So I'm Writing Stuff

“Similar situations have been known to cause significant stress among humans. In fact—“

“Well, it’s not my fault my species doesn’t live up to your supreme Vulcan standards. Stop bothering me and go cry about it to someone else.” 

“I am not crying, nor am I attempting to bother you. I am merely—”

“It’s a figure of speech, you pointy-eared—”

“Doctor,” Spock said with that poorly-disguised irritation that McCoy so relished bringing out in him, “Would you allow me to finish speaking before you insist on passing judgment?”

McCoy subsided grumpily, resisting the urge to refuse simply to annoy Spock further. He knew his irritation was not entirely Spock’s fault and, reluctant as he was to acknowledge it, taking out all his anger on his fellow officer was neither fair to Spock nor helpful for the running of the ship. 

“Thank you,” said Spock, when it became clear that McCoy would remain silent. “Now, as you evidently do not wish to be disturbed, I will attempt to be brief. Are you experiencing an adequate state of mental and physical wellbeing?”

McCoy’s expression softened slightly, against his will. 

“Spock,” he said, “Are you checking on me?”

Spock frowned. “Yes, I am attempting to verify your wellbeing, or possibly lack thereof. Was this not clear?”

“I guess,” said McCoy, leaning back in his chair a little sheepishly. “It’s just surprising, is all.” 

Spock frowned slightly. “I see.”

Unsure what to make of that, McCoy ignored it. “I appreciate you feeling the need to check, but I’m not emotionally compromised, or whatever it is you’re worried about. I’m a doctor, not a fainting maiden. I know what I’m doing.”

“I was not concerned about you losing consciousness.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “I know.”

“However, I find it doubtful that you are as completely unaffected by recent events as you are attempting to appear.”

McCoy resisted the urge to sigh. He should have known he could not shake Spock’s attention so easily. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“I would think, given your constant and unnecessary emphasis on emotionalism, that you would not suppress your own feelings in an unhelpful manner such as this.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t the kind of thing a man wants to be bickered with about. Maybe I just haven’t shown my feelings to you.”

Spock raised his own eyebrow, undaunted. “The captain is also concerned for your wellbeing.”

“You’re talking about me with Jim now?”

“The wellbeing of a senior officer on this ship is of concern to both of us.”

“Oh, so you’re worried about my efficiency?” McCoy crossed his arms. “I told you, I know what I’m doing. I’m working just fine.”

“I never stated that efficiency was the cause of my concern.”

“Then what is?”

“Your psychological wellbeing.”

“You’re no therapist, Spock.”

“I do not need to be a professional to suspect that you have experienced significant fear and are likely still dealing with the effects of those emotions.”

McCoy remained obstinately silent. Spock said nothing more for a long moment, observing the doctor with a small frown.

“If you do not wish to discuss this matter with me, you may say so, and I will take my leave. I am sure that the captain—”

“No,” said McCoy, running a hand through his hair distractedly. As much as Spock insisted otherwise, he knew the Vulcan cared about the opinion other senior officers held of him, and he did not want to refuse his help without reason. “That’s not— I don’t— ugh.” He sighed/groaned and glared, perhaps a little halfheartedly, at Spock.

Spock said nothing, simply considering McCoy. Something about his silence, uncommon in their usual bickering and almost uncharacteristic, made him feel that he could not leave it at that.

“I was scared, all right? I was terrified. But I’m also a goddamn professional, and that means I’m not going to let a little terror get in the way of doing my job and saving your lives.”

Spock tilted his head slightly. “I am aware of that, doctor, but your job is done now. You can allow yourself to feel.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” McCoy muttered.

“I have been reliably and repeatedly assured of how important you find it to acknowledge and respond to human emotion. If you are refraining from doing so, it represents a significant and likely negative departure from the norm.”

McCoy frowned at Spock. “Are you… worried about me?”

“If you insist on using such blatantly Terran terminology, then yes, that is more or less accurate.”

“Oh.”

“Do you find this offensive?”

“No, I… no. It’s fine.”

Spock nodded, looking vaguely satisfied. McCoy was not sure what to do with that. Slightly unnerved, he rallied himself for another attempt at their usual bickering. 

“Listen, I bet you haven’t had this conversation with Jim, so you don’t need to spend so much time harping on me. Just because I talk about feelings a lot doesn’t mean they debilitate me. I’m not an emotional invalid or whatever you’re thinking.” 

“I have.”

“What?”

“I have had this conversation with Jim.”

McCoy’s eyebrow raised almost without his permission. “You expect me to believe that you went up to the captain like this, unprompted, and asked about his feelings?”

“He initiated the conversation, but we discussed the concern we had felt for each other and the psychological consequences thereof together. It was also in this conversation that we discovered our mutual concern for you. As the interaction seemed to provide a great benefit to his mental state, but he will not have free time for approximately another four point three hours, I deemed it wise to come myself to initiate the conversation.”

“I see,” said McCoy, rather lamely. “So can I expect Jim to show up and have this conversation with me again in a few hours?”

“It is not unlikely.” 

“That’s good to know, I guess.”

Spock ignored the comment. “Do you finally believe that my reasons for asking after your wellbeing are genuine?”

McCoy considered this. He realized, a little surprised at himself, that he had indeed stopped suspecting Spock of any ulterior motive. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“I am gratified.”

Awkward silence descended over the pair for a few moments. It was McCoy who eventually spoke with a sigh.

“I am glad you’re alive. And all right. You and Jim. I do think about what might have happened if I had failed. It’s not a pleasant thought.”

Spock put his hand on McCoy’s shoulder. McCoy was sure it was a move Spock had calculated to produce an optimal reaction in him, but he found that he appreciated it regardless. 

“You did not fail, nor do I think it likely that you would have done so.”

McCoy frowned. “You can’t deny that the odds were against us a couple of times. It could easily have gone wrong.”

“I have found, doctor, that you have a consistent and almost illogical propensity for succeeding in the face of overwhelming odds.”

McCoy blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, feeling rather like a fish out of water. 

“I— oh. Thank you, Spock.” 

“I am merely stating the truth, doctor,” said Spock. “Additionally, I would like you to know that I appreciate what you have done for myself, the captain, and everyone else on this ship. Your bravery is commendable.”

McCoy narrowed his eyes. “Are you just saying that because you think it’ll make me feel better?”

Spock frowned at him, looking slightly puzzled. “Yes. But that does not mean I am not genuine.”

That startled a laugh out of McCoy. “That’s fair enough, I guess.”

“Indeed.”

McCoy had a feeling the expression on his face was edging dangerously close to fondness, but he could not quite bring himself to mind. He found himself speaking without quite having meant to. 

“You know I don’t actually hate you, right? You irritate me to hell and back sometimes, but I care about you.”

Spock paused, looking at him. After a moment, he said, “I had suspected as much.” 

McCoy’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was not oblivious to the significance of Spock’s phrasing. “You weren’t sure?”

“The finer details of human social interaction continue to elude me from time to time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

McCoy sighed. “I said I’m sorry.”

“If your remarks were not serious, you were partaking in the human tradition of teasing, correct? Why do you apologize?” 

“A joke is in poor taste if only one party knows it’s really a joke. I should have made it clear before now.”

Spock considered this for a moment before speaking. “I see. In that case, I accept your apology and thank you.”

McCoy huffed a quiet laugh at Spock’s formality. “You’re welcome.”

“I also believe I should say that I hold a similar lack of ill will towards you,” said Spock. “Though I am, as you say, irritated to hell and back from time to time.” 

That startled a louder laugh out of McCoy, this time more delighted than amused. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Spock nodded. McCoy, still smiling, leaned back in his chair. 

The whistle of the intercom broke the silence of the room. The familiar sound of Jim’s voice came a moment later. 

“Bridge to Doctor McCoy.” 

“McCoy here.”

“Bones, have you seen Spock? I need him on the bridge and I can’t for the life of me figure out where he’s gone.”

McCoy resisted the urge to laugh. “Yeah, I’ll send him along.”

“Thanks. Kirk out.”

The intercom went silent. McCoy raised an eyebrow at Spock, smirking.

“Looks like our conversation’s over.”

“So it would seem,” said Spock. “Thank you for your time, doctor. It has been most profitable.” 

“You’re welcome,” said McCoy.

Spock stood and made to leave. Before he could go, McCoy found himself speaking up.

“Oh, and Spock?”

Spock paused in the doorway. “Yes, doctor?”

“Thanks for checking on me. I appreciate it.”

Spock turned back to McCoy for a moment. “I am glad.”

He left without another word, striding off to his highly necessary task on the bridge. McCoy let him go. After a moment, he turned back to his paperwork. He found that he was feeling distinctly better than before. He huffed a small laugh, incredulous, before going back to work.

Celebrian.

A shiver went through her, her small slender hands quivering, but Maglor kept still, watching her face closely.

Celebrian. I’m with you. It was a dream, not real.

A soft broken sound escaped her lips, another image flooding her mind, of darkness and cruel clawed hands around a slender arm, digging in so tight that blood ran. But Maglor sang another soft melody, brushing the image away as if he were waving away mist. In its place he sent an image of the room, himself and Nerdanel, the calm peace and quiet of the night lit by bright stars visible through the filmy curtains.

You are safe, sweetheart. No harm can come to you here. Can you feel my hand holding yours?

A slow blink, then the blankness in her eyes receded a little as she nodded her head slightly, turning toward him. The faint light of the lamp reflected off the silver streams of tears on her cheeks as she looked up.

“Maglor?”

Her voice was a thin hoarse thread in the stillness, her lips quivering as she began to cry, burying her face against his chest. Maglor drew her close, tucking her head under his chin, his movements still slow and careful.

Nerdanel felt her tears spill free at last, watching as Celebrian curled into Maglor, her slender fingers fisting in his sleep shirt so tight her hand shook. He gathered her up onto his lap carefully, never breaking his song.

At a glance from her son, Nerdanel quickly wiped the moisture from her cheeks and came to sit on Celebrian’s other side, brushing the sweat dampened fall of silver hair back from her neck so the cool night breeze could dry her skin.

It had been a long time since she’d had elflings who had woken from bad dreams, but it came rushing back to her as she rubbed gentle circles on Celebrian’s back, humming along softly with Maglor’s melody that had become a familiar lullaby. It was the one she had sang to all her children, long, long ago, but most often for Maglor who had always begged for the song whenever he was in need of comfort. And now they sang it for Celebrian who quieted, her breathing growing slow and deep as she let herself fall into the safety of their soothing song.

She wondered how many nights Maglor had spent like this, watching as her son rocked Celebrian like a child until she was deeply and truly asleep. Then he rose, pulling the tangled sheets back and settled her into the bed once more. Nerdanel stood and helped him straighten the sheets and blankets, drawing them up around Celebrian who now slept peacefully as a child.

Only once they had slipped out of the room did Maglor’s calm falter, his face twisting with emotion as he slumped against the wall. Tears were silently flowing down his cheeks, and he smoothed them away with a sleeve before pressing a hand to his face and breathing deeply, trying to regain his composure.

“She needs to go to Lorien,” Nerdanel told him in a low voice, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder. “She needs more help than can we can give her.”

And judging from her son’s haunted face, Nerdanel knew that Celebrian was not the only one who desperately needed healing.

“She won’t go if I cannot go with her,” Maglor returned, voice muffled and tired. “And I cannot, no matter how much I want to.”

He extended his hand toward her, palm up. The scar on his hand shone silver in the pale light as he met her gaze, his eyes full of so much grief it made her throat ache.

“Lorien burns evil,” he whispered. “I have already burned once from Father’s hallowed jewel, and so I cannot - I cannot -“ His voice faltered in shame and misery, looking away from her horrified stare.

The sight of the scar on his hand made her heart grow cold.

He believed - no. He could not, and yet she saw in his eyes he did.

Despair and fury rose in her like a raging flame, and she wrapped her arms around her son, drawing him close.

Geralt feels his lips twitch of their own volition. "Hm, not sure if we can pull that off."

“And whyever not?” Jaskier looks offended.

“If I’m your lover, you’d have to go at least three days without letting anyone else into your pants. Might kill you.”

“I can go three days without sex!” Jaskier plants his hands on his hips.

“Since when?”

“I went nearly two weeks without when we were traveling through Velen!”

“And you bitched the entire time.”

“I would have done that anyway. Velen is terrible.”

Geralt can’t argue with him there. “No one’s going to believe we’re really lovers.”

“Why not?”

"Because no one’s going to think that I’m the kind of person you take to bed," Geralt doesn’t say, thinking of the pretty barmaids and fancy nobles Jaskier normally pursues. Instead, he says, “There will be people you know there. They’ll have seen you with your lovers before.”

“And?” Jaskier arches an eyebrow.

Geralt searches for the right words for a moment. “When you’re sleeping with someone, you’re usually all over them. You can't keep your hands or your lips off them. It’s why you nearly get gelded for fucking the wrong person so often. You’re not subtle.”

Jaskier opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it. “Then I suppose I’ll have to do that with you.”

Geralt snorts, skeptical.

“What?” Jaskier asks, taking a step closer. “You think it will be such a hardship, draping myself over you?”

The neck of Geralt’s armor feels a little too tight. Did he have it fitted wrong? “No one will buy it.”

Jaskier takes another step, moving into Geralt’s space. “Then we really should start practicing now.”

“I don’t need to practice,” Geralt growls. “I’m not a spotty youth who’s never held a girl’s hand before.”

Not that hand holding comes up much in his intimate encounters, but he’s not going to bring that up.

“Even the greatest master at his craft needs to keep his skills sharp.” Jaskier tilts his head to the side, studying Geralt’s face. “And you’re right. We’re only going to be able to sell this if we look like two people who are used to being intimate with each other. Kiss me.”

Geralt can’t quite school the surprise out of his face. “What?”

“Kiss me,” Jaskier says again. “Do you want to take the Duchess down or not?”

“Not sure how kissing you will help that.”

“We might need to kiss at some point to maintain our cover,” Jaskier says. “Best not to risk it, right?”

Geralt lets his gaze drop to Jaskier’s pink mouth. The bard’s lips have always been inconveniently pretty, especially when they’re parted in stunned offense or curled into a wicked smile. He almost says no, that he’ll figure out another way to get close to the Duchess. It’s best not to let Jaskier anywhere near a contract this dangerous anyway. Jaskier can go back to his succession of pretty lovers and Geralt can find and kill a monster, just like they always do.

He’s about to pull back when Jaskier seems to get tired of waiting for Geralt to make a move. Before Geralt can react, Jaskier’s lips are on his and suddenly, Geralt isn’t thinking about the Duchess or the contract anymore.

Jaskier’s lips are warm and soft against his, tasting of the wine they had with dinner. He doesn’t realize that he’s cupping Jaskier’s face in his hands until he registers the prickle of stubble against his palm. He slides one hand down, over the silky fabric of Jaskier’s doublet, warm from the bard’s body heat. Jaskier shivers as Geralt’s hand rests on his lower back.

Geralt drags Jaskier closer, breath hitching as Jaskier’s fingers tangle in his hair. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat hammering and can practically taste the arousal in the air. It would be so easy to drag Jaskier the short distance to the bed, to lose himself in Jaskier’s taste and the feel of him and…

Jaskier pulls away, blinking up at Geralt with the dazed look of someone emerging from a deep sleep. For a moment, they stare at each other. Jaskier’s pretty mouth is swollen from kisses, a sight that sends something hot and possessive surging through Geralt’s belly.

Jaskier clears his throat and laughs, the sound more high-pitched than usual. “And you think we couldn’t pull it off!”

“Pull what off?” It takes Geralt a moment to remember why they were doing this in the first place. The Duchess. The contract. Right.

“Pretending to be two people who are intimately acquainted.” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows. “Now you won’t have to pretend to be unable to get enough of my lips.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Sure, bard.”

“Oh, don’t lie to me. You have to admit, that was a damn good kiss.”

“I’ve had better,” Geralt lies.

Jaskier gasps, mouth falling open. It’s a sight that makes Geralt glad that his new armor has a codpiece. “Pure and utter slander! I’ve had it from reputable sources that I’m the finest kisser on this side of the Amell Mountains.”

“You know they’re paid to give you pretty compliments at the Passiflora, right?”

“Brute.” Jaskier pokes Geralt in the chest. “That’s a terrible thing to say to your pretend lover.”

“Forgive me,” Geralt says dryly. “I’ve never had a fake lover before.”

“And at this rate, you never will again.” Jaskier turns on his heel, nose in the air.

With the bard looking away, Geralt reaches up to touch his lips. He can still taste mulled wine and can still feel the warmth of soft pink lips against him. He’d like nothing more than to pull Jaskier close and lose himself in another one of those kisses.

But this is just pretend and Geralt can’t let Jaskier know the effect he has on him. So he wipes away the lingering taste of Jaskier with the back of his hand and goes to sharpen his sword. There’s a monster to kill, after all.

Fake dating prompts

Life was so damn weird. 

Almost two years had passed between the Battle of Kaer Morhen and Lambert had found himself in the south- not because he liked visiting Geralt at his pompous vineyard or because he had some insane hope of seeing an old friend - but because the weather was nice and the coin somewhat better than the north. He was in Temeria when the second conjunction split the sky and his world was rocked again. What were the odds of having five major world shaking events happen in less than fifty years? Too damn high in Lambert’s opinion. But what did he know? He was just a damn witcher.

He was still in Temeria when it seemed that the dead rose and walked the earth, wearing the face of a friend long lost but not the one he’d been looking for. Voltehre, sweet and kind and dead , had come stumbling down the road toward Vizima like a dream come true although he was mud splattered, bloodied, and dazed from what seemed to be a show of chaos unheard of. The Second Conjunction screwed with a lot of things; Lambert’s head was just the beginning.

“Oh, thank the gods .” The imposter breathed, quickening his limping pace toward Lambert with a lopsided but exhausted grin. “I’ve not seen another Witcher since…” It sounded like Voltehre, a little lower than Lambert’s voice and with the slight whistle on his 's' sounds, but those details only made Lambert put that much more venom into his command that the imposter ‘stop where he was’. He was too damn tired for these games.

The thing that was not Voltehre froze, mouth snapping shut. 

“Who are you?” “Voltehre, of the Wolf School.” His eyes snapped to the medallion on Lambert’s chest like it was a betrayal that he hadn't been recognized. “I’m not sure how I arrived here, just that some weeks ago I was at my trials and then the sky was tearing open and I was south of Vizima. Is it true? Has there been a second joining of the spheres?” The evidence was all around them, hundreds more monsters walked the Continent without more than a few dozen witchers to deal with them. Anyone with eyes could see that and Voltehre had never been stupid. He didn't have an ounce of self preservation around strangers either, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Are you-”

Lambert drew his sword, silver and leveled it at the thing. The sunlight, tinged red by the lingering chaos in the air, glinted off the blade. The Thing put its hands up. 

“I’m sorry? Really I don’t- I don’t know what to do here. You’re of the Wolves, yes? I can- I can prove that’s where I’m from though I don’t have a medallion yet. My master was Vesemir.” 

“Put your arm to the blade.” Lambert said, ignoring how his heart clenched at the memory of the old wolf and the ashes he had left on top of that mountain.

“What?” “Prove that you aren’t a fucking doppler or some shit. Put your damn arm to the blade.” It stepped forward, rolled up the sleeve of its dirty white shirt, and pressed his entire forearm against the length of silver. He didn’t burn but his eyes narrowed, sweeping over Lambert from his hair to his boots. Then he turned his arm and drew it back so that a well of blood rose to the surface. Red. Human red. 

“You want me to cast Yrden? Prove that I’m a witcher too?” 

“Yes.” 

Voltehre’s specialty was never signs but he was better at them than Lambert and the trap that glowed some feet away was dull but passable. It was also unfathomably correct in that the blond had always had a certain flair to his magic. That trap on the side of the road had the same off color that drove the mages to tears trying to find the reason for it. It wasn't something that could be replicated.

“ Fuck .” Lambert laughed, manic and rough. “Fucking- I-” He sheathed the sword and took a step forward, then two steps back. No. No he wasn’t going to run. Not this time.

“Lambert?” The - Voltehre breathed. As though Lambert was the one back from the dead.

He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Yeah, it’s me. Lambert.”

So then two worlds were shattered. 

The side of the road in nowhere-Temeria wasn’t the place to piece together their stories so, while still holding Voltehre - fucking Voltehre - at arms length they set off in search of a safe place to settle down for a few days. It came just up the road in the form of a manor, abandoned after the village was decimated by the new wave of monsters and earthquakes. The noble family of the region had lasted a little longer than their fieldhands but not by much and Lambert had no compunctions about looting the clothes and blankets and whatever jewelry he could find. If he came across any Sc’oiatel he’d have to point them in this direction for supplies- a conjunction was probably the best chance they had to peacefully reclaim territory after all.

“Find a room that we can defend, one that gets a lot of sun so we don’t need the fireplace.” He was practically barking the orders like he was an old master and he couldn’t make himself stop. If he stopped he would have to look at the barely-a-man that was his long lost best friend and he’d fall to damn pieces. To see the judgment in his eyes as they sorted through the possession of the dead like common bandits. “You uh- you want furs or woven blankets? Woven, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

Twenty-seven years. A voice whispered. Twenty-seven years and you still remember his preferences. Pathetic memory chaser than you are. 

He gathered two blankets for Voltehre and set them on the table with the rest of his pilfered supplies. He moved on to the storerooms which held preserves and he took as many as he could, planning to raid it again when they left. Peaches, beans, even watermelon that must have cost a small fortune in this part of the world had been jarred. Little luxuries only afforded to their ilk in the time of greatest sorrow.

He arrived in the west wing bedroom just in time to see Voltehre stumble and catch himself with a soft curse. 

“You alright?” 

“I’ve been jerked through time and have had three weeks to heal from a blow to the knee and head from the trial on top of nearly losing my leg to a kikimore in a swamp -" He sighed, shoulders slumping, "- no, Lambert. I’m not okay.” 

“I- yeah that’s pretty shit.” Maybe they were both in shock. Witchers didn’t really get shock but there was a first time for everything. “Sit down and let me take a look at your leg then. Actually wait, strip. I’m sure I can find you cleaner clothes to change into after I make sure you’re not about to d- uh. Not about to fall over.” 

“It’s kind of nice to know that you didn’t get any taller since the trials.” Voltehre said, almost like he was making a joke to ease the tension. Lambert, unsure whether it was a joke or not, snorted anyway. Just because Voltehre hit a growth spurt at sixteen to rival Geralt didn't make Lambert tiny. 

“Well not everyone can have the genes of an ice giant.” Lambert knelt, worked his gloves off and then, carefully, placed his hands on Voltehre’s clammy skin gently. He probed around the calf, up to his knee and then a little higher. It was swollen and bruised, likely torqued from a fall but it would heal if he could simply rest it for a day or so. It certainly wasn’t enough to waste a potion on. 

“You’ll be okay, just need to rest.” He might even be able to wrangle a wrap for it. “You can take the bed and I’ll make a pallet tonight.” 

Voltehre had a little scar on his knuckle from training, the only time he’d ever been in trouble - in trouble on Lambert’s behalf no less. It caught on Lambert’s skin as he reached out, holding him still by the shoulder where he knelt. The simple touch made his breath catch and his muscles tense. He wasn’t the same man he’d been… he wasn’t Voltehre’s best friend. He was a bitter asshole outrunning fate and somehow surviving when all his friends were dead. A wretch.

“Who hurt you?” Voltehre asked, soft and earnest with his wide eyes and too-young voice. As if they were both still boys, hiding from their instructors and finding some pleasure in the horrors of their days and that there could be a single figure to blame. He always was trying to protect Lambert like he was worth it somehow and Lambert couldn’t handle it. There was love and trust and stupid belief so he sneered. 

“What? You want a list?” 

“Yes, actually.” 

He looked up and swallowed thickly. “It’s been a really bad time. Thirty years of shit and it’s just- I missed you.” The voice in his head that sounded like Aiden whispered praise for his honesty. It was always a little kinder than his own thoughts. "This entire situation is insane and I don't know what's going on half the time."

“I know it’s different now but I’m not and I’d very much like it if we could pretend it wasn’t for a night?” The blond witcher said. “You can tell me all the shit that has happened, the good and the bad and all about whoever you’ve charmed into staying by your side. Just don’t sleep on the floor? Please?” 

Lambert sighed and closed his eyes. He nodded.

 Voltehre tapped his scars gently. “Tell me about these?” 

“Well I didn’t have my best friend to watch my back.” Lambert rose and jerked his chin up at the pillows. “Lay down and I’ll do story time for you, better to get your knee lifted sooner rather than later.” Voltehre wiggled his way into the blankets, six feet of gangly limbs and lightly freckled skin. Once he was settled, Lambert continued. “It was a nest of harpies. I was up in Poviss, climbed the cliffs fine and cut down the first four down in minutes.” He tossed a blanket at the blond and then began to pull his own armor off for the evening. “So I’m thinking it’s done with, throw the proof in my pack with some eggs and start back down. Well I’m hanging in the air and just happen to look up when two more of the damn birds get on me - I’m fighting one handed, high enough that the fall is going to break my damn legs, and one of them gets me in the face with her claws.” He pulled on a pair of stolen pants and bundled himself in his own furs to sit against the ornate headboard. 

“It made a good story that year. Won the stupid competition about who had the best scars. Got a whole bottle of gull out of it.”

“You said earlier that this conjunction… there’s not enough Witchers left to handle it. What did that mean? Is the school-”

“It’s gone, has been for years now. Nothing but dust and rock up there. Geralt’s around, so’s Eskel. Geralt set up in Toussaint a few years ago and I’m sure he’s got the place ready for war. Probably adopted every orphan that glanced his way since this started like the idiot he is. That’s where we’ll be going.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. Oh.” Don’t ask about the others. Just let it go.

Voltehre fell asleep without more words exchanged between them and Lambert felt almost wrong for watching him when he was so vulnerable but he was really there and a fear was rooting itself in the back of his mind that screamed the moment he looked away Voltehre would be gone again. There were so many little things he had forgotten; how there was a streak of blue in the iris of his left eye that the grasses couldn’t take away, how his hair was a little shorter than he’d conjured in his mind but just as thick, the way that one canine was a little too big for his mouth and how it cemented the overgrown puppy look that he’d somehow come to associate with Eskel rather than the specimen laying on the fine feather bed beside him. He was only twenty.

Lambert had once told Aiden, quietly and as a secret, that he had loved Voltehre. Loved him in all the same ways he loved Aiden but didn’t have the words to tell either of them until it was too late. 

He loved them still. But looking at the young man, with his hand curled loosely atop Lambert's thigh and his breathing even he knew that it wasn't the same, it couldn't be that same. He had loved him as a boy and he had loved truly and deeply but that wound had been torn open and healed over again and again. He wasn't the same, he had lost the softness of youth and the belief that he could do something about it, and it wasn't right or fair but it was true. Love alone did not a good thing make. Whatever happened next would be another willing scar on his heart and he would choose to disappoint the golden spectre of his youth. His first love; alive and well despite the odds and utterly unprepared for the things he was asking to know.

Who hurt you? 

Lambert tucked the blankets higher around the young Witcher’s shoulders. 

Geralt nods and hums agreeably. This innkeeper wasn’t stingy with firewood and let Geralt heat the water up to almost boiling, just as he likes it. He feels warm and soft, and quite frankly, spoiled. A rare treat from those someones somewhere.

Geralt means to go past Jaskier and then tuck himself down under the blankets, but as he passes Jaskier’s chair, hands grip his hips and he is pulled down into Jaskier’s lap.

For those who have seen a witcher before, they can attest to their size and in relation to that, the likelihood of them being rather hefty.

This rather sizable and hefty witcher plops down in the bard's lap, completely unprepared for such an attack, and finds himself ensnared by two sneaky bard arms.

Jaskier leans against Geralt’s back, rubbing his cheek against the witcher’s shoulder.

“Your shirt is wet,” Jaskier complains, absolutely not stopping his snuggling.

“My hair is wet,” Geralt replies matter of factly, trying not to be too tense in Jaskier’s arms. He has no idea what brought this about, this is not something they just do, but he is too content to protest. If he felt soft and warm before, it has nothing on what he feels when Jaskier’s hands splay over his chest and stomach.

“I’m heavy,” Geralt mutters, half-heartedly trying to squirm out of Jaskier’s lap. He’d rather not, but he’s got an image to keep.

“And I’m strong. Walking all day gives a few perks. Power thighs.”

“I’m pretty sure you say thunder thighs.”

“Not my thighs. They are pure power,” Jaskier says without missing a beat, hugging Geralt tighter to his chest. Witchers don’t melt. But Geralt always was a bit different from the others. He relaxes, trusting Jaskier to hold his weight, leaning back just a little and putting his hands on top of Jaskier’s hands.

“Power thighs. Sounds like something a charlatan would try to sell with mediocre success,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier huffs a laugh.

“I would buy it.”

“Like I said. With mediocre success.”

“Buttwipe.”

They sit in silence for a while, and Geralt can’t help but think that the bed has lost some of its appeal. Jaskier’s legs are warm under him, his arms around his chest more comforting than any blanket, and every puff of air against his neck is a reminder that someone actually wants him close.

If he was allowed, he would probably be able to fall asleep like this.

He is not ever telling Jaskier that. Ever.

“Should we turn in early?” Jaskier mumbles, and then muffles a yawn against Geralt’s shoulder blade.

“Don’t you have a set to play?”

“Meh, there is always tomorrow. I’m comfortable.”

Geralt doesn’t object, because he too is comfortable. He stands up, Jaskier’s hand slipping to his waist, and then he too stands up. They have two beds in here. They are made up and everything. There is not one single good reason that they should share.

But Geralt takes off his shoes and Jaskier changes to his soft sleeping tunic, and then they slip under the covers of the bed by the window. Geralt likes to face the door, so Jaskier has to climb over him to settle in, and as soon as they both are covered, Jaskier’s arms are around him again.

Only this time, Jaskier rests his forehead against the back of Geralt’s neck, and their legs tangle together.

--

The cottage is positively idyllic, instantly cementing itself in Jaskier’s brain as a place he will no doubt pen many cozy odes to. As his witcher carefully inspects the stables, the bard preens over the sugary snow that sparkles as it gathers on the cabin’s thatched rooftop.

He wishes they could stay here instead of stumbling onwards to their real destination. Kaer Morhen might be mythical but Geralt refuses to brave the Killer until the ground is white as his hair, so he’s led them to this lovely midpoint instead. And Jaskier falls in love as he always does— instantly, deeply, and without warning. “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” he coos, touching the holly wreath hanging off a nail in the door, “who did you fuck to gain the use of this place?”

No answer comes even though Jaskier knows that Geralt’s extranatural hearing can certainly pick his voice up by now. He tries the handle and finds it unlocked, and the creak of the old cabin door is almost drowned out by Jaskier’s gasp when he sees its contents.

The inns they frequent are, as a rule, piss-poor. This serves not only as a descriptor of their hospitality and food and service, but the smell. Since travelling alongside a witcher Jaskier has toured the worst imaginable temporary dwellings on the Continent.

In comparison, this cottage is a temple. There are no rats or ghoulish imps squeaking along the floorboards— Jaskier steps inside and his boots land on thick, clean, warm rugs; every inch of the place is covered in soft fabrics or warm animal hides. The walls are peppered not with bloodstains but with bundles of sage and rosemary, tied with string and hung like tinsel.

Jaskier gasps again when he sees the bookshelf, and a third time when he sees the door leading into the kitchen— a kitchen larger than his entire office and lodging space at Oxenfurt. “This is no cottage,” he declares, thrilled. “It’s a fucking castle! I’m never leaving, I’m moving in, fuck Kaer Morhen to hell and back!”

“We only have it for the night,” deadpans his favourite wet blanket from the door. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Jaskier spins to see Geralt removing his shoes, which is in itself evidence enough that the pair of them have stepped through a snowy fairy circle into some dreamland, where witchers act with decorum and bards get to keep them all to themselves in cozy picturesque cottages.

Jaskier kicks off his own shoes and strips out of his jacket, at which point the ever-predictable Geralt averts his heterosexual eyes. So much for dreamland. The thick walls of the cabin provide welcome relief from the winter weather outside but it’s still chilly, so he crosses to the fireplace and carefully moves a few logs into its metal jaws. As he does, he repeats his sentiments from outside, “Well, you must have done something awfully good for someone very nice to get us a place like this, even just for the night. What was it? Spin me the tale while I get the fire going.”

With a completely unnecessary hum of amusement, Geralt comes up behind Jaskier and moves him aside. “If I wait for you to do it, we’ll freeze before we make it through the night.” Jaskier harrumphs, but it’s mostly for show— Igni will start a fire faster than any kindling anyway. Regardless, the witcher softens. “Why don’t you go find us some wine?”

“Am I your bar wench now?” Geralt doesn’t blink until Jaskier’s smile twists into something suggestive, and then he frowns and kneels before the fireplace. “Very well, love,” Jaskier teases, putting on a thick Skelligen accent that makes Geralt’s shoulders go tense for some reason. “I’ll go see about finding something to wet your whistle, while you stay here and do all the dirty work.”

The witcher mumbles something undoubtedly rude but Jaskier is already out of earshot, eager to explore more of the gorgeous cottage. To his delight he discovers that the enormous kitchen is stocked with more than enough to feed them for the night. They’ll be able to pack provisions for the road too; Jaskier imagines the witchers at Kaer Morhen will greet him more kindly when he comes bearing rare gifts like tins of Zerrikanian spices and jars of honey.

He obviously does not take full advantage of their mysterious host’s generosity, but Geralt did instruct him to find them something to drink, so that’s exactly what Jaskier does. He’s no chef, and he could name the notes in any tune but would struggle to find a better descriptor for wine than its colour. But he remembers the gist of an old family recipe that reared its head every winter solstice like clockwork, and he does his best to recreate it.

By the time Jaskier is done preparing his concoction Geralt has managed to start a perfect fire, light and warmth curling into every corner of the cabin and making it even lovelier. Jaskier returns to pleasant, soft crackling, and he hums cheerfully. Then Geralt reaches for the pot in his hands as if he means to drink from it like a bowl of broth, and Jaskier snatches it out of his reach, tutting. “It’s not ready yet!”

“Smells ready,” Geralt shrugs. “What is it?”

“A Lettenhove heirloom that carried the noble family through many a politically disastrous winter gathering. Just sit back.” Jaskier beams. “I promise it’s worth the wait!”

Sighing, Geralt relents and sits back on the rug. Even in a soft, safe place like this he looks hopelessly tense, shoulders raised to his ears like a bloodhound's haunches. Or a wolf’s— now there’s a funny thought.

Jaskier reclines too and watches Geralt as he so often does, squinting at the hard line of the witcher’s back. He wishes, suddenly and nonsensically, that he could offer the man a backrub or any other form of comfort. Then his predictable mind leaps to other forms of comfort, and how he’d like to treat Geralt’s body, lay him out in the firelight like this. The bard gulps imagining it, palms wrapped tightly around his knees to keep himself from doing something stupid.

“Your thoughts are so loud,” Geralt speaks up, surprising Jaskier into forgetting his scandalous train of thought. Then he flushes with embarrassed heat. Could Geralt really hear his thoughts? Definitely not, because he would have brought up a lot of Jaskier’s inner shame by now. The witcher continues, “Even here you can’t relax.”

“I’m very relaxed,” Jaskier scoffs, fingers pressing into his calves so tightly it nearly hurts. Then he releases them, launching forward to grab the simmering drink instead— and in the process nearly burning his wrists. Geralt tries to help him but Jaskier bats him off, unhooking the handles of the pot and standing with it. “Soon we’ll have this, and we’ll both be relaxed, alright?”

“For someone who complains about magic and witches all the time,” Geralt muses in that stupid dry tone that means he’s about to say something he considers hilarious, “you’ve certainly brewed us a delicious potion, Jaskier. Here, let me carry your cauldron,” and he stands too, taking the handles out of Jaskier’s palms.

“You are not funny,” Jaskier informs him hotly, catching sight of the pleased smirk on Geralt’s face before he turns into the kitchen. Jaskier follows him, resisting the childish urge to kick at his ankles. “Stop trying to tell jokes, and don’t knock my beautiful creation before you try it. Here, you’ll have to sieve it through here—!”

They end up pouring it together into a large tin pitcher, Jaskier holding the receptacle as Geralt tips the pot. For all Geralt’s snark Jaskier has to agree that it smells delicious, and he deeply inhales the steam rising from the drink as Geralt dumps out the last of it. He opens his eyes and catches his witcher doing the same, eyelids fluttering as he breathes in the fragrance.

Usually Jaskier pities Geralt for his enhanced sense of smell when he has to wade through selkiemore guts or stagnant pools of drowner shit only to collect a few measly orens. But right now he envies the man his mutation, dreamily wondering what complexities Geralt might be able to divine from the cocktail. A little too quickly, Jaskier asks, swaying forward, “Can you guess the ingredients?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyes open— they’re golden as always but more yellow than the muddled amber drink. His pupils are slightly more dilated than usual, making the ring of gold even brighter while his gaze is dark. He surprises Jaskier by playing along, tilting his head to the side and considering the smells. “Apple, orange… the peels too. And another sour fruit… a berry?”

“Lots of them,” Jaskier confirms, nodding.

“I can smell the spices too.” Geralt’s nostrils flare, and Jaskier averts his eyes. Then he has to take a long hard think about why he finds Geralt flaring his nostrils attractive. This has gone far enough— gods forbid Geralt actually figure out the cause of all Jaskier’s loud thoughts. He’d be heading for the hills faster than the bard could say ‘cinnamon!’

But before Jaskier can end their half-flirtatious game or turn away, Geralt’s hands are on his, pulling the warm drink out of his grip. “Smelling isn’t enough,” he continues. “I have to taste it to really get to the bottom of this. Witcher tongues are very sensitive, you know.”

“I didn’t,” replies Jaskier as meekly as he possibly can, to avoid begging Geralt to shove his tongue as far as possible down his throat.

“Yeah, so hang on,” Geralt grins, which is the first clue that he’s been teasing Jaskier this whole time. But Jaskier can’t find it in himself to be irritated, not when Geralt lifts the very heavy pitcher with one broad hand and takes a long drink right from its lip. Jaskier watches his arm flex and his throat bob and he thinks that perhaps he had better retreat to the room with the fire, now, immediately, drink or no drink.

As he steps away from Geralt, Jaskier jokes mildly, “Taste that last ingredient yet?” But the witcher, bafflingly, sets the pitcher down on the counter without a word. He wipes his mouth roughly with the back of his hand and exhales, pushing the cocktail towards Jaskier. “… Right. Thanks. Uh, seeing as I’m neither blessed with mutant strength nor am I a philistine, I’m going to pour this into a cup and sip it slowly in front of the fire.”

Geralt sniffs, nodding as he steps forward. For a euphoric and horrific moment Jaskier thinks the man intends to hug him, but his arm slides around Jaskier only to reach for an empty mug on the shelf. He places it on the counter between them and does not move away, even as Jaskier clears his throat. Not even when Jaskier pokes his lean stomach with the rim of the mug.

When Jaskier moves back Geralt doesn’t step to follow him, just watching him closely. “It’s rum,” Jaskier bleats, fear starting to overtake the arousal he always associates with Geralt. “It’s only rum, that’s the last ingredient. Why are you looking at me like that?”

He pours a drink and sips it nervously, but it doesn’t taste of any strange poison that would make someone’s brain uncoil. It tastes warm and soothing and familiarly nostalgic. As soon as he’s set his cup down Geralt, who hasn’t taken his eyes off Jaskier since the second he finished his drink, steps forward to crowd into his space again.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tries, feeling more uncertain by the second, “this is weird even for you, my tight-lipped friend.”

The witcher considers this for only half a second. Then he purrs, low and loud, and Jaskier knows they’re really fucked. He gapes, already wracking his brains for what to do next. There should be an ample supply of White Honey in Roach’s saddlebags to neutralize any accidental toxic effects from the potion, but what if it isn’t the drink at all? What if something in this perfect, cozy cottage wormed its evil way into Geralt’s brain, robbing him of his ability to think?

Flummoxed, Jaskier turns on his heel, surveying the kitchen for any potential threats. But nothing presents any immediate evidence. He only smells the sweet fruit from their drink, undercut by thick, warm spices, and he only hears the fire crackling in the other room. And then, without warning, broad hands wrap around his torso and scoop him up into the strongest embrace he’s ever felt.

Jaskier lets out a very unbecoming squawk but Geralt doesn’t care, adjusting his grip until Jaskier is situated firmly against his chest. “Geralt, you’re not yourself!” Jaskier pounds weakly on the armour covering his chest like a bird trying to peck its way through brick. Embarrassed and confounded and helplessly aroused, he demands, “Put me down this instant!”

This instruction, at least, seems to reach Geralt’s mind. He nods, nuzzling his chin against Jaskier’s hair and forehead protectively. It strikes up a flare of emotion in the bard’s chest that he would be hard-pressed to name, even though he’s written hundreds of ballads trying to capture this very feeling.

The blush doesn’t fade from his face as Geralt carries him to the carpet, pink high and bright on his cheekbones as the witcher settles down and seats Jaskier firmly in his lap. Jaskier makes very little effort to move, warmed by the fire and bewildered by his friend’s obvious possession. Geralt reaches around them to gather all the furs and rugs and blankets into a nest, never letting his grip on Jaskier loosen.

Jaskier sighs, resigning himself to the sweat that starts to creep down his neck and brow. Maybe Geralt will sweat out this bizarre infection. “If you’ve been entered by a vengeful, cuddly spirit,” Jaskier warns, “I will not hesitate to stab you with your own silver. I know you can take it. You’ll heal right up, and we’ll laugh about this in the morning. Or I will, anyway.”

“No one… entered,” Geralt mumbles. “Not how that works.” Then his hand moves, faster than Jaskier could stop it, to stroke the bard’s hair in a display of what could only be called affection. “Just feels good.”

“I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve told me about how you feel,” scoffs Jaskier, slightly awed. Geralt nuzzles against the side of his throat; his lips ghost over the skin there, and Jaskier shudders. “Um. Well. What feels good?”

“You,” comes the instant response, a low rumble in the witcher’s chest that makes Jaskier tremble too. He couldn’t possibly bolt for the door even if he wanted to; Geralt’s hand is still atop his head, and his mouth is still at Jaskier’s neck. “You feel good,” he mumbles, and his lips trace the words over bare, warm skin.

Jaskier jumps, stammering, “Geralt, I think I poisoned you somehow! I must’ve, because,” and he falls silent as the witcher’s clever fangs drag gently over his neck, followed abruptly by his soothing, quick tongue. Jaskier babbles something that isn’t Common but isn’t quite any other language either, forgetting his very pressing concerns as Geralt noses under his jawline.

“Love it when you sing,” Geralt mutters. “Sing more for me.”

Jaskier tears away from him, heart beating at a rabbit’s pace. “Oh, now I know we’re in trouble,” he exclaims, twisting in Geralt’s lap to fully face him. He ends up straddling the witcher under their pile of furs. Geralt looks briefly disappointed and chided, but as Jaskier settles atop him again, his hands happily wind around the bard as his expression sinks into that satisfied, vacant haze once more. Undeterred, Jaskier demands, “What are you allergic to?”

“Nothing,” Geralt puffs his chest up proudly. The gesture is so endearing and silly that Jaskier can nearly ignore the hands creeping up his back, trying to ruck up his shirt— as it is, he reaches behind him to smack them out of the way, and Geralt fucking whines. “Nothing! I’m… immune. To everything.”

“Everything except rum, apparently,” Jaskier snorts, grabbing Geralt’s wrists to bring them back into view. This fails tremendously as the witcher just loops his arms over Jaskier's shoulders like they’re dancing. Geralt moves forward to softly breathe against his already flushed cheek, kissing the hollow of it and smiling. So as not to lose his mind, Jaskier blurts, “Fucking hell, Geralt, I’ve never seen your tolerance get this low. I thought witchers were heavyweights!”

“We are,” exhales Geralt with pride. He kisses the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “’m not drunk. Just feel good.”

Jaskier loses track of what he’s supposed to say next, lost in the heady weight of Geralt’s eyes on him, Geralt’s lips lingering only a brush away from his own. It would be so easy to give in. He swallows thickly. “Not drunk, my arse. What’s gotten into you, then? The cranberries? The cinnamon?”

“Oh,” says Geralt, quiet and astonished. He pulls away, golden eyes searching Jaskier’s— his pupils are dilated to an almost unreal degree. “You gave me cinnamon.”

Jaskier frowns, wiping away sweat from his brow. “… Should I not have?”

“I should've smelled it,” Geralt continues, sounding more like himself. When he shakes his head the movement is still slowed, and he has yet to pull his hands away from Jaskier or push the bard out of his lap. “Cinnamon makes witchers feel nice. Don’t know why. Some weird alchemy thing. It’s banned from Kaer Morhen, has been for years.” He grunts the words out even less generously than usual, seeming to struggle with finding the right phrasing.

Jaskier squints at him. “So it gets you high.”

“Not like fisstech.”

“Like catnip.”

“I’m not a cat,” protests Geralt, obviously growing annoyed. Jaskier doesn’t hold back his grin, reaching up to pet Geralt’s hair. It’s half a joke and half meant to comfort the witcher; if he really is high, this whole ordeal might be very stressful.

As soon as Jaskier’s fingertips collide with Geralt’s scalp and he starts running them through the witcher’s white, soft hair, Geralt shifts under him. Before Jaskier knows it they’re moving— or rather, Geralt is moving him, gripping him by the shoulders and tangling their legs together. Geralt rolls over until he has Jaskier pinned between his body and the warm carpet.

Their hips press together as do their stomachs and chests, and Jaskier has to move slightly to accommodate the weight of a stoned, boneless witcher. He’s dreamt of this happening but never like this— he wants to laugh, but also to shove Geralt off and run.

Then the man burrows his face between Jaskier’s jaw and shoulder, licking a stripe along his neck. Jaskier squirms; if there was air in his lungs, he’d be chuckling. So much for not being a cat. He has to focus on the absurd hilarity of this situation, or else a very pressing problem is going to arise between them. Jaskier teases, breathless, “What do you call that?”

But speaking is a mistake when Geralt’s mouth is still hot, lingering over his throat. He laves over the same area of skin and Jaskier bites back a moan. Geralt rises up onto his elbows but it only takes the tiniest edge off, removing hardly any tension at all— his pelvis is still pressed firmly against Jaskier’s, and now his messy hair hangs down around his face like a fine silver curtain, only making him look more beautiful in the firelight.

“Wanna touch you,” Geralt says, the answer to a question that Jaskier had forgot he’d asked. He might be able to take the proposition more seriously if not for those dark, wide pupils nearly eclipsing the rest of Geralt’s interested eyes. “You feel so warm, and good. You’re so precious, I never want to let you go, you’re… you’re so good to me. Thank you for letting me have you.”

Something bubbles up in Jaskier’s chest. Heartbreak, or gas. He dismisses it, scorning Geralt’s heartfelt, drug-fueled confession: “I don’t recall giving you permission to have me.” As if the permission wasn’t readily given years and years ago, and the license isn’t renewed every time Geralt glances his way.

But Geralt just shakes his head, growling in frustration. “Not what I meant. I meant, thank you for… being here. Mine.”

“Yours,” Jaskier echoes, hollowed out by the weight of that word. Oh, this whole thing is certainly going to bite him in the ass in a few hours. “Right. Do you even know who I am right now?”

Geralt’s reply is instant and clear, sounding more lucid than all the other sweet slurred nothings he’s shared. “Yes, Jaskier,” he says, nearly sing-song. “Of course, Jaskier. I love you, stupid Jaskier.”

And before stupid Jaskier can do little more than stare, Geralt ducks back down to kiss the side of his neck again, this time pressing his lips to it almost chastely.

So as not to implode, Jaskier pats Geralt’s hip with an open palm. He tells the witcher, voice more level than it’s ever been, “I’m going to have some more punch, as I clearly need to catch up,” and that’s all the warning he offers before moving Geralt off of him. Despite the man’s considerable weight it’s an easier task than Jaskier had assumed, and he manages it without much awkwardness.

He leaves Geralt propped up by the fire, beelining for the kitchen but passing the pitcher of rum entirely. His fingers tremble as he unlatches the back door but it’s nothing compared to the panic sitting high in his chest. Jaskier succeeds in unlocking it and slipping out into the yard but he fails to fully contain the sob that escapes him, and his hand shoots up to cover his mouth. If the gods are feeling grateful tonight, hopefully Geralt won’t have heard that.

It’s all too much. Even in his wildest dreams Geralt would never act so openly on any hidden feelings, and for him to confess while leaning over Jaskier, their faces only a few breaths apart… Jaskier blinks against the cold winter air, toes curling in his socks and knees shaking as he tries not to cry.

Most concerningly, neither the storm of panic in his head and heart nor the falling snow that bites at his bare ankles have stopped his arousal. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed as he shuts out the picturesque evening, leaning against the door to the cottage. His hand that isn’t covering his mouth drifts down to press against his very hard erection, and even through layers of clothing he jumps at the touch.

He could easily jerk off out here; hell, he’s done it in worse places. Jaskier exhales into his palm and runs his thumb over the outline of his cock. He recalls what it felt like to have Geralt’s full weight pressed against him, and that low, growly voice calling him precious and good.

Were the circumstances right and his friend in his right mind, Jaskier would gladly lie back and let Geralt rut against him or suck on his neck. His hand cupped over his mouth slips down to cover his throat and he accidentally groans— the night air swallows up the noise, but he still feels the spectre of shame hanging over him.

After taking another moment to compose himself Jaskier does the right thing. It’s easy enough to find the right vial in Roach’s saddlebags, and he stumbles back into the house on nearly frozen feet, but at least he feels good about his choice. “Here, Geralt,” he calls out, shaking the snow off his shoulders. “Hey. Drink some of this.”

Jaskier knows he’s made the right choice when Geralt hardly glances at the potion before downing it in one go— in this state, anyone could have talked the witcher into anything. He watches Geralt closely as the White Honey takes effect— it’s mostly visible in his eyes at first, but then the easy, languid haze drains from his posture. Soon he’s sitting straight-backed in front of the fire, even more consternated than usual.

When Geralt blinks, the amber ring of his irises is wide and stark as ever. He stares at the vial with a slight frown. “Well, that isn’t rum.”

“No, I thought it best not to let it get too far,” says Jaskier. Geralt’s gaze snaps over to him, serious as ever. No one would believe that moments ago he’d been pressing soft kisses into the bard’s neck— not even with the slight rasp of pinkness along Jaskier’s throat to prove it. “Uh. How do you feel?”

Geralt stays silent. It seems his brief moment of candour faded away with the cinnamon buzz— not a surprise at all.

Nervous, Jaskier tries, “How much do you remember?”

At that, Geralt glances away, obviously avoiding his gaze.

Taking pity on his friend, Jaskier turns away. “Why don’t we put this whole thing behind us?” It’s easy enough to adopt a polite, carefree tone. “I’ll make us another drink, free of cinnamon!”

His friend doesn’t reply and Jaskier doesn’t even want to begin to bridge the sudden gap between them. Better to just ignore it. He returns to the kitchen again but doesn’t flee this time, leaning heavily against the counter instead. Snow whips around outside the window and Jaskier watches, hoping the swirling, turbulent weather will calm his still frenzied, panicking heart.

From behind him, he hears, “I’m sorry I called you stupid.”

The words take so long to sink in properly that by the time Jaskier has spun around, Geralt is standing in the entrance to the kitchen, shoulders leaning against the frame. He looks every bit as apologetic as he sounds, which means that Jaskier probably didn’t hallucinate that bizarre statement, and that at some point Geralt will expect him to address it. Jaskier stares. Geralt doesn’t move away, watching him closely. Waiting for a response.

Slowly, Jaskier begins, “I… cannot believe that’s what you’re taking back.”

“Well, you’re not stupid,” Geralt informs him. It would sound patronizing if not for the vulnerable look on his face, jaw loose and shoulders tight. Jaskier wonders how many conversations like this Geralt has willingly started over the course of his life. Over all the decades that their friendship has spanned, Jaskier can’t think of a single one. The witcher continues, “You're very smart.”

“Listen,” Jaskier splutters, “I just heard you say you loved me for the first time— well, ever! There are bigger fish to fry. You— you, you kissed me!”

“I would like to do it again if you’d let me,” Geralt replies so evenly that it sounds like he could be talking about a business arrangement, not a fucking kiss. But then he crosses the kitchen in only a few steps to pull Jaskier close and push him back until his hip collides with the counter.

Geralt doesn’t move away, weight pressed to every part of him just like before. They aren’t in front of the fire, nor are there half a dozen soft furs hung over their shoulders. But Jaskier still burns where Geralt touched him, and burns under the weight of his friend’s questioning, hungry gaze.

Before moving in to kiss him, Geralt stops just shy. They trade air and Jaskier stares into Geralt’s eyes— dark with want, now, not addled by any substance except chemical attraction. There is no mistaking the look on his witcher’s face, and yet, paralyzed by anxiety that was nowhere to be found by the fire, Geralt hesitates. “Will you let me?”

“What kind of a question is that, stupid Geralt,” laughs Jaskier, pressing his laugh into Geralt’s mouth until they’re smiling against each other. They kiss soundly, unhurried but eager. Geralt doesn’t reach out to touch again, too consumed by Jaskier’s lips on his and kissing back. And he is, to Jaskier’s delight, an excellent kisser.

They break only for air and then Geralt kisses him again, suddenly impatient as before. An idea strikes Jaskier; they aren’t in Kaer Morhen yet, so they may as well take advantage of the resources at their disposal. As they kiss he reaches over to dip two fingers into the tin of Zerrikanian cinnamon, pinching a small amount of the sweet spice between his fingertips.

Geralt nods and slips behind Jaskier, wrapping his arms around the bard’s torso and bracketing Jaskier’s thighs with his. The fact that his bard doesn’t make a single innuendo-laden comment is more worrying than anything that’s happened since Jaskier was injured.

“Are you ready?” Yennefer asks Jaskier, her voice more gentle than Geralt has ever heard directed at the bard. “The longer I delay, the worse it will be.”

Jaskier nods, face ghostly pale. “Do your worst, witch.”

Yennefer puts her hand over the wound and Geralt’s medallion starts to vibrate. Jaskier makes a strangled noise and Geralt tightens his hold on him, putting one hand over Jaskier’s chest to steady him.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier hisses through his teeth. “Yennefer, I thought we were becoming friends.”

“We’ve barely started.” Yennefer’s eyes don’t leave Jaskier’s leg. The leg twitches and she snaps, “Jaskier, don’t move.”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder. Undoing someone else’s healing is a delicate process.”

“It doesn’t feel delicate.”

“Do you think you could do better, bardling?”

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s hands scrabble at the arm locked around his chest. “Distract me. Do something. Anything. Talk to me.”

“Um.” Geralt’s mind goes blank. When Jaskier lets out a pained cry, he forces himself to speak. “Shit weather we’re having, huh?”

Yennefer snorts inelegantly and Jaskier twists around to stare at him.

“The weather?” Jaskier squawks. “Geralt, we’ve known each other for twenty years and have been lovers for ten, and the only thing you can think to talk to me about is the weather?”

Geralt shrugs. “Isn’t that what humans talk to each other about when they need a topic of conversation?”

“Only when they’re boring.”

“You could talk to him about politics,” Yennefer says dryly.

“Nobles are assholes,” Geralt says. “That’s all I have to say about politics.”

“Excuse me, I’m a noble!” Jaskier’s mouth opens in a little oh of outrage.

“He said what he said, bardling.” Yennefer’s lips curl in amusement.

Jaskier looks between them. “You’re both horrible! Here I am, on my deathbed—”

“Not a deathbed, Jask.”

“It better not be a deathbed, bardling. I like this cottage. I’ll not have your wraith haunting it.”

Jaskier jabs a finger at her. “I will haunt you wherever you go, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“That’s not how wraiths work,” Geralt says, very tiredly.

“If anyone’s going to figure out how to make wraiths worse than they already are, it’s your bard,” Yennefer says.

“Worse!” Jaskier squawks. “Like I wouldn’t improve this witch’s lair of yours with my sunny, upbeat presence? Or are you worried that I wouldn’t fit in with the bubbling cauldrons and skulls of innocents lining your—”

“It’s not your wedding day, Jaskier.” Geralt sighs, exasperated. “Even if Yenn let you die, which she won’t, you wouldn’t turn into a wraith.”

“Well, we can fix that,” Jaskier says with the worrying grin of someone who just came up with a brilliant plan. “Geralt, we need to get married immediately so that I can haunt Yennefer.”

Geralt stares at his lover in disbelief. “You want me to marry you so you can’t haunt Yennefer?”

“Oh.” Jaskier frowns at him. “Would you prefer me haunt you?”

“You’re not going to haunt anyone, because you’re not dying.”

“But if I was dying, would you want me to haunt you?”

“No, Jaskier.” Geralt would very much like to rub his forehead, but that would mean letting go of Jaskier. Besides, witchers don’t get headaches. “I don’t want you to haunt anyone, because if you did die, which you’re not going to today, I’d rather you move on peacefully.”

“But if I did have to haunt you, like say I was killed by a cursed blade and my soul forced to wander for all eternity—”

Geralt knows he’s not getting out of this without giving Jaskier an answer. “Then I guess if you had to haunt anyone, it could be me.”

Jaskier flutters his eyelashes at him. “I would be honored, dear heart.”

“I’m done.” Yennefer steps back from the bed, wiping her hands on her skirts.

Geralt and Jaskier both turn to blink down at Jaskier’s leg in surprise. The leg sports no sign of injury but a thin, raised scar.

“Done already?” Jaskier asks.

“You’ll need to be careful walking on it for a few days,” Yennefer says. “But you should be good as new in a week. Regrettably, the only thing I could fix today was your leg. Your personality is unchanged.”

Jaskier makes a face at her, running a hand over the scar. “That wasn’t nearly as bad as you said it would be, Yennefer. I barely felt a thing.”

Yennefer and Geralt exchange exasperated looks.

“I’m exhausted.” Jaskier sags back against Geralt, letting his head loll against his shoulder. “All that being stoic was exhausting, Geralt. I don’t know how you do it all the time.”

Geralt smiles into his bard’s sweaty hair and holds him close.

Lindir swallows and you brush by him up the road and into the house. It takes some maneuvering (the last thing you want is to run into Elrond on the way in), and you garner more than a few concerned looks. When you reach the healing halls, you head for one of the unoccupied surgeries and find Mírion inside, mixing up some tinctures and poultices. You set your travel bag unceremoniously on one of the chairs and hop up onto the bed.

He turns to look at you, first taking in your disheveled state and then trailing to the floor, where you’ve tracked mud all the way in. 

“What happened to you?”

“Don’t ask. It’s too humiliating. Can you just patch me up before Ada sees? He’ll throw a fit.” 

“Lia will throw a fit about the floor,” he scolds. 

“Tell her I’ll mop it.”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh and gathers up a few items: bandages and plasters, a bowl of hot, clean water, and some honey and strong spirits and brings them over to the table by the bed. 

Just as he starts examining your nose, Elrond bursts in. 

“What happened?” he exclaims, rushing to your side. Mírion backs up to give him space as he takes your face in his hands, turning it this way and that, gray eyes filling with worry. 

Lindir is right behind him, hovering nervously in the doorway. You shoot him a betrayed look which he returns with a helpless (and rather apologetic) shrug of his own. 

Elrond prods the bridge of your nose with his thumb and you hiss in a breath at the sharp burst of pain. “Ai! Ada!” you try and brush him off but he won’t be moved. “I just had a nosebleed, that’s all.”

“It’s broken,” he scolds. “What were you doing?”

“I lost a fight with a riverbank,” you say dryly. “Slipped and fell. I’m fine.” Your nose, the treacherous thing, picks that exact moment to start bleeding again. You roll your eyes as his mouth sets into a thin line. He produces a handkerchief and presses it to the bridge of your nose. 

“Lean forward,” he commands, utterly unamused. You obey and replace his hand with your own, pinching to stem the bleeding and wincing at how that just makes everything hurt more.

Mírion slips out with Lindir and Elrond washes his hands and returns back to the bed to examine all the little bumps and scrapes, making little disapproving noises in the back of his throat. Once the bleeding has stopped he takes the handkerchief, sets it aside, and takes your face to glower at your eyes, then holds up a finger for you to follow. You do, glaring at it as he drags it left, and then right. Satisfied, he asks:

“Your ears are not ringing?”

“No, Ada.”

“And you aren’t dizzy?”

“No, Ada.”

“You did not lose consciousness when you hit your head?”

“No.” 

He sits on the edge of the bed to take cool, wet cloth and make you press it to your nose to help with the swelling, and then sets to work cleaning the mud out of all the little scrapes. “If your sight blurs or you begin to feel nauseous or have trouble sleeping, tell me.” 

“It’s a nosebleed,” you complain. Your voice sounds nasally even to your own ears.

“It could have been a concussion,” he clucks, “Or a septal hematoma and neither of those ought to be taken lightly. You are fortunate it’s not necessary for me to reset anything. You are not to go out on your own for the next week.” 

“This is why I didn’t tell you,” you mumble. 

“Which is why I am glad Lindir did,” he replies back, because with that superior hearing and experience raising two very mischievous twins, you have never ever been able to get anything past him. “And Mírion would have anyway. Sleep with an extra pillow to keep your head above your heart until the swelling reduces.”

You pout while he plasters up the scrapes, applying the alcohol as disinfectant and the honey and plasters where needed. If you’re honest, though, the attention is kind of nice, though you would never admit it out loud. 

“What were you doing climbing down a muddy riverbank in the first place?” he asks at last. “You know better.”

You have the decency to blush and you reach for your travel pack and pull out a now rather smashed up bouquet of purple crested irises. You’d seen them growing at the base of the bank and, to your credit, had actually gotten ahold of them before picking your way back out.

“I know how much you like them,” you say, but you’re far too embarrassed to look at him. 

He’s quiet for a bit too long, and when you glance up at him at last he looks completely torn between laughing, scolding you profusely, and crying. He takes them from you and kisses your forehead.

“You are so dear to me,” he murmurs. “Thank you, tithen pen. I love them.” He can’t keep from adding: “But you must be more careful.” 

“I promise not to go climbing down any riverbanks after it’s rained,” you say. 

“Good, but don’t think that will get you out of house arrest. You still are stuck here until I am certain you have not given yourself a concussion.” 

You sigh. He presses his hand to your head and hums a tune in the back of his throat, and you feel the pain in the bridge of your nose ease. He brushes your hair back from your face with another affectionate kiss to your still-muddy forehead and says: “I will bring you some new shoes before you get up so you avoid tracking more mud everywhere. Be sure to apologize to Lia and Lindir for the mess.”

“Yes, Ada.”