressive and sexy gymnastics.” 

For all of the insistence, though, Geralt just crosses his arms over his chest and leans back. 

“Lot of ladders in here,” he says, looking around before refocusing on Jaskier. “I’m sure you’re hungry.” 

Unable to resist any longer and looking for an excuse to not talk for a moment until he can collect his thoughts, Jaskier finally takes a bite, closing his eyes with a moan when he does. The crust is as buttery as it looked, and he makes a mental note to sneak a few extra treats to Eskel’s goats for their service. The filling is rich, venison and potato and carrots and mushrooms in a thick gravy, and the entire experience is near-orgasmic. When he opens his eyes, he sees Geralt smiling at him, and he blushes. 

“‘S good,” he says around a mouthful, taking another bite. “Who made it?”

“Vesemir.” At Jaskier’s surprised look, he says, “He likes cooking. He’d probably appreciate your help if you ever wanted to join him.” 

Jaskier tries to decide if that’s a hint, a direction that he should be helping with the kitchen, but it seems innocuous enough. In lieu of a response, he takes another bite. He tries to shove part to Geralt again, but once more, the witcher refuses, pushing it back. 

“Are you just going to sit here and watch me eat?” Jaskier asks between bites, and Geralt shrugs. 

“Just trying to make sure you’re getting enough.” 

The statement is troublesome, and Jaskier frowns. Before he can investigate further, though, Geralt stands. 

“Finish that,” he says firmly, nodding to the pastry, before he takes his leave. 

Jaskier is tempted not to out of sheer contrariness, but it is a rather tasty treat. He finishes the entire thing and returns to his work, feeling more energized and steady in his work. 

Idly, he wonders where he’s gotten the focus from.

*

When Jaskier returns to his own room that night, he finds a fire burning brightly. 

He stops for a long moment and just stares, mind blank before the snapping of the flames. He jumps when a log cracks and sends up sparks, one hand shooting up to muffle his yelp. 

He forces himself to look away, kneeling beside his bed and facing the wall as if he’s in prayer. He can still feel the heat of the fire behind him and hear the crackling of the flames, but at least without it in his line of sight, he can get his shit together to some degree. 

“C’mon, you big baby,” he tells himself firmly, his voice quivering just the slightest bit. “It’s a fucking fire. You’ve been around them your whole life.” 

A quick look over his shoulder reveals that his peptalk has not been helpful, a particularly excited flame reaching beyond the confines of the hearth and seeming to beckon him mockingly. He inhales sharply and turns back around, burying his face in his blanket. He’s shaking, he can feel, and he’s ashamed, even in the privacy of his own room. 

In a keep full of witchers, a witch, and a princess, all of whom have faced greater horrors than he ever has, Jaskier is afraid of fucking fire. 

Pathetic.

*

He jumps and immediately flops to his back when a knock comes at the door, and his legs, numb from their folded position, refuse to help him up. Before he can haul himself into some sort of dignified position, Geralt’s head is already poking around the door, his face concerned. 

“Jaskier?” He asks the room at large, before he catches sight of him on the floor and moves faster than a human could, seemingly appearing within a moment at his side, one hand moving to his side and one behind his back, apparently ready to haul him into a sitting position but pausing before actually doing it. “Jaskier? Talk to me, what’s wrong?” 

Jaskier blinks, trying to get his wits about him. 

“Nothing,” he says, his voice breathy and thus wildly unconvincing.

Geralt scowls at him immediately, clearly disbelieving, but finally helps him sit up. In this position, the witcher blocks the sight of the fire. Jaskier lets himself lean for the briefest moment before he pulls back, hauling himself back to his feet and sitting on his bed. 

“Did you need something?” He asks, looking down at Geralt and trying not to think about the implications of the position, with the witcher on his knees before him. 

“You smell terrified,” Geralt says bluntly, raising his chin in a challenge. “I could smell it from the hall.” 

Jaskier purses his lips briefly, annoyed. He’s trying to be the bigger person and stick to his own quarters, but the surprise fire and a bloodhound witcher are complicating the entire plan. 

“Just a bad dream,” he dismisses, and Geralt looks behind him to his bed, still clearly made and not slept in. 

“A dream on your knees?” He asks, clearly dubious. 

Jaskier contemplates jumping on the easy joke presented by the question, but he resists. 

“I’m getting into religion now,” he says, with a careless toss of his head. “Woke up, decided to pray, got surprised when you knocked.” There. A clear, believable narrative. 

Well, a clear, believable narrative for anyone other than Jaskier. 

“You’re not religious,” Geralt says, tipping back to sit cross-legged. He props his weight back on his hands, and Jaskier resists the urge to throw a pillow at him to make him look a little less comfortable. He doesn’t want Geralt to be comfortable. He wants Geralt to leave so Jaskier can wallow in peace and figure out how to put out his fire without getting near it. 

“Maybe I’ve gotten into it since the mountain,” Jaskier says, hoping that it’ll be a sore spot for Geralt the way it is for him, at least a little. From the flicker of emotion across Geralt’s face, it is. 

He tries to feel victorious when Geralt pushes himself to his feet. This is what he wanted after all. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Geralt says, leaving without a backwards glance. 

The victory feels really fucking close to a loss. 

*

Jaskier skips breakfast the next morning, having stayed up too late to watch the fire until it finally burned low enough that he didn’t feel he had to keep an eye on it. He wakes at the same time he has been, but his body feels heavy. He feels almost feverish, but he decides that must just be the result of spending a night warm instead of chilled. He manages to drag himself out of bed, but the idea of going through the whole routine with his hand just exhausts him too much to bother doing it, so he decides one morning of skipping it will be fine. He’ll just make up for it that night. 

His body feels cumbersome as he walks down to the library, and his head reels a little. He leans against a wall and breathes at a few points and decides it must just be a combination of too little sleep and no breakfast. 

His work that day isn’t his best by far, and when he drags himself back to the center of the vast space with a new armful of books to repair, he stops short when he finds a full quarter of a loaf of bread next to soft goat cheese dripping in honey and some cold slices of venison. There’s a small slip of parchment next to it with writing in Geralt’s utilitarian hand. 

Eat. 

Jaskier isn’t actually that hungry–in fact his belly feels a little queasy–but he also doesn’t know if he can manage to sneak the food back without Geralt noticing. Having already invaded his bed more than once and interrupted his ability to romp with his witch, Jaskier knows he owes Geralt. 

Eating with one hand, he traces his fingers over the letters, imagining the movement of Geralt’s hand writing them. For all that he likes his own florid script, he’s always admired Geralt’s clear handwriting, decisive and precise, just like the man himself. He’s teased Geralt before about having a future as a scribe, and the witcher always rolled his eyes, but he’d always complied easily enough when Jaskier’s hand had tired but his mind had had more to write. Jaskier treasures his notebooks with sections of clear, forthright handwriting, representing nights when Geralt had watched Jaskier wince and massage at his hand before pulling the notebook and quill away with a grumble. 

Drunk and hurting and lurking at Priscilla’s house to nurse his broken heart in peace, Jaskier had actually burned one of the books with the pages flipped open to a particularly long section of Geralt’s writing in it, feeling a vindictive thrill of pleasure as he watched the flames consume it. It had given him the inspiration for “Burn Butcher, Burn,” and by the time he had scribbled down the rough outline of the song, the notebook had been charred beyond saving. He had felt a surge of petty satisfaction, but the feeling had been immediately subsumed by a sense of loss, at losing something that proved that he and Geralt had once been a part of each other’s lives. 

He had fished out the remains of the notebook with a fire poker and touched it gently with his fingertips like he was inspecting a wound. 

He’d thought of that book during Fire Fucker’s torture. 

He wonders sometimes if he wrote his own future. 

*

He only spends a little bit of time at supper that night, feeling exhausted and mildly achy. He purposefully sits at the other end of the table from Geralt to avoid any questions he doesn’t want to answer and to remove the temptation to lean into the witcher’s warmth. There’s been a chill in his bones that he just hasn’t been able to shake all day, even when he gave himself the luxury of sitting in a square of sunlight through a window. 

He still catches Geralt stealing glances at him, but he fixes that quickly enough by starting a game with Lambert, who’s sitting diagonally from him. The game starts as trying to throw pieces of bread in his mouth, and it soon morphs into a free-for-all of everyone trying to outdo each other with trickshots. With witcher reflexes, there’s no food wasting, but there’s plenty of riotous laughter when throws mean someone has to dive for the floor. Ciri acquits herself admirably well, and she’s the only one who gets Geralt to participate, tossing pieces of cheese at him from her place at his side. He rolls his eyes at her but catches each one until he presses her hand back down as a signal to stop. She heeds the silent request, but her eyes sparkle with laughter and mischief, and she starts a new game of trying to land bits of crust in Lambert’s hair. 

It makes Jaskier feel proud, to be able to create something for her to laugh at, and it also lets him sneak away after he finishes his half-portion, which already sits in his stomach like a rock. He has the sensation of being watched as he leaves, and as a countermeasure, he doesn’t go directly back to his room. 

He noses about the keep for a while and eventually finds a few rooms laid out in dormitory style, neat rows of small beds. They’re covered in thick layers of dust, which isn’t unusual in a keep with so many rooms and too few people to allocate to cleaning unused rooms, but the layer here seems even thicker than in other rooms he’s stumbled across. 

He walks through the room quietly, feeling as if he’s intruding on a place that’s either holy or haunted. The size of the beds tells him that they were meant for children, and he aches, a bit, imagining the rows of boys that once filled them. He tries to picture a tiny Geralt in one, but that makes his heart hurt too much, imagining a Geralt with a rounded baby face and hair in a color other than white shivering in a bed all by himself, still too small to keep away things that could hurt him, sick from mutations that would one day make him an outcast. 

Something partially sticking out under the mattress of one the beds catches his eye, and he crosses to it, kneeling and tugging gently until it comes loose. He cradles it gently in his hands and finds a rough approximation of a doll, rags twisted and clumsily bound in thick thread into a rough approximation of a skirt and arms and head. The face has a slightly crooked smile stitched on with two broken buttons as eyes. It’s very clearly a child’s toy made by a child, and Jaskier presses it to his chest for a moment, eyes filling. He wonders what happened to the owner of the toy, whether he simply grew too old to keep playing with it, or if he died before he outgrew it. He wonders if he made the toy for himself or if another witcher child, seeing someone who needed something to cuddle close, made it for him, a gesture of kindness from someone who received too little themselves. 

Jaskier remains on his knees a long while, embracing the doll. 

Eventually he carefully tucks it back under the mattress where he found it, giving the side of it a gentle pat. He wipes his sleeves over his eyes and only then realizes how cold he’s gotten, his tears frigid on his face. 

He staggers a bit when he rises, lightheaded, and takes a moment to gather himself before he leaves, giving the beds one last look before he goes, sending a wish of peace and rest to the boys who once slept in them, those who grew into men who fought monsters and those who died when they were still young enough to need a toy to cuddle. 

*

He’s shaking slightly when he returns to his room, and he feels alternately too hot and too cold. Not sleeping enough doesn’t usually hit him so hard, but he has been more active than he usually is, he can allow. 

When he arrives at his room, he pauses in the doorway. 

His fire is already lit, crackling merrily behind its grate. 

He lets himself have one little fretful footstomp of frustration before he enters and shuts the door, leaning against it and resting his forehead against the wood. It’s good to have a warm room, but he knows already that he’s going to spend half the night watching the fire. 

He edges along the wall, giving the fire an absurd amount of space, and tugs off his boots. The rest of his clothes he leaves on, and after a moment, he forgoes changing the bandages on his hand. He feels weary down to his bones, and the idea of going through the entire process makes him nearly want to cry. 

He flops down on his bed and shifts backwards until his back is pressed to the wall. He keeps his eyes clenched shut for as long as he dares, but eventually he has to open them, watching the fire as it burns. It almost seems to beckon for him, its flames waving in mocking gestures of welcome. 

He watches it until it burns low, and then stares for a while longer at the glowing coals. 

*

His days after pass in a similar fashion. 

As he suspected, he finds out it’s Geralt lighting his hearth when he catches the witcher coming out of his room one day. Geralt looks flustered at being caught, but Jaskier gives him a grin, determined not to show that he’s hurt. If the witcher doesn’t want him to share, he could just say so, but Jaskier doesn’t know how to ask him to stop lighting fires. 

His appetite grows smaller and smaller, and it becomes a challenge to disguise how little he eats. He should be eating more, he knows, but even the few bites he does manage make him feel sick. He alternates between too hot and too cold, and he feels sore all over, like he’s been bucked around on a horse then tossed down a hill. It’s alarming, but he chalks it up to too little sleep, which is not aided by having to stare at a fire all night by himself. 

He starts taking walks at night by himself. It’s probably not a good idea to leave the fire unattended, but if Geralt feels it’s protected enough by the grate to be safe, Jaskier will trust his judgment. He still doesn’t have a great grasp on the layout of Kaer Morhen, but he knows enough to avoid the hallway Geralt’s room is on, uninterested in picking up any noises of him and the witch enjoying Geralt’s newly bard-free nights. 

Tonight, he feels extra wobbly, his legs as wobbly and unsteady as a fawn’s. Jaskier’s head swims suddenly, and his vision tunnels. A lurch in his stomach makes him think he’s going to throw up, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind, his ears are ringing too hard for him to focus on it. He staggers, trying to reach for a wall, but his hand meets only air. He feels hot and cold all over, waves of both crashing over him in a dizzying pattern. He tries to find a wall again, but once more, he’s just flailing wildly at nothing. 

Finally, he just can’t keep his feet anymore and goes down hard. He thinks he cries out at the impact, but his head feels too scrambled to keep up with any of it. He tries once to push himself up, but he has no sense of up or down, and that makes the process rather difficult. 

Blackness overcomes him before he manages to work it out. 

*

He comes to in a shock of cold and jerks instinctually, trying to get away. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows he doesn’t like it, and that’s more than enough for him to decide to make a bid for escape. 

“You’re alright,” comes a soothing bass rumble, one giant hand moving in slow strokes up and down his spine. “I’ve got you. You’re fine.” 

Jaskier recognizes the voice but can’t entirely work out if Geralt is talking to him or himself, but he at least doesn’t seem to expect a response. That’s good, probably. Jaskier lets himself float, relaxing slightly at the reassurance of Geralt near, and after a moment, he realizes it isn’t just his head floating. His entire body seems to be floating. Alarmed, he starts to flail again, but a strong hand catches his wrists. He panics at that, not entirely sure why but knowing that it only means bad things when someone has hold of his hands. 

“Sh,” comes Geralt’s voice, “Jask, calm down. I’ve got you. You’re fine.” 

Jaskier doesn’t feel fine, but he makes himself stop moving so frantically. His body feels achy, still, and Geralt is many things, but he’s not a liar. If he says Jaskier is fine, then he means it. Even on his worst day, Geralt wouldn’t lie about that. The rumble of the witcher’s voice starts again, but his head seems to be facing away now, maybe talking to someone else, and Jaskier can’t quite make out the words. He just leans back, realizing after a moment that he’s supported by Geralt’s arm, the witcher’s bicep beneath his head and his forearm along his back. He’s in a tub, he thinks, but it’s a frigid tub, not a nice leisurely soak.

Someone grabs his right hand, and that sends him into a frenzy again. He arches, tugging, and the hold releases. The momentum of it means that his hand slams against the side of whatever vessel he’s in, and he screams with the shock of pain. Immediately, there’s a large hand against his face. 

“Jask,” Geralt’s voice again, this time strained. “You’re alright. You’re safe, I promise. Can you open your eyes?” 

Jaskier takes a moment to process the request before he tries to comply, but his eyelids feel like weighted stones. Still, the flutter of his lashes is apparently enough progress for Geralt, who speaks again. 

“There you go. C’mon, Jask. Look at me, please.” 

Jaskier can’t resist the plea in the witcher’s tone and finally manages to obey. His vision is blurry, but once he focuses, he sees Geralt’s face right above his, lines of tension around his eyes that slacken slightly when he sees Jaskier awake. 

“There you are,” Geralt says, the relief in his voice palpable. Jaskier blinks at him blankly when the witcher brings a hand up to rest against his cheek before smoothing over his hair, pulling away strands where they stick to his face. 

“What,” Jaskier manages in a croak, but Geralt, bless every muscled inch of him, seems to understand. Some of the tension returns to his face. 

“Your hand got infected,” he says, and Jaskier can see how much he wants to follow that up with a scolding. He shrinks slightly, afraid of a repeat of the mountain, but Geralt just exhales heavily, hanging his head a moment before he looks up. “You’re burning with fever. We had to get you into cool water to bring it down.” 

Before Jaskier can respond to that, he feels someone taking his hand again, and he tries to yank it away again with a cry, but Geralt moves to brace him and then wraps a hand around his forearm, pinning it into place. He gives the witcher a betrayed look that makes Geralt wince, but the witcher just ducks his head, pressing it to Jaskier’s. 

“Yen’s just here to heal you, Jask, that’s all. We can’t let the infection continue. It could kill you.” 

That doesn’t sound great, but Jaskier still flinches and whines, low in his throat, when he feels hands around his again. He blinks until his eyes focus enough to make out Yennefer, who gives him a tight smile. 

“What?” She says, voice forcibly light. “You weren’t the center of attention for two minutes and had to get it back?” 

That’s too much for Jaskier to process, and before he can come up with a response, the witch bows her head over his hand. He feels a flow of magic go beneath his skin and shouts, thrashing for freedom. It’s Yennefer, he knows it’s Yennefer, but he also knows what happened the last time he felt magic beneath his skin. There’s no space for logic in his mind. There’s only terror. 

He’s hauled upwards in the tub, and soon there are two massive arms embracing him, holding him still in the same gesture. He whimpers, and Geralt makes shushing noises. 

“It’s alright,” he says, and his low voice might be soothing if Jaskier weren’t so terrified. “You’re alright, Jaskier. She’s helping you.” 

Jaskier wants to trust Geralt, but fear is driving his mind, already fuzzy. He tries to pull away again, and this time he succeeds, ripping it out of Yennefer’s hold. He tries to curl over it protectively, but Geralt’s arms restrain him. 

“-Sign,” he hears Yennefer say, and Geralt makes a displeased noise behind him. “He’s going to lose that hand or worse if I don’t fix it, and this is cruel, Geralt.” 

He’s not entirely sure what the context is, but everything at present feels rather cruel, so Jaskier is on her side, he decides. 

Geralt makes one more displeased noise, but then he’s moving, settling Jaskier back against one arm and moving to his side. Jaskier blinks at him blankly for a moment before he moves his hand in a familiar Sign, and the world goes fuzzy. 

“You’re calm,” comes Geralt’s voice, and Jaskier realizes he’s right. He is calm. “You’re not afraid.” What would Jaskier have to be afraid of? Nothing’s scary. “You’re going to relax and sleep.” 

That seems like the best idea yet, and Jaskier starts slipping away immediately. Before he fully fades, he could swear he feels a gentle press of lips to his hairline and a whisper of, “Dream something good.” 

*

Jaskier’s next awakening, when he finally rouses from a beautiful dream he can’t quite recall, is less dramatic. 

He feels achy, still, but nowhere near the way he did before. He also feels less feverish, which is a relief. 

His mouth feels like a desert, and he turns his head in hopes of finding water nearby. Instead, he finds Geralt, sprawled in a chair with his head tilted at what can’t be a comfortable angle. Jaskier is reluctant to wake him, but he’s horrifically thirsty and also mildly concerned about the witcher’s neck. 

“Geralt,” he rasps. As quiet as the name is, it rouses Geralt at once. He sits up immediately, letting out a breath like he’s been punched when his eyes fall on Jaskier. 

Jaskier lets out a muffled little noise when he finds himself in a fierce hug, but Geralt just presses tighter for a moment before pulling back, helping Jaskier to lean back against the pillows. Before Jaskier can ask, he’s pouring water into a tin cup and helping him hold it, pulling it away before Jaskier thinks he’s had his fill, but his protest goes unheeded. 

“You’ll make yourself sick,” Geralt says, setting the cup out of reach. 

“Thirsty,” Jaskier says plaintively, but Geralt doesn’t pour him more. 

“You can have some more in a bit,” Geralt says, fluffing up a pillow, which goes a long ways towards Jaskier being less mad at him. It’s horribly difficult to be mad when Geralt frets like a motherhen. 

“What happened?” Jaskier asks, leaning back against the pillows more comfortably. 

Geralt’s lips press together briefly in displeasure, and Jaskier nearly regrets asking. 

“Your hand you didn’t tell anyone about got infected and almost killed you,” he says, clearly angry. “I found you on the floor out of your mind, burning up to the point of having a convulsive fit.” 

Jaskier winces. That’s…not an ideal situation. 

“Oops?” He tries in a play at levity, but Geralt’s face says he’s not anywhere near ready to joke about this. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Geralt’s voice is a growl, and it’s horribly similar to how he sounded on the mountain. Jaskier’s breath suddenly seems to come only with more effort. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Even with his best efforts, he’s just fucked it up. Stupid, so fucking st- 

Geralt is very suddenly in front of him again, hands on both shoulders. 

“Take a breath,” Geralt says, his voice low and calmer now. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier gasps. “I’m sorry-I-” 

“No, I’m sorry,” Geralt says, rubbing one hand slowly over his arm. “You’re not well, still. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jaskier says before he thinks about it. 

Instead of getting angry, though, Geralt just looks ashamed. 

“Is that why you haven’t talked to me?” Geralt asks, looking up at him. 

“I…” Jaskier trails off. “I have talked to you.” It’s a lame response, and he knows it. 

“Not about anything important,” Geralt says. “And you don’t want to sleep with me anymore.” 

Jaskier sees the exact moment Geralt registers what that sounds like, but the witcher doesn’t take it back. 

“I didn’t want to impose,” Jaskier says, only realizing for the first time that he’s settled in Geralt’s bed, not his. “Like I am now.” 

“You’re not imposing,” Geralt says, looking slightly confused. “I-” He cuts himself off briefly before he apparently decides to continue. “I like sharing with you.” 

“You don’t have to lie,” Jaskier says, feeling tired suddenly. He knows he looks a sight right now, probably pale and sickly, but it makes him feel worse that Geralt would lie after Jaskier heard that he wasn’t wanted here. “I heard you with Yennefer.” 

“What?” Geralt is frowning. “If you heard me with Yen…” His brow furrows before he seems to reach a conclusion. “If you don’t feel the same way, Jaskier, I’m not going to push you into anything. You have to know that, right? I’d thought-” He cuts himself off with a small shake of his head. “No, that doesn’t matter. But Jaskier, it doesn't matter if you don’t love me back, I swear. I don’t expect anything from you. I want what we had before, if you’ll let me try, but I’m not going to pressure you into anything.” 

Jaskier thinks he might have died. Died and woken up in a very bizarre afterlife. 

“You wanted me out of your bed so you could fuck Yennefer,” Jaskier says, not understanding why Geralt looks confused. 

“That’s not-I thought you heard me?” Geralt seems genuinely perplexed now. “Yen and I aren’t fucking. We’re friends, and she’s helping to raise Ciri, but she and I don’t work together. We’ve accepted that.” 

“But she was telling you you needed to tell me how you felt!” Jaskier exclaims, sitting up. He thinks he might still be feverish and imagining things. Geralt’s speaking gibberish, and it’s because Jaskier’s brain is cooking itself.

“Yes, that I love you!” Geralt says back with force, before he realizes what he said and what volume he said it at. He sits back and seems to steady himself. “That’s what she wanted me to tell you.” 

That is…not what Jaskier had been anticipating.

“But I heard you say you didn’t want it when you were snuggled up to me,” Jaskier insists. 

“No,” Geralt says slowly, like he’s talking to a small child, “I said I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable that night because I didn’t know how you felt.” He fidgets, briefly, and Jaskier knows that he wants to hide behind his hair. 

“You can’t be serious,” Jaskier says flatly. “I’ve followed along after you for twenty years, and you don’t think I love you?”

“I haven’t exactly done a lot to deserve it,” Geralt points out. 

“The mountain was a prick move,” Jaskier agrees, and Geralt looks down, clearly ashamed. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking back up. “You don’t have to forgive me, but I am.” 

“Did you mean it?” Jaskier asks before he can think about it, the question that’s haunted him since it happened. 

“No,” Geralt says immediately. “I was angry, and you were there. You’ve never been a trial to me, Jaskier. Life gave me a gift when it gave me you.” 

From Geralt, that’s practically a thirty-stanza love poem, and Jaskier tears up immediately, dropping forward until he can rest against Geralt’s chest. Slowly, the witcher’s arms come up around him, resting lightly until Jaskier shuffles closer, and then pressing more firmly. When Jaskier speaks, his voice is muffled against Geralt’s chest. 

“I’m still mad at you,” he says. 

Geralt just ducks his head, pressing his cheek to Jaskier’s temple. 

“You have a right to.” 

“You were a real prick.” 

“I was.” 

“A complete ass.” 

An affirmative hum. 

“You’re making it very hard to pick a fight with you.” 

Geral snorts. 

“I’d like to not fight anymore.” 

“I still reserve the right to smack you around with a stick at some point in the future,” Jaskier says, leaning back and taking Geralt with him. The witcher moves easily enough, settling on his back and letting Jaskier rest over him, his head on his shoulder. 

“If you come down to the training field, you can smack me around as much as you want,” Geralt points out, and Jaskier raises his head enough to give him a look. 

“The training field is far more fun as a spectator sport, I assure you. No, I’ll be slapping you about with a stick at my leisure, and you’ll never see it coming.” 

“Fair enough,” Geralt says with a small smile, guiding Jaskier’s head back down. 

They’re quiet for a while, Geralt stroking one hand in long, slow strokes along his back. Jaskier is half-asleep when the witcher speaks again. 

“Your hand was because of Fire Fucker.” It’s more a sentence than a question, but Jaskier makes a noise of confirmation anyway. It’s not exactly something he wants to talk about, but he figures finding a bard insensate on the floor entitles Geralt to a few uncomfortable truths. “That’s why you haven’t lit a fire in your room?”

Jaskier nods, his cheek scuffing against Geralt’s shirt. 

“So lighting a fire in your room wasn’t helpful.” Geralt’s voice is flat, but Jaskier can’t help but smile. 

“Why’d you do it anyway?” His suspicion had been that Geralt didn’t want to have to share, but that seems up in the air now. 

Geralt presses slightly harder with his hand. 

“You didn’t want to share with me, but it was still freezing in your room.” Geralt’s voice is defensive, and it just makes Jaskier smile wider. “I didn’t want you to get cold just because you didn’t want to sleep in my room.” 

“I appreciate it,” Jaskier says, daring to push himself up enough to kiss Geralt’s cheek. It’s not the first time he’s done it in their years together, but it feels like it carries a different weight now. 

“It terrified you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can hear the guilt in his voice. 

He leans up on an elbow so he can look down at him, pushing a strand of hair back behind his ear. 

“You didn’t know,” he says. 

Geralt leans into the touch for a moment before he looks back. 

“I would know if you’d told me,” he points out, a clear invitation to explain more. 

Jaskier drops back down, tucking his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck. 

“It was Fire Fucker,” he starts, and Geralt resumes his steady stroking. “He wanted information about you.” The stroking pauses for the briefest moment before continuing. “I didn’t tell him anything, I swear!” 

“I know you wouldn’t,” Geralt says, voice confident. 

“But now…” Jaskier trails off, biting his lip. “Now me and fire aren’t on speaking terms.” 

He half expects laughter, it’s such an absurd thing to fear, but Geralt just continues to caress him with slow, even strokes. 

“Is it all fire?” Geralt asks at last. 

Jaskier flushes slightly. 

“All,” he confirms, voice small. “I’m sorry, I know it’s fucking-” 

Geralt cuts him off by tugging him up, hesitating for a moment before leaning in. Jaskier meets him halfway in a kiss, and it’s everything he ever imagined it would feel like. When they part, he feels a little giddy and shaky, but this time not in a rampant infection burning in his body way. 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Geralt tells him, voice gentle. He reaches up and cups Jaskier’s face in one hand. Jaskier closes his eyes and leans into it. “Fuck, Jask, I’m s-” 

Jaskier presses a gentle hand over his lips, smiling when Geralt kisses his fingers despite the look he gives him. 

“You don’t have to be sorry for Fire Fucker,” Jaskier tells him, continuing when Geralt looks dubious. “This might come as stunning news to you, you beautiful masochist, but not every ill in the world is your fault.” 

“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” Geralt says, sounding pained. “If I hadn’t left you, it wouldn’t have happened.” 

“You don’t know that,” Jaskier tells him, not giving him a chance to protest. “We can’t change the past, darling,” Geralt’s face goes soft at the endearment, “we can only do what we can now.” 

“And what should we do now?” Geralt asks him, stroking his hair back. 

Jaskier yawns, and Geralt gives him a soft, crinkle-eyed smile. 

“Sleep might be nice,” Jaskier offers, settling down against the witcher’s chest. 

Geralt hums a noise in response. 

*

When they go down to breakfast the next morning, Yennefer gives them both a teasing look, although she blessedly holds her tongue in front of the group. Jaskier takes a seat next to Geralt and jumps slightly when the witcher’s foot hooks around his own, although he quickly settles, giving Geralt a private smile as he passes a jug of juice down. 

The witcher fills his plate for him and watches as he finishes it. It’s another conversation he knows they’re going to have to have, guilt still niggling at the back of his head about not deserving such a full belly, but it makes Geralt look so relieved when he finishes it that he can’t feel too badly about it. 

*

There’s a humorous little shuffle outside of Jaskier’s room that night, both of them awkwardly trying to ask what the other person wants without actually putting it in words. After a moment, though, Geralt just extends his hand. Jaskier takes it in his own, but the sensation of having it held sends a tremor of fear through him despite the fact that he knows he’s safe. Geralt gives him a concerned look but evidently reads the situation immediately, releasing his hand. 

Jaskier mourns the loss and is poised to apologize at having to reject what should be an easy gesture of affection when Geralt wraps an arm around his shoulder instead, pulling him tight to his side. Jaskier returns the gesture, slipping an arm around his solid waist and squeezing lightly. 

Geralt makes an inquisitive noise, and Jaskier leans in more, resting his head against his shoulder. 

“Perfect,” he says, and Geralt leans in to kiss his temple before leading him back to his room. 

*

Jaskier wakes up before the sun is fully out, just the slightest smudge of light showing through the window. There’s a rumble against his back, Geralt purring, and he smiles and presses closer. The arm around his waist squeezes tighter. 

“Sleep,” comes Geralt’s low rumble, and Jaskier closes his eyes once more, resting one hand over Geralt’s. 

“Love you,” he whispers into the quiet warmth of the room. 

Lips press to the back of his neck and to the sensitive skin on the side of his throat. When Geralt speaks, it’s a low murmur of words next to the shell of his ear that gives him goosebumps. 

“Love you, too,” he says, moving closer until there’s no part of them that isn’t touching. 

Warm enough to barely need a blanket, Jaskier begins to slip off. 

He falls asleep smiling.