TW for self-harm and mentions of PTSD

Geralt spends twenty minutes sitting in the parking lot of Jaskier's apartment complex before he can get up the courage to go to the door. Even once he's out of the car, he turns around three times before forcing himself to walk up and press the buzzer. His stomach immediately ties itself into knots.

"What are we doing?" he sighs, looking down at Roach. "I'm no good at this."

Jaskier doesn't answer the first time and Geralt is ready to take it as a sign and give up, but when he tries to head back to the car, Roach refuses to move. Instead she thumps her tail against the ground and barks at him, refusing to stop until he hits the button again.

"You're awful," he mutters at her. "You know that, right?"

She responds by headbutting his hand and panting happily when he scratches her ears.

"'lo?" Jaskier's muffled voice comes through the speaker.

"Uh. Hey." Geralt's suddenly forgot everything he was going to say.

"Who is it?"

"Me." Geralt groans, shaking his head. "Uh, Geralt."

There's a long silence, then Jaskier says, "Oh."

"Can I, um… come up? I have Roach. She missed you. At the park." Geralt's palms are sweaty and for some reason his heart is slamming against his chest.

"… sure."

Then the door buzzes and Geralt nearly misses it and needs to call up again. By the time he's up the elevator and standing outside Jaskier's apartment, he's ready to faint and has no idea why.

Jaskier opens the door wearing pajama pants and a sweater that's several sizes too big for him. "Hey," he says softly, looking down at Roach and giving her a smile that only tugs up one corner of his lips. "It's, uh… sorry, it's a mess."

Geralt quickly holds out the coffee cup to Jaskier, along with two of the muffins Jaskier likes from the café. "The coffee," he says gruffly. "The muffins were… I just. I got them."

"Thank you," Jaskier says, and it seems like he means it.

The apartment is a mess. Geralt had expected it to be chaotic – just like Jaskier – but this looks like someone robbed the place. Half-empty cups of tea and coffee are sitting on every surface, and a pile of books on the table looks like it's about to fall over at any second. Jaskier quickly clears a pile of dirty clothes off one of the couches and gestures at it, then settles down into the one opposite, pulling his knees up to his chest.

As soon as Geralt lets Roach off her leash, she bounds over to Jaskier, sniffing his hands before looking imploringly at the spot next to him on the couch. A tiny smile spreads across his face and he nods.

"Sorry if she gets fur everywhere," Geralt says, feeling incredibly self-conscious as he sits down.

"It's okay," Jaskier says. His voice is soft and he's looking at Roach, who has hopped up next to him and is nosing at his face. She licks his cheek, then settles herself so she's half on top of him, leg in his lap and head resting against his chest.

An uncertain silence settles over the three of them as Jaskier gazes down at Roach, running his fingers through her fur. Geralt can see that his hands are shaking, and he's about to try to ask what's wrong when Jaskier bursts into tears.

Oh. Geralt's chest tightens and he's flooded with anxiety as he watches Jaskier try unsuccessfully to hold in a sob. Roach whines, turning in his lap and moving up so she can lick his cheeks as he cries. He wraps his arms around her neck, burying his face in her fur while his shoulders shake.

Do something, Geralt thinks, trying desperately to figure out what exactly it is he should be doing. Anything is better than sitting here and staring.

He forces himself up and moves closer to the other couch, carefully shifting the coffee table out of the way and crouching down in front of where Jaskier is sitting. Roach's tail pounds against the sofa as she lets Jaskier hold her tight and cry against her.

Geralt can't think of anything to say. Asking if Jaskier is okay is stupid because he's clearly not, but asking what's wrong also seems ridiculous because he's crying hard enough that he can't talk. Geralt settles for sitting on the floor in front of Jaskier and putting a hand on his knee. Maybe knowing that he's there will be enough.

Jaskier immediately reaches for Geralt's hand and Geralt lets him take it. He can feel Jaskier trembling, feel the way he's shaking from the sobs, and he turns his hand so that Jaskier can slide their fingers together and squeeze. They've never touched like this before – Jaskier seems to know, instinctively, how Geralt feels about touch, but like this, Geralt doesn't mind. Jaskier needs help and this is all he can do.

They sit like that for a long time. Eventually Jaskier's sobs peter off into smaller cries, and then hiccups, and then shaky breathing as he lets go of Roach. She stays in his lap as he wipes at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, continuing to lick his hands.

"Sorry," Jaskier mumbles once he's able to talk again. "I shouldn't—I didn't—"

"It's okay." Geralt is very aware that they're still holding hands, but he doesn't let go. "Are you, uh… do you wanna… talk?"

Jaskier lets out a wet laugh and finally meets Geralt's eyes. He looks exhausted. The usually brilliant blue is cloudy and dark, and Geralt hates it.

"Geralt, the king of monosyllables, wants to talk?" The question is teasing, but Geralt's pretty sure Jaskier isn't being funny. He searches Jaskier's face, trying to figure out what to say or do. People are frustrating and difficult to understand, but there's something about Jaskier that makes it a little bit easier.

"I mean it," Geralt says, trying his hardest to be honest. "I've been worried about you. You said you were sick."

Jaskier sighs. "I am," he says quietly. He runs his fingers up Roach's nose and back behind her ears. "Just… up here." He taps the side of his head and looks miserable. At first Geralt thinks he means a headache, but then he remembers the scars and the way Yennefer had looked at him.

"You mean… depressed?" he asks carefully. He's not sure if that's insensitive or not, but Jaskier doesn't seem to mind.

"Yeah," he says, "kinda." He grabs the blanket from the edge of the couch and tries to wrap it around himself, grumbling when the edge of it gets caught. Geralt stands up and tugs at it until it straightens out and Jaskier can burrow underneath it. "Thanks."

Shifting the blanket leaves a free space on Jaskier's other side, and Geralt hovers uncertainly next to the couch until Jaskier gestures for him to sit down. "If you would like to sit with me," he says, "I'd like that. But you don't have to if you're more comforta—"

"No," Geralt interrupts, quickly sitting down on the couch. "I just—I'm sorry. Sometimes I have a hard time, uh… figuring it out? What people need."

"I know," Jaskier says, still running his fingers through Roach's fur. When Geralt sits down, Jaskier glances up at him just long enough to give him a reassuring smile, then turns back to Roach again. "Thank you," he says quietly.

Geralt doesn't respond because he hasn't really done anything worthy of thanking. Instead he settles back onto the couch, focusing on the warmth of Jaskier's thigh against his. Jaskier's still shaking, but Roach keeps licking his hands and his cheeks and whining at him, and an ache works its way into Geralt's chest. It doesn't take much to picture himself in Jaskier's place, with a bandaged arm and a heart full of grief and a dog that was broken just like him, trying to keep each other safe.

"She's a good dog," he says roughly, and Jaskier nods, pressing his forehead to hers. He never stops petting her, running his hand over her head and behind her ears as he sniffles and tries to pull himself together. His other hand clutches the blanket like a lifeline, but it doesn't seem like enough.

"Thank you," he says. "I didn't mean to… it's not…"

"Do you…" Geralt hesitates. "Do you want a hug?"

Jaskier tips his head, giving Geralt an expression that he's not even going to bother to try and decipher. "You don't have to," Jaskier says.

Geralt knows that. Jaskier is good and caring and somehow understands the way that Geralt's brain works, even when he doesn't get it himself. But Jaskier is upset right now, and Geralt doesn't know the right words to say to make it better. All he has is this, and for Jaskier, he's willing to give it.

"I know," he says, shifting his arm up onto the back of the couch. "It's okay."

Jaskier sniffles, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie and slowly leaning into Geralt. As soon as they're touching its as if his entire body exhales, melting against Geralt's side as he curls up and presses his face against his shoulder.

"Is this okay?" Jasker asks quickly as he shuffles closer. Geralt nods. He wraps his arm around Jaskier's shoulders and brings his other hand down to pet Roach, who is now halfway across both of their laps.

It's nicer than he'd expected. Geralt hasn't hugged anyone in a long time – not since Eskel died. It makes him feel warm and important. Usually he's clumsy; hands too big to do anything but break things, but as Jaskier sighs happily and snuggles closer, it feels like he's finally doing something right.

They fall asleep like that.

When Geralt wakes up, Jaskier is still there, curled against him and breathing softly against his collarbone. Roach looks up at Geralt and pants happily, tail thumping against the couch as he pets her head.

"Hey, girl," he says softly, tipping his head back and looking out the window. It's the middle of the night, and all he can see outside is the occasional flash of headlights. He should put Jaskier to bed and go home, but the idea doesn't sit well with him.

He looks back down at Jaskier, who looks almost happy in his sleep. One of his arms is tucked behind Geralt, and the other hand is splayed across his chest, following the rise and fall of Geralt's slow breathing. The sleeve of his shirt has slipped back a little and—

Oh. Oh no.

There's a bandage wrapped around his wrist, and Geralt can see a faint stain of blood through it.

He was too late.

"Fuck," he whispers as protective sensation rolls through him, making him pull Jaskier tighter against his chest. It's mixed with a heavy guilt and a deep sadness that makes him feel like crying. He hasn't cried in years, but seeing Jaskier here, hurting like this…

"G'ralt?" Jaskier mumbles as he blinks awake sleepily, shifting his hand on Geralt's chest. "'m sorry, I didn't…" He trails off as he realizes that Geralt is looking at his wrist and mutters a soft, "fuck." He quickly tugs the sleeve back over his hand and tries to pull away from Geralt.

"Don't," Geralt says, shaking his head and keeping his hand on Jaskier's shoulder, just tight enough to hold him in place. "It's okay."

"It's not," Jaskier says softly, and his voice is soft and edged with tears. "I'm sorry, I didn't… I'd been trying so hard. I didn't mean to, I was… I'm sorry." He covers his face with both hands and sniffles.

Geralt's struck with once again not knowing the right thing to say, so instead he asks, "What can I do?"

Jaskier stills, peeking up at him with red-rimmed eyes that are filled with guilt. "You're not angry?" he asks in a small voice.

Geralt frowns. "Why would I be angry?" he asks. "I'm…" He sighs in frustration, trying to find the right word. "Worried?" It's not quite right, but it'll have to do.

Jaskier sighs, dropping his arms and crossing them over his chest. He looks miserable and Geralt just wants to make it better. He misses Jaskier's smile, and his laugh, and the stupid look on his face when he tells a particularly terrible joke.

"I've been feeling shitty," Jaskier says eventually, picking at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve. "I've got—I'm bipolar. And this is just… it happens, sometimes. My brain is stupid."

Geralt isn't certain what exactly bipolar is, but he's got a vague idea. "Your brain isn't stupid," he argues, letting go of Jaskier's arms and putting both his hands, palm-up, in Jaskier's lap. "Just different."

Jaskier looks like he might start to cry again, and he stares at Geralt's hands for a few seconds before taking them. "It sucks," he whispers. "I hate it."

"I know." Geralt thinks of sleepless nights, of reliving broken glass and screaming and ambulance lights over and over again. Of the way he couldn't drive for nearly a year. Of how Roach would wake him up from nightmares, licking his face and cuddling with him as they both grieved. "I'm sorry."

Jaskier sighs, squeezing Geralt's hands gratefully. "Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

Jaskier doesn't seem to have a good answer, and Roach takes the opportunity to squirm forward between both of them, looking imploringly at Jaskier until he pats her head. The tiny movement seems like it takes all his energy.

"You should sleep," Geralt suggests.

Jaskier sighs. "I can't," he admits. "I just… my brain won't stop. Or it will, but I…"

"You were sleeping," Geralt says, gesturing to the way Jaskier had been curled up against his shoulder. An expression flits across Jaskier's face that Geralt thinks might be embarrassment. "I could stay. If it helps."

"You would…" Jaskier chews his lip. "You don't like touching."

Geralt shakes his head, pulling Jaskier back toward him until he's curled up on his chest again, head tucked beneath Geralt's chin. Jaskier's fingers bunch in Geralt's shirt, and when Geralt carefully wraps both arms around Jaskier, it feels right.

"It's okay," Geralt says, surprised to find that he means it. "I don't mind if it's you."