Try, Please Try For Me

Intertwine Reprise Part 2

Back in the cabin, Geralt makes Jaskier a cup of tea. Wrapped in the witcher's cloak, Jaskier sits at the creaking table, sipping from the cracked mug Geralt found in the cupboard, and lets the heat bring feeling back into his icy fingertips.

Geralt had carried him the whole way back. He'd held Jaskier until the sobs racking both their bodies had subsided, then scooped him off his feet, carrying the bard bridal-style despite Jaskier's insisting, "I can walk fine, Geralt, I'm not going to break."

"No," Geralt said, nuzzling the crook of Jaskier's neck. "You're too strong for that." He then lowered his voice to a quiet murmur, as if he was worried about the trees listening in, when he admitted, "I just don't want to let go of you yet."

And Jaskier-- well, he's a poet himself, but no sonnet or verse he's written could have matched the feeling that warmed his chest when Geralt said those words.

"You warming up over there, Jask?" Geralt asks from where he's positioned in front of the brick stove. He turns the rabbits he'd caught earlier on their spits, poking them a couple times with yet another stick to check if they're done.

Jaskier hums in response and watches quietly as Geralt seemingly determines that it's cooked enough, and takes the meat out, sitting across from Jaskier and handing him the fire warmed rabbit on a stick.

Jaskier thanks Geralt and makes an effort to eat a few bites. He's not particularly hungry, not when his midsection aches from the strain of crying, but his brain seems to latch on to the need for food, and he chews mindlessly, unfocused on taste or feeling. Once he's eaten all he can stomach, Jaskier places the remains of his skewer down, and catches Geralt's eye from across the table, where the witcher watches him with a concerned expression.

"It's fine, if you can't," Geralt tells him. He places his hand over Jaskier's, softly rubbing his thumb over the back of it.

The paper with his name is still in Jaskier's hand. It's balled up and crumpled in his fist, dampened from the sweat of Jaskier's hand holding it there, but he can't bring himself to let go of it yet.

"We should..." Jaskier takes a deep breath, and slowly unclasps his hand, unfurling the crinkled paper, and fighting the urge to flinch when he lays eyes on the words written there. "We should talk, Geralt."

Geralt hums, placing his food down as well. "If that's what you want," he says softly. "But I don't want you forcing yourself to bring up painful memories."

"Well it's a little late for that now," Jaskier laments, "but I want to tell you. You deserve to know." He owes Geralt that, at least, even though the witcher would never push him for the information. Jaskier feels he has the right to know.

And so, Geralt nods, and holds his hand, and listens while Jaskier tells him everything.

Jaskier tells Geralt about his mother, how she died before he could know her and had to grow up thinking he was alone in the world. How he relied on stories and fairytales to learn about himself, and why he was the way he was, and why everyone hated him for it.

He tells him about how he'd discovered his ability to glamour, and the string of commands it triggered from his father. How he was deprived of the one thing that gave him joy.

He tells Geralt about when he first went to Oxenfurt and the blissful freedom he got to experience away from his father. How he started going by Jaskier, and met new interesting people, ones who didn't care about his family or his title, but liked him because of who he was. He tells him about the years he got to spend there, and the happiness he felt to finally be himself, to sing, to write, to play. And he tells Geralt the details of how it had all come crashing down around him after the incident with Valdo, the disgrace he brought to the family and the ensuing punishments for it.