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Sometimes, Jaskier feels like Geralt’s got his heart in his mouth. Pristine teeth poised over a still-beating organ, blood on his tongue and dripping down his chin. The threat of a bite that doesn’t quite ever come, a promise of pain that’s never followed through on.
Except that’s just the opposite of the truth, isn’t it? Back on the mountain, Geralt didn’t hesitate to bite down, tearing through flesh and blood-slick meat until all Jaskier knows is pain. Even now, his heart stitched haphazardly back together with blood still leaking through the seams, he’s all too aware of how fragile it is, and of just how often he still feels deep-rooted hurt.
And maybe it’s telling that when Geralt came back into his life, albeit less covered in gore and without the stench of death surrounding him, Jaskier was all too ready to offer his heart back up, to watch Geralt place it on his tongue and hold that power over him all over again. That maybe Jaskier is willing to let him bite again if it means for a while he gets to feel okay.
None of it is Geralt’s fault, after all; he’s a Witcher, trained and raised to do nothing but kill for coin. Blood stains his hands and swords and runs in streams behind him; there’s no denying that. It was Jaskier who’d been stupid enough to think maybe there was more to him than that and was still stupid enough to try and believe that still.
But who is Jaskier without Geralt? Trailing after him all that time, tripping him up at every turn and glorifying his victories shot him to fame, and then after Geralt left, Jaskier wrote songs about him still, and those were successful too. Geralt’s his muse, and Jaskier is his bard, and that’s how it is.
It’s why now he’s freezing his ass off in a tiny, rat-infested room in Kaer Morhen, smarting and slightly bloody and exhausted beyond belief. If he wasn’t so tied to Geralt, maybe he’d have turned tail and ran when the Deathless Mother first made her appearance, dropping the “fearless companion” mantle in a heartbeat. But he stayed, and now he has to deal with the consequences.
He draws his ratty, thin blanket up closer to his chin, curling in on himself in the hopes of preserving some warmth. He thinks vaguely that whatever he expected Kaer Morhen to be, it wasn’t this, and if Geralt didn’t speak so fondly of this place, he’d have loudly made his distaste known and left. And maybe only now, as Jaskier thinks on it, his devotion to Geralt runs a little too deep to be easily described or to be considered something normal.
The door to his room creaking open startles him, and he bolts upright in bed, the blanket still clutched close as he locks gazes with Geralt. In the dark, the Witcher is a hulking figure, one that would almost be intimidating if Jaskier didn’t know better. He breaks into an easy smile despite himself and almost swears he can spot blood on Geralt’s chin.
“Can’t even let a man sleep?” he quips before Geralt can speak, and watches the slight tension drain from the Witcher’s shoulders almost instantly.
“It’s one of the colder nights here. Thought you could use extra blankets.”
Jaskier tsks, and lifts his own tatty blanket for effect. “What, with
this
incredible blanket? I’m perfectly fine, which is why I’m still awake and freezing my fucking ass off.”
Geralt lets out a small huff, the closest Jaskier’s ever heard him get to laughing. “Here. Wolfskin. It should keep the chill off.”
Jaskier barely manages to catch the hide thrown at him, soft and fluffy and significantly warmer than the blanket he already has. It makes him pause, though, and consider the fact that Geralt thought of him when the chill started to seep in.
“Thanks,” he says, somewhat begrudgingly. Geralt seems like he wants to speak, like he’s hovering on the edge of something more, but instead, he just hesitates, then turns and leaves the room without a word.
Jaskier glances down at the wolfskin, then up at the door. He wishes he knew what Geralt had been thinking, but maybe he was better off not. He draws the animal hide up over himself and settles back down, closing his eyes and praying sleep takes him soon.
***************
Jaskier stares dubiously at the wooden training sword in his grip. “I’m an artist, not a fighter. I’ve you for all the… stabby, murder shit.”
Geralt’s lips quirk up into a slight, barely-there smile. “It’s just basic self-defence, Jaskier. Enough that I won’t have to fight all your battles for you.”
“I fight plenty of battles,” Jaskier retaliates, brandishing the training sword in the least threatening way he possibly could without realising it. “Just verbal ones, not physical.”
“Come on, Jaskier. Humour me.”
He glances up at the Witcher, then back down at the sword. “Alright, alright- Go easy on me, would you? I don’t fancy losing my head.”
Geralt flexes his grip on his own training sword, repositioning his hold slightly. “Have at me.”
Jaskier shifts his footing, then takes a half-hearted swing at Geralt. The Witcher bats it away effortlessly, letting out a small noise of disappointment.
“You can do better than that, Bard.”
Jaskier’s eyes narrow. If Geralt’s going to insist on training him, then who’s he to argue? He should at least give it his best shot; besides, Geralt might have a point about being able to fight his own battles. He’s growing a little sick of being the damsel in distress in nearly every situation.
This time, he puts more effort into his attack. It’s to no avail, though, as Geralt easily blocks and then swiftly disarms him, leaving Jaskier defenceless and more than a little impressed.
“What the fuck was that?” he snaps instead, gesturing wildly. “ That was you going easy on me?”
“Failure is a tool. You learn more from it than success.” Geralt leans down to pick up Jaskier’s sword before handing it back to him. “Try again.”
Jaskier bats the sword away indignantly. “The muses speak to me, and I transcribe it. I don’t dirty my hands with bloodshed and senseless violence.”
Geralt just raises an eyebrow at him. The bard sighs, then holds his hand out.
“Fine, I’ll lose again.”
Geralt presses the sword into Jaskier’s grip. He curls his fingers around it and shifts his footing again, resigned to train until Geralt deems it enough. He has no doubt he’s never going to be a skilled fighter, and that cowering behind Geralt is going to be his place forever more, but being able to hold his own for more than a few heartbeats would probably be a good idea.
“Come at me, Witcher,” is the last thing he speaks for the rest of the day, by the end of training the breath driven from him and bruises already forming. He retreats to his room muttering a million curses, the wooden training sword abandoned in the snow.
*************
Jaskier hates monsters, actually. Sprinting through the snow-coated mountains, trying not to trip up, the roaring of some creature echoing behind him, he thinks that if he never encounters a monster ever again, it’ll be too soon. He can hear the sounds of battle, the yells of Witchers, and dimly wonders if he should try and write a song about this.
“Jaskier!”
He turns his head sharply and nearly trips over his own feet; Geralt stands there with blood splattered across his face and his sword hanging loosely by his side. The look on his face speaks of danger, deathly serious, and reassures Jaskier that running was the right choice.
“Keep following the trail.” Geralt casts his gaze back up the mountain as the monster roars again. “To the nearest town. Stay there, and I’ll get you when it’s safe.”
“What the fuck even is that?” he asks instead.
“Something new.” Geralt turns his gaze back to Jaskier. “Now move. ”
Jaskier almost turns, but pauses. “You will come back, won’t you?”
The underlying fears are all too easy to read in his tone, the worry that Geralt will leave him again, or worse- that he’ll die. Slain where he stands, doing what he always does, fighting monsters for the sake of the world.
But Geralt, in all his intelligence and perception, offers that slight smile, reassurance in the best way he can. “Of course I will.”
Right before his very eyes, Geralt’s removing Jaskier’s heart from his mouth, easing it carefully past deadly teeth and wiping the blood from his chin. Then he’s pressing a kiss to it, and pushing it back into Jaskier’s chest with a gentle, “Go. Wait for me.”
And Jaskier just nods, not trusting himself to speak, then he turns and picks up the pace again, scrambling his way down the trail while Geralt turns back in the opposite direction, and pretends it doesn’t hurt with every step.
**************
Three days. That’s how long Jaskier stays in the town’s tavern; he struck a deal with the owner, wherein he’d play in the evenings, and in return would receive a room and a hot meal. The arrangement worked well enough for him, and he did miss performing, but he lies awake far into the night thinking of Kaer Morhen, and of Geralt.
If he dies, would anyone come to tell him? Or would Jaskier be left to rot in this tavern until he finally gives up on waiting?
Luckily, that doesn’t happen. On the third night, right as Jaskier settles down into a seat at the back of the tavern, a hulking figure steps inside, clad in armour and still bloodied. Golden eyes fall on the bard, bright as ever.
“Jaskier.”
“Geralt,” he replies in kind, trying not to let the relief show too evidently in his voice. The Witcher sits down heavily beside Jaskier as another bard begins to play, a song that starts off soft and light. One Jaskier knows all too well, and wishes he didn’t.
Geralt’s relaxed posture changes the second the chorus of the song kicks in. He stiffens up, and Jaskier stares down at the table, feeling the Witcher’s gaze bore into him. Geralt’s not an idiot, and it doesn’t take much brainpower to know who wrote the song, anyway.
“You thought I’d leave you again.” Geralt’s voice is quiet, his words uncharacteristically soft. Jaskier swallows back the lump in his throat, and prays Geralt can’t hear his heartrate quicken with anxiety.
“You didn’t give me reason to believe otherwise.”
Tense silence holds over them for a moment before Geralt breaks it. “Come back to Kaer Morhen with me, and when Ciri and I leave… Come with us.”
Jaskier leans back in his seat with a humourless laugh. “What, to trip you up and get in danger at every turn? You don’t need me.”
“No. But I
want
you.” Geralt meets Jaskier’s gaze carefully. “I was stupid enough not to realise that earlier.”
Suddenly, Jaskier feels like he’s the one with a heart in his mouth. Geralt’s heart, beating and battle-hardened yet still vulnerable, settled between his teeth and leaving metallic tasting blood on his tongue. He finds himself grinning despite himself.
“Well, I suppose singing your praises again couldn’t hurt.”
Geralt looks beyond relieved, like he couldn’t bear the thought of Jaskier refusing. “We’ll go in the morning.”
“In the morning,” Jaskier echoes softly, leaning back in his seat with a soft smile across his face.
********
Kaer Morhen is more bearable when Jaskier isn’t alone. Geralt seems dedicated to proving he wants the bard around, and it would come off as smothering if Jaskier wasn’t revelling in the attention. As much as he’d resented Geralt for abandoning him on the mountaintop, he’d never truly stopped hoping to find him again, and now that he’s got him, he doesn’t want to let go.
In the evening, as the chill creeps in again and Jaskier takes his leave for the night, Geralt follows him up to his room. Somehow it feels familiar and welcome, like the two of them just existing in the same space is how it should be.
“You’ve still got the wolfskin?” Geralt asks after a moment, and Jaskier lifts it slightly up from the bed.
“Better than the blanket Vessemir left for me.”
Geralt makes a noise of affirmation. “Keeps off the chill.”
Then, without any build-up, rhyme or reason, Geralt leans down, tilts Jaskier’s head up with a hand, and kisses him. It’s brief, gentle and soft, and Jaskier can’t even process it fully before Geralt’s pulled away.
“Goodnight, Jaskier.”
Then he’s gone, and all Jaskier can do is sit down heavily on his bed, smiling like an idiot and all too warm considering the freezing weather.