Chapter Text
All the time he’s known Jaskier, Geralt has never seen him so still. He may as well be a ragdoll in Geralt's arms. Frantically, Geralt searches for any sign of injury but finds none. "Come on, damn it. Wake up."
The headache comes on like an ambush, a violent, crushing sensation that makes it hard to breathe. The witcher's vision swims, the room going blurry and for a few awful moments he thinks they've been poisoned. He's never encountered any quite like this.
But the pain ebbs bit by bit and eventually Jaskier's face pulls back into focus. Geralt can hear the bard's breathing, nothing strained about it. All the same, Jaskier is entirely still in his embrace.
It's purely a matter of circumstance that Geralt puzzles out the truth when he does. It happens to be that his shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms. It happens to be that Jaskier’s hair is out of place in a way that Geralt can't help sweeping from his soulmate's closed eyes. It happens to be that, while his attention is mostly on Jaskier, the fading mark on his wrist draws Geralt's gaze.
"What the..." Within moments, it's as if the script was never there at all. Gingerly, he lifts Jaskier's wrist to find it too is blank, and when he focuses, the steady undercurrent drawing them together is entirely absent. Finally, after all this time, they're free.
It all runs together a bit after that. There’s a healer dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, who can only tell Geralt that there’s nothing to do for Jaskier but wait. There are hours spent keeping a lonely vigil just in case Jaskier wakes. There are quiet moments amidst the chaos where Geralt finds himself dragging his fingers along the delicate underside of his wrist which has left no evidence that they ever belonged to each other.
And they did belong to each other, Geralt supposes, in some manner of speaking. It makes sense now, why Jaskier had silenced him so forcefully, and for a little while Geralt waits for the affection he'd grown sure of to dissipate.
Except it doesn’t. Geralt loves Jaskier the way he did the night before, and the day before that, and… Oh hell. Destiny might have created the opportunity, but it wasn’t what made the pieces fit.
If Jaskier would just wake up, Geralt might even tell him so.
****
This, Jaskier decides, is the hangover to end all hangovers. His head throbs even before he opens his eyes, and instinctively, he turns away from the source of the light.
Right into… something.
“Jask?”
‘Something’ is Geralt’s chest, as it turns out, and as miserable as Jaskier feels, he presses closer without even thinking about it. “Ugh.”
“I’ll say,” Geralt grumbles. There are fingers dragging through Jaskier’s hair, and it’s such a surreal thing that it takes him a little while to recognize that they’re real and that they belong to the witcher.
“How long have I been-” Jaskier says each word slowly, trying to string together a question, but Geralt cuts in before he can finish.
“Two days,” Geralt replies, and Jaskier is pretty sure that if he isn’t imagining the fingers in his hair, he also isn’t imagining the particularly sharp edge to Geralt’s words.
Two days is… not ideal, but he’s not dead, so Jaskier decides that’s good enough. Well, it’s good enough if it did what it was supposed to, but truth be told, even without the awful headache, he’s afraid to look at his arm to see. Swallowing thickly, he mumbles against the soft fabric of Geralt’s shirt. “Did it work?”
“Did it… Jaskier. You almost died.” Geralt’s fingers are still in Jaskier’s hair, and he can feel them twitch against the instinct to curl into a fist. “Who cares if it worked?”
“Please, Geralt.”
“For fuck’s sake, yes.” All at once, the comforting press of Geralt’s body against his is gone, leaving only empty sheets behind. There’s the telltale creak of floorboards as Geralt stalks the length and breadth of their room, and he sounds sort of far away. “Did you know what was going to happen?”
He could say no. It wouldn’t even be a lie really because he hadn’t known this was going to know how it was going to go. Jaskier knows Geralt wouldn’t see it that way though, so he listens to Geralt’s restless answer and offers a different kind of roundabout answer. “It was a calculated risk.”
“What were you thinking?” The creak of the floorboards stops. “Was it that important?”
Is this what freedom feels like? It’s terrible. Everything aches and the light is too bright, and the fury in Geralt’s voice leaves Jaskier careening towards that feeling of too, too much. When he manages to pry his eyes open, he looks up at the ceiling, ignoring the dampness gathering at the corners of his eyes. He’s certain if he looks at Geralt now, what little control he has over his emotions will crumble entirely. “I couldn’t…”
“Couldn’t what?” Geralt presses, as if he doesn’t know. Surely, he must know.
Except, maybe he doesn’t. There were reasons Jaskier had wanted to be rid of the soulmark that predated Geralt by years. If there’s anything Geralt is especially good at it’s underestimating how much he matters, in general but to Jaskier in particular.
Jaskier lifts his forearm, finally risking a look. Where the mark was, only pale, unmarred skin is left behind. There’s no suggestion it was ever there at all. So that’s it. That’s truly it. Jaskier forces a watery sort of smile because this is the part that matters anyway. However badly it hurts, however raw and ragged he feels, he would do it again to spare the witcher the misery of their connection. “I couldn’t be another choice you didn’t get to make.”
He doesn’t have to look to recognize the scowl Geralt must be sporting. It bleeds into everything he says. “And you didn’t think you should maybe ask my opinion about this?”
“Geralt...” Instinctively, Jaskier reaches out in Geralt’s direction, but he catches himself and tucks his hands back into the blanket. Geralt isn’t his anymore, after all. It’s with great effort that Jaskier digs up the courage to look at him. “Would you have let me?”
“No.” Geralt visibly recoils from the idea of it.
Jaskier’s breath shudders out of him. “Then I made the right choice.”
Somewhere along the line, Geralt has returned to the side of the room where Jaskier is, and the witcher gingerly sits at the edge of the empty side of the bed. “You almost died, Jaskier.”
As if Jaskier isn’t intimately aware of the price he’s paid. The ache of it still lingers right down to his bones. It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt, but he’d do it again. He’d do it a thousand times over to set Geralt free of destiny’s bindings. “I didn’t though. I’m not dead and you’re not stuck and that’s a happy ending all around, right?”
“Hmm.”
It’s been a while since Jaskier has heard a version of that sound that he can’t decipher the meaning of, but this time it’s a mystery. He feels the same as ever, but perhaps their bond really had been the only thing tying Geralt to him. The silence is oppressively heavy and as angry as Geralt had sounded, he feels like he’s got to do something. “I, um…”
“What?” It’s punctuated by a weary sigh, but tired is maybe better than ticked off. Maybe.
He doesn’t even know what he meant to say, so he scrambles for the first thing he can think of to give Geralt the space he might need. “I’ll go get my own room if you want.”
“Jaskier…” Another sigh, and Jaskier anticipates another irritated retort, but that’s not what he gets at all. Instead, Geralt’s palm smooths over his hair. “Go back to sleep.”
*****
Much as he’d like to, Geralt can’t stay put all the time. There are supplies to acquire. There is Roach to care for.
It would be just his luck that his most recent excursion is the one where Jaskier woke up… alone. “I’m sorry.”
It’s the first thing Geralt has heard out of Jaskier in more than a day since their last fragmented conversation. As he watches Jaskier set aside the notebook he’d been scribbling something out on, the witcher lets out a relieved breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
Jaskier still looks a bit wretched as he stands up, every move laden with a weariness that has nothing to do with sleep. His hair hangs a bit limp from the bathwater Geralt had left him just in case. On bad days, Jaskier is usually in a better mood once he’s cleaned up, but it doesn’t look to have helped.
He’s quieter than Geralt has ever seen him, withdrawn in a fashion that’s completely incongruous with everything Jaskier is. There’s no longer a veneer of warmth over them both, and whatever tether drew Geralt so ceaselessly in is severed and yet, nothing is different. Not really. There’s no bond telling him to love Jaskier, and so Geralt cherishes the urge to pull the bard into his arms anyway. At some point in the last couple of days, Geralt had worried that perhaps this was mismatched in the other direction, but watching Jaskier, it’s clear what letting go is costing him.
“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, making his way closer as Jaskier looks to be gathering up his belongings.
“Leaving?” He watches Jaskier’s mouth twitch in barely restrained grief. “You don’t have to take me with you anymore, so I figured I probably ought to get a move on.”
“I thought-” Geralt comes near enough to lay his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “-that the point was having a choice.”
Jaskier freezes, his fingers clutching tightly at a doublet he’d been folding. “I… yes?”
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Geralt cracks a smile. “Then why are you so keen on making it for me?”
“You said yourself that a soulbond isn’t love,” Jaskier points out, thumb worrying anxiously at the fabric he’s holding.
“It wasn’t. It couldn’t make me love you,” Geralt agrees, ignoring the way Jaskier’s face falls further. He gives in to the urge to close his hand around Jaskier’s, pulling until Jaskier drops the garment and all but stumbles into his embrace. The hitch in the bard’s breathing makes Geralt’s heart lurch, but he doesn’t withdraw. “That doesn’t mean I don’t.”
“Geralt?”
“That is, hands down, the most idiotic thing you’ve ever done,” Geralt mutters, even as he folds his arms around Jaskier. “But if I’m making a choice...”
Jaskier’s fingers curl desperately in the fabric of Geralt’s shirt like he’s a phantom the bard is trying to hang onto. A sigh trembles out into the crook of Geralt’s neck, and for a moment, he simply stays, content to let things be. When Jaskier finally pulls back a little, Geralt lets go with one hand to curl it under his former soulmate’s chin. “Then it’s this.”
Just like the first time Geralt kissed him, Jaskier melts into it. Unlike the time before, the bard makes no move to pull away. Nothing could be farther from the way Jaskier’s fingers tangle in Geralt’s shirt, as if to hold him captive.
“Tell me again,” Jaskier mumbles between kisses that remain oddly chaste despite their feverish cadence..
Geralt has never been much for conversation, but after keeping Jaskier waiting all this time, it’s an impossible request to deny. He cradles the bard’s cheeks in his hands, pulling back enough to look Jaskier in the eye. “I love you.”
It would be a lie to say Geralt had never considered what being certain of his own free will might be like, with nothing to tether him to a path laid out by destiny. He’s pictured it in broad strokes, but somehow it’s never included Jaskier all but tackling him to the bed, all finesse forgotten in his enthusiasm. It’s only when they’re half sprawled across the rumpled bedding, Jaskier’s knees caging Geralt’s hips that the bard abruptly freezes. “Sorry. I… I should’ve asked. I didn’t mean to assume.”
With Jaskier there, flushed and breathing heavily and still worried about what Geralt wants, he’s never been happier to be wrong in his life. With fingers buried in Jaskier’s hair, damp strands of it bunching between his knuckles, Geralt tugs him back down. “Come here.”
It’s all the permission Jaskier seems to need. He follows willingly when Geralt pulls, but he’s nothing at all like docile. It’s Jaskier who rests a forearm against the bedding so that he can kiss Geralt again, all his momentary restraint forgotten.
Even without the bond to hold them, they’re a call and an answer. Jaskier teases Geralt’s lips apart with a clever tongue, determined to learn this part of him too. It’s unhurried, reverent even, and somewhere in the distance Geralt wonders why he ever thought this was something to run from.
They kiss until Jaskier is forced to surrender to the very human need to breathe, and even then, he presses his cheek to Geralt’s panting against the witcher’s ear. Only it’s not just Jaskier’s tongue that’s clever. What seems like surrender is only a preamble to Jaskier’s mouth finding the delicate spot beneath Geralt’s ear that makes him shudder, arching helplessly upward. The move presses his cock against Jaskier’s, drawing a pleasantly shaky gasp. Geralt would happily live in this moment forever if it would make Jaskier make that sound again.
It does draw Geralt’s attention to the entirely too many clothes they’re still wearing. He doesn’t say so exactly, but he does manage to get his point across by insistently rucking up the hem of Jaskier’s shirt until the bard huffs out an exasperated sort of sigh and sits up to be rid of the offending garment. The sacrifice of losing Jaskier’s lips on his throat is monumental, but when Jaskier sits up to tug the shirt over his head, he rolls his hips and all is forgotten.
In some other context, Geralt might be embarrassed about how utterly inefficient they are. It’s hard to undress when every pause in contact feels like an unacceptable loss. The real miracle is probably that they manage at all.
A miracle that is entirely worth it when Geralt has to get up to get rid of his boots. The last of his clothes follow immediately after, and when he looks up, Jaskier is watching him with dark, hooded eyes. “I don’t know what it is, but in some past life I must have done something very, very good.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Geralt rumbles, following Jaskier’s beckoning fingers back to bed.
“I’m a bard. It’s a job requirement.” The second Geralt is close enough, Jaskier winds his arms around the witcher’s shoulders and drags him down to the pillows. “Besides, have you looked at you? I think I get to be dramatic.”
“You’re absurd.” Geralt cuts off any potential protest with an insistent kiss, thoroughly enjoying the way Jaskier goes slack and pliant beneath him. Only when he’s pretty certain Jaskier can’t hang onto the thought anymore does he stray, learning the edge of Jaskier’s jaw, the hollow of his throat.
“You love it.” Jaskier combs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, whispering like he can’t quite believe it’s true.
“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, nosing against the crook of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder. Jaskier shivers beneath him, and oh that’s interesting. After a moment’s consideration, Geralt bites down and Jaskier whines, high pitched and needy.
The sound goes straight to Geralt’s cock and brings with it a desperate need to watch Jaskier come apart. So, much as he’d like to linger, they’re far too wound up for that.
“Geralt? What are you-” Jaskier mumbles as Geralt backs up towards the foot of the bed, as if it’s not glaringly obvious. Apparently to Jaskier’s lust addled mind it isn’t. Geralt takes him in his mouth with little preamble, and Jaskier’s question dies in a choked off moan.
“Oh god, oh fuck,” Jaskier’s mutters out a ragged curse as Geralt sinks down as far as he can go. There will be time to learn all the things Jaskier likes, and Geralt has every intention of doing so, but right now all he cares about is the way his one time soulmate is beginning to unravel.
Jaskier clutches at the sheets, at Geralt’s hair, anything he can reach really as the witcher falls into a relentless rhythm. There are no tricks, just the pleasant weight of Jaskier’s cock on his tongue as Geralt learns this part of his lover too. He gets litany of inarticulate praise for his trouble and Jaskier trembling with the effort not to jerk his hips.
“I. Oh, I-” Jaskier mumbles, pushing halfheartedly at Geralt’s shoulder in what the witcher assumes is an attempt to be polite. Instead of pulling away, Geralt pins Jaskier’s hips to the mattress, pushing him over the edge. Jaskier arches off the mattress, Geralt’s name on his lips like a prayer.
When Geralt crawls back up the length of the bed, Jaskier’s chest is still heaving. He clumsily reaches for Geralt, settling a hand on the witcher’s cheek. “Let me?”
Geralt had thought his feelings on the matter were fairly obvious, but he dips his head to catch Jaskier’s lips in a ravenous sort of kiss for good measure. Jaskier makes a soft sound into it, and if he cares that he can taste himself on Geralt’s tongue, he certainly doesn’t show it.
Jaskier wastes little time, and really, it’s not such a surprise after all the time they’ve held back. His warm palms rove over Geralt’s flanks and hips before Jaskier works a hand between them.
Objectively, Jaskier’s hand around his cock isn’t all that much different from his own, but it comes with teeth scraping playfully across his bottom lip, and Jaskier’s free hand indulgently mapping out the length of Geralt’s back, and he really can’t complain about any of that.
He could do this forever, he thinks, or wishes it at least. They trade long overdue kisses, and Geralt feels his balance waver just a little in the face of it all. There’s a particular sort of twist to the way Jaskier strokes him and Geralt wonders if it’s something he does to himself. The thought, as much as anything Jaskier is doing, is what sends him crashing over the edge. There’s no silencing the keening sound he makes, but Geralt muffles it against Jaskier’s lips as he comes in wet pulses across the bard’s belly. Somehow, Jaskier doesn’t seem to care much about that either.
By some miracle, he manages to shuffle to the side before collapsing on the bedding. It’s a nice place to be, Jaskier immediately rolling over to hook an arm around his side. Pleasantly hazy as he is, Geralt wonders how he could have ever thought he didn’t want this.
For a few moments, there’s nothing but the sound of them catching their breath, and Geralt almost misses the embarrassed grimace gracing Jaskier’s face. “That, umm. Sorry, it’s not usually over so quickly.”
Geralt laughs before he can quite help himself. It was exactly what he’d expected because he’s a reasonable person who understands biology, but he catches on quickly that that’s somehow not the conclusion Jaskier came to. Before the bard can gather his wits enough to be upset, Geralt pulls him into a kiss already full of promise. “I mean, I just figured round one was to take the edge off. I hope you didn’t think I was done with you.”
“Oh fuck,” Jaskier mumbles, nipping at Geralt’s jawline. “I definitely did something good.”
*****
“I cannot express to you how egregiously overdue that was,” Jaskier teases, already beginning to doze off. He smiles into the column of Geralt’s neck as the witcher’s nails skim his back.
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
For once, Jaskier doesn’t feel much of a need for conversation and so he’s surprised to be pulled into one, feeling the rumble of Geralt’s voice as much as hearing him. “Jaskier?”
“Hmm? Jaskier tilts his head enough to meet Geralt’s curious golden eyes.
“Did you get your answer?” The question is so vague that Jaskier doesn’t realize what Geralt is talking about until he adds. “Is this the life you’d choose for yourself?”
And… it is. Singing in taverns, exploring the Continent? It’s the most comfortable he’s ever been, and all the better with Geralt at his side. If it’s only once in his life that his luck holds out, Jaskier is glad that this is the time.
“I think my next ballad is going to be about the fact that I don’t think I’m going to be able to sit down for days,” Jaskier offers in lieu of an answer.
“Absolutely not,” Geralt replies flatly, but Jaskier catches the faint twitch of his mouth.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jaskier agrees in mock seriousness. “A ballad is entirely the wrong style. Sea shanty? … Jig, maybe? Or how about-”
The rest is stifled by the pillow Geralt flings in his face. “You’re not writing a song.”
Tossing the pillow aside, Jaskier presses. “What? You don’t want your prowess immortalized in folklore?”
It’s as far as he gets before Geralt pins him to the bed, any threat of it entirely ruined by the fact that he’s dropped his head to laugh against Jaskier’s shoulder. “Fuck off, bard.”
Those words ruined his life once. But now, no longer a sentence scrawled on his skin but an affectionate, breathless insult, it’s the best thing Jaskier has ever heard.