Warning: BIG NERD. I've read so many fic in my life. I've reach the last page of so many tag on ao3. *sigh* -34 hours of sleep and too much coffee and fic. Where is my life?
Bittle’s head lolls to the side as the bus climbs the on-ramp to the freeway, thudding softly against Jack’s shoulder. He shifts, too, readjusting his hips, turning toward Jack’s body the slightest bit. His hand finding a place on Jack’s forearm. His shoulder prodding into Jack’s bicep. He doesn’t wake, though, and Jack finds he doesn’t want to wake Bittle up either.
Using his thumb to bookmark the page in the book he’s reading, Jack drops it to his lap and looks over at Bittle. There’s nothing but the passing city lights that illunimate all his soft features, features which never seem to callous over: the jut of his jawline, the bow of his lips, the point of his nose. Hair just long enough to fall across the tip of his forehead. Eyelashes so pale Jack can barely make out their curl.
Jack can’t explain it. Can’t explain the inexplicable comfort that settles deep in his chest, the warmth that blossoms across his cheeks. He drops his gaze further to the stretch of cotton that sculpts Bittle’s thighs, the faint hairs on his arms that come and go, glistening under the fading lights.
Slowly, subtly, Jack shifts his body, drops his shoulder to allow Bittle a more comfortable position. His hand on the armrest between them comes alive with nerves, feels everything, and his pinky twitches. Reaches out. Nears Bittle’s own.
Bittle shifts again, then, suddenly enough that Jack jerks his hand back and face up to look straight ahead. His heart’s pounding. His breath is caught in his throat. He hears Bittle hum, feels Bittle bury his face further into his arm, tightening his shoulders. The grip on Jack’s forearm grows stronger for the longest of moments and afterward, Bittle mumbles: “Light. Turn…turn it off.”
Reaching up, Jack breathes out a quiet euh and turns the reading light strapped around his forehead off. Another moment lingers, strewn together with held breath and wide eyes, before Bittle relaxes against Jack again and evens his breathing back out.
It’s not until they’re halfway back to Samwell, somewhere deep in the suburban woodlands of Massachusetts, that Jack allows his eyes to finally close. He didn’t feel exhausted before, not even when they all climbed back onto the bus after the game; yet, sleep comes gently, quick, pulls him down with the weight of Bittle againt his side.
Jack hasn’t found sleep that easily in a long time.
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[getting back together, ghosts, mary hatford pov, angst, hopeful ending]
It starts with the now-familiar smell of blood long-seeped into the fake plastic-leather of the car seats, with the stench of burning woven wool, flesh and gasoline.
It starts like any good ghost story should: I am dead, and Nathaniel has come back at last.
The question startles him, what feels like a thousand thoughts suddenly flying through his mind.
He doesn't understand. He doesn't. They've barely been together a year, and sure, sometimes things get too intense and too much and quite suffocating, but it's all worth it. It's so, so worth it, because as terrifying as this relationship can get, more than anything, it's liberating.
It's almost sickening being this in love, being this loved, and Geralt not used to sickness, but this is one he wouldn't trade for anything else.
Jaskier has done well in telling, and showing, Geralt that he feels the same.
So he doesn't understand what prompted this, he doesn't understand what he could have possibly done, what could have made Jaskier even begin to doubt for a moment that---
"Geralt," Jaskier says, sharper this time. Geralt turns his body around until he's face to face with his bard. Jaskier doesn't look upset, or angry, or even moderately unsettled. He just looks... curious.
"Should I be worried that it's taking you so long to answer a simple question?" The bard teases.
Geralt scoffs. "As if anything with you has ever been simple."
Jaskier laughs and Geralt realizes his statement was untrue.
Things with Jaskier are almost too simple, so much so that Geralt can't help constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. He isn't destructive about it, not anymore, but the anxiety lives on because things with Jaskier are simple in a way that simply doesn't feel real.
Geralt's life has always been so far from simple that it's genuinely laughable, because holy shit, who else does any of this happen to?
But Jaskier. Jaskier is so simple it's as jarring as it is leveling, and the only times things have ever been complicated between them was because Geralt made them that way.
Things with Jaskier are simple.
Jaskier loves him. He loves Jaskier.
They're in love. They do the things they do because they love each other, and it's so simple because there's never any doubt about how much they love each other.
Once Geralt accepted it, and embraced it, his mind finally quieted, and his body finally rested.
"I don't know," he says, honestly because he doesn't, because he could never think to lie to Jaskier again as he did back on that mountain. "But I can't remember a time when I didn't love you, and I think that means something."
Jaskier smiles at him, then. It's a small, private one, only reserved for Geralt, and that thought makes his heart leap.
His bard reaches out and brushes the pad of his thumb across Geralt's brows, down the side of his face, over his lips.
Jaskier takes every opportunity he can get to drape his arms around Geralt's waist, as if Geralt was one of his lovers. And when Geralt sees him holding someone else, he finds himself wishing he were in their place.
Problem two:
Jaskier likes resting his head on Geralt's shoulder and closing his eyes, as if Geralt was someone Jaskier felt fully safe with.
And when they go their seperated ways for a while, the only weight Geralt has on his shoulders is the weight of his swords.
Problem three:
Jaskier likes taking Geralt's hand and dragging him along to show him something exciting, as if Geralt was someone he wanted to share his life with. And when they walk side by side, Geralt's hands are twitching, as he wishes he could be brave enough to take hold of Jaskier's hand as well.
Problem four:
Jaskier likes falling asleep holding Geralt close, as if Geralt was someone who needed cuddling and protecting. And when Geralt is at Kaer Morhen for the winter, he finds he cant fall sleep without his bard being there anymore.
All in all, Geralt's problem is this:
Jaskier likes being in Geralt's personal space.
Geralt also likes Jaskier being in his personal space.
At first Iwaizumi doesn’t even notice. It’s such a casual movement, as if Oikawa has done this a thousand times before. But then something down there twitches, and heat rushes to his face, so he shoves his best friend off of him so hard that the boy tumbles.
“What the hell?” Iwaizumi splutters. (And alright he isn’t really bothered with the fact that Oikawa just sat on him, but more so his reaction to Oikawa sitting on him.) “What was that for?”
“Oh.” Oikawa says innocently. “Well, the ground is too hard.”
“Then sit on your bed! Not me.” Iwaizumi stares at his homework but is too busy trying to forget about how Oikawa smelled like fucking fruit and soft things like his pillow when he’s waking up at noon, the warm patch of carpet that sits right under the sunlight coming from the window, fresh laundry.
“Why?” Oikawa said in the same conversational tone. Iwaizumi squinted. For some reason he couldn’t seem to read the dumbass’ face. “Does it bother you?”
No. “Yes.”
“How?”
“It’s… too close.” Iwaizumi finds it hard to believe that his voice didn’t crack on that last word. He looks at Oikawa’s hair which seems less styled today and more ruffled. It looks… cute.
“Close? Iwa-chan we sleep next to like each other every weekend!” Oikawa chuckles. “Come on. Tell me. Why?”
“I don’t have to explain anything to you!” He is not gay for Oikawa. Iwaizumi’s gay, he knows that - he even came out to Oikawa a few months back - but not for Oikawa. And Iwaizumi is sure that if he delves too deep into whether or not he kind of loves Oikawa, he’ll regret it. Pining is not something he wants to do for the remainder of his third year.
Oikawa puts a finger on his chin. “Hmmmm.”
“Shut up and let me do my homework, dumbass.”
And then Oikawa moves abruptly. One moment he’s lounging on his elbows, lazily gazing at Iwaizumi and the next he is sitting right in front of him, both knees touching Iwaizumi’s.
Iwaizumi finds it hard to think, or breathe, or do anything really.
“Is this too close?” Oikawa breathes out. His eyes, Iwaizumi notices, are really dark. There are no specks of golden or sparks of green. Just brown. It’s like staring into a cup of melted dark chocolate, or hot coffee. And they’re beautiful. They make Iwaizumi want to do something more than just ignore his shoved down feelings from middle school.
“Um,”
Oikawa inches his face closer till his nose is touching Iwaizumi’s. Fuck.
“What about now?”
Iwaizumi fucking kisses him. It’s dumb because their noses aren’t even at the right angle so they just smash into each other and their lips barely brush. It’s humiliating, Iwaizumi can feel their eleven years of friendship ending like this: an idiot kissing his best friend without permission, and kissing him badly.
Except then Oikawa laughs, a genuine one, and it reminds Iwaizumi of summers at the beach with cotton candy stuck to their cheeks, running across the street chasing after bugs and UFO’s and volleyballs, conversations at 2 AM where Oikawa won’t stop crying and Iwaizumi actually running to his house just so that he can be there.
And so then they try again. (Kissing.) And it works this time.
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For a long time now, it hasn’t been the solstice, or the first thaw, or any other such marking that commemorates a new year for him.
Geralt’s years begin with Jaskier.
That first day, different each time, when they reconnect on the Path. That’s when the year begins. The few years without Jaskier seemed to pass in a meaner, colder blur. The moment Geralt sees him, it feels like a fresh start. It feels like breathing again. It feels like something taking root of Geralt, even when he didn’t realize he’d been floating. Something grounding, something growing, in that smile, in that hug, in that immediate, incessant chatter.
This is the first time he really noticed it.
All right, Ciri noticed it. A frost within him that isn’t there when Jaskier’s around, a sharpness—none of it directed at her, of course, but inward, at himself.
And the fact that she could see it, well. Geralt’s made a decision.
So this year, for the first time, he’s not leaving their reunion to chance or vague plans.
Ciri’s tucked safely away with Yen for a season, slightly earlier than usual, and Geralt finds himself leaning beneath a cove of birch trees, Roach grazing contentedly beside him. Just outside a particular town that happens to feature a particular barding competition which is supposed to welcome its participants this very evening.
He’s been here since daybreak, just in case. Jaskier is actually annoyingly punctual about anything to do with his music.
Geralt watches the other competitors trickle in, bards of all ages and genders, in outfits that rival Jaskier’s for flamboyance, though none, Geralt thinks privately, wear them quite as well. Not for the first time, he wonders why Jaskier doesn’t make a more permanent home among this crowd.
“Surely he’s had enough adventures with me to last him a lifetime worth of songs?” he mutters to Roach. She gives him an exasperated sort of whinny, and goes back to her grazing.
Well. That’s what he’s here to figure out, after all.
Geralt’s mind fills with a sort of frantic buzzing, as the day draws on. The old panics, anxieties, every fragment of self-doubt that’s stopped him up until now, his head brims with them as he keeps his eye focused on the road—
And then he senses it.
That familiar scent. Geralt feels Jaskier’s presence like a shift in the very air, coming not from the road he’s been looking at, but the town itself.
Geralt turns, and there he is. Arms outstretched, eyes bright, clad in rich blue-green, an outfit not altogether too unlike the one he’d worn the day they’d first met.
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, clearly happy to see him and also rather confused, and there it is. All of Geralt’s anxieties, all the buzzing melts away. He’s still fucking terrified of this, but it’s better, it’s just all better, with Jaskier around. He can feel that familiar ache inside him, pushing against every barrier he’s built up, begging to come to light. “What on earth are you doing here?”
And Geralt still feels that urge to make up an excuse, to say he’s just passing through, to push him away again, but, no. Jaskier’s here. It’s a new year, at last. And no matter what the future holds, Geralt is going to start it off right.
“I came to find you,” Geralt says. He tilts his chin up the road. “Thought you’d be coming into town today.”
“Ah, yes, well.” Jaskier says, his eyes flickering down. He’s blushing, somewhat. “I arrived a bit early. I like the community, as it were.”
Geralt feels a slight pang go through him, at that.
“Of course,” he grunts. “Surprised you don’t spend more time following the barding competitions, during the year.”
Jaskier looks up at him, bewildered.
“Wh—oh, please, no, I quite get enough of them, thank you! I attend as much of these as I like, as much as I can stand, honestly, they’re lovely but it’s all a bit much, you know?” He flashes one of his smiles at Geralt. One of the good ones, that crinkles his sea-bright eyes at the corners. “There’s more important things to do. Like fight monsters!” He snorts, at Geralt’s raised eyebrow. “Or, watch you fight monsters!”
“Mm.”
Jaskier’s smile softens, into something more intimate, with a hint of shadow behind it. Geralt furrows his brow.
“No, no—I just meant I get lonely, Geralt. Over the winters.” He shrugs. “Even when I return to Oxenfurt, or to see my family, it’s not—well, it’s not—”
It’s not you. Jaskier doesn’t say it, but Geralt hears it anyway. He always has, every unspoken sentiment that’s clung to Jaskier’s tongue, every whispered wish. Every time Jaskier’s asked him about retiring, or what he wants, or if he’d ever come away to the coast. Geralt knows, what’s really being asked. He’s spent a long, long time telling himself it was a passing fancy, but it’s been half a lifetime, now. He’s spent a long, long time telling himself he doesn’t deserve something so soft and bright, but Ciri’s shown him that can’t possibly be true.
“Anyway,” Jaskier continues. He clears his throat and digs in his pocket. “I just came out here because there were rumors there was a witcher at the edge of the village, with a rather spectacular horse, and well, I just.” He gives a crooked smile, pulling out a sugar cube. The warmth in Geralt’s stomach twists. Roach neighs happily, nuzzling Jaskier’s cheek before eating it out of his palm. “Rather hoped, I suppose.”
And that does it.
“You once told me,” Geralt says quietly, “that I smelled of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak.”
“And onion,” Jaskier adds, grinning at Roach, but he’s looking at Geralt curiously. “Suppose I was right about all of them, wasn’t I?”
“Did I?” Geralt grits out, through his teeth.
“What?” Jaskier’s petting Roach now, his fingers threading easily through her mane.
“Did I break your heart?”
Jaskier flinches so slightly a human would have missed it. He laughs, immediately going into the mode of guarded defense Geralt’s known so well since his stupid fucking apology, after the mountain. It felt inadequate then, and it still does, even if it got Jaskier traveling with him again.
“Amongst many others, I’m sure!” Jaskier laughs it off.
“Jaskier. I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Jaskier frowns at him, hands still in Roach’s mane. “You’ve said. Geralt, it’s been years. What’s really going on?” He narrows his eyes suspiciously. It’s very cute. Geralt’s seen it a thousand times, when he’s finished the last of the pie, or used all the hot water in the bath. Half a lifetime of ridiculous, domestic moments, and he’s somehow gotten this far without calling it what it is. “Or did you do something else that needs apologizing for?”
A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitches.
“I think I’ve got a lot to apologize for.” He turns his eyes skyward, steeling himself. Roach pulls away from Jaskier to nudge his cheek with a huff, and Geralt takes a deep breath, giving her a solemn nod.
“Geralt?”
“Just because I didn’t think I deserved the light you give me,” Geralt says slowly, “doesn’t mean I had the right to take it anyway, and give you so little in return.” Jaskier’s eyes widen. “I fucked up, with you. I’ve been fucking up, and the more I do the more I knew you deserved better. The more I tried to push you away, even though I—I knew. That wasn’t what you wanted.” Each word feels like Geralt’s shoveling through the frozen layers of dirt in his chest, making room for the bright thing inside him. It feels terribly, terrifyingly raw. It feels like everything Geralt had been trained never to do. It feels like breathing, freely, at long, long last. “I understand if it’s too late,” he continues, and Jaskier’s eyes are very bright now, his hands (gods, those hands) worrying the hem of his doublet. “But, well. It’s the new year. The world’s ended a hundred times since I pushed you away. It might end a hundred more, in this year alone! And since we survived this long. I just had to tell you. If you let me, I swear to you, Jaskier.” Geralt swallows, and looks him right in the eye. “I will never break your heart again.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, after a beat. He’s breathless, and he smells of sunlight and fresh-tilled soil. He smells the way he always does, when he’s with Geralt. He smells like he’s in love. “Geralt, what are you saying?”
“No need to reciprocate, bard,” Geralt murmurs. “No pressure. Three words or less, was it? That’s what you asked of me, wasn’t it, the day we met? I’ve got three words for you.” And he feels himself grinning, even over the wild race of his heartbeat and Jaskier’s, the growing warmth inside him taking root, hurrying to come to light.
Jaskier steps closer, disbelief and hope warring in his expression.
“You’d better not be fucking with me, Geralt, I swear to fucking—”
Geralt kisses him.
After all his agonizing, amid all his self-loathing, it is, it turns out, the most natural thing in the world, to close the space between him and his very best friend. He brushes his mouth to Jaskier’s, and Jaskier only takes one surprised breath before flinging his arms about Geralt and kissing him back so hard and so hungry, Geralt nearly topples.
Geralt marvels at it, at how right it feels. He pulls off his gloves without breaking the kiss, and then his hands are buried in those soft, soil-colored curls, and Jaskier makes a broken, beautiful sound into his mouth and wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist, tugging him close, keeping them steady.
“I love you,” Geralt says, at last, because he realizes he somehow hasn’t, yet. “Those. Er. Those were the three words. Shit, I was meant to do that first.”
“Geralt.” Jaskier shakes his head, a tinkling laugh catching in his lovely throat. Geralt buries his face there, in the crook where it meets his shoulder, and Jaskier gasps and tilts his head to let him at it.
“Got it right when I practised with Roach,” Geralt growls. He huffs a sigh, though he can’t be too displeased with himself when this is the turnout. “It was gonna be romantic.”
“Oh,” Jaskier says. He takes Geralt’s face in his hands and kisses him again, and it’s so good, Geralt can’t believe he actually gets to do this, now. “Oh, darling. It was.”
Geralt grins, and purrs.
Jaskier kisses him, and says it back. Jaskier kisses him, and tells him again and again what he’s been telling him for years, in the tender way he patches Geralt’s wounds, in the songs he writes that makes the world a safer place for Geralt to walk, in every smile, in every shared sunset, in every time he returns to Geralt and the year begins anew.
This time, no matter what the year holds, Geralt knows he can weather it, because they’ll face it together.
“I love you,” Jaskier whispers into his mouth, and Geralt is finally ready to hear it, finally ready to say it back, finally ready to love him the way he deserves to be loved.
“I love you,” Geralt replies, and the warmth inside him bursts at last through its frozen soil. It takes the shape, perhaps, of the bright peek of a buttercup, there in the very center of his heart.
"You need to go on without me now," Sandpiper hisses to the group, fishing out the last of his glamour-charmed necklaces and throwing them over to the most responsible looking teenager. "There's a caravan at the edge of the city that's painted red and yellow- red and yellow with a bird on the side, remember that- it'll take you to safety."
"But, Sandpiper," A child cries out quietly, looking horrified, pulling at his sleeve. "We can't leave you behind!"
Despite the high-stakes situation and the chance that they could very well be caught any moment, Jaskier feels himself melt, a wide grin stretching across his face.
"I'll be fine, sweetheart," He whispers to her, smoothing her hair back reassuringly. "I've survived far worse scrapes than this! Tell you what, I'll catch up with you all tomorrow and tell you about the one time I was stuck inside a house with a wraith who had a pet chort, of all things- much more terrifying than any soldier, I assure you."
Her eyes light up and she nods, scrambling back to her friends. The woman in charge of their orphanage comes up to him in her place, fifty winters old at least, built as well as any warrior. Her eyes are somber and knowing and grateful- she knows that he has no control over his promise.
She throws her arms around him tight, and Jaskier jerks in surprise and then hugs her back.
"Thank you," She whispers, the rasp of a siren ancestor only detectable to his trained ear. "For everything."
Jaskier exhales on a smile and nods. He checks the guard- still isn't up for rotation yet. "Are they all halflings?"
She shakes her head and puts up eight fingers. There's ten, total.
"Right," Jaskier says, squeezing his eyes shut as he thinks. "Demarcia- there's a village called Brickheld that's mostly unscathed. Third house from the end of it, there's a woman who can house the halflings. The two men opposite will agree to the humans. Tell them they owe the White Wolf and his bard a favour."
She nods sharply, determination coloring her features. A sharp gong makes everyone jump, although thankfully no one screams like last time.
Her face cracks and she looks at him desperately. "Can you not come with?"
He smiles at her ruefully and watches her face fall. "I have one last group on the far side of town that are going to be hit tonight. Can't leave them behind."
She dips her head in a nod and sniffs. Jaskier shudders out a breath of fear and anxiety while no one else is looking. It's a long stretch, but he has a bad feeling about tonight. It's too heavily guarded. "...Can you do something for me, though?"
She looks up. He continues, "If you see a witcher, could you tell them Jaskier, the Witcher's Bard, requires help? The one who wrote toss a coin."
Her eyes widen, although she'd probably suspected it anyway. "That's you?" She says fearfully, searching his face. "Lad, you're wanted by the whole continent twice over. You need to hide."
He has to fight back tears at the reminder, telling himself that he cannot break about this, no matter how many people tell him to do so. "Madam, you said it yourself. I'm wanted twice over by the whole continent. There's no place I can go to ground without being caught- better to keep moving and help the children, yeah?"
She looks at him with the same heartbroken desperation that everyone else had, but nods silently. It's extremely touching, coming from an absolute stranger, who knows nothing of him otherwise.
(Yen and the Wolves and Triss had yelled and Ciri had pleaded and refused to talk to him in turns, but Jaskier couldn't stay. He still had nightmares about the raiding of the Tree, seeing his fellow artists and others all fall to the soldiers- he'd found a purpose he was willing to die for and he couldn't bear sitting still safely up in a castle while his friends back home were slaughtered for speaking their mind. He couldn't stay when there was something he could do.)
(Geralt had shouted at him until his voice was raw and then cried until the tears froze on his face and then got on his knees and begged.
Jaskier had laughed fondly at him, tears running down his own face. "You're so melodramatic, Geralt. We'll make a bard out of you yet."
It was not the best time for their oldest inside joke, as evidenced by Geralt choking on a sob and burying his face in Jaskier's knees.
"I'll come back," He said through the lump in his throat, already composing a song to finally say it if he didn't. "I promise."
"Go fuck yourself," Geralt had spat out, and stayed with him the full day and whispered prayers into the back of Jaskier's neck the whole night.)
A door slams- the signal- and Jaskier leaps to his feet, helping everyone up and urging them to be quiet as he opens the back door. The street is empty now, free for ten minutes for them to go.
"Come on, put on your jewelry now," He says, shooting everyone a smile, "Down this lane, two rights, one left, don't stop moving, go!"
The kids whisper teary gratitudes to him as they run past, some of them stopping to hug him tight, and the woman smiles and dips her head in thanks before they all disappear into the night.
Jaskier exhales shakily and prays. It was up to Melitele's grace now.
He's trembling in the midnight cold as he shuts the door, hungry and scared- it was all well and good to sing praises of the heroism of the underground helpers, but no one ever mentioned how horribly terrifying it was, how paranoid it made you, checking over your shoulder all the time, knowing that if you were caught, death was the least of your worries.
But there's no time- his informant had given him news of the soldiers marching in only that morning, and there was almost half the city to evacuate quietly without raising suspicion.
Somehow, he and his crew had managed it- it's been a silent enough night that he knows everyone must have gotten away safely, thank Melitele. His is the only group left, and he's the only one left to take them- he always insists on it, because twenty years on the Path with a Witcher means he's capable of much more than the regular human, both in terms of keeping his nerve and having the guts to slit a man's throat to keep them silent.
He goes to the corner of the room where his bags are kept- it's odd travelling without his lute for the first time in literal decades, stashed safely with the witchers at the Keep, but Jaskier can't deny that it is much more easier to move without it. He scarfs down the bread and chestnuts and throws the extra bags in the fire so he can't be tracked. Melitele knows that the soldiers are going to riot when they find half the town empty in the morning, he doesn't need to make it easier on them.
Jaskier spends a few moments collecting himself, shaking his hands out to get the circulation running and drinking some water, and then sets off again.
Sandpiper slinks through the back alleys, avoiding the guards making their way back from their shifts. It's a risky strategy, but most soldiers won't be as alert when there's so many of them swarming through the city, which ironically makes it the best time to sneak around.
Sandpiper reaches the door with the golden buttercup painted near the handle and hums loudly, eyes peeled for movement up and down the empty street.
The door cracks open and Sandpiper grins at the worried set of eyes behind it. A sob of relief, and he's being dragged inside, to the kitchen where twenty people of varying ages are crouching in the darkness and staring at him with relief and hope.
"Evening, everyone!" He whispers with a little bow. "Everything packed? Great, let's get moving. Remember, glamours on, hair around your ears, let's go!"
And they almost manage it too- down to the last turn, silent as they can be, horses in sight ahead of them. Sandpiper breathes a sigh of relief and gives a boy his bag to hold while he unties Pegasus, cooing greetings at her and slipping her a sugar cube.
And then a crossbow bolt buries itself in a woman's shoulder and she goes down screaming.
Sandpiper whips around to see a contingent of soldiers running towards them from the end of the alleyway and swears. He grabs the boy and pushes him up on Pegasus, screaming at the top of his lungs, "RUN! GO, GO!"
He slaps his horse's rear and she squeals and leads the charge into the forest bounds, the boy on top hanging on for dear life.
Sandpiper runs towards the guards and kicks down the barrels Nightingale had stacked up in advance, sending half the guards tumbling to the ground. He punches the nearest in the face and another in the balls, snarling at them all like a wild animal.
They both go down and Sandpiper goes for his knife, stabbing straight at the eyes of whoever's closest, sending the soldiers screaming to the ground. One of them is holding a torch and Sandpiper scoops it up before it can sputter out and throws it straight into the biggest puddle of alcohol from the burst barrels.
He swallows as the space between him and the guards catches fire with a roar and he runs back to the horses. There's only one left, and the woman with the crossbow bolt in her shoulder is struggling to get on her. Sandpiper runs to her and pushes her up, pressing the reins in her hands.
"RUN!" He shouts, kicking at the horse right as someone grabs him from behind, and the last of his charges disappears into the trees.
A hand goes around his throat and someone punches him in the stomach. "You fucking bastard," Someone with putrid breath growls in his ear. "Just wait and see what we do with you."
Something hits him over the head and the world goes black.
----------------
"Wake up!" Someone snaps and Sandpiper gasps as cold water is thrown at him.
He coughs wildly as he groggily makes it back to awareness, and nearly sobs when he feels his arms bound behind him.
He'd known it might happen, he'd known, but it still didn't prepare him for being tied down again, about to be tortured, the fear of what's going to come almost as bad as the pain.
But-
"Every halfling bastard that lived in this town has run off!" He hears someone shout angrily in the distance, and he smiles into the filthy ground. "Those fuckers stole them out from under our fucking noses!"
A curl of pride shoots through him, and Sandpiper enjoys the wave of smugness and relief, small little ditties humming in his head.
"Send out every soldier you have to track them," A cold voice replies sharply. "Find them and bring them back- they will all face justice at our soldiers hands."
Sandpiper's not too worried. Magpie had about five hedgewitches in his group, enough to open a portal to get both his and Nightingale's group out; those from the West side of the city had been put in Skua's Skellige boats, fast enough that they would have reached the islands safely that morning itself; the Northern group with Black Heron had a pair of servants who knew the catacombs well enough to escape to the mountains without a hitch; and Sandpiper's group had set off with a good enough headstart to escape if they hadn't been caught by now. Everyone was safe.
Well. Maybe not him.
Someone kicks him in the chest and Sandpiper curls in on himself with a groan. He looks up- a dingy cell, late evening, three men around him sneering down with burns on their faces.
Sandpiper barks out a laugh before he can stop himself, letting his head thud back down. Maybe he can make burnt faces a calling card of his- what would happen if you crossed the Sandpiper.
"Yeah, laugh all you want, you fucking bastard," One of them sneers, kicking him in the head. "Won't be laughing so much when the General gets here."
"Bringing a mage too," Another mocks. Fuck. "Gonna get you to spill all your secrets about all the pathetic resistance, betray all your little monster friends."
Anger burns in his veins and Sandpiper twists and spits in their faces, snarling as their faces crease in anger.
"What is happening here?" The same cold voice from before barks out a few moments later and Sandpiper gasps for breath, coughing out blood as the soldiers retreat slightly.
"We caught this man helping the refugees leave, sir." The soldier straightens up, turning towards the man walking in. "He killed six members of our unit. We've gotten confirmation that he may be-"
"The White Wolf's bard," The man says in surprise, staring at the scarf of pure black wrapped around Jaskier's neck and his heart skips several beats in panic. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
"... The Sandpiper." The soldier finishes unsurely and Jaskier squeezes them shut again. Fuck.
He looks up to see the men frowning at each other for a moment, before the newcomer's face abruptly clears into a smile. He turns to Jaskier and he has to repress a shiver- there is absolutely nothing behind those cold eyes, an absolute madman.
"Well, well, well," The man drawls out with a grin. "Isn't this a surprise? Two of the five most wanted men in the lands are one and the same. Got tired of fucking your witcher, bard? Decided to whore yourself out to other monsters?"
"Hm, no, not really," Jaskier replies thoughtfully, since it was useless to pretend. "Don't recall fucking your mothers recently, anyway."
He feels something like victory pulse through him at was obviously a hard-earned expression of anger on the man's face, even if it does earn him another kick in the stomach.
"Keep him alive." The man says sharply, walking out. "The mage will be here by tomorrow afternoon."
"...Well, the mage only needs the mind, really," One of the soldiers says mockingly after a few beats of silence, and Jaskier sways in his bonds and braces himself the best he can. "No one said anything about the body."
"In fact, we'd be doing her a favour," Another grins. "Make the slide easier, so to speak."
The third grabs Jaskier's chin and cranes his head up painfully. "Come on, Witcher's Bard." He cajoles, gesturing for one of them to hand him a nearby wooden baton. "Show us what you're made of."
Jaskier doesn't have a very good time after that.
-------
"Please," He whispers, although he knows it's only what they want to hear. The word is met with a round of bitter laughs- they might be murderers and bigots, but the people Sandpiper had killed had been their friends; he can see the rage and grief in their eyes over it, painfully human. He wouldn't give anyone who'd done the same a quick death either.
Sympathy doesn't mean he gets any mercy, though, and the riding crop hits down again, a hand fisting in his hair and pushing him down into his own filth.
"Someone get a bucket of water in here!" One of the men shouts and Jaskier sobs. They're not showing any signs of stopping to give him a break before the mage arrives, which is bad.
He's never been identified as both Jaskier and Sandpiper before, with two groups of people for him to betray. He needs his strength.
They shove his head underwater and he goes limp into it, knowing they can't keep him under to kill.
No matter what he has to do, he will not give them the Resistance. He will not give them Ciri.
And I'm sorry, my darling, he thinks as they let him up and he gasps wildly for air. But I will not be used as bait for you.
None of that matters, though, if he can't figure something out before the mage arrives.
At least he'd sung one last song for Geralt to hear.
They dunk him in and beat him up in turns, not even bothering to ask questions anymore, just trying to break him down. Jaskier just closes his eyes and begs and pleads to be let go and does his best to pretend that it's not happening, that he'll find a way out, that he's had worse scrapes.
Until they push him down into the water, not even bothering to hold him down now that he's unable to even make himself move, covered in fluids of all kinds and back split open and bleeding. He waits for them to yank him back up, but the moment stretches on and on until he suddenly realizes he can't feel anything and that it's been too long, it's been too long.
He makes a sound, losing precious air, and struggles weakly to pull himself out. His body is screaming with agony with every twitch he makes, muscles either numb or split or weak. And Jaskier can't pull himself back up.
For one single, stretched out moment he feels a moment of pure, concentrated fear that he's going to die here, and then hands are closing around his bound arms and someone drags him out of the water.
Jaskier curls in on himself and coughs wildly, throat shredded raw and aching even more at the harsh hacking. Vaguely, he can hear the sound of ropes being slit and the bonds around his arms slowly give way until he can cradle them into his chest.
He curls in on himself further, ground spinning and body aching. He flinches as the bucket in his vision is picked up, water sloshing- and then gasps as it's upturned over him, washing him clean of the filth and leaving him shivering in the chill.
Jaskier coughs more, then turns burning eyes up to look at the person in front of him, numb fingers searching for a sharp rock behind him to throw.
It's a woman in dark armor, staring down at him curiously, face blank. In one hand, she has the biggest remaining piece of the first and most precious gift Geralt had ever given Jaskier- the scarf that the guards had shredded in front of him; stained with the black blood of multiple monsters to never lose it's color that marked him as the Witcher's Bard.
The woman sniffs it and tilts her head to the side with an impressed look, pushing her scarred cheek and most of her darkened face into the light.
She has gold eyes.
Jaskier sobs with relief, relaxing and letting his vision go black. When he wakes up again a few moments later, the woman is silently crouched at his back and stitching him up with fast, practiced strokes.
Jaskier swallows against the pain and gathers his voice together. "Guards?"
"Dead," She replies in a deep voice that Jaskier pauses to briefly appreciate. "You Jaskier then?"
"The one and- fuck- the only," He rasps, letting her pull him to his feet. "And what school are you from then, dear- oh, ow, fuck, ow- my dear witcher?"
The witcher steadies him carefully, letting Jaskier put a hand around her shoulder and pulling him along. He misses Geralt very, very deeply, all of a sudden. "I'm a Manticore."
"Manticore," Jaskier repeats for lack of anything better to do, as she strips a dead guard of his clothing and hands it over. He's never come across one, but he supposes Geralt's usual circuits are never this far East, so it makes sense. "Frankly, I don't really remember the history of that one at the moment, so to avoid any emotional missteps, I am going to change the subject. Would you like a song, darling? You have many wonderful qualities that I feel like praising at the moment. Oh, and don't forget to grab their purses when we leave, coin is hard to come by nowadays. Anyone ever tell you that you have lovely hands?"
"Do you flirt after every torture session you go through?" She asks him, sounding amused as she violently murders the backup guards that have just entered the room.
"I can flirt through anything! Twenty two years with a witcher tend to dilute your sense of danger enough for that." Jaskier says as he gets to his knees to pick up the torn pieces of his scarf from the floor. "But right now, really, if I don't talk I'm pretty sure I'll start crying."
"Fair enough," The witcher says, sounding a bit gentler. She walks up to Jaskier and slips a hand under his knees, and he stops struggling to get to his feet and lets her pick him up. "I'm taking the roofs."
"Great idea. I'm passing out," Jaskier tells her, and proceeds to do just that.
---------
He wakes up at an unfamiliar campsite, fire crackling merrily and a horse tied close by. The witcher is different, though.
"Name's Auriela," She says without looking up. "You can sing a song when you come on a hunt with me, not about me being a woman."
"Darling, I would never," Jaskier says, not bothering to move. He knows when it's best not to. "Find you after the war?"
She smiles and shrugs. "Sure. Thanks for the songs, by the way. Made life a hell lot fucking easier."
Jaskier smiles back gratefully.
"I managed to contact a Wolf, by the way," She continues, eating the rabbit in her hand raw. Jaskier's stomach grumbles and loses it's appetite at the same time. "Your albino's going to pick you up any minute now."
Jaskier valiantly does not cry at this information, babbling out incoherent thanks to Auriela instead.
She waves him off and they sit in companiable silence for a bit. It's a fine night, the air smells like the familiar horse-meat-ozone-witcher combination he's come to associate with home, everyone has escaped and Geralt is coming to get him. Another successful heist for the Sandpiper and his crew.
Auriela sighs in satisfaction and gets to her feet. She sniffs the air and frowns- adorably, not that Jaskier would live if he told her that, he suspects- then looks to him with a wide grin.
"If you ever get tired of the Wolves, feel free to stop by us Manticores," She tells him graciously, just as Geralt barrels out of the trees in full armor and then glares at her so fiercely that even Jaskier is a bit intimidated. "I promise we won't do any worse than hiss at you a bit."
"Fuck off," Geralt snaps at her.
"Geralt! Don't be rude, she saved my life," He calls out chidingly. "Thank you, Auriela. May your Path be safe and blessed."
She laughs loudly at the formality as she mounts her horse, amused. "And may yours be as well, Bard of the Witchers," She replies easily. She tosses something at him, which Geralt snatches out of the air and growls at her for. "You're welcome at our stronghold anytime- that trinket will let you in."
She rides off, Geralt still growling at her back, and Jaskier whispers a prayer for her as she goes.
"Oh, stop growling, puppy dog, she's gone," Jaskier says after he's done, pushing himself up delicately and wincing at what is going to be a very annoying set of wounds to recover from.
Geralt turns to him, exasperation winning out over his clear base instinct of mother-henning. "Puppy dog?"
"My gold-eyed, moonlight-haired, fisherwife-nagging, self-sacrificing, paranoid, sweet little bitch."
"Puppy dog is fine," Geralt agrees immediately and Jaskier is just so fucking glad to have him near that he bursts into tears.
"Jaskier," Geralt says in alarm and drops his sword to scramble towards him, making Jaskier cry harder.
"Geralt, Geralt, fuck," He gasps, throwing his arms around Geralt and clinging as tight as he can as the dam finally breaks. Hes shaking like a leaf, as terrified as he had been in the cell. "Fuck, shit, fuck, damn, that sucked so much. Geralt, Geralt."
"Easy, Julek, easy, breathe, breathe," Geralt says, holding Jaskier back as tight as he dares without hurting him. "Breathe, I have you."
Jaskier sobs, pushing his face into the crook of Geralt's neck. Geralt is warm and heavy, and Jaskier feels safe for the first time in two years, the embrace no longer distant or awkward like it was at the Keep. He's safe, it's home, he's home, he's home.
"They tore your scarf," He says in a small voice, because somehow that's what had gotten to him the most. "The first one you gave me."
The witcher laughs and sobs in the same breath. "I have more cloth." He says, fingers finding all the wounds over Jaskier's skin even as he doesn't let go. "And I had free time. There's a whole wardrobe waiting for you in the Keep."
Jaskier sobs harder and cries all the way through being carried through a portal and washed and being put in a soft, downy bed.
"Shh," Geralt says, cradling him in from behind and stroking down his arm. "You're going to hurt your throat, Jask."
That startles him into laughter instead, which is much easier to come down from. "Geralt."
"Jaskier," Geralt replies, pressing the lightest of kisses to the highest line of stitches. "I've got you. Sleep. You're safe with me."
Jaskier sighs and turns to hug Geralt, relaxing into the bedding and giving into the tiredness in his veins. Just when he's about to fall asleep, though, Geralt shifts and hums familiar disjointed notes into his hair.
"...all along," He whispers the end of the lyric, beautifully in tune, pressing the returned confession into Jaskier's skin with the mightiest of bodies and gentlest of touches.
he enters the room clipboard in hand, his patient already seated in bed. “all right,” he says, with a bright smile, “miss larissa, right?”
“yup.”
“nice to meet you! I’m eric bittle, one of the nurses in charge tonight. how far away are the contractions?”
“the last ones were three minutes thirty apart,” her partner answers, fast, and bitty’s smile widens. he looks so worried, more than her, and he’s kind of cute, with his pale eyes and dark hair. and those cheekbones, lord.
ugh. he can’t go on lusting after one of his patient’s partners, for god’s sake. “okay, let me put my gloves on and we’ll check how much you’re dilated?”
she nods, and he makes chitchat with her to relax her while he checks the cervix. it’s not very dilated, and it’s her first pregnancy – she’ll have to buckle in for a long night.
the father, though, still seems concerned, but spends most of the time bitty is in the room tapping away on his phone. which, well. okay.
it’s also a surprise when bitty meets him by the coffee/vending machine in the hallway, on his first break of the night.
“oh, hi,” the dad – jack – says, “eric, right?”
“yeah! fuelling up for the big moment?”
“ha, you bet. it’s kind of nerve-wracking.”
bitty smiles. “we hear that all the time. I’m sure you’ll do great.”
and then, of all things, jack contorts himself weirdly as to lean against the vending machine. “so, uh, eric. what do you do in life?”
bitty blinks. is he, uh, getting this right? “I’m a… nurse?”
“oh. right. uh. yeah, you mentioned, ha ha. any, uh, hobbies?”
bitty blinks faster. okay, this is inappropriate. this man’s partner is giving birth to their kid right now. maybe it’s pre-parental nerves. he forces a slight smile. “you should go back to your partner, jack.”
it’s jack’s turn to look surprised. “I’m not her partner,” he lets out.
all the same. “to your kid, then.”
“I’m– câlisse.” he looks up, unbelieving. “I’m the uncle. I mean– I hope I’m the uncle– not like that, I’m not the brother, I’m definitely not the father, he’s, uh, he’s on his way, I’m just helping out, and uh, maybe they’ll ask, but–”
bitty’s eyes widen. “oh.”
*
larissa’s pushing, hard, in time with her contractions, and the baby’s about to crown, which one of the nurses informs her of.
“oh my god, jack,” larissa hisses at jack, “I can’t feel a thing– I can’t– just go and see!”
and so jack obediently lets go of her hand, and peeks down the table.
bitty’s been keeping an eye on him, as he does on all fathers during that moment, but in fact, he’s been noticing jack since… well, since the coffee machine. it’s been hours and they kept chatting, and even larissa started rolling her eyes at them at some point. it’s not like bitty is outrightly flirting at him, but talking has always been a part of his strategy to calm new parents down. or new uncles. or so he tells himself.
but jack takes a step and then another, and when he sees what there is to see, his body does that funny thing that bitty could recognize anywhere, and bitty is there to catch him before he hits the ground. it’s like trying to hold up a small pony, though, so he brings him to the floor fast enough, away from the action of the baby being delivered.
it takes a minute or two, but jack wakes up, eyes searching for a point of focus. “–see it,” he mumbles, before he seems to spot bitty.
“hey, back with us?” bitty chuckles.
jack nods, still confused, and cries echo somewhere behind bitty’s back.
his smile widens. “congrats, you’re an uncle, now.”
can I request geraskier + 38 for the cliche prompts please? 🥺🥺
post season 2, so watch for spoilers! <3 I had a lot of fun writing this, thank you so much for the prompt!!
38. Everyone thinks we’re already dating, but we’re just best friends- oh wait
G, 3.3K, no warnings
At first the bouncing caravan underneath their seats is too much for the bard. Jaskier doesn’t say a word but Yarpen can tell easily from the wince he produces whenever a stone or twig tumbles under their wheels. Yarpen and his company have travelled for long enough that the turbulence fades into ambiance for their journeys. Jaskier hasn’t acclimated yet so the dwarf takes pity on him, opening into a conversation he would otherwise have avoided. “Hey. You play Gwent?”
Startled out of his discomfort and reverie, Jaskier looks his way with wide eyes. “No, I’m afraid not. I had amassed a few cards but haven’t seen them in years, and I have nothing close to a full deck.”
Yarpen could offer the bard one of his decks, but Jaskier clearly has nothing to bet except the coat on his back, and that wouldn’t fit. He hums thoughtfully. “So how did you and the witcher while all the hours away? All those years hunting monsters, two o’ you must’ve picked up some hobbies.”
“Um.” Jaskier fidgets with the tuning fork dangling around his neck. “We kept ourselves occupied… When work was slow, I would compose and he would always pretend not to listen, but I’d notice him dropping words into conversation that I’d used. And we developed a system for preparing potions and poultices and gathering herbs, so we spent a lot of time just wandering, picking flowers.” The man’s eyes cloud over, and his voice takes on a distant tone. “And at night—”
“I get it,” Yarpen quickly interjects, reaching over in a hurry to pat Jaskier’s shoulder. He absolutely doesn’t need to hear the details of how they entertained one another beside their campfires. “How about we stop talking for a little while?”
-
“Jaskier, wake up!” Yennefer barges into the bard’s room without so much as a knock, the door swinging shut behind her. She crosses straight to the bedside table, clearing up an empty bottle of wine and throwing a shirt in the direction of the grumbling lump of blankets. “Vesemir’s got me on breakfast duty this morning and I’m recruiting you for help because I’ve no idea how to prepare shit, which I told the Master Witcher but he’s obviously under the impression that because I was a court mage I’ll be able to work something out. As if being a woman means I’ve got a natural knack for cooking! Ought to stir some kikimore venom into his fucking eggs. Jaskier. Now.”
“You’ve got the wrong man,” Jaskier whines, burrowing down into the blankets. When Yennefer tugs them away he screams, “Come on! What have I done to you to deserve this treatment? Five more minutes, Yennefer, and then I’ll come help you with your chores— no, please, I’m so cold!”
In the middle of Yennefer vengefully gathering all the covers into her arms and Jaskier writhing and shivering in his smallclothes as he tries to pull them back within reach, the door flies open again. Both bard and sorceress pause their fight, turning to stare at the hulking figure in the doorway. Geralt is panting, eyes wild and frenzied as he looks between them. “Jaskier,” he breathes, clearly reassessing the situation. “You’re all right.”
“Yes, I’m fine, you don’t need to come and check on me every time I so much as raise my voice,” huffs Jaskier hotly. “Not a nightmare, just this nightmarish woman trying to rope me into doing her tasks for her.”
Geralt doesn’t move, his frown only darkening. His shoulders still rise and fall quickly; he must have sprinted up here and abandoned his morning training. Now Yennefer is the one reassessing the situation, glancing from the witcher to the bard curiously.
“I’m fine,” Jaskier repeats, folding his legs under him and stretching as he sits up. He’s only in his smallclothes which don’t leave much to the imagination but Geralt doesn’t react at all. Yennefer wonders perversely if he’s used to the sight. “If you really want to help, leave me be.”
“You asked me not to,” Geralt spits out. “I’m trying, damn it. I’m trying to be here, like you said—”
“Gods, Geralt, I don’t mean ‘leave me alone’, I mean leave my room so that I can sleep in a little longer, it’s hardly dawn!” Running a hand through his already messy hair and disheveling it further, Jaskier groans, “We could have talked about this last night, you know, but all you wanted to do was—”
“I’ll make breakfast myself,” blurts Yennefer. Both men startle and look her way, confirming her suspicion that they had entirely forgotten she was in the room. Geralt at least has the decency to look embarrassed, while Jaskier just sighs and reclines onto the bed. Before either of them can say a word about the lovers’ quarrel or try to explain it away somehow, Yennefer slides past Geralt, patting the witcher on his arm comfortingly.
They’ll figure everything out, she’s certain of it. Nobody makes something like this work for decades by accident. Jaskier has always loved Geralt so much that it hurts to watch. And Geralt seems to want to make it work and mend his mistakes too, so Yennefer backs off without a fight and gives the pair of them their space, shutting the door behind her.
She doesn’t poison breakfast on her own but it’s a close thing, and by the time Jaskier and Geralt finally come downstairs to the dining hall, everyone else is long gone but there’s still plenty of food left.
-
All the residents of Kaer Morhen are fond of its biggest and best secret, the natural hot springs ensconced inside one of the lower floors. But no one really appreciates them like Coën, who washes his face more often than any of the other witchers combined. While he rarely has time for a proper bath on the path, he has to keep his face clean or else his scars will begin to burn and itch something fierce. His skin tends to flare up when he’s stressed and at Kaer Seren he had often taken trips down to the shoreline to scrub his face, but the rough seawater had only been a temporary salve. The springs here are a gift he doesn’t take for granted.
He’s surprised one night to hear soft noises and a crackling fire from inside the springs, but only because he thought he was the last one awake in the fortress. Coën taps against the stone wall as he approaches, not wanting to disturb the young princess if she’s up late bathing. But the sound doesn’t echo loudly enough to reach the springs’ occupants, so Coën grimaces nervously and rounds the corner. “Didn’t think anyone else would be down here—”
His words die in his throat when he sees the bard perching beside one of the smaller springs, next to a very nude Geralt of Rivia. Stranger than Geralt’s lack of dress is that he’s more relaxed than Coën has ever seen him, head resting back on the shelf and neck bared as his body floats in the basin. The surface of the water is, thank the gods, obscured by an obscene amount of bubbles and a silky gauze of soap. Jaskier is clothed but his sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, his hands dipping over Geralt’s chest as he scrubs every inch of the witcher’s pectorals.
As it turns out, knocking wasn’t necessary. He could have announced his presence with a parade and he doesn’t think these two would have noticed.
Geralt finally picks up on his scent and lifts his head to stare at Coën, but he just nods at the Griffin. Even his expression is unbelievably relaxed as Jaskier washes his body, eyes soft and jaw loose. The bard follows Geralt’s gaze and sees Coën standing in the entrance, still lamely clutching his towel in both hands. Without an ounce of shame, Jaskier lifts one soapy palm from Geralt’s collarbone and waves. “Evening, Coën!”
Coën wants to berate them for not using one of the private baths, but he can’t get over how remarkably chill Geralt looks. They probably hadn’t expected anyone to interrupt anyway; he releases his anger, waving back awkwardly. “Hello, Jaskier. Geralt.”
The witcher nods, and the bard suddenly seems to realize what a compromising position Coën has caught them in. The firelight dances over them as Jaskier sits up and babbles, “We’re almost done, if you’d like to come join! It’s a bit of a process, but… what can I say, old habits die hard!”
Despite the bard’s open invitation, Geralt’s expression does very much not read ‘the more, the merrier’. Even if it did, Coën doesn’t think these two are his type, and he really, really doesn’t want to intrude. He steps back, footsteps echoing around the spring. His skincare can wait until tomorrow. “No, I was just… making the rounds. See you tomorrow morning on the Killer, Geralt…?”
The White Wolf nods stiffly. Jaskier moves his hands into the witcher’s hair and some of his tension drains away as the bard begins moving his fingers, lathering soap there. “You’ll just get all sweaty and dirty again,” grouses Jaskier. “I’m going to have to drag you back down here every single day, aren’t I, darling?”
Coën flees.
-
It takes Jaskier longer than many of the others here to worm his way into Ciri’s heart. Vesemir might be strict but she respects him, and every time she manages to make him proud her heart soars. Lambert might be prickly but he cares— violently— for her. Coën and Eskel might have scars left behind by a lifetime of fighting monsters, but their kindness is nearly unconditional and overwhelmingly refreshing. Yennefer is obviously important to Geralt but as the days slide by, she becomes dearly important to Ciri too, and she trains her in a way that even Triss couldn’t.
But Jaskier is somewhat of an enigma. He’s brave and he doesn’t— or can’t— fight. He’s stupid and he’s brilliant, weaving new compositions out of thin air and then giving them all a scare when he munches on some monstrously venomous concoction by accident. Unsure what to make of him, Ciri initially dismisses him. This becomes impossible when it becomes clear that Jaskier is obviously important to Geralt too, in a different but not opposite way from Yennefer. Ciri watches the bard flit around the fortress, slowly regaining his strength and trust and faith after undergoing torture and depression and loss. His songs provide a welcome relief for everyone; the witchers are grieving too, and having an artist in their home is more valuable than anyone could have expected. But there’s a strange undercurrent to many of his compositions that isn’t inspired by the torture or the state of the world or anything like that.
She pieces it together one evening when the bard is performing for her. He’s obviously desperate for her approval, glancing up every few chords to try to decipher her opinion on his work. His calloused fingers move over the cheap lute masterfully and his voice is beautiful, but the words are… something else. Ciri frowns, brows drawing together as she squints at Jaskier.
“That song,” she says when it draws to a close, pulling the pelt around her lap closer. “... Is it about Geralt?”
“What?” splutters the bard. “Who?”
Amused, Ciri repeats, “Geralt. White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken… I believe you’re familiar.”
“No— I mean, yes, but, no! No, of course not! It’s a tragic ballad that tells the purposefully vague tragedy of a romance unfulfilled. It’s not about anyone!”
“Right,” chirps Ciri. “Then who’s the garroter?”
“It’s a metaphor,” Jaskier sighs. “We really must get you a classical education, Ciri. Running around the courtyard and beating yourself up and making a thousand portals are all well and good, but… I was a professor at Oxenfurt, you know! I could help teach you about literature.”
Ciri’s had about enough classical education back in Cintra to last her several lifetimes. She frowns, accusing, “You and Geralt… the two of you aren’t friends, are you?”
“Ah.” Jaskier puts his instrument aside, rolling one of his shoulders back. The way he avoids her questioning gaze says more than his words, and after a quiet moment he admits, “No. We aren’t.”
Ciri claps, triumphant. “I should’ve guessed, from the way he talks about you!” The biggest indicator, really, is how much of Jaskier’s work is heavy with the weight of heartbreak. The man only sinks lower, chewing his lip, and Ciri reassures him quickly, “Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone here would mind. You’re welcome here, and they wouldn’t try to make someone so important to Geralt leave.”
“I’m not sure where I rank on the list of people important to Geralt,” confesses Jaskier. Ciri tilts her head— as inexperienced as she is with these things, she has to imagine that bedfellow ranks at least above friend. “But that’s nice to hear, Ciri, thank you.”
“Of course.” She offers him a smile, and Jaskier returns it gladly. “Now… can you play that whoreson one again before bed?”
-
Eskel swings his legs over the bench one morning, dropping into the seat next to Geralt without warning. All the other occupants of the keep are still fast asleep and while Eskel doesn’t begrudge them their rest, he thinks that if he allows himself to fall into easy indolence, his grief will overtake him. The tables in the main hall have been righted and the cracks in the building mostly mended, but their recent losses linger in the cracked tree and in the cold silence that used to house so many beloved voices. It was more than a close call with the leshy, and Eskel doesn’t take his hard-earned life for granted. So he wakes up early and follows the familiar routines of his Kaer Morhen schedule, and he’s unsurprised to see his dearest brother doing the same.
What he is surprised by, however, is the latest gossip from the keep’s infamous chatterbox. Eskel doesn’t waste his breath, launching into speech and reaching over to jab Geralt in the chest. “How come I had to hear the latest development of your life from Coën and Lambert, huh? Are we having a fight I don’t know about? Why don’t you come to me with these things?”
His complaints are all in jest, obviously, but his teasing doesn’t land as Geralt frowns in genuine puzzlement. “Development?”
“Oh, come on,” Eskel scoffs. “We all suspected it anyway from the first winter you came back complaining about that ‘sing-songy twit who wouldn’t leave you alone’. I hadn’t seen you grin like that in years. You should have mentioned that you and Jaskier worked everything out!”
Geralt stares as though Eskel has started speaking in tongues. “There is no ‘me and Jaskier’.”
“It’s fine, alright? You don’t need to pretend. I heard what the two of you have been doing, and saying, and… Geralt, really, it’s alright,” Eskel reassures him. “I’m happy for you. This is a long time coming.”
With a slightly crazed edge in his voice, Geralt demands, “What is a long time coming?!”
Eskel pauses, trying to make sense of the confusion. “... Well… are you and the bard not together?”
-
On the distant horizon a flurry of birds rises from another peak, likely disturbed by some woodland creature or monster stumbling through their woods. Jaskier watches fondly, quill tip tapping against the edge of his mostly blank page. His legs dangle off the edge of one of Kaer Morhen’s tallest parapets but he doesn’t fear heights, never has. The vista before him is too beautiful to possibly dread. The birds dip and soar in one massive, churning cloud of black specks, and Jaskier tries to come up with an apt description that he could twist into a poem.
One of the greatest tragedies about this place is that to preserve its unbelievable beauty, said beauty must go unsung. As he ages Jaskier is starting to accept that awful paradox, and it makes more sense with every passing year and every new atrocity he witnesses. He can’t be solely faulted for how his work has changed, not when the world is changing so violently and irreparably too.
From behind him, a harsh and close voice demands, “What are you doing,” and Jaskier shrieks and very nearly tumbles off the parapet.
Before he can fall from the towering fortress to his certain death, warm broad arms move around him fast as lightning, tugging him back to safety and holding him tight. Heart pounding, Jaskier clings to his quill and watches his journal of unwritten compositions tumble down the mountainside until finally it falls out of sight.
He gulps, moving to face his saviour— Geralt is still holding him, but he releases Jaskier only enough for the bard to turn in his grip. The witcher is warm and smells of woodsmoke, and his touch lingers on Jaskier like a brand. “Thank you,” breathes Jaskier, brain still panicking about nearly dying. “Seems I owe you yet again.”
“Hmm.” Geralt doesn’t move away. “Just talked to Eskel.” Jaskier wants to ply him for more information but at this point he’s learned that if Geralt wants to say something, he’ll say it in his own time or not at all. After a laboriously long moment of Geralt fidgeting with the fabric at the back of Jaskier’s doublet, he continues, “He said…”
Losing patience, Jaskier shifts in Geralt’s grip, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
“Uh,” the witcher grunts, glancing away, “he said he wants us to clean out the stables together. Are you. Free. Would you like to do that. With me.”
Jaskier can think of a thousand better ways to spend an afternoon than shovelling horse shit and rotted hay, but he can’t think of a single other person he’d rather spend an afternoon with. Geralt’s question was so awkward and halting that Jaskier leaps on the opportunity, standing up and pulling Geralt to his feet. “Of course,” he declares, as though he wants nothing more in this world than for a goat to chew on his boots and Roach to glare at him as he upends her home. “It’ll provide a nice change of scenery— my mind was in a rut looking out at these mountains all morning anyway. Bring on the horseshit!"
Geralt hums, amused. He finally drops his grip on Jaskier but doesn’t step away, and more bafflingly, he doesn’t stop smiling.
-
The next morning Jaskier wakes up in his same dreary quarters. He bats away the last remnants of his now-hazy dream, yawning widely and sitting up in bed. On the small table beside his bed lies a journal, neatly bound in an unfamiliar ribbon with a new bookmark sticking out the side. No, wait, not any old journal. His journal. The one he’d dropped off the mountainside yesterday.
Bewildered, Jaskier reaches for it. The marked page is a very old poem he’d written and never done anything with, and astonishingly he finds that someone annotated it. The rhymes of ‘pallor’ and ‘valour’ have been circled and connected with ink and a note that says ‘terrible’, and next to a line about a dragon’s breath someone has scrawled ‘inaccurate’.
Jaskier flips through the rest of the pages to find similar notes, and he gapes, not knowing whether to feel offended or astonished. He returns to the page with the bookmark, fingertip tracing over the last line, which was circled three times in thick black ink. ‘Whatever pleases you’. An easy joke, an open ending to let his audience decide the fate of the protagonist. Only one person could know the significance of the phrase, really.
A very old unease in Jaskier’s heart finally goes silent, and he smiles, putting the journal down. When he walks to the door of his room, he finds his mysterious editor waiting on the other side, fists clenched and frown uncertain. Jaskier smiles, windswept and speechless, and this time Geralt is the one who growls, “Fuck it,” stepping forward to embrace him.
aka neil josten and matt boyd doing nothing other than being besties. for the person who asked. inspired by these vlogging headcanons here and brosten headcanon here. i once again threw canon out the window. pls do not come for me
this is kinda short, but hopefully you all enjoy it!! it was a lot of fun to write though, i missed these characters a bunch. started this when we didn’t have a president, and now we do! wild times
(also way too tired to properly edit and will maybe return later, maybe not)
what to expect: cursing, hijinks, descriptions of food/eating, references to life on the run, cute text conversations, the foxes make team vlogs, beginnings of renison, FRIENDSHIP COMPILATIONS, neil is HAPPY
(4:32 P.M.) Matt: hey where are you
(4:33 P.M.) Neil: I’m in my dorm. Why?
(4:33 P.M.) Matt: what are you doing
(4:34 P.M.) Neil: Homework. Are you okay?
(4:34 P.M.) Matt: i’m good lol
(4:34 P.M.) Matt: how important is this homework
(4:35 P.M.) Neil: It’s due next week.
(4:35 P.M.) Matt: want to go on an adventure?
(4:35 P.M.) Neil: Yes.
***
“Hey, look at you!” Matt grinned widely. “New pants?”
“They are.” Neil glanced down at the black joggers. They were the black Adidas ones with the white stripes that Kevin seemed to live in.
“Did you buy them?” Matt asked. Neil shook his head. “Andrew?” He shook his head again. “Allison.” Neil nodded. “Checks out.”
“I went with her to the mall on Sunday.” Neil followed Matt into the elevator. “She tried to buy me ten other things, but these were the only ones I liked.”
“They look good.” Matt pulled out his phone, quickly typing. He got several replies within seconds. “We’re in charge of dinner tonight.”
“It’s Friday?” Neil had forgotten.
After the end of last year’s season, the Foxes had established an unofficial tradition: team dinners every other week. Neil didn’t realize how much he enjoyed eating together until the dinners became a regular part of his life. Occasionally they took place at Abby’s, and that only made things better.
“It is indeed.” Matt put his phone away and strolled out into the sunny November day. “Do you mind going to the mall twice in two weeks?”
“No.” Neil actually liked the mall, in a strange way. It was crowded and loud and aggressively lit and basically the opposite of “pleasant”, but he saw the mall as symbolic of his growth as a human being. Not even two years ago the idea of strolling through a grocery store without a care in the world was impossible. Now, Neil could take his sweet time walking through masses of people, with red hair and blue eyes and not a care in the world. His scars would sometimes attract stares, but no one was ever stupid enough to go up and ask him about them. And if they did, he had the complete and utter delight of choosing from the long list of explanations the Foxes had once drunkenly come up with while staggering through the streets of Columbia.
“Nice.” Matt gave a thumbs-up, even though it was just the two of them and thumbs-up were more of a group thing in Neil’s opinion, and then they hopped in his shiny truck and drove away.
They talked about classes and the season and the new haircut Dan persuaded Kevin into getting. They discussed the spring break road trip the team was planning on taking once again and whether they should go to the beach (Allison insisted on OBX) or the mountains (Nicky’s most recent conversations with Erik convinced him he could be “outdoorsy”. Neil didn’t know why he was still lying to himself).
Matt needed a new phone case and charger, so they went straight to the Apple store, where Neil silently stood while Matt cheerfully interacted with the overly friendly workers. Eventually he drifted off to study the smartphones on display. Andrew offhandedly mentioned that it may not be a bad idea to upgrade from their flip phones. Neil didn’t really have much of an opinion, but he had to admit there was something weirdly appealing about the touch screens and sleek shapes.
“Mission complete.” Matt waved his phone, which the tech assistant had kindly fitted with the new case. “The charger is eight feet long.”
“Eight feet?” Neil stared at the small package.
“It’s handy.” Matt shrugged. “I could, like, plug it into one of those charging stations in the airport and still sit away in my own space.”
“That’s true.” They descended an escalator into the food court, which would soon be filling up with people seeking dinner. “What did people say they want?”
“Bojangles.” Matt replied, weaving his way toward the red-and-yellow counter.
“Oh. I like their biscuits.” Once, after a successful home game, he had devoured four of the bacon ones while high on victory and consequently remained immobile for the rest of the night. It was a good memory.
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the foxes all become members of the Neil Josten Defense Squad, whether they like it or not. they also become friends with each other :) this was very welcome fluff after all the angst of albtraum/wirklichkeit. this is also one of my favorite aftg things i’ve written, so thank you to anon for the prompt! i got to include one of my favorite aftg things: foxes playing exy. i briefly mention the new recruits, but i didn’t name them/write about them too much because i wanted to focus on the og nine.
i definitely strayed from canon/nora’s blurbs a bit, so keep that in mind. aaron wasn’t featured super heavily in this, but i’ll be developing his and neil’s friendship in a separate fic coming soon. if you do get to the end of this monstrous post, comment/reach about it if you’d like!!
what to expect: neil’s pov (i tried my best), fluff, cursing, some violence (exy related), matt can be scary if he so chooses, kevin being snobby but for good reasons, more soft stuff
Neil dropped himself down onto the couch, rotating his neck until it cracked. The faint burn of a game was still simmering in his limbs, and he stretched himself out until only his head rested against the back cushions and the rest of his body was about to slide right off. He braced his heels against the floor, and then pulled his hood up. He knew he probably looked like a petulant toddler and he knew he was better than this, but he wanted to take a moment to himself and wallow in his own self-pity and irritation. He could have idled in the showers, but he thought it was better for his teammates to slowly stream in rather than for him to have to walk in and face them all at once.
He exhaled harshly and directed his attention to the TV. It was currently playing live footage of Kevin and Dan facing the press from just down the hall. Even though the door to the lounge was closed, Neil could still faintly hear the shutter of cameras. Wymack and Abby had wisely decided not to approach him, and were instead standing off the side and talking quietly. Abby smiled at something he said. For the past few days, Neil had gotten the distinct impression they were trying to secretly plan something, but found it quite difficult because of how busy they both were and how the Foxes were always around with their acute hearing. Neil distracted himself from his bad mood by entertaining the idea that Wymack and Abby were getting married, and trying to find a way to break the news. He didn’t think they seemed like the marrying type, but maybe things had changed.
“…been trying new things in practice, which you saw today.” Dan was saying, her helmet tucked under her arm. “So yeah, I’m excited to see how much further we can develop these new skills this season.” She looked to Kevin with a fondness Neil never thought she’d be capable of. “They’re all drills Kevin’s come up with, which is great because no other team is doing them.”
After everything that happened last year, Neil knew changes would be happening to the team. Maybe he was just a pessimist, but they were overwhelmingly good. The new kids had a rocky adjustment period, but once their first win came and went things got easier. Nicky and Allison were now basically inseparable, which Neil deeply appreciated. Andrew could tolerate being in the same room as Katelyn, although that was a rare occurrence.
Something that no one was expecting (but Neil thought made complete sense) was Dan and Kevin’s friendship.
Kevin’s Press Smile dropped, and was replaced with an expression that only he could manage: haughty and sheepish. Neil knew the cameras would only see the first, but anyone who knew him would recognize how pleased her praise made him. “They’re a combination of Raven footwork I learned and things that Neil and I developed last year.” Kevin was practically exploding with pride. He was no stranger to approval, but when it came so wholeheartedly from Dan, it clearly meant something to him.
Dan and Kevin still bickered plenty, but Neil saw there was something different to it. He wasn’t sure how to classify it until Dan drunkenly confessed to him Kevin’s basically the annoying little brother she never had. Neil also appreciated this deeply. He tried talking about it to Andrew, but he only said something along the lines of being glad he could wash his hands of him. Neil decided that meant he recognized Dan and Kevin could protect each other.
“Kevin, I’ve got to address the elephant in the room here.” A young reporter said. Neil grit his teeth, and in his peripheral vision Wymack and Abby stopped talking. “We all saw what happened tonight with Neil Josten. We’re all human, we all make mistakes. But this is his first major slip up since an incredible rookie season last year, and it’s gotta make you wonder: was all of last year’s success just beginner’s luck? What do you say to that?”
“Asshole.” Wymack muttered. The other Foxes were filing in from the locker rooms, but stopped around the TV to watch. Andrew sat down beside Neil, expressionless as always, but Neil felt his eyes on the side of his face.
All of Dan’s warmth instantly froze over. Kevin’s Press Smile went back up. Neil couldn’t look. He wanted the earth to swallow him up. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment on the court. The way he had fumbled that failed interception of the ball was going to haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. He could still hear the crowd’s disappointed reaction, still see his teammate’s startled faces as he stumbled clumsily into a wall. It was so unlike him to be so bad. Neil stuffed his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt and stared at the TV with nothing but dread.
Dan, clearly assuming Kevin would politely deflect the question, straightened fiercely. “Look, I don’t know-”
Kevin smoothly placed his hand on her elbow in a friendly, familiar gesture, like he wanted to walk ahead of her and get the door. She stared up at him in obvious surprise. Neil sat up. He still wore his pleasant mask, but his eyes reminded Neil of night practices and scathing critiques. Andrew, for once, looked interested.
“Oh?” Nicky traded an intrigued look with Allison.
this is basically me writing out snippets from a documentary on the foxes later in life, what they’re up to, their reflections on the events of the aftg series, etc. these are only snippets, the whole documentary itself would be way too big for a tumblr post (and this is already very long). because i can’t make edits/gifs, i have nothing to offer but my words, so i hope this isn’t too awkward to read!
anyways the credit for this amazing idea goes to @sixteenthirtyfour and this post that i added on the inspiration for this fic to. i also received a request for more andreil in it, which i hope i delivered on. i did completely destroy canon/timelines so renison is a thing and kevin/thea is not (ergo i literally just…made up an s.o. for kevin because he deserves love) and i also created some pro exy leagues based on the nwsl.
this may be one of my favorite things i’ve ever written, and it made me very emotional. it was also heavily (like very heavily) influenced by cheer on netflix + a billion of my side interests. the amount of time i spent researching stuff for this is…kinda ridiculous but i enjoyed it!!
what to expect: a LOT of found family feels, brief mentions of violence/injury/ scars/the murder trial, cursing, discussions of homophobia, everyone gets emotional at some point, next gen kids, neil is the biggest psu foxes fan
(Footage from the final PSU Foxes v. Edgar Allan Ravens match. The crowds are so loud the commentators can barely be heard. The Foxes, exhausted but driven by incredible determination, continue playing like their lives depend on it as the minutes tick down. Orange and black battle it out on the court. The match is nearly over.)
Reporter #1: “-a shame but underdogs only ever win in movies-”
Reporter #2: “Looks like another trophy for the Edgar Allan Ravens, which would be their-”
(Neil Josten, #10 for the PSU Foxes, collapses to the ground as the one minute warning buzzes overhead. His teammates are dragging themselves forward and back. Even Kevin Day, exy darling and former Raven, is struggling. Suddenly, he makes a mad sprint toward the goal, and throws his racket forward in one last desperate move. The ball, streaking through the air with Kevin’s famous accuracy, flies over the Raven’s keeper’s arm by just an inch. The goal lights up red. The crowds go wild. Figures in orange, delirious with exhaustion, throw their arms up and scream, while figures in black freeze in place. The camera pans over to where Neil Josten is still on the ground, a stunned Riko Moriyama standing over him. Neil has removed his helmet and says something. Riko, face twisting, lifts his racket up with dubious intent as a Fox further down the court screams their teammate’s name, the racket comes down-)
(A deserted street in downtown Portland, 5:30 AM. Hipster restaurants and quirky shops. A small figure runs on screen, keeping a steady but surprisingly fast pace for so early in the morning. They wear a faded white-and-orange PSU Foxes sweatshirt. Neil Josten, 34 years old, captain and starting striker for the Portland Flyers and starting striker for US Court, crosses the street and keeps running. He turns around the corner and comes to a stop in a small park. He stretches by a bench and watches the sun rise. The camera zooms in slightly as the scars on his face are highlighted. He looks utterly at peace.)
(Neil, now freshly showered, stands in the kitchen of the apartment he shares with husband and teammate Andrew Minyard, 35 years old, keeper for the Portland Flyers and US Court. Neil is making scrambled eggs while Andrew feeds their two cats, Sir and King. They’re talking and Neil snorts, Andrew looking up with the slightest tilt to his mouth.)
(A cozy living room in Brooklyn. Children’s toys are tucked away in neat piles around the IKEA furniture. Matt Boyd, 36 years old, beloved co-host of ESPN’s popular Exy Nation program and former backliner for the Red Royals, sits on the couch beside his wife, Dan Wilds, 37 years old and well-respected coach of the UNY Thunderbolts. They are clearly still stupidly in love after 13 years of marriage, and are totally at ease with the crew as they’re interviewed.)
Producer, from behind the camera: “I want to take us back a bit. What was your first impression of Neil Josten?”
(Dan laughs, and Matt smiles hugely.)
Matt: “Where do I begin?”
(A small office within Palmetto State University’s exy stadium. David Wymack, 60 years old, sits behind his desk with ten carefully maintained manila folders spread out in front of him. Each one is labeled at the top in capital letters with bold black sharpie. NEIL JOSTEN, ANDREW MINYARD, AARON MINYARD, KEVIN DAY, NICHOLAS HEMMICK, RENEE WALKER, ALLISON REYNOLDS, DANIELLE WILDS, MATTHEW BOYD, and SETH GORDON. He lets out a weary but amused sigh when asked the question by the producer.)
Wymack, crossing his arms: “When I first met Neil? Well…”
(Neil, dressed in green-and-white gear save for an orange bandana, leads a warmup around the stadium home to the Portland Flyers. He is totally in his element, and is obviously admired by his teammates. Although he stays focused, he spares the occasional smirk or snarky statement. For some of the drills, he stands off to the side and calls out tips or encouragement. Andrew lobs a ball toward him and Neil catches it swiftly with one hand, throwing it back with one brow raised. His eyes dart back and forth across the court, and he talks to Coach Barton, gesturing at players.)
(An airy townhouse in San Francisco, well lit with large windows and skylights. The lack of walls dividing common spaces makes the interior open and inviting. Kevin Day, 35 years old, starting striker for the San Francisco Spartans and starting striker and captain of US Court, sits at a table by a window overlooking a tidy garden. When asked the question by the producer, he sets his cup down.)
Kevin: “I went with my father and Andrew Minyard to sign him in Arizona. He tried to run.”
Producer: “Who stopped him?”
(Kevin sighs slightly, as if he’s still inconvenienced by the event a decade and a half later. In recent years, he has become more human in the face of the media rather than the courteous but distant figure he used to be with the Ravens.)
The foxes (and Andrew) reacting to Neil casually being really good at knife throwing and knives in general. Like her can whip open a butterfly knife with ease but also pin a fly to the wall with an unbalanced kitchen knife
Oh, Anon, I love you for this. Neil throwing knives is one of my favorite ideas literally ever. (Neil throwing any weapon, honestly.) Have any of y’all ever seen/been to a place where they throw axes?
~
Neil Josten remembered the weight of a knife as well as he did the weight of an Exy racquet. Eden’s Twilight had, for some hellish reason, decided to install a target on a wall near the bar and supply interested patrons with the chance to throw knives.
Of course, Neil had no interest in participating. It was one of the rare nights that all of the Foxes came along, and he was much more content to just sit with Andrew at his side and let the small bit of alcohol he allowed himself warm him up.
“Hey, Andrew, did you see the knife-throwing target?” Nicky teased, backing up to hide behind Matt and Kevin. “I’m sure you could get a bullseye every time.”
Andrew slid him a bored look, not even interested enough to argue that he was much better at stabbing and slicing than throwing. Absently, he was a small bit curious to know if Renee could throw knives, but when he glanced over at her, she just smiled gently and shook her head.
“Come on, Andrew, it’ll be fun! Let’s make bets. If Andrew gets a bullseye with at least three out of five knives, then I’ll personally stock our cabinets with alcohol and the freezer with as much ice cream as you can eat,” Nicky said, holding his hands up placatingly.
It was at that point Neil decided to focus in on the conversation. He glanced at Andrew, who seemed to have no interest, then nudged him gently with his elbow. “In the mood to hustle?” he murmurs, smiling slyly.
Andrew raised an eyebrow at him, then nodded slowly, watching as Neil snapped to get Nicky’s attention. “Hey,” Neil said. “Let me step in for Andrew.”
Nicky beamed. “See? Neil gets it. Neil’s fun, Andrew. You should learn how to be fun.” He grabbed Neil’s arm and dragged him to the table set up, grinning at the worker. “Five knives,” he requested, turning to look back and make sure the other Foxes were all coming to watch.
Neil sighed internally and took the knives in his non-dominant hand, barely even glancing at them as he took one in his dominant hand and positioned himself at the line. He knew he’d get all five, and if the knives kept coming, he was sure he could fill the whole target.
“Okay, Neil, no pressure. I don’t know how you are with knives compared to Andrew,” Nicky stated, hiding by Matt and Kevin again. Neil didn’t bother looking as the other Foxes crowded around to watch, as well as a few other patrons.
Neil bit his cheek as hard as he could to keep his father’s smile off his face. He knew if he started smiling, it’d be that same cold grin his father wore when he cut a man apart.
He imagined the target was Nathan, then Lola, and finally, after a quick glance at Andrew, that it was anyone who had ever hurt the people he loved. In quick succession, barely even having to look, Neil threw all of the knives at the target.
There was some shock that resonated through the crowd, and then a few cheers, but over it all, someone scoffed. “Beginner’s luck,” a gruff voice said. “Bet he can’t do it again.”
“How much?” Andrew asked, head tilted to the side. “How much are you willing to bet?”
The man stepped forward, closer to Andrew, who simply folded his arms and cocked his head. The man’s eyes narrowed and his nose scrunched in distaste. He pulled back slightly. “A hundred for each knife.”
The man scoffed and rolled his eyes, unimpressed, but pulled back to shake Andrew’s hand anyway. Andrew squeezes as the man pulled away, tempted to break his hand, but with a look from Neil, he relaxed.
Andrew kept his face calm and unimpressed. “How about a game? Neil has ten seconds to throw as many knives as he can into that target there. You give me a hundred dollars for every knife that sticks.” There was definitely something interesting about this. About having Neil throw knives. The way his body moved.
“Ten seconds,” the man agreed, crossing his arms. The worker spread the knives out on the table and Neil took one between his fingers while Nicky pulled the five other ones out of the target and placed them on the table.
“You’ve got this, Neil,” Dan cheered, eyes bright with enjoyment. Neil waved her off, indifferent to the various encouragement the Foxes called out to him.
The guy looked at Neil. “Ready?” At Neil’s nod, he paused a moment, then yelled, “Go!”
The crowd counting down was a roar in Neil’s ears, but he barely heard them as he threw knife after knife in the target, one flying out of his hand before the previous even hit the target. All of them were crowded around the center, though Neil knew they’d all be a direct hit if the knives didn’t take up space.
Neil was done by the time the crowd said three. He turned to look at the man, unable to stop the smile this time. It was his father’s face, he knew, but Nathan Wesninski was the man who taught Neil ways to cut a man apart for the most suffering. Nathan Wesninski taught Neil how to hold a knife, how to throw a knife, and how to use a knife in the worst ways.
“Two thousand,” Neil ordered, offering his hand. He wanted to claw the expression off his face, too focused on the anger and ache of his memories in his chest. He wanted to rid himself of every connection between him and his father, but he couldn’t. “Pay up.”
The man was too busy staring at the target. Neil knew he needed to get out of here before he got too aggressive with the wrong person, so he glanced back at Nicky in a silent demand and turned to grab Andrew’s sleeve.
Andrew didn’t even bother looking to make sure Nicky collected before walking away, letting Neil come along behind him. He took him out of the club and to the curb, sitting down and withdrawing two cigarettes.
“What happened?” Andrew asked after a moment, passing Neil a cigarette and taking a long drag of his own. Neil was still smiling, so Andrew dug his knuckles into Neil’s cheek. “That’s not your smile. I thought I told Nathaniel to stay dead in Baltimore.”
That was all it took for Neil to slump against Andrew and stop smiling. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, then shook his head. “I — I imagined it was my father,” he admitted.
“Your father is dead, Neil,” Andrew replied, voice flat. Then he took Neil’s chin and turned his head. “Yes or no?”
Neil didn’t want to think. Not right now. So he nodded a little, pushed just a bit closer and held his hands up by Andrew’s hair in silent question. When Andrew gave him the okay, Neil tangled his fingers in Andrew’s hair as the blond kissed him roughly.
“If you weren’t so fucking annoying, I’d think seeing you throw knives was fairly interesting,” Andrew muttered against his lips, and Neil grinned.
“I guess it’s good I’m annoying, then,” Neil replied. “I’d hate to give you another reason to be attracted to me.”
Andrew pushed lightly at Neil’s chest, making him lay down on the concrete. Neil went willingly, laid back and opened his mouth to Andrew. This was what he wanted.
He could deal with the memories of Nathan Wesninski so long as the feeling of Andrew Minyard was stronger.
Bitty's Comprehensive List of Top 10 Kisses with Jack Zimmermann
First of all, anon, you are so greedy. I said i’d do the first three or four kisses, and you come in here demanding TEN? I’m just kidding. This was a fun one to think about and conceptualize, so thank you very much for sending it :)
Bitty’s had a lot of time to think about this. And he’s had a lot (a LOT) of material to work through. So he’s ranked what he considers the top 10 kisses he and Jack have shared. Every so often, in his mind, he goes through them, laying them out and reliving them one by one. It makes a lot of long car rides and plane trips in and out of Providence bearable.
Number 10 is a kiss that they shared in a fancy restaurant, one of the first places Jack took Bitty after they went public. The food was divine, and there was a little jazz quartet playing old standards in front of a small patch of dance floor. After dinner, Jack held out his hand and asked if Bitty would care to dance.
Dance they did, and as the bass and the piano plucked out Fly Me To the Moon in the background, Jack hoisted Bitty off his feet, holding him just above the floor so their faces were close. His forehead tipped against Bitty’s, soft and warm, and then it was like gravity, the sway of the dance and the melody drawing them together. Just a brief, beautiful kiss, like a single flower, there and gone again, but so unbearably sweet it left Bitty’s lips and cheeks both flushed. Dessert was good, but not as good as that.
(steadfastly continues the theme of making you describe fics I'd like to read but don't actually exist) 4!!! fake title is: "one day when I call" (@parvuls)
like all things do, their friendship died out. like an old flame on a melted candle, wax dripping all over the place. slowly, very slowly.
after bitty was done with samwell, he wouldn't hear much about jack. a happy birthday text here and there, as they both busied himself. jack, with the nhl. bitty, to avoid thinking about his feelings, and about what had not happened.
one day, five years after bitty's graduation, jack calls.
"hey, bitty, do you still do wedding cakes?"
bitty's throat closes on itself, because of course jack has gone on with his life, of course jack isn't waiting for that little baker he went to college with. there was nothing there and will never be.
"oh my god, congratulations!" he squeals into the phone, trying to sound... joyful.
"ha, thanks, so I guess you've heard the news, eh?"
bitty nods and laughs - but no, he's not heard about anything.
this is how he starts the hardest order he's ever received in his life. a wedding cake for the boy he's still not over, and that mysterious bride in white of his - or groom, he hasn't asked. he won't ask. he told himself he won't ask any kind of detail, just do his job and be done with it, as soon as possible.
it doesn't help much that jack's in montréal for the off season, and that the wedding is taking place at the end of the summer. but they've got phones and bitty is able to mail cake and they somehow make it work.
"nothing too heavy," jack chuckles, over the phone. "you know how you get about dessert when you're older."
and yeah, of course, jack still on about his diet.
"this one is really good, my dad really likes it."
that's sweet, his father's approval.
"it looks amazing, but could the decorations be, uh... lavendar? my mom says it'd fit the venue better."
of course alicia would help with the color coordination. make everything perfect, for her son's perfect day.
and inevitably, once they've figured everything out:
"thank you so much, bitty, my parents are so relieved." (goodness, his own mother would be all over the place should bitty get married) "and, uh, of course, since you're already traveling here to do the cake, we'd like to invite you to the wedding."
that's a bad decision. it's the worst decision of bitty's life, but good lord, he can't say no, can he? that would be impolite, and he's going to be in montréal either way, finishing the cake, he could at least go and give his congratulations to the happy, happy couple.
he shows up in a suit and a bow-tie, hair perfectly styled, and- he's not going to cause drama at a wedding, good lord, no, but he's still going to look his best. because why not.
the wedding takes place outside, and the sun is softly shining as bitty happens onto jack, five years after they've last seen each other. if bitty thought he was over jack, he couldn't be more wrong.
jack looks at him, a spark in his eyes, before his gaze travels to his feet, as a slight smile stretches his lips. he's gorgeous. "hey, bitty."
"hey, jack. congratulations again."
"ha, thanks, this is great. I'm so glad you could make it."
jack's still grinning at him as if there's nothing more important in the world, and lord- jack was like that already at samwell, in his last year there, flirting but not really flirting. and he's doing it again. at his wedding. oh lord, this is going to get awkward.
bitty tries to distance himself a bit, but every time, jack comes back, chats about old times, presents him to everyone but the lucky person he's going to be married to by the end of the day. they must be preparing for the ceremony.
a bell chimes in the wind, and jack makes a point of showing him his seat. bitty's eyes land on the arch, where jack and bob are chatting quietly, and, lord- that's cute, bob being his son's best man. until jack gives him one last hug, and comes to sit right beside bitty. and comes to sit right beside bitty.
bitty stares. what the hell?
there's no time to overthink because the soft melody raises in the field, and bitty stands and turns his head like everyone else. at the other end of the aisle, alicia is standing, all in white.
he gapes. because, first, she is gorgeous, and second, what the fuck?
"are you not getting married?" bitty whispers to jack.
jack frowns. "to my mom?"
"oh my god, jack, I thought you were the one getting married."
"I... seriously? I thought you said you've heard about it. they decided to tie the knot after all those years. it was all over the news."
well, maybe not american news. good lord.
"so..." bitty starts. "you're..."
"single," jack says, just as bitty lets out, "not getting married?"
jack smiles, that same, shy smile as earlier. "uh, no, definitely not."
"oh, lord."
jack's been playing messenger all this time. between bitty and his parents. for his parents' wedding.
his knees feel a bit unsteady as they sit back down, alicia's hands in bob's. a weight off his shoulders, bitty wants to laugh. he wants to laugh because he's spend months thinking that jack's parents were just really involved in his wedding plans, because he's spent months torturing himself baking a cake for the man he thought had moved on. and now, in front of him, alicia and bob radiate that quiet happiness of an established couple wanting to show that sometimes, love just grows stronger with time.
there's a tear pearling at the corner of jack's eye, and when he leans his shoulder against bitty, bitty doesn't move away.
later on, they will be walking on their own, fingers brushing, dusk setting between the trees, and when jack will lean in, he'll taste of white cake and honey.
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Bitty wakes to the smell of coffee, to light filtering through curtains, to a bed empty of everything but a collection of pillows and rumpled sheets, Señor Bun, and himself. He stretches, enjoys the pull in his calves, the muscles of his back, and breathes deep.
He’s no coffee connoisseur, but Bitty would bet Jack’s gotten into the beans they bought the evening before on their grocery run between the train station and the apartment. They’d stood in the aisle together, and Bitty had watched Jack raise the bag and inhale slowly, his eyes fluttering shut. Bitty had tightened his grip on the handle of the cart and bargained with himself. If you don’t touch now, you can kiss Jack in the elevator.
And he had. He’d pulled Jack down by his collar and tasted surprise and pleasure sweet on Jack’s lips.
He sighs, touches his own. Barely notices the soft pad of footsteps outside of the bedroom until Jack is standing in the doorway. His feet and chest are bare. He still has bedhead, tousled by pillows and Bitty’s own hands.
He’s got a cup of coffee in each hand and the sugar tucked awkwardly between his elbow and his side.
“You’re up,” Jack says, voice soft as the light slipping across the end of the bed.
Bitty laughs, shifting onto his back. “Barely,” he says, stretching one arm out across Jack’s side. “You look like you’re ready to join me.”
Jack smiles, and pads toward the bed. Settles after setting his loot on the nightstand. He turns to Bitty, bright-eyed, and kisses him. “Good morning.”
Yes, Bitty thinks, it is.
afternoon
Bitty loves Jack’s apartment, loves the light through the windows in the living room, the color of blue on the walls, the size of the kitchen (oh lord, the kitchen). The way his own things look at home here, his notecards on Jack’s coffee table and sofa, his toothbrush tucked next to Jack’s in the bathroom. Señor Bun tucked against the pillows on Jack’s bed, put there carefully by Jack himself as they finished making it. His fingers lingering as he looked up and smiled at Bitty and said, “There, just like home.”
Bitty’s heart had been fit to burst.
They stand side by side in the kitchen now, Jack scrubbing mixing bowls as Bitty waits to dry. There’s a pie in the oven–apple, maple sugar, Jack’s favorite–and music in the air. Their elbows and forearms brush. The outside of Jack’s foot, bare, presses against the outside of Bitty’s. The hair at the back of Bitty’s neck stands up and, oh, he is so aware.
The light in the kitchen, the music from the living room. Jack humming beside him. Jack’s hands certain as he works. Jack’s hands on the notecards, on the measuring cups, on Bun. On Bitty. Jack’s hands big and sure and certain.
Bitty startles when Jack nudges him with the now clean bowl. He’s blushing. Jack is smiling at him, eyes so blue.
“Not a bad way to spend an afternoon, eh?” he asks, pressing a kiss to Bitty’s temple.
“Better than studying.” Bitty presses a kiss to the round of Jack’s shoulder and means, really, better than anything.
evening
They go out for dinner and take their time, arms brushing, feet in step. Jack keeps looking at him. Bitty knows because he keeps looking at Jack. It’s nice, looking. Knowing he can touch even if it isn’t right now but later. They talk, and it’s just like before–with Annie’s–but at so much better.
Meandering down a few blocks, they reach a the restaurant Jack and his parents found when they moved Jack in. It’s small and quiet, intimate. They sit in a corner. Only their feet touch, tucked together beneath the table, and Bitty feels grounded by it. Centered. Even as his heart races when Jack looks up at him from the menu, gaze steady through his eyelashes.
Bitty flushes and sips his water, continues catching Jack up on the Great Jam Debate.
When their food comes, Jack offers him a bite of his fish, shaking his head when Bitty lifts his fork. Instead, Jack lifts his own, holds it out between them. The corners of his mouth lift up. “Here.”
A blink. Bitty leans forward, stretching toward Jack. His lips close around the food, around the fork. He should be tasting the flavors of fish, the seasonings, but all he can think is that, moments before, Jack’s mouth was here, too.
It’s as close to kissing in public as they can get right now. It’s nothing. Bitty’s heart tumbles.
There’s pie waiting at the apartment, sugared and spiced just right, and ice cream in the freezer. The weekend slips away too quickly, already half over, but there’s a whole night ahead and Jack right in front of him.
after dinner
Keys on the side table, shoes by the door, jackets hung in the hallway. It feels like home, Jack’s apartment. Bitty slices into the pie they baked together as Jack pulls plates from the cabinets, forks from the drawer. They move around each other easily, orbits falling into place like they’ve always been there, like this isn’t new.
It isn’t, not really. Not this part. They found a rhythm on the ice, in the Haus. In Georgia. It’s not this that’s different, the patterns of their movements coming together, it’s what comes later. When the food is cleared and the plates are put away, when teeth are brushed and socks are kicked off. Later when they slip between the sheets of Jack’s bed, side by side, and turn to each other with greedy hands and mouths, with hearts that race in tandem toward a newer, brighter goal.
That part’s new, and still terrifying sometimes, but Bitty wants and Jack meets him every time, touch for touch and kiss for kiss.
Bitty shivers, and hands Jack his plate. Watches as Jack takes his first bite, drinks in the flutter of his eyelids as they slip closed, the pursing of his lips around the fork. The way his mouth turns up at the corners.
The way he moans around something that is Bitty’s doing. This is Bitty’s doing.
Lord.
He swallows and presses a hand to Jack’s chest, leans up to press a kiss to his jaw (savors the stubble against his lips). “I’m glad you like it,” he says, and knows that as he heads to the living room with plate in hand that Jack is right behind him.
night
They kiss on the couch, hands and lips lazy, plates and forks discarded. Jack’s mouth is soft and warm and Bitty feels like he’s being pulled under by each sweep of tongue against his bottom lip, each press of thumb against his hip. They kiss, time turned slow and thick, dripping golden as honey from second to second.
Until Jack’s hand slips beneath the hem of Bitty’s shirt, his fingers spreading across the small of his back, and Bitty’s heart ratchets up a notch and his teeth graze Jack’s lip. Jack’s breath catches. He pulls away–eyes dark and cheeks pink, mouth red–and then he’s saying Bitty’s name and pulling Bitty on top of him.
The stretch of his thighs where he straddles Jack’s, the solidity of Jack’s chest beneath his palms, the look in Jack’s eyes as Bitty rises above him; all of it is perfect, all of it is good.
“Jack.”
“Bitty,” Jack says. “Bits.” And then both hands are skimming beneath Bitty’s shirt, up his back. He pulls Bitty close and Bitty goes, eagerly, fits their mouths together.
He’d been so nervous at first, afraid that he wasn’t enough, was too inexperienced. That he wouldn’t be what Jack wanted, not really, when all was said and done. He still gets nervous, to be honest; they haven’t been together that long. But everything Jack has done, every touch and every word, pushes those fears away, wearing them down until there’s only the ebb and flow of want between them.
Bitty kisses him. Bitty is kissed. Each touch of Jack’s sinks into him, grounds him even as it sends the world spinning. He’s drunk off it after so long without. School and hockey and distance and public personas keep them apart, will continue to keep them apart. But here in the privacy of Jack’s home, there’s nothing to stop them touching.
Jack’s hair is soft beneath his fingertips, his skin warm. His hands beneath Bitty’s shirt are huge, and Bitty wants them elsewhere, everywhere. All he has to do is ask.
in which aaron and neil, two small assholes, become begrudging friends. the chaos happens more towards the end, but i honestly wrote some of my favorite dialogue ever and i hope you enjoy it!! again, i took some creative liberties so if something’s non-canonical then that’s just how it be sometimes.
thank you to anon for this lovely request! this is literally my second fic where i start with katelyn scheming while looking cute and aaron being absolutely FLUMMOXED and it will not be the last. i also reference my headcanon about neil and his canonical obsession with fruit and my headcanons about katelyn. like every other fic i write, this totally ran away from me and got incredibly long!!
what to expect: twinyards are in a better place, aaron and neil are sappy for their s.o.’s, cursing, andrew’s a little shit
Aaron dropped his forehead down onto his textbook like he could absorb the information through osmosis. He closed his eyes and forced himself to take deep, measured breaths. Andrew had offhandedly mentioned it was something Betsy told him could help when he was angry, but Aaron supposed it could also help when you were fantasizing about dropping out and drafting ways to convince your girlfriend to run away with you and live out the rest of your days as nomadic sheepherders.
In the background, Aaron heard Nicky laughing at Kevin, who was attacking their current video game with more competitive vigor than necessary. Andrew was sitting across the table from him, typing on a laptop with only his pointer fingers. Aaron had made the mistake of confessing that was one of his biggest pet peeves, and now he did it whenever they were in the same room. Aaron’s neck was staring to hurt from how he was slumped over, but if he looked at one more diagram on the cellular and molecular aspects of cardiovascular diseases then he was going to instantly perish.
A rubber eraser bounced off of his head.
“Stop it.” Aaron grumbled.
“Stop moping.” Andrew retorted.
“I will mope as much as I want to.” Aaron squeezed his eyes shut.
“Just take a nap, idiot.”
He was right, but Aaron would not admit it. “No.”
The door opened. “Hey, Katelyn!” Nicky greeted cheerfully. Aaron immediately sat up and spun around in his chair. She was standing in the doorway and had a hand raised in a little wave. Neil continued into the room, coming around the table to glance at what Andrew was doing. He saw the way he was typing and smirked.
“Katelyn.” Aaron said. He glanced at Neil, wondering if he had brought her here to help.
“Oh, Aaron.” She walked over, knowing Andrew wouldn’t try anything with Neil so close to him. But she refrained from touching him, and scanned his studying setup with worried eyes. “You need to take a break.”
“With you?” Aaron asked hopefully. She was wearing a sweater tucked into a skirt and had her favorite messenger bag slung across her shoulder.
“Actually, we were just stopping by so Neil could get his charger.” Katelyn replied. Aaron blinked up at her, and then looked at Neil, who had already grabbed the black cord and was now pulling a jacket on.
“Why?”
“We’re going out.” Katelyn smiled brightly.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what friends do.” Katelyn shrugged.
