Geralt hears Jaskier before he sees him.
It’s dark in their room — the fire reduced to bright embers, everything shadows and muted light, now. He doesn’t need to see Jaskier’s silhouette tiptoeing around the room — he can hear gentle hands discarding his shirt and folding it neatly before stacking it on a chair, the soft click of his tongue as he rearranges his papers and sets out his quill to dry.
He doesn’t need to see Jaskier climbing on the bed and burrowing into his warmth, because he feels it.
“She’s finally asleep,” he murmurs, letting out a long sigh as he rubs his icy feet on Geralt’s calves. “We read that story about the grapes she loves so much three times.”
Geralt snorts, pressing warm hands to Jaskier’s skin, anywhere he can reach. “Told you not to let her nap in the middle of the afternoon.”
Jaskier tsks, but doesn’t say anything. He knows Geralt is right — Ciri doesn’t tire out as easily as she used to, back when she first arrived at the keep. Back when she would hide behind Geralt’s back and clutch her tiny hand in his, her eyes wide and curious when he carried her in his arms, grabby hands reaching out to touch her new world. When day would melt into night and, as the last rays of the timid winter sun disappeared, she would be fast asleep in her bed.
Ah, those were the days.
Geralt curls a strand of Jaskier’s hair around his forefinger, the repetitive motion anchoring him to their warmth. “You’re exhausted.”
“Mmm,” comes Jaskier’s sleepy response. He burrows deeper into Geralt’s chest, as if he were trying to melt into him.
(Geralt would let him, would open up his chest and carve out a hollow space between his ribs just for him to fill it, for him to stay, if he wanted to).
“We can do a late morning tomorrow,” he whispers into Jaskier’s hair. “What do you say?”
Jaskier lets out a puff of warm air against his chest. “And who’ll wake Ciri? And make sure she puts on proper clothes and eats all her oatmeal and ties her hair into a tight ponytail so it doesn’t fall throughout the day, and—”
“Jask,” Geralt says, amused. His hand runs down his back. “Let her uncles do it.”
Jaskier huffs. “Lambert will put her shoes on the wrong way, Geralt, I’ve seen him.”
“Okay,” Geralt replies. Lambert hasn’t built a strong case as the responsible uncle, it’s true. He’ll give him more time. “Her uncle ‘Skel, then.”
“Mmm,” Jaskier considers. He lifts his head from Geralt’s chest. “I trust Eskel with her shoes.”
His hair is a mess, sticking up in odd places, and his face is flushed pink from impending sleep, and there’s a dent on his cheek in the shape of Geralt’s medallion, where he’d been laying — and Geralt wants to laugh at him, at how ridiculously endearing he looks, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
Not when he’s warm and safe and comfortable in his own bed, wrapped around his bard. Not when their daughter is one room away, soundly asleep after a day full of learning and reading bedtime stories with her Papa. Not when his only concern is whether he should get up and add some logs to the fire, or lay out another blanket on their bed.
“You and her shoes,” he murmurs, smoothing Jaskier’s hair back with his hand. “I love you.”
Jaskier smiles against his palm, presses a kiss to it. “I love you too.”
“We’re sleeping in tomorrow,” Geralt says, leaning forward and aiming for a kiss. He gets it, slow and gentle and loving. “And I’ll read the grape story with you both, at night.”
It makes Jaskier laugh. “Beware, Witcher. She makes quite a demanding audience.” He settles back against Geralt’s chest. “Takes after her father.”
“Hmm.”
The fire will die soon. And Jaskier will wake up cold, even though there are hundreds of blankets and furs and pillows around him, and he will nudge Geralt in the side with the tip of his frozen nose and Geralt will have to kick the covers back and rekindle the flames, and the cold air of the room will hit his bare skin and make him glare at Jaskier for making him even leave the bed in the first place—
But then he’ll go back to bed, and Jaskier will fit into his side as he always has, one leg over Geralt’s hip and his head against his neck, and Geralt will hold him close and press a kiss to his cheek and laugh when Jaskier protests sleepily, and he’ll listen for Ciri’s heartbeat in the next room, and it’ll be strong and steady, and he’ll fall asleep feeling loved, and safe, and alive.
But for now, he holds him in his arms, and watches the fire die.
