Work Text:
Jaskier has long since stopped complaining when Geralt comes back from a contract stinking of sewer. Or monster entrails or basilisk vomit or rotten swamp water – really, there is a whole catalogue of unpleasant smells that Jaskier never wanted to be this familiar with. Luckily the smells bother Geralt even more, which means that he allows Jaskier to help him wash his hair, and these rare moments of intimacy are worth any unpleasant attack on Jaskier’s nose.
The smell he is currently combatting is a foul mixture of swamp water, drowner entrails and mud. It’s a rather common one, though this is one of the more severe cases. Usually Geralt will have removed most of the pieces of drowner guts before returning to Jaskier, so he must be more exhausted than he lets on.
Jaskier is quiet as he picks out gunk from Geralt’s hair, knowing that any sort of noise tends to bother Geralt right after a hunt. He focuses on his task instead. It is nice to be able to do this for someone else; knowing that Geralt won’t have to struggle through this task alone, when it is so much easier with help. It makes Jaskier feel like he is truly wanted by Geralt’s side, regardless of what the witcher defensively grunts when Jaskier refers to them as friends.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat in an attempt to brush off the discomfort across his upper back, reminding him that tucked away in its magical hiding place, he has a pair of wings that are as much in need of care as Geralt’s hair is. It won’t do to dwell on it. He can’t show his wings when Geralt is present, so there is nothing to do but to ignore the tightness and the itch until he can care of it in private. Right now he must find comfort in giving Geralt the care he desperately craves for himself.
He gets the bar of soap and starts lathering up Geralt’s hair. They’re going to need a few more washes to get out the smell, but it’s already starting to look cleaner – without the mud and the disgusting bits of the drowners, Jaskier can begin washing out the murky water to reveal the milky white colour beneath. It is still a tangled mess, but Jaskier has been caring for Geralt’s hair for years by now, and he prides himself on being able to handle every conceivable hair-related mess Geralt is able to throw at him.
He wishes that Geralt could return the favour; take care of Jaskier’s wings like Jaskier takes care of Geralt’s hair. It can of course never happen. No one but his father and Jaskier’s old nursemaid even knows of their existence, and he is not stupid enough to reveal his monstrous ancestry to a fucking witcher. Keeping them hidden all the time leaves his back feeling tight and tense and the lack of grooming makes his wings itch like someone rubbed stinging nettles into his feathers, but Geralt’s company is worth the discomfort.
His wings are always dishevelled these days, though he can never tell how bad it actually is when they remain tucked away. When he was a kid he could run off into the forest to let them out and teach himself how to fly. When he was in Oxenfurt he at least had a room to himself where he could groom his wings in peace. Travelling with Geralt, there is always the risk of being caught. Only once did the itch get the better of him and he dared to fold out his wings while Geralt was off on a hunt. He nearly got caught when Geralt returned early. If Geralt suspected anything, he seemed to forget about it rather quickly, but Jaskier didn’t dare to let his wings appear anywhere near Geralt since then.
He of course gets some relief when he and Geralt part for the winter, where long hours are spent barricaded in his room in Oxenfurt, trying to sort out the mess his feathers have become throughout the year. The first few years it seemed fine, wings being almost back to their normal shine before spring came, but not anymore. A few months of doing his best to fix his feathers are simply not enough to undo the damage from nearly a year of continuous neglect, and each spring he finds himself tucking away wings that are just a little worse for wear than they were at the same time last year.
As Jaskier is oiling up Geralt’s hair to soften and untangle the locks, he is longing for this same sort of touch through his own feathers. The itch is making him fidget, but he has no way of finding relief as long as his wings remain tucked away.
No one has touched his wings since he was a toddler. As soon as he learned how to deal with them himself, he was forbidden from showing them to anyone. But sweet Melitele, if Geralt wasn’t a witcher, Jaskier would love nothing more than to feel his hands run down his wings, realigning his ruffled feathers and alleviating some of that ever-present itch.
“Why do you smell sad?” Geralt interrupts Jaskier’s thoughts.
“What?” Jaskier startles. It’s just like Geralt to pay attention only when Jaskier doesn’t want him to, “Oh, no reason,” Jaskier brushes him off, “How does the hair feel?”
“It’s fine.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to finish up then,” Jaskier goes to the other side of the room to let Geralt bathe in peace.
When they travel on the next day, Jaskier is still a little melancholic. Geralt either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Jaskier gets like this every now and again when his wings are particularly uncomfortable or he really misses flying. Geralt never addresses it. While it hurts to see how little Geralt cares, that’s probably a good thing though. It means he won’t figure out why.
Walking beside Roach is when Jaskier misses flying the most. The first year with Geralt he was barely able to keep up. His legs were not used to walking far, as he had been flying rather than walking between towns when he was travelling alone. After all these years with Geralt, he can walk all day with ease.
Jaskier might be a lovesick idiot to think that it is worth it. Before he got his first lute, flight was the only thing that brought him joy. Flight was his freedom from the restrictive manor house. It was his independence. It was his assurance that if anything got too bad he could just fly away. In a way it still is. It ensures that he can flee, just in case Geralt finds out and despite everything considers him too monstrous to live. Not that Jaskier really believes he will, but he knows the risk he is taking travelling with a witcher. The much more likely scenario is that Geralt will ask Jaskier to leave. It’s not like Geralt is exactly enthusiastic about Jaskier’s company as is, and this will certainly not make him think any better of him. Jaskier doesn’t blame him. A monster-hunter can’t be seen to befriend a monster.
As a kid, Jaskier always thought that once he grew up, he would find a cottage in the woods, far away from anyone, where he would never have to hide his wings. He promised himself that once he grew up, he would never go a day without flying. When he went to Oxenfurt that was still his plan. He would just study first. His plans were thwarted when he fell in love with music.
When he first headed out on the path, he thought he had found the perfect middle ground. He would be able to perform in towns every night and every day he would walk away from civilisation before letting out his wings and fly towards the next one.
But however much he misses flying, he can’t leave Geralt. That beautiful, lovely, kind, noble man stole Jaskier’s heart, and he doesn’t even know that he is the tether keeping Jaskier on the ground.
And Jaskier hardly cares about all he is giving up.
─────────────
“Will people never tire of Toss a Coin?” Jaskier complains to Geralt as they enter their room.
It is a decent room with two single beds, and Jaskier is looking forward to the night of completely undisturbed sleep they promise. Not that he doesn’t love having the excuse of a shared bed to get closer to Geralt, but he doesn’t exactly sleep well when he has to be extra cautious about keeping his wings hidden during the night. Sure, he hasn’t accidentally shown them in his sleep since he was 12 (which earned him a very memorable beating), but one can never be too careful.
“Hmm,” Geralt replies. There is no way to tell if he is actually listening.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good song, but I’ve been performing it for nine years now and I am aching for variety. They requested it five times tonight. Five times, Geralt! That is too many, no matter the song.”
Geralt silently gets ready for bed and Jaskier follows his lead. He is clearly not getting more conversation out of the witcher today. Geralt has been quite contemplative lately, which is the nice way of describing the witcher’s moody moodiness, and Jaskier has yet to figure out what it is about. He is probably just being grumpy for the sake of being grumpy, but you never know with him.
Climbing into bed he tries to subtly rub the sheets between his shoulder blades to get rid of the constant itch. Predictably it does precisely nothing. It’s fine. The tightness and the itch have become such familiar constants, that he can barely imagine life without them anymore. Just as he can no longer imagine a life without Geralt.
Jaskier wakes up to the feeling of being watched. It is the middle of the night, all is dark and silent. He knows Geralt is still here, Jaskier would have woken up if Geralt tried to leave, but he is so quiet Jaskier thinks he must be holding his breath.
“You’re thinking too loud!” Jaskier mutters at the witcher.
“What are you talking about?” Geralt’s reply comes promptly, proving that he was already wide awake.
“You woke me up.”
“I woke you up by thinking?” Geralt asks. Jaskier can almost hear the raised eyebrow.
“Yes, please stop it,” Jaskier orders.
“You want me to stop thinking?”
“This is a nice bed, let me enjoy it in peace.”
“You make no sense, Jaskier,” Geralt sighs and Jaskier can hear him turning in his bed.
Geralt does not fall asleep for a long time, so the odd tension that woke Jaskier up remains. It actually feels like it gets worse the longer he waits. Lying awake, Jaskier passes the time trying to figure out what is bothering Geralt, but his mind comes up blank.
It is not until the grey morning light is starting to peek through the window that Jaskier finally drifts off again.
“Okay, what is it?” Jaskier grunts.
Since that night a couple of days ago, Jaskier has frequently felt Geralt’s eyes on him accompanied with that tense and thoughtful silence. It’s starting to drive him nuts; he has way too much time with his own thoughts, and way too much of that time is spent anxiously coming up with explanations for Geralt’s mood. The worst contenders are Geralt having figured out about Jaskier’s feelings or Jaskier’s wings, and both of those seem equally disastrous.
“What?” Geralt asks.
“You’re thinking about something.”
“Thinking is not only for university graduates,” Geralt says with a subtle curl on his lip that means that he thinks he is being funny, and Jaskier is trying very hard not to find it adorable.
“I know that,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, “but something is on your mind. You know you can talk to me, right?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Suit yourself,” Jaskier sighs.
Even though he didn’t expect Geralt to open up, Jaskier is still disappointed that he didn’t. It does help though. Over the next couple of days Geralt is still moody, but the staring decreases little by little and the tense silences get a little better.
─────────────
Jaskier hadn’t exactly planned on getting into what could almost pass for a relationship with the countess de Stael, but he must admit that it was a great way to forget his ill-advised love for a certain witcher, if only for a short while. He stayed at her manor for about a month before he decided to leave. Well she threw him out, but his wanderlust was surfacing anyway, so it’s not like he is upset about it.
He intends to head out and locate his witcher, but until he finds him, he is travelling on his own, and such privacy needs to be taken advantage of. He has only just made it into the nearby woods by the Stael residence before he folds out his wings. The brown feathers are as unruly as expected and as he shakes his wings, old feathers and leaves scatter onto the ground. He will find a nice place to camp for the night where he can try to sort out that mess. Right now, he is aching to feel the air beneath his wings.
How long has it been since he last flew? He travelled with a band of merchants all the way to the town where he met Geralt this spring, and for most of his time in Oxenfurt he was either snowed in or it was raining heavily, and his feathers do not handle water well. And before winter Geralt followed him all the way to the city before parting, so it must have been over a year since he last had the chance to fly. Well, he is going to make up for it now!
Jaskier jumps high into the air, wings flapping excitedly, ready to let the wind carry him away. Then, as he is about to weave through the treetops, he sees the ground approaching. Only at the last second does he manage to regain his footing as gravity pulls him back to the ground.
He tries again, flapping his wings with all his strength but to no avail. All he manages to do is prolong his jump, but he falls back to the ground all the same.
His wings are no longer strong enough to carry him.
Jaskier keeps walking through the forest, jumping from rocks, hills and tree-trunks when he can find them, in the hopes that he just needs some more time in the air to get going, but every attempt ends the same; Jaskier with his feet firmly planted on the ground, crying and desperately thrusting his wings in frustration.
He holds out a tiny hope that maybe flying will still be possible if his feathers are in better shape, so as he walks through the forest, he searches for a nice isolated campsite where he can give his wings a thorough grooming. He will soak his wings in water if he has to, uncaring of how long it will take to dry them.
That is when he happens upon Geralt.
The witcher must be out of it, because by some miracle Jaskier notices Geralt before Geralt notices him, and he manages to tuck away his wings before this day can become any more of a disaster.
It is the absolute worst time to run into Geralt; he not able to hide his sorrow, the witcher can smell it on him for goodness sake. To buy himself some more time to figure out a decent excuse, he start singing to himself before approaching his friend with his usual nonsensical chatter. With any luck Geralt will be too annoyed to care why he stinks of misery.
It works a little too well. Geralt completely ignores him, focussing all his attention on what looks like a very poor attempt at fishing. At least that gives Jaskier a break to fucking think.
How can he explain away his sadness? Has anything happened that could… oh, right. He technically got dumped just this morning. It is perfect! Not only does it explain his sorrow, it will also throw Geralt off the scent if he is starting to suspect Jaskier has feelings for him, which let’s face it, is not likely, but it is good to take precautions.
“Geralt! Hello,” when he receives no reply, Jaskier continues, “‘How are you doing?’ I hear you ask.”
“I didn’t,” grunts grumpy-face grumpily. Yeah, something is definitely off here.
“Well, the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this word,” he embellishes, “has left me. Well, thrown me out. Rather cold and unexpectedly, I might add. I fear I shall die a broken-hearted man.”
Jaskier smiles to himself as Geralt’s back is turned, almost sorry that the witcher isn’t paying more attention to that spectacular performance. Well, all the best work always goes unrecognised, isn’t there something about that? Jaskier is pretty sure he heard that somewhere.
Anyway, Geralt is a big old grump, who is apparently suffering from insomnia and has decided on the probably worst possible course of action to solve it. Long story short, Jaskier handles the shouting and the insults expertly, tries to talk Geralt out of what could very well be the dumbest decision of his life (which is saying something, particularly after that whole debacle in Cintra), and still ends up cursed for it.
Jaskier wakes in a big soft bed feeling like his bones are made of jelly, with no idea where he is or how he got here.
“You’re finally awake,” sounds a voice from the corner of the room. There is a casual arrogance to that voice that gives Jaskier a bad feeling.
“Where am I?” he rasps, hand immediately flying to his sore throat. Memories are starting to come back to him. The countess. His flightlessness. The lake. The djinn. His throat. Fuck, has he just lost his flight and his voice in the same day? The gods must have it out for him!
A woman steps out from the shadows. She has the artificial beauty of a mage, and if the way she carries herself is anything to go by, she is a dangerous one.
“There was a djinn,” Jaskier says, voice raw but not feeling too bad. Okay, maybe he shouldn’t jump to conclusions just yet.
“You’re lucky you’re not human, bard,” there is amusement in her purple eyes, like a cat toying with a mouse.
“What? No, I’m human,” he is technically not lying. He is half human at least. His father is a nobleman after all, so that side of his family tree is well accounted for.
“Relax. Just give me what I want and I won’t tell anyone.”
“You saved my life in order to blackmail me?” Jaskier stands up from the bed, eager to get some distance between himself and the sorceress. He is groggy, but he stands up just fine.
“You could choose to see it that way.”
“Fuck,” Jaskier sighs, “What do you want from me?”
“Make a wish.”
“A wish?”
“I need the djinn, so make a damned wish, bard,” she hisses at him.
“A wish… I wish…” he eyes the sorceress cautiously, “I wish to be able to fly again.”
The moment he has said it she starts chanting. The wind picks up, something smoky starts swirling around the room, and Jaskier decides that now is probably a good time to run.
Unfortunately Geralt, the extraordinary idiot that he is, refuses to leave the sorceress to her wicked and dangerous ways. Jaskier almost believes it is out of gratitude for saving Jaskier, that Geralt cares that much about him, but then he sees them through the window of the ruined manor and… well he sees that there was probably another reason why Geralt went in there.
Ironically what Jaskier is feeling right now, is exactly what he told Geralt he felt about the countess.
Jaskier and Geralt part early that year. Not that Jaskier really wants to, he never likes to be away from Geralt, but this year he needs to. Between the loss of his flight, which his wish unfortunately didn’t restore, and seeing Geralt risk his life for (and fucking) someone else, he simply can’t hold up the cheerful façade. He will take the winter to deal with this and come back when he feels like himself again.
If Geralt is bothered by their early parting, he doesn’t show it.
His first order of business when he gets to Oxenfurt is to clean his wings. It takes him an entire day to get all the old feathers and other debris out of hard to reach places, and even longer to wash away the dust and grime and general itchiness. After a few days his wings feel lighter and the itch is nearly gone. He inspects them in his small mirror, going over every inch, feeling for any further damage that might have gone unnoticed.
That is when he notices the bald spot.
It’s not big. It’s not even visible, being disguised by the longer feathers covering the area, but there is a small patch on the outside of his right wing that is bare. Feeling around he notices other areas where his feather growth is worryingly thin and it dawns on him that this might not be something he can fix, even if he had all the time in the world.
He still tries. Every chance he gets, he runs off to the forest near Oxenfurt to try and train his wings. The exercise along with the better grooming does help a little, but the most is gets him is the ability to hover over the ground for a few seconds before his wings give out. The rest of his time he spends writing bitter love-ballads and vaguely disguised songs about loss.
By the time spring comes Jaskier has accepted his fate. So he is flightless. Not ideal. But he always considered himself more human than creature anyway, so he can live with it. He can still sing, and if given the choice, music ranks higher than flight. Probably. To preserve his own sanity, he decides to believe that.
In the end it is something he is fine giving up to keep travelling with Geralt.
─────────────
It has been a couple of years since that awful, terrible, wretched day. Geralt and Jaskier are just outside Vergen, where Geralt has taken a contract on a nest of harpies.
Jaskier knows he probably shouldn’t go on the hunt, Geralt certainly doesn’t want him there, but he has never actually seen Geralt fight something that can fly. The only other winged monsters they have come across are draconids, and those Geralt considers too dangerous to let Jaskier anywhere near. With harpies, well, he can be convinced. Jaskier just has to momentarily forget that the creatures that Geralt are going to slay are eerily similar to Jaskier himself.
Geralt orders Jaskier to hide behind a tree and stay quiet. He has a decent view over the canyon, but is enough out of the way that the harpies probably won’t notice him. And enough out of the way that Geralt probably won’t notice either, if seeing this freaks him out just a little bit.
The harpies are flying overhead, paying no mind to who is hiding beneath the trees. Seeing them fly, free like Jaskier once was, tugs at something in his chest.
He had forgotten how much he misses flying.
He forces the thought from his mind. His flight is not coming back, so there is no use dwelling on what he once had. He gave it up, and he stands by that decision.
Geralt steps out into the open. For a moment all remains quiet. Then the harpies notice him. Their screeches cut through the air, they all turn towards the witcher and start diving towards him in rapid succession.
Geralt holds his ground and when the first harpy reaches him, he sends it tumbling to the ground with a quick flick of his sword. The following harpies come so fast, Jaskier can hardly keep up. Not all of them fall to Geralt’s sword, and not all who fall remain down, but soon the flock is visibly thinning.
Before long there are creatures strewn around the witcher, all with wings that look so similar to Jaskier’s own that they might as well be of the same species.
Do these corpses look like the mother Jaskier has never met?
Yet another creature approaches Geralt, this one landing near him, just out of reach of his swords, and clearly ready to retreat should Geralt attack. It is slightly bigger than the others, wearing primitively made jewellery out of shiny rocks and shards of glass.
“You should leave, erynia,” Geralt says.
The creature screeches back at him.
“I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to. Move your nest somewhere far away from humans, and I will leave you in peace,”
Jaskier doesn’t see what happens next. A harpy, one that Geralt managed to injure but not kill, is approaching Jaskier’s hiding place. It is staring right at him.
The harpy walks up to him, claws ready to strike. Then it stops. It gives him an odd look, almost as if it recognises him somehow.
For a long moment, Jaskier and the harpy just stare at each other. Jaskier wonders if he should say something, but he doesn’t even know if the harpy will understand.
Then the harpy’s face contorts in a pained grimace as the silver tip of a sword pokes through its chest. It falls to the ground, revealing Geralt behind it, pulling his sword out of the dead creature before turning to Jaskier.
“You okay?” Geralt asks.
“Mhm,” Jaskier nods, unable to take his eyes off the body on the ground before him. The creature that he is pretty sure wasn’t going to hurt him, but died anyway.
“The rest are leaving. We can go back to town,” Geralt wipes clean and sheathes his sword.
“Leaving?”
“Erynias are smarter than ordinary harpies, I convinced it to relocate.”
“Good,” Jaskier whispers.
“Jaskier, you are safe now.”
“I know.” He wasn’t in danger to begin with.
“Come,” Geralt says gently and rests a hand on Jaskier’s back, leading them back towards the town.
Jaskier walks on shaky legs, not able to get the harpy out of his head. He read recognition and curiosity on the creature’s face. He saw the expression give way for pain before the life left its eyes. He saw the creature fall to Geralt’s sword.
Jaskier hardly registers the walk back to town. He vaguely recalls nodding a short greeting at the innkeeper, and then he is curled up in his bed turning towards the wall to maintain the illusion of being able to hide his tears.
“You are not usually bothered by almost dying,” Geralt stands in the middle of the room making no move to do anything, not even taking off his armour as he usually would after a contract.
Jaskier shrugs with the one shoulder not pressed against the bed.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know,” Jaskier lies.
During the next few days, Jaskier is still not quite okay. He knows that Geralt can tell, but as usual he doesn’t seem to care. Not that he wants Geralt to be paying attention to Jaskier’s mood right now, but his indifference hurts.
Jaskier’s thoughts keep returning to the harpy Geralt killed and the erynia that Geralt talked to. He has long known that Geralt doesn’t kill intelligent beings if he can help it, and this hunt proves that; Geralt is willing to spare one like Jaskier. Unfortunately it also proves that sometimes Geralt will act too quickly, and an innocent creature will die for it.
Jaskier tries not to imagine himself as that creature.
He fails.
─────────────
The dragon hunt sounds like it will turn out a beautiful disaster, one ripe for ballads aplenty. Yes, Geralt has a point about the deadliness and the treasure not worth dying for and all that, but Jaskier frankly didn’t get where he is today by making smart decisions.
“Where’s the fourth team?” Jaskier asks.
“Them,” Borch says, pointing at some knight accompanied by… oh fuck. It’s Yennefer.
Jaskier takes back his previous assessment. If she is here, it will not be a disaster worth getting involved in. Not for all the gold and all the songs in the world.
Recently things have been pretty good with Geralt. There has been minimal grunting, only a few evenings of grumpy, broody, thinky silence, and the rest of the time, Geralt has actually been nice.
Yennefer is sure to change that. They have run into her a couple of times over the years, and each time Geralt seems to completely forget that Jaskier exists. Oh, and he lets Yennefer walk all over him. He lets her goad him into all sorts of trouble, never once questioning it, even when it turns out that Yennefer knew exactly what she was getting him into. Needless to say, Jaskier prefers staying as far away as possible from that witch.
“Oh. Oh, no, no, no,” Jaskier glances around trying to spot a way out of the tavern without her noticing them, “thank you so much. It’s been very nice. Thank you for the wine and the pie, but as the man said, we really can’t get involved. Geralt, shall we?”
“I’m in.” Geralt says, not taking his eyes off Yennefer.
Fuck.
“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while,” Jaskier tries to alleviate some of Geralt’s hurt. He can do little about the guilt of Borch’s death weighing Geralt down, but he can at least offer his friend an excuse to get out of the disaster that this adventure has predictably turned into.
Geralt walks away without a word or even a glance in Jaskier’s direction.
“Dammit Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it is you shovelling it?”
“Well, that’s not fair,” Jaskier says. I gave up flight for you.
“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”
Jaskier walks away.
Jaskier is stumbling down the mountain path, tripping over rocks and roots that he can’t see through teary eyes. Behind him a rock formation is obscuring him from Geralt’s view. Soon the witcher won’t even be able to hear him, even if he would be paying attention, which he surely won’t.
To his right there is a steep drop. The clearing where they left the horses is right down there, almost visible from atop the ledge, but still so far away by the winding path.
He should not have come on the hunt. He should have stopped following Geralt years ago, when he first started to lose his flight. He should not even have followed the stupid fucking witcher in the first place. What was he thinking? He of all people shouldn’t follow a witcher, and certainly not one as grouchy and ungrateful as Geralt.
He had thought it was all worth it. He thought that Geralt cared for him too in some way. He thought they made a good team, that they were equally useful to each other. Apparently he was wrong. Geralt never wanted him around. All he managed to do was bring them both pain.
And now it’s over.
He has lost everything.
The conversation, if it even qualifies as such, replays in Jaskier’s head. He sees Geralt’s face before him, screwed up in anger and spitting venom at him like a basilisk, dealing the killing blow to a twenty year long friendship with one brutal outburst.
Fuck, he wishes he could fly right now. Take into the air, fly so far that Geralt could never catch up with him, even if he wanted to. Jaskier always figured that’s the reason it’s called flight.
How far would he make it? He could try. He is pretty high up; he could just let himself glide down. It’s possible that his wings are still strong enough to do that. It’s not like he has much left to lose if they don’t.
Jaskier folds out his wings. They rip through the back of his clothes, ruining his very nice doublet, but Jaskier doesn’t care. He stretches out his wings feeling the tension in his back and shoulders ease. He runs his fingers through the dishevelled feathers. They are sore from remaining misaligned for so long and it does nothing to straighten them or ease the itch, but Jaskier revels in the ability to do so nonetheless.
With his lute in hand Jaskier sets off over the steep drop without leaving himself too much time to consider it.
When his wings catch him he feels a sudden tuck that aches in his untrained muscles. He wobbles in the air, almost having forgotten how to keep his balance properly, but his reflexes catch him before it is too late.
He can see the landscape stretching out beneath him. He can feel the wind in his hair and through his wings. He can feel the cool air that if he was human would make him freeze, but instead only feels refreshing.
He is so caught up in the euphoria of flying that he doesn’t notice his muscles cramping up before they are almost giving out. His wings are burning with the strain as he tries to remain airborne for long enough to find somewhere to land safely. He is still too high up – if he falls from here he will surely die.
There is no good place to land. Everywhere close by is covered in either trees or sharp rocks, and he does not have enough control to land on either. Without time to consider it more carefully, he opts for the wooded area with the most leafy-looking trees, in the hopes that they will somehow cushion what he knows will be a nasty fall. He is not naïve enough to believe it – he knows trees don’t work like that.
He can almost touch the treetops when his wings give out completely. He tumbles through the branches with his wings curled protectively around himself and his lute, his fall broken by the branches he hits on the way down, before he falls the last few metres down to the forest floor.
He attempts to sit up and take stock of his injuries, but the moment he moves his head he is hit by a dizzy spell, and then everything goes dark.
─────────────
He can smell the earth. He never noticed just how much the forest smells like earth. All those times camping out and never before has he noticed. Weird.
Jaskier slowly blinks his eyes open. Leaves. Old leaves. In his face. Did he fall off his bedroll somehow?
He tries to roll over, but doesn’t get far as his sore body doesn’t seem to be very cooperative. He feels weighed down by something… oh, it’s his wings. They are as sore as the rest of him, which doesn’t exactly come as a surprise; his wings are always sore or uncomfortable one way or the other. The question is what are they doing out?
Jaskier casts his mind back. They were far north, that much he can recall. Caingorn, if he remembers correctly. There was…
Borch. Yennefer. The dragon hunt.
Geralt.
Fuck.
He lost Geralt.
Jaskier can feel the tears well up in his eyes again, but this is no time for crying. He needs to collect himself and then he needs to move. Who knows how long he has been unconscious; he needs to get far away from this mountain before he might run into Geralt. He can’t bear to see his former friend right now, and Geralt certainly doesn’t want to see him either.
Jaskier pushes himself up on his elbows. Every muscle he has (including a few he never noticed until this very moment) are aching, but that he can handle. His main problem right now seems to be his right leg, which must have taken the brunt of the fall, because it hurts like hell and can’t bend at the knee at all.
Lifting his head he can see his lute lying by his side. It looks unharmed, but he is currently unable to reach for it to check. If he can just get himself sitting.
He tries to push himself up, but collapses back down on the ground when his left hand refuses to cooperate – the wrist must be sprained. Fuck. Please let it be minor. Please. He needs to be able to play. He can’t lose that too.
A sob escapes him as he realises just how screwed he might be. Even if he does make it to a town or something, which in his current state seems like a long shot, he has no way of paying for anything. He will have to stumble out of these woods with only one functional leg, hoping that he can find his way, hoping that he isn’t too far from human settlements to make it, only to have to rely on the kindness of strangers for however long it takes for his wrist to heal.
He tries again. His left elbow can hold some weight. So can his right arm and left leg. He can work with that. Maybe.
“Jaskier,” a familiar gruff voice sounds from way too close.
No. Please no. He can’t do this. Geralt can’t see him like this.
“Jaskier, are you-” Geralt cuts himself off.
Jaskier can hear his steps approaching. He is too close. He must have seen his wings. Jaskier still hurries to fold them away, but nothing happens. He tries again, putting all his energy into disappearing them, but it’s no use. All he gets from his efforts is increased pain and black splotches in his vision.
“Let me help you,” Geralt sighs. Like he is disappointed to yet again have to clean up Jaskier’s mess. Well Jaskier didn’t ask for his fucking help. Not this time.
“Fuck off,” Jaskier hisses without looking up at Geralt.
“Jaskier.”
“No!” Jaskier shouts at the ground, unable to face Geralt, “You made it very clear how you really feel about me, and even if you didn’t, you’ve seen-” Jaskier breaks off with a small but humiliating sob, “so you can go now. I won’t cause you any more trouble.”
“Jaskier, what are you-”
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” Jaskier sags down on the ground turning away from Geralt with his head resting on his arm, wishing there was a more dignified way to lie helplessly on the forest floor.
“I don’t-” Geralt pauses and Jaskier can hear him shuffling around uncomfortably, “Did I say something?”
“Did you say something?” Jaskier grumbles into his sleeve. Fine, they can ignore the wing-shaped elephant in the room, if Geralt so desires, “Yes, you fucking well said something, Geralt.”
“I was angry,” Geralt says quietly, “I don’t know what I said.”
“Well, let me enlighten you,” Jaskier turns his head to glare daggers at Geralt, “After blaming me for the djinn and the child surprise, one of which I actively tried to prevent, in case you forgot, you said – I believe your exact words were: ‘if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.’”
Geralt takes a step back with a look like… like he is actually frightened.
“I didn’t mean that,” Geralt whispers.
“Right,” Jaskier huffs, not believing that for a second, “it’s not like it matters now anyway.”
For a moment Geralt doesn’t say anything. If it was to happen, this is the moment Jaskier would expect Geralt to draw his silver sword and put an end to all of this, but it genuinely doesn’t look like the thought has even occurred to the witcher.
Jaskier tries to sit up again in another attempt to continue this conversation with just a modicum of dignity.
“Can I help you up?” Geralt reaches out a hand.
“Don’t touch me!” Jaskier hisses and pulls back from Geralt, causing him to lose his balance and fall back down. He rolls over on his side so he can at least stare Geralt down without twisting his neck.
“What happened?” Geralt asks, sounding genuinely concerned, which is honestly throwing Jaskier off.
“What the fuck does it look like?” he hisses back.
“It looks like you jumped of a mountain and crashed into a tree,” is Geralt making fun of him now?
“Got it in one,” Jaskier grunts and waves a hand in the air dismissingly, “now please leave.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“Well, why the fuck not?” Jaskier shouts, feeling the tears escape from his eyes again. Or did they ever stop flowing?
“You’re hurt. Either you let me treat that leg or you let me take you to a healer, your choice,” something about Geralt’s demeanour tells Jaskier that if he refuses, Geralt will just pick him up and carry him away to a healer anyway, or something equally annoying.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. Fucking noble bastard.
Well, it’s not like he has much of a choice at this point, though he would have preferred the kindness of strangers over this odd display of pity or whatever it is.
Jaskier swallows his pride and mentally prepares himself for a very awkward trip to the nearest healer.
“Fine,” he sighs deeply, “how far to Caingorn?”
“Far,” Geralt replies, “but Roach is waiting for us just a few miles west of here.”
“You only let me ride Roach when I’m unconscious or dying,” Jaskier grunts. He knows perfectly well how pathetic he looks, he doesn’t need a reminder.
“I only let you ride Roach when you need it, and I can’t read minds.”
“Are you trying to tell me I could have just asked this whole time?” Jaskier huffs and adds at Geralt’s confirming glare, “Yeah, I don’t buy it.”
“Look, I just need to make sure you are okay, then I will leave if that’s what you want.”
Something in that awakens anger in Jaskier.
“That I’m okay?” Jaskier cries, not giving a fuck that he is acting unreasonably. At this moment it feels justified. “Don’t you get it, Geralt? I might never get well again! I lost my flight following you all these years. This, all of this, it’s your fault,” he emphasises that with a pointed finger and screams through his tears, “and now you stand here telling me that you can’t leave me until I’m well?”
“You lost your flight?” Geralt looks confused.
“Of course I fucking lost my flight,” Jaskier snaps, “I have barely used my wings in two decades because I had to hide them from you.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“What, the monster following the monster hunter didn’t have to hide his monstrous traits?” Jaskier scoffs, “Sure.”
“You’re not a monster,” Geralt sounds like he means it.
“Pretty sure I’m half erynia,” Jaskier gives him his strongest you’re an idiot-look he can muster, “so that’s just not true.”
“That explains the flashy dress sense at least,” Geralt remarks.
The normalcy of that response catches Jaskier so off guard that he nearly forgets his anger.
“I have a spectacular dress sense,” Jaskier mutters.
Geralt’s smile almost makes Jaskier want to forgive him for everything, just to go back to the ease of what used to be. He can’t. Even if he wasn’t still too pissed and too hurt, normal would no longer be an option. But maybe he can push his anger aside for the time being, just until they make it to a healer. He would quite like to get out of this stupid forest, and as much as he hates to admit it, he needs Geralt’s help for that. He can continue yelling at the witcher later, preferably when he is able to walk away from him if he is being stupid again.
“Fine, help me up,” Jaskier sighs.
Having some pride left, Jaskier refuses to let Geralt support (or gods forbid carry) him all the way to Roach, so he supports himself on a makeshift walking stick that Geralt broke off a tree for him. His right leg can’t carry any weight, and his left hand can’t hold the walking stick, so he is mostly just hopping along on one leg, using the stick and what little strength he has in his wings to keep his balance. It is not an efficient way of travel.
To Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt doesn’t complain. He patiently walks by his side, carrying both his lute and both their bags from the mountain. Jaskier hadn’t been thinking when he left his stuff up there, but he is still too cross with Geralt to thank him for bringing it. It really was the least he could do.
They are, according to Geralt, close to where they left Roach, when Jaskier realises that they are not alone.
“Geralt?” He asks, hating how tired he sounds, “I hear people.”
“It’s just a couple of the dwarves.”
“Right,” he sighs. The only reason he is not running away from there, is that he is physically unable to.
Jaskier halts. He needs to hide his wings before they approach the dwarves. With monumental effort he tries to force them away. Under normal circumstances he would hardly have to think about it, but now he feels his good leg tremble beneath him, as his efforts drain his already limited strength. His grip on his walking stick falters and he adds his injured hand to avoid falling.
“Jaskier!”
Just as he thinks he has almost got it, the wings spring back out.
It hurts. Everything hurts.
He has to try again.
He might pass out. He has no energy left. There is nothing left to give. He thought he was out of tears, but they are coming anyways.
“Jaskier, you’re hurting yourself,”
He can’t.
He has to.
His body is burning, aching and freezing. His vision is swimming.
“Enough!”
He barely registers Geralt’s arm coming around his back and beneath his wings to support his weight. He doesn’t have the energy to protest. When Geralt’s other arm picks up his legs he whimpers in pain from his bad knee, but it doesn’t matter. He is too tired to care about the pain anymore.
“We are not going to Caingorn,” Geralt says and starts walking them away from the source of the sound.
Jaskier doesn’t ask what he means or where he is taking him. He doesn’t care anymore. He just needs to rest. He just wants the pain to stop.
After what could have been anywhere between a few minutes and an hour, Geralt gently places Jaskier against a tree. He helps him adjust his wings to an almost not uncomfortable position and stretches out his bad leg so it hurts as little as possible.
“I’ll be back,” Geralt steps away.
And Jaskier is alone. That’s what he wanted. It isn’t what he wants any longer. He just wants someone to fix this for him so he can sleep. Someone who will take care of him and make everything okay.
He hates himself for thinking so, but he wants that someone to be Geralt. He wants to believe that Geralt didn’t mean what he said. He wants to trust that Geralt doesn’t hate him, not for being loud and annoying, not for being clingy or for getting into too much trouble, and not for being a monster.
He wants to let Geralt take care of him for once. Is that really too much to ask? He always assumed it was, that’s why he never asked, but he is too tired to give a shit anymore. It’s not like everything can get much worse anyway.
Before long he is drifting off. He is vaguely aware that his back won’t thank him for sleeping in this position, but before he can consider moving, he is fast asleep.
─────────────
“Jaskier?” A hand gently touches his good knee, “Are you thirsty?”
Jaskier opens his eyes to see Geralt’s annoyingly perfect face appearing before him and a hand offering up a waterskin. It takes monumental effort to reach for it, but once he takes the first sip of water, he realises how thirsty he was and downs the whole thing in just a few gulps.
“Can you move to a bedroll?” Geralt asks. He has moved away while Jaskier was drinking and Jaskier can’t help but miss the proximity. Something must be seriously wrong with him that he wants Geralt’s comfort even now.
“Hmm?” Jaskier slowly looks around, but his vision is swimming and his eyelids are heavy. He notices a fireplace lightening up the clearing that has fallen dark while he slept, but before he can take in more of the surroundings his eyes slip closed of their own accord.
“I got your bedroll ready, do you need help moving?”
“Please,” Jaskier sighs. He hardly even cares that he sounds pathetically desperate.
Geralt slowly approaches. Jaskier distantly registers that it is not very dignified as he reaches his arms up, wordlessly begging his friend to carry him, but when Geralt gently lifts him off the ground and places him in a pile of blankets, the worry is forgotten. The crackling from the fireplace calms him and he snuggles into the blankets that Geralt has provided. It might be the exhaustion speaking, but he is pretty sure that the bedroll is softer than it used to be.
“Jaskier, I need to look at your injuries,” Geralt says from somewhere above him.
“Fuck,” he groans. That is bound to be uncomfortable and he really just wants to go back to sleep.
“Please let me help you, it will get worse without treatment,” Geralt speaks so gently, Jaskier can hardly recognise his voice.
“That’s my line,” Jaskier turns his head to look at Geralt, sleep all but forgotten in the face of Geralt’s changed behaviour.
“Yes, but you’re the one who is injured this time,” a brief something crosses Geralt’s face, but Jaskier can’t discern what it is. Something seems off about him, and Jaskier is not quite sure what to think of it.
“Hmm,” Jaskier keeps looking at Geralt as he sits down by Jaskier’s side and prepares the necessary material from their medicine bag.
Neither says anything for a while. Jaskier can tell something is on Geralt’s mind. He hopes it is an apology for any or all of the mess that landed Jaskier in this state, though Jaskier is fully aware that he is spineless enough to forgive Geralt regardless.
“Leg?” Geralt is thankfully and frustratingly back to his usual taciturn self.
“Do your worst,” Jaskier shuffles a bit to make his right leg easy to access.
“You need these off,” Geralt tugs on the leg of Jaskier’s trousers.
“Trying to get in my trousers, witcher?” Jaskier winks as he eases the garment down over his hips, leaving it for Geralt to pull them the rest of the way off.
Geralt’s answering frown only vaguely disguises his look of horror at Jaskier’s suggestion. Jaskier sighs. He knows that Geralt isn’t interested in him that way, but this level of repulsion is bordering on offensive.
Jaskier can’t look away as Geralt gently pulls down his trousers; the image of strong hands right by his thighs might haunt Jaskier’s dreams for a long time to come (in the best way imaginable), but before he loses any more of his already diminished dignity, the bunched up fabric reaches his bad knee and the pain serves as a sufficient distraction.
When the trousers are off, Geralt bunches them up and uses them to elevate the leg. It’s bad. Both legs are covered in minor bruises and scratches, but the right leg looks horrible. Both knee and ankle are swollen and so badly bruised they look completely black.
“You shouldn’t have walked on this,” Geralt says, because apparently he considers this a fitting time to dish out reprimands.
“Shouldn’t have gone anywhere near that bloody mountain,” Jaskier curses.
“If we hadn’t been there the baby dragon wouldn’t have survived.”
“That was all you, Geralt,” Jaskier flops down on the bedroll so he doesn’t have to look at the damage, “I might as well not have been there at all, I’m not sure you would have even noticed.”
“You’re not easy to overlook.”
“Yes, I’m very loud and annoying and the bane of your very existence, I get it,” Jaskier mutters.
“That’s not true. I like... I like having you around,” he speaks quietly, as if he is scared someone might overhear. As if liking Jaskier is something shameful. Well, now that he’s seen Jaskier’s true nature, that’s not entirely untrue.
“You only ever told me the opposite,” Jaskier says quietly and shifts so he can look at Geralt. He wants to be angry, but he is just too tired.
“I couldn’t,” Geralt looks away with a pained expression.
“You couldn’t what, Geralt?”
“I’m not good at this, at having friends.”
Jaskier observes him for a moment. It’s odd seeing Geralt like this. He seems open and honest and vulnerable, and Jaskier wonders if it is genuine.
“Am I your friend, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, not sure he is ready to hear the answer, but aware that he needs to know regardless.
“Of course you are,” Geralt says. To Jaskier’s surprise it sounds much more convincing than it did all the times he told him he wasn’t.
“And now that you know I’m a monster?”
“You’re no more monster than I am,” Geralt says.
Jaskier doesn’t know what to say to that. There is simply no way he can argue Geralt’s point without sounding like a hypocrite.
“And I don’t give a fuck what you are,” Geralt continues.
“Really?” Jaskier asks. He feels like a fool for giving Geralt the chance to take it back, but he needs to be sure.
“Yes.”
“So this is not the end? You’re not gonna leave me?” It’s not until after he has spoken, that Jaskier hears how needy he sounds, but Geralt doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“I would never leave you,” Geralt replies earnestly.
“Okay,” Jaskier exhales deeply.
“Okay?”
Jaskier nods.
“Does that mean you don’t want to leave me anymore?” Geralt asks.
“When have I wanted to leave you?”
“Earlier you said-” Geralt pauses for a moment, recalling something Jaskier must have spoken in anger, which seems to genuinely pain him.
“I thought you hated me,” Jaskier hurries to clarify.
Geralt looks searchingly at Jaskier for a moment.
“I could never hate you,” Geralt says.
Knowing Geralt, that is as good as a declaration of (unfortunately very platonic) love. Until now, Jaskier never realised how much he needed to hear that from someone who knows of his true nature. For the first time since he can remember, he actually feels like there is a place for him in this world – a place where he can be himself without being alone.
Geralt silently returns his attention to Jaskier’s leg. It hurts like hell when Geralt runs his hands over the bruises. When he touches a particularly sore spot Jaskier lets out a small whimper, which Geralt answers with a soft apology.
The ache eases little by little as Geralt rubs a salve over his legs, and when he is finished and starts packing away the supplies, Jaskier is ready to drift off to sleep again. He reaches for a blanket to wrap around himself, but is stopped by a pain in his wrist. Right, he forgot about that one.
“You okay?” Geralt asks and reaches to tuck the blanket around Jaskier for him.
“My wrist,” Jaskier sticks his left hand out of the blanket and lets that speak for itself. It only has a small bruise, but the wrist is visibly swollen.
Geralt looks over the injury with as much care as he did with the leg.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” he determines.
“I can’t play the lute.”
“You will soon,” Geralt assures him and uses some of the same salve from before to treat the swelling.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Jaskier huffs.
Geralt looks searchingly at him for a moment.
“I do like hearing you play,” he says with that odd, thoughtful look that Jaskier never figured out the meaning of.
“You don’t have to pretend just because I’m unwell,” Jaskier grumbles, really not in the mood to be lied to.
“I’m not pretending.” Geralt replies. It sounds like a promise.
And Jaskier believes him.
Despite the lingering pain, Jaskier feels more content in this moment than he ever remembers feeling before. He is with Geralt. Wrapped in soft blankets by a warm fire. His wings are free. And Geralt doesn’t hate him.
“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles.
If Geralt replies, Jaskier doesn’t hear it before sleep takes him.
─────────────
Jaskier wakes to the smell of bread and a rumbling stomach.
“Morning,” Jaskier says, slowly opening his eyes, taking his time to get used to the light. It makes his head hurt.
“How are you feeling?” Geralt says from right beside him.
“Hungry.”
“We’ve got bread and dried meat,” Geralt says apologetically.
“Eh, beggars can’t be choosers,” Jaskier says, just thankful that it seems Geralt has taken the time to do something about the very dry loaf of bread, that he knows is nearly the only food left in their packs.
Lifting himself up on one elbow has Jaskier’s muscles aching, but manageably so. Every single part of him is sore, some even more so than yesterday, but there is none of that stabbing or throbbing pain that signifies serious injury, so he ignores it and sits up on the bedroll, keeping the blankets around him.
Before long Geralt takes the bread from where it’s been warming by the fire and hands it to him along with some dried meat. When Jaskier asks, Geralt hurries off to fill his waterskin as well, and despite the lingering pain, Jaskier feels more content than he has in a long time.
Jaskier puts down his lute. He has been tapping out melodies on the fretboard to keep himself occupied, as it is the best way he can think of to create music with only one functional hand, but the itchiness of his wings is starting to get the better of him. Not that it’s worse than usual, but for once he is actually able to do something about it, and he sees no reason not to.
He reaches his good hand as far back as he can to straighten out the feathers and grunts as the movement pulls at his sore muscles.
He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him from across the fire and wonders how the witcher would react if Jaskier asked him for help. He shakes the thought. Things feel better after their conversation yesterday, but it doesn’t feel that good.
He shifts one of his wings around until he can reach more of it, but he still can’t reach the worst places.
“Do you need help?”
“What?” Jaskier looks up at Geralt, certain he misheard.
“Do you need help with your wings?”
“You would do that?”
“Of course,” Geralt shrugs.
“Why?” Jaskier asks, certain that it can’t be that easy.
“You always wash my hair; it’s about time I return the favour.” Geralt bites the inside of his cheek, “if you would be comfortable with it of course.”
“I enjoyed doing that,” Jaskier admits, wanting to make sure that Geralt isn’t feeling forced into anything, “you don’t owe me anything, Geralt.”
“I want to.”
“Okay,” Jaskier agrees and smiles nervously as Geralt gets up.
Jaskier has imagined this for so long, now that it’s happening, he is no longer sure what to do. In his daydreams the grooming was usually accompanied with little kisses, an indulgence he allowed himself, only because he was sure it would never come to pass. Now that it is actually happening, the grooming part that is, he must banish those thoughts – he won’t be able to act normally with that image on the forefront of his mind.
Geralt walks over and takes a seat behind Jaskier, being careful not to touch him more than necessary, which does a great job at squashing Jaskier’s hope for more.
“What do you need me to do?” Geralt asks.
Shoving his feelings and his yearning deep down, Jaskier explains how to groom his feathers. Geralt gently follows the instructions, sifting through his feathers to remove dirt and debris, and little by little they start to feel normal and healthy, apart from the ever-present underlying itch.
“Jaskier?” Geralt says hesitantly after a little while, “I think you’ve got mites in your feathers.”
“I’ve got WHAT?” Jaskier exclaims, reflectively jerking his wings in a way that shoves Geralt backwards onto the ground. “That’s gross! How do I get them out of there?”
“We will figure something out,” Geralt sits back unfazed. He still doesn’t react when he is hit across the face by a wayward wing as Jaskier turns around.
“Water!” Jaskier shouts out the first idea that comes to his mind, “Take me to the stream, I will drown the little whoresons!”
“I don’t think that will work,” he replies calmly.
“Then what do you suggest I do?” Jaskier asks. The thought of these mites staying in his wings indefinitely makes him shudder, and the itch bothers him much more than ever before, now that he is aware of the horrifically disgusting reason.
“I’ve seen birds use ants.”
“Ants? I’m serious Geralt.”
“So am I,” Geralt shrugs. “They rub them along their feathers.”
“I’m not going to roll around in an anthill,” Jaskier protests, “I’ve already got one bug problem, I don’t need another.”
“I don’t think they have to be alive. The birds just rub them down their wings like ointment.”
“Ant ointment?” Jaskier is about to make a joke out of it, but the itch really is uncomfortable and mites are gross. He lets out a sigh, “I’m assuming you have a plan?”
Geralt comes back after about half an hour with one of their food bowls filled with dead ants. Reluctantly, Jaskier lets Geralt retake his seat behind him and rub the ants over and through his feathers. There is no immediate relief, but Jaskier never expected that, and at least it is less gross than he pictured (and much less gross than the thought of mites in his feathers).
After they have run out of ants, Geralt continues to sift through Jaskier’s feathers. He has gotten a moist cloth to wipe off dirt and grime where it doesn’t come off on its own, and when the feathers are clean he is taking his time aligning the gaps in the barbs. He is working his hands deeper into Jaskier’s feathers until he reaches the skin beneath, that should not be bare enough to touch. Geralt halts his movement.
“What’s wrong?” Jaskier feigns ignorance as his face heats up in shame about the bald patch that he knows Geralt can feel.
“I’m so sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is fragile, “you never should have suffered like this.”
“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, “but the state of my wings is not your fault. I knew the consequences when I chose to stay with you. I gave it up willingly.”
“You should never have had to make that choice, Jaskier,” Geralt speaks quietly and with a sigh he lets his hands fall. Jaskier turns to face him. “But it’s not just this,” he continues, “I’ve been a bad friend to you. I never wanted to hurt you; I didn’t think I mattered enough to you that I could. I care about you, and I’m sorry I let you believe you couldn’t trust me. I know that there is nothing I can do to fix this, but I promise I will never treat you like that again.”
Jaskier is speechless. He never imagined that Geralt was even capable of this kind of emotional availability, and he certainly didn’t expect an apology like this. He wants to accept it, but as he tries to speak the words, he realises that he can’t. There has been too much pain and conflict and distance between them, too many rejections and insults and too little affection, and what Geralt said hardly even begins to cover it. Jaskier wishes it wasn’t so, he wishes he could bite back the remaining hurt, pretend that this is good enough, and go back to normal, but if they are ever to have an honest conversation to fix their tattered friendship, to make it better than it was, now is their chance.
“Geralt, this is about more than what you said on the mountain,” Jaskier speaks with a heavy heart, prepared for this to ruin the easy companionship he has been enjoying all day. At least if he is turned away again, he will have had a taste of what he for decades has been yearning for.
“I’m not talking about the mountain,” Geralt speaks calmly with eyes full of understanding, “I’m sorry for that too, that was both unfair and untrue, but more than anything I am sorry for all that I did to make you think I could ever mean a word of that.”
“You really do care?” Jaskier realises. His eyes feel hot and he aches to reach out to hug his friend. He doesn’t find the courage to act on it though.
“Of course.”
“You didn’t… You always pretended not to notice when I was unwell,” he doesn’t want it to sound like an accusation, but he does need an explanation. Geralt might have cared today, but that doesn’t really prove anything in the grand scheme of things, does it?
“You got even more uncomfortable the few times I tried to ask.”
“Oh,” is all Jaskier can think to say, because of course Geralt is right. It never occurred to Jaskier how much all his secrets have come in the way of any genuine friendships. With that taken into account, he can’t keep laying all the blame on Geralt.
“I was just trying to give you some space.”
“I suppose we have both been a bit stupid then,” Jaskier smiles.
“Hmm,” Geralt returns the smile.
Jaskier gently leans forward, intending to initiate a hug, but he is not sure if it would be welcome. He is just about to pull back when Geralt shoots forward and wraps him in a tight embrace. Jaskier presses his face into Geralt’s shoulder and inhales his scent, enjoying this moment of closeness, that despite everything he is certain is a one off.
When the dark begins to fall, the itch in Jaskier’s wings has decreased to the point where he feels like he can confidently say that the ant treatment has worked. He is not optimistic that he will ever fly again, at least not like he once did, but it seems likely that he might get to live without the itch and discomfort that his dishevelled wings have caused, and that is frankly better than he has dared hope for in a long time.
Geralt is sitting across the fire again, glancing at Jaskier now and again as they share a roasted rabbit for dinner. He almost looks too contemplative – Jaskier doesn’t have the best experiences with contemplative Geralt.
“Why did you stay with me?” Geralt asks, just as Jaskier is about to break and ask what the fuck his problem is.
“Hm?” Jaskier is slightly taken aback by the unexpected question.
“When you knew it would cost you your flight, why did you still stay with me?”
Jaskier considers for a moment what to say. Until recently he would have lied without giving it a second thought, but he is starting to doubt if that was actually a clever decision. His bigger secret is out in the open now, and Geralt took it better than Jaskier ever dared hope. Maybe he can be honest about this too. Even if Geralt doesn’t take it well, at least Jaskier won’t have to worry about what happens if he were ever to learn it by himself. Besides, he is just so tired of lying.
“Because I’m in love with you,” Jaskier keeps his head turned down and peeks at Geralt through his periphery to get a sense of his reaction.
“What? You can’t-” Geralt pauses.
“Why can’t I?” Jaskier asks when it doesn’t seem like Geralt is going to continue on his own.
“I’m a witcher,” Geralt says in the exact same resigned tone of voice that he always uses for that statement. Jaskier has tired of having this discussion over the years, but after yesterday he is able try a new approach.
“Do you consider me a monster?” He asks.
“Of course not,” Geralt scoffs as if that idea was completely absurd.
“Then you being a witcher doesn’t matter,” Jaskier looks right at Geralt, knowing that confessing his feelings was the right decision. Even though Geralt doesn’t love him back, he needed to hear that he is loved nonetheless.
“But you…” Geralt looks completely lost, and honestly, Jaskier can’t blame him. A lot has changed over the last two days; Jaskier too is having trouble keeping up.
“Don’t worry about it, Geralt. It doesn’t change anything. I will be happy to be your friend for however long someone like me lives.”
“No!” Geralt blurts.
“Oh.” Jaskier’s heart sinks. He didn’t actually think Geralt would have a problem with it, “I understand.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt is suddenly crouching in front of him, “Fuck. I meant I do want things to change.”
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Geralt.”
“You’re not.” Geralt gently grabs Jaskier by the shoulders, “I love you too.”
“No you don’t,” Jaskier huffs. He might have believed that once, but that hope died long ago.
“Yes, I do. I’m even worse at being in love than I am at being a friend, but I do love you,” Geralt moves one of his hands up to gently brush along Jaskier’s jawline.
Jaskier looks into Geralt’s eyes right in front of him as he lets the words sink in. It doesn’t make sense. Not unless… Not unless Geralt had been pushing him away out of fear of rejection, which now that Jaskier thinks about it, should have been quite obvious. Every barb and insult falls under a different light, and Jaskier understands.
“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, leaning in. He can feel the warmth of Geralt’s breath, but with Geralt’s hand on his shoulders, he can’t get close enough to kiss him.
“Is this okay?” Geralt leans down slightly, but he is still too far away, “Even after everything-”
“I have forgiven you, Geralt.”
“You shouldn’t. I’ve been too cruel to you.”
“But I understand now and you are forgiven. Now please just kiss me.”
And he does.