Jaskier "old-timey fuckboy" Alfred Pankratz (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cointosser) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2022-01-17 02:29 pm
cointosser) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-01-17 02:29 pm
[ OPEN/SOME CLOSED ] if I had to do it over, I'd do it all again
Who: Jaskier, Ciri, Geralt, Yennefer, Alucard, and some open prompts
When: Mid-to-Late January
Where: Cadens and the Horizon
What: Jaskier wakes from a vivid, nasty dream to physical evidence that it was unfortunately very real. He spirals, but like, only a little bit. It mostly involves getting drunk and buying hats to cope.
Warnings: Mentions of bodily injury/torture, maybe PTSD, heavy drinking
[Will be throwing starters (including open ones) down below! You can hit me up at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
scathefire or #scathefire6612 if you'd like to plot anything or want an additional starter. Also, let me know if you'd like me to avoid S2 spoilers, because there will be a lot.]
When: Mid-to-Late January
Where: Cadens and the Horizon
What: Jaskier wakes from a vivid, nasty dream to physical evidence that it was unfortunately very real. He spirals, but like, only a little bit. It mostly involves getting drunk and buying hats to cope.
Warnings: Mentions of bodily injury/torture, maybe PTSD, heavy drinking
[Will be throwing starters (including open ones) down below! You can hit me up at
no subject
[He draws his right hand to his chest, holding it with the other. No. He knew before he ever talked to Ciri that it... that somehow, it happened. That these things had happened on their sphere, that he experienced them, and that he is still back here regardless. As if the Singularity could simply not stand to let them go.
What are they supposed to talk about, then? Shall they pal around about Yennefer's betrayal? Ooh, can Jaskier say I told you so yet?
He may have, once. He doesn't want to now.] I don't know what else you want me to say. What, that I'm glad it happened to us both? That we have an understanding? That now I know what that missing year between us feels like? It feels like shit, Geralt. If you wanted to know.
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It stings. He also gets it. How it feels when wounds are ripped anew. And he'd never intended to be the source of such a deep wound, but he understands that he was. He'd not wanted to believe, at the time, that he could ever mean that much to someone. After Yennefer walked away, it'd felt—easier, perhaps. To be alone than to wait to be left alone. (He knows he was wrong. He knows he fucked up.) ]
It's not your understanding I came for. [ The statement is blunt, but not unkind. He takes a deep breath. Funny. He's carried a multitude of regrets and loss over the decades, but this is the first time the amount of it has cascaded upon him like an avalanche. If he stops for too long, he thinks he might be swallowed whole. He pushes it aside, to focus on the present. ] I came to tell you you're not alone in what you remember. At least not for some of it. That's all.
[ It doesn't matter, really, if that is worth something or nothing to Jaskier in this moment. He only means that he is here, he will be here, if or when Jaskier needs him for. All of this. Any of this. Whenever that may be. On his part, that hasn't changed—that quiet promise he has made that he isn't going anywhere. Not when it comes to Jaskier and Ciri. Jaskier can take the remark as he will. It's clear, from Geralt's tone, that he will not expand further on what he's said. ]
no subject
It --
Fuck. Did those bloody coffers do this? The surge of power in the Singularity? Could -- could others experience this, this rush of memories? Time stolen from them all? The more he tries to wrap his head around it, the more it pounds, the more he wishes for more drink.]
Fat lot of good it does any of us. [The words are bitter, and sharp, but mostly they are sad.] It doesn't take away any of this I'd rather not remember.
[His ignorance wouldn't have changed much, though, would it? Like him. He changed so little. The elves, Nilfgaard, the onset of the Deathless Mother, Yennefer, the betrayal, the destruction of Kaer Morhen for who knows what time. All of it, crumbling down upon them, and what to show of it?
Some little pink scars and the knives in Geralt's voice when he says Yennefer's name.
Jaskier stands, all of a sudden, and wobbles. The drink isn't helping, like he knew it wouldn't, yet he craves more of it to slip into somewhere else where he can escape from this knowledge. He looks at Geralt, considers leaving again (should he have come home at all?), but pauses. He moves in front of his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder. The feel of it, heated and solid. It was only a short few days back they laid together in bed, and nothing... nothing was right, of course, but it wasn't terribly wrong, either.]
I'm sorry. [He says it quiet, unsteady. The most recent memories are the ones that hurt the most.] About Kaer Morhen. About your brothers. Ciri. I wanted... I wish I could have done more. I wanted to do more.
no subject
And even now, despite his words, he finds himself withdrawing to that place—a flinch he can't hide when Jaskier says your brothers. To think, not so long ago he'd sat and told Sam he missed them. Home. That he wished he could go home, to heal the parts of him that refused to heal after Thorne. Now he remembers going home. How fucking ironic.
He doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to be offered anyone else's guilt for what he's lost. It's easier to focus on another's pain—to absorb the hurt that Jaskier feels and let that be what he feels, too, instead of his own that lies beneath. He doesn't want to think about his own. He's nursed too many fucking wounds as of late. He's only just started putting himself back together and now— ]
I know. [ He knows what it is to watch death and destruction in front of you, and feel helpless to stop it. But it was not Jaskier's fight. Jaskier was...Geralt had asked him to ride with Ciri to Kaer Morhen because he'd trusted no one else more. If he'd known the danger they were all in, he'd never have sent Jaskier into the midst of it.
He takes Jaskier's arm, the one resting on his shoulder. The bard is listing, his feet wobbling. ] Come on.
[ It's late. There's nothing else to talk about. Not right now. He wants to get Jaskier to bed, make sure his friend won't crack his head on the fucking floor. At least that much he can take care of. ]
no subject
I know. It's Geralt, it's the answer he expects, and it's so completely unsatisfactory. He can't offer anything more. They would only be platitudes. Did they even have an opportunity to clean up Kaer Morhen? To mourn the Witchers? To pull the dead from their beds?
He gives him a little bit of a smile, but it's more like a crack in his face.]
Come on what? I'm fine, Geralt. [He slides his arm down, Geralt's fingers running over his scar.] You're acting like it's my first time getting drunk.
[Even though he's now realizing Geralt was waiting for him to come home. To tell him this. For... well. How sweet of him.] I know where my bed is. And you'll be scurrying off to Sam's soon enough.
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He feels like he's aged ten fucking years.
Geralt lets Jaskier go, but he nudges him along towards the bed. Follows behind him. ]
I don't scurry. And not tonight.
[ He has no plans to go back to Sam's. Sam, who will undoubtedly sense that something is off. Geralt does not have the energy to hide it, to swallow it down that deep, and Sam sees too damn much for his own good. Besides, he—
He wants to be here. Everything he thought he understood, it's shifted with such a violent force. And right now, the only thing he can be sure of is Jaskier. ]
no subject
[He doesn't really know what he's saying. It's not like he cares anymore. But for all the things that have happened to him, it almost feels better to focus on the small things. The things where no one died. It's just him, nursing a bottle, trying to get away from what the world is and what it shall be.
Away from bodies upon bodies. All the people he couldn't save. All the ones he did, and the fates he'll never know. Away from Geralt acting as if losing his family doesn't matter. As if it is one more obstacle in a life that will never really cease, until he's cut down.
Who else is going to pick up the mantle, now he's gone? Jaskier was going to go back. To save more of them. As long as the help kept coming --]
Why not tonight? You were enjoying your solitude well enough, I imagine. [It's foolish that Jaskier is so easily bullied, because he sits on the edge of the bed, and he begins taking off his boots -- or trying, with slippery fingers, and he's trying so hard not to look at his right hand, to not even see a slip of the tips -- even though he means to go. Somewhere. He's not sure where.
But he stays. Because Geralt wants his company and he can't just say what he fucking wants.]
I don't want to remember these things, Geralt. [His voice is small, one boot off and rolled across the floor, and the other still clinging to his foot.] When I woke up, I thought -- I thought, of course, they'll tell me it was only a dream. And then I can put it behind me, tucked into a pocket, and be me. Be Jaskier. But things don't happen that way, do they? A man's life simply does not change over the course of a night, but mine did.
no subject
He looks up. He can't say what he wants, no. He can't. Not right now. He had wanted Yen, wanted what they could have, what he thought they could have. And he had said it, those words that mean everything, that have always been so hard for him to put out into the world. I missed you. I trust you. You're important to me. They leave a sour taste in his throat now. It hurts. To know how much of himself he offered and how easily it is swept aside. It hurts more to know that some of the fault lies within him. Not just for allowing himself to believe, but because if he'd been...there. For her. For Eskel. For Jaskier. Could things have turned differently? Did he miss too many signs he should not have? How much else will he not see coming in the future?
Perhaps Nenneke is right. Perhaps he does fear to hope. He doesn't know how not to. All he knows is he doesn't want it eating at him until nothing's left. Or at Jaskier. So he's here, because it's what he needs and he can think of fuck all else to do. ]
I don't, either. [ He says it plainly, without heat or bitterness, and rises to his feet. He sits on the edge of the bed. ] It feels like shit.
[ He does not add that a man's life can, in fact, change overnight. A boy's life. That it happens all the time. You wake up, and you are abandoned in a cellar on a mountain. You wake up, and your heart beats too slow and the world is too loud. You wake up, and there are dozens of corpses in the snow that refuse to rot because of the ice so you walk by them every day until their faces frozen in death eventually turn to bone. But he's learned to find a way forward; he thinks Jaskier will, as well, in time. The alternative is simply too much for him to even grace it with a thought. He's not yet ready to imagine a world where he has lost his closest friend, too. He supposes he never will be. ]
no subject
He laughs, burying his face into his hands. He misses his wine, but the steps are too far to bother for, and he's already lost track of what he's drank tonight.]
It feels like shit. How poetically succinct, Geralt. As if one can fold up and encase all of this pain in a sentence as simple as it feels like shit.
[From dead elves to a sword at Yennefer's throat; to a little girl's mind turned plaything for a demon. A man's broken family; that old man Vesemir pulling a medallion from a corpse's neck. To know now that Ciri grows up still to be bitter and defensive and still so lovely -- he isn't sure if there's hope in that, or only defiance.]
I wanted to forget you. [He continues, and in his drunk mind it all fits together, it all makes sense. Remembering, and memories, and burning.] I wrote a song about it -- I'm sure you've heard it, because it's brilliant -- so sure that, in time, I could do it. I think I learned that from you, actually. Cutting off the parts that feel rotten. In that world, at home, when this place had never happened, it was all I could think to do.
[How irony had come for him -- or was it Destiny? For daring to burn the Witcher? Well, says Destiny, what if it is for the Witcher that you burn?] And unsurprisingly, all it did was make me remember you all the more, until I was sick with memories. And now... fuck. [He lifts his head, gesturing to himself with his hands.] I'm a hot, stinking mess, and you're a stupid, grunting mess, but it never seemed to matter as much as it does now. It never felt like... something we couldn't keep going on from.
no subject
His gaze lingers on Jaskier. I learned that from you. He curls his fingers into a cushion. I wanted to be like you. Indifferent to the past. Yeah. He understands the desire. The need to empty yourself and start over. He used to be the same. Every so often, the urge strikes him still. To want to forget some things. He's since learned otherwise. There's a reason Renfri's brooch has remained on his sword for two decades. There is a reason those bones do not budge from the grounds of his domain. He has buried a lot of the pieces of himself that serve no purpose, but he doesn't forget what has brought him to where he is.
For a moment, he's silent. There's nothing about Jaskier that felt rotten, he wants to say. That isn't why he'd left. But that isn't what this is about. Not really. ]
Who says we can't? [ That's a choice they make. To keep going or not. ] Vesemir once told me the Path is not what we follow. It's what we define as we move forward.
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It's what his whole life is about, after all. Speaking memories, and thoughts, and emotions into words, into songs.
But they could be about anyone.
Jaskier laughs in a choked sort of sound, one that is so deeply sorrowful it surprises himself, too.] I'm sorry, I just never imagined the Witcher who raised you would have any grasp of metaphor.
[Not that he thinks the Witchers fools, either. It's -- He shakes his head, pulling at his hair, then combing his fingers through it. It's all of these things packed into his body, more than ready to burst, and yet his skin won't allow it to escape.]
I must have really fucked up for you to be the optimist between the two of us. [He moves so his side touches Geralt's; a solid wall of warmth and companionship that he knows, despite the gap of time between them, as well as his own body. It is then he finds the strength to lower his hand from his hair, to turn it over and see the fingertips again. To turn it back and curl his fingers into a fist.
And what if you can't? He thinks. What if you simply know you can't?
It isn't fair that he should want to give in. Geralt has not. But he doesn't get it. How can you feel that way after all you've lost? Ciri has not. Ciri has survived all of this. She is strong, and proud, and alive.
Because one must. There is no other choice.
Yennefer had lost everything that meant something to her, and yet. We find new purpose.
And yet.
Jaskier is beginning to worry that perhaps he is the only one that does not bear this strength of heart. What a lovely little dose of irony that would be. And none of them have the function of neither soul nor verbage to tell the stories that would have led him to this moment, the sorry lot.
He will never say Geralt is right. But he has a point.]
It really does feel like shit.
no subject
The shattered remnants of the keep he now remembers are stark reminders of that.
He decides not to tell Jaskier that optimism implies brighter expectations. He does not have those expectations. He does not move forward believing the pain will lessen, that old wounds can fully heal, that there will not be more darkness ahead. The only expectation he holds is that if he claws hard enough, he will crawl through with the pieces of himself that are most important. That's what matters.
He doesn't say it, because he isn't sure it's what Jaskier needs to hear. Now or ever. It's a feeling that can only be truly grasped after a depth of loss and despair that he would never wish on his friend. If optimism is what Jaskier can still hope to believe in, then he wants him to have that.
So Jaskier leans against him, and Geralt simply folds him up. Later, he will begin to look back on the way Jaskier keeps turning his hands, curling them. For the moment, he isn't thinking of anything much beyond being here. ]
no subject
Will someone pick up the moniker? Will there be a new Sandpiper?
He thinks of the last elves he saw. The tall one, with thick hair. I expect much from you, he'd told Dara.
Irony, once again biting at his heels. He expected that in others which he could not offer himself.
How fucking morose. He is about to scoff and make some biting comment to himself, but there is Geralt's presence. There are Geralt's arms. He means to pull away, even considers it, but he hasn't the strength. The exact same way he did in that shitty Oxenfurt cell, he melts into the Witcher's embrace. It is brief, but it is real. There is peace to be found there.
You broke my heart, you know, he wants to say. He doesn't think Geralt knows. So what response could he expect?
I didn't mean it, Geralt could say, but he had, in that moment, meant it.
I'm sorry, Geralt probably would say, again, if he was capable of apologizing twice for the same mistake. But he already has apologized, and there was so little to forgive, anyway.
Jaskier doesn't say anything. His hand spreads across Geralt's back, though he doesn't feel it through several of the tips. He realizes something starkly, a bolt of lightning through the night his mind becomes. The only lie he's ever really, truly told.
I cannot tell him.
Not of this thing that haunts him. That made him collapse in Ciri's arms. The sound of snapping, and a flickering flame, and as tears came to his eyes, tied to that chair, the knowledge that he would break. It was only a matter of time. Between the burning, and his screams, and the sharp, acrid smell of his skin bubbling.
He should know better than most that love can only hold back so much.
Maybe it wouldn't matter if he did tell Geralt. It is only a pebble in the river of the plot. A subplot. A single scene. There is no evidence it ever happened besides a few new scars on his body -- barely anything, he thinks, next to the one that runs up his arm -- and, perhaps, a memory he and Yennefer share.
Right before she left him.]
I missed having you snore in my ear.
[The drink slurs his words. There is peace here. There is safety. He is not here. The mage cannot be here. He breathes in the stink of the wine on his breath, the stink of horse from Geralt. He breathes.
He can't, again, like he did with Ciri. Not with Geralt. Maybe hope still has its uses.]
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He knows that at the heart of it all, they share an understanding that they have hurt the same, if not worse, before and that life carries on with or without you.
Jaskier hasn't hurt the same before. He suddenly isn't sure what to do in the face of that. He wanted to tell Jaskier I understand. Slowly, it occurs to him he does not. Not exactly. Geralt can't even say what he thought, the first time he felt true loss. Witnessed it. He was only a child. There is simplicity to the pain of a child that age. No despair over a future long ahead, no wrestling with questions of hope or existential fear. It just hurts. And then it moulds you until you no longer remember a time when it wasn't lodged inside.
Maybe that's the real reason they took Witchers so young.
Jaskier holds onto him, though. He decides if nothing else, his presence means something so he holds him in return. He can feel the beat of Jaskier's heart, unsteady breaths, the curl of fingers against him. He doesn't pull away until Jaskier finally does so. ]
You'll be fucking sick of it again soon. [ I'm staying. He's not leaving, if Jaskier needs him here. ]
no subject
He doesn't want to give up. He does not want to be the only one who can't keep going on.
These people need him. Ciri said as much. You were there for me. You sell yourself too short, Jaskier.
Jaskier laughs against him, the sound shaking his shoulders, burying his face against Geralt's gross hair. But it's him. Undeniably him. Geralt, he thinks. He thinks Geralt needs him, too. He said as much. He didn't need to, but he did, and that's. That's enough.
He pulls away, wiping his face. It's a mess. All of him is. He does not feel better, really. But he does feel as if he will not drown completely, for now.]
I expect to. There's nothing romantic about that horrible snort-gasp noise you make. [He leans against him. Rubs his hands, rubs his palms, heavy with sweat, over his knees. He understands what it means, even through the haze of drink. He will stay. And. Perhaps, that will be the only nightmare Jaskier has.
Jaskier looks at him. He knows he's the one that sort of threw everything at Geralt's face, all at once, but he needs to ask. It's one of those things. Processing while he speaks.] We're all right. Aren't we?
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Shut up. [ It's said softly, as he maneuvers Jaskier fully into bed. It's been a long night. A long few months. A long fucking year. Even if Jaskier can't sleep, laying down is better than nothing.
Geralt lays down, too, beside him. He props himself up on an elbow, and looks back at him. It takes him a moment to respond. Are they all right? How does one even determine what it means to be all right? Fuck, he isn't even certain if Jaskier means to ask if they are each of them all right—him, Ciri, even Yennefer—or if he means we, as in. Them. Maybe Jaskier means both. Maybe Jaskier isn't certain himself. Geralt thinks about it; decides none of it matters in the end. The answer is the same. ]
We still have one another.
[ Is that enough? It has to be. If not each other, then what else is there? The world offers little. He was taught that long ago. But sometimes the people in it can offer something more. ]
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[He hadn't when he was truly broken-hearted. He certainly wouldn't now. If anything, the drink made it even easier. Made... well, everything spill out of him as drink does. Now he almost feels some hint of shame over it.
A hint. Maybe.
As he lays down beside the Witcher, his head still swimming, there is that sense of peace again. He'd always slept soundly when Geralt was around. Not for his presence, but the surety that anything that should stalk upon their camps would be heard by Geralt far before they had time to do anything even slightly nefarious.
He lays on his side, hair falling into his face. With a puff of air, it flops away. As he waits for Geralt's answer, he knows... it will be important, what he says. But he knows he can rely on him to give him the one he needs.
Only when he does answer does Jaskier relax fully.]
So we do. [He smiles, gives a little huff.] You never lost me in the first place, as I'm sure you're delighted to know. [He flicks Geralt's nose, because he can, pulling a quilt up around his shoulders. Fuck it. He'll sleep in his trousers. He will wake a mess either way.] And I think Ciri may kill me if I went anywhere now. Did you know, I don't think she even liked me? What did you tell her about me?
no subject
But he did come back. He thinks much of that was to do with Ciri. The realization that maybe it's only ever too late to turn to someone if you allow it to be so. (He wishes Yennefer would realize that, too. That if she would only come to him, if she'd come to him then before she'd—)
His lips curl. Is that what happened? Truth be told, he hadn't been paying attention at the time, Ciri's reaction to Jaskier or the dwarves. His focus had been on...Yennefer. He pushes it aside. He'd told Ciri that he would speak to her first before settling on what he wanted to do. He means to hold to that. He can think about how he feels afterwards.
He hums. There is fondness underneath. ] Don't take it personally. She still only barely tolerates Sam.
[ Slow to warm. (Like him.) But it means something, when she does finally trust someone, and she trusts Jaskier. He knows that. ]
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Not until he was needed, apparently.
He looks back. In the end, it doesn't... really matter. Jaskier can be heartbroken, can carry the weight of it on his own. It doesn't change how he felt about Geralt during their time here, either. How good a friend he's been since then.
Though he might have mentioned the year he simply fucked off to who knows where. (They both know where.)
Jaskier laughs, and the moment passes.] That doesn't answer my question! Poor Sam, though. I don't know how I'd feel if your daughter didn't like me. No, wait, I know. I'd be very insulted. The least you could do is put in a good word for the man who made you famous. She... [He softens, picking at a loose thread in their quilt, wrapping it around his finger.] She was there when I first woke up. I'm not sure what I would have done without her.
[Scuttled off into the night to not be seen again, perhaps. He doesn't mention that part.]
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His expression softens. Jaskier says it so easily. Your daughter. As though he were waiting for Geralt to finally accept the truth of it before he spoke it out loud. He supposes he accepted awhile ago, before this, but it's always been tinted with a certain hesitation. He never knew her as a child. He'd never have those memories of training her, watching her flourish. Or so he believed.
It's different now. To actually remember that time with her. The moments when she'd turn to him because he was the only one she trusted when she was afraid. Maybe it isn't fair. Maybe it isn't fair to lay here with Jaskier who can hardly cope with his memories and think I wouldn't give mine up for the world. He wasn't lying, when he told Jaskier it felt like shit. It does. There is grief that curls tightly in his chest. But that's been true of nearly everything in his life. He can't recall a time when he was not burying one hurt or another, trying to move on yet again. This is the first it feels...not so hollow. Like—there's something bright which remains after all he's lost.
He takes a deep breath. His hand settles on Jaskier's arm. ] She cares about you. [ Especially with so much of Yennefer in doubt—they've only had each other here in Cadens. This hasn't changed that. ] And I know she's in good hands with you.
[ He has few he can trust. But Jaskier—he's never doubted Jaskier. Not once. ]
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Geralt's hand warm on his arm, he reaches over with the other.
Flicking the end of his nose.]
I know that, you fool. She's said as much herself. [He could add that, unlike some people, she is much more obvious with it. Yet it is not entirely true. He likes to think Geralt's affections show just as clearly, but said in a different language. One the bard has long become fluent in.] I will keep her safe, in the ways I can.
[Let's try something else, shall we? The roll of that voice through the dark.]
And you. Both of which, I think, can also go without needing to be said.
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[ He sighs. Fuck, he's exhausted. When was the last time he truly rested? Maybe once, that brief outing he'd had with Jaskier and Ciri. Or...when he'd slept next to Yennefer, in the Horizon, nose buried in her hair. A small handful of times.
Feels like it's been years. Decades. The memories tumble in his head, expanding, contracting. Taking place over months and in a matter of hours all at the same time. Jaskier looks older, too. Aged a year or two overnight, hasn't he? Not physically, but—something deeper. Bone-deep. He supposes it only makes sense. And though it's hardly the first time he and Jaskier have shared a bed, Geralt moves in closer now. Slides a hand down his arm. ]
Goodnight, Jaskier.
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Like maybe he could rest tonight. Without waking to flames or burning eyes. (He hadn't even had burning eyes. He'd been unremarkable. Handsome, even.)
It was not fair to take it from him, but he'd needed this. This chance to go through all of it. Of everything he'd felt through the year, all coiled into one ouroboros, spinning round.
His arm warms. Without asking, he moves close enough to bury in against the Witcher. He hardly ever does. Not before he's asleep -- and Jaskier would claim he is not responsible for anything he clings to in his sleep. But now, he wants it. That weight, the presence. To ensure that tonight, he doesn't sleep alone.
Just one night. He only wants to get through one night.
There are still so many things that go unsaid. Perhaps they will stay unsaid. This thing, though. It needn't be said, yet Jaskier wants to. This time.]
Thank you, Geralt.