Of Bards and Witchers

Nineteenth

    He isn't quite sure when, how or if he fell asleep-- he remembers leaning against the head rest, tilting his head back against the wood; gazing out at the stars as his fingers pull through his companion's hair. There is the faint crackling of their fire and quiet breaths pushed from the Witcher's barely parted lips. He blinks, and then--

    The warbler sings. Julian blinks again from where he's perched, chin in hand from his seat beside the windowsill. The bird ruffles its feathers as it continues its melody and he peers down at his hands, feels familiar silk sleep-clothes beneath his fingers. He awaits the knocking with bated breath, straightens and rubs his eyes.

    This time, when his hands fall to his lap and he looks, the warbler isn't there. Its singing continues despite its lack of presence. He stands and takes a step back. Then a second. Unnerved, he lurches forward, grasps the curtains and snaps them shut. The bird ceases its song abruptly and room falls dark. He reaches forward--

    There is a fork in one hand and a knife in the other and he cuts into his food-- or was cutting. Now, he pauses, seated at a familiar table. A drop of blood hits the trim of his dish. Then another. He places his silverware down and his fingers twitch. His collar rubs against his throat abrasively.

    "Julian." A soft whisper to his left, a light touch to his arm. They move to catch his eye. Virginia peers up at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. "What ever is the matter?" She asks.

    He has never, in all their years together, seen her smile. It doesn't turn his stomach pleasantly, nor prompt his heart to flutter like he thought it would-- his heart hasn't belonged to her in quite some time, not really-- but still, she is his first and truest love. He reaches over to cup her cheek and recoils slightly as his hand is met with stubble.

    He blinks.

    Geralt of Rivia peers curiously down at him, brows drawn in a familiar manner as he thinks. Julian's hand is still halfway between them where they stand practically chest to chest in an otherwise empty clearing-- he recoils again, harshly, instead pulls at the collar of his infernal doublet. The Witcher has never seen him like... He doesn't know what this is. What he is. Whatever it may be, it's wrong and he doesn't want Geralt to see it. He feels small, his throat is tight, there's the familiar wash of embarrassment as he realizes he might just cry.

    The man says nothing, only continues to scrutinize him curiously, so he shrinks in on himself and turns his face away.

    He sees himself-- hair mussed, blood dripping from his nose onto his infernal doublet and smeared across his split lips, eyes dead, even as they water. Even as tears spill from them onto his cheeks. The eyes of his mother, as his father had once remarked. He doesn't hear him at first, but he sees in the reflection as Geralt moves to stand beside him. The man leans forward enough that his breath fans over his ear when he speaks.

    "Jaskier."

    "Who?" He breathes. Searing amber eyes meet his through the mirror, flicker across his face. The man reaches around and up and wipes blood from beneath Julian's nose with his thumb. It smears onto his tear-stained cheek.

    "Jaskier," the Witcher says, again, firmly. He should know, that much is clear. Why doesn't he know?

    "Jaskier, wake up."

   He does so rather suddenly, and with a shuddering breath that he's definitely going to pretend never happened. It takes a moment to gather his bearings-- Geralt peers down at him and he turns his head against the bedding, avoiding his gaze as he gathers his breath. Their room is lit. It seems he had fallen asleep after all-- though he doesn't feel the slightest bit rested, which is a damned shame-- and, what's more, he reasons as he is lying down, Geralt had woken at some point to reposition them.

    "Sorry--" he begins, but is promptly quieted by Geralt's hand wiping away a trail of unbidden tears that he hadn't noticed. He says nothing as he goes about this and when he finishes, still leaning over him, his hand finds its way into Jaskier's hair.

    The bard peers up at him, swallowing thickly past the knot in his throat. This wasn't something they did-- or, at least, not something that Geralt did. If he was a fool, he might take this as more than a companionable gesture. He wasn't a fool. His heart was, though. A traitor, too.

    "Where did you go?" The Witcher questions, beneath his breath.

    He wets his lips, but he isn't so sure he can even bring himself to speak. Doesn't know what he would say.

    Instead, he shakes his head.

    Geralt, bless his kind, stupid-- Jaskier could think of a million ways to describe this man, all fondly-- Witcher-y heart, nods in understanding. "We will stay," he says.

     Jaskier blinks, reaches up with one hand to palm at his cheeks himself. "What?"

    "We will stay," the Witcher repeats. He moves, slipping his hand from the bard's chestnut locks in favor of draping his arm across the man's chest as he lowers himself back onto the bed. When he settles, he tugs the bard a bit closer-- mindless, almost. Almost. He doesn't want to think about it--runs his fingers lightly against the bard's shoulder, pauses before they can slip higher-- so he doesn't. "Another night," he clarifies. "It is nearing midday, anyhow."