Jaskier sighs in his half-sleep. Sunlight sifts through his closed lids, a gentle reminder that it's time to get up, but he doesn't feel like it. He is too contented under his warm blanket, the mattress soft and comfortable, and the strong arm around his waist makes him feel safe.

Somewhere in the near distance, he can hear singing, and he realizes that early mass has already begun. He is glad that Nenneke doesn't expect them to attend.

Drowsily, he shifts back a little, pressing into the body that wraps against his back, and feels himself being pulled closer. Warm puffs of breath brush against his neck as Geralt nuzzles along his ear.

"Good morning."

Jaskier hums contentedly, still refusing to open his eyes. "You always know when I'm waking up."

"Witcher senses. Your breathing changes when you come around."

"Hm. I guess I need to work on that."

Geralt huffs a laugh as he presses a kiss to his jaw, and it tickles against Jaskier's skin. It's almost ridiculous how good it feels, and Jaskier smiles, still refusing to open his eyes. This is his favorite time of day, and he savors every little moment of bliss he gets. The little inconsequential touches and caresses. The soft rasp of Geralt's voice. Their mingled scents in the bedsheets. There are so many things he holds precious, and now that Jaskier is finally sure that Geralt will stay, that he won't ever abandon him again, he gets to truly relish every moment.

"We really should get up. We're lucky if we still get breakfast."

The words hum through his body, as Geralt mumbles them against Jaskier's skin.

"Not hungry."

"Yeah, well." Geralt presses a kiss into the soft hair at the base of his neck, and it makes him shiver deliciously. "You know what I think about that. You gotta eat."

"Hm. I can do that later."

"And I promised to help in the temple garden today, so can't stay all morning."

Jaskier sighs. With all local witcher contracts taken care of, Geralt has started to help around the temple, fixing broken windows and helping to mend the roof of the dormitory. It's not that anyone asked it of him. The temple of Melitele is a place of healing, a sanctuary for those in need, and Geralt has awarded a fair amount of coin for their help already. But it's not like Geralt to take advantage of a situation, and Jaskier has the impression that Nenneke is almost like family to him. Geralt wants to show his gratitude, and when he's not with Jaskier or fencing with Ciri, he lends his hand wherever he can.

"Well, five more minutes won't make much of a difference," Jaskier murmurs, and feels himself being tugged closer in response.

"You didn't wake tonight," Geralt remarks softly, and it sounds almost like a question. Did you sleep well? Did I miss anything?

Now that Geralt points it out, Jaskier realizes that he is right. This has been one of the rare nights undisturbed by nightmares.

"No," Jaskier confirms. He turns a little so he can catch a look at Geralt's face. "I had happy dreams tonight."

He doesn't remember much, just the image of a burnt-down house with dandelions growing from the rubble. Their bright yellow petals were like drops of sunlight amidst the gray.

"I'm glad."

Geralt's hand wanders over his chest and Jaskier rolls around to face him. His eyes are soft, like molten gold in the sunlight, and Jaskier feels his smile widen.

"What's the matter?"

Jaskier shakes his head in wonder. "Gods, you're beautiful."

Geralt huffs in response. "You've said that before."

"It's true though. Honestly, you should see yourself. The morning light catching your hair and reflecting in your eyes. Those pecs -" He traces a hand down Geralt's chest and halts the moment he sees his own hand. The bandage has come off just yesterday, and while there is no pain anymore, the skin looks terrible - pink, and knotted. What's worse, he still has no feeling in two of his fingers.

He never will again. Nenneke has tried to explain it to him, something about nerve damage and the limitations of modern medicine. Not that he cared much about the details.

Geralt must have guessed his thoughts because he gently collects his hand in his, pressing it close to his chest.

"Don't worry about what it looks like," he says. "I have far more scars."

Jaskier lowers his gaze. "I know."

"It means you survived," Geralt points out reasonably.

"Yeah."

Geralt cups his face, tracing a finger along his jawline. "Hey," he rumbles softly. "Stop ruminating. There are still things we haven't tried, and magic can do a lot. I really enjoyed seeing that smile on your face. It suits you."

Jaskier smiles a little, just to please him, and when Geralt leans in for a kiss, it disperses some of his sadness. It's soft and sweet, and Jaskier parts his lips in invitation. As he feels Geralt's fingers scrape over his scalp, tugging him closer still, it brings back memories of last night, and that lifts some of the weight from his chest too. Geralt is here with him, and he's staying. That's all that should matter at the moment.

When Geralt finally breaks the kiss and draws back a little, there's a curious expression on his face.

"You know, I've been thinking."

"Oh?"

There is something heartwarming about the way Geralt worries his lip, and Jaskier wonders why he is so reluctant. For someone who seems so invincible most of the time, Geralt can be adoringly shy.

"You know," Geralt begins, licking his lips. "I had a brother once who got into a bad fight. A fiend, not that it matters. Didn't go well for him. The beast practically shredded his forearm, right under the elbow. He survived the fight, but he lost his arm." He pauses as if he's trying to gauge if Jaskier might want him to continue. "We thought he would never fight again. After all, it was his sword arm. We were wrong though. Turns out he picked up his sword again as soon as he was able and was back on the trail half a year later. Fighting with his left hand."

Jaskier frowns. He can see where this is going, and while he appreciates the sentiment, it still irritates the hell out of him. Geralt doesn't know the first thing about making music, about the skill it takes to play an instrument like the lute. How many years it has taken Jaskier until he could play it as masterly as he did.

"You know that fighting is not the same as playing the lute, right?" Jaskier's voice is carefully controlled, but he is sure that Geralt still hears his bitterness. His brows contract ever so slightly. "You need both hands to play, and my left hand is fucking useless. I should know. I have tried."

He has. It was the first thing he did after the bandage had come off, and he almost cried with frustration. He couldn't even feel the strings under his fingertips, let alone bend the fingers properly. There's no way he'll fret a chord again.

"But your right hand still works."

"Yeah, well, sure. But it's just for picking and strumming. My left hand is the important one. How am I supposed to - "

Geralt holds his gaze as Jaskier mentally completes the sentence.

"Are you suggesting that I play left-handed?"

"Is that possible?"

Jaskier stares at him as he considers the idea. He knows there are left-handed lutists, but as far as he knows, they just play their instrument right-handed like everyone else. Theoretically, however, it should be possible to turn the lute upside down. He could even find a lute builder to reverse the strings, and see if it makes things easier. Plucking would still be limited to three fingers, so anything complicated would be impossible. But all in all, the idea isn't half bad.

He licks his lips, not daring to hope yet. Because if this works, he could have his life back. However, if it doesn't –

"I would have to relearn from scratch," he says slowly. "It would be like trying to write with the wrong hand."

He casts Geralt a timid glance and earns an encouraging nod.

"I assume it will be frustrating at first, and there's no guarantee that you'll regain your former skill."

"But I could play again," Jaskier says, and he feels his throat constrict at the words. Even if it's just strumming, it will be better than not playing at all. "Fuck, Geralt - "

Despite his misgivings, he feels excitement thrum in his belly. If this works, he could be a bard again. Earn his living instead of being dependent on Geralt's coin. Make the crowd cheer, just like in the old times before his life turned to ruin.

Really, he wonders why he hasn't thought of this himself. He has been so fixated on what he has lost that he didn't spend a single thought on what was still possible. Maybe it will be frustrating, and maybe he won't follow through with it. But he would be stupid not to give it a try at least.

All he needs is a lute, and he knows where to find one. Eagerly, he slips from the covers and reaches for his briefs, almost falling as his feet get caught in the fabric.

"Easy," Geralt admonishes, climbing from the bed as well. "Wouldn't want to break anything."

"No, definitely not."

Jaskier knows he is grinning stupidly, but he can't help it. He hasn't felt this alive in a long while. And while he doesn't consider himself much of a religious person, Jaskier can't help but send a quick prayer to heaven. Melitele, please make this work.

Later, when Jaskier sits under a cherry tree in the temple garden, his belly full and a lute cradled in his arms, the initial excitement has settled a bit. This is harder than he thought.

Even holding the lute is a bit of a challenge, his hands struggling to find the correct position, and it takes an eternity for him to fret the first chord. Technically, he knows where the fingers should go, but he has to fret the strings upside down, and figuring it out makes his head hurt. It feels awkward, too. Off. Like he has to twist his mind and body into a shape that is unnatural and wrong, and for a terrible moment, he thinks that this was a bad idea.

But when he strums his thumb across the strings, drawing his first harmony in months, all doubt vanishes from his mind. His hands might protest the new position, but the sound is familiar, and it makes him sigh in relief. This is home.

It makes him think of the first time he listened to his grandmother's lute. The summer days when he hid in the fields to practice instead of studying heraldry and the history of the continent. He remembers the first time he composed a song – a love song, of course – to impress the fair-skinned and breathtakingly beautiful daughter of the apothecary.

He changes the position of his fingers, clumsily like a child that is beginning to walk, and moves to A minor, humming a few notes. Her sweet kiss, because it's the first line that pops into his head, and yes, he feels like plucking the strings but he knows his middle and ring finger won't cooperate. It's okay though. He never thought he would get even this, and right now he feels so happy he wants to cry.

He doesn't know how long he plays, perched below the cherry tree in the temple garden, strumming simple chords while softly singing along. Going through his repertoire, trying out how much his injury will allow. He feels like a child that is beginning to walk, clumsy but determined, and just like a child, he takes pride in every small accomplishment he makes.

When Geralt finally joins him, sweaty and his hands smeared with soil, he discovers that it is late afternoon already. Jaskier squints at him against the sun.

"May I join you?"

Jaskier gives him a sheepish grin and nods, inviting Geralt to sit beside him on the grass. He smells of hard, manual labor, and Jaskier finds that he likes it.

"You got some water left?" Geralt asks with a glance at the canteen next to Jaskier's leg. It's a warm summer's day, and Jaskier is not surprised he is thirsty.

"A little." Jaskier passes it over, and Geralt nods his thanks.

"So, the tree is cut down?" Jaskier asks, watching him drink.

"All taken care of," Geralt confirms. He takes another deep gulp, then raises the canteen in question. When Jaskier shakes his head no, he screws the lid back on.

"Looks like you're playing again."

"Barely." Jaskier smiles in chagrin. "I feel like a bloody beginner. I have to relearn everything."

"Sounded pretty proficient to me."

"That's because you know shit about music," Jaskier laughs, and Geralt casts him a look that is almost reprimanding. "But thank you. I'm glad you liked it."

"You know, Nenneke said she missed you this afternoon."

"Oh." Jaskier makes round eyes. He has completely forgotten about his appointment. He has talked to her almost every day since they got here, trying to cope with his chronic nightmares and his flashbacks. At first, it had seemed kind of pointless to him, but looking back, he has to admit that it helped. He doesn't crave the poppy like he did, and he calls that a win, too. "I'm sorry. I forgot. I guess I should apologize to her."

"No need," Geralt says with a smile. "She wanted to come and get you, but when I told you what you were doing, she said to just leave you to it." He crooks his head, gazing into Jaskier's face. "You look happy."

"I am." Jaskier nods, looking at his fingers. The digits of his right hand are reddened and sore, but it's a good pain. One that fills him with hope. "Well, maybe not completely. I mean, I'm still not okay with what happened to me, but it's good to hold a lute again. To play, even if it was really bad. I didn't realize how much I needed this."

He licks his lips. It's not easy to say out loud what's on his mind, to admit how close he has come to giving up completely. But he feels that Geralt deserves to know just how much help he has been. That he has saved him, truly saved his life. When he finally speaks again, his voice is hoarse.

"You know, I thought that I had lost myself, and I think, in a way, I had. I thought I had nothing to look forward to anymore." He looks up into Geralt's face. "But now I think I'll cope. Although I think the scars won't ever go away."

He is not just talking about his hand, but by the look in Geralt's eyes, he can tell that he understands.

"They will fade with time," Geralt says quietly. "And the memories will get easier to bear. But you're right, things will never go back like they were before."

"You're speaking from experience?"

"Hm."

Jaskier falls quiet for a bit and directs his gaze to the garden that stretches out in front of them. There are flowerbeds and squares of vegetables and healing herbs, rose bushes, and apple trees, all lovingly tended to. A small wall separates the flower garden from the kitchen garden, and his eyes catch on the yellow flowerheads that sway in the breeze alongside it. Dandelions. Weeds growing amidst a sea of gray. He shakes his head with a smile.

"What's on your mind?" Geralt asks.

"I just realized that it's almost impossible to get rid of dandelions. You pull them out, and they grow right back. It's because they root so deeply. Some part always remains stuck in the soil and it survives."

"It's why they call it a weed."

"Yeah." Jaskier draws his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. He doesn't believe in prophetic dreams, but something about this makes him want to. He is staying at a temple, after all. Maybe the Gods have spoken to him or something.

"You know," he says, brows creased in thought, "it hurts to know that I won't be able to play my favorites anymore. At least not the way I used to. But I think I can rearrange most of my songs so that I'll still be able to sing them. I have to practice though. Like, a lot. But I think it'll be possible."

"You could write new songs, too," Geralt points out. "Something that doesn't involve your left hand too much."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that." He casts a glance at Geralt, giving him a crooked smile. "I thought, a ballad maybe? One about us."

Geralt huffs, but Jaskier sees his lips twitch upwards just a fraction.

"I guess I can live with that."

He is teasing, Jaskier knows that, but he still rolls his eyes before leaning in to peck a kiss on Geralt's lips. When he tries to pull back though, he finds himself wrapped in strong arms that are impossible to escape.

"You can live with that, huh?" He repeats with raised eyebrows, Geralt's face mere inches away from his. He smells enticing, like sweat and soil and something that is unmistakably him. Jaskier wants to bury himself in that scent and never let go.

"Hmm."