A mug of ale at the edge of the world

”You look ridiculous,” Geralt huffs as Jaskier steers the wagon through the gates. He’s standing in the middle of the yard with Kaer Morhen’s now-familiar and dear bulk behind him, hands crossed on his chest.

Jaskier brings the horse to a stop and tilts his head slightly. ”Excuse me, good sir, I look absolutely as I should.”

Geralt raises a brow.

”What? It’s fashion!” Jaskier exclaims, tugging at his wide-brimmed hat a bit. 

”Whoever told you that, bard,” Yennefer says flatly as she makes her way next to the wagon, peering over the side. ”Did you bring—”

”And good day to you too, witch,” Jaskier interrupts. He hops down from the driver’s seat and walks to take hold of the horse’s bridle, starts to lead her toward the stables. ”I’m very well today, thank you for asking!”

Yennefer lets out an annoyed huff of breath, the kind that tells him she’s still willing to humor him but not for long.

”Alright, fine, have it your way,” he says with a dramatic sigh. ”I found the wine and the herbs and the fabric but the other stuff needed to be ordered in. The merchant said it would take three to five weeks.”

Geralt follows him to the stable and starts to unload the card without a word, piling heavy oak barrels and bulging burlap sacks neatly to the side. Jaskier shoots him a look from the corner of his eye, catches his eye, and ducks his head, turning away to fuss with the horse. She’s a good horse and doesn’t bite him for which he’s very grateful because this new thing between him and Geralt still makes his head spin and heart beat faster than is perhaps healthy.

”Did you bring me anything?” Ciri asks from the doorway.

With a theatric swirl, Jaskier throws his hands in the air. ”Why does everyone assume I brought them treats?”

”Because that’s your job?” Ciri says innocently.

”How rude!” Jaskier gasps. ”I’ll have you know that my job description is far more extensive than merely buying nice things for people I care about. For example—”

”Here,” Geralt says and tosses a small bag at her. She grabs it from the air with ease—as is right and proper for Geralt’s child, surprise or not—and lets out a small squeal of happiness when she peeks inside, then rushes off with a hurried ”Thank you!” over her shoulder.

”Children these days,” Jaskier says mournfully. ”No patience or sense of gratitude.”

”Unlike you?” Geralt says, amused. He’s suddenly closer than he was a moment ago and Jaskier’s breath hitches slightly. Just. Surprise. Nothing more. Obviously.

”I’ll let you know I’m a very patient man drowning in gratitude,” he quips, embarrassed when his voice trembles just a bit.

”Hm,” Geralt says. ”A fact I’m grateful for every day.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes. Geralt sounds genuine but he might just be fucking with him because he thinks he’s funny.

”Thank you for your patience,” Geralt says, reaching out to take Jaskier’s hands between his. ”I know it took me a long time to find my way to you.”

”I—” Jaskier clears his throat and ducks his head as he feels a flush rise to his cheeks which is rather stupid, considering Geralt isn’t even doing anything, just looking at him with those bright, yellow eyes and— 

He shrugs. ”I didn’t know what else to do,” he says quietly. ”I tried leaving. It didn’t stick.” Geralt opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to apologize but Jaskier doesn’t want it. He’s apologized already, several times, and, well. Enough is enough.

”And now I’m acting as a cart driver for a handful of witchers, a witch, and a girl powerful enough to burn down the world.” Jaskier says and grins. ”I think I’m enjoying my new career path.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and tugs the hat over his eyes. 

It was familiar. Easy. It made something inside his chest purr with contentment, and he thoroughly enjoyed the sensation.

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove better known as Jaskier the Bard, picked up yet another stack of musical notation books and started carefully, meticulously shelving them to their proper places.

It had been a complete coincidence, ending up in Master Northing’s shop, and even a bigger coincidence to acquire a job as an assistant. On one miserable, cold, and rainy day a couple of winters ago, Jaskier had been wandering the streets, only slightly hungover and heart-bruised, when he’d happened to look to his left and there it was. The store. A dim window displaying faded pages of old musical books revealed little of the actual shop, so Jaskier shrugged and walked in. He’d ended up staying and spending hours rifling through the shelves, immersing himself in melodies and song cycles and more than a bit annoyed at the lack of proper organization.

”If it bothers you so much, organize them yourself,” Master Northing had snapped in exasperation before stomping into the direction of the backroom, muttering at himself.

Jaskier wasn’t sure which one of them was more surprised when he’d actually shown up the next week, determined to do some serious inventorying. 

And now, a couple of years later, Jaskier worked in the shop several days a week. It was the kind of shop Valdo Marx would never have been caught in entering but it suited Jaskier just fine. Heaps and stacks of old books filled with notations, lyrics, epic tales, poetry; all for him to peruse. It was heaven!

(”I can’t pay you more than this,” Master Northing had said gruffly, sounding both apologetic and defensive as he poured a humble amount of coin into Jaskier’s hand. ”The customers aren’t coming in as they used to.”

”It’s fine,” Jaskier had reassured the old man. ”I like this. Besides, I can recycle this material into my own songs.”)

”Ohhhh my,” he murmured at the stained notebook lying haphazardly on the bottom of the box. ”This looks interesting.” The other musical notation books forgotten, he sat down in the middle of the boxes he was supposed to be shelving and opened his newest find. The front page was too faded to make out the name but as he carefully pried the sticky pages open, he found tales of monsters and magic and let out a delighted little laugh.

This! This was what he’d been waiting for! Adventures and magic and monsters and—was that a depiction of a Witcher?

”Goodness me,” he whispered.

He’d be heading out in a couple of months to travel and sing—perhaps he should try to find and charm one of those Witchers… For science and art, of course! 

And if the Fates smiled upon him, he might even catch a Witcher who could tell him about the infamous White Wolf.

A slow smile spread on his face. 

Oh, yes. This would be his Master’s Thesis.

”Um,” Jaskier says. ”What on earth are you doing?”

Geralt has wedged himself into the small, tight space in the corner, next to one of the giant sinks in the Kaer Morhen’s kitchen. It looks uncomfortable and Jaskier would be worried if the grunts Geralt lets out weren’t of the ”I’m-going-to-beat-this-thing-into-submission-even-if-it-kills-me” variety instead of the ”I’m-stuck-and-about-to-die-because-I’m-too-proud-to-call-for-help” variety.

”It’s clogged,” Geralt growls.

”What is? Your brain?”

”Ha fucking ha,” Geralt replies, accompanied with a loud clang.

Jaskier shakes his head and walks closer to lean on the wall and peer down on the Witcher. ”Do you know what you’re doing?”

”Yes.”

He raises his hands up in a placating move even though Geralt doesn’t see it. ”No need to get snippy, mister. I’m merely asking because I need to know if you’re going to get out of there in one piece and if we’re going to have a working sink or not.” He pauses to consider. ”Or to have a sink at all.”

Geralt sighs. ”Why wouldn’t we have a sink?” he asks, his muffled voice sounding exasperated for some unfathomable reason. 

”Well,” Jaskier says. ”I mean, if you rip it out in your frustration and toss it out of the window? How should I know?!”

Another loud clang and then a startlingly loud gurgling sound drowns out the sound of scuffling as Geralt worms his way out. He shakes himself not unlike a dog getting water out of its fur and rolls his shoulders in a way that makes Jaskier’s toes curl in his boots. He’s filthy and so beautiful that Jaskier is going to sing his praise later. Repeatedly. Preferably while being fucked within an inch of his life.

”Jaskier,” Geralt says, sounding like he’s repeated his name a couple of times already.

He blinks and tilts his head. ”Yes?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches slightly. ”I just asked what do you think we’ve been doing here during the long winter months? Roasting our asses by the fire?”

”It’s a very meaty ass,” Jaskier points out and then yelps as Geralt moves in a flash, picks him up, and throws him over his shoulder. ”Stop it! Geralt! You’re ruining my new doublet!”

”…and if you think about it, Witchers are public servants.”

Geralt pauses and frowns. He should just go on his way but his curiosity takes over as he peers around the corner. There’s a small crowd gathered in the small town square, men and women with faces hardened by weather and life, wearing looks of profound suspicion. In the middle of the gathered townspeople stands a man dressed in a ridiculously ornate doublet, a lute swung over his shoulder and a mop of unruly brown hair framing startlingly blue eyes.

It’s…a bard?

”They’re monsters,” one woman spits out.

”Depends on your definition of a monster,” the bard says. ”Are they pretty? Usually not, although admittedly each of us has our own scale of attractiveness. Are they killers? Of course—they’re the ones who take care of the monsters that kill your livestock, ruin your fields, and lure out your children. Are they scary? They absolutely are.” He pauses. ”But monsters? Mmm…I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Several people scoff and turn to leave.

”Now, now, now, hold on,” the bard says. ”I’m not saying they’re not monstrous but that’s not the same as being a monster. A Witcher never picks a fight with a regular human. A Witcher never rapes anyone and he sure as hell never rapes a child. A Witcher isn’t cruel and he doesn’t torture anyone. He neither discriminates nor picks favorites, and he doesn’t collect taxes. A Witcher picks up a job, does that job, collects his payment, and moves on. A Witcher is a friend of humanity, not its enemy.” The bard spreads his hands wide. ”If that’s not a public servant, I don’t know who is!”

A silence falls for a moment before the crowd disperses, some shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, some snorting and muttering darkly. But there are some who have thoughtful looks on their faces. It leaves Geralt feeling somewhat unsettled.

”Well?” 

To his surprise, the bard is looking at him with a raised brow.

”I love the way you stand in the shadows and just…brood.”

Geralt lets out a dismissive grunt. ”It won’t make a difference,” he says.

”My words?” the bard asks. ”Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. Words have power, you know.” He walks up to Geralt, showing no sign of hesitation or fear. ”Jaskier the Bard, at your service, Mister Witcher,” he says and offers him an elaborate bow that wouldn’t look out of place in a courtroom.

”I have no need for your services,” Geralt says. He turns away and starts toward the inn he picked for the night. He’s only slightly surprised to hear the bard follow him.

”Now, that’s where you’re wrong,” Jaskier the Bard says. ”You might be a public servant but your public image is in need of a bit of polishing. You know with all the…” he makes an exaggerated grimace and wiggles his fingers, ”…the Blaviken thing.”

”So you know who I am,” Geralt says flatly.

Jaskier scoffs. ”Well, obviously, but that’s beside the point. Now, I was thinking about a song; something easy to hum along with a catchy chorus…” He starts to fiddle with his lute as he walks, humming out a line here, another there.

By the time they reach the inn, Jaskier is strumming out a handful of chords and with his clear voice singing out, ”Toss a coin to your Witcher—”

Vesemir was on his way to the kitchen to get something to eat when the light alerted him that he wasn’t alone. It was late and he thought everyone else would be asleep—or whatever Geralt and his bard were doing—but apparently, he’d been mistaken.

”Like this?” he heard Geralt ask.

Oh. No. Those two better not be defiling his kitchen!

A small huff of laughter. ”No, you daft. Counter-clockwise, and keep your touch light and steady.”

”Hm.”

Geralt’s hum was familiar, something Vesemir hadn’t heard in a long, long time. It was the sound he made when he was concentrating hard on something, wanting to make it right on the first attempt. 

”Just like that,” Jaskier murmured. ”You feel that? The consistency changes a bit as it thickens.”

”It’s syrupy. Like honey.”

”Exactly!”

That didn’t sound like defiling. Vesemir couldn’t hold back his curiosity and he crept closer to peek through the crack in the door. And blinked.

Geralt was standing in front of the stove, his hair tied back with a bright blue ribbon, stirring a pot of something with a frown. Next to him, Jaskier was watching him with an open expression, a small smile on his lips, and his whole heart in his eyes.

Vesemir decided he wasn’t that peckish after all, so instead of entering, he stood there, silently watching the Witcher he most considered his son and the life partner he’d chosen. After everything; after Voleth Meir and the destruction of part of the already crumbling Keep, after losing too many of their already dwindling numbers…seeing Geralt cooking something with the man he’d let himself love was a comfort Vesemir was more relieved to see than he would’ve thought.

As he stepped back, Jaskier tilted his head just so, looking him straight in the eye.

Vesemir inclined his head, turned, and left.

The next morning, there was a small jar of jam next to Vesemir’s plate. He raised a brow and glanced at Jaskier, who was studiously buttering his bread with an air of absolute nonchalance. Another small jar was next to Ciri, who let out a delighted gasp and proceeded to eat the whole thing straight from the jar.

”Gimme,” Lambert said, reaching out for Vesemir’s jar.

”If you touch that, I’ll stab you with my fork,” Jaskier said pleasantly, then ignored Lambert’s swearing as he drank his tea with his eyes closed.

Geralt rolled his eyes.

Vesemir saw Ciri eyeing his jar and snatched it before the girl had any bright ideas. The jam was thick and smelled spicy and sweet, and it spread like honey on his bread.

It was damn delicious.

”A room with a bath,” the Witcher grunted. ”And two portions of today’s stew. And—” he paused for a moment. ”Some of honeyed mulled wine, if you have it.”

Olaw pursed his lips. ”We don’t have it,” he said slowly. ”But I can make some.”

The Witcher nodded and counted a number of coins on the table. It was way more than needed and while Olaw wasn’t in a business of charity, he didn’t like overcharging his patrons. The Witcher raised a brow at the returned money but didn’t comment.

”Do you want to eat in the common room or in your room?” he asked. ”It’ll take a moment to get the bath ready.”

The Witcher jerked his head in the direction of the common room. ”We’ll be there,” he said in a gravelly voice before making his way to the darkened corner in the back of the room.

”We?” Olaw muttered. He’d only seen one Witcher but considering the stealthy way this one moved…well. A strum of notes drew his attention to the small dais in the middle of the common room when someone started to introduce themselves in the flowery way the bards have.

It was a young man with tousled, brown hair, a laughing mouth, and sparkling eyes, carrying himself and his tunes with easy confidence that only added to his attractiveness. If Olaw was forty years younger, he would’ve tried his luck but as of now, he merely leaned back to enjoy the show.

And it was a good show: the weather was warm and the bard’s music drew in more patrons until the room was packed, and the floor shook with the beat of dozens of feet stomping in the rhythm of the music. The bard enjoyed the attention immensely, almost glowing with it as he sang his heart out. And it wasn’t just Olaw who was captivated: several patrons followed the bard’s form with hungry eyes and even the Witcher couldn’t keep his eyes off of him.

Olaw wondered how that attention would feel.

The bard finished with an enthusiastic rendition of Toss a coin that got his audience roaring and bellowing along, and ended his performance with a bow that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a court. ”Thank you, thank you!” he laughed. ”You have been a wonderful audience, truly a joy for a humble bard! I’m afraid I have sung myself hoarse and must retire for the night but please, return tomorrow! I’ll be here!”

He bowed again—and walked straight to the Witcher.

In front of Olaw’s astonished eyes, the bard dropped himself almost on the Witcher’s lap and took the goblet the Witcher silently shoved his way. 

”Mulled wine with honey?” the bard exclaimed loud enough for Olaw to hear it over the chatter in the room. He saw the Witcher shrug and duck his head as the bard shot him a blinding smile before tucking into the untouched bowl on the table. He seemed to be explaining something animatedly as he ate and the Witcher watched him the whole time, a look of fond exasperation on his face.

Huh.

Next to him, Katrina let out a soft gasp and tugged at his sleeve. ”Dad, do you know who those are?” she hissed under her breath. When he merely shrugged, she let out an annoyed sound. ”A white-haired Witcher traveling with a bard? Those are Geralt of Rivia and his companion Jaskier the Bard!”

Olaw shook his head, bemused. ”And…?”

Katrina groaned. ”You can’t be this oblivious, dad! Geralt of Rivia as in the White Wolf? And Jaskier is the composer of Toss a Coin!”

”Oh,” Olaw said and glanced across the room—and met the Witcher’s piercing eyes that seemed to shine in the low light. ”Well. Why don’t you take another pitcher of ale and a goblet of that mulled wine to them? You can tell them it’s on the house.”

Katrina did exactly that and came back with a slightly wild look in her eyes and bright red spots on her cheeks but refused to tell him what the pair had said.

Olaw glanced across the room again and nodded at Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier the Bard. Then he turned and started cleaning the bar because some idiot had spilled his whole drink on it and if he didn’t clean it up now, it would start to stink.

”I need your help,” Yennefer says from the door, startling Jaskier so badly he drops his tuning fork.

”What?” he yelps.

Yennefer levels him with a flat stare. ”Help,” she repeats with an all-suffering air.

Jaskier blinks, looks behind himself, turns back to face her. He points at his own chest and asks, ”Me? You’re asking for help from…me?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes and glides into the room. ”I don’t know why you’re acting so surprised.”

”Because we’re…we don’t do this!” he says.

”What, talk?”

”No. Well. I mean, yes, but. No.”

She narrows her eyes and leans forward slightly. ”Are you alright, bard? Is the sexual frustration affecting your speech as well as your cognitive functions?”

”What? No. Wait, what?”

She raises a brow.

”I don’t like you,” Jaskier says, frowning at the replacement lute he’s been trying (and failing) to tune. It’s horrendous and he thinks longingly at Filavandrel’s lute. That was an instrument worthy of a bard! Sadly, it’s completely and totally beyond any help unless said help was someone who could reach back in time and snatch it from the path of destruction.

He eyes Yennefer.

No. She’s still out of juice—and she’d never help him anyway.

”Jaskier,” she says, stubbornly still present and now sitting right there. Next to him. At his table.

”What,” he grumbles.

She sighs and reaches inside her bodice, and Jaskier automatically braces for—

—A locket?

”I need help fixing this. My magic is still gone and…well, let’s just say it wouldn’t work on this anyway.” She holds the locket in her hand like it’s something precious instead of a tarnished and battered locket.

Despite his better judgment, Jaskier leans in for a look. ”What is it?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. ”A memento.”

”That’s informative,” Jaskier deadpans.

”You don’t need to know what it is, other than it’s a locket and I need help getting it open. It’s not magical, it won’t suddenly spew out a spell to turn you into a toad or something.”

He still doesn’t quite believe her.

”Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she huffs. ”If you help me with this, I’ll help you to get laid.”

”With whom? You??”

”Sweet Chaos, absolutely not!” she snaps, shuddering slightly. ”No, I meant that I’ll walk to Geralt, tell him that your mutual pining is getting ridiculous and none of us can quite stand it anymore, so if he’d just throw you over his shoulder and fuck you until you forget your own name, that would be great, please and thank you.”

”What?” Jaskier asks, letting out a slightly hysterical laugh. ”No, seriously, what?”

”You can’t be that daft,” she says flatly.

”But—Geralt is—you—and—” 

”I can’t say I understand what he sees in you but then again, I’m not him. Thank fuck.” She shakes her head and then shoves her hand under his nose. ”The locket,” she says, then adds with such a sweet voice it makes Jaskier’s hair stand on end, ”Please.” 

”Sure,” he says faintly and takes the locket.

Two days later Jaskier is in the common room when Geralt marches to him with a look of determination on his face. 

”Um,” Jaskier says, then tries to scramble back and away as Geralt doesn’t stop. Instead, he crowds Jaskier against the wall and then—stops.

”…yes?” Jaskier asks when Geralt keeps staring at him. ”Did you want something?”

”Yes,” Geralt says. He swallows and adds, ”You.”

”What? I mean, yes. Please and thank you. And for the record, I want you t—”

His rambling is effectively cut by Geralt’s lips. On his. Geralt’s lips are on his and they’re kissing and it’s very nice and lovely and—

”What do I need to do to make you stop thinking?” Geralt growls into the crook of his neck.

All blood in Jaskier’s head flows into his cock and his knees go a bit weak. ”There was a mention of fucking me until I forget my name?” he says. ”I understand it was a promise by proxy so you can’t really be held accountable ooohhhsweet Melitele…” 

His voice turns into a breathy moan as Geralt pushes his thigh in between Jaskier’s and the delicious pressure on his cock is enough to make his eyes roll back. He doesn’t really think much after that.

(”Geralt,” Yennefer says, exasperated. ”When I told you he’s just as desperate for you as you’re for him, I didn’t mean you’d need to fuck him right here in the common room.”

Jaskier would die of mortification but he’s feeling too comfortable buried half under Geralt’s bulk. So he pretends to be asleep. Neither Geralt nor Yennefer buy it.)

The bard looks ridiculous.

That’s what Geralt tells himself because he doesn’t want to think about the alternative.

Jaskier is buried under several blankets, shivering so hard his teeth clatter, and letting out a wheeze every time he draws breath. He looks like death warmed over and Geralt feels terrible. This is the reason he didn’t want Jaskier to travel with him. He’s human, he’s fragile, he gets hurt!

Two days ago, they had been caught in a downpour that turned from rain into sleet, a weather that made even Geralt miserable and cold. Jaskier, though? Jaskier had laughed and sighed and complained until he’d fallen silent. Geralt had been grimly satisfied with the quiet until Jaskier had slipped in the muddy road, stumbled to his knees, and…hadn’t gotten up.

The memory of how still the bard had been and how Geralt had felt him shiver as he picked him up and set him on Roach makes his hands clench with the sudden urge to punch at something.

He never should’ve let Jaskier follow him.

He never should’ve agreed on—

He—

There’s a sharp knock on the door. Geralt opens it to admit the innkeeper and a wrinkled old woman with faded grey eyes and a crooked tooth peeking out from under her lip. What a weird thing to notice, Geralt absently thinks as he takes the old healer to Jaskier—needlessly, to be honest. There’s only one bed in the room and it’s obviously the sickbed.

”So. Let’s see what’s ailing you, boy, hm?” the healer says as she shrugs off her cape and starts to rummage around her basket with a professional air. ”I need boiling water and some clean towels. And you, mister Witcher.”

She directs him to sit with his back against the wall and haul Jaskier onto his lap—he isn’t sure where she got the idea that they are familiar enough for something like this but he doesn’t ask—and when the maid brings in the water, she pours some on a basin and adds a handful of herbs. Then she fusses with the towels to create a tent over Jaskier and the pungent-smelling basin because apparently, that helps with his breathing. Geralt doesn’t quite follow but as she’s the expert on healing here, he doesn’t comment.

”It’s just a cold,” she gently scolds him after Jaskier goes limp after a harrowing cough attack. ”I know it must feel scary, especially considering how you don’t get sick. Your young man will be fine in no time.”

Geralt wants to say Jaskier is neither young nor his but can’t quite make his mouth work. Because Jaskier is leaning against his chest with his head on Geralt’s shoulder, his breaths hot against Geralt’s neck and all he wants is to hold him close and never let go.

The healer doesn’t comment but there’s a knowing look in her eyes. While she packs up, she says, ”I’m leaving you with two sachets of the same herbal blend. If he seems to be struggling with breathing, just repeat what we did right now. If he still seems to get worse, call me again.” She turns to give him a look. ”You should get some sleep, too.”

”I don’t need to sleep,” Geralt says.

”Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t,” she counters.

When the door closes after her, Geralt lets out a long breath and gently eases Jaskier back onto the bed. His brow furrows like he’s in pain so Geralt settles next to him and gathers him close. It’s just to keep Jaskier comfortable, he tells himself. Just to make sure he keeps breathing and stays alive. Nothing more.

With that thought in mind, he drifts off.

He wakes up to the feeling of being watched and opens his eyes to Jaskier’s utter confusion.

”Why am I in bed with you?” he asks in a raspy voice. ”Not that I mind but—” he frowns. ”Usually when I wake up confused, aching, and with my voice gone, it means I was having a very good time but…now I just feel terrible.”

”Thanks,” Geralt says dryly.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. ”Not what I mean. I—” his sentence cuts to a hacking cough that leaves him pale-faced and panting, with a sheen of sweat on his brow. 

”You have a cold,” Geralt says.

”How very boring,” Jaskier croaks after catching his breath. ”Still doesn’t answer why I am in your bed.”

Geralt shrugs, a slightly awkward move while on his side. ”The healer told me to sleep.”

”With me?” Jaskier says, incredulous. ”That’s a very novel way to treat a cold. Intriguing and interesting, yes. But novel.” His next retort is lost in a yawn.

Geralt huffs. ”Go back to sleep, Jaskier.”

With a sniffle and a slight grumble, he does.

One of the earliest memories Jaskier had was an afternoon in the Lettenhove estate kitchen. 

Their head cook, Matron Berthe stood behind him and gently guided his hands into a soft dough. It was pale and soft, speckled with raisins and cardamom and crushed almonds, and it smelled heavenly. With Matron Berthe’s help, Jaskier took out a small lump of dough, rolled it clumsily in between his hands, then dipped it into beaten eggs before placing it on the baking tray. Later, he kept his eyes closed as he drew in the smell of baking cakes, mixed in with the honey glaze slowly simmering on the stove. Later, he held a lopsided cake still warm from the oven and sticky with the glaze and looked at Matron Berthe with wide eyes.

”I did this!” he’d exclaimed.

Matron Berthe had nodded. ”Yes, you did. How does it taste?”

Jaskier can’t remember what he answered but he still remembers the taste filling his mouth and belly with warmth.

Baking was just one of the hobbies his parents never quite understood and barely tolerated. At least it produced something tangible for his efforts unlike his music, and while his mother never exactly encouraged him with his kitchen endeavors, she didn’t forbid him from entering. In Oxenfurt, baking was a way to make ends meet when his funds had run dry and his father had finally had enough of his ”mindless frivolities” and refused to send him more money. 

Later, baking took the second and third and fourth and…a forgotten place as his attention was caught by a pretty lady or a dashing man and the promise of adventures under the wide, open sky.

Later, Geralt happened and, well. 

Jaskier returned to baking when he realized he could either drink himself to death or project his hurt and unrequited feelings into baking.

His bread had always turned the softest and best when he had a lot of feelings to pound out.

Geralt found him in a bakery. How he knew where to look, Jaskier has never asked. Perhaps a bakery named Buttercup was too on the nose, but in Jaskier’s defense, the name came with the shop.

It was three years after the Dragon Mountain, and Jaskier had carved out a decent place for himself in the small village of Trzebinia. He’d started as an apprentice to an elderly baker who, after realizing just how good Jaskier actually was, had dumped the whole place on his lap and retired to the coast. Jaskier had kept the bakery and the clients and even started gathering new ones. Word got out that Trzebinia had a pastry shop with a young, talented owner and heavenly baked goods. He was busy, he was happy, and if he at times trailed a finger along his old lute’s neck with a bittersweet longing…well. There was no one there to see it. 

”Jaskier,” a familiar voice called out one morning when he was busy shelving the new batch of honey cakes (Matron Berthe’s recipe had proven to be a success).

He paused with his back to the door and said, ”Nope.”

”Jaskier,” Geralt said again. ”I just want to talk—”

”No. If you’re not buying anything, get out.”

There was a pause and then the floor creaked and something heavy dropped on the counter. ”What will this get me?” Geralt asked. 

He sounded tentative. It wasn’t a tone Jaskier usually associated with him and his curiosity got the better of him. He turned, saw the money pouch on the counter, and looked up. Geralt looked slightly uncomfortable but he nodded at the money. 

”What,” Jaskier said. 

”That. What will that get me?” 

Jaskier picked the pouch up. It was surprisingly heavy. ”You could probably buy the store out for the day with this,” he said.

Geralt gritted his teeth, glanced to the side, and then back at Jaskier. ”Will it let me talk to you?”

”You are talking to me,” Jaskier quipped.

”Jaskier. Please.”

It was that soft plea that did him in. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he let Geralt back into his life but he realized that—curse his heart—he wanted to find out.

Later, much later, after apologies and a bit of screaming and more apologies and a bit of crying, after making up and making out, Jaskier found himself in yet another new kitchen, baking Matron Berthe’s honey cakes. He stood behind Ciri and gently guided the girl’s hands into the dough, helped her to pull out a piece and roll it in between her hands, then dip into beaten eggs and set it on the tray. 

Later, when Ciri held her own lopsided cake dripping with honey glaze, Jaskier looked up to meet Geralt’s eyes and pressed a sticky kiss on his cheek.

”Are you sure this is a good idea?” Geralt asks, tugging his tunic slightly. He feels clumsy and too big for this space, this neat little entryway with a bright yellow door and potted plants lining the walls.

Jaskier throws him an exasperated look. ”Trust me, she’ll love you! It’ll be fine.”

Geralt opens his mouth but has no chance to say anything—and what even could he say?—as the door opens and an elderly lady stands in the doorway.

”You rascal!” she exclaims and yanks Jaskier into a tight hug that lasts for a long time, and when she releases him, both their eyes are wet.

”Anika, this is him,” Jaskier says turning to give Geralt a slightly wobbly smile. 

Geralt finds himself pinned with a sharp, assessing gaze that makes him want to fidget. He never fidgets. ”Nice to meet you, Ma’am,” he says, feeling awkward.

”Ohh, handsome and polite,” Anika stage-whispers. ”I like him already.”

”You are a terrible old woman and he’s already taken,” Jaskier says and makes shooing motions. ”Get inside! It’s chilly outside, you’ll catch a cold and pneumonia and arthritis and then where would we be?”

”Jaskier,” Geralt hisses.

”You’d be dancing on my still-warm corpse, eager to sell all my books to finance your delinquent ways,” the old lady shoots back.

Jaskier gasps, pressing a hand on his chest. ”I would never!” he says in outrage. ”I have way too much respect for books to treat them like that!”

Geralt blinks, looks from the lady to Jaskier and back, and doesn’t understand what’s going on. This was not what he expected when Jaskier asked him to meet the person who saved him back when he’d arrived at Oxenfurt against his parents’ wishes, broke and miserable.

”Oh dear,” Anika murmurs. ”I think we broke him.”

”Geralt?” Jaskier says, cupping his cheek. ”Dearest Witcher, did we offend your sensibilities?” He stands on his tiptoes to peck him on the lips while Anika fans herself in the background, and pats on a sturdy chair next to the wall. ”Sit down before you keel over.”

”I’ll get you something to drink,” Anika says and vanishes behind the corner, assumedly to the kitchen.

”She’s not what I expected,” Geralt says after a moment.

Jaskier grins. ”She’s not what anyone expects and it’s awesome. She used to own a dirty book store back in the day and that’s how we found each other. I started copying some of the more outrageous books she didn’t dare to send out to printers, and she offered me a roof over my head.”

”And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Anika intones and hands Geralt a tiny glass of thick, deep purple liquid.

”Ohhh, a new batch?” Jaskier asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. ”I can’t wait to taste it!”

”Not yet,” she counters. ”It’s still too early to use as anything else than a pesticide.” She meets Geralt’s eyes and cackles. ”By which I mean that it’s so strong that it’ll kill everything smaller than a cat. But for a Witcher, well. It might even pack a punch.”

”Hm,” Geralt hums, raises the glass, and downs it in one go. It burns on the way down and makes his eyes water. ”It’s—yeah,” he wheezes out, prompting another peal of laughter from Anika.

”I told you she’d like you,” Jaskier whispers when Anika returns to the kitchen to prepare ”something to nibble,” which, according to Jaskier, most likely means a full dinner.

And as they sit down to eat and one bottle of wine turns into two and four and Anika pours Geralt more of that terrible horrible awesome stuff, he has to admit that he likes her, too.

The room looks like a storm blew through it, scattering books, clothes, paper, and various other things around. In the middle of it, Jaskier, looking harrowed.

”This—this, all of this, I can’t—there has to be a system—”

Despite himself, Geralt chuckles. 

In a flash, Jaskier’s narrowed eyes zero in on him. ”Do you think this is funny?” he hisses.

Geralt shrugs slightly, fully knowing it irritates Jaskier to no end, crosses his arms on his chest, and leans on the doorframe.

”Are you going to help or are you just going to stand there and gloat?”

”I’m not gloating.”

Jaskier’s haughty sniff conveys the unimaginable depth of his disbelief as he turns and bends over to…continue piling shit on different stacks?

Geralt has no clue what he’s doing but he also has no complaints because Jaskier is bending over. 

”I can feel your eyes on my ass,” Jaskier says flatly.

”Hm,” Geralt says. ”I can also make you feel something else, if you’d like.”

”What I’d like,” Jaskier declares, ”is some help in here. If you wouldn’t mind.”

”Sure,” Geralt says easily. ”What are you doing?”

Jaskier turns, puts his hands on his hips, and lets out an exasperated, world-weary sigh. ”I’m cleaning, my dearest Witcher. I’m sure you have heard of it. It’s the activity where you get rid of useless shit and put things in their proper places for easier access for later.”

Geralt could mention a thing or two about proper places and easier access but he decides to indulge Jaskier and merely raises a brow.

”There’s so much shit in here!” his bard exclaims. ”I’m not sure we need all of this! It’s spring! Things need to be cleaned! And only keep stuff that sparks joy!”

”Is that so,” Geralt says mildly. 

”Yes!” Jaskier says, throwing his arms up. His hair sticks up on one side, his shirt has come loose from his pants, and there’s a slightly manic gleam in his eyes and two bright red spots on his cheeks and he looks gorgeous. 

”Only keep stuff that sparks joy?” Geralt reiterates. Jaskier nods. Geralt shrugs and says, ”Well, that’s easy.”

”How so?” Jaskier asks, sounding suspicious.

Geralt prowls closer, crowds right into his bard’s space, enjoying immensely as the red stains on his cheeks start to bleed down his neck and disappear under his collar. He knows exactly how far on Jaskier’s chest the blush travels and makes sure it goes that way as he leans closer and growls softly, ”Because the only thing in this room that sparks joy is you.”

(Later, when Jaskier is a sated, sleepy weight on his chest, he grumbles, ”We still need to clean up the study.”

Geralt hums and cards his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, feeling smug when his eyes fall closed and his breathing slows as he falls asleep. He has no clue what has possessed Jaskier to have these cleaning sprees but so far, each bout of almost manic organizing has ended up in a very satisfactory round of bedding. Geralt has no complaints.)

Jaskier swam back to consciousness slowly. His thoughts were pleasantly lethargic, his mind syrupy sticky and hazy, and he let out a contented hum. The answering sound was more a sensation of rumbling than an audible voice, reverberating through his torso. 

He was leaning against Geralt’s chest, his arm gently but securely circling his waist. The water was just on the right side of hot and the gentle current felt like fingers caressing his skin, and together with Geralt’s fingers tracing an abstract shape on his thigh, they created a pleasantly hypnotic loop that only added to his relaxed state. His own fingers were twined with Geralt’s, resting on his belly in a comfortable tangle.

Without opening his eyes, he turned his head slightly, just enough to press his nose on the skin under Geralt’s jaw. It smelled clean and slightly sulphuric, thanks to the hot springs, and he breathed in and in and in until he felt like he was bursting with it. And only then he breathed out, enjoying the small shiver Geralt let him feel. He indulged in a short peek through slitted eyes, taking in Geralt’s relaxed pose completely at ease, head leaning back, throat bare. It was a sign of utter comfort and trust and Jaskier felt something big and warm and heady swell in his heart at being granted the honor of seeing the White Wolf like this.

He rubbed his cheek on Geralt’s shoulder, let out a small, contented sigh, and let the warmth lull him back to sleep.

The first time the Witcher walked in, all Karel could do was gape. 

He was a hulking big man, clad in all black leather with straps and buckles and bulges all around, two swords crossed on his back. His eyes were piercing golden yellow and his hair was white and his scowl was enough to make Karel quake in his boots. His initial gut reaction was to scream and demand the Witcher to leave his store immediately but something about him... He looked uncomfortable. Almost shy.

Karel shook his head, trying to rid himself of ridiculous thoughts like a Witcher being shy. He was a businessman so he forced himself to do exactly that; business.

”Uh, how can this humble store serve you, good Sir?” he asked and then almost wet himself when the Witcher scowled even more.

”You have books,” he said in a gravelly voice.

Karel blinked. ”Yes,” he said slowly. ”This is a bookstore.”

The Witcher nodded, directed his scowling at the shelves, and then back at Karel. ”Do you have anything for a musician?”

That was decidedly unexpected. Karel opened his mouth, closed it, and then said carefully, ”Ah…yes? What kind? Notation books or lyric books or books about the history of—”

The Witcher let out an annoyed growl and Karel closed his mouth with a snap. ”Nothing like that. Anything suitable for someone who studied at Oxenfurt.” He gritted his jaw. ”Studied and graduated, with honors, I think.”

”Oh,” Karel said, now feeling less like he was about to die a gruesome death splattered all over his store. ”Actually, I think I have! If you’d follow me…” he let his voice trail away in a question and felt relieved when the Witcher nodded and turned to follow him down an aisle. ”So. I have a couple of suggestions if you’re—”

”Yes.”

Karel nodded. ”Right. So. Here we have a set of quality journals and quills. As you can see, some of them are more delicate and some more robust, depending on whether the person, say, has a court position or is a more traveling kind of musician—”

”The latter,” the Witcher grunted.

”Excellent!” Karel beamed. ”Now, let’s see…” 

He proceeded to showcase a variety of journals and quills and a selection of books he thought the Witcher’s friend(?) might approve of. In the end, the Witcher left with two sturdy leather-bound journals, seven different kinds of writing equipment including but not limited to quills and charcoal, and a slim pamphlet of limericks.

As the door closed behind the Witcher, Karel carefully let out a long breath and thought, Well, at least I have something to tell to my grandkids someday.

A year later, the Witcher, whom Karel now knew to be Geralt of Rivia, was back. He was as curt and scowly as he’d been the first time but again, he made a significant purchase and left Karel with the best deal of the month.

Again, a year later, Geralt of Rivia visited Karel’s shop, bought quality writing utensils, journals, and a novel book on how to build your own lute.

It became a thing. The White Wolf visited usually in early spring, made his purchase, and left. It became so consistent Karel felt he could count the time based on his visits.

…until he stopped coming.

It had been years since the Witcher’s latest visit, and even though Karel’s eyesight had gone bad with time, it took no effort to recognize the familiar hulking presence, yellow eyes, and white hair.

”You took your time,” Karel said. ”I thought something happened to you.”

He looked startled, almost like the thought of someone thinking about him was a novelty. ”I—something came up,” he said.

Karel hummed. ”Something usually does, yes. Now,” he added, picking up his cane and slowly rounding the counter. ”More journals?”

The Witcher’s eyes flickered to the cane and then back to Karel. ”No.”

”No?”

The Witcher shook his head. ”Do you have poetry?”

”I sure do,” Karel said amicably while reeling on the inside. Poetry? For himself or…

”I need—” the Witcher started, then stopped, letting out a frustrated huff. ”Words are hard,” he muttered.

”Ah,” Karel said softly. ”Is there a theme you’d like to explore?” When the Witcher frowned, Karel shrugged. ”Most poetry is published thematically. There’s love poetry and grief poetry and poem collections on revenge and worship and paternal love…Is there anything special you have in mind?”

The Witcher was silent for a good while before he finally said in a quiet murmur, ”Regret. Apologies.” He paused, closed his eyes, and swallowed. ”Love,” he whispered.

Oh, Karel thought. Aloud he said, far more gently than he’d ever thought to talk to a Witcher, ”Yes. I think I have what you need.”

As the Witcher was on his way out, Karel called after him.

”Geralt of Rivia, if these books turn out to be effective, let me know.”

Three months later, Karel was doing inventory in the backroom when the bell over the door jingled and a bright male voice said, ”Oh my goodness, this is lovely! Look at all these books! And the supplies! And the smell—I’ve always loved the smell of bookstores—”

”Jaskier,” the familiar drawl of the Witcher said, sounding both fond and exasperated.

With a wide grin, Karel walked out to meet the person who had been to object of the White Wolf’s affections all these decades.

There’s a tube on the table.

Jaskier stops at the doorway, blinks, leans back to peer around the empty corridor, and then looks back in. The tube is still on the table.

Cautiously, he steps inside and approaches the table to take a better look. The tube is hollow and made of clear material—probably glass—with small markings on the other end. Jaskier extends a finger and pokes.

Nothing happens.

He pokes at it again and the tube rolls slightly only to return to the position it was.

Huh.

”It’s not going to bite you,” Yennefer says dryly from behind him, making Jaskier yelp.

”There is no way I could know that,” Jaskier points out. ”Especially if it came from you.”

Yennefer crosses her arms on her chest, uncrosses them, leans against the doorway, and looks everywhere but at Jaskier.

”It came from you,” Jaskier says slowly. ”What is it?”

”It’s—” Yennefer straightens and tilts her head, regaining some of her old haughtiness. ”It’s supposed to be a device that helps you with your voice.”

”My voice is fine,” Jaskier retorts.

”Yes, but this apparently helps you to keep your voice in better condition,” she says, sounding impatient. ”The instructions are right there.”

Now that she mentions it, Jaskier notices a folded piece of paper next to the tube. ”Oh, right,” he says and picks it up. ”And why—” he starts, turns, and sees Yennefer is already gone.

Oh, well.

So, the idea is to hold the tube gently in your mouth, insert the other end into the water, and breathe out sounds like haaa and hah hah hah, for starters. The markings on the other end of the tube indicate how deep you’re supposed to submerge the tube; the deeper into the water, the stronger the effect—or so the note says.

It feels a bit weird but not overly dissimilar to the exercises he used to do back in Oxenfurt, so he decides to keep with it.

”You sound better,” Geralt says one evening after Jaskier entertained their small band of survivors after dinner.

”What?” he asks because—there’s no way Geralt has taken notice of how he sounds. Right?

Geralt shrugs, looking uncomfortable. ”You’ve always sounded good. But now you sound better.”

Jaskier feels flustered for some reason. ”I—thank you?” 

On the other side of the table, Yennefer’s eyes glitter slightly as she meets his eyes before she ducks her head and concentrates on her book again.

”How about some music!” Lambert calls. ”Something proper!”

”And what would that be?” Jaskier quips with a grin. ”Drinking, fucking, or fighting?”

Lambert cackles. ”How about all three?”

Jaskier executes an elaborate court bow in his direction, says, ”Your wish is my command, good Sir!” and ignores both Lambert’s rude gestures and Geralt’s eyes as he starts to sing.

After the Dragon Mountain, after getting his heart broken into tiny shards that cut him to the core, Jaskier wanders. He has no inclination to sing or compose, he just needs to…go. So he does.

He ends up in a small village near the coast—what a fucking joke, honestly—where he stays for a while. He isn’t singing—he’s currently unable to—but there are always small jobs to do in places where the population is elderly and no younger, able-bodied people around to do maintenance. It’s a quaint little place, low huts huddled together on the hillside watching over the cliffs to the sea, and the people nice, if a bit reserved. Jaskier fully understands—he’s an outsider wearing fancy clothes and speaking in an even fancier accent. There’s no reason for the villagers to trust him. But he stays, he does an odd job here, another there, and slowly gains the community’s trust.

He grows used to taking long walks around the sprawling hills and on one of those walks, he happens upon a dilapidated hut. It’s a small, round building with a straw roof partially caved in, three windows, and a door that barely holds on to its hinges. There’s an overgrown vegetable patch next to it and a chicken coop with no chickens and it looks more like a place to murder someone than to live in but there’s something that calls to him. Perhaps it’s how it looks abandoned and forgotten, perhaps Jaskier sees himself in it. Perhaps he’s projecting just a tad too hard.

In any case, he asks around and finds out that it belonged to a fisherman who sailed out a decade ago and never came back. With no young people in the village to claim it, it has been left to rot in peace, and Jaskier is more than welcome to take responsibility for it.

So he does.

It takes him the best part of a month to clear out all the rubble, rodent shit, dead birds and, a small family of hedgehogs (he resettles them under a pile of leaves a short way from the hut), and then he has the bare bones of the hut to sort out. There’s basically just one room with a fireplace in the corner, an alcove for a bed in the other corner, and space for a table and chairs in the middle. It’s not much but Jaskier feels like he doesn’t really need much. There’s not much of him, after all.

He asks around for the best way to clean and repair the walls and then spends several frustrating days trying and failing to do that. He breaks his fingernails and cracks his knuckles and determinedly doesn’t look at his hands because there’s nothing to look at anymore. He finally figures out what to do and insulates the walls and paints them white with chalk, puzzles over what to do with the windows, and then figures out that, too. He gathers wood and reeds and straw for the roof and nearly cracks his head the first time he tries to fix it. After he struggles the roof to submission, he tackles the door and then he has a house.

That night, he sits on the bare floor and finally lets himself cry.

He gathers his life back together; a chair from that old lady, a mattress filled with fragrant hay he scythed himself from old Jozef’s fields, a coffee pot and a cast iron pan from the widower who’s just happy to have someone new to swindle at cards. His house starts to gather signs of life and with every piece of furniture and pottery, it feels less of a house and more of a home.

His lute is hung up on the wall next to the door. He still can’t make himself play it.

A young family with four rambunctious children arrives in the spring of Jaskier’s fifth year in the village. They also find an abandoned house, renovate it, and settle in. The children are a delight and Jaskier finds himself humming every now and then. It doesn’t feel bad—in fact, it feels quite nice.

Nine years after the Dragon Mountain, the village still has no name but the inhabitants don’t really feel it needs one. There are more families now, people running from war and famine and big cities turned restless, and the village welcomes them all. There’s a school now, and Jaskier finds himself teaching a bunch of children and realizes he enjoys it. 

He even sings now. Only for himself and only in the privacy of his own home, but he does. His fingers had grown callouses in strange places and even though they’re not soft, they’re not the lute-hardened fingers he once had. It takes him weeks to build up the callouses and months to really lose himself in the music again. It still hurts but it’s different—it doesn’t cut anymore, just aches.

It’s bearable.

It’s been fifteen years since Jaskier saw a witcher of any kind and when he stares into the shining copper eyes of a witcher, he finds it surprisingly easy to turn and be on his way. The kids are curious but not afraid and Jaskier later hears they’d asked the witcher dozens of questions ranging from how heavy his swords are to how he got the scar on his face. Jaskier listens to them, expresses polite interest, and realizes he doesn’t feel like shattering anymore.

…which perhaps is why he doesn’t know whether to curse or thank the Fates when one day he walks out to see Geralt standing on the path leading to his house.

”Jaskier,” he says, quietly.

It doesn’t hurt but neither does it feel like he can’t breathe. 

He looks Geralt straight in the eyes and replies, calmly, ”Geralt.”

There’s no denying the prettiness of the day but Kikimore’s balls it’s cold!

Jaskier hugs himself a bit tighter as he watches Ciri tussle with the three Wolf Witchers. Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert circle her in a prowling, predatory way, and she holds herself tight like a coiled spring, ready to burst into action at a split moment’s notice. It’s a bright, sunny day, and the light dances on the snow-covered peaks of Kaer Morhen, painting it into something more than a partially crumbled memory of a Keep.

A growl yanks Jaskier’s attention back to the snow-covered yard and with a fond grin, he watches the Witchers pounce. Obviously, Ciri has no chance but she tries her best, feinting and jumping and screaming, throwing snow into the Witchers’ eyes. Her smile reminds a snarl but there’s a brightness in her, shining under the determination like a beacon.

”She’s getting better,” Yennefer says from next to Jaskier.

”She needs to, if she ever wishes to beat them,” he points out.

She lets out a small hum and turns her face into the sun.

Jaskier tries and fails to suppress a shiver. Despite the furs Vesemir provided him with, he’s freezing. 

Yennefer shoots him a sideways glance. ”Go inside, bard. You’ll be no fun if you get a cold.”

”Excuse you, I’m always a delight,” he retorts—and then fucks it up by sneezing.

”Here,” Geralt says quietly and hands him a goblet. ”Mulled wine with honey.” He waits as Jaskier obediently takes a sip before sitting down behind him, bundling him on his lap like a disgruntled kitten. 

Not that Jaskier is about to complain—far from it. He takes another sip, then lets out a satisfied sigh, and leans back against Geralt’s chest.

”All warmed up?” 

Geralt’s voice is a low purr in his ear and Jaskier turns his head slightly to rub his temple against the chiseled jaw. ”Almost,” he murmurs and smiles as Geralt wraps another blanket around them.

He finds it way later, after the jail and singing to mice and Geralt—

Anyway.

He’s back with Geralt and finally has the chance to change out of the torn, filthy clothes he was wearing while trying to smuggle yet more people out in a boat. Well, his garments weren’t filthy and torn back then but the tender mercies of several burly men with attitudes ruined them for him.

And, in the process, broke his lute.

It had been so beautiful but what else would one expect from an Elvish lute? Bespelled, enchanted, magical lute that somehow was always in tune, always responded to his strumming perfectly regardless of the style he played. At one point, he’d even considered naming it but then decided not to—Filavandrel might have gifted him the lute but Jaskier always treated it as a loan: something magnificent he was granted the privilege to play.

And now, it’s broken.

The piece falls from the torn seam as he shakes his doublet and lands on the floor without a sound—and yet, Jaskier hears it like something heavy hitting the ground. He picks it up, turns the small splinter in his hand, and lets candle light reflect on the vibrant curl of painted decoration that still looks like it was made yesterday instead of, well, who knows how long ago. It feels almost meaningless, this small piece of cracked wood, both light and sharply ragged around the edges, as if it’s carrying with it the memory of everything it’s been through. Perhaps it is—who is Jaskier to say how many memories Elvish instruments gather along their long lives.

He has a locket now, a simple, cheap, unadorned thing, a bulky pendant in a humble cord. He opens the locket and places the splinter inside, somehow not even slightly surprised to find it fits perfectly. The locket feels warm when he closes it and when he slips it under his shirt, he could swear it’s vibrating.

It feels right and proper to carry it along wherever his path will lead him next.

There are a great many things Geralt is willing to do to make Jaskier happy but allowing a crow to watch them have sex is just too much.

”No,” he says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. ”Geralt, don’t be absurd. Moira might be smart but she’s not into that.”

”…Moira?”

Jaskier leans closer and strokes the crow’s beak. ”She’s the prettiest bird, isn’t she? Yes, she is!”

Geralt is sure the thing is laughing at him.

He isn’t sure when the crow started to follow them. At one point, it was just him, Roach, and Jaskier; the next moment there was a bird sitting on the log next to Jaskier, watching him with bright, intelligent eyes. 

”You can’t just tame yourself a pet crow,” Geralt said, exasperated.

”Crow,”  the thing crooned. ”Pet.”

Jaskier’s delighted giggle made something squirm inside Geralt’s stomach (probably indigestion) and he looked up at him with wide eyes. ”Did you hear that, Geralt? She talked!”

”First of all, she? Corvids are notoriously smart, of course it mimics the sounds you make to get something out of it!”

The crow turned to give him an unimpressed look. Behind him, Roach snorted.

”…says the man who talks to his horse,” Jaskier muttered.

The crow stayed.

Not that there was anything Geralt could do to a bird anyway. Using Aard on it seemed just like a waste.

The first inn that turned the crow away received a stinging lecture from Jaskier. 

The bird ended up perching on a stool next to the bard, nodding its head in the rhythm of his music.

For some reason, the crow followed them to Kaer Morhen when they made their way there for the winter season. Lambert nearly pissed himself laughing but Vesemir gave it a long, hard look before placing a piece of juicy meat in front of it.

Geralt could’ve sworn the bird bowed. But that couldn’t be—could it?

His slight animosity towards the thing evaporated the night when a handful of petty thieves tried to rob them. They got so close simply because Geralt was down with a nasty gash on his side and could do little to nothing to protect Jaskier. Before he had the chance to snarl and stagger even partially upward, the crow slammed down from the skies, tore out the eyes from the first thief, and pecked a sizeable hole on the temple of the second before escaping back to the sky. The other three decided it wasn’t really worth it and ran, the crow’s cackling in their ears.

”Thank you,” Geralt said, inclining his head.

The crow ruffled its feathers and tried—and mostly failed—to look nonchalant.

That summer, Jaskier wrote a song about a heroic, diabolical crow. It became an instant hit.

”You offended her feelings,” Lambert says darkly.

”She’s a fucking bird!” Geralt says. ”She doesn’t have feelings to offend!”

”You take that back!” Jaskier gasped, holding his hands gently on both sides of the crow’s head as if to shield her ears. 

Geralt snarls. ”I will not apologize a crow for throwing it out of our room. She was staring at me!”

”Never thought your manhood would feel threatened by a bird,” Eskel says, amused.

”She has a beak,” Geralt says flatly. ”And talons. And she’s smart. I’m not going to take any chances.”

Jaskier huffs. ”You’re ridiculous. You’re fortunate I love you.”

A silence so thick that Moira’s ruffling feathers sound like thunder.

”—I mean—”

”—Jaskier—”

”—aww how cute—”

”—fuck you, Lambert—”

”—well, this is entertaining—”

”Love you,” Moira caws. Then again, softer, ”Love you, love you, love you.”

”I—yes, thank you,” Jaskier stammers, not quite meeting Geralt’s eyes. ”You’re a clever girl for mimicking our words, yes—”

”What? No declarations for me?” Vesemir says gruffly from the door.

Moira lets out a soft sound, flies to perch on Vesemir’s shoulder, and caws, ”Love you.”

”Silly bird,” Vesemir mutters with a smile playing on his lips.

”Geralt—” Jaskier says. ”I—

”I. That,” Geralt says in a low voice, ignoring Eskel’s raised brow, and then grits his teeth as his words refuse to obey him. He won’t be outplayed by a fucking corvid! ”Yeah,” he finally manages in an almost whisper. ”I love you too.”

Jaskier’s wide eyes full of wonder are worth all the smug looks Moira sends their way.

(But she’s still banned from their bedroom.)

Ever since Geralt learned what Rience had done to him, he’s made sure to worship Jaskier’s hands. It sounds really weird, put like that, but Jaskier doesn’t really know how else to describe it. Because that’s how it feels like.

Every evening as they’re getting ready to bed, Geralt sits down and pulls Jaskier onto his lap, then, takes his hand and holds it in his like it’s something fragile and precious. He trails his finger along the life and love lines that run across Jaskier’s palms, brushes gently along the scars Rience's torture left in its wake, all with a small furrow between his brows as if he’s concentrating hard on his task. He ends his exploration (or examination? Jaskier isn’t sure) with a kiss on each fingertip before moving on to the other hand. 

And when he’s done and satisfied with the state of Jaskier’s hands, he cups them both in his bigger palms and presses his forehead in them like it’s a supplication. Honestly, Jaskier has no clue how someone as big as Geralt is able to contort himself like that but these moments are precious and loving and tender, and he’s more than happy to hold his tongue.

It always ends the same: Geralt raises his head, lifts Jaskier’s hand to his cheek, and tilts his head like a cat seeking affection.

And Jaskier’s reply is always the same: he presses his other palm over Geralt’s heart, rests their foreheads together, and sighs.

It’s a ritual that has no need for words; it’s a declaration and a promise held in the palm of their hands.

Jaskier wakes up to the sound of drumming.

No.

Not drumming—rain? 

He sniffles and drags himself to sit up to stare blearily around. The room is dim and quiet and the space next to him empty. He reaches out a hand to feel the mattress—it’s still warm which means Geralt didn’t leave long ago.

But the rain.

With a barely suppressed groan, Jaskier forces himself to get up and pad lightly to the window. The shutters are closed but he can feel the force with which the skies pour down. It’s deeply unpleasant and he shudders, relieves himself hastily, and hurries back to bed and under the covers. 

A short moment later, familiar, heavy steps approach and the door opens to admit Geralt. He has a tray heaped with food in one hand and a bucket in the other—oh, he has a pot of tea and a pitcher of something else that smells both spicy and warm…mulled wine? In the morning? Oh, the darling man.

”You’re awake,” Geralt says, pushing the door closed with a foot.

”To my utter disappointment, yes,” Jaskier says, still bundled up in the blankets. ”The weather is dreadful and I don’t want to go out.”

Something tugs at the corner of Geralt’s mouth but he merely says, ”Sounds terrible.”

”Are you making fun of me, Witcher?” Jaskier demands, narrowing his eyes.

”Only every day.”

Jaskier gasps, affronted, and presses a hand on his chest. ”How rude of you! And with all that I’ve given you—”

”Headaches and heart attacks—”

”—and done for you, you still treat me like this!”

Geralt sets the bucket on the bed next to Jaskier and carefully places the tray on Jaskier’s lap. ”This being fetching you breakfast and taking care of Roach before coming back to bed?”

”Yes—wait, we’re staying?”

Geralt rolls his eyes and grabs a piece of cheese and a couple of dried apricots from the tray. ”Jaskier, it’s pouring sleet. I finished the job yesterday and the innkeeper is more than happy to have you perform in the evening. We’re not going anywhere.”

”Oh, thank Melitele,” Jaskier breathes out. ”I mean, I love traveling with you but taking a day off when said day is absolutely miserable is always a welcome change.”

”Hm,” Geralt hums and leans down to press a demanding kiss on Jaskier’s lips, claiming his mouth until he feels short of breath and ready to faint, and not only because he needs to breathe.

He ends up singing a lot that day, loud and repeatedly, first to Geralt and then to the patrons who braved the storm for a night at the inn. When he’s done for the night, Geralt tucks him close and they doze off listening to the howling wind and sleet drumming against the shutters, warm and safe and sated in the cocoon of their bed.

”I can’t,” Jaskier says, his voice hitching a little. 

Geralt lets out a dismissive hum. ”Of course you can,” he purrs into his ear. ”I know you can.”

His body is like an exposed nerve, alight with sensation and bliss. He has no clue what the time is, whether it’s day or night, or how long they’ve been in this bed. He only knows that his whole self is throbbing in the rhythm of his heartbeat, frantic and sluggish at the same time.

Geralt moves him like a rag doll, wrung out and limp, arranges his limbs to his liking with infinite care and with utter and complete disregard for Jaskier’s quiet whimper. He pushes back in slowly, holding Jaskier still in his massive arms, not giving in one bit when he tries to squirm away.

”Too much,” Jaskier gasps, clawing at Geralt’s arm circling his waist. ”Too much too much too much—”

Geralt hushes him, hooks his chin over his shoulder, and hums softly. The sound is almost like a subvocal purr, more a sensation than an actual sound, and it reverberates through Jaskier, adding to the overwhelming everything.

”Breathe,” Geralt murmurs while he’s still sliding in and in and in, torturously slow, and Jaskier would like to breathe, yes, but he’s teetering on the edge of something he can’t name. The gasp of air he finally manages when Geralt is fully inside of him feels like a punch that somehow goes right through him and he gasps again, wondering where the high-pitched whine is coming from until he realizes it’s him.

And then Geralt starts to move.

It’s torture.

It’s glorious and terrible and wonderful and Jaskier has neither the words nor the presence of mind to articulate it any better. The sensations ricocheting inside of him ebb and flow like honey, sticky and sweet and slow, and all Jaskier can do is let it happen. 

This is the first time in several weeks that they have both the time and opportunity to just sink into each other without care. As soon as Jaskier closed the door behind them, Geralt slammed him against the door, went on his knees, and went on giving Jaskier the longest and filthiest blowjob of his life. He came with a shout, gripping Geralt’s hair in his fist, and nearly sliding on the floor when his knees went weak. He honestly thought Geralt would’ve just bent him over and fuck him silly, but instead, he’d buried his mouth between Jaskier’s cheeks and ate him out until he was a shivering mess and choking through his second orgasm.

And now, this.

He’s oversensitive and feels like crying but he also feels cherished and secure, tucked against Geralt’s chest. There’s nowhere to go, and no leverage to move, he can only gasp and whimper and twitch as Geralt moves in him at a steady, unyielding pace, dragging his massive cock over and against Jaskier’s sweet spot every time, and the sensations that spread through him make him shiver uncontrollably.

”I—Geralt—” he moans and it comes out as a sob.

There’s heat gathering in his gut. It doesn’t feel like he can come again but it wouldn’t be the first time his Witcher has proven him wrong, so he doesn’t even bother shying away from it. Inside of him, Geralt feels even hotter than before and he hisses against Jaskier’s neck as he grinds up, trying to get as deep as possible. Jaskier seizes up, breath catching, eyes wide and unseeing as he flies apart. 

If he’s going to burn, he’s going to do it gladly, brightly, knowing Geralt will catch him when he falls.

Mother is never going to believe this, Anika thinks, only slightly hysterical.

There’s a Witcher standing on the side of the classroom.

A Witcher.

And not just any Witcher but the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia.

Almost like he hears Anika’s thoughts, Geralt of Rivia turns his head slowly, and his bright yellow eyes zero in on her. Wait, can Witchers hear your thoughts? She doesn’t know and the uncertainty makes something cold shiver down her spine.

”Geralt,” their teacher says. ”Would you mind stepping out? You’re distracting my students.”

Anika lets out a slow breath as the yellow eyes move from her to their teacher.

Geralt of Rivia doesn’t say anything but their tutor rolls his eyes and makes his way to the Witcher. ”Yes, I know you dislike big cities and they make you nervous but honestly, this class is never going to work if you stand in the corner and brood.” Something in the Witcher’s expression makes him grin and wink before he sobers. ”No, really,” he says in a softer voice. ”Go back to our room. I know you have some things to take care of—I’ll be perfectly fine here. I swear.”

Geralt of Rivia gives the room a quick, assessing look, and then he curls his hand behind their teacher’s neck and draws him in a possessive, demanding kiss.

Uh.

Anika is feeling a bit hot and not only because the classroom is stuffed full.

With a last, tender sweep of his thumb along their teacher’s cheek, Geralt of Rivia turns and stomps out.

”Well!” Jaskier the bard, their teacher for this exclusive class, says in a slightly strangled voice. ”Please, do not take this as a how-to-manage-your-Witcher 101, you might be in for an unpleasant surprise.” He clears his throat and adjusts his doublet slightly, then walks back to the front of the room and perches on the teacher’s table. ”Now. To the actual lesson—”

When Anika saw the announcement for a new, limited-time class dealing with the practical issues of being a traveling bard, she didn’t really pay attention to the name of the teacher. It wasn’t until way later, when the whole campus was in a tizzy, that she took in who was really coming in to teach them.

Jaskier. The White Wolf’s bard, the nobleman who renounced his name to be a traveling bard. The man who was the composer of so many catchy and famous songs; the man who traveled with Witchers and played an Elven lute; the man who, according to some, had Elvish blood in him. Some of the students threw their names in just to see what the hype was about, some were genuinely interested in learning whatever Jaskier had to teach. None of them had thought to see a Witcher kissing the living daylights out of him in front of the whole class.

Yeah, Anika thinks again, trying to concentrate on the lesson. Mother is never going to believe this.

Jaskier stares at the plates in front of him and takes a deep breath. ”Why am I the one to do this?” he asks, slightly desperate. ”Why not Vesemir or Lambert or—”

”Because Vesemir is hiding and Lambert told us to go fuck ourselves,” Ciri says primly. ”Now. Taste them!”

In front of him are three plates with an assortment of baked goods—although ’goods’ might be a bit generous, considering all three offerings are different stages of raw and burnt. None of them looks exactly appetizing.

”Why do you need to know this anyway? Can’t you just decide you’re all good?”

Yennefer rolls her e yes. ”We’re conducting a survey,” she says, sounding like Jaskier was a bit daft. ”You are an educated man, bard. You should know how polls work.”

”In my defense,” Jaskier says, raising a finger, ”Polls back in Oxenfurt tended to be rigged and the results depended very much on how heavily the contestants bothered to bribe possible voters.”

”Yes,” Yennefer says with a gentle smile. 

Jaskier takes an involuntary step back.

He has no clue what this whole thing is or where the idea for it came from. One day they were living rather peacefully in Kaer Morhen, Yennefer recovering from her ordeal, Ciri learning to be a Witcher, and Jaskier learning that Witchers have endless stamina in bed—not that he has complaints, no, sir! Anyway, one day everything was fine and normal and nice, and the next day he was imperiously summoned to the kitchens where all three presented him with an expectant, eager look, and a plate of something that was supposed to be edible.

Jaskier didn’t want to taste any of them.

”You don’t have your Chaos back yet,” he points out to Yennefer.

She raises a brow. ”It’s cute that you think I need my Chaos to make your life miserable,” she says, amused.

”I will cry,” Ciri says pleasantly.

Jaskier groans and looks at Geralt. ”Please, tell me that at least you have your wits about you?”

”Hm,” Geralt says. 

”I—I don’t know what that means,” Jaskier says. He looks at the plates. And then looks at his companions. ”I’d like to make a formal complaint,” he says.

”Jaskier!” Ciri whines and pouts. It’s unfairly effective and it makes him feel like a monster—the civilized kind, not the kind Geralt and his fellow Witchers hack apart on a semi-daily basis.

”I—” he starts, then lets out a yelp when the door to the kitchen slams open. 

Vesemir marches in with a boar over his shoulder and without further ado, he drops it on the table, smack on top of the plates. ”Oops,” he deadpans.

As the others sigh and whine and pout their way out, Vesemir catches Jaskier’s eye and inclines his head. When he makes his way to the old Witcher, sidestepping the boar dripping blood on the table, Vesemir leans close.

”You’re welcome,” he murmurs under his breath. ”The dishes are on you for the next month or so.”

Fifteen is for the number of stitches he needed for his shin back before the trials. He’d been training with Eskel and Lambert and they’d shoved him off the cliff in a bout of competitiveness. His left leg had gotten caught up between rocks and twisted until it broke with a heart-lurching sound. Geralt can still remember the swell of nausea he felt as he was hanging upside down, a river of blood running from his open fractures. It’s wild that after so many decades, after everything else that has happened, his leg still hurts in the damp, cold halls of Kaer Morhen.

Twenty-seven is for the iterations of the gods-awful rotgut booze Coën cooks up. The first dozen or so were so terrible they used it as a pesticide. Nowadays, it’s almost good. Still not consumable by humans but since Jaskier isn’t exactly human, he’ll get a pass. (And passes out before the stuff reaches his stomach but Geralt will not tease him. Much.)

One is for that one time Geralt broke Jaskier’s heart. It’s one time too many and he’ll spend the rest of his life making it up to him but what’s done is done and there’s only the way forward.

Geralt isn’t sure what convinced Jaskier to forgive him but he’ll take it as the gift it is. Sometimes at night, when he’s awake with Jaskier in his arms, he wonders if he’s really worth the trouble. Jaskier tells him that as he’s so much smarter and the one with an actual degree, Geralt should just submit himself to Jaskier’s authority on this matter. (He doesn’t say the idea of submitting isn’t entirely unpleasant but he has a feeling Jaskier knows anyway.)

Four is for the deep gashes running from his right shoulder to his left hip, courtesy of a kikimore back when he was young and green on the Path. They’re the scars Jaskier ends up trailing perhaps the most, usually with tender, reverent hands, at times with his lips and tongue. Geralt has told him countless times they’re numb and don’t hurt but the knowledge of Jaskier showing so much care to torn-up parts of him makes him shiver.

Sixty-seven and a half is the running number of attempts Ciri has made to bake since they arrived at Kaer Morhen. Each attempt results in equally inedible results but Geralt eats them anyway. (The half is for that morning when Ciri had all the ingredients out and then managed to set the stove on fire. Vesemir banned her from the kitchens after that but she’s determined to try again later.)

Two is for the Trials of the Grasses. Everyone else went through them once, Geralt did it twice. 

None of the Wolves still alive want to think about that.

Seven is Geralt’s current record of how many times he can make Jaskier come in a row. He’s determined to break his record and Jaskier is both thrilled and terrified by his commitment to the cause.

Three is the number of people Geralt loves unconditionally. It’s three more than he ever thought he’d have and it baffles him every time he lets himself think about it. He usually doesn’t because with that thought comes wonder and fear and anxiety and a Witcher has no place for any.

But he does. Oh, he does. Yennefer, who is prickly and proud and smart and sharp and forgets little and forgives even less. Ciri, who is his child surprise, the daughter he never wanted but turned the world around to protect, the shining bright star of his days. And Jaskier...

Jaskier, who tolerated his abuse even though he didn’t have to. Jaskier, who saw his growling and brushed it aside to discover the man under the snarling veneer. Jaskier, who called him out on his bullshit and offered his friendship and heart. Jaskier, whom Geralt hurt and who refused to bend. Jaskier, who returned to his side, who sees his pain and fears, who knows when to poke and when to soothe. Who doesn’t fear him. Never has.

There are others Geralt cares about; the people he’s met along the Path and who have shared the journey, the people who have helped him and his. But these three are who define him. His anchors. And he’s ready to burn the worlds to keep them safe.

”You…what?”

Jaskier threw his hands up in a dramatic show of frustration. ”You heard me, witch! No, do you have any?”

”I’m sure there’s plenty in the kitchen,” she said mildly just to fuck with the bard. He was amusing when he was in a tizzy and this was definitely a Tizzy. 

With an affronted gasp, Jaskier pressed a hand on his chest. ”How…no! That is so rude and uncivilized of you! How dare you even suggest something like that—how would you feel if I told you the same? Huh?”

Keeping her face completely calm, Yennefer picked up the book she’d set down when the bard had barged into her rooms. ”That would be completely irrelevant, considering.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. ”Considering what, exactly?”

She merely raised a brow and waited. 

A moment later, a deep flush spread across his face and he cleared his throat. ”Ah. Well. True. However—” He paused, expectant. A moment passed, then another. ”Yennefer,” he finally huffed.

”Jaskier,” she threw back in the same tone. ”What do you need it so urgently for anyway?”

”You can’t be seriously asking me that,” he said flatly.

She let out a long sigh, set the bookmark back in place, and lowered the book on her lap. ”You can’t be seriously asking me to provide to you if you refuse to tell me the reason,” she said, channeling Tissaia at her most infuriating and patronizing moments.

”I hate you,” Jaskier hissed. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said through his teeth, ”Dearest Yennefer of Vengerberg, would you kindly tell me if you have any lubricant in your possession? This humble bard would appreciate it if you could provide him with some so that he can do filthy, filthy things with his Witcher lover. Please and thank you.”

”That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Yennefer said sweetly. Then she fiddled with her fingers, manifested a massive jar of lubricant, and held it out for the bard to take.

Jaskier snatched it from her hand and whirled around, eager to be on his way. 

Yennefer let him reach and open the door before she said, ”Oh, and Jaskier? That amount should last you at least a month. Tell Geralt that if you run out before that,  he’s the one who will have to come for more.”

She smirked at his muffled swearing and picked up her book again. 

Having friends was mostly strange but also surprisingly much fun.

”Blanket?” Ciri asks.

”Yes,” Geralt says.

”Wine?” Yennefer asks.

”Toussaint red, yes.”

”Pastries? Chocolate?”

Geralt nods. 

”Napkins?” Eskel asks.

”Napkins?” Geralt echoes.

Eskel gives him a Look. ”You might want something else than your shirt to wipe your fingers and…other things.”

Oh. Right. He turns around, a little lost, and then Vesemir hands him a small stack of embroidered napkins worn thin and soft. ”Thanks,” he says. 

Vesemir huffs and shrugs.

”Geralt?” 

He turns to see Jaskier in the doorway, holds out his hand, and smiles, ”Yen, now we’re ready.”

She opens a portal and they step through together.

The fact is, Jaskier clocked in on the cliche being utter rubbish about two days in. You know, the cliche of Witchers being emotionless killing machines, barely housebroken monsters only good for one thing. Because that’s blatantly not true.

Actually, there’s a chance he’s never met a person who feels so much and so intensely as Geralt of Rivia. Sure, many of his feelings are of the less gracious kind but not all. He wouldn’t be doing what he does if he didn’t care, and Jaskier is hurt, offended, and pissed off for him. 

(Besides, if Geralt didn’t feel so much, he wouldn’t have lashed out so hard back at the Dragon Mountain. If he didn’t give a fuck, he would’ve shrugged and gone on. But he didn’t because under his tough and hard and spiky exterior was a man whose feelings ran deep and true and whose pain and betrayal were strong enough to choke him. So, he lashed out. Yes, he hurt both Yennefer and Jaskier, badly. But he hurt himself the most, and Jaskier knows that’s a regret Geralt lives on each and every day.)

Some days, Jaskier would want nothing more than march to the market square and scream from the top of his considerable lungs how fucking stupid people are for not understanding and seeing the depth of emotions that reside inside Witchers. Because how fucking stupid does one have to be to be so fucking blind? 

He doesn’t do that, though, because even more than air out his own grievances for other people, he’s too selfish to give this away.

This being Geralt dozing off, his head on Jaskier’s thigh, arms around his legs. Post-bath, Geralt’s hair is silky and smooth to the touch and smells faintly of jasmine as Jaskier cards his fingers gently through it. His Witcher would never admit it himself but he enjoys the way Jaskier washes his hair, taking his sweet time rubbing his scalp with soap first and scented oil next, then drying it carefully, and combing it until it shines in the candlelight. Despite Geralt’s penchant for soaking himself in near-boiling water, it had taken Jaskier a long, long time to coax and gently bully Geralt to subject himself to his ministrations—nowadays he merely sighs contentedly and closes his eyes.

As if sensing Jaskier’s attention on him, Geralt frowns slightly and lets out a small sound, then settles back. 

Jaskier smiles, smooths out the frown with a touch, and concentrates on petting his Wolf.

”You can’t be serious,” Jaskier said slowly.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to find when he wandered around and ended up finding Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert in the secluded yard in the back of the keep but it definitely wasn’t three grown-ass Witchers waving their cocks around and painting crude images in the snow with their urine.

”Jaskier—” Geralt started, then thought better of it and buttoned his pants up.

”Bard!” Lambert yelled, waving his cock at him. ”Come here! Let’s see if your artistry goes beyond the music you write!”

”What,” Jaskier said flatly. Behind Lambert, Eskel discreetly tucked himself away.

Lambert did a little shimmying thing Jaskier didn’t want to think about further and jerked his head a bit. ”Come on, Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove. Don’t tell me you’ve never done this!”

”Waved my cock around in front of three Witchers? No. I can’t say I have.”

”Pshh,” Lambert snorted. ”You know what I mean.” 

”I have absolutely no interest in freezing my balls off,” he said, then held up a finger as Lambert opened his mouth. ”Or wave my cock around just for fun.”

”Well—” Geralt murmured but snapped his mouth shut when Jaskier narrowed his eyes. He didn’t bother hiding a small smirk which, to Jaskier’s frustration, was infuriatingly attractive.

”If you don’t want to participate, could you at least be the judge?” Lambert asked, cock still hanging out. Wasn’t that uncomfortable?

”Of what? Your cocks?” Jaskier asked. ”I hate to point this out but you do understand that even Witchers’ cocks shrink in freezing temperatures.”

”Nah,” Lambert said, making a dismissive gesture, luckily with his hand and not his cock. ”You’re biased anyway. No, I was talking about our art!”

”Your— you mean the cocks you drew in the snow with your urine? That art?”

Lambert grinned. ”Yeah!”

Jaskier stared at him for a good while before he whirled around and went back in without a word, ignoring Lambert’s disappointed, ”Aww.”

Witchers.

”—And hereby invite Jaskier the Bard and his companion The White Wolf to attend to Duke Hristov’s banquet. Performance would be greatly appreciated but not required. Lodgings will be provided. Yours, respectfully, and so on and so forth…”

Jaskier’s voice trailed away as he stared at the ornately written letter, read it again, and stared a bit more. ”Geralt, did you hear this?” he then asked, waving the letter at the Witcher.

”You yelled it into my ear,” Geralt growled. He was soaking in the tub, eyes closed, head leaning back against the edge. It had been a long and tedious job that had left him mostly annoyed and sore but not hurt. Jaskier had offered to rub said sore muscles but had been, sadly, denied the privilege.

”Yes, but did you hear this??”

Geralt opened an eye and glared at him. ”A duke, a banquet, a performance. Nothing you haven’t done before.”

Jaskier let out a groan. ”No, my stubborn friend! They invited ’Jaskier the bard and his companion.’ As in you. In their books, you are my companion!”

Geralt closed his eye again and sunk a bit deeper into the steaming water. ”And?”

”And?” Jaskier echoed. ”And??? This just means it’s official!”

A moment of silence, and then Geralt let out an all-suffering sound. ”What is,” he said, sounding resigned.

”That you are my companion!” Jaskier exclaimed. ”There’s no going back and no denying it! It is the law now! It’s on an official document in official handwriting and adorned with a very official-looking seal! You are my companion, Geralt! How about that?”

”Hm,” Geralt said without opening his eyes.

But Jaskier knew that sound. It was the kind that claimed to be dismissive but that was actually agreeing, and he swore he wasn’t imagining the small smile playing in the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

His Witcher might argue he didn’t need anyone and wanted no one to need him, but he sure seemed to like being claimed. With a small smile of his own, Jaskier settled back to compose a little song in Duke Hristov’s honor.

People often assume that Geralt isn’t good at talking, simply because he doesn’t do it that much. It’s not that—he’s more than capable of talking when it’s about monsters or the upkeep of Kaer Morhen or such, and he’s happy with it. If he needs a place to stay or a whore to fuck, money gets him further than words. Eloquence isn’t required.

That changes with Jaskier.

At first, he’s exhausted by the bard’s everything and not least his chronic inability to keep quiet. Jaskier is a distraction from the Path, a soft nobleman playacting as a traveling bard who’s ready to run back to his fancy noble patrons at the first sign of hardship. Or that’s what Geralt expects. Jaskier, however, defies expectations—he stays.

Without his say-so, Geralt starts to learn things about Jaskier. His favorite foods, his preferred wine, his go-to flirting lines, his performance routine. He learns how Jaskier’s heartbeat sounds when he’s at ease and when he’s scared, he learns his aroused and affronted scent, he learns the space Jaskier carves into his life like he belongs.

It’s both soothing and terrifying.

After Geralt nearly ruins everything he’s ever allowed himself to open up to, he tries harder to show Jaskier how much he cares. He apologizes and then apologizes again because there’s no way Jaskier would just give him a hard look, a nod, and a tight smile and that would be it, right? He makes sure the bard is comfortable and warm and fed and safe, and when Jaskier finally—finally!—yanks him into a kiss and drags him to bed, he’s meticulously careful and considerate. Geralt finds he’s actually a selfish lover who gets his greatest pleasure from making Jaskier writhe and shiver and beg until he’s crying, and then cradle his limp, blissed-out body close.

He does these things and hopes Jaskier understands.

Sometimes he feels it’s not enough to press his feelings into Jaskier’s skin. He wishes he could sing or even write poetry to make Jaskier truly grasp the enormity of the devotion that lives under Geralt’s skin. He wishes he had the skills with words—or even had the words, simply—to verbalize what Jaskier’s presence in his life means to him, how much his return and his faith in Geralt defines him. He wishes he could force out the words that would tell Jaskier exactly how it feels to have the stigma of decades slowly lift, to feel like a person instead of a monster, to feel—just. To feel.

”You’re thinking very loud,” Jaskier murmurs one night. When Geralt tilts his head to look at him, Jaskier opens his other eye to peek at him. ”What’s gotten you all wound up?”

”You,” he says, and immediately realizes how it sounds. ”I’m trying to—” he starts, then stops—

”Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Jaskier says, scooting closer. He cups Geralt’s jaw and brushes a thumb along his cheek. His eyes are very blue in the low light and his breath smells like wine and Geralt’s semen.

I love you, Geralt thinks helplessly. He opens his mouth but the words won’t obey and he grits his jaw and closes his eyes, frustrated at his own inability—

”I know,” Jaskier whispers. ”I know there’s so much hidden in that beautiful brain of yours and so much love in that big heart of yours.” He presses his forehead against Geralt’s. ”I know you, my Witcher. I know because I see the way you look at me, and I feel the way you touch me and how you move inside of me. I know.” He moves to press a gentle kiss on Geralt’s brow, then burrows close and lets out a small, happy sound.

”And I love you, Geralt of Rivia. Each and every part of you, thorny bits and all, because they make you you.”

(…perhaps Geralt does know how to sing after all.)

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years of anger, guilt, forced nonchalance, regret and longing. Oh, so much regret and longing.

Fifteen years since Geralt made the biggest mistake of his life and lashed out in anger and frustration, hurting the people he didn’t even realize he loved the most. Fifteen years since he spewed vitriol and hurt on the one who didn’t deserve it, the one who had only been there for him, who had stood by his side.

Fifteen years since Geralt drove Jaskier away and doomed his days to be dimmer, duller, monotone.

He still found his child surprise—people who are destined to be together will find each other, after all—and he took her to Kaer Morhen because that was the only place he could think of being safe. It took Yennefer about a year to follow them and yell about his idiocy. Or, well, Yennefer didn’t yell. She delivered seething, cold truths that flayed him bare and made him feel smaller than he’d ever felt since he cleared his Trials. Eskel and Lambert laughed their asses off but Vesemir gave him contemplating looks and Geralt resigned to the fate of being forced to talk about what happened.

Knowing it was coming didn’t make it any easier.

Ciri thrived under their combined tutelage. She took to Witcher training like fish to the water and absorbed everything Yennefer taught her like a dried moss took in the rain. For the first six years or so, Geralt went out without her until she absolutely refused to be left behind. 

Each year, he kept an ear out on a particular bard, his familiar voice or clear laugh or scent he knew like his own—

—And found nothing.

It’s been fifteen long, lonely years.

Ciri is turning 30, a striking, beautiful, dangerous woman in her own right, and her combined training in both Witcher knowledge and witchcraft makes her even more formidable. She tells Geralt in no uncertain terms that she’s done with his moping and that if Jaskier is still alive, Geralt should finally put on his big boy pants and properly apologize. 

It sounds like stupid advice; what good would it do, to approach Jaskier now? He traveled with Geralt for two decades, he’s an old man now—Geralt’s presence in his life would mean nothing to him.

It isn’t until he meets Coën and hears about his travels at the coast, about a village so small it has no name but that still harbors a surprisingly lively population of young families. They have a school. And a teacher. A man with brown hair, striking blue eyes, and laughter like silver bells. Coën says the man stared at him straight in the eyes for a long time before he turned and walked away. 

According to the children, their teacher sings sometimes. And he has a lute on the wall of his humble house.

Geralt suddenly finds he can’t breathe.

It’s easy to find the village but so very, very hard to enter it. The villagers give him sideways looks, the kind he’s used to receiving from small towns and remote places. They’re not hostile, though, and just like Coën said, the children are curious and unafraid and ask dozens of questions despite Geralt answering them in short, clipped words. Roach, as sour as she ever is in all her incarnations, thankfully holds back her snapping.

The small, round house is a short way away from the village. It’s sturdy and weathered, but the chalk paint is bright white and the straw roof thick, and there’s a thriving vegetable garden with chicken coops and small, hardy fruit trees shading the coop and—

It looks like home. 

Geralt isn’t sure how long he stands on the path leading to the house and just takes it all in. He feels like an intruder and yet, at the same time he wants to creep closer and just breathe in the life Jaskier has built for himself. Because there’s no question this isn’t Jaskier—the place has a distinct feel of him and the laundry drying on the racks smells like him.

When the door finally opens, he has a momentary urge to flee, to leave Jaskier to have his peace without Geralt fucking up everything again, but then it’s too late because Jaskier is right there and—

Geralt swallows. ”Jaskier,” he says quietly, tentatively.

For a long time, he merely stands there and looks at Geralt. He doesn’t know what Jaskier sees (or what he’s looking for if anything), but then he calmly meets his eyes and says, ”Geralt.” Then he shakes his head and sighs. ”I guess you can come in.”

If Geralt was in the habit of wearing hats, he’d be wringing it in his hands now. Instead, he takes a breath and follows Jaskier in, closes the door behind him, swallows, and turns.

It’s a lovely place; small and filled with things that are very much Jaskier but it’s warm and cozy, and it leaves Geralt with a sense of peace that so far only Kaer Morhen has managed. There’s a desk half filled with odd knick-knacks, a fireplace and a cabinet and a stove, behind a curtain a bed, drawings and dried herbs, and—a lute on the wall.

”Sit,” Jaskier says, leaning against the wall with hands crossed on his chest. 

Geralt sits, looks at his hands folded in his lap, then sneaks a look at Jaskier. He knows he should say something but he doesn’t know where to start. It should be the apology, yes, but—

”Why are you here,” Jaskier asks. His intonation makes it more of a statement than a question but Geralt answers anyway.

”Coën told me about you.”

Jaskier lets out a non-committal hum. ”So he was the Witcher who had all the kids excited. Still doesn’t answer why you’re here, though.”

”Ciri told me—” Geralt starts and then shakes his head when Jaskier narrows his eyes. ”I tried looking for you,” he says instead. ”After—after I fucked up. I searched for you and tried to find out where you’d gone, if you were alright. But you were gone.”

Jaskier shrugs and looks a bit to the side. ”I felt like I needed something else.” He takes a breath. ”Why now?”

”Ciri told me to quit moping,” Geralt says dryly. ”She said that if you were still alive I should—” He stops, blinks, takes in Jaskier’s face. It hasn’t changed—perhaps there’s an extra handful of crow’s feet around his eyes but otherwise, his face looks the same and his hair is as brown as ever. 

Oh.

Jaskier raises a brow. 

”The singing, the lute, the silver tongue…are you part Elf or something?”

A small smirk flickers briefly on Jaskier’s lips, there and gone again in a flash. ”Or something,” he says. ”Took you a while, huh?”

”You look almost exactly the same as you did when we met,” Geralt muses. ”But you have changed.”

”I have,” Jaskier says. ”Which brings us back to the question of why are you here.”

Geralt closes his eyes and takes a breath. His lungs feel like they’re about to explode which is weird because he’s been breathing normally all the time—right? He feels shaky even while sitting down and there’s something lodged in his throat—he clears his throat, swallows, and opens his eyes to look Jaskier straight in the eye.

”I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice. ”What I said to you—both of you, actually, but especially to you, Jaskier—was cruel and just plain fucking wrong. I knew it the moment I turned around and saw you walking away. I should’ve come after you then but.” He shrugs, rueful. ”I don’t think I actually could’ve managed it back then. I needed to feel just how miserable I was without you, how terrible my life was with you gone. I needed that and I needed to realize that you were probably feeling ten times worse.

”I don’t expect your forgiveness. But—” he pauses, braces himself. ”If life would give me one blessing, it would be to allow me to earn it.”

For a long, long while, Jaskier just looks at him without a word. Geralt isn’t sure what he sees on his face but he tries to keep his expression as open as possible. Whatever Jaskier wants to see, Geralt will let him.

Finally, Jaskier says, ”Hm,” and then, ”You can sleep on the floor.”

It’s weird. 

It’s stilted and awkward and painful because while Jaskier might look the way he did back before Geralt fucked things up, he isn’t the same. He hums as he works but he doesn’t prattle on, and Geralt finds himself filling the silence, offering up stories from over the years. He talks about Kaer Morhen, about burying one Roach and finding a new one soon after, about the handful of brothers he has left. He talks about Ciri, a lot, and realizes he misses her fiercely. 

”So, the Child Surprise you never wanted turned out to be the daughter you needed all along—and in you, she found the father she’d always missed.”

Geralt shoots him a wry smile. ”Yennefer said the same.”

Jaskier’s smile turns sharp and his shoulders tense. ”How is the witch?” he asks airily.

Geralt sees the change in him and wonders. ”She’s regained her powers. She burned herself out in Sodden but somehow still managed to find her way to Kaer Morhen. I think she’s now even more powerful than she was before,” he muses. ”She and Triss have…something. She told me she’s happy and I didn’t ask for clarifications.”

The line of Jaskier’s shoulders relax minutely. ”Probably the safest choice,” he agrees.

That night, Jaskier says over his shoulder, ”It’s getting colder. You should just sleep in the bed. It’s not like we haven’t shared the bed before.”

(It’s not like those times at all.)

Winter comes, and Geralt doesn’t leave. Kaer Morhen will always have a special place in his heart but Jaskier’s house feels like home now. He sees and ignores Jaskier’s frown and the thoughtful looks he throws his way and piles more firewood, makes sure the roof is thick and the windows properly insulated, and draws pleasure from Jaskier’s muttering of how he’s managed so far just fine on his own, thank you very much.

And when Jaskier’s house is winter-proofed, Geralt makes rounds in the village, helping the elderly who are frail but tenacious and the families who are too busy with their children to chop firewood and fox-proof the henhouses.

It’s nothing like the work Geralt has done so far but he finds he likes it. Less monster guts, for starters.

In the middle of the winter, Ciri arrives, red-cheeked and full of tales of adventures and mischief. She’s blatantly unsurprised by Jaskier’s youthful appearance and gives Geralt a dry look of fond exasperation when he asks how long she’s known.

”For fuck’s sake,” she sighs, making Jaskier grin with delight, and refuses to elaborate.

Jaskier offers her a place to stay but she refuses. ”I’m not going to be in the same room with you lovebirds. Yen and Triss are bad enough.”

”What?” Jaskier says. 

”What?” Ciri echoes. ”Wait…” she says slowly, giving Geralt a look completely devoid of fondness. ”Really. For fuck’s sake, Geralt!”

She slams the door behind her as she leaves, muttering something about idiot witchers and blind bards and stupid, idiot, blind men. 

Geralt feels Jaskier’s eyes burning a hole in his neck and he turns around, not quite meeting his eyes.

”Geralt, what did she mean by that?”

”I—”

”Because to me, it sounded quite a lot like she assumed we were fucking,” Jaskier continues conversationally. ”Why would that be?”

”I thought it was obvious. That I was obvious.”

”I learned a long time ago not to assume anything based on your behavior, Geralt,” Jaskier says sharply.

There’s a moment of silence, then he says, ”Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Geralt shakes his head. ”No, you’re right. I should’ve said—” He pauses, straightens up, and looks Jaskier levelly in the eyes. ”If you’d have me, I’m yours. I want to be in your life, in your home, in your bed, in any way you welcome me, and for as long as you welcome me.”

He forces himself to breathe as he waits for Jaskier’s reply. 

When it comes, it’s not what he expected, and…it’s exactly what he expected.

”You moron!” Jaskier exclaims, marching to him and staring at him with his hands clenched into fists. ”Do you mean I’ve been aching for you every miserable night you’ve shared my bed, and it’s all been for nothing! We could’ve been fucking like deranged bunnies for months?” 

And then he grips Geralt’s lapels and yanks him into a kiss.

When the snow thaws, Geralt feels no desire to leave. The Path is there and it’s always waiting, but for now, it can do just that. Wait.

He watches the icicles drip from the small stall’s roof, smells the warm winds in the air, and gives Roach a good rub and a generous portion of oats. She neighs and nips at him, letting him know he’s been neglecting her lately. It’s true—she’s been working as a farm horse more than a Witcher’s steed but Geralt has a feeling she’s been enjoying herself. The village’s children are very fond of her despite her crotchety nature and would probably feed her apples and sugar every day unless Jaskier put his foot down and told them daily treats are bad for horses.

Roach snorts.

”Yeah, I know,” Geralt says with a small grin. He pats her and then turns to make his way back to the house.

Jaskier is still asleep after Geralt wore him out last night, and the combined scent of them makes something fierce and warm stir in his chest.

This is the life he never thought he’d have but that he’s realized he desperately wanted. And now that he has it, he’ll make sure Jaskier will never again doubt how much he means to Geralt.

Quietly, so that not to wake his sleeping lover, Geralt closes the door of their home behind him.