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Nights at Kaer Morhen have been overwhelmingly focused on Jaskier.
That isn’t necessarily a problem - Jaskier has never in his life minded being the center of attention, or more specifically, the center of Geralt’s attention. With so much going on, so much lost, Jaskier had at first stayed uncharacteristically quiet about the torture, the fire, the entire ordeal. A keep holding far, far less witchers than it had when Jaskier had arrived didn’t feel like the right place to break. It didn’t feel fair, to Jaskier, when everyone around him had been through more than he could possibly imagine.
But he’d been through something too, whether he was willing to admit it to Geralt or not. Trying not to admit it turned out to be a lost cause the moment Ciri handed Jaskier a dinner plate that was just a bit too hot where it made contact with the pads of his fingers. Jaskier had forgotten how to breathe for a moment or two, and Geralt had stared at him with a look of genuine anguish on his face.
So they’d talked. Jaskier told Geralt the story, in the privacy of the bedroom he’d been using, not wanting Ciri to worry despite the fact that she was probably listening with her ear pressed to the door. Geralt had nodded along, as quiet as ever, but his anguished look had morphed into something angry, vengeful, and Jaskier couldn’t tell whether it was supposed to be aimed at Rience or at Geralt himself.
It’s been days since that night, and Geralt has watched Jaskier like a hawk. He finds Jaskier in his spare moments - between training with Ciri, talking about training Ciri with Yennefer, and working with his brothers to bring some sense of normalcy back to this place that feels far more barren than it should, he finds Jaskier, watches him, uses more words than Jaskier’s ever heard him use to ask if Jaskier is alright. If he’s hungry, thirsty. If his bed is comfortable enough, warm enough.
Jaskier had told him, that night, that none of what happened was the least bit Geralt’s fault. That no matter how angry Jaskier could possibly have been, no matter how much he did or didn’t know, he wouldn’t have given Rience a single shred of a trail to Geralt or Ciri. That’s not what a friend would do.
Geralt reeks of guilt regardless.
Each person at Kaer Morhen, no matter how long they’ve been here, has had a chance to break over everything they’ve been through. Jaskier’s had more than one conversation with Yennefer about it all, he's heard Ciri’s shouts in the night from down the hall, followed shortly by heavy, urgent footsteps that could only be Geralt’s. The other witchers, too, have had their chance to mourn, and they’ve taken it.
Everyone but Geralt, and that is one of several reasons why Jaskier has been watching Geralt with the same intensity that Geralt has been watching Jaskier.
Tonight, Geralt doesn’t find Jaskier’s room the way he has every night since their talk. He doesn’t step through the door quietly, feeling a little too much like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, to ask if Jaskier is comfortable. And that’s enough for Jaskier to swallow down his fear of picking up the torch set against the wall, leave the room, and look for him.
It’s a miracle he doesn’t lose his way wandering the halls, everyone around him lost to an unrestful sleep. He doesn’t even necessarily know where to look - Geralt could be anywhere, he could be asleep, for that matter, but he’d been so quiet today, more so than usual, and something uneasy tugs at Jaskier’s chest as he steps quietly through the shadows.
A single beam of moonlight illuminates the next dark hall he turns down. It’s brighter outside than it is inside, which eventually leads Jaskier to the front doors, to the snowy space just outside them, and to Geralt.
Geralt is sitting with his back to Jaskier. He’s staring up at the horses in their pen, all of whom seem to be paying just as much attention to him as he is to them.
“Under a full moon doesn’t seem like the best place for a wolf,” Jaskier teases as he steps forward. Geralt doesn’t turn to face him, but something in the set of his shoulders shifts just slightly. “I’ve heard some very nasty stories.”
Geralt huffs out a noise that sounds more exasperated than anything else. When he speaks, Jaskier can hear the thinly-veiled exhaustion behind his words. “I’m the one who told them.”
“You are indeed,” Jaskier nods. “Where else would I get such riveting songwriting material?”
Geralt doesn’t reply. His gaze is still set on the horses, puffs of hot breath floating up past their noses in the cold night air.
Jaskier could go back inside.
He doesn’t.
He steps forward and rests a tentative hand on Geralt’s shoulder, one that isn’t shrugged off. Geralt hasn’t changed out of the clothes he’d been training Ciri in this afternoon - he feels like a block of ice under Jaskier’s hand, comforting in the way Jaskier has been avoiding heat as of late, but uncomfortable in the way it suggests that Geralt has been sitting here for a very, very long time.
“Is there a reason you’re brooding out here in the cold?”
Unsurprisingly, Geralt doesn’t speak. Jaskier tries again.
“Telling me what’s on your mind won’t kill you, you know. I told you about -” Jaskier pauses, trying not to shudder. He waves a hand vaguely in the air, despite the fact that Geralt isn’t looking at him. “The whole Oxenfurt incident. I promise that whatever you tell me will stay between us. Just this once.”
Geralt’s shoulders slump under Jaskier’s hand. He studies the dirt beside his boots, and then glances back up at the horses, still not looking at Jaskier.
“I lost Roach.”
Oh.
“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes out as he sits. His thigh presses against Geralt’s, and Geralt doesn’t move an inch. “I’m so sorry.”
Geralt shakes his head roughly. “Nothing you could have done. She protected Ciri.”
“I’m sure she did,” Jaskier nods. It’s clear that Geralt needs to talk about this, and it’s clear that he hasn’t yet, to anyone. “She protected you too, for a long time. You’re allowed to mourn.”
“We’ve all lost so much,” Geralt says, his voice low. “Everyone here has lost too much.”
“Too much for you to acknowledge your own pain?” Jaskier leans forward just enough to look into Geralt’s eyes. It’s an odd angle - nothing close to a straight look at Geralt’s face, but there’s a vacancy and an emptiness there that breaks Jaskier’s heart. “There’s only so much you can carry for everyone else.”
Geralt doesn’t argue. Maybe he’s too tired. “She was a good horse.”
“She was a good friend.” Jaskier offers the word to Geralt, and Geralt confirms it with a nod. “I’m sure she knew more of your secrets than even I do.”
The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirks upward. “I did tell her a lot. She always had the decency to keep my stories to herself.”
“Rude,” Jaskier shakes his head. The hand he rests on Geralt’s forearm feels like it’s always belonged there. “I’m guessing you haven't gotten to put her to rest properly.”
“No,” Geralt nearly cuts Jaskier off. “But she deserves that.”
“How about tomorrow we go pick out a tree for her?” Jaskier hopes with everything in him that it doesn’t sound silly or trivial. It’s the nicest option he can think of, out here in the cold. “We can plant some flowers. It can be her spot.”
Geralt is quiet for a long moment. The wind lifts his hair off his shoulders, his side profile a strange combination of soft and harsh in the moonlight. It fills Jaskier with a yearning kind of ache he can’t even begin to think about. Geralt’s voice is the slightest bit unsteady when he speaks. “I’d like that.”
Jaskier nearly tips over with relief. “Then it’s a date. Now let’s go inside before I freeze to death.”
He stands, waiting for Geralt to follow. Geralt stands, too, like he knows that Jaskier won’t leave without him. Maybe he’s gotten some of Jaskier’s stubborn affection through his head after all. He reaches up to rub a hand over the closest horse’s nose before he follows Jaskier through the snow, towards the door, and back inside.
And then he’s following Jaskier down the halls, past Ciri’s room to check on her, and straight to his own door. Jaskier doesn’t give them time to linger - he simply shoves Geralt inside and pulls the door closed behind them.
There’s a fire smoldering in the corner that Jaskier assumes Vesemir or Ciri had something to do with. “Get changed,” Jaskier tells Geralt, who is standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, like one brief conversation has sapped him of all of his energy. “I will not sleep tonight if I know you’re in bed in those filthy clothes.”
Geralt has gone quiet again. Jaskier turns to face the fire, getting as close as his newfound fear will allow, and tries to absorb some heat as he listens to Geralt drop his frigid clothes onto the floor. He doesn’t even know where Geralt keeps his clean clothes, but when he turns a few minutes later, Geralt’s wearing something that looks a bit more suited for sleep. At the very least, the new clothes look warm and dry, and that’s all Jaskier can really hope for.
Geralt wordlessly drops down onto the edge of the bed, like his legs can’t hold him up for one more second. His elbows rest on his knees and his hands hang uselessly between them. Jaskier notices then that they’re shaking.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s heart pounds in his ears. It’s strange how, after spending so much time apart, a moment like this can make it feel like no time at all. “Are you alright?”
“Please talk to me,” Jaskier urges, kneeling in front of Geralt and looking up at him with the same concern that’s lived in the back of his mind since the day they met.
“I don’t deserve this.”
Jaskier shakes his head. “Of course you don’t. You don’t deserve all of this loss, and pain, and -”
“No, Jask. I don’t deserve your kindness.”
There’s so much Jaskier wants to say, but Geralt continues. “They say we don’t feel. That we aren’t capable of it.”
“But you do,” Jaskier manages. “You feel it all so much more than anyone else ever could.”
Geralt crumples. His entire body tilts forward, curling in on itself until he’s nearly folded in half, one hand reaching up to grip at his hair and the other clenched into a fist in his lap. He’s shaking all over now, violent tremors wracking his shoulders, like his body simply can’t contain all of the pain he’s held back for so, so long.
“All that grief,” Jaskier knows he sounds miserable, but it’s for Geralt, so he knows Geralt won’t stop the breakdown he so desperately needs to make sure Jaskier is okay. “For your brothers, for Roach. All that fear for Ciri, all the responsibility you feel you have to protect her. That’s too much for one person, Geralt. It doesn’t matter who that person is. It’s too much.”
“Guilt,” Geralt mumbles. “Anger. Disgust with myself. Don’t forget those.”
“I was just getting to that, if you’d give me a chance.” Jaskier fights to keep his voice even. “There’s guilt practically dripping off of you every time you look in my direction. So please, let me take one of these emotions off of your heart by telling you that I forgive you. And that you do deserve kindness, from me and from everyone else.”
“You have been holding on to so much,” Jaskier continues. “Please, Geralt. Allow yourself to break. It’s only me. I won’t put this in a song.”
Geralt breaks. He lets out a sudden breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob, and then his hands are over his face, and Jaskier’s arms are around his shoulders. Geralt doesn’t shove him off, or send him away, and Jaskier has never felt so grateful. “I’m here,” Jaskier whispers into Geralt’s hair as every emotion Geralt has kept locked in his heart spills out around them. “I’m here.”
They stay there for what feels like an eternity. A tangle of limbs on Geralt’s bed, Jaskier’s gentle reassurances and Geralt’s harsh half-sobs the only things that break the silence. It stops as abruptly as it began - Geralt lifts his head and clears his throat as he rubs a hand roughly over his face, but Jaskier doesn’t move away, and Geralt doesn’t ask him to.
“That was a long time coming, I think,” Jaskier finally says, hoping Geralt can pick up on the relief in his voice, the smile he manages to try to lighten the energy of the room even a tiny bit.
Geralt nods. “I’m sorry for -”
“I swear, Geralt, if you try to apologize to me right now I’m going to hit you.”
He gets a single noise in response, one that sounds enough like a laugh for Jaskier to be satisfied. Geralt’s golden eyes are bloodshot when he turns. “Will you stay here tonight? I don’t know that I have any right to ask that of you, but -”
“I’m including this in the same category as apologizing to me, you know,” Jaskier teases as his heart threatens to pound straight out of his chest. “Yes, I’ll stay. You didn’t even have to ask.”
It’s all Jaskier has ever wanted - to stay by Geralt’s side, for as long as Geralt will have him. Last time, that hadn’t been very long. Something feels different now though, heartbreak morphing into new trust that builds on the old; trauma being shared that months ago might have been left unspoken.
And now Jaskier is lying in Geralt’s bed, reaching forward to brush a stray lock of white hair out of Geralt’s eyes, and trust is all he can feel.
That trust doesn’t end with Jaskier at Geralt’s side at his most vulnerable, because Geralt reaches slowly and hesitantly for Jaskier’s hand, catching it on its way back from Geralt’s head. He holds it so, so gently, two hands filled with callouses from very different causes, and despite Rience, despite Jaskier’s newfound and rather frustrating aversion to very specific kinds of touch, he doesn’t even consider pulling away.
“Jaskier,” Geralt half-says, half-sighs. There’s a confession written all over his face. Jaskier’s heart does something extremely complicated in his chest. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“It better not be I’m sorry again.”
“No,” Geralt shakes his head as much as the pillow pressed against the side of his face will allow. “It’s not.”
Geralt gives Jaskier a soft look that Jaskier has only ever seen reserved for Ciri. The hand covering Jaskier’s is warm, despite how cold Geralt had been earlier, and Jaskier is close enough to notice how measured Geralt’s breaths are, like he’s trying desperately to keep them even. It’s all so uncharacteristic of him, a nervousness that Jaskier has almost never seen, and as much as he so desperately wants to hear what Geralt has to say, he doesn’t want Geralt to force himself to say it in the aftermath of so much pain. “Let’s make a deal, then. Do you promise to tell me in the morning? Because you’re looking quite sad right now. And if you’re going to tell me what I think you’re going to tell me, I’d rather it be a happy memory. For us both.”
“There’s something I need to tell you, too,” Jaskier breathes out, unsteady and terrified, but no time has ever felt this right. “Something I probably should have told you a long time ago.”
Geralt’s entire face relaxes, a combination of understanding and something Jaskier interprets as relief, and Jaskier, not for the first time, takes a moment to curse whoever it was that said that witchers don’t feel. Geralt nods as he runs a thumb over Jaskier’s knuckles, and then their eyes are meeting again. His look the lightest they have in as many days as Jaskier can remember.
“In the morning,” Geralt agrees. “That means you can’t sleep halfway into the afternoon like you usually do.”
Jaskier’s answering laugh is teary, but it couldn’t be more genuine. “Really? At a time like this?”
Geralt just hums. He doesn’t release his hold on Jaskier’s hand as his eyes drift closed. His words, when he finally speaks, are nearly a whisper. “Goodnight, Jask. Thank you.”
Jaskier hums back. “Goodnight, Geralt. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
—
Jaskier wakes to Geralt’s golden eyes already on him. “If you stayed awake all night, I swear to -”
“I don’t want you to leave, Jaskier,” Geralt breathes out, not breaking their eye contact for even a second. “There’s more I want to say, more that I need to say, if you’ll listen. But for now, I need you to know that I want you with me. Wherever I go. If you’re willing to stay.”
“Well,” Jaskier manages, hands and voice shaking. “That was definitely worth the wait.”
The exact words Geralt uses don’t matter. In this moment, with his hand resting on Jaskier’s arm, Jaskier knows what he’s trying to say. “I love you too,” Jaskier tells him, nearly getting lost in the relief, the trust in Geralt’s eyes. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
Jaskier knows there will be more talks. More words, from both of them, about everything they’ve endured, the pain they’ve each caused. And he also knows there will be more moments like these, Geralt’s forehead nearly pressed against his, their warm breath mingling between them, Geralt’s soft, rare creature of a smile just inches from Jaskier’s. He’s content, right now, to live in this moment. Not the past or the future - just this moment, here with Geralt, bliss snuffing out everything else, swelling up in Jaskier’s chest until it’s all he can feel.
Geralt kisses him, and it’s enough.