THIS IS FOR U BBY

Except, Jaskier and Geralt, for the life of them, can’t figure out what the spell was meant to do. And the mage teleported as soon as he’d cursed the bard, so there wasn’t much else they could do besides wait and see what would happen.

Geralt asked the bard if he was okay, if he felt off, and Jaskier said he was fine (he was always fine, had learned the hard way if he wasn’t fine then he’d be left behind) and that Geralt needn’t worry about him.

The witcher seemed disgruntled at that, but there wasn’t much he could do against invisible, unknown hurts. So when Jaskier said he wasn’t tired, that he wanted to keep performing, he muttered something about going to take a bath and went up to their room.

The bard turned in late, and when Jaskier woke up early the next day claiming to be none the worse for wear, they left the inn and continued on the Path. Jaskier spent much of the day practicing a new song, a rather embellished tale of Geralt’s fight with a griffon, and by the time the sun began to set both were internally thinking maybe the spell had been a fluke. Perhaps it had backfired, as everything seemed fine.

In truth, everything was as fine as it always was.

And that, in the end, was the problem.

It was on the fourth day after the encounter that Geralt asked if Jaskier had taken care of Roach, and the bard opened his mouth and no came out instead of yes. Puzzled, the bard tried to say yes again, becoming increasingly frustrated when the word simply wouldn’t come.

It took the bard claiming his hair was purple and that he loved wearing black for Geralt to understand the problem. And the witcher, while mildly concerned, merely laughed until something occurred to him. Something that made he beginnings of true worry stir in his stomach.

“Jaskier, I asked if you were okay four days ago, and you said you were fine.”

The bard froze, swallowing harshly, unable to meet the intense gaze of the man across the fire from him.

“You said you weren’t tired, that you didn’t need a break, that you weren’t hungry last night.” Geralt continued, his voice sounding increasingly strangled. “But you didn’t notice until now about the curse, did you?”

And there was nothing the bard could say to that, except a lie, which wouldn’t work. Not when the witcher would know, not when there was no blending truth with lots of little white lies, to make life easier. To help the witcher tolerate the bard’s company a little more.

“Jaskier, why did you…”

“It’s nothing,” Jaskier grimaced, the familiar words coming out easily.

Geralt frowned, no doubt recognizing the lie for the default response it was.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier? Just show me—”

“Nothing is wrong! I’m fine, I’m always fine—”

“Stop, Jaskier! Quit trying to hide—”

“I’m not hiding anything!”

Geralt was talking, but Jaskier was barely listening, feeling increasingly cornered, like he was six years old again and caught playing games with the cook’s son instead of studying. Like he’d done something wrong, like he’d—

“—don’t always say it, but you know I—that you’re my—my friend—”

“I course I know, I—”

Jaskier’s jaw snapped shut, both bard and witcher realizing just what he’d said.

What it meant.

Geralt’s face dropped, anger turning to something pained, and Jaskier couldn’t do this; not when his weapon, his words, were being turned against him. Not when Geralt kept asking him questions, kept giving him that look, he couldn’t—

“Jaskier, wait, don’t—”

Geralt cursed as the bard made some excuse about relieving himself as he all but ran away. The witcher wondered what he could do to fix this, to make the bard believe he truly did care for him, even if he didn’t—couldn’t, say it.

So he sat by the fire, waiting for the bard to come back, rehearsing what he’d say when the younger man (his only friend, his best friend) returned.

What he does not like, however, is the bard that is currently singing the most morose songs known to man.

Well.

Let him clarify.

He does not like that it is this bard, Jaskier, singing such depressing lyrics when in the two decades he’s known the man, he’s never seen him be anything but cheery. It’s almost unnatural, really, how happy he always was, practically bouncing around that witcher he liked to follow.

And Jaskier was so much better for business when he sang songs of his witcher, enticing townsfolk with tales of adventure and danger.

But that man was gone now, just a shadow of who he once was. If Dawidek was a betting man, he’d put his coin on that having something to do with the loss of the bard’s golden-eyed shadow. Dawidek didn’t know what had happened, and was a little worried the bard would simply burst into tears if he asked, fragile as the man currently was, but he had to do something! Surely he wasn’t the only one to have noticed this problem and have the desire to fix it. He couldn’t be the only tavern owner suffering from the bard’s misery, so—

Oh. Hmm.

Dawidek called for his son, already grinning at the perfect solution for this issue.

The bard simply needed a new muse, a new witcher.

And they could definitely do something about that.

~•~

It didn’t take Jaskier long to figure out what was going on. Longer than it should have, perhaps, but he’d blame that on the fact he spent more time drunk than sober in the past few months. But still, he was a master of the seven liberal arts, he knew a pattern when he saw one.

One inn only having a single room left for the night was not that uncommon. For the room to have two beds, and Jaskier being required to share with a complete stranger? A bit unusual, but still not the weirdest thing Jaskier’s dealt with in his travels. For it to be a witcher he’s sharing the room with? Okay, still, never happened before, but he understands he has a reputation, and that others may not feel as at ease with witchers as he does. And, it has been a rather rainy spring…

But then it happens again. And again. And again.

And Jaskier isn’t stupid. He knows what’s happening, sees it clear as day when every innkeeper looks behind him when he leaves his room each morning, looking so disappointed. Honestly, Jaskier would be offended otherwise, if he didn’t know they were just trying to help.

However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t very quickly reaching his limit with being foisted from witcher to witcher, like he was a child in need of a babysitter. He was fortunate enough that the ones he’d met so far had at least heard of him, and while most didn’t seem very enthused about sharing their room, they weren’t outright hostile.

That being said, after the last night he’d spent with a particularly onerous viper, he’d come to the mental decision that whichever witcher he met next would be the last. Surely he could convince whoever he ended up with that the benefits of a personal barker far outweighed the cons, if only for the coin he brought in as a rather well-known bard.

So as he made his way upstairs, to share a room with another witcher for the 11th—no, 12th—time, he hoped this one would be, at the very least, a better conversationalist than his first muse. Maybe even—

Jaskier froze, thinking at first it was the one witcher he’d been avoiding for so long, before he realized that no, this was not the White Wolf. He had white hair though, and as he turned, Jaskier couldn’t help but take note of the familiar medallion.

“I was beginning to wonder when it would be my turn.”

Jaskier blinked at the gruff voice.

“What?”

The witcher raised an eyebrow.

“Come, boy, you’d have to be a fool not to see what the innkeepers have been doing.”

Jaskier blinked again, opening and closing his mouth for a second.

“I did, notice that is. But how did you…?”

The man shrugged, “witchers talk. At least when a matter arises that concerns enough of them.”

Jaskier could feel himself blushing, realizing just how this must look. He, a bard, a fraction of the age of these mighty warriors, being tossed around like an unwanted runt from witcher to witcher. This was so much worse than when he’d felt embarrassed at the innkeeper’s concern, by people he was friendly if not quite friends with.

To know that complete strangers were aware of what was happening and being forced to play along was completely mortifying.

“Right. I, uh, it’s a rather beautiful night out, so I think I’ll just—”

“Nonsense, bard. If I didn’t want you here, I would have put up a bigger fuss when the owner put me in a room with two beds.”

Jaskier froze mid-turn, trying to parse out that statement, because it almost sounded like—well, like this witcher had wanted to find him. And that—well, Jaskier had truly never considered that possibility before now.

“I am at your service then, mighty witcher! I am the illustrious bard Jaskier, singer of heroics across the continent. If you would do me the honor of bestowing upon me your name…”

Jaskier grinned brightly at the wry smile his theatrics produced.

“Vesemir.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vesemir! I—”

The witcher held up his hand.

“I actually wanted you to meet someone else, thought I’d recommend him if you were actually interested in finding another witcher to tail.”

Jaskier tilted his head, intrigued.

“And this witcher—they’d be amenable? To such an…arrangement?”

Vesemir hummed.

Jaskier stared intently at the other man, lips pursed. This hadn’t exactly what he’d been planning when he’d walked up the stairs, but it seemed a far cry better than what he was expecting. And at this point, almost anything was better than getting thrown at another witcher and hoping he “stuck”, for lack of a better word.

“What makes you think he’d want a bard? I can’t say all witchers are very eager to be, as you put it, tailed.”

Vesemir, seemingly understanding his hesitancy, merely smiled wider.

“I’ve heard him humming your songs for the past ten winters, for one. Doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. And for two…”

Vesemir squinted at Jaskier, and the bard tried not to squirm, feeling as though he were fifteen again and being judged for his garish outfit by his father.

“I think he could use a traveling companion even more than you could.”

And that was…well.

Jaskier thought that was very promising indeed.

~•~

When the fight with Voleth Meir was over, and Geralt had finished settling his Child Surprise in a room to rest, he made his way to the great hall to find something for them both to eat. Ciri would be exhausted when she woke up, and—

Geralt froze when he took in the small mob of witchers surrounding—it couldn’t be—

“Jaskier?”

The bard—for it was the bard, somehow—turned at the sound of his name. His smile became more brittle, and Geralt pretended like it didn’t hurt, that it didn’t—

“Yes, Geralt? Did you need something?”

Geralt swallowed, trying not to show how much the words hurt him, the implication that Geralt would only want to talk to the bard because of necessity.

“I didn’t—I just—how are you here?

“He came with me.”

Geralt blinked, not having noticed that the witcher standing right next to Jaskier, closer than the others, was Eskel. His brother. Who had just looped his arm over the bard’s shoulder like they were old friends, what in Melitele’s name—

Jaskier frowned, and Geralt only just realized his face must be showing the twisting in his stomach at the friendly gesture. It didn’t bother him that Eskel had apparently replaced him. That his brother so freely welcomed the physical touch Geralt still was unable to initiate with the bard despite twenty years of friendship.

The bard wasn’t a dog to be owned. And Eskel deserved to be treated nicely, if anyone ought to have the bard traveling with them it was his kind, shy brother.

Geralt blinked, realizing he’d missed what Jaskier had said.

“Hmmm?”

“I said—” Jaskier rolled his eyes—“we’ll get back to cleaning after we finish catching up, don’t worry.”

And that was—

Geralt stared.

“‘Catching up’?”

Jaskier, for some reason, blushed. He looked…flustered, for lack of a better word, a very rare expression on the bard that Geralt had only seen maybe a handful of times.

But it wasn’t the bard who snorted, tilting his head back with a cackle.

Geralt’s eyes flew to his other brother, suppressing the urge to growl at being so blatantly mocked.

“You mean you didn’t hear? How did you miss it?”

Geralt bristled, noticing in the corner of his vision how Jaskier groaned, looking horribly embarrassed.

“Lambert—”

“Oh come on, bard, it’s a great story! You should turn it into one of your little songs, I bet it would be great at certain establishments—”

“Lambert—” Jaskier hissed again, face now beat-red.

Geralt growled, not liking how upset his brother was making his—the, bard.

“Spit it out, Lambert.”

“Well, with you out of the picture, your little bard needed a new muse.”

Jaskier shook his head, trying to interrupt, but Lambert merely spoke over him—

“Of course, he had to sleep with a dozen of us to find the right fit, but all’s well that ends well, right?”

Geralt stared, unable to even move as Jaskier tore after his brother out of the room, screaming his name.

That was…there was no way…

Geralt barely noticed as Vesemir came into the room, barking orders at the other witchers to get back to work.

Vesemir glanced around the hall, before turning to Eskel.

“Where’s the bard?”

“Chasing Lambert.”

And Vesemir—Vesemir chuckled, and said—

“At least the exercise will warm him up. He was shivering through the night at the inn when we met, despite the weather being so—”

He probably said more.

Geralt would never know.

and i was like “..the what?”

and she was like “the painting of the bird on the branch. can you put it there” and she pointed to the abstract painting

and i was like “how is that a bird”

and she said “well what do you think it is?”

and was like “it’s a beached whale with a giant eye, blowing blood out of its blow hole onto the legs of a guy who’s running away”

been a while but we're BACK

leg so hot

hot hot leg

leg so hot u fry an eg

*touches ground*

Geralt frowned down at Yennefer a final time, before making his way to his pack. He pulled out the bandages and salve he would need, scenting the air and wincing at the familiar smell. The bard had been injured enough in the past that the witcher could easily identify the man’s blood, which made it convenient to follow.

He didn’t like leaving Jaskier in the woods while injured, anymore than he’d liked leaving the bard with Yennefer, smelling of fear as he had been. He knew how the bard felt about the woman, had known since the first time he’d gone running out of that cottage after she’d saved his life, practically begging to just leave. But they’d needed him to hunt for food, having run out of rations, and he’d never considered—he should have realized—

Geralt frowned as he came across a bush that reeked of vomit, walking a bit faster at the clear indication the bard was worse off than he’d thought. He’d have liked to treat Jaskier first, to have him rest in the man’s bedroll as Geralt sorted things out with the mage. But he knew intimately the cornered look in Yennefer’s eyes, understood that having the bard there for the discussion would only have made it worse.

Not that it helped much, Geralt considered as he finally spotted the bard, sitting on a rock next to the river, much too close for the witcher’s liking. Hadn’t the man learned anything over the years he’d traveled with Geralt? He shouldn’t be so close to the water, not when he didn’t know—

Geralt froze as Jaskier’s head whipped up, the scent of fear spiking even as the man winced at the pain the sudden movement had brought. Geralt waited for a moment for the clean, fresh scent of contentment the bard always had upon seeing Geralt, his frown only growing when the fear lingered.

“Just me.” He rumbled, making it clear that he hadn’t brought Yennefer with him. He stared at the red bandages around the bard’s head, wondering if he should offer to look at it for him, to see if it needed stitches. It would be better to use clean cloth, but Jaskier was still looking at him like—he didn’t know what, but the smell of fear was still there, and he didn’t understand—

“Guess we should head back,” Jaskier said, lacking all of his usual grace as he rose to his feet.

And Geralt wasn’t—he was torn. He wanted to get the bard back to the campfire, to the bedroll waiting for him where Geralt could offer to treat the wound someplace more comfortable and safe. But he couldn’t deny the sharp spike of terror he’d smelled from the bard at the very notion of going back to camp, back to the mage. He didn’t know what to do, besides—

“It’s safe,” Geralt said, words that never failed to relax the bard, to take away the tightness in the man’s shoulders.

“Right,” Jaskier muttered, glancing up once, quickly, before looking back at the ground as he retraced his steps. If anything, the bard had tensed up more at Geralt’s assurance, and the witcher bit back a growl as Jaskier stumbled over a root.

The bard was being so difficult. Why couldn’t he just—

Jaskier stumbled again, and the witcher could see as he struggled to keep his balance, quickly reached out a hand to steady him and—and—

Jaskier flinched.

The bard paled even more than he already had due to blood loss, and Geralt couldn’t help the way he froze. Couldn’t help the way he breathed in sharply, taking in the acrid scent of fear that still hadn’t—

Geralt swallowed hard, heart thudding violently in his chest as he realized just why the scent was still there. As he realized that, for the first time in fifteen years, in all the time he’d known the bard, Jaskier was—he was—

“We—we better get back. Before dark.” Jaskier stuttered, and that was—Jaskier never stuttered, never tripped over his words, never—

“Jask—”

“I’m sure Roach is very eagerly awaiting our return.” Jaskier continued, voice a little stronger as he plastered on the smile he used for courts.

It was—it was wrong. Jaskier never smiled like that in the woods, not when there were no other people around to impress, not when it was just he and Geralt. He wasn’t—he didn’t need to pretend, not in front of Geralt, never in front of Geralt. He’d not felt the need to for at least a decade, and Geralt felt keenly, like a dagger to the chest, the sudden loss of the connection, the trust—

“Jask, please. I didn’t…”

He reached out, slowly, projecting his movements and giving the bard the time to move away if he wanted. Jaskier eyed the witcher’s hands skeptically as they fell on hunched shoulders, and Geralt forced himself to step forward, ignoring the urge to back away from the fear, the anxiousness, the pain—

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse.

Jaskier frowned, stubbornly looking at some point in the distance to the left of the witcher’s head. “You didn’t do anything, Geralt. It’s not your fault the wi—that Yennefer lost her temper.”

Geralt shifted until Jaskier was forced to look at him, or have to obviously turn his head away. “I should have listened to you, though. I never thought Yennefer would hurt you, and I never would have left her alone with you if I thought that was even a possibility. But I should have trusted you, and your instincts. If I had, none of this would have—you wouldn’t be—”

Geralt clenched his jaw tightly, trying not to wince at the way the bard’s pupils were two different sizes.

“She…she should be gone. By the time we get back.”

Jaskier blinked, the movement unusually slow, and Geralt fought the urge to growl at the obvious sign of the bard’s head wound. He really needed to check on it, to make sure—

“What?”

Geralt’s frown deepened.

“She needed a bit of time to gather her things and make a portal. We can—we can find somewhere else, to stay for the night. If that would…” Geralt trailed off, both not sure how to finish the sentence and concerned at the confused expression the bard now sported. He wondered if he could get away with carrying the bard back, the symptoms the bard was displaying only alarming him more and more—

“I don’t…what?” Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunched up even more, “but the…the thing. The plant.”

Geralt shook his head. “I can find a replacement for it. It’ll be a bit harder, but there’s nothing for it.”

If anything, Jaskier seemed even more confused at Geralt’s words.

“I don’t…why?” The bard asked, clearly struggling to find the words, in part due to the pain practically pouring off of him.

“It would take far too long to find without Yennefer,” Geralt explained, trying to stay calm for the bard’s sake. It was easier, now that the stench of fear had lessened some, ever since he’d explained that—

Geralt’s eyes widened, mouth opening and closing, though no words came out.

Jaskier didn’t think—he didn’t—

“But…you need it. Need witch.” Jaskier said, tilting his head just a bit.

“Jaskier, you know I wouldn’t—she hurt you, Jask. She could have—” Geralt shook his head fiercely, refusing to even entertain the notion. “You know I would never—I’d never risk—”

Geralt stared into the bard’s hazy blue eyes, stared at the man who still seemed so utterly, hopelessly lost, and realized suddenly that Jaskier didn’t know. That the bard had thought Geralt would—would drag him back to camp, would leave him alone with the mage, still bearing injuries she herself had given him. That he would leave him at her mercy—

“Jask…”

For a moment, Geralt just looked at the man across from him. Jaskier’s face was pale, which the witcher could put down to his head wound, but there was a lifelessness to his hair, dark patches under his eyes, that spoke of a weariness days in the making.

And suddenly, Geralt realized that if he had been in the bard’s shoes, it never would have gotten this far. How many times had Jaskier started a fight, because a barmaid or stall owner refused to sell to the witcher? How many times had Jaskier walked out of a tavern, because they didn’t have a room for someone like him? And how many times had Jaskier stood up for him when others called him a monster, inhuman, butcher?

And yet…Yennefer had spent the last four days degrading the bard every chance she got. Had spat at him insults that Geralt knew hurt the bard in ways he didn’t show, except for when he was very deep into his drinks. Not to mention the sparks the mage had threatened when she thought he wasn’t looking, which should have been sign enough that she would escalate if given the chance.

Geralt carefully pulled Jaskier into his arms, lifting him gently and shushing him as he let the bards head fall into his neck, shielding his eyes from the light. He walked steadily, doing his best not to jostle the younger man, the small whimpers he let out like long needles being stabbed through his chest.

Because he could no longer fool himself into thinking this wasn’t his fault. It was him who agreed to this journey with the witch, who didn’t even bother to ask the bard’s opinion. It was him who neglected to stop the fighting earlier, to defend the bard when the mage was the one starting the fights a good 90% of the time. And it was him who—who ignored Jaskier’s terror time and time again when it came to Yennefer, until finally the bard had been proven right.

And that was…

Geralt almost jerked to a stop at the realization of how little the bard truly feared. Of how, even when face to face with the creatures of most men’s nightmares, the bard very rarely reeked of the acrid scent, as if he knew he had nothing to worry about. Not when he wasn’t facing the monster alone, not when he had Geralt there to protect him.

And yet, every time since that first encounter with Yennefer, when they’d run across the mage, he’d put on a brave mask while his heart thudded violently in his chest. He’d used the only weapon in his arsenal, never once looking to Geralt for help, as if he knew this was a monster he would find no aid with, a battle he would be left to fight on his own.

Which was—it wasn’t—

Finally stepping into the small clearing where he’d left Roach, he breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of mage present. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she hadn’t left of her own volition, but it wouldn’t have been a pretty fight.

He glanced down at the light weight in his arms, the tension between his brows easing a bit at the realization the bard was sleeping. While not something he could risk a lot of with his wound, Jaskier’s breathing was steady, and the witcher could give him a few more minutes before waking him to tend to it properly.

He eased himself to the ground slowly, thinking once again about how strange his life was compared to when he started out on the Path. How different his journeys were, now that he had a rambling, colourful bard following after him, who could barely handle a dagger, let alone a sword.

And maybe Jaskier could never defend Geralt physically, like the witcher could for the bard. Jaskier would likely never go to battle with a Leshen, or a Bruxae, never stand in front of Geralt as he ran away like Jaskier often had to when the beast came a little too close to the human.

But as Geralt watched the steady rise and fall of the other man’s chest, he had no doubt that if Geralt truly was in danger, the bard would be the first to come running to his rescue, likely armed with little more than his lute and a shipload of courage.

No, Jaskier would never be a fierce warrior, someone to fear standing across from on the battlefield. But there were very few the witcher would trust to watch his back as much as he would the bard.

And he was beginning to realize that that trust, that loyalty, was a bigger gift than he’d ever understood.

Oh, he did his best to hide it. He never backed down from one of their verbal spars, even when he wanted nothing else than to hide behind the witcher, have him demand that Yennefer stop—stop insulting him, stop mocking him, stop threatening him.

But Jaskier knew he couldn’t do that. For one, Geralt trusted him to look after himself, to defend himself, at least to a certain degree. Monsters were one thing, but a witch that Geralt was—well, intimate with, and had a decently good relationship with was something else.

Plus, he knew that Geralt and Yennefer had struck up some sort of deal, that they both had need for some herb found deep in the woods they were now traversing. Why the witch couldn’t just buy it or, better yet, open up a portal to where it must be, the bard wasn’t entirely sure. The pair hadn’t bothered to share the details with him besides a comment about some sort of monsters in the area they couldn’t risk alerting with a portal.

And lastly, well…Jaskier didn’t need Geralt’s help with the mage. So far, the violet-eyed woman had done little more than spew hateful words, and maybe show off with a spark or two in her palms. Jaskier wasn’t a fool, could see the intimidation tactic for what it was, and saw no reason why he should be the one to back down every time the witch was in a bad mood.

Which was, quite frankly, always.

The bard had grown so used to her little sparks though, to the cold anger in her sharp eyes, that he never saw the blast of magic coming. One second they were bantering back and forth, no more or less heated than their arguments usually were, and the next there was a sharp pain in the back of his head, followed by a loud crack.

It took the bard a second to realize he’d been flung clear across the small glade they’d been making camp at, that he’d been blasted backwards into a tree, head and back taking the brunt of the contact. He blinked, trying to push the black spots from his vision, barely noticing the sound of Geralt coming back as he glared at the witch. She had the decency to look a bit guilty, but made no move to help him up, or to apologize, merely staying where she was a good few meters away.

That was quite alright with him, though, he thought as he staggered to his feet. Maybe this would be the push the witcher needed to make him see that as much as Geralt seemed to like the witch, it would be best if the bard wasn’t left alone with her. Melitele’s sake, the man had only been gone hunting for ten minutes or so, and look what had—

His trail of thought tapered off as the man himself appeared, eyes darting around the small clearing before glancing quickly between the witch and bard. It was easy to see what had happened. The sound alone was proof that it had been magic, and with nothing else in the clearing, plus the small dent he was pretty sure he’d made in the tree behind him, surely Geralt could—

“Take a walk, Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked, stunned.

Geralt didn’t…he wouldn’t have just—

“Now, bard.”

Jaskier fought back a flinch, having grown used to the witcher using the term in a softer, joking tone in the years they’d been traveling together. But now, it was like all those moments together had never happened, like he was eighteen again and following after Geralt for the first time, the witcher telling the bard to get lost as he punched him in the gut.

The thought made his stomach roll uncomfortably, though that could have also been due to the dizziness he was fighting. He did his best not to stumble as he walked to where he could faintly hear a river, not that it mattered much with the way the witcher had already turned away from the bard, talking in hushed tones to the witch.

Jaskier walked until he was sure the sound of the running water would cover any noise he made, before his stomach got the best of him and he found himself bending over and vomiting into a bush. Breathing raggedly, he struggled to stand straight, the ground seeming to spin underneath him as his head pounded with every thud of his heart.

Wincing at the light that filtered in through the tree canopy, he gently touched the back of his head, hissing when his fingers brushed the spot that hurt the most. He wasn’t exactly surprised to find the digits red, he’d had enough head wounds to know this was a nasty one, but it didn’t—Geralt could usually smell his blood. And the witcher had never let him walk away while injured, no matter how pissed off the man was at the bard for how he got the wound in the first place.

But maybe he trusted Jaskier to take care of it, Jaskier considered as he staggered down to the river. Taking the doublet off and folding it beside him, he felt at the back of his chemise, trying to see if it was already bloodied. Feeling it was a lost cause, he quickly tugged it off too, using the small dagger he kept in his boot to make thin bandages from the material.

Jaskier could do this. It wasn’t the first time he’d cared for his injuries by himself, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. That had to be why Geralt had sent him away while he—while he dealt with the witch. That made sense. Better to—to calm her down, than to risk her setting the forest on fire next, or something.

Still, as he carefully brushed the blood away with hands that shook slightly, he couldn’t help the dark thoughts that crept into his mind. The realization that Geralt had gone to Yennefer, instead of Jaskier, even though Yennefer wasn’t the one hurt. Even though Yennefer was the one who had hurt Jaskier, who could have broken his bones if she’d thrown him a bit harder, who could have—have—

Jaskier swallowed hard against the creeping bile in his throat, shoving it down the way he couldn’t do his morbid imagination. He trusted Geralt, would always trust Geralt. But Geralt clearly didn’t see the witch as a threat, didn’t understand that the woman couldn’t care less about what happened to the bard, and that was—quite frankly, terrifying.

Because he could trust Geralt all he wanted, but if he didn’t—if the witcher refused to see the danger, then that meant Jaskier was on his own with this. Worse, actually, because Geralt would likely be around soon to drag Jaskier back to the woman, to the witch who’d sooner leave him dead on the side of the road if she thought Geralt would allow it.

Which the witcher never would, of course. He might not like Jaskier’s singing, or his rambling, or the way the bard spoiled Roach, or, well…

Jaskier bit back the urge to shake his head. Geralt and he were friends, no matter if the witcher refused to admit it. No witch could come between that, no matter what their relationship was. Geralt would never—he’d never—

The bard blinked sluggishly, trying to get his mind to work through the pain. It was fine. They’d only be with the witch for a short while. He could trust Geralt to keep him safe.

The first-edition of The Joy of Gay Sex, published in 1977, declared, “Vegetable shortening may be the best lubricant, since it is not only greasy but also digestible”[4] Such a statement perhaps gives new meaning to the companies boastful declarations that “Its digestible” and “Crisco has been making life in the kitchen more delicious for years.”  Similarly, in the 1978 sex manual The Advocate Guide to Gay Health, Crisco even earned an entry in the book’s index.  Discussions of the shortening’s use as an anal lubricant indicate its popularity, with statements such as: “The lubricant, typically the cultic Crisco, must be copious.”[5]  In fact, Crisco was so synonomus with gay sex that discos and bars around the world took on the name, such as Crisco Disco in New York City, which was one of the premiere clubs during the 1970s and early 1980s.  Other clubs or bathhouses, such as Club Z in Seattle, even featured murals with Crisco.  Thus, Crisco was conversely also one of many things that led to the formation of gay identities during the 20th century.

from this essay: http://www.columbia.edu/~sf2220/TT2007/web-content/Pages/drew2.html

It’s meant to be a very somber night, made bearable by white gull and company. And it usually was, truly, but—

But then Jaskier came along, and, well…he would like it be known that this was in no way, shape, or form his fault. If he’d known what was going to happen, he would have begged off being included in the ritual, said something about being unusually tired and just gone to bed. But now it was, unfortunately, a little too late for that.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier took a long sip of the mulled wine he’d been offered in place of the witcher beverage, wondering how this had gone so horribly wrong so quickly. He hadn’t even done anything this time! At least, not right now. It wasn’t his fault that when Vesemir asked if anyone had seen a—

“Ain’t no way your pretty boy bard saw a Siren and lived to tell the tale, Geralt.” Lambert rolled his eyes with a sneer that made Jaskier want to bristle. “I don’t care if it doesn’t smell like a lie, he probably just saw a bit of driftwood and seaweed and he was running away before he could be eaten.”

The witcher laughed meanly, and Jaskier didn’t bother to hold back his scowl this time, marching over to see the drawing in the book.

“I did too! It looked just like this! It—oh.” Jaskier frowned down at the drawing, realizing it was a bit different from the Siren he’d seen.

“See? It’s okay, little bard, not everyone’s cut out to hunt monsters.”

Jaskier pushed the sword-callused hand off his shoulder, tilting his head as he looked at the drawing again. “I mean, it looked quite a bit like that, though. But the drawing says the tail was green, and the one I saw had a deep purple tail, almost black. Oh, and she had these extra fins where a human’s thighs would be, along with this sort of crown of—”

Jaskier looked up, about to motion with his hands the strange fins that fanned out around the siren’s head, only to realize that the other witchers were now all staring at him, eyes wide, mouths practically gaping.

“…what? I didn’t—is that not a siren? I just—woah! Geralt, what—”

Jaskier floundered as he was pulled roughly into the other man’s chest, a low rumble vibrating through Jaskier from where Geralt was holding onto him for dear life. Melitele help him, the witcher was acting like Jaskier had just tried to walk off a cliff or something, what on earth—

“You—you saw a Siren Queen? How did you—” Vesemir shook his head, a look of what Jaskier was now realizing was awe flickering across his face. “No one’s ever gotten close enough to—to see the details, and record them, not for…” the older witcher shook his head, and Jaskier felt his stomach twist a bit, realizing he might have—well, to put it frankly—

“What happened?” Eskel asked softly, amber eyes searching.

Jaskier bit his lip, shifting minutely from where he was practically seated in Geralt’s lap, the arms wrapped around him still as tight as a rope and not likely to loosen any time soon it seemed.

The bard sighed. “I…well, in my defense, I didn’t know she was dangerous. I was playing my lute, you see, and then I just—she was just there! Honest!” Jaskier gestured emphatically, knowing he probably wasn’t doing the story justice, but still a little panicked at how close he’d apparently come to death.

“And she just—” Jaskier shrugged helplessly, as well as he could at least while still in the pseudo-hug. “She wanted to listen, I think? And so I showed her some songs, and she seemed to like the mournful romance ones, so I played her a few more of those, and then she left.”

The others blinked at him, and for a second, Jaskier thought that would be it. It was true, really. The beautiful Siren had left after he’d sung for her, and he’d gone off to the little cottage he’d found for the night as well.

It was just, well—

“Jaskier.”

He froze, unfortunately recognizing the tone that Geralt was using. It felt like he was practically burning under the unseen force of his bright gold eyes digging into the top of Jaskier’s head.

“What? She left! What more do you want me to say? Would you like me to articulate how large of a splash she made as she dove back into the sea, the way the sunlight caught on her raven tresses—”

“Jaskier.”

The bard pursed his lips.

“…so maybe I went back the next day—”

“You—”

“Of all the—”

“Why—”

“Jaskier—”

“Oh, don’t you ‘Jaskier’ me!” He hissed, turning sharply up and out to look Geralt in the eyes. “I had no clue she was this—this monster to end all monsters, because you never tell me anything unless I pry it painfully, bit by bit, out of your practically nailed-shut-jaw!”

Jaskier yanked one arm free from the man’s grip, pushing his finger forcefully into side of the witcher’s face.

“And excuse me for seeking out the company of a willing audience! How dare someone like my music, appreciate my skill for more than the coin it brings to our purse. So yes, I came back the next day, and the next, and the next, until she told me she had to move on, some sort of—seasonal migration, or what have you!”

Jaskier huffed, losing steam now that Geralt seemed to feel a bit guilty. Still, he couldn’t help adding, “she actually gave me this ring, as a thank you—” he pulled out the simple gold band on his chain. “Because unlike some people, Shelly—”

“Shelly?!”

“—thought my playing and singing was beautiful, and not like filling-less pie.”

Geralt actually flinched at that, looking more remorseful even than that one time he’d accidentally elbowed Roach while grabbing something from his bag. The witcher let out another rumble, something softer this time, and Jaskier turned resolutely away. He was not going to fall for those down-turned lips, or that rough hand pressing insistently on his cheek, or those big, round, puppy eyes—

“I’m sorry, Jask. I’ll be…I’ll talk, more. And it’s…I didn’t mean it. Truly.”

Jaskier squinted for a moment, letting him stew in his guilt, before rolling his eyes with a small smile.

“I’ll be holding you to that, you know. Winter has barely started, and I’ve got this brand new journal I’ve been itching to fill—”

“Okay, hold on. That’s it?”

Jaskier blinked, turning back to Lambert.

“What do you mean?”

“You just—she just—there was no fight?!”

Jaskier frowned.

“No, of course not. I mean, did you see her teeth? Her claws? There was no way I’d have won against her.” Jaskier laughed, the very idea of going against Shelly amusing to him. It would have been like fighting a sword or something, impossible and just plain foolish!

“And she actually gave you the ring?”

Jaskier nodded at Eskel, smile growing a little wider. “I think she saw my other ones—” he said, waggling his fingers. “But it was a bit too big for me, and—”

Jaskier paused, realizing just then that if Shelly was the—the monster, that the other witchers thought her, then the ring on his chain—the one he’d been wearing for years, right over his heart, it was—

“Easy, Jask.” Geralt rubbed his back, which helped soothe some of the sudden nausea, the wine settling uncomfortably in his stomach.

“Geralt, I—”

“You didn’t know. And it…maybe she just found it.” Geralt suggested lightly. “I’m sure there’s lots of sunken treasure at the bottom of the sea, from shipwrecks and such.”

Jaskier nodded shakily, appreciating the sentiment even if he didn’t need a witcher’s nose to tell Geralt didn’t believe in his own words. Still, it helped him calm down a bit, and he found himself melting back into the strong hold, feeling strangely chilled all of a sudden despite his warm clothes and the roaring fire.

The other witchers were kind enough not to comment, which Jaskier was immensely grateful for. He forced himself to relax as Vesemir turned the page, glad the topic was at least shelved for the night.

“Fae.”

Jaskier was about to laugh, when he noticed that, no, the other witchers weren’t playing a joke on him.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though Eskel had caught his change in expression, if his widened eyes were anything to go by. Jaskier tried to signal to the man to keep his mouth shut, to forget about it, but that just seemed to bring Lambert into the loop. The man swore loudly, and Jaskier sighed, letting his head thump back onto Geralt’s chest.

“They were nice! Again, all they wanted was a bit of music! Their fingers were just too tiny to play, and they looked so sad!” Jaskier protested, remembering how their large, black eyes had seemed to fill with tears. “Plus, they even enchanted my lute for me as payment!”

Geralt squeezed his upper arm once.

“…Jaskier, when you say—”

“Oh, come off it, Geralt! You know what I mean.”

The witcher remained silent behind him, and Jaskier realized, abruptly, the man did not, in fact, know what Jaskier meant.

“Geralt, how do you think it is that my lute isn’t scuffed and scraped and warped to high heaven, what with all the roughing it we do? Not to mention that it just seems to magically reappear every time I lose it to some—some marsh, or bandit, or what have you!”

Jaskier didn’t even need to look at Geralt to know he was stupefied. The sharp grin Lambert had on his face was evidence enough that Geralt had somehow never noticed the magical properties of the bard’s instrument.

“I—whatever. That was truly one performance, honest! I don’t think the townsfolk liked that I performed for them much, something about the fae playing tricks on them I think, so I only spent the one night there. Didn’t want to overstay my welcome, you know how it is.” Jaskier said. He thought back, wondering now if the tricks might have been a little more…harsh, than he’d initially assumed.

He winced.

Okay, so maybe he’d accidentally been fraternizing with the enemy. Gosh, no wonder the crowd at the tavern that night had been so quiet—

Jaskier blinked, the sound of Vesemir turning the page bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Leshen.”

Again, a chorus of groans filled the room. The other witchers glanced at him a moment, and Jaskier shook his head in answer to their silent question.

Lambert nodded, for once looking serious. “It’s a good thing, bard. Fairly sure your singing wouldn’t do much good against one of those. It takes at least two or three witchers to bring a Leshen down, and that’s if you have the right tools.”

Jaskier nodded again, slower this time.

“I don’t…at the risk of sounding foolish, what exactly is a Leshen?”

Vesemir turned the book to face him, and Jaskier winced.

“Oh, yeah, no, those look absolutely terrifying.”

“Oh, so that’s where you draw the line, little bard?” Lambert drawled, seemingly amused. “Needle-like teeth and the ability to make you dance to death doesn’t do it, but the skull is where those self-preservation instincts of yours finally kick in?”

If Jaskier had his arms free, he would have been crossing them. As it was, he just jutted out his chin, saying, “I said they look terrifying, little Lamb. But honestly, give it a flower crown and it just ambles on away.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

Geralt keened.

Jaskier sighed.

He really should have just called it an early night. Something told him this conversation was going to have consequences that lasted long after the wine and White Gull were gone.

He yanked an arm free of the grip that had gotten impossibly tighter, trying not to jar the head that was now tucked on top of his own as he reached for the bottle.

couldn't find a thread with both the followups together