Archive of Our Own ^beta

On a quiet winter's night, a king and a queen had a child.

That in and of itself is not at all out of the ordinary. Humans have children, be they royalty or poor as church mice. After all, humans are animals, regardless of how fervently they may deny it, and animals always bow to their instincts - eat, sleep, fuck. It is as simple as that.

No, what made this particular child special among its ilk was this: it was a child born of love. Most royal children are conceived out of duty, as bargaining chips, amidst blood and tears or at least quiet suffering, not so rarely from both of their parents.

This king and this queen had married for love, and their child was conceived with whispered words of devotion and cries of passion. And when it came into the world on that quiet winter night, it was received with that same love.

The king and the queen had a son, with skin as white as snow, hair as dark as ebony, and eyes as blue as the sky. They named him Julian, and as the queen lay among the pillows, the child cradled in her arms, she watched the snow falling silently beyond the window, and smiled.

Julian's exceptional childhood continues. His parents love him fiercely, doting on him to an extent that few royal children ever experience. He is never beaten, or even assigned a whipping boy. Punishing him is simply not something that even occurs to the king or the queen. He is beloved by the staff as well, with the cooks sneaking him sweets and the maids playing hide and seek with him. The stable hands let him play with the kittens in the hayloft, and the gardeners teach him the names of the flowers they plant.

None of that is to say that Julian is spoiled, not at all. He is admonished when he is unthinkingly cruel to his playmates, and told no when his demands become too outlandish.

Julian has a best friend. He's one of the boys working in the stables. His name is Valdo and he's a little older than Julian, but they explore the castle together, his parents giving the master of horses specific instructions to let Valdo beg off of work when Julian asks for him.

Valdo knows all the best hiding places, he knows what cook will make for dessert and when to slink into the kitchen to steal some, and Julian loves playing with him. Valdo is his very best friend in the whole wide world, and Julian hopes that that will never change.

One day he will be king, and he hooks his arm through Valdo's as they walk back towards the stables, grinning up at the other boy. "When I'm king, I'll make you master of horses!"

Valdo grins back and makes him swear on it. Julian does, happily.

His name is Julian, after his grandfather, but one summer they take a walk, just his mother and him. They walk through the pastures surrounding the castle, and Julian pets the horses when they come up to the fence. Right by the fence, he finds a flower he has never seen before. It's tall and thin, with a few yellow blossoms, and when he touches the petals they are soft as silk.

"That one is called a buttercup, love. It's a bit poisonous, that's why the horses don't eat it."

"It's pretty," he says, "and it feels a bit buttery! Is that why it's called that?"

His mother smiles and ruffles his hair. "I think it's because of the colour." She plucks one of the blossoms off its stem and hooks it behind his ear. "There."

"Why are there no buttercups in the castle?"

They continue walking, and Julian picks his own flower along the way, rolling the stem between his thumb and finger. His mother watches him with a soft smile. "They're considered a weed."

"A weed!" He is outraged. They might be poisonous but it's such a pretty flower, surely no one would consider it a weed.

When they get back to the castle, he puts his buttercups into a little cup filled with water, and he sketches them in his notebook, from all angles. Valdo scoffs at this, mumbling something about stupid flowers being for girls, but Julian ignores him. Valdo scoffs at everything Julian likes. He has started doing that a lot recently, now that he is twelve and Julian is just seven. "You're a baby," Valdo tells him sometimes, right before he runs off to talk to the other stablehands or, more often now, the castle guards.

Sometimes he wonders why they're still friends at all.

His mother starts calling him her little buttercup, and Julian loves it.

It takes Julian a couple of years to really understand what being a prince actually means. Until he is ten, the word holds little meaning for him. He just knows that his family is rich, that his father is the king and his mother the queen, and that everybody has to do what they say. Apart from that, he doesn't much care.

His lessons until that time consist mainly of simple, basic things: learning to read and write, math and how the natural world works, and of course Julian's favourite, music. When he is eight, his mother introduces him to Miss Priscilla and tells him that she will teach him about music and poetry, and Julian loves Priscilla.

He takes to the subject like a duck to water, and Priscilla often bemoans the fact that he is a prince. "You would make an excellent bard, my little songbird. The world truly is poorer for having to lose you to the throne one day."

Still, Julian practices with a fervour he rarely displays for anything. By the time he is twelve, he knows how to play three different kinds of flutes and is decent enough at the lute. Priscilla's face lights up every time he picks up the instrument, and Julian thinks that this right here is what he actually wants . 

Now that he's twelve, he is being instructed in matters of state, in relations between kingdoms and so on and so forth, and he has no taste for it at all. Putting that look of pride on Priscilla's face, the sweet enjoyment on that of his mother when he plays for her - that takes hold of his heart and makes it jump in his chest.

He doesn't want to be king. He wants to be a bard.

Julian is fourteen when his father collapses.

They're having dinner, and Julian is telling his parents about a story he read the other day. He's just approaching the climax, the valiant knight fighting the evil sorcerer, ready to lay down his own life to save the kingdom, when his father goes pale. Before Julian can ask what's wrong, his father has slumped sideways, and then he's sliding out of his chair and onto the floor. His mother screams, and Julian knocks over his chair as he jumps to his feet.

A weakened heart, the healer concludes after examining his father, weak and so deathly pale in the big bed Julian's parents share. "Was his majesty ill recently?"

"Yes, but it was just a cold," Julian's mother replies. She, too, is pale, so pale, her eyes swimming with unshed tears.

The healer hums. "Even a common cold can weaken the heart, I'm afraid, if the patient doesn't rest properly."

His father had had to travel when he was sick, Julian remembers. Two weeks on horseback, with the weather less than ideal. It must have been enough to hurt him like this.

Strict bedrest, the healer prescribes, and as little exertion or excitement as possible. Jaskier's father chuckles as the woman leaves. "No excitement, she says. Might as well wish for pigs to fly."

Still, for a while things are almost back to normal. His father recuperates for a week, nursed back to something like health by Jaskier's mother, and then he is back in the council chamber, even if he remains seated for their discussions now, where he would have paced the room before. Days turn into weeks, and Julian tells himself that things are fine now, that they have years and years yet before he has to worry about becoming king, about losing his father.

He’s half right.

It’s winter, the world outside his windows covered in a thick layer of snow. It is still and silent, and Julian lies in his bed, watching the thick flakes falling outside his window. In three weeks he will turn fifteen. Everyone seems to expect that… something about him will change then, that he’ll be more mature all of a sudden, a proper prince who doesn’t have his head in the clouds, with his dream of becoming a bard instead of a king not yet buried.

Julian doesn’t know why people think that.

He’ll do what’s expected of him, of course he will, but he also knows that he’ll never be able to let go of that dream. It’s too deeply ingrained in him, music filling his head at all hours so much more than the hard won lessons on diplomacy and how to run a kingdom. It’s who he is, who he has always been. Being king won’t change that.

He rises when his valet arrives, lets himself be washed and dressed and made presentable, even if he thinks he should do these things himself. His parents, he’s informed, have already sat down for breakfast, and Julian thanks the boy before making his way downstairs. He’s supposed to have a guard, to be accompanied, but they’re inside the castle, inside his home. What harm could befall him here?

He takes the servants’ staircase, intending to go through the kitchen and maybe swipe a pastry, but he’s intercepted by Valdo at the bottom of the stairs. Valdo is a royal guard now, his days of being a stable boy long behind him, and most days he’s the one tasked with trailing after Julian. It’s clear he resents it.

“I’m a glorified babysitter,” Julian had heard him complain to another guard one day, and he tried to ignore the way the words hurt. Valdo was once his best friend and now it seems like there’s an insurmountable gulf between them, one that grows bigger and bigger with every passing day. Part of him wants to go back to how things were, wants to have his friend back, wants to walk the grounds with him, arm in arm, daydreaming about how things would be when they grew up. All of that has been left in the dust, the silly little dreams of a silly little boy who always was too soft, who never understood that others don’t see the world the way he does. That Valdo most likely always looked at him with envy, at the spoiled little princeling who need only snap his fingers to get what he wanted, while Valdo had to shovel horse shit even as a child. It hurts, and Julian doesn’t know how to make it right.

Now, Valdo is leaning against the wall beside the kitchen door, cleaning his nails with a small knife. Julian stops on the last step.

“You’re not supposed to sneak around, your highness.” Valdo always manages to make the honorific sound like an insult, and Julian’s stomach twists bitterly.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he says, and gods, he sounds like a child. Which, compared to Valdo, he is, he supposes.

“Your parents are waiting for you.” The guard pushes off of the wall and sketches a sarcastic bow in the direction of the door leading into the hallway. Julian sighs deeply and obeys the unspoken command.

His parents are nearly finished with breakfast, and Julian apologises for being late, but his mother shakes her head. “It’s no matter, Julian, there’s no rush today.”

She doesn’t need to say why. One look at his father tells him all he needs to know. He looks pale, his food mostly untouched, and Julian can almost feel his mother’s worry. It hangs over them all like a shroud. Julian eats in silence, makes himself choke down more than his stomach demands, trying to ignore the queasiness that almost always grabs hold of him when he’s around his father now. He’s alive, yes, but he looks… He looks weak , and Julian is scared.

Once they’re finished, his mother helps father up from his chair, and Julian pulls the chair out of the way. His father smiles at him, a tired, resigned smile, as he cups his cheek. “Good lad,” he says, and Julian swallows heavily, trying to keep the tears at bay. He watches as they slowly make their way to the door, attempts to ignore the way his father clutches his mother, leaning on her far too heavily.

It’s not a surprise, not really, when he groans, low and choked, before he tips sideways. His fingers wind around one of mother’s necklaces, his sudden weight tearing the string, and pearls clatter and bounce across the stone floor. Julian can only watch, helpless, just the way he had the first time this happened.

It’s all like a bad dream. His mother falls to her knees, screaming as she cradles her husband’s head in her lap, and Julian watches with an odd sense of detachment how guards rush forward, how someone wrenches open the door to the room to yell for a physician. There’s a hand at his elbow that he shakes off as he stumbles forward, Valdo’s voice urging him to stay back, to give his father space, but Julian can’t. He can’t stay away.

His father is dying. He knows he is, knows it with a painful certainty, and he drops to his knees beside him. The king is pale, so pale, his face shiny with sweat, and Julian can see his pulse fluttering with frightening irregularity.

“Be good,” his father gasps as Julian grasps his hand in both of his, “remember, Julian. Above all, be good. Be fair.” He gasps again, his fingers spasming in Julian’s grip. “Always be fair.”

The rest is a blur. There is more shouting, and his mother’s wails as she’s dragged away, his father’s hand going limp in Julian’s. There are voices all around him and he can’t discern a single word said to him, and when he comes back to himself again, he’s sitting on his bed, a mug of hot cider cradled between his hands. The sky outside his window is dark.

“Back with us, your majesty?”

He looks up. In a chair beside the bed sits one of his father’s - no, of his - councillors, a man called Ermion. Mousesack, Valdo calls him, and he always refuses to tell Julian where that frankly horrible nickname comes from. He stares at the man for a long time, uncomprehending, before he says, “Don’t call me that.”

Ermion quirks a sad, gentle smile. “What would you prefer I call you?”

What he would prefer is to not have this conversation at all, to not have to talk to the man beyond polite greetings in passing. “I don’t know,” he whispers, and he doesn’t realise he’s crying until Ermion pulls the mug from his shaking hands and offers him a handkerchief. “I’m just… just Julian,” he says after he has wiped his nose.

“I wish you were, boy,” Ermion says, and Julian knows he’s telling the truth. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this. Your father is dead, and that means you are king now.”

His hands are still shaking, and he twists the handkerchief, the cloth digging so hard into his skin it goes white. “I can’t be,” he whispers, “I’m just… I’m only fourteen, how am I supposed to rule a whole country on my own?”

“You won’t be alone. You have a council.” The man holds out the mug again. “You could appoint a regent, until you come of age.”

Julian stares down at the cider, at his reflection in it. “I don’t want to be king. Never wanted to,” he says quietly, and Ermion hums.

“I know. Your father told me. ‘He doesn’t have the taste for ruling,’ he said.” The sad smile is back. “But he believed in you, in your ability to be a good ruler.” Ermion gets to his feet and gently pulls the soiled handkerchief out of his hand. “Get some rest, Julian. The kingdom isn’t going anywhere, we can talk about this tomorrow.”

He turns to leave, and Julian catches him by the sleeve. “My mother. How- Is she alright?”

“As much as can be expected.” Ermion pats his hand gently. “Sleep. It’s been a hard day.”

Julian puts the mug on his nightstand when the man has left and curls up on his bed, and then he cries himself to sleep.

The day of the funeral dawns darkly, clouds heavy and threatening more snow blotting out the sun. Julian stares up at the ceiling, his heart beating heavily in his chest. It’s not fair, he thinks, that the world should just keep turning, that the sun rises and sets, that things continue to grow and just… happen , when his father isn’t around any more to witness them.

He’s barely aware of what transpires all throughout the day. He’s pulled out of bed by… someone, washed and dressed and fed, and then his mother is by his side, her face hidden behind a widow’s veil. Julian hasn’t seen much of her since father died, and a dark, shameful part of him is glad for it. She has been just as unmoored by this as he, and he fears what she may expect of him. What will become of her, too.

It’s not uncommon for widowed queens to disappear into obscurity, for their young children to be turned into pawns by the appointed regent. Julian fears what will become of her, of him, of their kingdom. Fears, most of all, that he’ll be unsuited to the task of governing, has always feared it. And now there is no escape, no way to pass the crown on to someone else.

The day is hazy for him, a blur, his mind barely present. He goes where he’s directed, stands where he’s told, says the things someone whispers into his ear. There is much fanfare, much public grief, but Julian can’t focus on any of it. He’s too distracted by his own, by the emptiness in his chest. And when it’s finally over, he sends everyone away, pulls off his extravagant mourning clothes, and crawls back into his bed to cry.

He’s not a king. He’s a child, he thinks, a child who just lost his father. How can people expect him to lead, when he himself doesn’t know where to go?

Having Ermion by his side turns out to be a blessing. The man doesn’t coddle him but he also doesn’t push Julian beyond what he is capable of. He treats him like an equal in areas where Julian can fulfill that role, and Julian is grateful for it.

Right until Ermion suggests Julian’s mother ought to marry again.

“Absolutely not,” Julian says, hand curled into a fist on his desk. “How can you even suggest that? My father hasn’t been dead more than a month and you want to force her into a new marriage?”

“I take no pleasure in this, your majesty. I know your parents married for love.” He smiles, sadly, wistfully. “I was, after all, at their wedding.” The man sobers again, his mouth tilting downward. “It would not need to be anything but a match of convenience, to strengthen her position.”

Something cold and unpleasant unfurls in Julian’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

Ermion sighs and turns towards the window. He looks uncomfortable, as if he’s as unwilling to have this conversation as Julian is. “There are rumours, Julian. Of people wishing to challenge your status as regnant. If your mother were to marry again, her new husband would not be king. He could be appointed regent, until you come of age.”

“And then she’ll be saddled with him for the rest of her life!” Julian slaps the desktop, anger bubbling inside him.

“Yes,” Ermion acknowledges, “she would be.” He turns back around to look at Julian, and the anger in him deflates at least a little at the sad look on his face. “But that would certainly be better than getting murdered in a coup, wouldn’t you say?”

It hasn’t really hit Julian until now what his new position actually means, how much depends on him and his decisions. If he were to cling to the memory of his parents’ marriage and turned down this proposal, it could mean death for all of them.

He doesn’t have a choice.

“Find someone good,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Someone fair.” Ermion bows low, his sympathy clear on his face, and then he leaves Julian alone.

The council decides one of their own would be the best choice, and while Julian secretly hopes Ermion might step forward, it’s someone else who gets presented to him and his mother as a potential new husband. The man’s name is Stregobor, someone Julian is vaguely aware of. He has, of course, seen him around the castle, walking with his father. Stregobor has been around as long as Julian has been alive, so he must be trustworthy, and his mother seems, if not excited, amenable.

The wedding takes place just five weeks after his father has been buried, and Stregobor is appointed regent in Julian’s stead, until he reaches maturity. It’s a weight off Julian’s shoulders, if he’s entirely honest, these few weeks of dealing with matters of state enough to last him a lifetime.

Part of him wants to just… disappear. Leave the governing to Stregobor and the council in perpetuity, take his lute and wander the continent. He’s no statesman, no matter what his father may have expected of him. Unfortunately, that’s not an option.

Time passes, and about a year after his father’s death, Julian comes to realise something: giving power over to Stregobor may have been a mistake.

“Absolutely not.”

Julian clenches his fists in his lap, staring at the man sitting in his father’s seat. As if he belongs there, as if it is his by rights. “And why not?”

Stregobor scoffs as he spears a piece of carrot with his fork. “We do not have the money to support such an air-headed idea, my boy,” he says before bringing the food to his mouth. “I appreciate your good intentions, Julian, but it’s just not feasible. The people will have to do with what they have,” he continues, and Julian’s lips thin.

“The people are starving ,” he hisses. “Ermion showed me-”

“ Ermion ,” Stregobor interrupts, “would do well to remember his place. It’s not him who is regent, is it?”

No , Julian thinks, unfortunately it’s you . “So you’re going to just ignore this. Let people die.”

Stregobor sighs and puts down his knife and fork. Opposite Julian, his mother looks down at her plate, her face pale and drawn. “I’m not ignoring it, boy, there’s just nothing I can do. We simply do not have the money.”

He swallows thickly. “Does the city guard need gold-gilded helmets?” Because they don’t, he knows they don’t. It’s an extravagance nobody needs. It certainly doesn’t make them more effective.

Again, Stregobor scoffs. “You wouldn’t understand. Appearances matter, Julian.” He looks Julian up and down, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “You wanted to be a bard, didn’t you? I’d think someone with dreams as lofty as that would be able to comprehend that.”

Julian glowers back at the man. He has to go, has to leave before he strangles him. “You’re right,” he says, voice strained. “Appearances do matter.” He mirrors Stregobor’s appraisal, making note of the ostentatious jewellery, the rich fabrics. Expensive, paid for from the kingdom’s coffers, no doubt. No money, my arse , he thinks. “May I be excused?”

Stregobor turns back to his food, shaking his head in annoyance as he waves a dismissive hand at Julian. He tries to catch his mother’s eye, but she’s still looking down at her plate. The all too familiar anger bubbles fresh and hot in Julian’s chest, and he leaves, fuming.

The seasons change, and Julian can only watch from the sidelines as things change with them. The castle becomes filled with more and more of Stregobor’s allies, with riches and, quite frankly, expensive junk, while the people outside its walls grow wearier by the day. Ermion sees it, too, Julian knows, knows it by the man’s drawn mien, by the tired lines around his eyes.

“Just a while longer, Julian,” he says when Julian explodes one day, yelling about the numbers of people literally starving in the gutter. “You’ll be of age soon, and then he’s done for.”

“Can’t we do something now ? People are dying , Ermion!”

The man shakes his head, sighs deeply. “Two months, my prince. Just two months.”

Julian grunts as he falls back onto his bed, frustration thick in his veins. Two more months of this means two more months of people dying.

Be good , his father had said. Be fair.

He’ll be so very fair in his judgment of Stregobor, he thinks as he stares up at his bed’s canopy.

A week before Julian’s name day, Valdo finds him in his study. They have barely spoken to each other in the time since his father’s death. Valdo is still his personal guard a lot of the time, but Julian gave up trying to rekindle whatever there was between them a long time ago. Now, Valdo has Julian’s cloak and a basket over one arm and a grin on his lips.

“You busy, little prince?” It’s what he used to call Julian, a long time ago, and he can’t fight back the rush of nostalgia that washes over him.

“Not really. Why?”

Valdo tosses the cloak into his lap. “I have some time off today, and the blackberries are ripe. Thought we could go and pick some.” He holds out the basket. “You know, for old times’ sake, before you become a proper king.”

Julian should probably decline. They haven’t had that kind of relationship in so long, the adult Valdo pretty much a stranger to him, just as Julian isn’t the little four-year-old desperate for a friend any more. But… It’s tempting. One day of going back to how things were, when he was a child, carefree and safe, his best friend by his side, fingers and mouths stained purple with berry juice. “Sure,” he says, smiling, “why not?”

They walk in silence, but for once it’s not uncomfortable. It’s so similar to how things used to be, when they’d roam the woods close to the castle, picking berries and hunting for lizards, fighting each other with sticks turned into swords by their imagination. Julian finds himself smiling as they walk.

He loses track of time, of the path, a bit, relying on Valdo to know the way back. It’s late summer and the thicket is resplendent with fat, juicy berries on either side of the path they’re taking. Birds are calling in the trees above them, and even to Julian’s untrained eye, the tracks of deer and other animals are clear in the slightly damp soil.

“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” He closes his eyes and tips his head back, lets the sun falling through the canopy warm his face, and Valdo hums.

“Sure is.”

They walk a while longer, until they reach a clearing ringed on all sides by thick brambles. Julian wanders around the edges for a while, alternating between picking berries to drop into his basket and popping them directly into his mouth. They’re plump and sweet, with just the right amount of tartness, and soon his fingertips are blue and purple, his lips no doubt as well.

It takes him some time to realise that Valdo hasn’t joined in on the berry picking, and he turns around, one particularly fat one held delicately between his fingers.

There is a knife in the man's hand. It glitters dangerously in the speckled light of the forest. Julian’s heart skips, and his fingers twitch, almost crushing the berry between them. He tries to ignore the chill that runs down his spine. "What is that knife for, Valdo?"

The man cocks his head to the side, his lips tilting up. His eyes glisten. "What do you think it's for, princeling?" His smile widens. "Did you really think I came out here so you could pick some fucking berries? Your father sent me."

Rage bursts to life in Julian's chest, and he bares his teeth at the soldier. "Stregobor is not my father!"

"Isn't he?" Valdo takes a step forward, rolling the grip of the knife in his hand. "He's the king, darling boy, and you're the prince. That makes him your father in every way that counts. And he has grown tired of seeing you in his court every day, of placating your mother by allowing you your fancies."

Julian swallows thickly. He knows Stregobor hates him, knows the man sees him as a threat. Marrying his mother may have satisfied some of the ambitions that came to light only over time, but Stregobor knows that, ultimately, the people would support Julian's claim to the throne over his, if the prince were to press the issue. And with Julian reaching maturity in just a week, the man knows his days are numbered.

No wonder he wants him dead. It’s just a surprise he has waited so long.

"You don't have to kill me," he says quietly. "I will… I will leave. Stregobor can have the throne, I don't care."

It's a lie. He does care, about his mother, about the people of their land, more than he can say. Stregobor has a tendency for cruelty, and his ambition and selfishness blind him to the needs of others. Still, if it will keep the peace, Julian will go and save them all the trouble.

Valdo, however, laughs at that. It is a horrible, ugly laugh, full of scorn. "Sweet, innocent Julian. You always had such a soft heart." His face hardens but Julian can see the manic glee shining in the man's eyes. "There is no scenario where you walk away from this, boy. You will die here, and I'll bring Stregobor your heart as proof."

Julian throws his basket at Valdo, and then he turns on his heel and runs. The man laughs, and Julian can hear his heavy footfalls behind him as he races through the undergrowth. Branches and brambles catch on his cloak, try to drag him to a stop, but Julian presses on.

He can't let Valdo catch him.

His lungs are burning, and his eyes water from the air whipping at his face, and if some of those tears are there because he's terrified and heartbroken, well, that shall remain his secret.

There is a road ahead, and he veers to the right, straight onto it, forcing himself to go faster. Valdo's breathing is heavy and loud behind him, far too close, and Julian swallows down his panic. There's a fork in the road, and a hedge, and he dives around the corner with desperation fuelling his steps.

He only makes it three of those steps around the corner before he collides with something that feels like a solid brick wall, and he lets out a pained, "Oof," as he bounces off of whatever he ran into. He falls flat on his arse, fresh panic clawing at his throat. He can't lose time, he has to keep going, he has to-

"Watch where you're going."

Julian's eyes snap up. The wall he ran into turns out to not have been a wall at all. No, it's a man, built enough like a brick wall that Julian's confusion must be forgiven. He's taller than Julian by half a head at least, although that's difficult to judge from his vantage point of on the ground . He wears a hood, and what little Julian can see of his hair is white as milk, his eyes yellow or maybe gold, and the pupils are slit like those of a cat. Around his throat hangs a silver chain, and on that a silver medallion, a snarling wolf etched into the metal.

A Witcher.

Julian stares, and then the world seems to snap back into focus. "Help me," he gasps, and he scrambles onto his knees and then to his feet. "Please, help me, he's trying to kill me!"

The Witcher studies him calmly, his face not giving anything away, and Julian trembles under his gaze. "Why would someone want to kill you?"

"I-"

Valdo skids around the corner, knife still in hand, but he jerks to a stop when his eyes fall upon the Witcher. The knife disappears smoothly into its sheath at Valdo's hip, quick enough not to be noticed by most. When Julian's eyes flicker to the Witcher's face, he can see a small line appearing between his brows. He has definitely seen the knife.

"There you are, Julian," Valdo exclaims, grinning. "Thought I'd lost you. You can't just run away like that, what would your mother think? You could get lost and end up eaten by wolves!"

Julian barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. Subtlety has never been one of Valdo's strengths.

The Witcher's eyes don't stray from Valdo, and the soldier can't hide the full body twitch when the man shifts his weight. Julian dares to take a step closer to the Witcher. "Leave me alone, Valdo."

"Oh, but I can't do that, buttercup." He uses the name like a weapon, and Julian wants to claw his eyes out. "You know your father would be terribly upset if something happened to you!"

"He's not my-"

"The boy told you to leave him alone," the Witcher says calmly. His voice is like gravel, and even speaking so quietly it carries a weight that is reassuring to Julian, and no doubt terrifying for Valdo.

The soldier's face contorts, his veneer of joviality cracking. "Mind your business, mutant! The kid's coming with me."

Julian's heart skips, then starts racing, and he looks up at the Witcher with wide eyes. "Please," he gasps, and the man turns those odd eyes to him. His face is still perfectly blank, that small tightness of his brows the only sign of his displeasure.

"I don't think he wants to come with you," the Witcher says without even looking at Valdo, still studying Julian, and an odd warmth blooms in his chest, caught as he is under that gaze.

Valdo shifts, and then the sword he carries is in his hand. "As I said - mind your business," he says, his voice hard with anger now. "Julian, get your scrawny arse over here. Don't make me repeat myself."

In answer, Julian moves - the other way, until he stands behind the Witcher. The man's horse nudges him with her nose, snuffling at his cloak.

"Julian, you're really testing my patience here." The soldier's face is going red, and a strange sort of pleasure curls around Julian at the sight.

"You're trying to kill me, Valdo! Why should I do anything you say?"

Incredibly, Valdo laughs at that. "And you think that beast won't sell you right back to Stregobor?" At that, the Witcher stiffens noticeably, and Julian's breath catches in his throat. "Witchers don't care, Julian. All they care about is mon-"

Julian blinks. Valdo isn't where he was just a second ago. Instead he lies sprawled in the hedge, his sword in the ditch beside it. He looks mildly concussed as he struggles in the branches. "What-"

The Witcher turns to face him. The line between his brows is more pronounced now. "Get on the horse," he says quietly, and Julian, dazed, obeys. A moment later, the Witcher mounts up behind him and urges the horse forward, then into a trot, and soon they have left Valdo far behind.

Julian expects questions. He expects the Witcher to demand an explanation.

It doesn't come. They ride in utter silence for at least an hour, and Julian's mind is racing right alongside his heart. He doesn't understand what is happening. First the revelation that Stregobor actually, truly wants him dead, that Valdo of all people had been chosen to deliver that death to him. To cut out his heart to prove to Stregobor that the deed had been done. That alone has been more than enough to turn his world on its head.

And then the Witcher had appeared, like a knight in… well, old and slightly battered armour, saving him from almost certain death after little more than a fearfully uttered, "Please." It is truly baffling.

The man's arm is wound around Julian's waist, holding him steady as the horse plods along, his bulk reassuring behind him, and Julian lets himself sink into it. The Witcher fascinates him, with his odd appearance and apparently taciturn nature. Why would the man get involved in what will almost certainly turn out to be a shitshow, especially given his clear reaction to learning about Stregobor's involvement?

There are two ways this can go, Julian thinks as he watches the sun sink lower in the sky. Either the Witcher will actually turn out to be what Valdo accused him of, dragging Julian kicking and screaming back to the castle in the hopes of collecting a reward of some kind, or he will do the opposite, will take Julian somewhere safe. Not that Julian knows why he would do that.

Witchers only care about money , Valdo had meant to say. Julian doesn't know enough about them to judge the veracity of that statement, but he has enough of an understanding of how the world works to know that most people do things for money. It would follow, therefore, that Witchers also care about it.

Julian doesn't have money. He only has his father's ring, and he would never give that away. A pit settles in his stomach as they ride.

By the time dusk sets in, the Witcher guides his horse - whose name must be Roach, given the calm command of, “Easy, Roach,” when she had been startled by a bird suddenly taking flight next to her - off the road and into the wood, into a clearing. They stop there, and the man dismounts. "We'll make camp here," he says quietly, the first thing he has said in hours, and then he looks up at Julian expectantly. It takes him a moment to understand that he's supposed to get off the horse, and when he does, hurried, he stumbles. The Witcher catches him by the elbow, steadies him. "Easy," he murmurs, and Julian thinks that the way he speaks to him isn't too different from how one might speak to a horse.

"I… I haven't thanked you," he says, and the Witcher's mouth tightens ever so slightly. "He would've… He really would've killed me." His voice sounds hollow even to his own ears, and he realises he has started trembling. "I've known him my whole life, and he would've killed me ."

Julian bursts into tears, horrified. He stands between the Witcher and the horse, bawling like a child, and he presses his hands against his mouth in a pitiful attempt to keep his noise down. The Witcher just watches him silently, lets him cry himself out, and when he's done, the man hands him a mostly clean rag he pulled from somewhere. Julian takes it and rubs at his eyes, wipes the snot from his nose. He grimaces.

"I'm sorry, I'll… I'll wash it."

"Hm." The Witcher watches him for another moment, then he turns and leads the horse to a sturdy tree. Julian stays rooted to the spot, twisting the rag between his fingers. The Witcher ties the horse to a branch, petting her neck as he says a few words to her, too quiet for Julian to hear. Then he takes down a couple of bags before he removes the saddle.

Julian fidgets. "I…" The man looks at him from where he's bent over the saddle, clearly waiting for him to continue. "I never got your name."

The Witcher watches him a moment longer; Julian can't read his face at all. Then he sighs. "Geralt of Rivia," he says quietly before he turns back to his things.

Still, Julian stands there. The Wi- Geralt unfurls a bedroll and pulls a water skin out of a bag, and then he motions at the bedroll.

"Sit." He holds out the water skin, and Julian's heart races as he obeys. He sits, takes the skin and drinks - just water - as Geralt continues to move around setting up camp. He feels… useless.

"Can I do anything? To help, I mean?"

Geralt looks up from where he's arranging stones in a circle, probably for a fire. He studies Julian, then says, "Kindling," before he turns back to his task.

Right. Not a man of many words, it would seem.

Julian stoppers the water skin again before he gets back to his feet. His thighs and back ache from riding for so long, his body not used to so much physical activity, and he winces as he moves to the edge of the clearing, winces again as he bends to pick up sticks needed to feed the fire. When he has a good armful, he returns to the fireplace and drops his bounty into the ring of stones.

Geralt is nowhere to be seen. Julian grits his teeth. Alright .

He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, and so he just sits down on the bedroll again. Now that he's sitting still, the true gravity of everything that happened today hits him fully, and before he knows it, he's crying again. He lies down on the bedroll and pulls his knees up against his chest, hiding his face in his arms, and cries, big heaving sobs as he realises he'll probably never see his mother again.

Gods, how did it all go so wrong?

Julian doesn't know how much time passes, but by the time Geralt returns his sobs have turned into silent crying. He's still curled up on the bedroll, staring at the pile of sticks when the Witcher steps into his field of vision. He doesn't say anything, just stands there, obviously observing Julian, and then he drops a satchel beside the fireplace. Next is a pile of branches, thicker than the sticks Julian collected. The man works silently, breaking the branches into smaller parts before he sets to building up the fire. That done, he gives Julian a quick look.

"Don't be afraid," he says quietly, and then he twists his fingers into the oddest shape and-

The branches burst into flame, and Julian startles upright.

"Th- That was-"

"Witcher sign," Geralt rumbles as he picks up the satchel. Inside it are two rabbits that he starts cleaning, and Julian can't stop staring at his hands as he works.

"I didn't know Witchers could do magic."

"Reckon there's a lot of things you don't know."

Julian scowls at him, then wipes at his face. Ugh, he's a mess. "Well, that's hardly my fault."

"Hm."

Julian pulls up his knees again and winds his arms around them. Geralt makes quick work of skinning and gutting the rabbits, and then he spears them on sturdy sticks and puts them over the fire. It's not until he has discarded the entrails and furs and cleaned his knife and hands that he really looks at Julian again. He's immediately on his guard.

"You're the prince," Geralt says without preamble, and Julian's jaw drops.

"H-how did you know?"

The Witcher shifts on the log he's made his seat on. "The man who was after you. He's a royal guard. They all have the same sword. He talked about Stregobor." The corners of his mouth turn down ever so slightly, as if the name leaves a sour taste on his tongue. Julian understands the feeling. Then he cocks an eyebrow. "And he called you Julian. Like the prince."

Julian stares back at him for a long moment. Then he says, "Oh."

Geralt observes him silently for a while before he says, "You can't go back." Julian shakes his head, and Geralt hums. "Do you have anywhere you could go?"

Julian shakes his head. "I… I don't know anybody outside of the palace." He stares at the fire, and his eyes well with tears yet again. "What am I supposed to do?" he whispers, his hands curling into fists. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

Geralt shifts his weight. He doesn't say anything.

Julian buries his face against his knees, presses his eyes against them. He's truly alone now, without a single friend, without money or the means to earn it, and he has no idea what to do. Valdo may as well have killed him to save Julian the trouble.

"I'm going south," Geralt says at length, apropos of nothing, and Julian lifts his head to look at him. That… almost sounds like an invitation. "Towards Rinde."

Julian blinks at him a couple of times. There's a lump in his throat. "Do you… You'd take me?"

Geralt's mouth twitches, just once, and he looks away, at the fire. "You can come with me, yes."

He doesn't know what to say. It's all gone topsy-turvy: his supposed best friend tried to kill him, and this perfect stranger, this supposedly emotionless killer offers his help. Still, Valdo's warning comes back to him, entirely unbidden. "I can't pay you," he says quietly, looking down at his hands, at his father's ring. He folds his hand around it to hide it from view. He should take it off, really, hide it.

"I don't expect you to pay me. You need help." The Witcher still doesn't look at him. He leans forward and turns the rabbits over the fire, then settles on the log again.

Julian watches him for a long moment. Against the firelight, the Witcher's eyes reflect oddly, like those of a cat, and his white hair shines golden. He's strange, and otherworldly, and the person Julian owes his life to. "I could… Maybe I could earn some money? I can sing and play some instruments."

"Don't have any instruments for you to play."

"Just singing then. People like music, right? I'll make enough to buy an instrument. I can…" His breath stutters out of him. "I can be useful."

"You don't have to be useful for me to help you," Geralt says quietly, and it tugs painfully at Julian's heart.

"Why, then? Why would you help me? You don't know me, I could be… I don't know, I could be a cruel bastard who actually deserves to be stabbed to death in the woods."

Geralt doesn't say anything in reply for the longest time. When he does, he looks up at Julian, his face unreadable. "You're not scared of me."

Julian gapes at him. "Is that… I don't know what that's supposed to mean."

"Most people are. They take one look at me and just about shit themselves." Geralt's lips twitch into something that could almost be called a smile. "You didn't. You saw me and decided that I was safer than one of the royal guard." He gives a little half-shrug. "Cruel people tend to run from me, scared of what judgment I might bring down on them."

If Julian had to put a name to the emotion currently coursing through him, he'd probably go with 'befuddlement'. "That's it? That's why you…" He swallows thickly, overwhelmed yet again. "I… I really can't thank you enough."

Geralt looks down at the fire again. He leans forward to check the rabbits; Julian gets the impression that the Witcher is trying to avoid his gaze. "You don't have to pay me and you don't have to thank me."

"I want to," Julian says quietly, and that makes Geralt look up at him. His brows are furrowed. "I mean it. You were under no obligation to help me, but you did. So please, accept my gratitude."

The Witcher looks… uneasy, now, and isn't that confusing? He shifts on his log, eyes drifting away from Julian again. "I don't expect you to… do that."

Now it's Julian's turn to frown in confusion. "Do what? Thank you?"

"You know," Geralt says, motioning at the space between them. He looks anywhere but at Julian, and that's when the oren drops. Julian blushes furiously.

"Oh! Oh gods, no , I wasn't- Not that you're not a very attractive man, I just-" Gods, what is he saying ? He needs to stop talking, preferably five minutes ago. He clears his throat. "I just meant- I really am… very grateful. You could have just walked away, and I appreciate that you didn't."

Now, Geralt does look at him. Julian can't read the expression on his face at all. "It was the right thing to do," he says quietly after a moment, before he checks the rabbits again. Julian suspects that it's mostly so he has something to do with his hands, something where he doesn't have to focus on Julian. It's oddly charming.

They lapse into silence after this, Julian sipping at the waterskin as they wait for the rabbits to finish cooking. He's exhausted, physically and mentally, and Geralt obviously sees no need to fill the silence. Julian appreciates it, content to just watch the embers rise into the dark sky.

He knows this strange sense of calm won't last. He's bound to fall apart completely at some point, but not now. Now he just enjoys the silence, the steady presence of the Witcher across the fire, of the horse snorting quietly every now and then as she dozes by the trees. It's peaceful, something he never would have associated with a Witcher.

It's not until the rabbits are done and Geralt holds his portion out for him to take that Julian is reminded of his sore body, hissing when he reaches forward to take the proffered stick. Geralt frowns.

"You're hurt." It's not a question, and Julian shrugs.

"Just sore. I'm not exactly used to riding all day." He smiles apologetically. "It's fine, just uncomfortable."

"Hm." 

They eat in silence, and it's only now that Julian realises just how hungry he was. Not surprising, really, after being on the road all day. When they're done, Geralt takes the bones away into the forest, and when he returns, he starts rooting around his saddle bags. He pulls out a small pot of salve.

"Here," he says quietly, holding it out to Julian. "That should help with the sore muscles."

"You don't have to waste your resources on me," he says. He doesn't want to be even more of a burden, but Geralt shakes his head.

"It's not a waste. You need to be able to ride tomorrow." He presses the pot into Julian's hand before he walks back to his log, sitting down again.

Julian stares down at the pot, eyes filling with tears again. How can people think Witchers are monsters? Geralt has been the definition of kindness since Julian met him. Sure, he's frugal with his words, and probably doesn't go out of his way to make nice with people, but Julian doesn't understand how anyone could look at this man, look at what he does, and spit at his feet.

The salve smells like herbs, sharp and cool, and he just holds it for a moment, eyes closed, and lets the scent fill him up. It reminds him of being small, strangely enough, of being sick and of his mother rubbing ointment into his chest. That smelled similar, and his fingers tighten around the little pot as he tears up again.

“I’ll... be right back,” Geralt says softly, and then he gets to his feet, turning his back on Julian as he strides into the trees. Julian looks after him for a long time, recognising the gesture for what it is - the Witcher giving him the privacy to tend to his aches.

He struggles out of his boots and trousers, wincing as his muscles protest at the movement. Sitting on the ground has not done him any favours, but the salve is cool and pleasant as he massages it in. Idly, he wonders if Geralt made it himself. Witchers are supposed to know alchemy, as far as he knows, but surely this is not that. It doesn’t appear to be magical anyway, even if it works quickly. By the time Geralt returns, making far more noise than he almost certainly would normally, the ache is still there but not nearly as distracting as before.

Julian holds the pot out for Geralt to take back, but the Witcher shakes his head. “You should apply it again tomorrow.” He sits down on his log again, and Julian hums.

“How long until we get to Rinde?” he asks. He knows in theory, knows how long it takes by carriage, but surely it’s quicker by horse, even if the Witcher’s mare has to carry two people.

Geralt has pulled out a knife and is whittling something small, and Julian thinks he’s mostly doing it to occupy his hands. “Two days. I’ll have to look for a contract. You could busk, maybe.”

He could. He’s nervous about it, never having done it before, but how difficult can it be, really? “Sounds like a pla- aaaaan .” He’s interrupted by a hearty yawn, and Geralt’s lips twitch.

“You should sleep. It’s been a long day.” He nods at the bedroll Julian is still sitting on. “Will you be warm enough with that?”

Julian looks down at the bedroll. “Uh, I think so? But…” He frowns, looks up at the WItcher again. “Where will you sleep?”

Geralt hums and focuses back on his whittling. “Don’t need to.”

“You don’t… need to sleep ?” He’s aghast. Sure, Witchers are obviously sturdier than humans, but everybody has to sleep, right?

“Not as much as you.”

“Huh. Alright, then I’ll just… Thank you, Geralt,” he says softly, and Julian feels his cheeks grow warm. He’ll just have to keep thanking the man, won’t he? Geralt just hums in acknowledgment, and Julian pulls off his boots and slips into the bedroll, his cloak folded up under his head in place of a pillow.

Around them, the woods are quiet except for the soft rustling of the leaves, of small creatures in the underbrush. Julian falls asleep watching the way the firelight plays over Geralt’s features, his hair, and for the first time in many hours, he feels utterly, completely safe.

It’s well past sunrise when Julian is gently prodded awake. For a moment, he forgets where he is, curling into a tighter ball beneath his blanket, unwilling to give up the comfort of his bed, but then a horse whinnies softly close by, and he remembers.

Geralt is kneeling beside the bedroll, that white hair framing his face like a halo, backlit by the rising sun as he is. He’s… really quite handsome, Julian thinks, and then is immediately horrified by his own thoughts. Geralt cocks an eyebrow.

“We need to get going soon,” he says, voice rough but tone gentle. “There’s porridge.”

He moves away, now that Julian is awake, and the prince struggles upright. There is indeed porridge, and he takes the bowl Geralt holds out to him. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

After breakfast, Geralt hands him the salve again. "Not too much," he instructs, "you don't want it sticking to your trousers and rubbing you raw." His mouth twists oddly after that sentence, and he turns away abruptly to ready Roach.

Julian, too, turns away and shucks his trousers. He's still sore but not nearly as much as he'd have expected, and he rubs more of the salve into his skin. The smell is already becoming familiar, soothing, and the ache in his muscles lessens further under his fingers. Once he's done and dressed again, he eyes the bedroll critically. He should ask. "Geralt?"

The Witcher hums where he's double checking Roach's tack. The horse looks ready to start the day, tossing her head before she nips at Geralt's cloak. The prince has to suppress a smile.

"Could you show me how to… put this away properly?" He motions at the bedroll.

"Don't need to, I can do it." Geralt keeps fiddling with a strap, as if to avoid looking at him, and Julian purses his lips.

"I want to. I know you said I don't need to… be useful, but I want to be. You've done everything so far, and all I did was eat your food and commandeer your bedroll." He squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, even though the Witcher still isn't looking at him. "Please, Geralt. Just… let me help."

Finally, Geralt turns to look at him, and Julian ignores the way his stomach swoops at the assessing way the Witcher regards him. It's only when Roach snorts loudly that the tense moment is broken, and Geralt doesn't actually sigh, but it looks like he kind of wants to. "Fine," he says, pats Roach's neck gently, and walks over to where Julian is kneeling in the slightly damp grass. Geralt doesn't say anything, he just shows Julian how to roll the thing up tightly, where to tie it off. Then he unrolls it again and waves a hand at it. "Try."

It takes Julian four attempts to get everything exactly right. The first two are far too loosely rolled and the third is crooked, but the fourth is finally satisfactory. Geralt hums and stands up again after he looks over Julian's work with a critical eye.

"Good," he says, his voice soft and gentle, and a shiver runs down Julian's back.

"Thank you," he croaks in reply, and then they don't speak again until everything is packed up.

Geralt motions at Roach. "You can ride today."

"What about you? I mean she's your horse, and I'm just-"

"Even less practiced at walking long distances than you are at riding them." The Witcher takes a breath, then pushes him towards the stirrup gently. "Get up. We can't both ride her every day, we're too heavy. I'm fine walking."

Again, Julian's chest swells with an emotion he can't place, and before he knows what he's doing, he's surging forward and into Geralt's space. It speaks to the incredible control the man has that he doesn't stab Julian, even if his hand twitches as if to reach for a weapon. He has definitely surprised the Witcher, Julian thinks with a rush of fondness as he tightens his arms around Geralt's waist, his forehead pressed against the man's chest plate. "Thank you," he says again, whispers it really, ignoring the stiff way Geralt holds himself in the circle of his arms. "Thank you for being so kind when you don't have to be."

Geralt's breath shudders, ever so slightly, in a way Julian wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't so close, and he gently, awkwardly pats his back. "You don't-"

"Have to thank you," Julian interrupts with a watery laugh. "I know." He presses closer, until the rivets of Geralt's armour dig into his forehead, and only then does he step back. "But I'm not going to stop doing it."

His hands linger for a moment longer against Geralt's armour, and then he turns away and climbs up into Roach's saddle.

They ride most of the day, only taking short breaks so Roach can have a drink or graze for a bit, and Julian tries not to show how very uncomfortable he is. By midday, everything hurts . He’s sore from his shoulders to his feet, and every time Geralt stops, Julian has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep in the whimper of pain as he dismounts. He’s certain Geralt notices anyway, but he’s determined to not be a burden on the Witcher. He’s already making him walk instead of riding his own damn horse. Julian can tough it out for two days.

They camp again that evening, and Julian’s plan goes up in flames the moment he climbs off Roach’s back. His feet hit the ground and immediately his legs cramp and give out under him, and he topples onto his arse with a cry. Geralt sighs softly, watching him with a frown.

"You should have said something." His voice is flat, no reproach there but Julian can still sense the annoyance.

He rubs at his calves as tears sting his eyes. "I didn't want to slow you down. I can't- I can't be a burden."

Again, the Witcher sighs. He ties Roach to a tree before he walks over to Julian, and then he bends down and scoops him into his arms with apparently no effort at all. Julian gasps in surprise and, entirely in reflex, winds his arms around the man’s neck, and then he tries to calm down his racing heart and fight back the flush in his cheeks.

Geralt carries him over to a large oak and sets him gently down on the moss that grows there. Julian grimaces; his thighs and calves twitch with cramps, and his back aches horribly.

"Look," Geralt says quietly, and then he tugs off Julian's boot and his gloves, and he starts to massage his foot. Julian groans at the combined pain and relief. "You're not a burden. But you'll become one if you hide it from me when you're hurt." He glances up at Julian from where he's digging his thumb into the prince's arch, and Julian bites his lip. The Witcher's eyes really are astounding. "I can't help you if you don't tell me these things."

Julian doesn't know what possesses him to say what comes out of his mouth then, but he can't bring himself to regret it. "Will you tell me when you are hurt? It would only be fair."

Geralt's hands on his foot still. He's still looking up at Julian, his expression unreadable, and Julian wonders if he's overstepped. He has only known the man for a day, after all. Geralt owes him nothing at all. "Why," the Witcher says flatly after a moment, and Julian frowns.

"Why, what?"

"Why would you want to know if I'm hurt?"

Julian meets the man's calm gaze, completely baffled. Why wouldn't he want to know about that? But then he stops to think. He lets his eyes wander, over Geralt's patched armour, the few items he calls his own, this solitary man with no company but his horse, and something inside his chest clenches painfully when he realises Geralt is a stranger to someone caring for him. He probably suspects Julian would rather use that moment of weakness to, what, attack him? The mere thought is ludicrous to Julian. Even on the brink of death Geralt would probably be easily able to overpower him.

All of that is far too complicated an answer though, and so he settles on, "I can't help you if you don't tell me these things."

Geralt's face is utterly still, but his pupils widen, just a fraction. Julian has no idea what that means, but it's the only reaction to his words that he can make out. After a moment, Geralt breaks eye contact and looks back at where he's still holding onto Julian's foot. "Hmm," is his only reply, and Julian sighs softly.

The Witcher continues in silence, massaging both of Jaskier's feet and calves until he can stand on his own again, and then he busies himself with Roach while Julian spreads the ointment on his legs once more. He already feels much better, even if he's still sore in a way he can't remember ever being before.

The rest of the night passes much the same as the one before. Geralt hunts and prepares a simple meal for them, and then he insists Julian use the bedroll again. If he wasn't so horribly tired, Julian would object. As it is, he drifts off only a minute after lying down.

The last thing he sees before his eyes close is Geralt, watching him. Julian thinks he looks thoughtful, but it's hard to tell with the man. For all Julian knows the Witcher is trying to think of the best way to ditch him.

In any case, Julian falls asleep feeling warm and safe, and he hopes, fervently, that Geralt will let him stay just a bit longer.

They reach Rinde around late afternoon the next day, after a mostly silent journey where they meet very few people, and Julian can feel the tension in Geralt’s limbs rising. He had climbed onto Roach’s back behind Julian half an hour outside the city walls, and if Julian didn’t know better he’d think the Witcher was anxious. His arm is once more wound around Julian’s middle, holding him steady, but everything about him seems more strained than in the days before. Before he can overthink, Julian places his own hand on Geralt’s wrist, and after a second where the man goes positively rigid, making Roach toss her head in annoyance, he relaxes ever so slightly.

His arm tightens around Julian for half a heartbeat before it relaxes again, and Julian allows himself a small, private smile.

As soon as they enter the city proper, the reason for Geralt’s behaviour becomes apparent. People stare at them, and not in a friendly manner. Julian keeps his eyes on the road before them, but he can’t help but hear the loud muttering, the way people spit as Roach passes them by. One phrase he hears over and over.

Butcher of Blaviken.

The name tickles something in the back of his mind, some sordid tale Valdo told him years and years ago. A renegade Witcher murdering innocent bystanders in some small village in the middle of nowhere, a wild beast, intent on nothing but ripping people apart with his bare hands. Julian remembers being mesmerised by the story, wide-eyed and with goosebumps as Valdo told him how the Witcher left the marketplace painted red with the blood of his victims.

His hand tightens where it rests on Geralt’s wrist. It can’t be true, he thinks. Whatever happened in Blaviken, it can’t have been Geralt, or the story got twisted in some way. He can’t imagine for even a moment that Geralt would hurt someone for no reason.

“Figured it out then, have you,” Geralt asks behind him, voice barely a whisper against Julian’s neck. He’s tense again, and Julian half turns to look at his face. Geralt is clenching his teeth, and the ever-present line between his brows is more pronounced than he has seen it at any point during the last two days. He looks, quite frankly, like he wants to be anywhere but here.

Julian hums softly. “I already knew that people are full of shit.” He settles back against Geralt’s chest and squeezes his wrist again.

Geralt is silent as Roach plods along the road, until they reach a stable he seems to consider suitable. He dismounts first, then helps Julian down. Julian looks up at him calmly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt says, voice strained, and Julian shrugs.

“I probably don't. I remember the stories, but I like to think I’ve come to know you at least a little.” He smiles, and Geralt somehow frowns harder. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who just kills people for fun.”

Geralt’s mouth tightens. “I’m not a man. I’m a Witcher.” And with that he pushes past Julian and begins unfastening his bags from Roach’s saddle.

Julian stands there, and his heart hurts.

Geralt finds them a room at a small, obviously cheap inn. It’s cramped and not particularly clean, but Julian doesn’t complain. He can’t complain - Geralt is paying for everything, after all.

“I’ll go have a look at the notice board,” the Witcher murmurs after they have put their things away. “We should also get you a bedroll and something else to wear.”

Julian looks down at his clothes. They’re not the finest things he owns - or, owned, rather - but far nicer than what he has seen people wear on the street. “I could… sell these, maybe?”

Geralt shakes his head. “People will think you stole them.” His lips twitch. “Besides, they’ll make a good costume for a bard.”

Right. He’s to be a bard. Julian’s cheeks heat. “I guess I should think of a name.”

“Hmm.”

As Geralt digs around in a saddlebag, Julian sits on the one rickety bed the room has to offer. A name for a bard, he thinks. He remembers his amusement when, as a child, he’d learned about Miss Priscilla’s bardic name, remembers his howls of laughter when she told him she was named for a duck. No, that’s not a path he wants to take.

Unbidden, he has to think of his mother, of her enjoyment when he played for her. He remembers that walk they took that gave him his pet name, and he knows there’s only one name he can choose.

“Jaskier,” he says quietly, and Geralt pauses in his search to look up at him.

“What?”

“My bardic name. It’s Jaskier.”

Geralt’s mouth twitches again. “Buttercup,” he says softly, and after a moment adds, “Suits you.” Then he turns back to his bag, and Julian’s cheeks grow hot.

Geralt leaves him at the inn to go look for a contract, and Jul- no, Jaskier gathers his courage and approaches the innkeeper. The man is old and grizzled and looks like he doesn’t suffer fools, least of all gladly. He’s listlessly wiping down a table in the common room, and Jaskier clears his throat to draw his attention.

“Pardon me, sir, would you maybe be interested in some entertainment for this fine evening?” He puts on his most brilliant smile, and the man gives him a once-over.

“Sorry, laddie, I’m sure you’re a fine lay but I don’t care for boys.” And he goes back to wiping down the table.

Jaskier’s head grows so hot he’s sure his face must glow. “N-no, I meant- I’m a-a bard! I’d like to sing , for your guests!”

The innkeeper sighs and turns back to him. “What sort of a bard doesn’t have an instrument?”

“I’m… new to the profession,” he mutters. “But I promise I’m good for my word! May I?” The man shrugs, disinterest clear on his face. Jaskier takes a deep breath, and sings.

Shall I go walk the wood so wild,

Wand'ring, wand'ring here and there,

As I was once full sore beguiled,

Alas! for love! I die with woe

Wearily blows the winter wind,

Wand'ring, wand'ring here and there,

My heart is like a stricken hind,

Alas! for love I die with woe

When he’s done, the man’s expression has changed just the smallest bit. “Huh. You actually know your craft. Got anything less maudlin?”

Jaskier beams. “Of course!”

“Right then. You can try your luck with the dinner crowd. No guarantees that they’ll appreciate it, though.”

“That’s perfectly fine! Thank you, truly.” He turns to go back to their room but the man calls him back.

“You’re with the Butcher, aren’t you?”

Jaskier’s lips thin. “I’m… with the Witcher, yes.”

“You need to get away, you let me know. My cousin is with the city guard-”

He needs to leave, right now, before he says or does something stupid. “Thank you for letting me know.” He forces a smile onto his lips. “I’m perfectly safe, rest assured.” The man looks at him dubiously, and Jaskier smiles wider and bows, then turns around and all but runs back to their room.

Once the door closes behind him, Jaskier grabs his cloak, balled up beside the saddlebags, and pushes his face into the fabric to muffle his shout of anger. He knew people didn’t like Witchers, but fuck, this is ridiculous . Why would this man, who doesn’t know either him or Geralt, assume that he’s being forced to be with Geralt? Not that he’s with Geralt, he thinks as his cheeks warm.

He sits on the ground, cross legged, and stares at the wall. Secretly, he always suspected much of what he was told about Witchers was bullshit. Sure, there’s probably ones who are less than stellar human beings, but Geralt definitely isn’t one of them. He took in a scared kid he didn’t know, fed him, massaged his gods damned feet . A Witcher was kind and good to him, and his former best friend, who is very much human, tried to kill him. Wanted to cut out his heart .

Jaskier has more reason to trust Witchers, to trust Geralt , than he has to trust most humans.

Geralt returns an hour later, a bedroll under one arm and a simple set of clothes for him under the other. “These should fit,” he says as he hands them over, and Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat.

“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, I promise.”

The Witcher sighs. “I told you, you don’t have t-”

“Will you please stop doing that?” Now it’s his turn to frown, and Geralt’s mouth snaps shut. “I’m grateful for your help, but I’m not-” Jaskier huffs and ruffles his hair, tugs on it with a grimace. “I don’t want to abuse your charity.”

“It’s not charity.”

“What then? What is this if not charity?”

“I told you,” Geralt says, softly. “You needed help.”

“Yes! I did! What’s stopping you from dumping me here? Nothing binds you to me, or me to you!”

The corners of Geralt’s mouth turn downwards. “You’re right,” he says, and the gentle tone is gone. “I ought to leave you here. You slow me down, you’re a drain on my resources. I should leave you to your fate.”

“Then why the fuck don’t you?!”

“Because you’d die , Jaskier!” The bedroll flops to the ground as the Witcher rounds on him, and Jaskier thinks he probably ought to feel scared at the way the man’s eyes flash, at the sharp teeth and the strong hands curled into fists. Instead he wants to push back. “You’d be dead within a sennight. People are looking for you, for fuck’s sake.”

Cold dread trickles down his back. “What?”

“Did you think Stregobor was going to just let you go?” He spits out the name like it’s poison. “There’s a price on your head. And on mine.”

Fuck. Fuck . “Geralt, I’m-”

“Don’t. Just- Don’t.” He huffs, and Jaskier presses his lips together. “There’s a place. We could… hide there, until we come up with a plan.”

Jaskier scoffs. “What kind of plan? Stregobor has a whole kingdom at his beck and call.”

“He does, but- We’ll think of something.” Geralt crosses the room and sits heavily on the bed before he begins tugging off his armour, obviously dismissing the topic. Jaskier huffs, and then realises that he hasn’t once seen the man without it, and he climbs to his feet and moves across the room.

“Can I… help you with that?”

“I got it.” Geralt doesn’t look at him, focused on the buckles of his bracer. Jaskier snorts.

“I know you do, but that’s not what I asked.”

“What do you know about armour, little prince?” It’s meant to be dismissive, to hurt even, but Jaskier knows an attempt at deflection when he sees it, and he smiles.

“I know how to open a buckle. It’s not exactly something you need to study at Oxenfurt for.”

There’s the hint of a smile on Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier lets that embolden him. Together, they pull off piece after piece until Geralt is left in a shirt and trousers, and it makes something strange and warm pulse in Jaskier’s stomach to see him like that. There’s the faintest hint of pale chest hair at the collar of his shirt, his collarbones sharply pronounced. Like this, he appears no less tall and muscly, but it’s obvious he’s been living a rough life. It seems… private, like he’s been allowed access to a secret he really has no right knowing about.

“I talked to the innkeeper,” he says, mostly to distract himself from the sight of Geralt like this. The Witcher hums in acknowledgment. He’s checking his armour over, that blasted line back between his brows. Jaskier thinks he knows why. The armour looks like it’s held together by faith and twine in a lot of places. “He said I can sing at dinner, if I want.” Geralt hums again, and Jaskier bites his lip. “Do you… want to come?”

Geralt’s hands still where he’s working a thin layer of leather polish into one bracer. “Do you want me to come?”

“Yes, please. It would… mean a lot to me.” It would, truly, and Jaskier should probably think about why, but the answer is simple - Geralt means… a lot to him, already.

The Witcher is silent for so long Jaskier wonders if he’s been dismissed, but then he hums again. “I’ll come.”

Jaskier smiles, and busies himself with brushing the dirt from his boots.

Dinnertime arrives much faster than he would have thought possible. Geralt doesn’t put on his armour again, but he hides his hair under his cloak and sits in the darkest corner of the room, something that sends another stab of anger through Jaskier, especially when he sees how the girl bringing them their dinner looks at the Witcher - like he’s a beast who’s going to jump across the table to maul her right here.

“I don’t know how you put up with it,” he murmurs into his stew, and when Geralt grunts at him in question, elaborates. “The way people treat you, how they look at you. It’s not fair!”

To his surprise, Geralt huffs a laugh. “No. It’s not.” He dunks a piece of bread into his own bowl as he lets his eyes wander over the crowd. “But that’s not what Witchers are for, to be treated fairly. We have a job to do. That’s all there is.”

The heat rising in Jaskier’s cheeks now is entirely due to the anger rushing through his veins. “But you-”

“Leave it, Jaskier. You’re not going to change the world by being angry at it.” And with that Geralt turns his attention back to his stew. 

Jaskier glowers at him for a moment. “Watch me,” he says, finally, and the Witcher graces him with the smallest of smiles.

Geralt’s words stay with Jaskier all through dinner, and his following performance. People aren’t exactly paying him much attention, but nobody is throwing rotten food or yelling insults, and when he sings the few raunchier songs he knows, a couple of them even join in, so he chooses to view the evening as a success.

Geralt stays the whole time, and Jaskier sings his bloody heart out, just to show him that he’s not useless, not a hanger-on the Witcher has to put up with, and when a couple of people wave Jaskier over as he sings and press a couple of coins into his hands, Geralt even nods, appreciative. Jaskier smiles in response, so wide it makes his cheeks ache.

After, the innkeeper waves him over. Jaskier is out of breath and hot with the high of his performance, and he grins at the man. “Thank you for letting me do this,” he says, but the man waves him off.

“People like a bit of entertainment with their meal. You did good, and I remembered something. Somebody left this a couple of weeks ago, and nobody wants to buy it, so you might as well have it, if you know what to do with it.”

‘It’ is a lute the man pulls from behind the bar, and Jaskier’s eyes widen. It’s not a particularly fancy instrument, old but well-loved. “Sir, I couldn’t possibly-”

“He’ll take it,” Geralt says from beside him, and Jaskier jumps. The innkeeper’s mouth thins.

“You want it, boy?” His eyes stay on Geralt, as if he expects the Witcher to attack any second, and Jaskier has to beat down the reemerging anger.

“Yes, I’ll- Sir, I can’t thank you enough, I-”

“Save your breath. It’s just catching dust here, and you sing prettily enough but this’ll help you more than it does me.” He holds the lute out for Jaskier to take, and the prince swallows thickly.

“Thank you,” he whispers as he takes the instrument. “Truly, I can’t- Thank you.”

The innkeeper gives him a half-hearted smile. “Boy like you needs to be given a fighting chance.”

The man’s eyes flicker back to Geralt as he says it, and Jaskier’s mood sours. “I suppose so. Thank you,” he repeats, pasting a smile onto his face, and then he follows Geralt back to their room, the lute clutched to his chest.

The lute is horribly out of tune, and once they're back in their room Jaskier busies himself with fixing that. It's a lovely instrument, really, and he wonders why the previous owner left it behind.

"You actually know how to play that," Geralt says, and he sounds very vaguely surprised. He's sitting on the floor and organising a pouch holding many little bottles with what Jaskier assumes are potions or elixirs of some kind. 

He nods. "I always preferred music to politics." He can't help the smile tugging at his lips. "My teacher used to bemoan the fact that I'd have to be king one day instead of becoming a bard."

Geralt hums and continues with his work, and Jaskier with his, and when he's done, he plays a little melody, a soft, melancholic thing that fills the room. The Witcher pauses and looks up at him, and Jaskier closes his eyes and smiles.

Later, Geralt pulls the lute from him and sets it in the corner. "You should sleep. We need to leave early."

"But you were going to find a contract," he protests. They need money, especially with him causing more expenses.

Geralt's jaw works for a moment before he replies. "We need to leave the kingdom. And quickly." He nudges Jaskier’s foot with his own. “Come on.”

Jaskier grumbles for a bit but relents, tugging off his boots and doublet. He hesitates over his trousers for a moment, but then he thinks, fuck it. He’ll have to change into his less flashy clothes tomorrow anyway and Geralt hasn’t so much as looked at him when he was rubbing the ointment into his legs, so he’ll be fine. Speaking of. “Do we have more of the ointment?”

Geralt is bent over his pack once more and fishes out the little pot. He hands it over without looking, and Jaskier gets to work. He’s not nearly as sore as the day before, something he’s going to count as a win. He hands the pot back when he’s done, and Geralt nudges him into the direction of the bed when he yawns widely. “Go on, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”

He will, probably. The fading adrenaline from his performance is weighing him down, and Jaskier crawls into the bed with another yawn. The sheets are soft with age, and he tries to get comfortable, with only mild success. The covers aren’t exactly thick.

There’s a rustle from beside the bed, and he blinks owlishly over the edge to find Geralt spreading his bedroll on the ground. Jaskier frowns. “What are you doing?”

Geralt pauses in his task and looks up at him. “Going to bed.”

“On the floor?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, baffled. “Uh. Why?” He pats the free space on the mattress beside him. It’s not a particularly big bed but they’ll both fit easily. “I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”

Geralt’s jaw tenses for a moment, and he looks away, down at where he’s still got his hands on the bedroll. “I told you, you don’t have to do that.”

The prince gapes at him for a moment before the meaning registers, and again Jaskier flushes bright red. “I’m not propositioning you! I just-” He huffs, embarrassed and just too damn tired for this. “You're paying for the bed, you should sleep in the bed. There’s more than enough room.” And with that, he turns his back on Geralt, trying to will down the heat in his cheeks as he finds a comfortable position.

The Witcher doesn’t move for half a minute, but then there’s the barest hint of a sigh. The bedroll is put away, Geralt pulls off his boots and shirt by the sounds of it, and then the bed dips behind Jaskier. There’s a tiny bit of shuffling until, finally, Geralt has found his own comfortable position, and then the room goes dark when the candle goes out.

Jaskier smiles and sighs as he wriggles a bit deeper under the covers. There’s still space between them, but he can feel Geralt’s body heat radiate out from where he’s laying, and even that helps. “Good night, Geralt.”

Again, silence for a while, before Geralt hums, and if he says anything else, Jaskier isn’t awake to hear it.

When the prince wakes the next day, he’s plastered to Geralt’s side, his face pressed against his ribs and the Witcher’s arm around his shoulders. There’s drool glueing his lips to Geralt’s skin, and it takes his groggy mind at least a minute to realise what he’s doing. When it finally registers that they have, apparently, both sought out each other’s warmth in their sleep, considering Geralt’s arm around him, Jaskier is caught somewhere between mild panic and less mild arousal.

The thing is, if Jaskier weren’t running for his life, if Geralt didn’t so obviously see him as just some kid he has to protect, Jaskier would happily traipse around the countryside with this extremely handsome man. Not that he’s unhappy about it now, but it’s clear Geralt doesn’t see him like that, given the circumstances. And, if he’s honest with himself, maybe it’s just that he is a kid in Geralt’s eyes, that he wouldn’t have any interest in him even if things were different.

He sighs and allows himself another second of soaking up the Witcher’s heat, to enjoy the feeling of the man’s skin under his fingers and cheek. He’s really… quite… impressive , Jaskier can’t help but think, but then he mentally shakes himself and pulls away.

Or at least tries to, because Geralt’s arm around his shoulders tenses and pulls him right back against his side, and then the man buries his face in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier has a second of intense befuddlement, mortification, and sudden, blinding arousal at being manhandled like this, but after that second Geralt’s whole body goes tense. His face is still pressed into Jaskier’s hair, and the prince can hear and feel the way he… scents him , hot puffs of breath against Jaskier’s scalp. It makes goosebumps prickle all over his skin and his heart beat faster, and his fingers twitch where his hand curls against Geralt’s side.

When Geralt pulls away, it’s glacially slow, and Jaskier holds his breath. The Witcher sits up, shoulders hunched, and Jaskier can see the way his hands curl around the edge of the mattress. Jaskier pushes himself up to sitting as well, and his hand hovers in the air between them. “Geralt?”

“It won’t happen again,” the Witcher says quietly, and Jaskier has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.

“What?”

“I won’t... touch you. Again.”

Jaskier tries to ignore the rather surprisingly intense disappointment that courses through him at that. “Oh. I, uh. I didn’t mind.” At that Geralt’s shoulders curl forward even more, and Jaskier bites his lip.

“You don’t have to lie to me to spare my feelings , Jaskier.”

What in the bloody fuck. “I- What? I’m not lying, why would I lie? I mean it, I didn’t mind. It was…” He bites his lip again, cheeks growing warm once more. “It was nice.”

Geralt scoffs and finally sits up straight, but he doesn’t turn to look at him. “Nice. Right.” He pushes himself to his feet and Jaskier gets a fraction of a second to admire that very nice bum before his view is obstructed by the shirt Geralt is pulling on. “We need to get going.”

They barely exchange a word until they stop for lunch. Geralt is obviously angry about… something , and Jaskier is just too fucking confused. It’s clear that Geralt was uncomfortable with being caught essentially cuddling him in his sleep, but Jaskier really doesn’t see why this is such a big deal. He has made it very clear that he’s not scared of Geralt and that he doesn’t mind being close to him. The Witcher has been nothing but respectful, and Jaskier isn’t scared of him or thinks he’ll try and take advantage. Besides, it was… pleasant, to feel another body against his like that. It helps that Geralt is handsome and sturdy, but that’s not all there is to it.

The last time he got to just be close to someone like that was before his father died, when he would lie with his head in his mother’s lap as they sat in the library, each engrossed in their own book, and he misses it. He misses being held like that, warm and safe. That he also thinks about… less innocent things now, in the aftermath of his body’s reaction to Geralt’s proximity, is secondary.

By noon, Geralt leads them off the road they’re on, to a small stream. He doesn’t help Jaskier down, the way he did in Rinde, and Jaskier tries not to mind. He fails, unfortunately. He does mind.

They settle on the brittle grass as Roach grazes for a while, and Geralt hands him some bread and half an apple, and Jaskier watches him as he chews, really looks at him. The white hair is obvious, the thing that marks him as “other” at first glance. He doesn’t look much older than his mid thirties, but the hair throws one off. The eyes come next, so obvious in their strangeness. He’s heard Witcher eyes described as simply yellow, but Geralt’s aren’t yellow - they’re gold, and amber, and Jaskier could stare at them all day. There’s a scar on the bridge of Geralt’s long nose, and his cheeks are scruffy with the beginnings of a beard, just as white as the hair on his head. His upper lip is thin, the bottom one plusher, and Jaskier wonders what they’d feel like pressed against his own. He blushes immediately, but he can’t stop looking . There are more scars on Geralt’s face, one curving around his jaw, one high on his cheekbone, and Jaskier wonders what caused them.

He’s pulled out of his reverie when Geralt says, without looking up from his own meal, “You’re staring.”

Jaskier’s blush deepens at being caught like that. He has no idea how Geralt could even see him looking, with his eyes trained on his food. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Now Geralt looks up. His gaze is hard, and distant in a way he hasn’t been all this time. Jaskier swallows thickly. “You can stare. I’m used to it.” He sounds so bitter when he says it, so resigned, and Jaskier squares his jaw.

He puts down the rest of his bread and reaches over. Geralt stiffens, and Jaskier is pretty sure his hand twitches to grab a weapon again, but he doesn’t let that dissuade him. He places his hand on Geralt’s, as gently as he can, and Geralt goes very still. “No, I apologise. It’s rude to ogle you like… like you’re some sort of freak.”

Geralt chuckles mirthlessly. He doesn’t pull his hand away. “I am a freak, Jaskier.”

“Why?”

The WItcher looks… honestly baffled by the question. Then he gestures at his face with his free hand, cocking an eyebrow like that explains everything. Jaskier shrugs and shuffles a little closer.

“So you look different than me. That doesn’t make you a freak.”

“I can drink potions that would kill you within seconds.”

“Means you’re resilient.”

Geralt grimaces. He still hasn’t pulled his hand out from under Jaskier’s. “I have wrestled werewolves and can create fire from my fingertips.”

“Strong and magically adept.”

The Witcher growls at that, his lip curling back from his teeth, and Jaskier’s breath catches. “What are you doing?” the Witcher hisses.

Jaskier shrugs. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Being a reckless little shit who has no idea how the real world works. I could kill you where you sit before you had a chance to blink. I could force you to do any number of things with the magic I can do, and you’d never know. I could just fucking leave you here, or hand you over to Stregobor myself!”

“I know all of that, but… I also know you won’t.”

“How? How do you think you know that?”

Jaskier smiles. “Because it’s been four days, and all you’ve done is take care of me.” Geralt stares at him, clearly baffled, before his face goes completely blank and he pulls away, getting to his feet.

“We should keep moving.”

“You’re right about me, you know?” Jaskier looks up from his spot in the grass, and Geralt looks down to meet his eyes. “I don’t know how the world works out here, but I know you’re not a freak, or a monster or whatever you’d have me believe. You’re kind, and I’m not scared of you, and I didn’t mind how we woke up today.”

Geralt doesn’t look away for a long moment, and when he does it’s with a sigh. “Maybe you should think about why that is.”

They get back on the road, the silence once again between them like a physical barrier, and when they make camp that evening, Geralt sets his bedroll down on the other side of the fire, far away from Jaskier’s. Jaskier tries not to mind that his new bedroll smells vaguely of moth balls and not like the Witcher.

The next day passes in much the same fashion: they get up early, pack up their things and get back on the road. Jaskier is at least happy to notice that he’s not nearly as sore any more, getting more used to riding. He still feels bad about depriving the Witcher of his mount, about slowing him down. Geralt doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, but then again it’s hard to tell with the Witcher. They barely talk during the day and Jaskier tries not to mind. They weren’t exactly chatting avidly before this strange gulf opened up between them.

That evening, he pulls out his lute and, after tuning it for far longer than he really needs to, just to give himself something to do, he starts to play. Geralt is off in the dark, hunting, and Jaskier tries to keep it quiet, to not scare off the wildlife.

Can you dance the shaking of the sheets

The dance that everyone must do?

Hear the drummer strike a noble beat

The harp ring sweet and true

Gather rosebuds while you may

For when you hear the piper play

You may to heaven dance away

You may to heaven dance away

You may fill your pockets up with gold

And dress all in rich array

Wise or foolish, meek or bold

There's only a penny left to pay

The poorest man is crowned complete

The day he finds his winding sheet

For death is the man that all must meet

Yes, death is the man that all must meet

It’s not until the last notes fade in the evening silence that he becomes aware of eyes watching him, and when he looks up he finds Geralt at the edge of the clearing they have made their camp in. His eyes reflect the firelight in that strange, predatory way, and a shiver runs down Jaskier’s back. He’s only mildly surprised to find that it’s not a shiver born of fear.

Geralt walks into the clearing after what feels like a very long time, two pheasants dangling from his hand, and he sits by the fire to pluck and prepare them. When Jaskier offers to help, he’s rebuffed, like usual, and he huffs and turns back to his lute. He lets his fingers pluck aimlessly, just a random melody, and after a while Geralt says, “You could actually make it.”

Jaskier frowns, silencing the lute with a palm pressed to the strings. “Make what?”

“As a bard.” Geralt isn’t looking up, intent on his work, and Jaskier purses his lips.

“I know. I had a very good teacher.” He looks up at the sky, sighing softly. “I didn’t understand what being a prince actually means for… a long time. I just thought, well, we’re rich and people have to do what- what father said, but I didn’t know why.” He chuckles sadly. “I still don’t quite know why my mother encouraged my musical ambitions. I’m their only child, so it’s not like they had an heir better suited to ruling waiting in the wings.”

Again, Geralt is silent for a long time before he answers. “Maybe they wanted you to know something different from ruling. Something more…” He grimaces as he searches for a word, and Jaskier’s heart thumps heavily against his ribs with what he can only call fondness. “Something common,” the Witcher finally settles on, and Jaskier smiles and looks down at his lute.

“Maybe. Priscilla, my teacher, wasn’t noble. She was just… just some bard they found in Oxenfurt. I couldn’t have wished for a better teacher.” When he looks back at Geralt, there’s the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Jaskier grows warm all over.

They don’t talk much while they wait for the pheasants to cook. Instead Jaskier plays some more, both lively and more quiet pieces, and it’s clear that Geralt is listening intently, even as he keeps his eyes on the birds. After a while, he asks if Jaskier knows an old Skelliger ballad, which he does, and Jaskier chooses to believe that there’s something like delight in Geralt’s eyes.

When the pheasants are done, the silence doesn’t feel quite as oppressive any more, and by the time Jaskier crawls into his bedroll, he almost feels back to normal. He lies on his back, looking up at the stars again. Geralt is across the fire once more, but it feels less like intentional distance between them.

“It’s my name day in two days,” Jaskier says into the silence after a while, and Geralt shifts on his own bedroll. When Jaskier looks over he finds the Witcher watching him, eyes unreadable. “I’d be up to my neck in preparations for being crowned by now,” he murmurs, and Geralt’s mouth twitches.

“Sounds exhausting.”

Jaskier hums and looks up at the sky again, smiling. “Yeah.” He closes his eyes and sighs, and says, “I much prefer this.”

If Geralt has a response to that, he doesn’t voice it, and Jaskier falls asleep listening to the sounds of the forest, feeling safe and content once more.

Things continue much like this the next day, the horrible tension between them all but gone. It feels like a weight off Jaskier’s shoulders.

“So this place you know,” he asks as they’re crossing a bridge over one of the many smaller streams feeding into the Pontar, “where is it exactly? And why do you think we’ll be safe there?”

Geralt doesn’t answer for a long moment, silent for so long Jasker almost suspects that he won’t get an answer at all, but finally the Witcher says, “It’s called Kaer Morhen. It’s… the seat of my guild.”

“Your guild?”

“Hm. Wolf Witchers.” He plucks the medallion he always wears around his neck out of the collar of his armour and holds it up for Jaskier to see. It’s a snarling wolf, made of silver. “There’s not many of us left, but those that are… We return to Kaer Morhen to rest. It’s hidden in the mountains, difficult to find and harder to attack. Stregobor won’t suspect you’re there.”

Jaskier chews on his lip for a moment. A mountain fortress full of Witchers does sound rather safe. “Won’t the others… mind that I’m there?”

Geralt looks up at him from the corner of his eye. “No, I don’t think they will,” he says quietly, and Jaskier squares his shoulders.

“Aren’t you worried about Valdo? He saw you, he knows what you look like.”

“He saw a Witcher,” Geralt says dismissively. “He also looked pretty concussed, sticking out of that hedge. I’d be surprised if he remembers much.” There’s amusement lacing the man’s voice, and Jaskier’s heart skips. He has seen many of Geralt’s moods in the last couple of days, but this wry humour may just be his favourite. Particularly because it comes at Valdo’s expense in this case.

He hums and looks back at the road ahead of them. “I just hope you’re right. I would hate to cause you even more trouble.”

Jaskier nearly jumps out of his skin when something touches his calf, making Roach shift in annoyance. It’s Geralt’s hand, curled gently around the leather of his boot. He’s still looking straight ahead when he says, “You’re… not as much trouble as I thought you’d be.” He squeezes Jaskier’s calf, just once, and then he lets go again and keeps walking, and Jaskier flushes all the way down to his chest.

They find a hayloft in a small town at the fork in the road where it splits to go east to Ban Glean, and north-east to Ard Carraigh, through the Kestrel Mountains. That’s where they’re heading, Geralt tells him. Kaer Morhen sits deep in the Blue Mountains, a harrowing four day trek steadily up. Jaskier tries not to let his trepidation show when the Witcher describes the journey.

“We’ll have to get some warmer clothes for you. We’ve been lucky with the weather, the snow is late this year.” He frowned, obviously concerned. “But first we need to get out of Redania.”

The farmer who owns the hayloft lets them stay for free, chuckling when he says that maybe having a Witcher in his barn will be more effective at scaring the rats away than the cats. Geralt doesn’t comment but Jaskier can’t stop himself from scowling at the man. The hayloft is dry and a bit dusty, but once they have spread out their bedrolls it’s actually quite cozy. Jaskier is… quite glad that there’s no fire to separate them tonight.

The farmer’s wife brings them bowls of stew as Geralt is brushing down Roach, and Jaskier thanks her profusely. “You really didn’t have to,” he says, wincing only a little as he realises he’s starting to sound like Geralt, a bit.

“Ah, it’s no matter, lad, we’re a big family, there’s always something to go around.” Geralt nods at her in thanks, and Jaskier notices he’s not looking her in the eyes, keeping his head down. It rankles him, mightily, that the Witcher feels he has to tread so carefully around this woman. She, in turn, watches him curiously for a moment before she turns back to Jaskier. Her smile barely wavers. “You have everything you need, then? It’ll get cold tonight, I might have an extra blanket somewhere.”

“We’ll be fine, but thank you,” Geralt says softly, and she looks back over at him with a mild frown.

They settle on hay bales to eat, the stew simple but filling, and Jaskier manages to stay silent about what happened all the way through Geralt finishing his bowl. “Why didn’t you look at her?” he asks, and Geralt sighs.

“Because people scare easily.” He looks up at Jaskier, and his pupils are wide in the low light of the barn. “They can almost pretend that I’m human as long as I don’t remind them that I’m not.”

Jaskier huffs. “Well, that’s rubbish. You provide these people with a valuable service! They should be grateful-”

“Jaskier, leave it.” Geralt looks… incredibly tired, all of a sudden, and Jaskier purses his lips.

“Sorry. It’s just… It’s not fair.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Because it’s true! Chances are this whole damn village would have been squashed by a, a, a dragon! Or, I don’t know, trolls or something! If it weren’t for Witchers, the people of the continent would’ve been mincemeat a long, long time ago!”

Geralt’s lips twitch for a fraction of a second before he smooths his face again. “Witchers don’t hunt dragons. They’re sentient creatures and very rare.”

Jaskier gapes at the Witcher. “That’s what you took away from that?!”

Now Geralt does smile, properly, even if it’s a tiny thing of a smile. “Maybe.”

“You-! I honestly don’t know why I like you,” he huffs, and Geralt stills where he was reaching down to pick up Jaskier’s bowl. His pupils are even bigger now than before, and when he looks at Jaskier, his lips part. Jaskier’s gaze dips down for a second. “What?”

Geralt seems to catch himself in whatever it is he’s been doing. He picks up their bowls and straightens. “Nothing. Get your arse up there and try not to break your neck doing it.” With that he turns around and leaves, and Jaskier is left to gape at his form disappearing into the darkness.

“What the fuck was that?” he murmurs.

He’s already snuggled into his bedroll by the time Geralt returns, the ladder creaking ominously under his weight. It’s dark, only the pale moonlight shining in through the big window at the front of the barn, and Geralt’s hair shines like a beacon in its light. He’s very quiet once up the ladder, and he peels off his armour in silence, stacking it beside his bedroll. Once he’s done, he slides into his own bedroll, and Jaskier realises they haven’t been this close since Rinde.

“What?” Geralt looks at him oddly defensively, and Jaskier thinks about what he wants to say.

Truth is, he really does like the Witcher, regardless of the debt he owes him for saving him. Geralt is silent and a bit moody, but he’s also kind and gentle when he’s afforded the opportunity, and funny in a very, very understated way. Jaskier would, and does, entrust his life to this man.

“Nothing,” he says finally and snuggles deeper into his bedroll. He closes his eyes and settles in, and lets the soft sounds of the animals below them and Geralt’s quiet breathing lull him to sleep.

Later, he can’t be sure if Geralt’s whispered, “I like you, too,” was real or already part of his dream.

They stop off in the little village the next day before continuing their journey, and Geralt disappears for a good fifteen minutes as Jaskier sets up shop in the tiny village square to play for a bit. He stands at the back of the crowd when he returns, watching Jaskier play and sing, and as always Jaskier feels that gaze almost like a physical touch. It’s exhilarating.

He earns a bit of coin, not much, just some coppers, but it’s a small village and few people are listening, so he won’t complain. He collects his money and packs up his lute, and by the time he’s done, Geralt has appeared by his side, Roach nosing at the bit of grass by Jaskier’s feet. He grins up at the Witcher and shows off his earnings. Geralt hums in acknowledgment.

“Where’d you run off to, then?” Jaskier shoves the coins into the little leather pouch Geralt had given him in Rinde, and they set off down the road. 

Geralt hums again, and then he holds out something wrapped in cloth. “It’s… for your name day.”

Jaskier stops in the middle of the road, staring at Geralt in disbelief. “You- You got me something for my name day?”

The Witcher looks away, appearing uncomfortable. “It’s not much.”

Jaskier’s hands tremble when he reaches out to accept the little bundle. It’s warm, and soft, and he holds his breath as he unwraps it. It’s a hand pie, warm and oozing fruit juice, and Jaskier’s eyes widen. He has seen what food costs, has seen what sweets cost. “Geralt, I- This is too much, we- You don’t have the money for this.”

Geralt shrugs one shoulder and starts walking again, and Jaskier knows him well enough by now to recognise that line of tension in his shoulders. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake . Jaskier hurries after him, even as his mouth waters from the scent of baked apples, and he grabs Geralt by the wrist to get him to stop. He’s under no illusions that he could stop the man if he didn’t want to be stopped, but Geralt does, even if he doesn’t look at him. “That’s not what I meant. I- Thank you, it’s- It’s a very thoughtful gift.” Geralt hums noncommittally, and Jaskier nudges him with his elbow. “One could even say sweet.” That earns him an eye roll, and he grins. “Here,” and he carefully breaks the pie in two, “we’ll share.”

Geralt makes a noise of protest but Jaskier ignores it and shoves one half of the pie into his hand. The Witcher scowls. “It was supposed to be for you.” He looks… well, pretty ridiculous, standing there in the middle of the road, holding half a hand pie and glaring down at it, and Jaskier’s heart flutters in his chest.

“You gifted it to me, so it’s mine to do with as I please, and what would please me would be to share it with a friend.” He tries to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice, but there’s that hint of a smile on Geralt’s lips again, and he takes that as his due.

The pie is wonderful, just the right amount of tartness and sugar, the crust flaky when he bites into it, and the noise he makes might be considered indecent in certain circles. Geralt eats his half in silence, and Jaskier is tempted to say he savours it. He chooses not to comment on it, certain that the Witcher only very rarely allows himself such frivolities.

They continue down the road in companionable silence, until Geralt nudges him gently with his elbow. “Do I have to call you your majesty now?” That tiny smile is back yet again, and Jaskier laughs.

“If you do, I might have to stab you.”

Geralt just shrugs. “You can try.”

Their journey through the Kestrel Mountains is uneventful. Geralt leads them past guards set up at the border, deftly avoiding the Redanian patrols.

“Because of the bounty,” Jaskier says quietly, and Geralt nods. It’s a not-so-gentle reminder of what transpired just a week ago, and Jaskier presses his lips together and does his best to follow Geralt’s direction.

Once they’re past the border, Geralt relaxes visibly, and he starts taking contracts again. Jaskier is absolutely not allowed to accompany him, but it’s fascinating to watch him return to whoever hired him, more often than not bloody or sticky with mud and… other things, presenting his employer with proof of a finished job. Jaskier is not ashamed to admit that he threw up the first time he saw a severed drowner head. Nasty things, those.

Contracts mean money, but Jaskier realises quickly that people regularly try to pay Geralt less than they had agreed to. The third time it happens, he can barely contain his anger, glaring at the alderman. Geralt, who is still talking to the man about other contracts in the area, reaches back and wraps his free hand around Jaskier’s wrist, squeezing gently, and Jaskier is so caught off guard that he forgets to breathe for a second. His skin prickles where Geralt touched him even after he has let go, and he finds himself stroking his thumb over the inside of his wrist where Geralt’s fingers and thumb met.

“Why do you let people get away with this?” he asks as they ride out of the village, scowling at the back of Geralt’s head. “He said he’d pay you double what he gave you!”

“I’ll probably come back here at some point, as will other Witchers. It wouldn’t do to anger the locals.”

“So instead you let them rip you off.”

Geralt sighs. “It’s not like I like doing it, Jaskier, but I don’t have a choice either way.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, he just keeps scowling, now at the road. The atmosphere is a little tense the rest of the day, but by the time they bed down for the night, Jaskier has had time to think about what Geralt said. The Witcher is right, in a sense. The only choice he and his brethren have is to either let themselves be cheated out of pay, or to be the villains people paint them as.

The contracts keep coming hard and fast as they travel deeper into Kaedwen, and by the time they reach Ard Carraigh, Geralt’s purse is fat enough to buy warm clothes for Jaskier, and just in time. Even with the horse blanket Geralt has taken to layering on top of Jaskier’s bedroll, he’s freezing during the nights. He’s tempted to bring up the obvious solution, which would be for Geralt to let him sleep beside the Witcher given that the man is almost preternaturally warm, but unless they’re sleeping in someone’s barn, Geralt puts the fire between them. There hasn’t been another inn since Rinde, almost three weeks ago.

The clothes Geralt buys for him are simple but sturdy, lined with very nice furs, and Jaskier can’t stop stroking the inside of his new cloak. Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’ll pull out all the hairs if you keep that up.”

Jaskier huffs and pulls his hand away. “Well, then you’ll just have to keep me warm, I suppose.”

Geralt grunts something unintelligible, but Jaskier is pretty sure it was, “You wish.”

Yes , he thinks, I do wish .

The last weeks have only served to drive home one fact in Jaskier’s mind, and that is that Geralt of Rivia is a good man, and it makes something very, very soft bloom in Jaskier’s chest. It’s nothing big that shows him just what kind of a man Geralt is. On the contrary, it’s the small things. The way his mouth will turn down when an alderman tells him about the victims the monster he’s to get rid of has left behind. The way he will oh so softly, so gently, smile at children when they gather their courage and ask if they can pet Roach. It’s the way he notices Geralt’s hands curling into fists when they pass by a house one evening, isolated by the side of what is barely more than a game trail, and they can hear a woman screaming for help from inside the house. The Witcher stops, listens, and soon the screaming dies down and there are just muffled sobs and what Jaskier thinks are insincere apologies, and Geralt continues walking. Jaskier follows with a frown.

“He was beating her,” he says quietly, and Geralt hums. “You could’ve stopped him.”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away, but when he does there is a weariness in his voice that makes Jaskier want to hold him close and offer whatever comfort he can give. “I used to. Back when I was younger.” His mouth turns down sharply. “Learned my lesson. People will scream for help, but they don’t want it from a Witcher.”

It pains him, clearly, and Jaskier reaches out before he can think better of it. His fingers look small and vulnerable when he wraps them around Geralt’s wrist. “You care,” he says quietly, “where many people don’t. That’s what matters.”

Geralt snorts. “Won’t make her bruises go away quicker.”

He doesn’t shake off Jaskier’s hand, and the prince tries not to read too much into that.

There’s a whole lot of nothing between Ard Carraigh and the mountains, just small hamlets that have only minor contracts to offer, if any, but it doesn’t matter much. They have provisions, and Jaskier often makes money by playing where Geralt wouldn’t earn anything for lack of Witchering that needs to be done, so it all works out more than fine. They camp most nights, but the closer they get to the mountains the friendlier the people become, obviously used to Witchers, and they are often offered a place in a barn or, at times, a root cellar, and Jaskier delights in being able to fall asleep with Geralt’s heat so close.

The first time he wakes to find himself, once more, pressed against Geralt, they’re in a barn in a tiny little settlement, nothing more than two families with a whole bunch of sheep. They made their beds in one of the corrals, on slightly musty hay, and Jaskier had fallen asleep to the quiet shuffling of the sheep and Geralt’s inhumanly slow breathing. That is also what he wakes up to. The only difference is that now Geralt is moulded to his back, his warm breath tickling Jaskier’s nape. One of his arms is thrown over Jaskier’s waist, holding him close.

One part of Jaskier thinks he should move away and pretend this never happened. It was obvious last time how uncomfortable Geralt was with this much contact, and then it hadn’t even been him who could be blamed for it, so to speak. Now it’s very clearly Geralt who wrapped that arm around Jaskier, who is holding him close, and Jaskier panics a little as he thinks about how the Witcher might react once he wakes up.

The rest of him, however, decides to bask in it. Geralt is broader than him, allowing him to almost curl around him even when they’re both on their sides, and he’s so wonderfully warm. Jaskier doesn’t even want to think about having to extract himself from that wonderful warmth at any point in the future. And so he doesn’t do anything except maybe snuggle a little more firmly into Geralt’s embrace, sighing softly as he allows himself to doze a bit longer.

It doesn’t take that much longer for Geralt to wake up, but Jaskier isn’t really aware enough to parse what exactly is happening. Geralt shifts behind him, and that arm tightens around Jaskier’s waist as the Witcher leans closer, his nose brushing against the back of Jaskier’s neck, and it’s that that wakes him. Goosebumps break out all over him, and he whines softly and presses back against Geralt. The Witcher, in turn, goes very still, and then he pulls away slowly, as if he could slither out of Jaskier’s grasp if he’s just quiet and slow enough.

Not today , Jaskier thinks groggily, and so he grabs Geralt’s arm before the man can pull it away from his waist. “‘M cold,” he whines, and it’s not even a lie. He’ll be cold when Geralt moves away, so to prevent that, keeping the Witcher close is the reasonable thing to do.

Behind him, Geralt makes a noise Jaskier can’t interpret at all, but at least he stops trying to flee. He doesn’t move back into the spot he inched away from, meaning Jaskier has to shuffle backwards to press his back against Geralt’s chest again, and the Witcher makes that same noise again.

He doesn’t shove him away, or tell him to stop or get lost, though, so Jaskier is going to count this as a win.

They stay like that a little longer, until Jaskier’s bladder starts to protest, and he wriggles out from under Geralt’s arm with a groan. Geralt looks up at him with what Jaskier has learned to recognise as his guarded expression, and he smiles at him. “Good morning.”

Geralt doesn’t reply immediately. He just lies there, blinking up at Jaskier with that guarded look in his eyes. Finally he rumbles a, “Morning,” and Jaskier smiles wider.

They don’t talk about it, but it keeps happening. Whenever they can get a roof over their heads, Jaskier knows for a fact that he’ll wake up in Geralt’s arms, and once the nights grow so cold he’s shivering even fully dressed inside his bedroll, with the horse blanket and his fur cloak piled on top, Geralt changes their sleeping arrangements in camp as well. Jaskier is positioned between the fire and Geralt, their bedrolls overlapping so no cold can steal into their cocoon from below, and Geralt doesn’t say anything the first time Jaskier wriggles into the circle of his arms before he’s even closed his eyes.

It’s practical, the Witcher probably tells himself. Can’t have the fragile human freeze to death when the whole point of this is to get him to safety. Jaskier doesn’t argue the fact. He probably would freeze without Geralt, unused to roughing it as he is, but most of all he just enjoys being close to the man.

He ponders the why of that a lot as they start the climb up the mountain. It’s been over a month now, and they have spent nearly every waking moment together, except for Geralt’s hunts. He expected things to get more tense between them, that they’d start to annoy each other so much they’d end up yelling, but there has been surprisingly little of that. Sure, sometimes Geralt will grunt at him in a way that Jaskier has learned to interpret as, “I need peace and quiet,” and then the Witcher disappears into the trees for a while, but overall it’s been… Well, it’s been really nice.

The lower part of the trail up to Kaer Morhen is fairly easy, and Jaskier needles a bit to get Geralt to tell him about the other Witchers. How many are there, what are they like, is anybody going to stab him, that sort of thing. Finally, after two days of that, Geralt sighs.

“There’s four of us who return regularly. Don’t know how many others there still are. After the sacking, many cut ties with this place. They’re still Witchers, still Wolves, but…” He’d looked at the trees surrounding the trail, seeming far away. “Guess they got out while they still could.”

Geralt had told him about the sacking, about the attack that left the School of the Wolf all but destroyed. Jaskier had cried silent tears, mostly for the children, innocents in all of it. If he held onto Geralt particularly tightly that night, neither of them mentioned it.

Now, Geralt tells him about his brothers, about Eskel and Lambert, and their teacher Vesemir. There’s others, a Griffin and a Cat, and a couple of sorceresses. Jaskier chews on his lip until he tastes blood, at which point Geralt’s hand appears in his vision, and the Witcher taps him on the lip with one gloved finger.

“Stop,” he says quietly, and the flush in Jaskier’s cheeks is only partially due to the cold.

The trek up the trail - which is called The Killer for very obvious reasons, as Jaskier finds out - takes nearly another week. The weather changes when they’re halfway up, thick snow coming down on them as they huddle in whatever shelter there is. Geralt leads him to a small cave, really just an overhang, but it gets them out of the winds, and Jaskier tries to breathe a sigh of relief. He can’t, unfortunately, not with the way his teeth chatter, and Geralt sits as far back in the cave as he can, back against the wall, and pulls him into his lap, Jaskier’s thick cloak big enough to cover them both like a blanket.

It helps, quickly. Geralt is a furnace, and Jaskier’s teeth stop chattering, his violent shivers dying down somewhat.

Geralt hums. His hand rests on Jaskier’s hip, thumb moving back and forth, and Jaskier shivers for a different reason entirely. “Better? You’re still shivering.”

“I’ll be fine.” Nevertheless, he snuggles closer, pushing his face under Geralt’s jaw, until all he can smell is his skin and the leather of his armour. “How much longer, do you think?”

Geralt’s arm tightens around him, and when he swallows it jostles Jaskier the smallest bit. “Two more days, maybe three. Depends on how this storm develops.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to hum, and he winds his own arm around Geralt’s chest, holding on and bringing them closer together. “As long as I’m here with you, I don’t mind,” he murmurs softly. He’s very tired, both from the cold and the climb, and he sighs deeply.

Geralt’s warm breath fans over his face, and for a second Jaskier is almost certain that the Witcher’s lips brush against his forehead. “Rest,” he says, “we’re not going anywhere right now anyway.”

Jaskier sighs again, and lets sleep pull him down. He’s warm, and in his Witcher’s arms, safe and cared for. Here, nothing can touch him.

The storm clears by morning, and they continue their journey. It’s difficult, the trail having disappeared under a thick layer of snow, but there’s nothing for it. They can’t turn back, so onward they go. Geralt guides him by the hand in some places, and Jaskier finds himself increasingly reluctant to let go of that hand once they have passed the difficult spot.

It’s a bit of a problem, he finds.

They have abandoned all pretense of keeping any sort of distance between them, and Jaskier spends every night and every rest they take either wrapped in Geralt’s arms or perched on his lap, and it’s driving him a little bit insane. He… really wants to kiss Geralt, he realises the day after the storm, when they’re curled around each other in their bedrolls for the night. Geralt is so close, and despite the stale scent of sweat and leather and sword oil, Jaskier wants nothing more than to lean in and kiss him.

He doesn’t notice that he’s staring until Geralt taps his lower lip with a finger again. “You’re doing it again.”

He is, Jaskier realises with a jolt, so lost in thought that the nervous habit had just snuck up on him again. He sighs and prods at his lip with his tongue to check for bleeding, licks over the sore spot, and he’s about to ask Geralt if he has anything for chapped lips when he becomes aware of the way the Witcher is watching him. Geralt’s gaze is glued to Jaskier’s mouth, to his lips, to his tongue , and heat spreads in his stomach, sudden and violent.

In the second it takes Jaskier to decide to lean forward, to take that leap and to press his lips to Geralt’s, the Witcher turns his gaze away. “Turn around,” he says hoarsely, “there’s too much air coming into the bedrolls like this.”

Jaskier does as he’s bid, even as his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He really was about to kiss Geralt! Gods, he’s a fool, he thinks, but then Geralt’s arm winds around him and the Witcher pulls him back against his chest, until you couldn’t fit a sheet of paper between them, and Jaskier exhales shakily.

“Sleep,” Geralt murmurs, his breath hot against Jaskier’s nape, “tomorrow is going to be difficult.”

The prince doesn’t care. He’d climb this damn mountain over and over, if only it would get him more of this.

The planned four day trek turns into six days, but finally Kaer Morhen comes into view. The Witchers' keep sits on its own peak, it seems, overlooking the lands around it, and Jaskier stares as they approach.

“I know it’s… not much,” Geralt murmurs, but Jaskier waves his protests away.

“It’s beautiful.” He ignores the Witcher’s huff of amusement. He has a poet’s heart after all, and finding beauty in broken things is almost his job.

The gate is closed as they approach, and when Geralt moves to open it, someone whistles from above them. Geralt’s shoulders slump, and Jaskier can barely believe his eyes when the man sighs heavily. “Hello, Lambert.”

Jaskier looks up. Above them, a man is leaning over the battlements, head poking out between the embrasures. He’s grinning, and he winks at Jaskier when their eyes meet. “Hey, pretty boy, who’s the…” He frowns for half a second, then continues. “The other pretty boy?”

Geralt sighs again, and Jaskier flushes. “Are you going to open the fucking gate or are we supposed to freeze our balls off down here?”

Lambert grins wider. “Are you going to answer my question?” His tone is still jovial, but Jaskier can hear the tension, the suspicion. After what Geralt has told him, it’s to be expected.

“I’m Jaskier,” he says. “I’m a bard.”

“And my guest, and freezing, so open the fucking gate.” Geralt tilts his head back and glares at the other Witcher, and Jaskier decides that he never wants to be on the receiving end of that glare.

Lambert laughs. “Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on.” With that he disappears behind the battlements, and a minute later the gate creaks open. Jaskier follows Geralt inside, momentarily blind in the darkness of the gate house, and he grabs the Witcher’s cloak to help guide him. He only jumps a little when Geralt reaches back and takes his hand instead.

Out in the courtyard, Lambert is waiting for them, arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s shorter than Geralt, leaner too, with dark hair and sharp eyes that focus with frightening precision on their still clasped hands. Jaskier’s fingers twitch, and Geralt squeezes them once before he lets go. Lambert grins, showing off his very sharp teeth.

“So, Jaskier the bard, what brings you here this time of the year?” He waves a hand at the snow-covered courtyard. “Most luxurious ruin you’ll find this side of the Pontar.”

Geralt sighs once more. He’s already busy pulling down their things, handing the lute case to Jaskier. “Stop trying to scare him. I’ll explain later.”

Lambert huffs a laugh. Then he comes closer, and Jaskier tries to calm his rabbiting heart as the man throws an arm around his shoulder. “Why would I try to scare him? I’m just curious, that’s all.” He turns his head to look at Jaskier, and it takes more effort than it should to stay still. “You here to kill us, lad?”

The bluntness catches Jaskier off guard, but he recovers quickly. He should have expected it, really. Geralt, when he speaks, also tends towards bluntness, neither of them in the business of beating around the bush. And so he shakes his head, deciding not to let the man intimidate him. “No. I’m here because someone wanted to kill me, and Geralt saved my life.”

Lambert’s eyebrows rise at that, but before he can comment, another voice asks, “You picking up strays now, Wolf?”

Jaskier turns as much as he can with Lambert’s arm still around his shoulders, and his heart skips. The new voice belongs to another Witcher, one who looks like he could snap Jaskier in half without even a hitch in his breathing. He’s a little taller than Geralt, with dark hair and broad shoulders. The fur cloak he’s wearing makes him look a little like a bear, Jaskier thinks. The most striking thing about the man are his scars, though. The entire right side of his face has been torn up by… something , one scar pulling at his upper lip to expose the tip of a very sharp, very pointy eyetooth. He looks like a man who could easily hand out a great deal of violence, but Geralt smiles - honestly smiles , wide and showing his teeth and everything! - and turns to embrace the newcomer. 

Lambert scoffs. “Where’s my hug, arsehole?” Instead of answering, Geralt makes a rude gesture in Lambert’s direction, and Jaskier can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up. Lambert grins and squeezes him a little, giving him a wink Jaskier would be hard-pressed to call anything other than conspiratorial. “Guess I’ll have to be content with the bard, then.”

Immediately, Geralt releases the other Witcher and makes his way over to where Jaskier and Lambert stand. He shoves Lambert, a snarl on his lips, and Jaskier finds himself pulled out of the way as Lambert tackles Geralt, knocking him off his feet and throwing both of them into a pile of snow with a whoop of delight. Jaskier stands there and stares at them, scuffling like children.

Beside him, the tall Witcher chuckles. “They do this every year,” he explains, and Jaskier makes a noise of acknowledgement as he watches the brawl. “I’m Eskel,” the Witcher says after a moment. “I’d apologise for these idiots, but, well. Not my job.”

“I’m Jaskier.” He offers a hand, and after a moment where he feels like he is being thoroughly assessed, Eskel clasps his forearm. His hands are even broader than Geralt’s and Jaskier feels absolutely dwarfed next to him.

“A pleasure meeting you.” He throws another look at the two Witchers still rolling around in the snow. Jaskier can barely contain his delight at seeing Geralt play like this, because it’s clear that that is what is happening. Eskel sighs as he releases his arm. “Come on, let’s get you out of the cold. These children are going to be at it a while, I think.”

Geralt pauses long enough in shoving Lambert face first into a snow drift to growl, “You’re only four months older than me,” and Jaskier bursts into laughter.

Eskel grabs Geralt’s saddlebags and leads Jaskier inside, dropping the bags by the door and taking Jaskier’s thick cloak. “Dinner hall’s through here,” he explains as he leads Jaskier into a big room.

The dining hall is dimly lit, with a big fireplace on one side as the main source of light. Everything is old, Jaskier thinks, both the building and the furnishings, the table and benches showing their age. It’s clear that much is missing from the room, the space around the solitary table screaming out for more to fill it. He can almost imagine it, the hall ringing with the murmur of many conversations, with the high voices of the many children who once lived here. Now, the room is silent except for the crackling of the fire, and only one man sits at the table.

His complexion is darker than that of the others, with a thick beard and black hair, and his eyes aren’t the striking gold Jaskier has come to expect. Instead, they’re an odd yellow and green, the whites bloodshot. He looks up from the book he was reading when they approach, his brows furrowing the slightest bit. “I wasn’t aware there would be a guest this year.” He rises from the bench and offers Jaskier a bow, and Jaskier returns it with a smile.

“Neither did I,” Eskel remarks, indicating for Jaskier to take a seat. “Apparently Geralt has taken to picking up strays.”

The other Witcher smiles. “If anybody would, Geralt would.” He sits back down again and pours from a pitcher, pushing the mug across the table for Jaskier. “I’m Coën, of the Griffin School. May I ask your name?”

“I’m Jaskier.” He takes a sip, glad to find it’s only water. He’s incredibly thirsty all of a sudden and he ends up gulping down the entire contents of the mug.

Eskel drops onto the bench beside him before he places a wooden plate filled with bread and cheese on the table. “Easy, lad, don’t want to make yourself sick.” He plucks the mug from Jaskier’s hand and motions at the plate, and when Jaskier has started nibbling on some bread, he says, “You said Geralt saved your life?”

Jaskier swallows his mouthful of bread. “He did. I owe him… quite a lot.” And he does, even if Geralt won’t let him pay him back.

“Hm,” Eskel says, and Jaskier hides his smile behind his bread. Seems like that’s a family mannerism.

The front door bangs open then, and a moment later Geralt walks into the hall, looking a little worse for wear but content. Coën chuckles. “I take it Lambert lost your customary battle.”

“Course he did.” Geralt looks smug as he stomps the snow off his boots and takes off his cloak. There’s a lightness to him, almost, one that Jaskier has never seen on him before, and it makes him giddy to witness it. The Witcher drops on the bench next to him, the matching bookend to Eskel on his other side, and Jaskier pushes the plate in front of him. Geralt hums, giving him a half second of a smile before he digs in.

“Lambert losing means he has to stable Roach,” Eskel explains with a grin. It pulls at his scars in a way that should make him look frightening, but Jaskier can’t find it in him to be intimidated by the man.

“Doesn’t sound like much of a punishment to me,” he says, and Eskel barks a laugh.

“Roach doesn’t like Lambert. He has no patience for horses and is too coarse with them, and Roach bites.”

Jaskier’s brows rise as he plucks at a piece of cheese. “She does?”

Both Coën and Eskel give Geralt a look fraught with meaning, one Jaskier can’t parse at all. He watches, perplexed, as Geralt ducks his head, ignoring the others to focus on his food. Eskel chuckles. “Yeah, she does. Nasty old lady, that one, to everyone except Geralt.”

There’s something going on here, something he doesn’t understand and is, quite frankly, too tired to figure out on his own. “Well,” he says, “she’s never bitten me.”

“Consider yourself lucky, boy,” a new voice declares, and when Jaskier looks up, a man strides up to the table. He’s the oldest of them by far, looking to be somewhere in his sixties. This must be Vesemir. “So,” he says, looking at Geralt, “bringing in foundlings again?”

Jaskier splutters, and the Witchers all smile. Geralt elbows him in the side gently. “Something like that. Are the sorceresses here?”

“Both of them. Aiden, too. I’ll go get them.” 

Eskel rises just as Lambert stomps through the front door, his expression stormy. None of the Witchers react to this display, so Jaskier decides to ignore it as well. Coën disappears for a moment around the corner, carrying a pitcher of something gently steaming in the cool air when he returns. Lambert has claimed the spot on the bench that Eskel vacated and now holds a mug out demandingly, but Coën tuts at him.

“I know you’ve taken a couple of hits to the head, my friend, but surely you’re aware of the basic rules of hospitality.” He leans forward and pours for Jaskier first, ignoring Lambert’s grumbling. Jaskier smiles as he wraps his icy fingers around the mug, inhaling carefully. It’s mead, warm and spicy, and he takes a careful sip.

“Careful,” Geralt murmurs, “might be stronger than you’re used to.”

“Ah, don’t be such a stick in the mud,” Lambert huffs. “Let the kid get drunk if he wants to.” He has snatched the pitcher out of Coën’s hand and poured himself a generous serving, and now he lifts his mug into the air. “To whatever bullshit drama Geralt got drawn into this time.”

The Witchers all chuckle, even Geralt, though it’s more self-deprecating than anything else, and Jaskier feels entirely out of his depth. He can feel his fatigue trying to drag him under, now that he’s warm and fed and sitting down instead of fighting his way through knee-deep snow, and he only realises he’s listing to the side when Geralt puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. There’s that damned furrow between the man’s brows again.

“Are you up for telling them today? It can wait.” Geralt’s voice is very soft, and Jaskier could listen to it forever.

“No, no, I’m fine. They should know.” They had only briefly discussed this on the trip up the mountain. They don’t know how far Stregobor might go in his pursuit of Jaskier, and the other Witchers deserve to know what they might be getting dragged into.

Geralt gives him a soft, tiny smile and squeezes his shoulder before he lets go again. “Alright.”

They sit in silence until Eskel returns, two outrageously beautiful women and another Witcher trailing after him. Both women are darker, one with straight black hair and startlingly violet eyes, the other with a mass of dark locks that frame her pretty face. The Witcher looks about Lambert’s age, with freckled skin and a mop of lightly curled auburn hair. He’s grinning as he plops down beside Lambert.

“Who’s this then, puppy?” He watches Jaskier curiously, and Lambert growls around his mug.

“Geralt’s. Keep your paws to yourself, kitten .” The man’s tone is harsh, but everyone else just chuckles or rolls their eyes, so Jaskier interprets it as something friendly.

“I’m Jaskier,” he introduces himself, nodding respectfully at the sorceresses who have sat down on the other side of the table. Eskel drags a chair over from somewhere, sitting at the head of the table, beside the curly-haired sorceress. He introduces the two women as Yennefer and Triss, both watching him curiously.

“So, Jaskier,” Vesemir says into the expectant hush that has fallen around them. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen.”

“Thank you. I… appreciate being allowed to come here.”

Lambert snorts loudly. “You appreciate being stuck in a crumbling castle with the lot of us all winter?”

On his other side, Geralt growls softly. “Lambert.”

“What? It’s a reasonable question.”

“Let’s maybe start with the whole ‘Geralt saved your life’ thing,” Eskel interrupts, and Jaskier feels his cheeks warm a little.

“He did.” He shoots a look at Geralt, and the Witcher nods. His hand finds Jaskier’s thigh under the table, squeezing gently, and Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Jaskier isn’t my real name. It’s an alias. My real name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, and I am the true heir and rightful king of Redania. My stepfather, who acted as regent after my father died, tried to have me killed. Geralt saved me.”

The silence is deafening, and then Lambert bursts into laughter, slapping the table top as he guffaws. Vesemir looks mildly pained, Coën unsurprised, Aiden a bit gleeful, Eskel exasperated, and the sorceresses wear similar expressions of fatigue.

“Really, Geralt?” Eskel sounds every inch the long-suffering older sibling as he rubs at his scars with one hand. Triss reaches over and pats his shoulder gently.

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” Geralt grouses. “Should I have let him die?”

“I’m Geralt of Rivia,” Lambert growls in a bad imitation of Geralt’s voice. “I don’t get involved in the affairs of men. Except I do, all the fucking time.” He descends into fresh cackling, and Aiden boxes him playfully on the arm.

“Leave the man alone, Lamb. As if you wouldn’t have helped the kid.”

“Course I would have,” Lambert says flippantly. “But I don’t pretend that I’m neutral when I get involved.”

Across the table, the black-haired sorceress is watching him curiously. “If I’m not entirely wrong, you’re about to come of age, aren’t you?”

“I did, actually, on our way here. The… assassin was sent a week before my name day.” It’s still painful to think about Valdo in those terms, but that’s what he was - an assassin.

Vesemir hums. “Stregobor is very aware of how fragile his hold on the crown is.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen. “It is?”

Coën nods. “He’s managed to run the kingdom rather ragged in the last few years. Since… your father’s death, the council has been sidelined more and more.”

“Many of the old councillors died quite suddenly,” Triss says quietly. “All of natural causes, from what I heard, but… unexpected.”

“Do you… Do you think Stregobor had them killed?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence, and then Yennefer leans forward, resting her arms on the table. “We think he killed your father.”

The floor disappears from underneath Jaskier. It must have, because it feels like he’s falling all of a sudden. The mug slips from his numb fingers and the world tilts, and there’s a cry stuck in his throat. His father, his kind, gentle father, who valued fairness and goodness above everything, who was a good king and a good man. Murdered.

Someone touches his shoulder, and he nearly jumps out of his skin as the world rushes back into place. Geralt’s hand hovers between them, and the concern on the man’s face is plain to see. “I’m- I’m alright,” Jaskier mutters, even though he can see the Witcher doesn’t believe a word of it. Steeling himself, he looks at Yennefer again. “Why do you think that?”

The sorceress looks sympathetic, and Jaskier wants to hide from it. “King Alfred was a hardy man. Rarely got ill, as you surely know.” Jaskier nods. His father had been sturdy, right until he wasn’t any more. “Right around the time he had that first attack, Stregobor started becoming more influential in the council. His… faction gained more and more influence.”

“You think he planned all of this.” Jaskier can scarcely wrap his head around it, and yet it makes horrible, perfect sense.

Triss nods solemnly. “It would fit very well with what we know about him.”

Jaskier frowns. “How do you know anything about him in the first place? He’s just some councillor.”

“He’s a mage,” Geralt says quietly, something unspoken in his voice, and Jaskier’s world tilts once more.

“I… I didn’t know that.” How could that be a secret? Mages were sent to all the courts, he knows that, but it wasn’t a secret who they were. Not usually anyway.

“He’s an ambitious son of a bitch,” Yennefer says with a sneer. “He knew he’d never get where he wanted if people knew. Easier to pretend to be human.”

Jaskier stares down at the table, his mind reeling. A secret mage, an apparent murder plot, his own attempted assassination… It’s all too much, and his chest and throat go tight with anxiety at the deluge of information. 

Under the table, Geralt gently places his hand on his thigh again. “I think that’s enough for now.”

Vesemir hums. “Agreed. We all have a lot to think about. Get the lad up to bed, he’s had a tough journey.”

“I-” Jaskier’s voice is thick when he tries to speak, and he can feel the burn of tears, but he needs to say this. “I need- No, I want to thank you. For not throwing me out, now that you know who I am.”

Lambert huffs good-naturedly beside him and claps him on the back. “Kid, between the lot of us, a suspected coup and an escaped prince doesn’t rank all that high in our list of stupid things we’ve gotten involved in over the years.” 

He wants to think Lambert is just trying to cheer him up, but the others all nod agreement, and so he lets himself smile. 

Maybe this will all turn out alright after all.

Geralt collects their things and leads him up the stairs towards the bedrooms, and Jaskier tries to ignore his fatigue and weariness, to middling success. He feels stretched thin somehow, like a wrong touch will have him flying apart. The idea that his father was murdered, that he delivered his own mother into the murderer’s hands… It tears him into pieces.

They stop in front of a door at the end of the corridor, and Geralt opens it for him. It’s a small bedroom, empty except for the basic furnishings, and all of a sudden, Jaskier feels terribly alone and his tears spill over. He stands there, clutching his lute and crying silently, and Geralt puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Sleep,” he says softly, “you’ll feel better.”

Jaskier sobs and turns towards him, shoving into his space. Geralt sucks in a surprised breath, his hands hovering in the air. “Please don’t leave me alone,” Jaskier cries, one hand curling around the edge of Geralt’s armour. “Please, I can’t stand being alone right now.”

Slowly, Geralt’s hands press against his back, stroking up and down tentatively. “You’re not alone, Jaskier,” he murmurs, and Jaskier just cries harder.

Geralt takes him to his own room. It’s bigger, and obviously lived in, with tapestries and odds and ends Jaskier would expect to pile up over a Witcher’s long life. It feels… like a home.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He’s standing in the middle of the room while Geralt is busy lighting a fire, and he just feels so useless, like a burden, like all he brings this man is trouble. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats and descends into frantic sobs, palms pressed to his face.

Geralt gently guides him to sit on the bed. He puts the lute case in the corner, takes off Jaskier’s boots, helps him take off his doublet and trousers and then urges him to lie down. Jaskier does it all without protest, his sobs slowly dying down until he’s lying on the pillow, his face a mess of snot and tears, and Geralt gently cleans him up with a cloth. “There’s nothing you have to be sorry for,” he says quietly, and Jaskier’s heart aches .

“Geralt,” he whispers, and Geralt looks at him for a long moment. Then he straightens and starts on the long task of taking off his armour. Jaskier watches even as exhaustion, mental and physical, threatens to drag him down into sleep. Geralt always seems to transform a little when he takes off his armour, seems to soften, somewhat. Jaskier knows he could still kill him without any effort at all, but he can’t help that thought.

Geralt undresses down to his smalls, and maybe it’s the fatigue that allows Jaskier to look without feeling bad about it now. The Witcher is a beautiful man, strong and lean and proud, and Jaskier is only human. He moves into Geralt’s embrace once the man climbs into bed beside him, and it eases the tightness in his chest.

It still hurts, this thought that he has been so blind these three years, that he missed whatever signs there may have been, but now, here, in Geralt’s arms, he thinks he can allow himself the luxury of ignoring all of it for a little while longer.

Waking up the next day is its own kind of torture, Jaskier finds. He’s still raw with the pain of the previous day’s revelations, still aches in a very real sense from their journey.

He’s also plastered to a nearly naked Witcher, who has an arm around him and is, by all appearances, still deeply asleep. Jaskier grants himself permission to study him, to look without fear of being caught. In sleep, Geralt looks younger, softer somehow. That perpetual line between his brows is gone, for one thing, the tension around his mouth has eased. He’s warm and firm under Jaskier’s hand, against his side, and Jaskier never wants to leave this moment. He wants to stay here, in this bed with Geralt soft with sleep beside him, wants this peaceful moment where it feels like nothing can touch him.

He still wants to kiss Geralt, wants it so badly he can nearly taste it, but he doesn’t know if he dares after the awkward moment on the trail. Jaskier couldn’t bear being rebuffed a second time.

He settles against Geralt’s side again, closing his eyes, and his thumb moves back and forth over the curve of Geralt’s ribs entirely without his permission. He doesn’t attempt to stop, not when everything is so nice and soft and Geralt makes that delightful noise and-

“That tickles,” the Witcher says, voice rough with sleep still, and Jaskier freezes.

“Sorry,” he whispers, unsure what else to say. Geralt’s arm tightens around his shoulder, and Jaskier can feel his hum vibrating against his ribs.

“‘S fine, I don’t mind.” His own fingertips draw gentle, slow circles on Jaskier’s back, and something in him roars to the surface.

He pushes himself up onto his elbow, something that feels a lot like desperation bubbling in his veins, and before Geralt can say anything, Jaskier leans in and presses his lips to the Witcher’s. It’s artless, just a too-harsh press of skin to skin, and Geralt freezes, his hand falling away from Jaskier’s back. The prince flushes, hot with shame. He pulls away, an apology already forming in his mind, but then Geralt’s other hand winds itself into the fabric of his chemise and pulls him back. Geralt’s eyes are so dark, and he looks at Jaskier with surprise clear on his face.

“You mean it,” he murmurs, and Jaskier nods.

“I do,” he whispers, and before he can say anything else, Geralt has flipped them around. Now he’s the one holding himself up on an elbow, and his hair frames his face as he looks down at Jaskier. The prince licks his lips, and Geralt tracks the movement of his tongue. “It’s not just… gratitude, or trying to pay you. I want to kiss you, and be close to you.”

Geralt’s eyes slide closed, as if he’s trying to protect himself from what Jaskier is offering. “You’re a child,” he protests weakly, and Jaskier huffs and can’t resist poking him in the ribs.

“I’m a king,” he says, and Geralt laughs, quick and surprised. Jaskier grins and turns his head to press a soft kiss to Geralt’s arm. “I know what I want,” he says quietly, and Geralt sighs softly.

“You tempt me, Jaskier. I shouldn’t want this,” and he reaches up and drags the pad of his thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. “But I do.”

Jaskier flushes, now with desire, with delight, with things he has no names for.

“Promise me one thing,” Geralt continues, his tone soft but serious. “You ever change your mind, tell me. You don’t owe me anything , do you understand?”

He does, he owes Geralt so much more than he can ever pay him back, but he doesn’t voice these thoughts. Geralt doesn’t want to hear them, and he doesn’t mind keeping them close. “I do. I will.” The Witcher looks at him a moment longer. Then he leans down and closes the distance between them, and finally kisses him.

It’s… indescribable. It’s simultaneously nothing like Jaskier expected and exactly what he expected. It’s wet and hot and he’s breathless after just a moment, and he never wants to stop kissing Geralt.

When the Witcher finally pulls back, Jaskier is flushed all the way down to his chest and his heart flutters against his ribs. Geralt looks down at him with what Jaskier thinks might be wonder, and Jaskier can’t stop smiling.

They make their way down to the dining hall soon after, and Jaskier has a hard time keeping his hands to himself. Now that he’s apparently allowed to, he wants to spend as much time touching the Witcher as possible. He sobers, somewhat, when they sit at the table where Vesemir, Coën, Eskel and Triss are already breaking their fast.

“You look much better today,” Triss says not unkindly. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you.” He hesitates, uncertain what of the food he’s allowed to take, but Geralt nudges him with his elbow and nods at the big pot of porridge. There’s even honey and nuts, and Jaskier eats until he feels he might burst.

“It’s the climb,” Coën assures him, “we all eat like that when we first arrive.” As if to prove the point, Geralt finishes his third bowl, and Triss chuckles.

“Except the lot of you don’t stop eating like that all winter. Take it from me, Jaskier, do not try to keep up unless you want Geralt to have to roll you down the mountain come spring.”

Jaskier grins. He’s well acquainted with Geralt’s appetite, and also with how difficult it is to keep a Witcher fed on the Path. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies. “I wouldn’t want to deprive anyone here of their well-earned sustenance.”

“Hear, hear!” Lambert walks through the door then, Aiden right behind him. The Cat has an arm around Lambert’s shoulders as they make their way to the table, and  when they plop down on the bench, Jaskier can see dark marks on the column of the man’s neck. Ah , he thinks even as he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, that makes sense .

Breakfast is a quiet yet jovial affair, right until Yennefer appears. There is tension in her shoulders when she sits down at the head of the table, and Jaskier feels dread creep up his spine.

“I talked to Tissaia,” she begins without preamble. “Things have gone downhill, apparently, since the prince disappeared. All of our connections in the Redanian court have gone silent. The queen hasn’t been seen in public in weeks, and prince Julian has been declared dead.”

Yet again, the floor disappears from under Jaskier. This is a nightmare , he thinks, it has to be a nightmare .

“Stregobor is gathering his allies, but his neighbours are less than pleased. Foltest has been sniffing at the borders for a while now, and Caingorn is getting restless.”

“What about the people?” Eskel has taken hold of Triss’ hand, his thumb moving back and forth over the back of it restlessly.

“They’re dying. Either starving in the streets, or getting themselves killed trying to fight back,” Yennefer says matter-of-factly, and Jaskier feels like someone punched him in the chest.

“I told him,” he breathes, and everyone looks at him. “I told him he needed to do something, but he just wouldn’t listen. He said we didn’t have money to help anyone but I knew he was lying, I knew it, I should have done something, I should have-” He’s talking himself into a frenzy, his breath quickening and tears burning in his eyes once more, and it’s not until Geralt wraps an arm around him and pulls him against him that he can shut himself up, gasping for air.

“You’re just one boy,” Vesemir says. “What could you have done?”

He knows it’s true, but that doesn’t make it hurt less. It doesn’t bring all those people back to life.

“Tissaia is gathering support with the Brotherhood,” Yennefer continues. “He is finally becoming a problem no one can ignore.”

“We’ll have to meet with them. They need to know about the boy.” Vesemir gives him a thoughtful look, and Jaskier squares his jaw.

“How can I help?”

Geralt explains more over the next few days. There is a resistance, apparently, one that formed rather quickly after his father’s death. It turns out Stregobor was even better at hiding what exactly he was doing both from him and Ermion than Jaskier initially believed.

“He cut ties with many of Redania’s allies early on,” Geralt says when they’re getting ready for bed that evening. Jaskier, it has been decided without anybody actually talking about it, is going to stay with Geralt, and he’s so happy about that he could just burst. “Witchers are supposed to remain neutral, but… Well. Yennefer and Triss don’t have that luxury, and they dragged us into this mess.”

“Yennefer seems very powerful,” Jaskier murmurs from his spot in the bed. Their bed , now, and isn’t that a lovely thought?

“She is. She might be the most powerful sorceress alive today.” The Witcher climbs into bed beside him, pulling Jaskier against him. The prince shivers, still unused to all of this skin contact but not at all complaining. “It’s good to have her on our side.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.” He snuggles closer, daring to press a soft kiss to Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher chuckles.

“I’m pretty sure you’re safe, Jas.”

Heat rushes through him at the pet name, and he winds his arm around Geralt’s waist. “What did you call me?”

Geralt looks stunned for a second, and then his pupils widen as he cups Jaskier’s cheek and tilts his head back. “Jas,” he murmurs, right before he kisses him, and Jaskier feels like he’s about to melt into the mattress.

Later, when his lips are swollen and tingling from all the kissing, Jaskier thinks, for just a single, guilty second, that Valdo trying to kill him may have been the best thing that ever happened to him.

Life in Kaer Morhen has its own rhythm, Jaskier finds. The Witchers keep busy with training and repairs, the sorceresses with maps and potions, and he’s left to his thoughts a lot of the time. Vesemir shows him to the library and leaves him to his devices, and Jaskier reads and, when his eyes burn from trying to decipher the often ancient texts, he writes. Coën brings him a notebook one day, and a number of simple pencils.

“I saw you don’t have anything to compose with,” he explains, “and I always have more of these than I need.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say to that, and so he just thanks the Griffin with a deep bow. He gets to work nigh immediately. Living with a Witcher these past couple of weeks certainly has provided him with quite a bit of material to write about. He’s frugal with his writing, making it as small as he reasonably can, but even so he fills a good quarter of the book within the first few weeks.

Some days, he’ll dress in his thickest layers and watch the Witchers at their training. With six of them, they often pair up or all gang up on one of them. Those fights are the ones that make his heart beat the fastest, he finds, watching nearly the full might of five Witchers unleashed upon a single one of them. They all have different skills, he observes, and the style of fighting also differs. Coën relies on his Signs a lot, Aiden is quick on his feet, and the Wolves make each battle look almost like a dance. It’s mesmerising.

Evenings are often spent in the dining hall, the Witchers telling stories about the past year, and Jaskier wishes he had a whole stack of notebooks to fill with their tales.

“Why are you so fascinated by this shit?” Lambert asks one evening. “It’s just a lot of blood and muck most of the time.”

Jaskier is very familiar with this viewpoint by now. Geralt, too, has recited this to him again and again, and he can see why they’d think that way. Being a Witcher is a thankless profession, one that could get them killed on any given day. But…

“You save lives,” he says simply. “That’s worth remembering.”

Lambert frowns at his mug, but a few days later he hands him a few notebooks. “Just don’t let Vesemir know,” he rasps. “We’re supposed to keep journals.” He rolls his eyes, and Jaskier smiles.

As for his relationship with Geralt, Jaskier doesn’t think he could be happier if he tried. Every day he wakes up in the Witcher’s arms, often to gentle kisses being pressed to his neck or forehead, and in the evenings he gets to crawl back into bed with the man, gets to enjoy being kissed silly. It’s a bit stupid, he thinks, seeing how they’re just kisses . They don’t mean all that much, in the greater scope of things. It’s not like he’s letting Geralt… do anything to him.

To much less shame than he would have expected, Jaskier finds himself thinking about that… quite often, now. He knows, in theory, how men lie with other men. Valdo had dragged him into the hayloft one day to spy on some of the older stablehands, and Jaskier had had a prime seat to the boys having sex. For the longest time Jaskier thought that it must have hurt the one getting fucked quite terribly, going by the noises he was making, but then he discovered his own prick and started to suspect that, just maybe, whatever had been done to that stablehand must have been pleasurable after all.

It only takes one trip to the communal baths, hot springs deep beneath the keep, to put quite the damper on his idle fantasies of letting Geralt fuck him. The Witcher’s cock is… unreasonable, surely. There is no way Jaskier could ever accommodate that. And so he decides to be really quite content with kisses and gentle caresses.

It’s close to midwinter when Yennefer has news about Redania. Jaskier hasn’t seen all that much of either sorceress except for during mealtimes, both busy with… whatever it is sorceresses who are part of the resistance do, so he doesn’t expect to be fixed by her keen eyes when she comes down to dinner one evening.

“We have to go back to Redania,” she says matter-of-factly, “and you have to come with us.”

Geralt’s hand immediately comes to rest on his knee, his face set in a scowl. “Absolutely not.”

“You stay out of this. Jaskier, we have a chance to get rid of Stregobor, but you’ll need to be there. Otherwise Redania will descend into chaos. A civil war would be the least of our problems.”

“He’s not going, Yen.” Geralt’s grip on his knee tightens, and he winces softly.

“Geralt, this is my decision, isn’t it?” He doesn’t look away from Yennefer, and he can’t be sure but he thinks there’s respect in her gaze.

Geralt growls softly. “Jaskier, it’ll be dangerous. Stregobor might-”

“He needs to be stopped.” Finally, he looks at his Witcher, and the man’s expression nearly tears his heart in two. “I have to go. I may not like it, but I have to… I have to be who my father wanted me to be.”

Lambert bumps him with his shoulder, clearly attempting to bolster him. “So do we have to bow and scrape and call you your majesty?”

“Please don’t.”

“There is to be a ball,” Yennefer continues, ignoring the interruption. “In three weeks. We can portal you to Tretogor. Then you’re on your own. There will be someone to meet you at the castle, get you inside, but it will be difficult.”

“How are you going to get rid of him if you’re not going near him?” Aiden asks, and Yennefer smiles at him. Jaskier shudders.

“Never said I wasn’t going near him, did I?”

It’s blatantly obvious to anyone with eyes that Geralt is extremely unhappy with their plan, but Jaskier is… sort of excited, actually. His people have suffered under Stregobor’s rule long enough.

That evening, Geralt’s grip on him is nearly tight enough to bruise, and Jaskier kisses him, so gently, until it loosens. “I know you don’t want me to go,” he breathes into the quiet of their room, “but I have to do it. I have to… stand up to Stregobor, for my people.”

“Did they stand up for you?” Geralt’s voice has turned harsh, but Jaskier can tell his anger is not directed at him. “They knew what he was doing, that you were essentially a prisoner.”

“What were they supposed to do? They’re peasants with pitchforks. He has an army.”

“It’s not fair,” Geralt says mulishly, and Jaskier has to laugh.

“You’re the one who’s always telling me that life isn’t fair, my dear.” He sighs and snuggles closer. “I want to stay here with you. I could die happy never seeing that man again, but… It’s not fair for me to get what I want while my people are dying.”

Geralt is quiet for a long moment, and Jaskier almost thinks he’s being ignored, but then the Witcher pulls him closer yet. “I want you to stay,” he says very quietly, almost whispers it. “But if it’s what you want… I’ll go with you.”

The emotion that rushes through Jaskier at that declaration is so strong it knocks him entirely off-kilter. It warms him, all the way through, makes his skin prickle everywhere their bodies touch. It takes him a long moment to analyse the feeling, but when he does, he is almost certain that it’s… love.

Heart thumping in his chest, he leans in for a kiss, slick and leaving his lips bruised and tingling, and he’s almost convinced that, with Geralt by his side, he can overcome anything.

The closer they get to leaving, the more restless Geralt becomes. He starts what Jaskier can only call fussing, keeping him in bed longer and longer every day, and then all but forcing sword and dagger training with Vesemir on him. It’s not like Jaskier is a novice with a sword, but Vesemir is an unforgiving teacher. He has Jaskier repeat forms over and over until he can’t lift his arms any more, sets him to sparring with Aiden and Lambert. All the while, Geralt watches like a hawk, his concern impossible to overlook.

He makes a fresh pot of the salve, rubbing it into Jaskier’s aching body every evening, and that might just be the only positive side to all of this.

“Admit it,” he mumbles into the pillow the night before they are to leave, as Geralt massages his shoulders, each stroke of his hands at once leaving Jaskier hot all over and gasping in discomfort. “You’re trying to kill me before he can.”

Geralt digs his thumb into a particularly tender spot, and Jaskier writhes under him, moaning in pain. “I’m trying to keep you alive.” He soothes the spot with gentle touches, and Jaskier sighs.

“I know, I’m just… so fucking sore I kind of want to die.”

The Witcher chuckles and continues with his torture, until Jaskier is a boneless heap under him. Geralt moulds himself to Jaskier’s back then, kissing the curve of his shoulder, the shell of his ear. “How can I convince you to stay amongst the living?”

Jaskier wriggles ineffectually under him, too blissed out to notice what he’s doing until he feels… something against the swell of his arse. Oh .

Geralt hums thoughtfully, and eases himself off of the prince, pressing another kiss to his shoulder. “You should sleep,” he says softly. “Yen wants to get an early start tomorrow.”

Still too busy with not looking , Jaskier just nods and lets the Witcher pull him into his customary spot against his side. Well. If Geralt is going to ignore it, so is Jaskier.

They all gather in the dining hall the next day. Bags have been packed, swords sharpened, plans made. Jaskier wears a dagger on his belt, coated with silver. “Just in case,” as Eskel had said. He doesn’t want to think too hard about what that might mean.

Yennefer and Triss look resplendent in their travelling clothes, and Jaskier feels rather drab next to them. It helps that Geralt can barely be persuaded to let go of his hand.

“Everybody knows what they have to do. If things go to shit, you know where to meet up.” She reminds Jaskier rather of a severe governess, and he joins the Witchers in nodding almost meekly. “Geralt, if you puke on my dress, I’ll turn you into a slug,” she threatens, and Geralt glares at her.

“What was that about?” he asks when everyone checks their things one last time, and Geralt scowls.

“I don’t… like travelling by portal.”

“He gets sick,” Lambert supplies helpfully, grinning, and Geralt somehow glares even harder. “Sometimes he puts his hands over his eyes.”

Geralt starts forward, obviously intent on letting some of his tension out by beating up Lambert, but he stops when Jaskier tugs on his arm. “I’ve never travelled by portal,” he says. “Would you mind terribly if I held onto you?” It’s so transparent it doesn’t even deserve to be called a distraction, but it works. Geralt sends one last glare at Lambert, who cackles as he fixes a buckle on Aiden’s armour, then he turns to Jaskier.

“Of course.” He still looks less than enthusiastic, but it’s something.

They arrive in a forest outside of Tretogor, hidden from any passers-by by a thick line of trees. Geralt does indeed look a little green around the gills, but he tries his best to give Jaskier an encouraging smile, and Jaskier gives him a peck on the cheek.

“Thank you, dear heart,” he murmurs against his throat when Geralt pulls him into an embrace. “It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”

The Witcher grunts, clearly not quite recovered from his ordeal. The others gather in a circle as they go over the final details.

“Jaskier, you stay hidden until we tell you otherwise. Geralt, Eskel, he’s your responsibility. Vesemir, Coën, you know where to go. Lambert and Aiden, no funny business until it’s time.”

There are no final embraces, except between Eskel and Triss, one that the rest of them politely ignore, and then they’re off. They’re all entering the city from different sides so as to not draw attention, but even so, pairs of Witchers are going to raise some eyebrows.

Tretogor has changed drastically, Jaskier realises quickly. The streets are filthy, and there are beggars and dirty children on every corner. Jaskier has rarely felt as uncomfortable in his fine clothes as he does now.

Yennefer had handed them a fat purse, enough money to last them the two weeks until the ball in a decent inn. To keep their cover intact, one of the Witcher will do contracts as the fancy takes them, not that Jaskier is particularly enthusiastic about that. They find a small inn close to a market, with a common room on the ground floor, and once the door closes behind them, Jaskier’s shoulders drop. He hadn’t even realised how tense he was outside on the street.

The room is simply furnished, with two beds, a table,and a pair of chairs. The Witchers arrange their packs in the corner, their swords between the beds, and Jaskier drops into a chair and stares at the ceiling for a long moment.

“You don’t have to,” Geralt says quietly after a while, and Jaskier turns his head to look at him. The Witcher looks stoic as always, but he can tell it’s a cover. He knows Geralt is unhappy about all of this, that he fears for Jaskier’s safety. A reasonable fear, he knows. Still.

“I do. You’ve seen the state the city is in. I have no doubt it’s just as bad in the rest of the country.” He sits up straighter, and his hands curl into fists on his thighs. “We need to get rid of him, no matter the cost.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything in reply, but Jaskier knows he disagrees. He just hopes Geralt won’t do anything to jeopardise their plans.

They have an early dinner in the common room, and when they’re approached by a frazzled-looking man about a contract, Eskel claps Geralt on the shoulder. “I’ll go. I think the two of you need to talk.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches, and Jaskier feels something cold creep into his gut.

They return to their room in silence, and Jaskier changes into his sleep clothes. When he has sat down on the bed, Geralt sighs deeply and rubs a hand over his face.

“Eskel was right. We need to talk. There’s… something you need to know.” Jaskier just nods and remains silent, waiting for Geralt to continue, even as his heart rabbits in his chest. Geralt sighs again; he’s staring at his boots, his hands clasped between his knees. “You know about Blaviken, about what… happened there.”

“A little.” All he knows are rumours, really, but he knows of it at least.

“There was… an eclipse, and a prophecy, about girls born during the eclipse bringing about the end of humanity. They were… hunted down, killed, and experimented on. I found one of these girls in Blaviken, by accident.” There’s so much pain in Geralt’s voice, and Jaskier wants to comfort him, but he knows the Witcher needs to tell this story. “Her name was Renfri. She was… She was your age, and she burned so brightly it was impossible not to be drawn in by her. She was born a princess, and she wanted me to bring her the mage who had supported this whole idea of the girls being evil, who killed them.”

Jaskier knows where this is going, and he doesn’t want to hear it.

“It was Stregobor. He tried to have her killed, but the man he sent to do the job raped her instead. She killed him and ran.” The breath shudders out of him. “I was a very different person back then. I tried to stick to this whole idea of Witchers being neutral, to the point where, when Stregobor asked me to kill her for him, I refused to choose a side.” He laughs mirthlessly. “Fuck, I could see the merit of both arguments. She could just be a girl hardened by her circumstances, or she was an unspeakable evil sent by Lilit herself. People would die either way, and so I chose neither option.” Another deep, shuddering breath. “Renfri tried to lure Stregobor out of the tower he was hiding in. Held a little girl hostage. I tried to stop her, and then… Well, then everything went to shit.”

Jaskier is holding his breath, and his hands ache with how tightly he’s clenching them. When Geralt looks up at him, it’s like someone took his heart and squeezed with all their might.

“Whatever you heard about Blaviken, it’s true. I killed her, and I killed her men. Nine people dead, because I refused to make a choice.” He looks down again, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes, and Jaskier’s heart breaks.

“It was an impossible choice,” he says softly, but Geralt shakes his head.

“Was it? It should have been easy. The man who locked up little girls, who tortured and experimented on them, or this broken princess? I shouldn’t have even had to think about it, but I did, and it meant that those nine people died at my hand.” His whole body tenses. “If I had killed him, your father might still be alive.”

All of a sudden, Jaskier wants to punch him, and he climbs out of the bed and crosses the room on his bare feet. Geralt looks up, his face guarded, and Jaskier reaches out and shoves him, as hard as he can. The chair Geralt is in actually rocks backwards, and the Witcher grunts in surprise. “Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “Not everything comes down to your choices, Geralt. Yes, things may have been different, but what good does it do any of us to agonise over the past? My father is dead, as is Renfri, and Stregobor sits on my father’s gods-damned throne, and we need to do something now without the past getting in our way!”

Geralt stares up at him, and Jaskier can feel himself vibrating with anger. He needs an outlet, anything, so when Geralt reaches for him, Jaskier all but throws himself into his arms. Their kiss is rough and messy, almost aggressive, and Jaskier keens into the Witcher’s mouth when Geralt pulls him into his lap. He’s growing hard in his trousers, the adrenaline from his outburst coursing through his veins, and he rocks against Geralt’s stomach with a whimper. He moans into the kiss when Geralt grabs him by the hips, when he guides his movements, and it’s only the chair creaking worryingly under them that somewhat pulls him from the haze he has fallen into.

Before he can vacate his spot however, Geralt winds his arms around him and gets up, lifting Jaskier effortlessly. Jaskier gasps, the Witcher’s strength taking his breath away, and then he is being lowered onto the bed they claimed for themselves. Geralt’s eyes are wide and dark, and Jaskier grabs him by the collar of his chemise and pulls him down on top of himself, into the vee of his thighs. The Witcher, too, is growing hard, and they both groan when Geralt fits himself easily between Jaskier’s legs, when their cocks slot together through their trousers.

“Jaskier, I-”

“Don’t stop,” the prince gasps, his arms going around Geralt’s shoulders. “Please don’t stop.”

They rock together, kissing like they’re starving for it, and when Geralt moves down to nip and suck at Jaskier’s neck, he’s done for. His back arches and he spills into his smalls with a strangled cry, and Geralt groans brokenly as he thrusts against him faster. If Jaskier’s orgasm hadn’t turned him into a puddle of bliss, he’d be surprised that it only takes the Witcher a few moments longer to reach his own peak, Jaskier’s name panted against his throat.

They stay like that long past the point where the mess in their clothes becomes uncomfortable, Geralt’s face pushed into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, the prince’s fingers idly playing with Geralt’s long hair. When they finally manage to pull away from each other, they don’t talk about it. Jaskier is still too floaty, and Geralt keeps shooting him small, almost hidden smiles as he undresses. The look on his face when he turns his back and pulls off his smalls makes Jaskier giggle.

They squeeze themselves into the narrow bed, Jaskier between Geralt and the wall, and Geralt draws circles on his belly with his fingertips. It’s lovely, and Jaskier falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

Eskel is back when he wakes up the next morning, still asleep in his own bed. Geralt sits at the table, quietly going through his bag of potions, and Jaskier pillows his head on his hands as he watches him work. His Witcher looks far more at ease than he would have expected, his movements practiced and easy. Jaskier spends some time admiring the way his muscles move under his skin as he works, remembering the previous night as a flush rises in his cheeks.

Geralt had moved him like he weighed nothing, had drawn such pleasure out of him with simple touches that Jaskier thought he might go insane with it. Feeling another’s body against his as he got off had been a revelation. Heat pools in his gut yet again as he thinks back to the thick length of Geralt’s prick against his own, thoughts once more straying to the idea of letting Geralt do… more .

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Geralt chuckles lowly. “Behave, Jas.”

The heat inside Jaskier turns into mortification when he realises that Geralt must… sense his arousal, somehow. He grabs the covers and pulls them up to his nose, glaring at Geralt’s back. “Oh, shush, you.”

Geralt huffs another laugh. “Just letting you know that if I can smell you, so can Eskel.”

Jaskier blushes even darker, and he tugs the covers properly over his head with a groan. Geralt rises from his chair by the sounds of it, and a moment later the bed dips with his weight as he lies down beside him. Jaskier makes a miserable noise in the back of his throat, and his Witcher hooks a finger into the covers, pulling them away from his eyes at least. He’s smiling softly, and Jaskier almost forgets his ire.

“I don’t mind it. On the contrary.” His smile changes, becomes suggestive for a moment, and Jaskier’s heart thumps against his ribs. “But I thought it would be unfair not to tell you.”

He sighs heavily and pushes the blanket down again. “I understand. I’m just-” His eyes dart over to Eskel, lying on the other bed with his back to them. His breathing is slow and even, and Jaskier bites his lip as he looks up at Geralt again. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he whispers, and Geralt leans down until there’s just a hand’s width between their faces.

“Good,” he breathes, and then he kisses Jaskier once more, deeply and really quite thoroughly, and Jaskier whimpers softly. 

Gods, how is he supposed to keep his hands to himself ever again?

Eskel wakes half an hour later, and they head down for breakfast. The common room is almost empty, but the innkeeper only gives them a cursory glance. She hadn’t even batted an eye the day before at the two Witchers, and she doesn’t seem to have changed her mind about their presence overnight.

They’re served bacon, eggs, and thick slices of black bread, and Jaskier smiles his thanks. The woman eyes him curiously, his outfit today not particularly fancy but maybe a little bit outlandish.

“You some sort of minstrel then? There’s been talk ‘bout a bard travellin’ with a Witcher.”

Jaskier’s gaze flickers to Geralt, who nods. “Y-yes, that would be me.”

She hums as she wipes her hands on her apron. “You’re stayin’ the week, right?” Jaskier nods, his heart beating quicker. “You wanna play the common room in the evening? We could do with some entertainment here.”

He agrees quickly, thanking her profusely, but she waves his gratitude off.

“It’s been a shit couple o’ months here, ever since the prince disappeared. Course, it’s been shit ever since King Alfred died. People are in need of cheerin’ up.”

He can feel the Witcher’s eyes on him as she leaves, and Geralt gently touches his elbow. “You alright?”

Jaskier sighs deeply. “No, not really. But I… I will be, once he’s gone.”

They’re supposed to lie low, but Jaskier is going stir-crazy by noon, and Geralt lets himself be dragged to the market. They don’t buy anything, just look around. The market, too, has changed, the already meager offerings of winter even more dismal than usual.

“Aren’t you afraid someone will recognise you?” Eskel asked before they set off, but Jaskier waved the concern away.

“I haven’t been outside the palace in a long time. I doubt people remember what I look like.”

It’s nice, just to walk with Geralt, with nowhere in particular to be or anything to do. They just… exist together, and he finds himself reaching for Geralt’s hand every couple of minutes, then changing his mind. By the seventh time, Geralt hums and catches his flailing hand, enveloping it in his. He squeezes gently, and Jaskier’s cheeks grow warm once more.

That evening, Jaskier plays for the common room. It’s not exactly a full house but he debuts a few of his songs about the Witchers anyway. People seem sceptical about the lyrics, but Jaskier is pretty sure that the presence of two Witchers curbs some of the more unpleasant reactions. By the time he retires, he has a nicely filled pouch of money, and Geralt presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You did good,” he says quietly once they’re back in bed, and Jaskier snuggles closer, winding his arms around him.

“Couldn’t do it without my muse,” he whispers, and Geralt chuckles.

The next day, Geralt takes a contract for some drowners just outside the city, and it’s outrageously endearing how he fusses over Jaskier before he leaves.

“You don’t go anywhere without Eskel,” he instructs for the fourth time, and Jaskier huffs.

“I know , I haven’t forgotten since the last time you told me, oh, three minutes ago.”

The Witcher grimaces, then leans in and presses their foreheads together. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I know, dearest. I’ll be safe, I promise. You think about your own safety, please.” 

“The kid is right, Wolf,” Eskel throws in from his spot at the table. He’s sharpening his and Jaskier’s daggers, but he pauses to give Geralt a meaningful look. “Can’t have you dying on a fucking drowner hunt of all things just because you’re too busy fretting about your sweetheart.”

Geralt throws his brother a dirty look, then embraces Jaskier so tightly he squeaks with it. Geralt releases him, looking apologetic. “I'll be back soon.”

Jaskier watches him go, then turns to Eskel. “How do you feel about accompanying me to the market so I can buy him something?”

On their way to the market, Jaskier tells Eskel about the hand pie Geralt had bought him for his name day, and the dark-haired Witcher chuckles.

“If he spent his money on buying sweets for you, he was pretty far gone already,” he says with a conspiratorial wink, and Jaskier flushes.

Jaskier finds a stall selling honey cakes, and flush with coin as he is, he buys three. Eskel tries to decline, going into the familiar spiel of, “You don’t have to spend your money on me,” but Jaskier picks up the cake and all but shoves it into Eskel’s mouth. The seller wraps the one for Geralt in paper and then they’re on their way again. Spending time with Eskel is easy, Jaskier finds, the big Witcher much more talkative than his brother.

They’re passing by another stall offering clothing when a man calls out to them, and Jaskier stops. The man behind the stall gives him an inviting smile, even as he eyes the Witcher warily. “You’re the bard everyone is talking about, right?”

Jaskier grows warm, and he smiles awkwardly. “People are… talking about me?”

“Indeed they are! The Witchers’ bard they call you.” He walks around his stall and waves at his wares. “A bard needs a proper costume, doesn’t he, master Witcher?” He looks at Eskel for the first time now, and Jaskier can see how his mouth twitches around his smile as he takes in Eskel’s scars. Eskel just hums and watches silently, every inch the intimidating protector.

Jaskier steps closer to the stall, lets his eyes wander over the cloth laid out there. It’s all surprisingly colourful considering the state of the city. Nothing very fancy in regards to fabric, but… He could stand to have some more colour in his wardrobe, especially if he wants to continue performing.

He spends a couple of moments looking everything over, the merchant watching silently until he comes closer. Jaskier can more feel than see the way Eskel tenses.

“Nothing catching your eye?”

“No, no, it’s all very lovely. It’s more that I can’t decide.”

The man smiles. “If I might make a suggestion?” He pulls a doublet out of a stack and holds it out to Jaskier, and Jaskier’s jaw drops.

This garment is unlike any of the ones laid out on the stall. For one, it’s clearly silk, the gold thread catching the light beautifully. Both the shoulders and the puffy sleeves are slashed, allowing to chemise to be seen, and it tightens in the back with delicate silk ribbons. Jaskier barely dares to touch it.

Next to him, Eskel shifts his weight. “That’s a bard’s outfit if I’ve ever seen one,” he murmurs, and Jaskier can’t help but agree.

“Are you playing at the ball?” the merchant asks, and Jaskier only just manages to hide the way he flinches at the reminder.

“Something like that.”

“Go on,” Eskel says quietly, nudging him with his elbow. His smile is mischievous. “We have the money, and Geralt is going to love seeing you in this.”

“We don’t even know if it would fit me,” Jaskier tries to deflect, but the merchant pulls out an ell-wand with a grin.

“Let’s see, shall we?” He steps into Jaskier’s space and measures him quickly, then he hums contently. “Like it was made for you, my friend!”

Jaskier shoots Eskel another look. The Witcher nods encouragingly. “Well, alright then.”

It’s much less costly than he would have expected, but then again, what does he know about the price of court clothes? They return to the inn right around the time Geralt comes back, drenched in mildly stale pond water and looking less than enthused, but he perks up when Eskel tells him that Jaskier has two surprises for him.

Jaskier grins as he fends the man off when Geralt tries to kiss his cheek, still smelly and dripping everywhere. Ridiculous Witchers.

Geralt orders a bath but is told there’s only one for communal use behind the kitchen, so he disappears for half an hour. Eskel leaves Jaskier in their room with a wink, off to find something to drink, and Jaskier starts to drive himself mildly insane.

The doublet might have been too much, he thinks, as he paces between the two beds. Maybe Geralt will think him frivolous, despite Eskel’s reassurance that he’ll like it. It is quite a bit more ostentatious than he’s used to from Jaskier…

His worrying is brought to a halt when the door opens and Geralt walks in. He’s only wearing his trousers, his hair still dripping a little. Water droplets glide down his shoulders and chest, and Jaskier is quite effectively distracted. Geralt closes the door behind himself and crosses the room, reaching up to cup Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Well, you don’t smell like a bog anymore, so be my guest,” he murmurs with a smile, and Geralt is only too happy to oblige.

It’s a slow, gentle kiss, one that has Jaskier’s toes curling in his boots and shivers running down his spine. When they part, Geralt doesn’t let him get far, just pulls him close to nuzzle at his hair.

“Eskel said you had a surprise for me?”

“Hm. Two, actually.” Jaskier extracts himself from the Witcher’s embrace with some difficulty, and he picks up the wrapped-up honey cake from the table. “I… wanted to return the favour.”

Geralt looks at the little cake for so long Jaskier almost fears he did something horribly, awfully wrong, but then the Witcher takes the little bundle and sets it carefully, almost reverently, down on Eskel’s bed. Then he grabs Jaskier by the hand and pulls him back into his arms, holding onto him really very tightly.

Finally, he seems to manage to get a hold of himself, and he kisses Jaskier’s temple. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I… Thank you.” Then he nudges him with the tip of his nose. “What’s the other surprise?”

Jaskier is flushed with emotion when he wiggles out of Geralt’s hold. He picks up the doublet and holds it against his chest, looking up at Geralt. “I saw it at the market, and Eskel thought… Well, he said you’d like it.”

Geralt’s eyes are very dark, his pupils wide, something Jaskier has learned means he likes what he’s looking at. “I do,” he says after a moment, and then he licks his lips. “Have you tried it on yet?”

“No, the- The merchant measured me and said it should fit.” He shifts from foot to foot. “Would you… help me?”

His Witcher nods, the expression on his face now clearly eager. Jaskier shrugs off his regular doublet and turns his back, and Geralt gently guides his arms into the sleeves. “Strange,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier makes a questioning noise as he closes the tiny buttons. “My medallion is humming.” When Jaskier looks at him over his shoulder, there’s a small frown on his face.

“The merchant didn’t say anything about an enchantment. Should I… take it off?”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “I don’t know. Maybe, to be safe.” He reaches for the ribbons, and then everything happens at once.

The rest of the buttons that Jaskier hasn’t done up yet slide into their loops, and then the ribbons at his back tighten. And tighten, and keep tightening, and Jaskier chokes as he tries to draw breath. He tries to say something, say Geralt’s name, but he can’t, he can’t get enough air into his lungs, he can’t breathe .

Very vaguely, he’s aware of someone calling his name, over and over, but he can’t answer, he can’t think . He claws at his throat, at the collar of the doublet, but it doesn’t help. The ribbons tighten more and more, and stars pop in his vision. Jaskier drops to his knees, still trying desperately to draw even a single breath, but he just can’t . 

Until he can, all of a sudden. There is a tearing noise that only reaches his ears as a dull roar, and he collapses onto his stomach when the pressure around his chest vanishes, gulping down air greedily.

“Jaskier! Jaskier, answer me!” It’s Geralt, sounding more frantic than Jaskier has ever heard him before, and he croaks weakly, something that may have been the Witcher’s name.

Someone moves him, so very carefully, and when Jaskier manages to get his eyes to focus, he blinks up at Geralt above him. The Witcher looks utterly distraught, even paler than usual, and Jaskier lifts a trembling hand and pats at the man’s cheek.

“I’m alright,” he whispers, and Geralt grabs his hand and holds it in both of his like he’s afraid Jaskier might vanish into thin air.

Eskel returns soon after, when Jaskier has managed to drink something, and Geralt has propped him up on their bed with all the pillows they have. The dark-haired Witcher looks just as distraught as Geralt as he inspects the now destroyed doublet.

“I can’t believe I missed this,” he mutters as he strokes a finger along the length of the ribbon.

“It’s not a particularly powerful spell,” Geralt says quietly. He has barely taken his eyes or his hands off of Jaskier after he freed him from the cursed garment, and Jaskier leans into his embrace. “I didn’t notice it was there until I helped Jaskier put it on.”

There’s anger in his voice, and Jaskier squeezes the man’s hand.

“It’s not your fault, Geralt. You told me to take it off, I was just too slow.”

“I should have noticed it, Jaskier. I should have-” He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, and Jaskier nuzzles against his throat.

“I guess that answers the question whether or not Stregobor knows you’re here,” Eskel says, tossing the doublet into the fireplace. He kneels and hits it with a blast of Igni so strong Jaskier has to avert his eyes. “I doubt that merchant just so happened to have a pretty, cursed doublet that fit you perfectly.”

Geralt’s arm tightens around him, and Jaskier winces as it puts pressure on his bruised ribs. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says after a moment. “Does that… affect the plan at all?”

Eskel grimaces. “I’ll talk to Yennefer, see what she thinks.” He gets to his feet again and grabs his cloak, stopping at the door. “You should get some sleep,” he says quietly, “both of you.”

Once he has left, Geralt helps Jaskier lie down more comfortably. He doesn’t join him though, moving around the room restlessly, picking things up and putting them down again, and finally he grabs an empty potions bottle and throws it into the fireplace, snarling with barely contained rage. Jaskier winces at the noise more than anything else.

“I’m fine, Geralt. Please, come to bed.”

“You could have died , Jaskier. Because I was careless.” His hands are curled into tight fists and his back is rigid, and Jaskier wants to soothe him. He, too, is still shaken up, obviously, but he knows Geralt did everything he could.

“You saved me,” he says quietly. “I’m alright, but I really need you to hold me, please.” 

His voice sounds small to his own ears, small and pleading, and it seems to do the trick. Geralt lets out his breath in a long, shuddering exhale, and then he turns and climbs into bed beside him. He’s enveloped in the Witcher’s strong arms, and after a moment where they just lie there, holding each other, he starts to cry quietly.

Geralt doesn’t say anything. He just holds him a little closer.

He doesn’t hear Eskel come back into the room, already fast asleep by the time the Witcher returns. They tell him over breakfast the next day what the sorceress has decided.

“We need to stick to the plan,” Eskel says, and it’s clear he’s not exactly happy about it. “Nobody knows when we’ll get another opportunity like this.”

Jaskier nods. They’re taking breakfast in their room, none of them quite ready to face the outside world yet. He leans back against the headboard of their bed, cradling the mug of tea Geralt brought him earlier. The warmth grounds him.

“I understand. I told you when we got here, we need to get rid of him, no matter the cost. I stand by that.”

The Witchers don’t say anything in reply. There is nothing to say.

They continue much the same as before as they wait for the day of the ball to arrive. The only difference is that Jaskier remains confined to the inn and, more often than not, their room. He spends his time writing, filling page after page with half-formed lyrics. Geralt leaves him be for the most part, and Jaskier is equal parts glad about and frustrated by it.

He misses Geralt, he realises one evening. They’re down in the common room having dinner, and the Witchers are passing the time with a round of Gwent, and Jaskier misses the gentle, new thing that had blossomed between them before the doublet. Geralt isn’t short with him, isn’t rude or dismissive, but he’s distant, and it hurts.

Jaskier knows, or suspects at least, why Geralt is behaving this way. The doublet was another reminder of Jaskier’s mortality, his vulnerability, and ultimately, Geralt’s inability to protect him from every threat there might be.

After five days at the inn, someone approaches the Witchers at lunch, asking for help with a noonwraith two hours outside of the city, and Jaskier knows by the looks the two exchange that they’ll both have to go. He also knows by the glance Geralt throws his way that his Witcher won’t do it if Jaskier doesn’t make him go.

“I’ll be fine,” he says softly, leaning into Geralt’s space as Eskel haggles with the man who asked for their help. “I’ll stay in our room and everything will be alright.”

Geralt looks pained, and he finds Jaskier’s hand under the table. “Jaskier-”

“Please, Geralt. I’m not made of glass. I’ll compose for a bit and you’ll be back before either of us knows it.”

The Witcher looks like he wants to argue, but then he sighs deeply. “Alright. We’ll be quick.”

Jaskier sees them off, watches them disappear down the street, the cold winter sun glinting off of their sword pommels. Geralt turns his head to look back at him more than once, and Jaskier smiles and makes a shooing motion with his hand, and then Geralt disappears around a street corner.

The prince sighs and turns to go to the back of the inn, to sit under the old birch growing there for a while, but before he can so much as take a step, an old man appears by his side. He’s pushing a cart laden with winter fruit and vegetables, apples and pears, carrots and turnips and cabbages, and he calls out to Jaskier as he stops.

“You look hungry, lad.” He plucks an apple from the cart and tosses it to Jaskier, who catches it on reflex alone.

“Uh, thank you?”

The man winks at him and disappears down the street, and Jaskier shrugs and buffs the apple against his trouser leg until it’s shiny. Who is he to say no to free food? He makes his way around the inn, humming to himself absent-mindedly. If everything goes according to plan, the Witchers should be back by dinner. He can kill a couple of hours on his own.

Jaskier wraps himself in his thick, fur-lined cloak and plops himself down on the bench encircling the tree. It’s old, the thin branches swaying softly in the light breeze, and he stares up at the wispy cloud travelling across the sky, once more marvelling at what his life has become.

It’s not long after lunch, and he’s not really hungry, but the apple is tempting, crisp and shining red, and he sighs as he lifts it to his mouth. “Wonder how he kept it this fresh,” he mutters. Usually at this time of year, apples are a little dull, a little mealy, but this one looks like it was plucked just that day.

Jaskier shrugs. He’s no botanist, and he sinks his teeth into the tender skin of the apple with gusto.

He only has time to notice how bitter the flesh is before everything goes dark.

The Witchers return right around dinner time, the job going off without a hitch for once. Geralt is eager to get back to the inn, back to Jaskier, and Eskel humours him, easily keeping up with his quick pace.

“He’ll be fine, Wolf. Kid learned his lesson.”

Geralt just hums. Jaskier is a magnet for trouble, sometimes through no fault of his own. And after what happened with that blasted doublet, he can’t get rid of this anxiety sitting behind his breastbone.

He brought the boy into this, in a way. They didn’t have to involve him in their fight against Stregobor, but he should have known Jaskier would never stand aside.

He just hopes things will work out. He pointedly doesn’t let himself think about what will happen with them after Stregobor is gone.

The boy is a king after all.

They immediately know that something is wrong as soon as they enter the inn. The innkeeper, Jelena, rushes towards them as they walk through the door, and Geralt’s stomach drops.

“He’s in your room, master Witcher. Rokas found him out back, unconscious. Poor lad thought the bard was dead-”

Geralt doesn’t linger to listen. He brushes past her and races up the stairs, and he fumbles with the door for a second before finally getting it open. His heart is in his throat. Please , he thinks, please let him be alright .

Jaskier lies on their bed, still. He doesn’t appear to be breathing, and Geralt is rooted to the spot.

We were only gone for a few hours , Geralt thinks wildly as he stares down at Jaskier's lifeless form. Just a couple of hours.

"Geralt-" Eskel's arms are around him all of a sudden, and Geralt realises his knees have given out under him. There's a strange, keening sort of sound that only stops when Eskel shifts and cups his cheek, when he turns Geralt's face away from the sight of his- 

Oh , Geralt thinks, the sound was me.

"Geralt, listen to me." Eskel's voice is very calm, but Geralt knows it only sounds like that when his brother is stressed and he's trying to keep a lid on it. "He's not dead. You know he's not. Listen ."

He does. He has to. Geralt closes his eyes and concentrates, ignores all the other sounds around him, Eskel's heartbeat and his own, the murmur coming up from the tavern below, the mice in the ceiling, and finally he finds it: Jaskier's heartbeat. It's barely there, slower even than a Witcher's, and that scares him more than just finding the boy dead. Still, he sags in Eskel's embrace. "He's alive," he whispers, and Eskel nods.

"He is. It's magic, but he's alive."

Slowly, Geralt disentangles himself from Eskel's arms and lurches to his feet. Jaskier is laid out on their bed, his eyes closed and his cheeks so, so pale, and he does look dead. Geralt sits on the edge of the bed and cups the prince's cheek, a gasp of relief leaving his lungs when he finds Jaskier's skin warm. "What happened to you," he breathes as he strokes a thumb over Jaskier's cheekbone.

"It must have been Stregobor." Eskel has come to stand beside him, a scowl on his face. "After the doublet… He must have found some other way to get to Jaskier."

Geralt's teeth ache, he's clenching them so hard. "I should've stayed with him," he hisses. "We knew Stregobor hasn't given up, and I just left him here on his own-"

"He wanted you to go, Geralt. It's not your fault."

"Isn't it? Whose, then?"

Eskel places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, and Geralt closes his eyes. "Stregobor's, and no one else's."

Geralt wants to believe it, but when he looks down at Jaskier's still and silent body again, he can't stop feeling responsible.

Both Witchers know they should leave. They should call Yennefer and ask her to portal them all back to Kaer Morhen, but they linger. It feels wrong to move Jaskier just yet, and soon night descends on the city.

"We should get some rest," Eskel says after they've both tried, and failed, to choke down some dinner. "We can leave early tomorrow."

Geralt undresses in silence, methodically. He hasn't really been able to take his eyes off of Jaskier ever since they returned to find him like this, and when he lays beside the bard, he can almost pretend that he's just asleep. Geralt's hand finds Jaskier's, and he presses his forehead to the curve of Jaskier's shoulder, his eyes stinging.

"Please come back," he breathes, his grip tightening around Jaskier's fingers. "Please come back to me."

There is no answer, no change, and Geralt lies awake for a long time, listening to the barely there beating of Jaskier's heart.

The next day dawns grey and dreary. It fits Geralt's mood perfectly. Part of him had hoped that it was nothing but a nightmare, a potion-induced hallucination maybe. It's not, and he wakes to find Jaskier still and silent, just the way he'd been when Geralt fell asleep.

Eskel finds them some breakfast, and over bowls of thin porridge, they decide to leave the city before calling Yennefer. They can’t afford opening a portal so close to the palace.

Jaskier feels small and vulnerable when Geralt lifts him into his arms, and he has to remind himself again and again that the boy isn't dead. As they walk down the road, Jaskier bundled up in his fur cloak like a child, he can't stay silent any longer. "What do you think this is?"

Eskel glances at Jaskier's still body, his brows furrowing. "Must be a curse. Don't know what else it could be."

Geralt swears under his breath. Of course it has to be a curse. 

They leave the city as quickly as they can, switching Jaskier between them every now and then. Every time Eskel hands him back, Geralt presses him tightly to his chest, where he belongs.

Half an hour away from the village, they stop by a signpost, and Eskel digs the xenovox Yennefer gave Geralt out of his bags. Geralt seats himself on a fallen tree, Jaskier secure in his arms. It’s a testament to how scared he is for the boy that not even the prospect of travelling through a portal ruffles him. Yennefer answers after minutes that feel like hours, her voice tinny and distorted through the device.

“ What ?”

Eskel clears his throat. “Something happened. We need a portal. Everybody needs to come back to Kaer Morhen.”

Yennefer doesn’t question the demand. She knows how much Geralt hates travelling this way, so to have him actually asking for one means things are very dire indeed.

The portal is as bad as ever, but he knows he has to tough it out. He has to get Jaskier to safety, has to get him to Yennefer so she can lift this fucking curse.

The others arrive shortly after he stumbles through the portal into the dining hall of Kaer Morhen, and Yennefer’s expression when she sees Jaskier in his arms, looking so dead , cuts him deeply.

“What happened?”

Eskel explains as the others gather around him, all looking equally concerned. Lambert scowls, his hand closing into a fist over and over, and Geralt knows there’s a tirade brewing under the surface, knows that the youngest Wolf is looking to blame someone. He doesn’t want to listen to Lambert yelling at him.

But Lambert doesn’t yell at him. Instead he says, “Anybody looking forward to killing that bastard, get in line.”

Yennefer and Triss examine Jaskier with their magic, but there is nothing obvious to be found. “We’ll have to research this,” Triss says softly as she brushes a lock of hair out of Jaskier’s face, and Geralt can only nod.

Silently, he gets to his feet and carries the prince out of the hall. He should put him into his own room, give him the privacy he deserves. Not that Jaskier would know any differently, but still. He ought to, but Geralt doesn’t. He can’t. He walks past the room that Jaskier never used to begin with, and takes him to his own, to their room, ignoring the looks his brothers and the sorceresses give him. He knows pity when he sees it, and he has no taste for it today.

He lays Jaskier on the bed, on the best furs he possesses. He rests his head on the one really good feather pillow he owns, and he covers him with his softest blankets, the ones that still hold their combined scents. He tries so hard to ignore the way Jaskier’s head lolls to the side, how limp his fingers are when Geralt takes hold of his hand.

“I failed you,” he breathes into the stillness of the room. “I swore to protect you, and I failed. You came to me for safety, but all I’ve done is put you at risk.” His grip on Jaskier’s fingers tightens. “I’m so sorry, Jaskier, I shouldn’t have- I should have put my foot down, should have insisted you stay here. I should have kept you safe.”

“Do you think for a second that he would have stayed if you told him to?” He doesn’t have to turn to know it’s Yennefer, and when he doesn’t reply, she comes closer. Her hand is familiar on his shoulder, and she squeezes gently. “He would’ve climbed down this damned mountain on his own if you hadn’t taken him with you. And he would’ve fallen to his death within an hour.” She laughs softly. “That boy is stubborn.”

Geralt chuckles weakly. “Yeah. He is.” He draws a weary breath before he looks up at her. “Any news?”

Yennefer’s lips thin. “It’s definitely a curse. Triss is looking into a couple of ideas right now, but... “ She grimaces. “This is old magic, Geralt. In my experience that means it’s either nigh impossible to break, or ridiculously easy, once you know what to do. The trick is figuring out what that is.”

He feared as much. “Fuck, I hate curses.”

She smiles gently. “You and me both. Get some rest, Geralt. He’s stable, and safe, and quite frankly you look like shit. We’ll figure this out, but you’re no good to him dead on your feet.”

“I know. It’s just... “ He swallows thickly. “I can’t stop thinking that… if I fall asleep, he’ll be gone when I wake up.”

Yennefer’s face softens. “He’ll be here. I promise.”

He wants to protest, but he’s so, so weary, so tired, and so he lets her bully him out of his armour and into bed. He curls one hand around Jaskier’s wrist and keeps his eyes open for as long as he can, but in the end his fatigue forces them closed, and soon he is asleep.

It’s light out when someone shakes him awake, and for one bright, shining moment he thinks it’s Jaskier, that the prince has awoken from his cursed sleep and is about to talk Geralt’s ear off about whatever happened to bring it about in the first place.

But it’s not Jaskier. The boy lies next to him, still and silent, the same way he’s been this whole time, and Geralt wants nothing more than to close his eyes again and hide from this reality.

The person who shook him awake doesn’t agree with this plan. He blinks to come face to face with Triss, and his heart quickens at the look of excitement on her face. “You found something,” he breathes, and Triss smiles.

What she found is this: it is an old curse, far older than any the sorceresses have ever encountered. It was Vesemir, in the end, who frowned at the description of what happened, and after Eskel explained about the doublet, the old Wolf thoughtfully plucked at his moustache.

“Eternal Sleep. I have never seen this used, but I heard about it when I was young. There’s usually a cursed object. Did he have anything on him when he was found?”

They only know about what happened through secondhand accounts. The innkeeper told Eskel about the boy who found Jaskier, and the kid had said he thought the bard choked on the apple that was on the ground beside him, but Jaskier’s throat had been unobstructed. He was just… asleep.

“Do you have the apple?” Triss’ brow is furrowed in thought, and Geralt wants to shake his head but Eskel interrupts.

“I went out and took it with me. I’ll go get it.”

Triss hums. “I’ll come with you. Best we handle it as little as possible, I think.”

The two leave, but that doesn’t make Geralt’s room less crowded. Yennefer perches on the edge of the bed, her hands hovering over Jaskier as she examines him once more. Vesemir hovers behind her, his gaze contemplative, and Lambert leans against the trunk beside the door. Lambert is playing with a dagger, restless, and Geralt wonders just how affected by this Lambert is. Jaskier got along well with the youngest Wolf, before he… He shakes his head to dislodge the thought. Triss and Yennefer will figure out how to lift the curse, and things will be fine.

It doesn’t take long for Triss and Eskel to return. Triss carries the apple wrapped in cloth and hands it over to Yennefer, and the dark-haired sorceress frowns.

“This is powerful magic. I haven’t seen anything like it before. We’ll have to look into it.”

“What do we do with him?” Lambert has come over to get a look at the apple, and now he nods at Jaskier. They all turn to look at him, and the silence is oppressive.

“He should be fine,” Triss says at length. “His heartbeat and breathing are so slow that he barely uses any energy.” She waves a vague hand at the boy. “Like a hibernating toad.”

Lambert scoffs. “Should try throwing him against the wall, maybe that’ll break the curse.”

Eskel boxes him on the arm, and Geralt can’t stop his lip from curling back in anger. “He’s not a fucking toad.”

“But he’s a cursed prince! It worked in that one fairy tale.” Lambert huffs, rubbing his arm. “Well, I could use a drink or five. Merigold, you know where the stillroom is if you need it, just don’t touch anything that’s brewing down there.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

One by one, they trickle out, until only Vesemir remains. The old Witcher stands by the door, contemplative once more as he watches Jaskier. 

Geralt shifts where he sits beside the bard. “What?”

Vesemir looks up to meet his gaze. “Hm? Oh, nothing, just… Maybe Lambert’s on the right track here.” At Geralt’s incredulous expression, he shrugs. “I’ll look into it. You just… take care of the boy. Leave the rest to us.” And with that, he leaves Geralt to his silent vigil, Jaskier unchanged at his side.

Three days pass like this. Geralt only leaves his room, leaves Jaskier , for absolute necessities. He can’t bear to be away from him for too long, the fear that he’ll return to find Jaskier dead or gone too great.

Geralt is used to loneliness, to sitting around for long stretches of time doing nothing, but this… This is torture. Now that he has known Jaskier’s touch, his smile, his tenderness and his fierce heart, being forced to sit and wait for all of that to be returned to him is unbearable. He only eats what Eskel forces into him, only sleeps when Yennefer threatens to make him sleep if he doesn’t stop being such a stubborn fool. Every time he closes his eyes, he fears that Jaskier will have vanished by the time he opens them again.

On the second day, he lies next to the bard, watching the way his lashes fan out over his pale cheeks, how the bard’s chest rises and settles every so often. He allows himself a few gentle touches every now and then, to comb his fingers through Jaskier’s dark hair, to hold those slim hands in his own. It’s just to make sure the prince is still breathing, Geralt tells himself, to check that his heart still beats, but he knows he’s lying to himself. He needs to make sure Jaskier is still there , that his fears haven’t come true.

And on the morning of the third day, when he wakes up with his arm wound around Jaskier and his face pressed to the boy’s neck, Geralt thinks, Oh . This… This must be what loving someone feels like, this pain behind his breast that grows stronger whenever he thinks about losing Jaskier. His heart quickens with the realisation, and he holds Jaskier tighter.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers into the prince’s hair, “don’t leave before I can tell you.”

Eskel appears with breakfast some time later, and Geralt forces himself out of bed. He must look a wreck, he thinks as he eats mechanically, and he’s not surprised when Eskel drops clean clothes into his lap.

“I say this with all the love in my heart, Wolf, but you stink. Go and wash up, I’ll stay with him.”

Part of him feels like he ought to protest, as if he should rant and rave, tell Eskel that he needs to stay, that he can’t leave Jaskier alone because the last time he did, this happened, but… He’s exhausted, and he does smell rank even to himself, and so he picks up the clothes. Before he leaves, he leans over Jaskier’s still form once more. He brushes the boy’s hair away from his forehead and presses his own there, their noses brushing. “I’ll be quick,” he breathes, and then he goes.

Geralt forces himself to enjoy the bath, to wash himself thoroughly. He even uses the ridiculously fancy hair soap Jaskier bought him, and he smiles as he thinks about Jaskier’s face when the boy had found out that Geralt used the cheapest soap he could find for everything before the prince came along. The horrified look Jaskier had graced him with had been… Well, it had been adorable, and Geralt wonders if that had been the first moment where Jaskier went from his charge to… to something else.

He returns to his room smelling like Jaskier, and he lets that carry him forward not with trepidation at what he might find upon his return, but with anticipation.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Triss and Yennefer are waiting for him. Eskel holds a book, and all three of them look up from the pages when Geralt enters. His heart immediately speeds up.

“What’s going on?”

Triss walks around the bed, her gaze serious. “We think we may have found the solution.” And she holds the book out for him to take.

It’s a book of fairy tales. One side is text, the other holds a colourful drawing, and Geralt needs a moment to make sense of what he sees. On the page is a young girl in a glass coffin, and bent over her is what must be a prince. “What is this?”

Yennefer joins Triss before him. “Lambert may have been right, surprising as that may be. We’re reasonably sure the curse Stregobor used was the one Vesemir mentioned. There are two ways to break it, as far as we can tell.”

Triss nods. “You either destroy the cursed object, which we tried.” She turns to look at Jaskier, unchanged on the bed. “And it obviously didn’t work.”

A mixture of fear and hope blooms in Geralt’s chest. “What is the other way?”

Yennefer purses her lips, as if the mere notion of whatever the cure is is offensive to her. “Don’t laugh - true love’s kiss.”

Geralt’s heart sinks so fast he’s dizzy with it, and Eskel scoffs. “That’s a myth. It doesn’t work.”

“Doesn’t it? Then where do all the stories come from?” Triss crosses her arms defensively, and Eskel shrugs.

“Wishful thinking. Humans like nice, tidy solutions.”

“True.” Yennefer plucks the book out of Geralt’s hands again and taps a finger against the drawing. “But most fairy tales hold a kernel of truth. We all know that.”

“Why are we arguing about that,” Geralt asks weakly, and they all turn to look at him. “Even if it worked, how does that help us? How does it help him ?” He looks at Jaskier again, so beautiful even like this, and his throat closes up.

Yennefer hums, and then she takes him by the hand and leads him over to the bed. He goes without resistance, and she gently pushes him down to sit beside Jaskier. Her hands are on his shoulders, and when she speaks, her breath brushes against his cheek. “Geralt, forgive me for saying this, but you are an idiot.” He jerks, tries to turn around, but Yennefer is surprisingly strong. She keeps him facing Jaskier, makes him look at the boy when she says, “All of us can see it. Why can’t you?”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. He can’t say anything, his throat too dry, too tight, and all that comes out of his mouth is a croak. Yennefer can’t mean what he thinks she means.

In his peripheral vision, he can see Triss on the other side of the bed. “You love him,” she says, so softly he can barely hear her, and he presses his lips together tightly as he attempts to shake his head. Triss ignores his unspoken protest. “We’ve all seen how close you are, how… devoted you are to each other.”

“I know you still think you can’t love,” Eskel speaks up, “that because you’re a Witcher, you’re incapable of it, and most importantly undeserving, but we both know that’s bullshit. I know you love me, and Vesemir and Lambert. You love Yennefer and Triss. Why would he be different?”

Geralt chokes when he tries to answer, and Yennefer squeezes his shoulders gently before she takes a step back. “He deserves better,” he finally forces out, barely above a whisper. Kissing Jaskier, fooling around, that’s one thing. Loving him is another matter entirely. “He’s… so bright and good and… I can’t force that on him.” He knows even as he says it that it’s far too late anyway, that he does love Jaskier, and it scares him in a way little else has in his long life.

“You can,” Yennefer says quietly. “You can love him. I give you permission to love him,” and if it weren’t so absurd, he’d laugh at that statement. “You can love him, and you can save him, Geralt.”

He stares down at the boy, nestled still and silent and beautiful into his bed, his prince, his bard , and his heart beats in his throat. “What if it doesn’t work?”

All three of them step away from the bed, and Triss hums. “It will work.”

They fall silent, and Geralt reaches out a careful hand and cups Jaskier’s cheek. He’s so delicate, and Geralt is almost afraid to touch him, lest the boy shatter into pieces under his brutish hand. This is a harebrained idea , he thinks, utterly ridiculous , and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t work.

He leans down, until he can feel Jaskier’s slow breath against his skin, and he closes his eyes. “Please,” he whispers, and then he kisses Jaskier.

It’s just a gentle press of his lips to the prince’s, but he puts all of his longing and heartache into the touch, all of his desperate hope. His heart is racing when he sits up again, staring down at Jaskier, and he counts the seconds, his stomach knotting up more and more with every one that passes.

It didn’t work.

It didn’t work.

His hands curl into fists where they rest on his thighs, and his eyes burn with tears he can’t shed, and he wants to scream and rage at the world, wants to kill Stregobor with his bare hands. It’s not fair, that that monster should live and Jaskier be left like this-

Behind him, Yennefer sucks in a breath, and Geralt is so caught off guard by it that his gaze moves away from Jaskier’s face, and there is his hand. Jaskier’s fingers that had lain flat on his stomach, that are now moving, and the breath rushes out of Geralt all at once. He grabs that hand, probably too harshly if the pained hiss that falls from Jaskier’s lips is anything to go by, but he doesn’t care.

“Jaskier,” he breathes, crushing that delicate hand to his chest as he cups the bard’s cheek again, and then his lashes flutter and Jaskier opens his eyes, and Geralt surges forward and kisses him. Jaskier makes a soft noise of confusion, and behind Geralt Eskel is hollering for the others while Triss sniffles softly, but he doesn’t care about any of that.

Jaskier is alive, he’s awake, and Geralt is never letting him go again.

The first thing Jaskier becomes aware of are lips pressed to his, and he gasps in surprise. The next thing is the fact that he's lying in a bed, when last he remembers he was sitting under the tree behind the inn.

The person kissing him like their life depends on it turns out to be Geralt, and Jaskier lifts a shaky hand and cups the Witcher's cheek. Geralt stops kissing him, but only long enough to look at him, eyes wide and disbelieving, and then he says, "You're alive," before he immediately kisses him again.

Jaskier is incredibly confused, but not complaining.

After a solid minute of Geralt kissing him quite silly, someone clears their throat, and his Witcher pulls back with obvious reluctance. Jaskier looks around and realises they’re back at Kaer Morhen, back in their room, and the sorceresses and Eskel are standing at the foot of the bed, looking varying degrees of emotional.

“Wh- What happened?” he croaks. His voice sounds horribly rough, and he grimaces.

There’s a crash in the hallway, and a moment later Lambert bursts through the door, Aiden hot on his heels, and then Coën and Vesemir crowd into the room as well, and Jaskier is more confused than ever. They all look so relieved , and he has no idea what is happening.

Geralt squeezes his hand, probably with more strength than he intends to. “You were cursed.” The corners of his mouth twitch, and he scowls. “Again,” he adds, and Jaskier gapes at him.

“What? How?”

“Some stranger handed you an apple, didn’t they?” Yennefer is looking at him shrewdly, and all of a sudden Jaskier feels really rather stupid.

“Oh. Yes, he… He did. I didn’t think-” His breath catches, and his eyes burn all of a sudden.

After all his promises to Geralt that he’d be fine, that the Witcher shouldn’t worry, Jaskier was once more bested by his own stupidity.

“You couldn’t have known,” Eskel says gently. He has an arm around Triss, who looks like she’s this close to bursting into tears herself. 

“But I should have suspected-”

“I think this is enough excitement for today,” Vesemir interrupts. “The lot of you, out. Let’s give them some privacy.”

The Witchers all file past the bed, nodding at him or squeezing the hand not still in Geralt’s death grip. Lambert reaches down and ruffles his hair.

“Good to have you back, kid.”

They all leave, and when the door closes behind Yennefer, Jaskier looks back at Geralt. His Witcher is looking at him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear the moment he turns away, and Jaskier tugs on his hand a little, to draw Geralt closer.

“What kind of curse was it?” he asks, and finally Geralt lies down beside him. His arm goes around Jaskier’s waist, nearly crushing him to the Witcher’s chest, and he leans up and presses a soft kiss to the cut of Geralt’s jaw.

Geralt takes a deep breath. “You… slept. Deeply. Your heart rate slowed so much, we thought you were dead.” His voice trips over that last word, and Jaskier pushes closer.

“I’m not, darling, I’m right here.”

They lie there like that until Jaskier can tell Geralt has calmed down somewhat, his arms around Jaskier relaxing just a little. Finally, his curiosity wins.

“How… did you break the curse?”

Geralt goes nearly rigid under his hands, and Jaskier frowns. “I- Well, that’s... Hm.”

“You were kissing me,” Jaskier supplies softly, his fingers curling into the fabric of Geralt’s shirt, and the Witcher closes his eyes.

“I was.”

All of a sudden, Jaskier’s heartbeat quickens. It can’t be, surely, it’s just a fairy tale. Something completely made up to sate people’s need for romance. It can not be.

“Yennefer suggested it,” Geralt says quietly. His fingers twitch where they’re curled around Jaskier’s shoulder. “I didn’t think it would work. It’s just… It’s supposed to be a myth. It’s not- It’s not supposed to work.” His jaw tightens, and that ever-present scowl is back on his face. “It’s not supposed to work for Witchers, especially.”

Jaskier needs to hear him say it. He knows what Geralt is dancing around but he needs to hear it.

“What are you talking about, Geralt?”

The Witcher closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, and then he whispers, “True love’s kiss.”

Jaskier doesn’t know how to describe the sound that comes out of his mouth at that. It’s a sort of squeaky groan, and he pushes himself onto his elbows and kisses Geralt for all he’s worth. Geralt responds in kind, pulling him on top of him as their kiss gets more and more frantic, and Jaskier doesn’t realise he’s crying until Geralt brushes the tears away with his thumb.

“I love you,” he gasps, turning his head to kiss the Witcher’s palm, “oh, I love you, too.”

The look of helpless wonder on Geralt’s face makes him laugh, makes him giggle helplessly even as he keeps crying, and Geralt wraps his arms around him and pulls him against his chest.

“I’m never losing you again,” he rasps, and Jaskier hums through his tears.

They have four days left until the ball, Yennefer tells him the next day.

“We still need to go forward as planned,” she says with an apologetic twist to her lips. “Even if Stregobor knows you’re around, this will be the best opportunity we’ll get in the foreseeable future.” She fixes him with her intense gaze. “You don’t have to come with us,” she offers. “You can stay here, and we’ll get you after.”

Geralt’s grip on his hand tightens, but Jaskier shakes his head. “No, I… I need to be there.”

Yennefer just looks at him for a long, long moment, but then she nods. “As you wish.”

Originally, they were all in the city to get into contact with the rest of the resistance, to lay low and wait for the ball, but now that their cover has been blown, it is decided that they’ll stay in Kaer Morhen until the day of the ball.

Jaskier can’t complain about that, even if Geralt’s constant hovering can get a bit suffocating. It gets so bad that he barely leaves Jaskier’s side even in the bath, always within arm’s reach. It’s sweet, really, but Jaskier would like to just take a fucking bath in peace without an overprotective Witcher breathing down his neck the whole time.

“Turn around,” he tells Geralt on the third day, eager to at least get a reprieve from the man’s gaze for a moment. He feels a bit bad about it, but really .

Geralt’s reluctance is plain on his face, but he obeys, and Jaskier pushes down on his shoulder until the Witcher sinks low enough that Jaskier can wet his hair. Geralt has been so focused on keeping Jaskier safe these last few days that he’s grown ever more tense and irritable, and Jaskier has about had it.

He carefully strokes his fingers through Geralt’s hair until all of it is soaked, then taps on his shoulder so he’ll sit up again. Geralt’s hair is really quite lovely, soft and silky when well-cared for, and Jaskier will make it his mission to make sure it is always well-cared for from now on.

As he works, he hums aimlessly, a gentle, soothing melody, and combined with the soap he carefully massages into Geralt’s hair, with the fingers dragging over his skull, the tension soon leaves the Witcher. He slumps a little, his breathing slow and even, and Jaskier smiles.

“There you go, darling.”

By the time Jaskier guides him down again to wash the suds out of his hair, Geralt has turned into a relaxed puddle of a Witcher. He hums when Jaskier attempts to get him to sit up again, apparently completely content lying in the water with his head balanced on Jaskier’s knee, and after the week they’ve had, the bard can’t find it in himself to deprive him of this small comfort.

He knows it’s not going to last.

Once more they ready themselves to leave the next day. Bags are packed, weapons checked, and Geralt is driving Jaskier insane with his rather intense fussing once more. It gets so bad that Yennefer, also frazzled from all the planning and the anticipation, yells at him to, “Leave the poor boy alone for just two seconds!”

Geralt looks like he wants to yell back, and Jaskier considers letting him, but he’s too raw, too anxious himself to have tensions boiling over like this. He grabs Geralt by the hand and drags him from the room, up the stairs and into their bedroom, and then he pushes him down to sit on the bed. Geralt scowls at him.

“What.”

“You can’t go out like this. You can’t- You can’t let yourself be distracted by worrying about me.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a moment, until he looks up at him again. “But I do worry about you.”

Bless and curse this man , Jaskier thinks, and then he climbs into Geralt’s lap and kisses him roughly. “I’m right here, dear heart,” he gasps into the kiss as Geralt’s arms come up to hold him close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise,” Geralt groans. “Promise you’ll be safe.”

He can’t promise that, Jaskier knows. He promised nothing would happen to him when he sent Geralt off on that hunt. He knows this is dangerous, that they all could die. But he can’t ignore the desperation in Geralt’s eyes, in his voice, in his touch , and so he says, “I promise.”

And when Geralt sighs into his mouth and holds him so tightly, Jaskier hopes he’ll be able to keep that promise.

Just like before, they portal into the woods outside the city, but unlike before, they stay together as they enter Tretogor. They know it’s a risk, but Yennefer says they have run out of time. It’s early in the evening, the ball just about to begin, and they hope things will be too chaotic for anybody to pay attention to a group clearly made up of Witchers and sorceresses, and one solitary human bard.

“I resent the way you say human,” he murmurs as he walks, flanked by Geralt and Yennefer on either side, and the sorceress chuckles.

“Believe me, little dove, it’s a compliment.”

The pet name is new, and Jaskier doesn’t know how he feels about it, but he doesn’t have the energy to ponder it too deeply. They’re making their way towards the palace, only veering off the main street a block or so away from it. They walk down a dark alley, and Jaskier thinks it’s rather fitting considering this is essentially a murder plot. It’s all very poetic, in a way.

They enter a courtyard, the Witchers obviously checking for threats, and they all tense when two people step out from an archway. Jaskier’s heart stumbles in his chest but then he realises who he’s looking at, and he runs forward with a cry.

“Ermion!”

For it is Ermion. The councillor looks a little worse for wear since Jaskier last saw him, and he stumbles when Jaskier throws his arms around the man, but he’s smiling. “It’s good to see you, my prince. We feared the worst, and it was a relief to hear from Yennefer that you were well taken care of,” he says. Then he smirks and adds, “Or should I say your majesty?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes as he steps back. He’s incredibly relieved to see the man, and so distracted he only now notices the woman by his side. She’s rather short, and even more severe-looking than Yennefer. He can’t help but feel like a bug pinned to a board as she looks him over. 

Then she bows her head. “Your majesty.”

Behind him, Lambert snickers. “Told you we should call him that,” he says as he bumps against Aiden with his shoulder, and Jaskier throws a rude gesture their way. The two young Witchers just cackle, and Jaskier rolls his eyes as he turns his attention back to Ermion and the woman.

“Jaskier, this is Tissaia de Vries. She was my mentor at Aretuza,” Yennefer explains.

He gives the woman a polite nod as Vesemir comes closer. “I take it the others are already in position?” he asks, and Tissaia nods.

“There’s a secret tunnel. It comes out beneath the family sanctuary. We’ve sent our people in through there.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops as he listens. He always thought he knew all the secret pathways in the palace but apparently he was wrong.

They move into the tunnel through the archway, and Geralt has reclaimed his hand by this point. He squeezes it gently. “Ready?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and squeezes back. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

It’s strange being back in the palace, Jaskier thinks, as he lets himself be guided through the servants’ corridors, Ermion leading the way. He has changed so much during these last couple of months that the thought of returning here, of going back to being prince, no, King Julian, is utterly incomprehensible to him.

It would mean leaving Geralt, and he can’t breathe when he thinks about that.

They slow down somewhat the closer they get to the banquet hall, and Jaskier feels vaguely sick with adrenaline. There are people waiting for them, other mages and sorceresses, he thinks, and he tries to melt into the background as a young man with dark skin and bright blue eyes informs Tissaia and Yennefer about what is happening inside the hall.

“He has at least thirty men guarding him,” he says, and Tissaia’s lips thin.

“Vesemir, how do you and your men feel about taking care of that?”

The Witchers exchange looks, then nod. “We can do that,” Vesemir says. “You just concentrate on Stregobor.”

“There’s one of them,” Geralt growls. “Dark curls, pretentious little moustache. He’s mine,” he states, and Jaskier’s breath catches.

Valdo.

He knows he should probably protest. Valdo was his friend once upon a time, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t he try and save him from his Witcher’s wrath? But then he remembers all the cruel things Valdo said to him over the years, remembers the look of glee on his face when he took him into the forest and revealed his plan, and all Jaskier feels is sorrow for the friend he lost a long, long time ago.

Jaskier is to stick close to Triss, he’s told, and then Geralt pulls him into a last, bruising kiss.

“Be safe,” he whispers. “You promised ,” and Jaskier kisses him back just as ferociously.

“You too.”

They break apart, and everyone readies themselves. Then Tissaia flicks a finger at the double doors, and all hell breaks loose.

Jaskier is nearly blind and deaf by the time the chaos - both magical and literal - in the banquet hall dies down. Just like Tissaia, Stregobor had gathered powerful allies, and the ambush had soon devolved into an all-out brawl between the mages, Witchers, and the royal guard.

Triss keeps him in the corridor, and Jaskier watches with bated breath as the Witchers tear through the soldiers. It should make him feel ill, he knows. He probably knows most of these men, and he wishes things could be different, but they’re not. This is the world they live in, and these people threw their lot in with Stregobor. It is only fitting that they should reap the rewards of that decision.

Despite the chaos in the hall, it’s easy to find Geralt, his white hair unmistakable even in the press of bodies and the flashing of blades. He cuts through his opponents like they’re just minor inconveniences on his way to Valdo, and once he spots the man, he moves straight through the crowd, blasting soldiers out of his way with a Sign, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

He can pinpoint the moment Valdo realises what is happening, can see the terror on his face. For a second, he wavers, and Jaskier thinks he’ll actually stand his ground and fight Geralt, but then he turns and flees.

He doesn’t get far, doesn’t even make it ten paces. Geralt is behind him all of a sudden, propelled forward by his rage, and Valdo cries out when Geralt trips him up. He goes down, vanishing from view, and Geralt says something to him, his face twisted into a grimace of pure, murderous fury.

Then he lifts his sword and brings it down on Valdo, and Jaskier has to close his eyes for a moment.

At the other end of the hall, the mages are locked in battle, and Jaskier can barely look for fear of being blinded. It seems to go on forever, the noise rattling his bones. Yennefer is breathtaking as she attacks Stregobor, never giving him an inch, Tissaia and two other women by her side, one blonde, the other with skin even darker than the blue-eyed mage.

He doesn’t stand a chance , he thinks as he watches the way Stregobor is forced back, and then, with a burst of fire from Yennefer’s fingertips that burns so hot Jaskier thinks he can feel it all the way across the room, it’s over. Stregobor collapses with a cry, and Aiden and Lambert dart forward. They shackle him, the metal glinting strangely in the candlelight.

“Dimeritium shackles,” Triss explains as she pulls him into the hall with her. “They suppress his magic.”

Geralt appears by his side as they make their way to the back of the hall. He’s covered in gore, a bright streak of red like lightning across his face, but Jaskier slips his hand into the Witcher’s and holds on tightly.

In the circle of mages, sorceresses, and Witchers, Stregobor is raging against his captors. “I demand an explanation!” He’s red in the face, clearly exhausted and angry, but he goes still and pales when Jaskier comes to stand beside Yennefer. “Julian! Darling boy, you’re alive!”

Jaskier looks down at him, and he can’t help it. He laughs. It starts off as a chuckle but soon turns into a full belly laugh that has him gasping for breath. He’s aware of people watching him, of the way Geralt’s grip on his hand tightens in concern, but he doesn’t care. He laughs and laughs until his stomach hurts. When he finally calms himself down again, he heaves a deep breath and looks back at Stregobor. By now, the man is white as a sheet, and Jaskier shakes off Geralt’s hand, takes the two steps to stand before Stregobor, and spits in the man’s face.

“You fucking piece of shit,” he hisses. “You tried to have me killed! You killed my father!”

There are gasps of surprise from the few guests that hadn’t managed to escape the carnage, and then there’s a cry and before Jaskier knows it, his mother is there, running towards him with tears streaming down her face. “Julian!”

The Witchers and mages step aside and he catches her as she launches herself at him, and finally, something inside Jaskier settles.

It’s done, he realises. His kingdom is free, his mother is free, and Stregobor will get the punishment he deserves. He should feel ecstatic.

But then he meets Geralt’s eyes over his mother’s shoulder, and he knows he’s about to lose something even more precious.

Passing judgment on Stregobor is not so simple. Ermion presents Jaskier with a list of the man’s crimes, one he spends two hours reading, his stomach sinking ever more.

“I had no idea it was this bad,” he murmurs. He’s back in his old room, papers strewn across every available surface. Ermion sits in a chair beside his desk, Tissaia and Yennefer on the chaise before the fireplace. Geralt and Eskel flank the door, silent sentinels.

“I admit to keeping some things from you,” Ermion says, clearly apologetic. “Especially towards the end. I hoped Stregobor would transfer power peacefully and we could resolve all of these issues.” He grimaces. “Alas.”

“You have your work cut out for you, little dove,” Yennefer says. She looks tired, her fingers white-knuckled around a goblet of wine, and Jaskier really thinks she ought to go to bed.

“You’ll have to decide what happens with Stregobor,” Tissaia remarks. “The Brotherhood would be happy to take him off your hands.”

Jaskier watches her for a moment. She, too, looks exhausted, but her calm demeanour is easy to trust. Maybe too easy. “What would you do with him?”

Tissaia’s lips twitch up into a wry smile. “Most likely kill him. Unless you had another proposal?”

He doesn’t, not really. He’s stuck in a strange sort of limbo where he wants nothing more than to strangle the man with his bare hands, but he also doesn’t want to be the one to pass judgment on him. He doesn’t want to be responsible for taking someone’s life.

Ermion hums into the ensuing silence. “Maybe we should leave this for tomorrow. We’re all dead on our feet, and the bastard isn’t going anywhere.”

There are murmurs of assent all around, and Ermion leads the sorceresses out of the room. Eskel comes over to where Jaskier is still slumped in his chair and offers him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“We’re just across the hall,” he says. “If you need anything, just call for us.”

He leaves, and Jaskier is alone with Geralt, finally. Geralt, who hasn’t moved from his spot by the door. Jaskier swallows thickly, then pushes himself to his feet. The Witcher watches him approach almost apprehensively, and Jaskier aches.

“Will you stay?” he asks softly, and the breath rushes out of Geralt.

“I can’t,” he says, so quietly Jaskier can barely hear him.

“Why not?”

Geralt closes his eyes, and it’s clear to see how much this pains him. “You’re a king now, Jas, and I… I’m just a Witcher.”

Even knowing this was most likely going to happen, it hurts to hear. “But you’re my Witcher,” he whispers, and he reaches for Geralt’s hand. He tries not to show his hurt when Geralt flinches away before allowing him to take it. “I don’t want to be king,” he says quietly. “I never wanted to be king. I want to be a bard, your bard. I want to sleep in shitty inns and musty haylofts with you, want to wash monster guts out of your hair and-”

“Gods, are you even listening to yourself?” Geralt pulls his hand away now, lips curled back from his teeth. He looks wild, all of a sudden, and Jaskier flinches. “You can’t just give all of this up to follow me around, Ja- Julian! This isn’t a fairy tale!”

Hearing Geralt use his given name is like a punch to the gut, and he takes a step back. It hurts, hurts worse than he thought words could hurt. Still. “But it is,” he whispers. “You saved me with true love’s kiss,” he says, trying to ignore the plea in his voice. “You love me, and I love you, more than anything.” He’s crying, he realises, and when Geralt looks at him, the anguish on the man’s face only makes him cry harder. “Please don’t leave me,” he sobs finally, and whatever defences, whatever justifications Geralt has amassed to convince himself crumble. He steps forward and tugs Jaskier close, holds him so tightly Jaskier can barely breathe but he doesn’t care.

He sobs into Geralt’s chest, all of the terror of the day falling away, and he prays that they’ll be alright.

When Jaskier wakes the next day, he still feels drained of energy, and he snuggles closer to Geralt. It had been such a relief when his Witcher agreed to stay with him, and Jaskier tightens his grip around his waist. Geralt grumbles lowly in his sleep, and then he turns and snuffles through Jaskier’s hair. It’s… kind of adorable.

“Morning,” he rasps, voice sleep rough, and Jaskier presses a kiss to his chest.

“Good morning.” It’s strange, to wake up in his childhood bed, pressed shoulder to knee to the man he loves. It feels… forbidden, almost, like he’s breaking some unspoken rule. He snorts when he realises that he probably is.

Geralt huffs against his temple, fingers gently digging into his back. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking how odd it is to be here with you, in the bed I’ve had since I was eight.”

“Good odd or bad odd?” There’s something in his voice, that same uncertainty that led to their confrontation yesterday, and Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbow so he can look at Geralt.

“Good odd,” he says softly, then leans down and kisses him. “Very good, in fact.”

“Hm.” Geralt pulls him down again, arranges him in the crook of his arm. “You still smell tired,” he says, and Jaskier sighs.

“I am, a little. I also… I just don’t want to have to deal with any of this any more. I want to go back home with you, and I want to curl up in our bed and not leave for a week.”

Geralt’s hand has stilled where it’s splayed out on his back, and after a moment he asks, “Home?”

Jaskier’s heart trips over itself. He hadn’t even noticed what he said, but now that Geralt has repeated it he realises he meant it. Tretogor stopped being his home a while ago. When he thinks of home, he thinks of that crumbling keep, high in the mountains, but most of all he thinks of Geralt.

“Yes,” he replies, and he presses closer to Geralt. “Home.”

Stregobor’s fate is decided that day. Jaskier may want the man dead, and the Witchers certainly are in favour of that, but Jaskier shakes his head.

“It would be too easy,” he says. “He doesn’t deserve an easy death.”

Yennefer smirks at him. “Nobody said it had to be easy.”

While Jaskier may secretly agree with that, he shakes his head. “No. He’s to be judged fairly. I say given that it’s the Brotherhood’s fault he could even get to this point, it should follow that he is their responsibility.”

Tissaia agrees, and so the still shackled and powerless mage, looking utterly dejected, is handed over to the contingent of mages and taken away.

“He ever makes it out of wherever you’re taking him,” Geralt says, glaring down at Tissaia, “I’ll make it your personal problem.”

The woman just smiles at him. “Believe me, Geralt, if he makes it out of there, I’ll deserve your ire.”

The mages take their leave, all except for Yennefer and Triss, and Jaskier takes a deep breath as he turns to Ermion.

“There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”

Ermion doesn’t even try to hide the way his gaze moves between Jaskier and Geralt. “You’re leaving,” he says matter-of-factly, and Jaskier flushes slightly.

“I want to. You know I was never keen on ruling, and I’ve been thinking. There’s nothing to stop me from changing the laws that regulate who can be ruler, right?”

“Not really, but you’d have to get the council to agree.”

Jaskier nods. “Gather them.”

Next to him, Geralt’s breath stutters, and he squeezes his Witcher’s hand reassuringly.

Changing the law is easy. Jaskier has no siblings, but he does have a cousin, Essi, who was always better at politics than him and far more interested in them. There is some grumbling from a few councillors about having a queen, and such a young one, too, but it’s enough for Jaskier to smile and ask if they’d rather have a king who is just as young and knows nothing about politics. They acquiesce quickly after that.

Essi isn’t far, just a couple of days’ ride away in Oxenfurt, but Yennefer offers to portal the royal messenger there and, if needed, provide another for the new queen to get to Tretogor as well.

After that it all goes so smoothly Jaskier is almost afraid something awful will pop up at the last minute and ruin all his plans. But nothing happens, and they all stay long enough to attend the crowning ceremony.

The moment the crown is placed on Essi’s blond locks, Jaskier turns to Geralt and whispers, “Take me home, my love,” and his Witcher pulls him close and kisses him deeply.

It would be perfect, utterly perfect, if it weren’t for Lambert making fake retching noises behind them. Jaskier is so going to punch him for that later.

Kaer Morhen hasn’t changed one bit when they step through the portal into the dining hall. The snow is piled higher in the courtyard, and the horses are visibly displeased at being left alone for so long, even with Yennefer’s magic feeding troughs, but it’s Kaer Morhen still.

It’s home.

The others disperse to go check the keep for any new damage - “Frost can bring down a whole wall,” Vesemir explains, - and Geralt gives Jaskier a look ripe with promise.

“You said something about not wanting to leave our bed for a week, if I remember correctly.”

Jaskier’s heart jumps in his chest, and sweet, delicious heat pools in his gut. “I believe I did,” he says faintly, and Geralt catches his hand and pulls him towards the stairs.

Their room is cold, and Geralt quickly stacks wood in the fireplace and lights it with a strong blast of Igni, and Jaskier sits on the bed and watches. He’ll never not be fascinated by the seemingly effortless way the Witchers use their Signs.

The fire soon warms the frigid air, and in any case, Jaskier feels very warm indeed when Geralt rises to his feet with all the grace of the predator that he is. Jaskier’s stomach flutters as the Witcher crosses the room until he stands before him, and he tips his head back so he can look Geralt in the eyes.

“We don’t have to,” Geralt says softly, even though the hunger in his gaze is undeniable, and Jaskier is about to burst with the love he has for this man. “I know you’ve never…”

“I want to,” Jaskier rushes to say, and he’s surprised himself that he means it. “ I want to , I’m just… a bit scared, I suppose.” Geralt brings his hand to his cheek, strokes his thumb across his cheekbone, and Jaskier shivers. “Just… be gentle?”

The air rushes out of Geralt’s lungs, and he leans down and kisses Jaskier, so, so softly. “Of course,” he breathes against his lips, and Jaskier knows without a shadow of a doubt that he will be, that Geralt would never, ever do anything to hurt him.

The Witcher pulls him to his feet and divests him of his cloak, then his doublet. It’s still cool in the room, and Jaskier’s skin prickles with gooseflesh. Geralt guides him back to sitting on the bed, then carefully pulls his boots off his feet, then his socks. Jaskier doesn’t expect it when the Witcher picks up one foot and strokes his thumb across the arch, and he jumps and giggles, and Geralt smiles.

“Now you,” Jaskier says and pokes the man’s shoulder with his toe, and Geralt turns his head and presses a kiss to the top of his foot that catches Jaskier entirely off guard. Then Geralt rises and begins to strip.

It’s not the first time by far that Jaskier has seen the Witcher naked, but it’s an experience every single time. Every pale line of his body looks like it was hewn from marble, and Jaskier could just look at him for hours. He knows Geralt has… trouble with his body at times, with the changes brought on by the trials, the mutations, but when he looks at him now, baring himself for Jaskier’s judgment, he’s helpless to anything but admiration.

“Beautiful,” he hears himself say before he can stop himself, and Geralt’s mouth twists into a wry smirk. He doesn’t comment, but it’s clear he dismisses the idea that anyone could find his body beautiful as ludicrous. Jaskier will just have to keep telling him.

Geralt strips down to his smalls, and Jaskier bites his lip when he sees how the Witcher’s nipples pebble in the cool air. He shifts where he sits and is surprised to find himself half hard already, and when Geralt comes closer and tugs his chemise over his head, he gasps softly. He falls backwards onto the furs, looking up at Geralt, and the Witcher’s pupils widen visibly as he lets his gaze roam over Jaskier’s body.

It should make him feel abashed, to be looked at this openly, but living with Witchers has mostly cured him of being shy about his body. After all, he has seen more dicks in his time in the keep than he ever thought he would.

Instead, it makes him feel strangely powerful, to have caught the gaze of a man like Geralt, to be… Well, to be desired like this, for it is very clear that Geralt desires him. Feeling bold, he lifts his hips as he tugs at the laces holding his trousers closed, and Geralt’s eyes darken even more when he pushes the garment down past his arse. The Witcher lifts his foot and tugs at the trouser leg, then the other, until Jaskier lies there in nothing but his smallclothes and the blush steadily creeping down his chest.

Geralt crawls onto the bed and Jaskier moves to lie down next to him, and he’s immediately pulled into a kiss that has his toes curling into the furs. One of Geralt’s big hands is cupping his cheek as the other strokes gently over his upper arm, and Jaskier whimpers and presses himself closer. He’s more than half hard now, and he rubs himself against Geralt’s thick thigh with a gasp that he’s almost embarrassed by.

They spend long minutes like that, just touching and kissing, not so different from what they've done before, but anticipation is curling hotly in Jaskier's stomach when Geralt's hand moves down his side and to the curve of his hip. He teases his fingertips against the top of Jaskier's smalls, and all of a sudden getting out of them, getting Geralt out of his, is all Jaskier can think about.

" Please ," he gasps, and it seems to be enough. 

Geralt kisses him deeply once more before he pushes himself up onto his knees, and he slowly unlaces the ties of Jaskier's smalls. The fabric catches on Jaskier's prick as it's pulled down and he whimpers. He lifts his hips, earning himself an approving hum from Geralt, and then he's entirely bare.

It's not the first time he's been naked in front of Geralt, not by a long shot, but this… This is different. He looks up at Geralt, spread out on his back as he is, like an offering, and he can't help but feel that way, a little. A virgin sacrifice, given to the great White Wolf, and oh, that's a good one, he'll have to remember that for a song-

"Are you… composing ?" Geralt is smiling at him with such fondness, and Jaskier can't bring himself to be ashamed.

"Maybe a little." He grins up at his Witcher, then pokes him with his toe again. It only takes a little effort to ignore the way his cock bobs against his stomach as he moves. Ignoring the way Geralt's eyes are drawn to it is a little more difficult. "Your turn, darling."

Geralt slides off the side of the bed and unties his laces, and Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. Gods, he really is… quite big, isn't he?

The Witcher must sense his turmoil. He lies down again and pulls Jaskier back into his arms, goes back to just kissing him, and if their hips align just so that they can rub against each other, well.

Jaskier is pleasantly overwhelmed, every nerve ending singing with pleasure. He has always enjoyed getting to touch and kiss Geralt, but like this it's so much more intense. The Witcher's cock glides against his so teasingly, all of it so new, and Jaskier knows he can absolutely get off like this, but… He wants more. He wants…

He wants Geralt to claim him, he thinks, wants his Witcher to be the first - and only - man to have him like this. The thought makes him whimper into Geralt's mouth, has him writhing under Geralt's touch.

"What do you want, Jas? Tell me." He's so gentle, so careful . It makes Jaskier ache for him.

"Fuck me," he blurts, and is immediately horrified by his own boldness, but Geralt again looks at him with such fondness.

"We don't have to, if you're uncertain. I know it can be… daunting."

"No, I- I want it. I really do." Gathering his courage, he takes Geralt's hand and guides it to his arse, even as his heart thunders in his ears. "Please. I want- I want you to be my first. My- My only."

There's a flash of something almost predatory in Geralt's eyes, and his mouth twitches. "Jaskier," he nearly growls, and then he's kissing him like his life depends on it.

It takes the Witcher a long moment to rein himself in again, and Jaskier whines when Geralt pulls back. He's still holding onto Jaskier's arse, fingers digging into his flesh, and his desperation, his need , is palpable.

“Can I- Hm.”

“What?” Geralt looks almost sheepish, and Jaskier nuzzles his jaw gently. “Tell me, please?”

Geralt wets his lips before he meets his gaze again, his eyes darker than ever. “I want to lick you.”

Jaskier looks back at him, uncomprehending, and Geralt reaches behind him slowly, carefully pushes a finger between Jaskier’s cheeks to tease at his hole, and Jaskier’s eyes widen. “You mean-”

“Hm.” He can’t quite meet Jaskier’s eyes, and the bard feels himself blush deeply.

He has never even once in his life considered… that to be a possibility, but he’s surprised to find he’s not opposed to the idea. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Jaskier swallows thickly and leans closer, presses his lips to Geralt’s. “If you’d like.”

Geralt makes a soft noise, his eyes fluttering closed. “You can say no,” he breathes, and Jaskier kisses him again.

“I know,” he breathes, “but I’m saying yes.”

The Witcher shudders and kisses him hungrily, and Jaskier moans, pressing closer. Geralt nips at his lower lip gently. “Roll over?”

Jaskier does, his heart beating heavily against his ribs. This is really happening , he thinks, giddy with it. His prick rubs against the sheets as he settles, and he licks his lips as he looks back at Geralt over his shoulder. The Witcher is staring at him as though he wants to devour him, and Jaskier spreads his legs slowly, watching with bated breath as Geralt’s lips part.

He almost expects him to get started right away, but Geralt doesn’t. He leans in and presses gentle kisses to Jaskier’s shoulder, then down the length of his spine, and Jaskier trembles, his breath shuddering out of him.

It’s… a very strange feeling when Geralt reaches the curve of his arse, when he moves between Jaskier’s legs and kisses his tailbone. “You want me to stop, you tell me immediately,” Geralt rasps, and then he leans in and spreads Jaskier’s cheeks, and Jaskier gives a surprised squeak at the first touch of the Witcher’s tongue to his hole. Geralt groans, the vibrations rumbling through Jaskier, and he buries his face in the pillows and moans.

It takes Geralt mere minutes to reduce him to a sweaty, gasping mess as he licks him open. Jaskier could never have predicted that it would feel like this, and he finds himself lifting his hips to drive back onto Geralt’s tongue. The Witcher groans again and pushes into him, and Jaskier twitches violently.

“Geralt, I’m- I’ll-” Gods, he’s so close , he’ll come if Geralt keeps it up.

Instead of stopping, Geralt doubles his efforts, lapping and sucking at his rim, and then there’s a finger teasing at his hole. “Jas,” he rasps, and Jaskier whines and arches into his touch.

That one finger is enough to shove him over the edge, and Jaskier would be embarrassed by that if he wasn’t busy coming his brains out. Geralt presses his face against the curve of Jaskier’s arse, panting as he fucks him on that finger, and Jaskier whimpers and writhes and rocks back into it, and it’s so ridiculously good .

He’s shaking and sensitive when he comes down again, and he lifts his head with effort, looking back at Geralt. The Witcher’s mouth is shining with spit, the barest hint of a flush on his cheeks, and Jaskier is completely overwhelmed by how much he wants him.

“We can stop,” Geralt pants, “we don’t have to-”

“We’re not stopping,” Jaskier says, lifting his hips again, and Geralt’s finger sinks into him deeper once more. The Witcher groans, his eyes sliding closed. “ Please , Geralt.”

Geralt kisses the curve of his arse again, then he pulls his finger free carefully. Jaskier sighs as he settles more comfortably and watches Geralt fetch a bottle from a chest beside the fireplace. He’s still soft and relaxed from his orgasm, but anticipation curls in his gut once more.

The Witcher urges his hips up gently and shoves a pillow there to support him, and Jaskier wiggles a little to get comfortable in the odd position. Behind him, Geralt groans once more. “Gods, Jas, you look-” He seems to run out of words then, instead leaning in and kissing the small of his back, and Jaskier shivers.

Geralt uses what feels like the whole bottle of oil to work him open oh-so-slowly, one finger after the other sinking deep into Jaskier and reducing him to a whining, drooling mess. Jaskier loses all sense of time, his whole world reduced to Geralt opening him up. Nothing outside their bed exists any more, and soon Jaskier finds himself rocking back against Geralt’s hand. The Witcher growls softly, his free hand stroking down the line of his back.

“You’re doing so well, Jas, look so good like this.”

“ G-Geralt. ” He’s whining, pleading, really, and he cries out when Geralt spreads his fingers carefully. “Please,” he gasps, “please, I’m ready.”

The Witcher groans again and pumps his fingers in and out a couple of times more, and then he withdraws. Jaskier draws a shuddering breath, and then Geralt’s hand is on his hip, genty urging him up to his knees.

“Like this?” He bows over Jaskier’s back, hot breath fanning over his cheek, and Jaskier whimpers when Geralt’s cock presses against his thigh, hot and hard and drooling against his skin.

Gods .

“Yes,” he gasps and wriggles a little, and Geralt groans and nips at the curve of his shoulder.

There is more oil, and Jaskier breathes deeply. A moment later he whimpers, the hot pressure of Geralt’s cock against his hole overwhelming, but then his body submits, the muscle giving way, and then Geralt’s cockhead is inside him . Jaskier keens, trembling all over, and Geralt’s hands on his hips twitch.

“ Fuck , Jaskier.”

They stay like that for a long time, Geralt clearly struggling to hold still, and Jaskier whimpers as he gets used to the intrusion. It’s… strange, but not unpleasant, and the breath shivers out of him.

“Geralt,” he finally whispers, “please move.”

The Witcher groans like he’s been struck, and he pushes into him as slowly as he can. Jaskier moans, his back arching as Geralt fills him more and more, one careful inch at a time, until after what feels like hours he’s finally all the way inside him.

“ Gods .” Geralt’s voice is raw, shaking with tension, and Jaskier whines.

Getting fucked feels nothing like Jaskier would have thought. It’s not comparable to anything he has ever felt, but he finds himself rocking back into Geralt’s thrusts within minutes, his cock hard and dripping between his legs again. It’s obvious that Geralt is holding back, that he’s trying not to be too rough, and Jaskier shifts and arches his back.

“Please,” he moans again, and Geralt’s fingers twitch on his hips.

“I’ll hurt you.” He sounds like he’s in pain, and Jaskier bites his lip and shoves back against him, startling a gasp out of the Witcher even as stars pop before Jaskier’s eyes.

“You won’t,” Jaskier gasps, “I know you won’t. Please, Geralt, please fuck me.”

Geralt curls over his back even as his hips keep moving, keep pumping into him steady as a metronome, and he presses his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder. “I love you,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, and then he rises up onto his feet, mounting Jaskier for all intents and purposes. Jaskier cries out as his arms give way, and Geralt groans and gives him what he asked for.

Geralt’s cock reaches deeper like this, hitting a spot that has fire licking up Jaskier’s spine, and he whines and whimpers as the Witcher rides him hard. Jaskier’s cock drools against his stomach, jerking with every one of Geralt’s thrusts, and his orgasm almost catches him off guard. He screams into the sheets, clenching around Geralt as he comes, and the Witcher chokes as he fucks him just that much harder.

“Gonna- Jaskier, I’ll-”

He’s floating, his mind filled with static, but he’s just aware enough to gasp, “Don’t stop,” and moments later Geralt’s hips stutter against him. Geralt groans and presses a sloppy kiss to his shoulder as he comes, his hand finding Jaskier’s, and Jaskier entwines their fingers as they both gasp through the aftershocks.

They collapse onto the sheets, sticky with come and oil and sweat, breathing hard. Jaskier finds himself gazing at his Witcher through hooded eyes, fatigue dragging him down, but he scoots into Geralt’s embrace, ignoring the mess they’ve made of each other. He’s pleasantly sore, exhausted in a completely new way, and most importantly he’s so stupidly in love.

Geralt holds him close and peppers gentle kisses all over his cheeks, and Jaskier smiles, dizzy with emotion.

“You alright?” Geralt asks after a moment, and Jaskier hums.

“Very much so.” He kisses Geralt’s jaw, then sighs softly. The Witcher chuckles.

“Sleep?”

“Hm, please.”

They snuggle under the covers after Geralt wipes him down gently, and Jaskier sighs, basking in the new sensation of being entirely bare with Geralt. The Witcher keeps kissing him, his forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and it’s… It’s lovely.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.” It’s a whisper, quiet as though it’s a secret, and Geralt leans closer and presses their foreheads together. His breath brushes over Jaskier’s cheek like a caress.

“I love you, too, Jas.” It’s even quieter, something precious and only for them, and Jaskier sighs.

They fall silent, just holding each other as they settle more and more, but one last thought occurs to Jaskier, and he nudges his Witcher one more time.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Remember what I said about wanting to stay in bed a whole week?”

Geralt’s breath hitches, just a little, barely enough to notice. Jaskier notices.

“I meant that,” he says as he drags his fingertips over Geralt’s stomach, and he smiles to himself when the Witcher groans.

“I’ve created a monster,” he says, and Jaskier laughs.

“Good thing you know how to deal with monsters.” A very good thing indeed.

And they lived happily ever after.