#whooptiedoo my hiatus has ended!

[king-finnigan]

If you're still doing prompts... Maybe Geraskier 9 and 21? ;u; I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort.

9. “You really thought I was dead?” 21. “I…I can’t do this without you.”

Geralt is in Temeria when the news first reaches him: Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount De Lettenhove, has died. 

It happened several months ago - news doesn’t travel south as fast as it used to, now that everyone is fleeing north, away from Nilfgaard. Geralt doesn’t believe it at first, refuses to believe it for even a second, as a matter of fact. After all, Jaskier is young and healthy and perfectly safe in Lettenhove, last Geralt heard, so why would he die so soon, so unexpected?

But, he figures as he travels north, towards Lettenhove, it’s been ages since he’s last seen Jaskier, since they parted ways on the mountain. Maybe he fell ill, maybe he got hurt someway, somehow. Maybe his death wasn’t as unexpected as Geralt would like to think it was. 

The closer he gets to Kerack, the more he learns about Jaskier’s supposed death. And the more he starts to believe it.

Jaskier apparently fell sick several weeks ago - no one’s sure what it was that took him down, even now - and he fought a long and hard battle against his illness, before eventually succumbing to it in the middle of the night. His funeral was held several days later, his body laid on a pyre under a blue and gold shroud, every precaution taken to make sure his illness couldn’t possibly spread to anyone else. His ashes were scattered in the forest behind the Lettenhove estate, a gravestone placed under his favourite tree.

They say that in his final hours, he begged to see an old friend one last time. 

The silence weighs heavy on Geralt, now, as he makes his way to the north, to Kerack. More so than even during the first few weeks after the mountain, he misses Jaskier’s voice, the idle strumming of his lute, the constant chatter and too-fast heartbeat following Geralt wherever he goes. Wherever he used to go.

More than ever, he regrets what he said on the mountain. Wishes he could’ve taken it all back before the end, or could’ve at least told Jaskier how much he regrets his words. 

He wishes he could’ve told Jaskier how much he loves him.

Loved him. 

When he rides into Lettenhove, the town is clad in black, still, even after all these months, and he can tell how much these people loved Jaskier, too. Dozens of eyes follow him as he rides through the strangely quiet streets, towards the estate, whispers rising in the silence, of the Witcher, master Julian’s Witcher is here. 

He pays no mind to them. Instead, he keeps his eyes ahead. He leaves Roach behind at the edge of the forest, setting out on foot to find the tree with Jaskier’s headstone.

He finds it soon enough. It’s under an old willow tree, next to a small stream cutting through the tall grass. It’s truly beautiful here, a final resting place fitting for the the bard.

He falls to his knees in front of the large stone, trails his fingers over the letters carved into it, as tears slowly fill his eyes. He can’t help but curl in on himself, the pain in his chest worse than any wound he’s ever endured, every muscle in his body quivering with the effort not to scream out his agony for the entire world to hear.

“Jaskier, I- I...” He doesn’t know why he’s talking, now. Twenty years Jaskier’s spent by his side, and never once has Geralt been able to truly talk to the man, but now that Jaskier’s gone, Geralt suddenly can find the words? He nearly laughs at the bitter irony of it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw, tears unshed at the back of his throat. “I’m sorry for everything. For yelling at you, for abandoning you, for not coming here sooner, for everything I’ve ever done to you. I’m so sorry, Jaskier. I... I can’t do this without you.” His voice breaks on a quiet sob, bitter tears spilling down his face as he clutches his stomach with one hand, the other clenching around the stone.

“Geralt...” 

His eyes fly open, and he turns his head so fast he hears a few neck bones pop. There, behind him, not ten feet away, is Jaskier, alive and well. Geralt nearly slips in the tall grass in his hurry to get up, but in the blink of an eye, he’s holding the bard against his chest, drinking in the familiar scent of lavender and sandalwood like a man dying of thirst. 

Jaskier protests softly, hands coming up to tug at Geralt’s arms around him. “Alright, alright.” His voice is muffled by Geralt’s shirt. “Good to see you too, but can you give me some room to breathe?”

With an effort that leaves Geralt’s head spinning, he slowly loosens his grip on the bard, letting him pull back to look at him. “Jaskier,” he whispers.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, a playful smile dancing across his lips as his arms settle around the Witcher. “Geralt,” he whispers back in the same tone. He grins, and the sight leaves Geralt breathless with relief and joy. “Not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm and that little speech you gave just now at...” he frowns “my father’s headstone for some reason. But I have to ask. Why?”

Geralt frowns, turning his head to look at the stone. “Your... your father has the same name as you?”

“Yes, he does. Wait- you thought that was me? You really thought I was dead?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, merely burying his nose into the side of Jaskier’s neck, letting lavender and sandalwood calm him down as the bard quietly laughs.

“Sweet Melitele, Geralt, if I’d known you cared enough to cry over my grave, I would’ve...” He’s suddenly quiet, and Geralt can smell the faint heat of embarrassment mixing in with Jaskier’s familiar scent.

He pulls back, frowning at Jaskier, who’s now blushing a bit. “You would’ve what?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, blue eyes searching Geralt’s face intently, as if he’s looking for something. “I would’ve kissed you sooner.”

Geralt blinks, not sure how to respond. But, he figures, sometimes the best response is no response at all. He pulls Jaskier closer, crashing their lips together unelegantly, and the bard lets out a surprised sound, before melting into the kiss. 

Eventually, Geralt pulls away, gasping in lungfuls of sweet summer air, his head filled with lavender and sandalwood and bright blue eyes. The last golden rays of sunlight illuminate Jaskier, casting a halo around his head, the first chill of autumn creeping into the air.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me this winter,” he says before he can think twice about it. “Please.”

Jaskier huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Gods, I’d thought you’d never ask, Geralt.”

He frowns. “So... is that a yes?”

Jaskier laughs, bright and crisp and sweet, the sound of it washing over Geralt like a gentle breeze. “Yes! Of course that’s a yes, you absolute idiot.” He pulls Geralt closer, and Geralt lets himself be held, the weight of the last few weeks falling off his shoulders, finally, Jaskier alive and well in his arms.