[ OPEN/SOME CLOSED ] if I had to do it over, I'd do it all again

[cointosser]

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 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.]

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[gynvael]

[ He should be offended by that, but he understands how it is. Jaskier, like all humans, is not immune to seeing a Witcher in a certain light, even now. That's how they prefer it. There are parts of themselves they keep between each other, behind heavy closed doors, too aware of how easily it can be twisted. How easily their care and grief and lessons forged in blood over decades can be turned against them.

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. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier, too, is not sure what he wants to hear. Pretty platitudes or silence: both feel equally unfathomable to him right now. He cannot let go of the idea he will be found wanting when it comes down to continuing the path. What role does a bard have in a plot made of demons, and sorceresses, and Witchers and monoliths? He is no longer the Sandpiper, even. All he'd managed to craft on his own destroyed in a single night.

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.]

[gynvael]

[ Jaskier, always, is different from anyone Geralt has ever let into his life. He knows this, but knowing doesn't mean he can offer what Jaskier is seeking. If he even fully gathers what Jaskier might be seeking. His entire life has been surrounded by people who wrap themselves up in thick, hardened walls. He's the same. Ciri is the same. (Yennefer.) He learned a long time ago how to comfort people of that kind, people like him. He's learned not to stifle, he's learned not to say what's too painful to speak out loud. He knows how to tell when to approach and when the solitude is impenetrable. He knows not to let the bitterness sting when it lashes too far.

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. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier doesn't really pay attention to how long he holds onto him. It's Geralt, and he'll deal with it -- a bard clinging to him is really the least of his worries, isn't it? It's enough. It's enough because it has to be. It has to be.

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?

[gynvael]

[ Yeah. He does need him. Always has, he supposes. He'd told himself he did not, but perhaps he's learned that just because he does not need someone in his life to survive, day by day, it doesn't mean they aren't needed at all. That he doesn't need them in a different, more important way. And he can't tell if he learned it back home, from these sudden memories that now fill his head, or if he learned it here in this world after all they've been through—but the truth of it remains. ​]

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. ]

[cointosser]

No. Never.

[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?

[gynvael]

Neither did you. [ It feels foolish to say, to tell Jaskier I didn't mean to leave you when he so obviously had. It's just...hard to explain. How it is to regret walking away, yet find it so difficult to turn back that you put it off and you put it off, and then eventually you tell yourself it's too late. They must've moved on by now. How could they not?

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. ]

[cointosser]

[Here, he goes quiet. His brows come together, his heart lurching in his chest. Is that really true? Geralt had made it very clear what he thought of Jaskier in that moment. And whether he was backed into his corner or not, lashing out because either he had to, or because it made Geralt feel better, the case of the matter was the Witcher had not come looking for him, either.

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.]

[gynvael]

[ He can tell Jaskier is considering, doubting. Geralt lets it be; lets Jaskier work things out as he will, on his own terms. It's not so much that he assumes anything of his friend. It's only that how Jaskier feels about him will not change what he means to Geralt.

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. ]

[cointosser]

[This time Jaskier looks at him with real amusement; soft around the edges, much more muted than it had been years ago, but it reaches his eyes. Jaskier is all for affirmations, but sometimes they are unnecessary. Yet Geralt's words were so achingly sincere.

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.

[gynvael]

[ His nose wrinkles. ] I know.

[ 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.

[cointosser]

[Jaskier shares his exhaustion. Somewhere between the flip-flopping of his thoughts, cartwheeling through his head, thrown against the now and the then, he'd begun sobering up. He'd gone through fear and anger and -- and now there was this, which was about as close to peace as he felt capable of getting.

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.