#fluff adjacent

You weren’t used to these types of things. Sure, you attended parties, but that was only when you had to. So standing under the flashing lights, a black dress clinging to your body uncomfortably… well, it just wasn’t very fun.

A presence beside you brought you out of the self pitying thoughts. Glancing up, you internally groan. Your eyes instantly rolling as you let out a huff of annoyance. “What do you want?”

Jude looks down at you, his lips pulling into that familiar smirk you hated so much. “You looked lonely.” He shrugs, his eyes flickering to your dress for a moment. “Nice dress.” He drawls.

It was a small compliment, but it had to not-so-subtly shifting on your feet as you used one hand to tug the hem of it further down your thigh. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

The taller man gasps, using both his hands to clasp over his heart to show his offense. “Hey! I was being serious! You look.. pretty.”

Your eyebrows pull together, causing a crease to form between them. You weren’t sure why, but that had sent a wave of heat to your cheeks. At that moment, you were quite grateful for the strobe lights as they concealed your predicament well.

“Oh, shut up.” You scoff, “why don’t you leave me alone and go dance with randoms or something?” Your snarky reply is only met with a laugh, which made you grow even more irritated.

“Aw, come on! I’ll go.. if you join me.” He nudges your shoulder with his, “please?”

Glancing up at him, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise when you’re met with a serious looking Jude. “Yeah, no. Hard pass. And not just because of you.”

Jude rolls his eyes at your stubbornness. “Down whatever you have in that cup, get some energy, and let’s dance!”

You weren’t exactly sure why you did what you did, but you tilted the cup to your lips and took two big gulps of the burning substance. Setting the glass down on the table you let out a long breath. “Whatever. No touching me.” You point at him with narrowed eyes.

Jude puts his hands up in feigned surrender. “No touching, got it.”

Leading the way, you make a path toward the black and white tiled floor. You had to push your way through, but with Jude close behind, you both made it to a tiny open space.

Turning to face him, you have to fight the roll of your eyes at his prideful smile. Ignoring him, you find a comfortable rhythm. Your eyes close as you sway to the music, only opening when the beat changes, your eyes connecting with Jude’s. He was watching you, the smile lines near his eyes prominent as he does so.

“Ew, don’t look at me like that.” You make a disgusted face, but that doesn’t deter the man.

He cocks his head to the side, a small laugh escaping his lips. “I’ve just never seen you dance before.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.” You scowl, “I don’t see you dancing.” You point out, but you’re only met with another teasing grin on his part.

“I don’t dance, not without a partner.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks once again. Your mouth opens and closes about four times before you give in. Taking the few strides toward him, he sucks his teeth, suppressing the smug look at threatened at his face.

“Don’t make me regret this.” You snap, turning around to face the DJ’s booth and away from Jude’s stupidly pretty face. You try not to stiffen when his hands rest on the curves of your hips, but by the soft chuckle you hear next to your ear, you know he noticed.

“Don’t be nervous, it’s just me.” Jude teases but a hint of sincerity laced his voice, his face far too close to yours as he does so, sending shivers crawling up your spine.

You refuse to look at him as you speak, “I am not.”

“Sure you aren’t.” He laughs, spinning you around. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as you come face to face with him.

You find yourself at a loss for words, every rebuttal seemed to be caught in your throat. All you could get out was a strangled cough. Jude finds great pleasure in your loss for words, because a smirk adorned his face when you didn’t speak.

“Exactly.” He continues smugly, which you don’t even roll your eyes at for once. You just let out a heavy breath and look away, too at a loss for words to even function properly.

Jude doesn’t comment on this, just sways along with you to the music, his fingers pressing into your hips all the while, like you’d leave him at any given moment. But you don’t, you stay there until your feet physically couldn’t take it anymore.

And when you finally had enough, the man was decent enough to help you back to your seclusion corner for a rest. But even though you’d stayed there silently, he stood beside you with a small content smile on his face.

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James Bond isn’t the only one who likes nice things.

Felix has been known to splash out on an immaculately tailored tux, when the occasion calls for it. He found his favorite cologne at an atelier in Paris on a temporary duty assignment years ago and has never looked back, and some of his shoes are, admittedly, statement pieces. His taste for fine things isn’t limited to the things he puts on his body, either—the sound system for his home in Annapolis is so state-of-the-art it’s got its own line item in Felix’s homeowner’s insurance.

But Felix knows himself, and he also knows that he thrives on balance. He sticks to a detailed budget for grocery shopping and eating out—a government salary only stretches so far. He drives a mid-level sedan that is modest but more than adequate, thank you very much, even if Bond turns up his nose at riding in anything less than an Aston Martin. And Felix is at his happiest in a pair of trunks and a faded Terps t-shirt, taking his boat out on the harbor.

Or, on a day like today, in cargo shorts and that same worn out Terps shirt, trying to get James Bond to shut the fuck up before he scares all the birds away from the nature preserve.

“I’m disappointed, Felix,” Bond says, lowering the binoculars that were trained on the enterprising bald eagle that has taken over the osprey platform in the middle of the marsh. “I thought it’d be bigger.”

Felix snorts, in spite of himself. “And they say Americans are obsessed with size.”

Bond takes the bait, as Felix knew he would.

“You can hardly say size is irrelevant, after last night. Not with a straight face, anyway.”

Felix chucks his water bottle at Bond, catching him in the sternum.

“My face hasn’t been straight since 1982.”

Bond chuckles at that, and Felix feels that familiar sense of vertigo that they’re here, that this is how it is between them. It’s ridiculous that one of the easiest things in his life would turn out to be the sometime-colleagues, sometime-rivals, always-with-benefits thing he has going on with James fucking Bond. And yet.

“I’m not sure why you were so keen on taking me eagle-spotting in the first place,” Bond says. “They’re your national symbol, not mine.”

Felix shrugs. “Thought you could use the peace and quiet. Besides, you’ve got a lot in common.”

“What things, exactly?”

Bond’s face is doing that thing where all the softness leaches from it, as if he’s preparing to take a punch. But Felix has seen the man in a fight a time or two, and the thing is, when he’s actually throwing punches, he looks relaxed. He only looks like this when he’s afraid you might do something really stupid, like be kind to him. It’s taken years, but Felix has finally learned that if you want to show Bond any tenderness, you have to go at it at an angle.

And so Felix refrains from saying resilience or strength or determination or any of the myriad things that the noble bald eagle, survivor of decades of overhunting followed by decimation at the hands of DDT, only to rebound right off the endangered species list, actually has in common with James Bond, himself a frequent returner from the dead and persistent bearer of loss after loss, and who, on this occasion, is fresh from burying Olivia Mansfield, his mentor and the most fucked-up version of a mother figure that Felix has ever had the dubious honor of meeting.

Instead, Felix says, “I’ll have you know that not all of the founding fathers liked the idea of having the eagle on the seal of the United States. Benjamin Franklin hated it because they steal fish from other birds of prey. He hated it so fucking much he wrote a letter to his daughter calling the bald eagle a ‘bird of bad moral character’ that was incapable of making an honest living.”

Bond is laughing, then, his eyes wrinkling at the corners in the way Felix loves best, and after a quick check to make sure there’s no homophobic prick with a hunting license waiting in the scrub to shoot them, he leans in to kiss him. Bond’s lips are warm and chapped and familiar against Felix’s own, and Felix pours everything Bond won’t let him say into the kiss. He likes Bond like this, sweaty and slightly rumpled in clothing he’s borrowed from Felix, far away from the demands of Queen and country and all the ghosts he’s refused to bury. He more than likes him like this, he’s afraid, but that’s a problem for another day.

After a moment, Bond breaks the kiss and lifts the binoculars again, looking for the eagle.

“I’ve revised my opinion,” Bond says. “He’s a majestic bastard, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Felix says, “yeah, he is,” and affectionate fool that he is, he isn’t even pretending to look at the bird.

It doesn't seem like Geralt can answer him. Another shuddering sob comes through the speaker, and Jaskier aches for him. 

 "I'm here, Geralt. I'm right here," Jaskier says, trying to be comforting, but fuck. He is usually the one calling others to cry his heart out, not others calling him.

 He swipes up a stray sock and tries to put it on in the darkness. It doesn't even occur to him to turn on the lights, so focused is he on listening to Geralt on the other end. The second sock is under his desk, and he grabs a pair of sweatpants. Geralt's sweatpants that he stole last time he was over, in fact.

 "What can I do?" he asks, but there is just another hitched breath. "Do you want me to talk? Listen? I can even sing for you if you want me to?"

 For the first time, he feels ridiculous making this offer, but he gets a deep breath in response, like Geralt is trying to calm himself.

 "Sing? Alright, I'll sing for you." 

 Jaskier hums. Doesn't even think about what it is until it strikes him that he is singing the lullaby Geralt used to sing for Ciri when she was little. His humming is interrupted by Geralt's voice. It takes him a second to hear what he's saying through the tears.

 "I love you." It is soft as a whisper at first, and then Geralt breaks again. "I love you, I love you, I love you." 

 Geralt is saying it like he is terrified out of his mind, like he is mourning, like he is alone in the entire world.

 Jaskier can't listen for another minute.  They only live two blocks apart. 

He hangs up and regrets it instantly. He needs to get moving. The old hoodie on the Wardrobe Chair is big and warm, and he snags it as he runs out the door. Doesn't even bother locking, just slams it shut and trusts that his neighbors are still asleep.

He runs down the stairs, nearly stumbles after miscalculating how many there were left, and then runs out into the cool night air. Out of the two of them, Geralt is the athlete, and as he runs over the empty streets, Jaskier is more inclined to agree than ever. His breath is burning in his lungs and his back already feels damp with sweat, but he couldn't care less.

Outside Geralt's doors, he pats his pockets frantically for the keys. Shit, where the fuck are they? They jingle in his left pocket, and he digs them out, hands shaking. He has had better precision when he was blind drunk, but he gets the door open and climbs the new set of stairs until he reaches Geralt's apartment.

He lets himself in again, and just a few steps inside the door, he sees Geralt is sitting on the floor. He is hugging his knees, arms wrapped around them, rocking slightly from side to side as if to try to comfort himself. The phone lies on the floor as if dropped, and Jaskier feels an overwhelming guilt for hanging up. What it must have cost Geralt to call him at all.

 "Geralt," he says softly, kneeling down and touching Geralt's arm. His friend doesn't give any inclination to have heard him, so Jaskier sits down properly. "Geralt, love, I'm here. Please look at me."

 Jaskier pulls at his arm. Geralt doesn't look at him, but he lets himself be pulled, and Jaskier pulls him into his chest. Geralt comes willingly, more or less sprawling over Jaskier, allowing himself to be engulfed in Jaskier's embrace.

It's not very comfortable, so Jaskier shuffles them backwards until he can lean back against the door for support.

Geralt doesn't seem to be crying anymore, but his breath is doing that hitching thing, his entire face a wet mess against Jaskier's chest.

 "I got you," Jaskier whispers, letting Geralt fit between his knees so they are pressed together. "I'm here."

 He takes slow, deep breaths, trying to encourage Geralt to breathe with him, as he strokes Geralt's hair. He always wanted to do that, but not like this... Gently he lets his hand travel over the crown of his head, over his ear, his jaw, his neck, down to where the hair ends on his shoulders, and then he starts over.

Geralt's hands fists in his hoodie behind his back, burrowing his head deeper into Jaskier's chest. For a long while they just sit there, and after another heart wrenching sob, Jaskier can't hold back anymore. He presses a kiss on Geralt's hair, pulling him tighter, as hot tears spill from his eyes. 

His chin is doing that thing where it gets all wrinkled and that lump in his throat is so big, it aches. They hold each other for what seems like forever. It would have been alright if it were forever if it made Geralt feel better.

Finally, Geralt heaves a sigh, as if ridding himself of something heavy and terrible, and he relaxes against Jaskier.

 "Back with me?" Jaskier murmurs, petting his hair again.

"Sorry," Geralt croaks, his fingers tightening their grip again.

"No apologies. Can you stand?" Jaskier murmurs into Geralt's hair, resting his hand on Geralt's cheek, who nods.

 They straighten themselves up, Geralt remains sitting against the wall for another moment as Jaskier gets up to pour him a glass of water. He knows exactly how draining this sort of thing is.

Geralt drinks it down eagerly, and when Jaskier manages to pull him to his feet and into the kitchen, he drains another one. After that, Jaskier guides Geralt to his bedroom, helping him out of his clothes and then into bed.

Together they curl up around the blankets, their legs tangling, arms wrapped around each other, Geralt's head once again tucked into Jaskier's chest.

 "I love you," Geralt whispers with his arms around Jaskier's middle. He whispers it over his heart, and this time he doesn't sound as broken. Exhausted, but less terrified.

 Jaskier pulls him closer and kisses his forehead.

 "Sleep," Jaskier whispers back. "I'll still be here in the morning."

"Promise?"

"Promise. I won't leave you."

 It only takes a few minutes for Geralt to drift off, but Jaskier stays awake. He listens to the soft breaths, feels the heavy weight of another body against his, and his mind is curiously blank for once. He fiddles with Geralt's hair, twining it between his fingers and touches the soft skin on the back of Geralt's neck.

   Morning comes without him realizing he fell asleep. Geralt is still wrapped around him, they haven't moved an inch during what was left of the night. Geralt shifts again, and Jaskier leans back to get a look at him.

 "Good morning,." he croaks, lips dry and slightly chapped. Gods, he is parched.

"You're still here," Geralt murmurs, sounding like he doesn't quite believe it.

"I promised you I would be."

"You usually leave when they love you."

 Oh. Well.

   "That's... That's because they are not you..." Jaskier admits, burying his nose in Geralt's hair. He doesn't need to see him. It's fine. Hiding is great, actually. "Is that why you sounded so scared?" Jaskier finally asks after a long moment of silence. "Because you thought I would leave you?"

"I.... I don't know. I don't remember much."

"Had you been drinking?"

"No. I just... I got home and you weren't there and it just hit me."

"That you love me?" Finally, Jaskier dares to feel it. Feel his heart swelling, soaring, beating with furious hope.

"Stop saying it," Geralt complains, but it sounds more like whining and it makes Jaskier crack a small smile.

"That you love me? Never," he teases, laughing when Geralt moves, pushes him onto his back and glares down at him. He looks like shit, his eyes red and swollen, his hair a right mess after Jaskier played with it, red blotches climbing his cheeks.

"I won't let you take it back," Jaskier whispers, reaching up and tracing Geralt's cheeks with his thumbs. "I won't ever let you forget it. I won't ever leave you."

"You won't?" Geralt ventures, looking terribly uncertain.

"I won't. Can you tell me again?" Jaskier asks, tracing those dark bags under Geralt's eyes.

"I love you." Geralt lays down atop of him again, burying his face into Jaskier's neck. "I love you so much it hurts."

"Can I tell you something Geralt?" Jaskier murmurs, wrapping his arms around those broad shoulders and holding him close.

"What?"

"I have never, not once, told anyone I love them." It feels odd to say it out loud.

 Geralt doesn't say anything, just waiting for what Jaskier is going to say next.

 "Alright, I might have told my parents and Roach and I think I told a lamp post once," he amends.

Geralt huffs at that, and Jaskier considers it a win. 

"I think I have been saving it."

Again, Geralt doesn't reply. The silence stretches out between them. 

"For who, I hear you ask." Fingers play with Geralt's hair again to calm his nerves.

"I didn't." 

"For you. I don't think I could ever mean it if I said it to anyone that wasn't you."

 Geralt props himself up on his elbows again, looking down on Jaskier with painful hope.

 "You love me?"

"Always have." 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I do. Every time I see you, I give you all that I am."

"Jaskier."

"I was... scared. And when you called me last night, I was terrified for you. You are so, so brave, my stupid, wonderful, idiot darling Geralt."

"I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to call someone you love an idiot."

"You do every day."

"You are an idiot."

"See? Now let's go do something about your terrible morning breath so you can kiss me."

There is a glint in Geralt's eye, and it stirs something in Jaskier's chest, even when he knows what is coming.

"Oh no no no no, Geralt, no." Jaskier squirms and giggles when Geralt grabs his arms and pins them above their heads, slowly leaning down towards Jaskier's face.

"Are you saying you don't want me to kiss you?" he breathes, morning breath hot and stinky all over Jaskier's face, and Jaskier is helpless. He loves him.

 Geralt kisses him, just a press of lips. Both of their lips are dry and chapped, but their fingers are twining and Jaskier's toes are curling and he feels like he is dreaming, like he is flying and everything is perfect.

Their lips part with a soft sound and Jaskier takes a moment to just collect himself.

 "You alright?" Geralt murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth and on the right side of his jaw.

"No. I am ended by morning breath." Geralt chuckles and it sends shivers down Jaskier's spine. "Oh how you have betrayed me."

"Dramatic man." Geralt smiles, stubble dragging against Jaskier's neck.

"Your dramatic man," Jaskier says, aching as he says it. "Who is owed breakfast and non-morning-breath kisses."

"Is that so?" Geralt asks, without moving an inch.

"If you love me, that is so," Jaskier decides.

 Geralt pulls back and looks down at him again. Fuck, Jaskier will never tire of it.

 "And you will stay? You won't leave me?"