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“Differential”

The first thing Gregory House noticed was the silence.

Not the good kind—the kind that meant people were afraid to talk—but the precise, uncomfortable quiet of someone thinking very hard and not bothering to mask it. House hated that kind. It reminded him too much of himself.

The second thing he noticed was the kid.

Tall. Stiff posture. Eyes tracking everything like a security camera with trust issues. White coat buttoned wrong. No limp. Shame.

House leaned heavier on his cane and smirked. “Either this hospital’s running a Bring Your Prodigy to Work Day or you’re lost.”

The kid blinked once. “I’m Dr. Shaun Murphy. I’m a surgical attending at St. Bonaventure Hospital. I’m here to consult on the Wilson case.”

House raised an eyebrow. “Of course you are.”

They stood outside an isolation room. Inside, a middle-aged man lay unconscious, hooked to enough machines to make an ICU nurse cry. Wilson—his Wilson—had collapsed during a conference, presenting with seizures, aphasia, and a rapidly progressing fever that laughed in the face of antibiotics.

House had been summoned like a demon with a medical license.

Shaun spoke again. “You’re Dr. Gregory House.”

“Gold star.” House tilted his head. “You’ve seen me on TV.”

“No. I’ve read your papers. And three ethics complaints.”

House’s smile widened. “I like you already.”

Shaun frowned. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

“Neither is your tie,” House shot back. “Yet here we are.”

They went into the room together.

Shaun moved first—too fast, too focused. He studied the monitors, the chart, the subtle tremor in Wilson’s left hand. House watched him instead.

“You’re missing something,” House said casually.

Shaun didn’t look up. “I’m not.”

House tapped his cane against the floor. Tap. Tap. “You’re staring at symptoms. Fever. Seizures. Neurological decline. You’re building a list. That’s adorable. But you’re not asking why.”

“I am asking why,” Shaun said. “Why now. Why acute. Why asymmetrical. Why—”

“—why he’s lying,” House cut in.

Shaun froze.

House grinned. “There it is.”

Shaun slowly turned. “You think the patient is lying.”

“I think everyone is lying. Especially patients. Especially my best friend.”

“That’s illogical. There is no evidence—”

“—yet,” House said. “Which is why we get it.”

Shaun’s jaw tightened. “You manipulate people.”

House shrugged. “You dissect people. I just do it earlier.”

They stared at each other. For a moment, House saw something unexpected—not confusion, not fear, but calculation. Shaun wasn’t offended. He was… processing.

Shaun spoke carefully. “If he is lying, then the cause may be environmental. Exposure at the conference. A toxin. Or—”

“—a deliberate omission,” House finished. “Yes. Welcome to the dark side. We have Vicodin.”

“I don’t want Vicodin.”

“Give it time.”

They worked in tense parallel—House pacing, needling nurses, calling in favors he pretended not to have; Shaun ordering tests with surgical precision, correcting residents without raising his voice once.

Hours passed.

The answer came in pieces.

Wilson had taken an experimental supplement. “Natural.” Unregulated. Promised cognitive enhancement. Contaminated with a rare neurotoxin that crossed the blood-brain barrier and mimicked viral encephalitis.

Shaun found it first.

“This explains the atypical EEG findings,” Shaun said, pointing to the screen. “And the delayed onset.”

House stared at the results, then at Shaun.

“Well,” he said. “Damn.”

They treated Wilson. He stabilized. He lived.

Later, in the hallway, House watched Shaun reorganize the chart—neat, exact, almost reverent.

“You don’t lie,” House said.

Shaun paused. “I do. Sometimes. But not well.”

House nodded slowly. “Yeah. Me neither. I just do it louder.”

Shaun looked at him. “You’re mean to people so they’ll show you who they really are.”

House blinked. Once.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re getting dangerously close to understanding me.”

Shaun considered this. “You’re afraid that if you stop, you won’t be useful anymore.”

House laughed—short, sharp, defensive. “Okay, that’s enough amateur psychology for one day, Doogie.”

Shaun didn’t smile. But his eyes softened.

“You’re a very good doctor,” Shaun said. “Even when you’re being unethical.”

House leaned on his cane. “You’re a very good doctor,” he replied. “Even when you’re being human.”

They stood there, two brilliant minds orbiting the same truth from opposite trajectories.

House watched Shaun walk away, then muttered to himself, “Great. The kid’s a genius and a mirror. Just what I needed.”

He turned toward Wilson’s room.

Hi, just a disclaimer. I don’t have DID and I don’t and have never claimed to. This is just based off of the system I know personally, this isn’t to represent some perfect system because every system is different and most of the time it’s not perfect. This isn’t ment to glamorize the disorder or to offend anyone. Please let me know if I make any mistakes. 🩷

Kyra - Host/Trauma Holder (Main system)

Kiera - Host (Sub-System 1)

Rhya - Kyra’s Personal Protector (Main system)

Zay - Trauma Holder (Sub-System 1)

Mar - Self Helper/Trauma Holder (Main System)

Arabella - Sexual Protector (Sub-System 1)

Lily - Ex Persecutor/Sexual Protector (Main system)

Onyx - Persecutor (Sub-System 2)

Kane - Reforming Persecutor (Sub-System 1)

Narezza - Persecutor (Sub-System 2)

Killian - Primary Protector/Interject Fictive (Main System)

Nico - Protector (Sub-System 1)

Tempest - Physical Protector (Main System)

Mercy - Physical Protector (Sub-System 1) (New Alter)

Bane - Protector (Sub-System 2)

Sair - Spiritual Protector (Sub-System 2)

Saela - Physical Caretaker (Main System)

Fitz - Caretaker (Main System)

Isla - External Emotional Protector (Main System)

Mina - Caretaker (Sub-System 1)

Blythe - Internal Emotional Protector (Sub-System 2)

Shadow - Fragment/Memory Holder (Sub-System 2)

Jesse - Gatekeeper/Memory Holder (Main System)

Atlas - Gatekeeper (Main System)

Sentinel - Gatekeeper (Travels between systems)

Genevieve - Gatekeeper (Sub-System 1)

Mirror - Symptom Holder (Main System)

Daisy - Little (Sub-System 1)

Milly - Little (Main System)

Upcoming:

Part two - System dynamics and Alter relationships

Part three - appearances

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/19BlZaVvAunGGdS82yiCNoaZVZeX1GgKCn5nYk5XunU8/edit?usp=drivesdk

1. First Time, Reframed

Alec doesn’t mean to stare.

He really doesn’t.

They’re in Magnus’s loft, lights dimmed low, the city bleeding neon through the windows. Magnus is halfway through explaining something arcane and irritatingly complicated when his glamour flickers—just for a second.

Gold. Slitted. Catlike.

Alec freezes.

Magnus stops mid-sentence.

“…You saw that,” Magnus says carefully.

Alec blinks, then nods. His grip tightens on the strap of his bow like he’s grounding himself.

“I—yeah. I did.”

There it is. The moment Magnus has lived through a hundred times before. The flinch. The fear. The polite pretending not to notice.

Except Alec doesn’t step back.

Instead, his eyes light up.

“Wait,” Alec says, voice rising just a little. “Can you—can you do that again?”

Magnus stares. “Do… what?”

“The eyes,” Alec says, breathless now. “They were—wow.”

Magnus laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “Alexander, most people don’t say ‘wow’ when they realize their boyfriend is a centuries-old warlock.”

Alec steps closer. “I already knew that part.”

He reaches out, slow, giving Magnus time to pull away. He doesn’t.

“I just didn’t know you were… that beautiful.”

Magnus’s glamour slips fully this time.

Gold eyes gleam in the low light.

Alec smiles like he’s just been given a gift.

2. The Encouragement

It happens accidentally the next time.

They’re sparring—badly, because Alec is distracted and Magnus keeps making commentary he absolutely does not need. Magnus laughs, throws up a shield, and—

The glamour drops.

Alec notices immediately.

He stops mid-motion. Lowers his weapon.

Magnus sighs. “Sorry. Long day.”

“Don’t,” Alec says quickly.

Magnus frowns. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t apologize,” Alec says. Then, softer: “I like when you look like that.”

Magnus tilts his head. “You like it.”

Alec nods, entirely unapologetic. “Yeah. It’s you. More you.”

Magnus’s voice goes quiet. “Most people ask me to hide it.”

Alec steps into his space, close enough that Magnus has to look at him.

“Well,” Alec says, “most people aren’t dating you.”

Magnus lets the glamour stay gone.

3. Domestic Magic

It becomes a thing.

Not announced. Not discussed formally. Just… noticed.

Alec will glance up from cleaning weapons and say, casually, “Your eyes are gold again.”

Magnus will pause. “Is that a problem?”

Alec will shrug. “Nope. Just wanted to let you know I see them.”

Sometimes Alec will tease.

“You know,” he says one evening, leaning against the counter while Magnus cooks, “you don’t have to glam up around me.”

Magnus smirks. “Careful, Shadowhunter. You might get the full package.”

Alec’s mouth quirks. “Promise?”

Magnus turns, startled—then laughs, real and warm.

The glamour fades.

Alec watches like it’s his favorite show.

4. The Party

At a Downworlder gathering, Magnus’s glamour is flawless. Perfect. Polished.

Alec is stiff at his side, uncomfortable but trying.

Someone brushes past Magnus too closely. Someone looks too long.

Magnus feels the familiar instinct—to conceal, to smooth, to make himself palatable.

Then Alec leans in and murmurs, barely audible:

“You don’t have to hide.”

Magnus looks at him.

Alec’s hand finds his, squeezes once. Steady. Certain.

“I think they should see how lucky I am.”

Magnus exhales.

The glamour slips—not dramatically, not defiantly. Just honestly.

Gold eyes catch the light.

Alec stands taller.

If anyone stares, Alec doesn’t care.

That’s my boyfriend, his posture says. Deal with it.

5. Quiet Confession

Later. Night. Loft windows open to the city.

Magnus sits on the couch, glamour gone, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

Alec traces a thumb beneath one eye, careful, reverent.

“You know,” Alec says, “when I first saw them, I thought I’d be scared.”

Magnus hums. “And?”

“And then I thought,” Alec continues, “that if this is part of you, I want all of it.”

Magnus swallows.

“No one’s ever said that to me.”

Alec leans in, forehead resting against Magnus’s.

“I’ll say it as many times as you need,” he promises. “You don’t have to be less magical to be loved.”

Magnus smiles—soft, undone, eyes shining gold.

1. The Bath (or: Jaskier Learns the Language of Scars)

The bathhouse is nearly empty, steam curling low over stone floors. Geralt sits submerged to the chest, eyes closed, jaw tight like he’s bracing for something.

Jaskier lingers at the edge longer than usual.

“You don’t have to,” Geralt says, not opening his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Jaskier hums. “That’s never been true when you say it like that.”

He rolls up his sleeves and kneels behind the tub. Takes the cloth from the basin. Hesitates—just long enough for Geralt to pull away if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

Jaskier presses the cloth gently to Geralt’s shoulder. Slow. Careful. Like he’s learning a map.

“This one,” Jaskier murmurs, tracing a pale line near Geralt’s collarbone, “griffin?”

“Manticore,” Geralt replies automatically.

“Mm. Rude of it.”

Geralt almost smiles.

The cloth moves lower. A scar along his ribs. Another at his spine. Each one something taken, something survived.

“They all hurt you,” Jaskier says quietly.

“They tried,” Geralt corrects.

Jaskier leans forward and presses a kiss—light, reverent—just beside one scar. Then another. Never on them, always near. As if saying: I see it, but it doesn’t define where my mouth is allowed to go.

Geralt’s breath stutters.

“You don’t look at me like I’m broken,” Geralt says.

Jaskier pauses. “That’s because you’re not.”

Silence, steam, the sound of water lapping.

When Geralt finally leans back against Jaskier’s chest, trusting, heavy, Jaskier wraps his arms around him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

2. The Nightmares (or: Waking Up Loved)

Geralt wakes with a sharp inhale, hand already reaching for a sword that isn’t there.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispers instantly. “Easy. You’re here.”

Geralt’s chest heaves. His eyes struggle to focus.

“Where—”

“Same inn,” Jaskier says. “Same bed. Same irritating bard.”

Geralt presses his face into the pillow, shame creeping in fast. “Sorry.”

Jaskier props himself up on one elbow. “For what? Being human?”

Geralt lets out a humorless sound. “That’s not what I am.”

Jaskier slides closer, warm, solid. He threads their fingers together.

“You’re the man who has nightmares,” Jaskier says. “Which means you remember. Which means you care.”

Geralt’s grip tightens unconsciously.

“I’m here,” Jaskier repeats. “You don’t have to guard anything right now. I’ve got you.”

Geralt turns onto his side, hesitant, then tucks his face into Jaskier’s chest. His breathing slowly evens out.

Jaskier kisses his hair, again and again, like punctuation.

When Geralt finally sleeps, Jaskier stays awake a while longer.

Just in case.

3. Ordinary (or: Love as a Habit)

They’re doing nothing important.

Geralt sharpens his sword. Jaskier hums and scribbles lyrics that will never be finished. The fire burns low.

Jaskier glances up. “You know I love you, right?”

Geralt doesn’t look up. “You tell me often.”

“I know,” Jaskier says. “I’m building a pattern. Repetition helps with belief.”

Geralt pauses. Then: “I don’t know what I did to earn it.”

Jaskier grins. “You didn’t. That’s the best part.”

Geralt considers this, then sets the sword aside and reaches for Jaskier’s hand.

It’s clumsy. Unpracticed. Earnest.

Jaskier squeezes back like it’s sacred.

No monsters. No songs. No audience.

The fire crackles low in the hearth of the rented room, throwing light against warped wooden walls. Outside, a village sleeps uneasily—locks bolted, shutters barred, prayers muttered against monsters that may or may not exist.

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, armor discarded in a careless heap. His shirt is half unlaced, scars catching the firelight like pale seams. He’s still, too still, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow that never quite comes.

Jaskier watches him from the small table, lute resting forgotten against the chair.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Jaskier says gently. “That’s never a good sign.”

Geralt doesn’t look at him.

“They spat today,” Geralt says. His voice is flat, practiced. “Did you notice?”

Jaskier did notice. He always notices.

“One of them called me a freak,” Geralt continues. “Another said mutant under his breath. Like I couldn’t hear it.” A pause. “Like I haven’t heard it all my life.”

Jaskier stands, slow, careful not to startle him.

“They thanked you,” Jaskier says. “After.”

Geralt lets out a humorless huff. “After the monster was dead. After it stopped being useful to hate me.”

He stares at his hands. They’re scarred, calloused, made for violence. He flexes them once, then curls them into fists.

“I was made wrong,” he says quietly. “That’s what they mean. Stripped of feeling. Twisted. Something that wears a man’s shape but isn’t one.” His jaw tightens. “And they’re right. What kind of man survives what I do? What kind of man walks away and keeps going?”

Jaskier is close now. Kneeling in front of him, unafraid. He reaches out, then stops—waiting.

Geralt doesn’t pull away.

“I don’t know how to want things the way you do,” Geralt continues. “I don’t know how to be… good. I kill. I endure. I don’t belong anywhere.” His voice dips, almost breaks. “I don’t think I’m something that can be loved. Not without it costing you.”

Jaskier’s hands come up then, warm against Geralt’s wrists, gently uncurling his fists.

“Geralt,” he says, firmly now. “Listen to me.”

Geralt looks at him. Golden eyes sharp with fear, not fury.

“You are not what they call you,” Jaskier says. “You are not the words shouted by people who only see what they’re afraid of.”

“They see the truth,” Geralt says.

“No,” Jaskier replies. “They see the sword. I see the man who steps between them and death every time. The man who pretends he doesn’t care and then loses sleep anyway.” He smiles softly. “The man who thinks he’s a monster because he’s been told that often enough, not because it’s true.”

Geralt swallows.

“I love you,” Jaskier says, plain and unadorned. “Not despite what you are. Because of who you are.”

Geralt shakes his head slightly. “You shouldn’t.”

“I get to decide that,” Jaskier says, squeezing his hands. “And I choose you. Every day. Mutations, scars, brooding silences and all.”

Silence settles between them—thick, fragile.

“You’ll leave,” Geralt says. “One day.”

Jaskier leans forward and presses his forehead to Geralt’s.

“Then it won’t be because you were unworthy,” he murmurs. “It’ll be because the world is cruel and I’m human. But right now? I’m here. I’m not afraid of you. I’m in love with you.”

Geralt exhales shakily, like something held too long has finally been released. His hand comes up, hesitant, then rests at the back of Jaskier’s neck.

“Stay,” Geralt says.

Jaskier smiles, eyes bright in the firelight.

“Always,” he promises.

They were standing in the kitchen with Will’s arms wrapped around Hannibal’s waist as he cooked. “You really put your heart into it.” He pauses. “Among other organs.”

The knife lowers slowly to the table.

Hannibal studies Will’s face—searching for tells, for the subtle fractures of fear or accusation. He finds none. Only warmth. Amusement, even. And something like patience.

“…You knew,” Hannibal says.

It is not a question.

Will shrugs. “Yeah.”

The word lands heavier than any accusation could have.

“How long?” Hannibal asks.

Will tilts his head, thinking. “Before we started dating. Definitely before you met my dogs. You don’t let someone meet your dogs unless you’re pretty sure where they bury the bodies.”

Hannibal exhales a quiet, incredulous laugh. “You know,” he says slowly, “that I am a cannibalistic serial killer.”

“Yep.”

“And you continued to have dinner with me.”

“You make great dinner,” Will says reasonably. “Also, I know you’re careful. About… your sourcing.”

Hannibal stares at him.

“I profile for a living,” Will adds. “You really think I wouldn’t notice? The patterns, the gaps, the way you never eat your own leftovers?” He gestures vaguely with his fork. “Plus, you’re terrible at pretending not to be proud of it.”

There is a long pause.

Hannibal’s world has shifted on its axis, and Will Graham is sitting in the middle of the wreckage, still eating, still unafraid.

“You are not disturbed,” Hannibal says.

Will considers. “I mean. I’m a little concerned about your work-life balance. And the cannibalism is… a lot. But I know you. And I know who you choose.”

Hannibal’s voice is very soft when he asks, “And what am I to you?”

Will looks up then, meeting his gaze fully.

“My boyfriend,” he says. “Who kills bad people and turns them into really elaborate meals. It’s not nothing, but it’s not everything.”

I don’t own any of the following.

She is the product of a drunken one night stand between Alec before he meet Magnus or realized he was gay and Alexandra’s mother, Annabella De La Rosa. She was born a Shadowhunter but then received a blood transfusion from Magnus after an accident on a mission which caused her to loose a lot of blood. 

It was a very do or die situation, so they didn’t consider the consequences, like her gaining some of Magnus’ magic and warlock mark. She is dating a human hunter named Leo Winchester, Dean Winchester’s adopted son.

The room was dark except for the flickering TV. Dean hadn’t been watching it—just letting the noise fill the space so he didn’t have to think.

Sam sat at the small table, cleaning a gun that didn’t need cleaning. They’d been doing this dance for an hour.

Finally, Sam spoke. “So.”

Dean groaned. “You gonna start every sentence like that now?”

“Probably,” Sam said. He set the gun down and turned. “Look, I’m not trying to make it weird. I just—when I walked in earlier…”

Dean swallowed, eyes still on the TV. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence stretched. Dean’s jaw worked like he was chewing on something sharp.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said finally. “Didn’t even really notice it was happening until you showed up and my soul left my body.”

Sam smiled a little, then softened. “Dean.”

Dean exhaled hard and muted the TV. “I’ve liked girls. You know that. A lot. Kinda my whole brand.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “But it’s not…only that. Never has been. I just shoved the rest down. Easier that way.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change—no shock, no judgment. Just listening.

“With Cas,” Dean continued, voice lower, rougher, “it’s different. He sees everything. The crap, the guilt, the parts of me I don’t even joke about. And he still…chooses me.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Guess at some point I stopped pretending that didn’t matter.”

Sam nodded slowly. “So.”

Dean winced. “So I’m bi. There. Said it. World didn’t end. Mazel tov.”

Sam stood and crossed the room in a few long steps. “Dean,” he said gently, “you know I don’t care about that, right?”

Dean looked up, eyes a little too bright. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I care that you’re happy. And that you don’t feel like you have to hide who you are from me. Ever.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, then pulled him into a rough, one-armed hug. “Don’t get used to it.”

Sam hugged him back anyway. “Too late.”

Dean pulled away, wiping at his face. “So…you’re okay with Cas?”

Sam snorted. “Dean, I watched you die like a hundred times for that guy. I think cuddling’s a step down.”

Dean laughed, real this time. “Yeah. Guess it is.”

They sat back down, the quiet between them easier now.

After a moment, Sam added, “For the record?”

Dean glanced over. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad you told me.”

Dean nodded, chest lighter than it had been in years. “Me too.”

Sam pushed open the motel door with his shoulder, grocery bag balanced on one hip.

“Dean, you will not believe how long it takes to find—”

He stopped.

Dean was sprawled on the bed, boots kicked off, flannel half-unbuttoned. That alone wasn’t weird. What was weird was the trench-coated presence tucked against his side, dark hair pressed into Dean’s shoulder like it belonged there.

Castiel looked up first.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas said calmly, as if he weren’t wrapped around Dean like a human-sized comfort blanket.

Dean froze. “Uh.”

Sam blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Am I interrupting something?”

Dean glanced down at Cas, then back at Sam. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Cas tilted his head. “We are cuddling.”

Dean shot him a look. “Buddy.”

“What?” Cas asked. “You said physical closeness was comforting. You also said I was ‘warm, like a weird angel furnace.’”

Sam slowly set the grocery bag down. “Wow. Okay. I mean—good for you?” He gestured vaguely. “I just didn’t realize we were…doing this now.”

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I had a nightmare. Cas showed up. One thing led to another.”

Cas tightened his hold slightly, utterly unashamed. “Dean’s heart rate has stabilized,” he offered. “This arrangement appears beneficial.”

Sam huffed out a laugh despite himself. “You know what? I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see this.” He turned toward the bathroom, then paused. “But if you guys eat the last Pop-Tart, I will hunt you.”

Dean smirked. “Love you too, Sammy.”

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Dean relaxed, leaning back into the pillows. “Told you he’d be cool.”

Cas rested his head against Dean’s chest again. “Your brother is very accepting.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah. He kinda has to be. Family business.”

The tavern is loud, all elbows and spilled ale and smoke curling thick in the air. Geralt sits at a corner table, armor dusty, sword leaned within reach. He’s minding his own business.

That’s apparently the problem.

“Oi,” a villager slurs from the bar, eyes narrowing as they land on Geralt. “Thought witchers weren’t welcome in decent places.”

Geralt doesn’t look up. Doesn’t react. He’s heard worse before breakfast.

Jaskier does.

The lute stops mid-tune.

Jaskier slowly lowers it, turns on his stool, and smiles—the kind of smile that means someone has made a terrible mistake.

“Decent?” Jaskier says lightly. “Darling, this tavern smells like old boots and regret. Let’s not pretend morality lives here.”

A few patrons snicker. The villager scowls. “I’m talkin’ to the mutant.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, hopping down and stepping directly between the man and Geralt. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re talking about him. Which is much easier than talking to him. Less risk of embarrassment.”

Geralt finally looks up. “Jaskier—”

“Shh,” Jaskier says without turning around. “I’ve got this.”

The villager laughs. “What are you gonna do, sing at me?”

Jaskier steps closer, voice dropping, sharp as a drawn blade. “I could. And by morning, everyone from here to the coast would know your name, your face, and the exact pitch of your squeal when you’re very drunk and very brave.”

The laughter around them dies.

Jaskier straightens, louder now. “This man,” he gestures back at Geralt, “has bled so you can sleep at night. He hunts the things that would peel you open like fruit. And you repay him by spitting bile because he looks different?”

The villager shifts, suddenly aware of Geralt rising slowly behind Jaskier, towering and silent.

Yellow eyes. Stone-still patience.

Jaskier smiles again—bright, vicious. “Careful. Witchers are famously hard to offend. Their friends, however…”

Geralt’s hand rests casually on Jaskier’s shoulder. A warning. A promise.

The villager swallows. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, you did,” Jaskier says. “You just didn’t think you’d be challenged.”

A long beat.

Then the villager turns away, muttering, retreating back into the crowd.

The tavern noise slowly resumes.

Geralt exhales. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Jaskier turns, eyes blazing. “Yes. I did.”

Then, softer, just for him: “No one gets to talk about you like that while I’m breathing.”

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Jaskier grins, fearless. “Well then. Make sure you avenge me dramatically.”

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh and pulls out a chair. “Drink?”

Jaskier slings the lute back over his shoulder. “Always.”

They sit.

The world keeps turning.