abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

Entry tags:

[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

Who: Geralt + the Queen, Yennefer, Various
When: After Nov. 12
Where: Castle Thorne, Nott, Cadens
What: Geralt goes on an Adventure and has a great time
Warnings: Blood, violence, trauma

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[ Sam's place is quiet, compared to when he was last here. He's not asked much about Alina, but it's easy to gather what happened—especially knowing where Mal's got to. He tries not to concern himself with it. Not his business, nothing they can do about a decision Alina made of her own accord, and he's got more than enough on his mind, besides. It weighs on Sam, he knows, more than anyone else.

Geralt ends up moving to one of the beds, once he can get to his feet. Snatches another couple hours sleep before he wakes again. For awhile, he sits there. Listens to the heartbeats he can hear. The urge to walk away, to put distance between himself and everyone else lingers. He swallows it down, makes his way into the next room instead. Jaskier snores on the bed, sprawled under the blankets. It'd be easier to believe neither Jaskier nor Ciri have spent the past days, weeks, searching frantically for him, waiting for news, but that's not true. He knows he was...missed. (Knows this is not the first time Jaskier has worried over him. It's only that this feels different. More. It's been a long time since he's let himself be...)

He's silent, careful not to wake his friend. Tries to think where he'll start first, when Jaskier eventually stirs. When Jaskier will inevitably have questions, and tell him off for leaving him in the dark—for explaining fuck all, for not asking Jaskier to come ride for him sooner. Geralt has his reasons, for doing what he did. Still. He can't blame Jaskier for his ire. ]

Edited 2021-12-06 06:23 (UTC)

[It is with an absolute exhaustion, and Sam's insistence, that Jaskier made it to a bed at all. He only barely manages to send Ciri a Geralt's at Sam's. He's alive. Goodnight. It's not so much a slipping into sleep as stepping straight off a cliff to dive into it. Every part of him is sore, but it's... in a way, perhaps a good sore.

He doesn't feel so charitable about it when he wakes some hours and hours later, with a groan. His whole arm is a big lump of scar and ache, and as he turns over to rub it, his knee kicks into. Something.

He opens his eyes to a sorry sight.]

Ugh. I hope this isn't some new habit of yours, watching me sleep. [He sits up with a wince, his voice quite rough in comparison to its usual melody.] Though I'm sure you ached terribly to see this face of mine, all these days past.

[ There he is. Geralt gives a soft, tired huff in reply. A note of relief lingers beneath—as though some part of him had not believed he was really back until he was here, with Jaskier, listening to his awful jokes. ]

Worse sights to bear. [ He studies Jaskier for a long moment. The bard looks rough, worn out. Not injured, though. That'll have to satisfy, even if he's...guilty is not quite the word, but he can't help feeling he should've done more, kept a closer eye out that day, watched his back better. He knows that isn't how it works—shit happens—but. It isn't a simple case of where he's alone, where no one will blink if he vanishes for weeks at a time.

Now there are people he needs to be here for. People he does not, in truth, want to leave behind. ]

Thank you. For looking after Ciri.

[ For a lot of things. Coming to find him. Helping him to Sam's. Looking for him, even, despite the fact that Geralt had told him not to. He'd never expected Jaskier or Ciri to leave it alone. There's a reason he said nothing about where he'd wound up. ]

[What a compliment. Still, it falls into the air naturally, without lingering. Jaskier rubs both of his eyes, wiping sleep and possibly dried blood and other things from them; between dragging Geralt to Sam's and healing him as much as he could, he'd hardly time for a bath. And that fact makes itself known by the tackiness to his skin, and possibly the smell of blood still attached to him.

At least he'd managed to crawl out of the bloodied shirt he'd been wearing, throwing it to the floor.

Jaskier drops his hands and looks at his friend. Really looking at him. His eyes tick over across his body, taking in what he has learned over the very long years between them. Jaskier doesn't bother asking how he is -- the answer will be something like "Like shit," or, if Geralt's feeling particularly funny, "Fresh as a rose," but what says the most is that he is here, sitting on the edge of Jaskier's bed, instead of passed out somewhere else.

Funny. This is now far from the first time he's woken up to find Geralt perched on this exact spot.

Thanking him is different, at least. Enough so that it grounds him in this moment, and not the one weeks ago, when he'd woken from the dreams of the potion.]

Is that all you have to say to me? [The question is without true bite, and even after he says it, Jaskier smiles. Relief alone can be such a crushing weight, somehow harder to bear than worry when he has no flash of chemicals in his body to keep it going past his limits.

Now he's sore, with a headache, with heavy limbs and a pulled muscle in his shoulder. He needs a bath, a massage, and a soak, possibly in that order.]

Come here, you lout. [Jaskier moves the blankets off of him and opens his arms. He doesn't ask for permission, as he never has. He closes them around Geralt, squeezing him tight -- at least, only tight enough he tears no stitches in his back. His face presses into the Witcher's shoulder and though he positively reeks, it is exquisitely familiar. A heart comes together, made whole again.] You don't have to thank me.

Edited 2021-12-06 23:01 (UTC)

[ His lips curl faintly at the edges. ] It's more than I usually say to you.

[ True, that Jaskier never asks permission. Equally true that it's been some time now since Geralt has cared about that. He lets Jaskier embrace him, hand going up to curl around Jaskier's shoulder. He smells blood (his own), sweat, oils and herbs. Feels like he could sleep for a thousand years. But every time he closes his eyes, without exhaustion to pull him into sheer nothingness, he sees—

More than he wants to see. So. He's awake.

He picks a cup of water off the bedside table, pressing it into Jaskier's hands. His dark hair's grown even longer since Geralt last saw him. Shaggy bangs. Suits him, though. Geralt can't decide if it makes Jaskier look older or younger. Both at once, perhaps. ]

I tried to leave a message for you. At Kaer Morhen. [ He had not entirely meant to leave them without word. Not for so long. It was only that— ] I couldn't hold the connection.

[ He's admitting his state of being, with that explanation—it's a rare thing, for Geralt to find it impossible to concentrate, to meditate—but it doesn't matter. Jaskier can already guess he wasn't exactly at peace during that period. ]

[Jaskier would bap him upside the head had he the energy for that, so he simply lets the comment slide without complaint in return. It's enough to hold the oaf again; enough to know that Geralt would not be sitting here if his condition were dire. In the moment, it doesn't bloody matter what happened to him after leaving Nott.

He lets him go, his eyes dropping to the chains around Geralt's neck. Two, now. The medallion Jaskier himself had made for him, and --

He glances back up. Ah. Has the old dog learned a new trick, picking up some sort of bedside manner from Nadine? Impossible. Yet Jaskier drowns the cup gratefully, his throat soothed. It doesn't help everything else, but... well. Here they are. Feeling like shit together.]

Did you? [He huffs a breath. It was one of many things he'd considered himself. If Geralt was not conscious, or too weak... even the Horizon could not help them. He doesn't want to bring that up, either, though he understands the underlying confession.] I went to look for one. [He pauses, throat growing tight. And yet, he found things. Things he was not prepared for. (It would not be fair to bring it up now.)]

I took your friend. Amos. [And now he looks up, and insult leaks into his voice, yet somehow it's teasing, prodding, despite it.] I cannot believe you never mentioned me. How could you? The man probably thinks I'm off my rocker, trying to claim you and your dusty old fortress.

[And easy as that, he slips back into their old ways. (Even if he feels nearly sick with the relief.)]

Edited 2021-12-07 04:53 (UTC)

[ Yes. He imagines Jaskier would have. That'd have been one of the first places to look. He catches the strain in Jaskier's voice. It makes him peer at his friend, eyes narrowed—but the heavy fog in his mind has not left him and so he doesn't puzzle over it for too long.

His eyebrows lift. That's what Jaskier will give him shit for? He wants to laugh. Right. Amos. The thought is amusing, Amos having met Jaskier. He should send him a note. Let the man know he's returned, that he's been...occupied. He knows Amos will not ask questions or at least will not care if Geralt chooses not to give details, but given they had a scheduled appointment, he owes Amos a brief reason why he never showed. I was captured for a bit, apologies for the delay. ]

First, Amos hardly gives a damn what you claim. [ If Amos agreed to meet Jaskier and accompany him to the Horizon, then it means he found Jaskier deserving of that company. They do not differ in that regard, he and Amos, in that neither of them care to keep pretenses for the sake of courtesy. ] Secondly, I fail to see why it's important to anyone other than me that we're friends.

[ He puts that statement out there, as though it is of no significance. The stark truth of it is there, though: it is important to him, their friendship. And he doesn't care, how other people may or may not recognize it or understand it or if they even know of it. He keeps few friendships. Even fewer to the depth that he shares with Jaskier. For him, it's a private, quiet thing. ]

Edited 2021-12-07 05:27 (UTC)

He did strike me as that sort. [Amos, in fact, didn't seem to be bothered by much. Until, well.

It's not his place to try to understand, considering he knows little of him. There's enough that he could make an educated guess, what it meant. Something similar to what Geralt's --

He looks up sharply, a frown creasing his brows, until it smooths out. Where he'd only been teasing Geralt a bit (all right, he was actually offended Geralt hadn't mentioned him, considering his talent and delightful personality and the inevitable fact he tends to get involved in everything in Geralt's life), he hadn't expected such a serious response.

Or that response at all.

Jaskier's frown softens, and he smiles. Another huff.] You're right. [For the first time ever, maybe.] I missed you, old friend.

[And his penchant for constant corrections as well. He reaches for the chains at Geralt's chest, moving aside the pendant he'd given the Witcher for the one behind it. As he'd thought.] I'm glad you didn't come home empty-handed.

[ Geralt holds Jaskier's eyes for a moment longer before he looks away. He hums. Yeah. He'd missed him, too. Now that he's here, now that he isn't just struggling by the minute to hold himself together at the seams, he can acknowledge a little easier what he missed.

He reaches up to brush the same pendant. His expression flickers: conflicted, uncertain. The manner by which he came to possess his medallion again was...he knows it was Yennefer. He knows there could no one else. That's what leaves him so unmoored. He wishes she didn't fucking do that to him so easily. Because there's no way she had procured it for him after what happened in that throne room. She would not have risked it. That means she already had it on hand. Waiting. (Was she waiting for him? Does it fucking matter after everything?)

He drops his hand. There were moments he had not thought he would come home at all. He makes no mention of that or of Yennefer. That's not a conversation he wants. Not here, not now. He just wants some company with Jaskier, where he can not think for a bit longer. ] It was a trip deserving of a souvenir.

[ Of which he now has several. A nice lengthy scar down his back, for one. He imagines it'll stretch and pull for awhile until it settles. He's had some deep lacerations and this one still ranks as one of the worst. He's surprised it didn't split down to the bone, the way it felt. ]

Next time you sprout a flower on my head, I'll sense it.

[Not easily gotten, then. He'd imagined, somehow, it was as simple as asking someone like Ronan -- but that was a bit ridiculous considering the circumstances, wasn't it? Jaskier sets asides the questions he wants to ask to allow the Witcher the quiet he'll likely not find much elsewhere. Geralt knows they all want answers. And he'll give them, as he does, in time.

Jaskier will return the favor. He'll tell Geralt what he found in Kaer Morhen that he didn't mean to. What it means. Perhaps they won't even reach that topic at all.

It's enough to see him again. That despite their conflicts in the past, and surely the future, it is enough to have him nearby. (Funny, when their absences from each other had been their own sort of delight: the promise of a fire-warmed winter and plenty of bodies and drink in Oxenfurt. Then the coming of spring, where he would find the Witcher again, somewhere, on the path, and it was always with a celebratory anticipation in his heart.)]

Hilarious, as always. I see your level of effort with humor has neither risen nor fallen.

[So the medallion is like the one from the Continent. Just to test it, Jaskier places his palm over it, growing a sweet little buttercup in his other hand.

He reaches to tuck it behind Geralt's ear. It's not a reunion if he doesn't do something to annoy him.] How's the old knee? Give me another day, I think I can heal the rest. Yes, yes. You're welcome.

[ The hum is familiar. He's missed it. He hasn't realized how much. Jaskier's pendant has been a decent substitute, but the weight is not the same, nor is the way it rests against his chest. He doesn't need two medallions, of course, but he already has plans for the one Jaskier gave him. His sword is missing a decoration, after all.

He scoffs, though it says something that he doesn't remove the flower. ] It'll recover. Must've strained it.

[ Getting on and off his horse alone while he'd been that injured had been an ordeal. He knows he wasn't as soft as he could've been with his landing, probably fell too heavily onto one leg each time or tripped too often walking. He doesn't remember, really, much of that time. It's a wonder he'd managed to navigate to Nott in the first place. He might not have, if not for the maps Jaskier had laid out for him back when they'd been in Thorne together.

Feels like a lifetime ago already.

He adjusts the splint on his fingers idly. There are faint red marks still around his wrists that probably say too much, but beyond that, much of his visible injuries can be passed off as a brawl, a hunt gone wrong. A bad fall. He'll take it. He hasn't any interest in drawing questions from the population at large. ] Your magic's grown better.

[Jaskier purses his lips primly.] Yes, strained it. That must be it.

[He can guess how it got to the state it had been in, actually. Either it had been a target of whatever happened to him -- for something most assuredly had -- or he'd slipped and hit it upon a rock or some other object.

He sighs. It's a topic for another day. As it is, Jaskier is only just beginning to ease the fingers that have clenched around his heart for the last few weeks. He truly... there were moments where he was not sure. He was not sure they really would find him again.

And truthfully, they didn't. They did not find him. Geralt found them on his own. In the end, there was nothing they could do.]

I didn't spend all that time doing nothing, you know. [As if it was only another break between their meetings. The winter on the Path. Though winter often lasted much longer, and he's no longer sure it ever really comes to Cadens.

The flower looks absolutely ridiculous on him. It truly does say enough that he leaves it there.

Jaskier slides over, patting the space of the bed beside him.] You might as well get more sleep without Sam's proddings while you can.

[ Silence is all he gives in reply, though he does look at Jaskier, his gaze steady. He almost says it. Everything that happened. It burns inside him. He's told no one, but Jaskier knows him better than anyone else. He is perhaps the only person in this place Geralt thinks he could tell, if he ever chose to. The question is whether he will.

For now, he does not. It's too raw. He takes the invitation instead, carefully settling in beside Jaskier. He supposes he could return to his own bed, but he tells himself that the walk back isn't worth it. He may as well stay here. (It has nothing to do with the fact that he'd rather not be alone.)

He takes the flower from his hair, turning it between his fingers. His life has never been especially peaceful, but he's tired of the turmoil. The world that presses down around them with its edges of war and strife and pits of vipers. He misses, more than ever, his real home. There is no place here where he can take the people most important to him, no walls to keep them safe behind.

Sleep comes difficult. He's always slept like shit, but more so now. He stays, anyway, watching Jaskier doze into the late morning. ]

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[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

jaskier.

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