#geraskierbigbang

Yennefer rolled her eyes obviously. “As you are so frequently wont to do. The thaw will come soon enough, dear, and you can run off in search of your bard.”

Geralt felt his ears grow warm. Witchers couldn’t blush, not truly, but he still felt the tingle of it as he fidgeted with embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, absently tracing a finger against the grain of the wooden table. There were two goblets of wine sitting between them, but so far neither of them had begun to drink. “Do you know how many winters it’s been since I found Ciri?”

If she was confused by the odd turn in subject matter, Yennefer didn’t show it. Instead she looked thoughtful. “Two, perhaps three? You know I don’t follow the seasons with diligence.”

“Neither do I,” Geralt agreed. “I was thinking the same though, two or three years since the fall of Cintra. Which means Jaskier is…” He paused, trying to do the math. “He was a few years past forty, during the dragon hunt, I think. He must be closer to fifty now than not.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him. “I recall mentioning something about his crows feet. What of it? Humans age. Are you only just discovering this?”

Geralt forced himself not to grumble. In a way, he was only discovering it. He’d known humans across the years, of course, and knew that many that he’d once been acquainted with were no longer alive or were in their twilight years. For decades Geralt had wandered through the world, changing no more than a ghost would, touching the lives of regular mortals for a brief instance, maybe a few times if they were particularly unlucky. No one had stayed by his side, dedicated themselves to a relationship with him, the way that the bard had. The amount of devotion that Jaskier showed to him had made Geralt antsy, in earlier years, and then confused and angry by turn. He had hated the idea of someone needing him, had hated needing someone in return. The way his chest felt heavy when he and Jaskier parted ways had left him furious with himself and the bard.

And then Ciri came into his life, and everything had changed so quickly.

With Ciri, it didn’t matter whether Geralt felt like he should care for her, or if he wanted to. He needed to. Without him, the girl would die, or be kidnapped by Nilfgaard for who knows what purpose. He had to feed her, and clothe her, and teach her, and he had to love her for her to thrive.

She made it very easy. It was only afterwards that he realized how much of an idiot he’d been to Jaskier, and the thought of how he’d treated the bard over the years had plagued him. It had been months before he could find him to apologize, but Jaskier forgave him almost immediately—which Geralt found both relieving and infuriating at the same time. This was the first winter they’d spent apart since. Geralt left the keep more rarely now, heading out on the Path only when the months grew truly warm and returning at the first hint of falling leaves. Ciri was safe on her own, he knew, but he missed her when he was away. And he could admit now that one of the forces driving him back into the world over the last few years had been the itching desire to find Jaskier again and settle the yearning in his chest for another year. He was less inclined to venture forth when his bard, his daughter, Yennefer and his brothers were all in one place.

This winter Jaskier had begged off, saying that he had “work in the south,” which could mean anything from spending a decadent winter in the court of some noble or sludging through the front lines as a Redanian spy. Geralt had learned not to pry too deeply into Jaskier’s business when he wasn’t around. It was often either too explicit for him to stomach or too confidential for Jaskier to share freely.

It worried him, being away from the bard for so long. He could get hurt, or captured by Nilfgaard, or worse. But what really terrified Geralt was the idea that he would find Jaskier in a tavern along the Path and realize that the bard had grown old, to find silver in his hair and wrinkles beside his eyes. “He’s getting too old,” Geralt said to Yennefer, who looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

“You must have known when you started travelling with him that he would eventually leave you,” Yennefer said, not unkindly. “Humans are so short lived.”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice about becoming his muse,” Geralt said with a huff. Despite his improved relationship with Jaskier over the past few years, he still found it difficult to admit that he had always been more than willing to let the bard tag along. If he’d wanted to travel alone, he would have. But he never had. “I just didn’t realize…”

“It always comes sooner than you think it will,” Yennefer sighed. She set her book aside and picked up her goblet of wine, turning to look out the large window their table sat in front of. It faced west out of the keep wall, towards the mountains and the forest beyond. The sun had set below the craggy peaks, throwing the snow covered valley below into darkness. Geralt could just make out the ruins of the old tower, its stones dark against the white landscape. “You can’t cure his mortality, Geralt.”

“We did.”

The look that Yennefer gave him was sharp, almost angry. The firelight in the room turned her violet eyes darker, like mulberry wine. “At great cost,” she snapped. “I can’t imagine you would put him through the Trials.”

A stab of panic shot through his gut at the thought. “No. Of course not. He wouldn’t survive it anyways. Only children stand a chance at all.”

Yennefer nodded, apparently satisfied that Geralt hadn’t completely lost his mind. “The boy hasn’t got an ounce of Chaos in him, in spite of his rather chaotic nature, so I highly doubt they’ll accept him as a late trainee at Ban Ard.”

“There must be other ways,” Geralt said, feeling petulant. “Less conventional.”

“I cannot believe we are actually discussing this,” Yennefer said, rising to her feet. She picked up her book from the table as well as her glass. “There is no way to achieve immortality, especially not without sacrifice. You know that, Geralt. Drop this foolish line of thought.”

Geralt rose after her, reaching out to catch her retreating wrist. A grasp loose enough that she could break it, if she wanted, but Yennefer paused. “Please, Yen. Just… look into it for me? I can’t—the thought of—” He cut himself off, dropping his hand away from her arm. The look she gave him was more pitying than he would have liked.

“I’ll do some research, but nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up, Geralt. There’s a reason there are so few of us,” she said. Her face softened slightly, as much as it ever did. Despite Ciri, Yennefer was still made of more glass and fire than anything else. “I know you love him, even if you can’t admit it to yourself. I promise, I will do my best.”

Geralt nodded wordlessly as she left and wondered if Jaskier's eyes would be as bright next time he saw him.

*

For weeks Yennefer said nothing about his request, and Geralt refocused on spending time with Ciri and preparing to depart for the spring. Lambert and Eskel had already left a month before, as soon as the road down the mountain began to thaw, but Geralt had hung back. The roof needed repairs, a difficult job to do in the midst of winter, and it was a hard task to leave for Vesemir alone. It was always like this, now—him looking for odd jobs to keep him at Kaer Morhen, with Ciri, making excuses until Jaskier’s jitteriness or Vesemir’s raised eyebrows forced them on the road again. Some of that was mitigated this season by the silence he heard when he found himself listening for the sounds of lute strings strumming gently in the background, and Geralt’s increasing anxiety about Jaskier’s wellbeing. Even so, it was hard to leave Ciri behind.

The girl was progressing rapidly as she entered her teen years, the chubbiness of her youth morphing into lean if awkward muscle as she continued to work on her swordsmanship. When Geralt and his brothers weren’t pushing her through drills, she was studying monsters and alchemy with Vesemir, or practicing her magic with Yen. She never seemed to tire, eagerly absorbing any lessons passed on to her and desperate to prove her worth. The only person she seemed to let her guard down around was Geralt, who found himself often goading her into mock wrestling matches (which he refused to throw on principle) and humoring her when she became restless and wanted to explore beyond the keep. Kaer Morhen was dangerous in the winter, but as spring approached and the deep snows on the surrounding mountains began to thaw, the duo spent more and more time trekking through old ruins and sleeping beneath the stars.

He could put off his journey south no longer.

“I’m going to be fine, Geralt,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. He wondered if he’d been this petulant as a teenager. Certainly Lambert had. “I can take care of myself, and Yen will be with me.”

Geralt tapped her wooden training sword with his own, indicating that she should prepare to go again. When he was a boy he’d trained against the other foundlings, stumbling around like pups through drills and sparring matches. Ciri trained against full witchers, and only Eskel ever faked a misstep here or there to allow her to get in a good hit. When she won a fight for the first time, it would be on her own merit.

The girl raised her sword into a decent fighting stance, and Geralt moved to correct her footwork. Her sword work was exceptional above the belt, but she consistently forgot her stances, throwing herself off balance. They’d begun putting her on the pendulums to force her to focus, dancing between posts to attack the dummies. Geralt had spent many a night rubbing salve into her bruised shoulders, gained from taking fall after fall from the low poles. No one forced her, but if there was one thing Ciri hated, it was admitting to weakness in herself. “Sword up,” Geralt said, and launched into his attack.

He stayed on the offense, forcing her to practice the defensive drills they’d started going over recently. “I know you’ll be fine,” he said, continuing their conversation. His breathing was relaxed, almost meditative through the slow exchange of blows. “Just seems cruel to leave you with only the old man and Yennefer for company.”

Ciri giggled despite herself, and Geralt found himself grinning back before he smacked her lightly in the ribs with the training sword. She swore—Lambert, Geralt thought with chagrin—and danced back a few paces. “Gotta focus,” he said, still smirking at her.

She poked her tongue out at him childishly and reposted off of one of his blocked attacks. He easily swayed out of the way, but the movement was fluid and smooth, which meant someday it would be fast, faster than he could dodge. He gave an encouraging nod.

They continued to spar for another half an hour or so before breaking, heading to the well to fill their water pouches. Geralt sat on the short ring of stones and Ciri slumped on the ground beside him, leaning against his leg. The simple trust and familiarity she exhibited around him still took him by surprise, sometimes. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, rubbing a hand over the top of her head. Her hair was almost as white as his.

She sighed, wiping dripping water from her chin as she tossed her water pouch down. “I figured,” she said. “Say hello to Jaskier for me, when you find him? I missed his songs this time.”

Geralt’s caress turned into a playful ruffle. “I will. Any requests for books?”

“Ones about Elves,” she said immediately, “and Skelligan alchemy. It’s different from ours, did you know? The Druids—”

Geralt chuckled. “I know. You’ve said half a dozen times. No fairytales this time?”

The girl hummed, reminding him for a brief and touching moment of himself. “Just bring Jaskier back. He tells about your adventures so much better than you do.”

“He’s certainly made a career out of it,” Geralt grumbled, feigning annoyance. “I’ll do my best. You know how he is.”

“You missed him too,” she said, hitting his knee with one closed fist. “I know you did. You get all…Well, more grumbly and mopey than usual, when he’s not around.” She wrinkled her nose up at him in exaggerated disgust. “It’s gross. But I do want you to be happy.”

Geralt knocked back against her gently with his knee, swallowing around the feelings that rose in his throat. “You just think I’m a boring old man who won’t help you put toads in Eskel’s bed. But you never even ask. I’m the expert, not Jaskier.”

Ciri laughed, bright and crisp in the morning air, and Geralt felt warm despite the fading winter chill. Tomorrow he would leave, and he would find Jaskier, and next winter he would tell Jaskier that he had to stay at Kaer Morhen. For Ciri, if nothing else. And if it was more for Geralt’s sake than anything, well, no one had to know.

*

Yennefer found him before he left, saddling Roach in the stables.

“Go to Triss,” she said by way of a greeting. Geralt knew what she meant by the gravity in her tone and the tension sitting in the corners of her mouth. “Ask after Ida. I don’t know where she is or if she’ll speak with you, but a Sage is the only one that might be able to give you anything.”

Geralt reached out to grasp her hand firmly in his own. “Thank you, Yen,” he said honestly.

The sorceress sniffed. “Well, you owe me one, I suppose. I hope you find what you're looking for. But be careful.”

“I won’t do anything that might put him in harm’s way,” he promised. “I swear it.”

“Good.” She gave him a slight smile before leaning in to brush a kiss over his rough cheek. The simple touch warmed him from inside out. “Say hello to the bard for me. Tell him I heard about that disastrous competition in Vizima. Ought to have him stewing for a good long while.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’ll give him your love as always.”

“Goodbye, Geralt,” she said, patting his arm lightly. “Be safe. You know how to reach me, if you have need.”

“I do,” he said. “I will. Take care of Ciri.”

“It’s more the other way around, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft smile, and Geralt understood exactly what she meant. Ciri had saved them both, in more ways than one. Every time he left her was more painful than the last. Someday, he knew, they might travel the Path together, a witcher, a sorceress and their daughter. Maybe even a bard, if he was extremely lucky.

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Geralt sighed through his nose, clenching his teeth. He could not take this out on Jaskier, not when this was a situation he’d fabricated for himself. “I know you do, Jask,” he said, the closest thing he felt he could muster now to an apology. “That’s why we have to do this. I—” the I care for you too died in his throat, too close to the truth for comfort. “I need you around,” he settled on, still too much, too revealing. But Jaskier deserved to know that whatever Geralt might be feeling, he wanted to do this. He needed to do this.

“Of course,” Jaskier said, sounding tired for some reason. “For Ciri, I know. But if it’s such a burden, you can always ask Triss, you know. Or Vesemir, or any of your brothers. If you don’t want to do this, I’m the last one who will force you to go through with it.”

Geralt struggled to find the words to convince Jaskier of his intentions without giving himself away, and failed. The silence stretched on between them, a condemnation, and Jaskier heaved a sigh before pushing ahead. “Forget I said anything,” he muttered, head down as he stalked forward. Geralt opened his mouth to say something, anything to smooth out the defensive line of Jaskier’s shoulders, but nothing came out. He had nothing to offer that wouldn’t drive Jaskier even further away.

So after a moment, he followed in silence.

He allowed the distance between them to persist, Jaskier walking some thirty feet ahead of him. If he’d been closer, perhaps he would have seen the crack in the floor, or heard the grinding of stone. As it was, he looked up as Jaskier gave a sharp gasp of surprise, just as the sound of crumbling rock reached him. Jaskier turned and Geralt caught one look of shock on his face before he was suddenly gone, swallowed by the fragile earth.

Geralt shouted, an abstract sound of panic, and dashed down the passage to the hole that now marred the cavern floor. Heedless of the crumbling edge, he flung himself down to peer into the darkness. The floor here was clearly directly above another tunnel or cavern, and the ancient supports must have given way somewhere, making the ground unstable. The space below was utterly dark; not even Geralt’s enhanced eyes could pierce the darkness. Jaskier’s torch had gone out in the fall, probably crushed by rubble. He didn’t know if it was ten feet down or one hundred. Jaskier could be lying below him, bones shattered on the unforgiving ground, head cracked open—

Geralt swallowed past the nausea that rose in him at the thought. Leaning over the chasm, he called out, “Jaskier!”

There was no answer, and Geralt couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck,” he said, fumbling at his belt, “fuck, fuck.” He pulled out his potion pouch and dug until he found the Cat, throwing the bottle carelessly aside after he’d taken a few quick mouthfuls. After a few seconds, the cave around him bloomed into focus, all shades of sharp grey. He squinted down into the hole again, eyes seeking. It was still dark, but now with the Cat coursing through his veins he could make out vague shapes. It looked like the floor of the lower level was ten to fifteen feet down, cluttered with the rubble from the above passage. Geralt sucked in a sharp breath when he spotted a limp figure lying amongst the debris.

Without thinking, he slid his legs down into the chasm and dropped.

It wasn’t a far drop, not for a prepared witcher. He landed on the balls of his feet and allowed the impact to roll up through him, only barely twinging his bad knee. What made him sway was seeing Jaskier, in clear focus now, sprawled out between the rocks that littered the floor. He was so still, his head turned away from Geralt, and for a moment he was frozen, unable to bring himself to approach. If Jaskier was—if he was dead—

Geralt forced himself forward.

He heard the heartbeat first, and the relief that coursed through him was so overwhelming he could only stumble the rest of the way to Jaskier’s side. He dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch his face gently. This close, he could smell the irony tang of blood, and when he turned Jaskier’s head he could see a smear of dark on the stone below. He swallowed heavily. Head wounds bled a lot, of course, it might not be too bad. But they could also be deceptive, especially in humans. He wasn’t sure how far the damage went, if Jaskier’s brain had taken any injury, or his spine. He hovered for a moment, indecisive.

Jaskier stirred, groaning.

“Don’t move,” Geralt snapped, slipping his hand behind Jaskier’s neck to cradle his head.

Jaskier paid him no mind, shifting minutely and wincing as he did so. “Owch,” he said, thickly. “Geralt?”

“You fell.” Geralt kept his hand in place, lifting his other to prod gently at the cut on Jaskier’s forehead. It was hard to see in the dark, Cat making everything indistinguishable shades of black and white, but he could see that it wasn’t exceptionally deep. It seemed like he’d landed feet first, and then fallen and hit his head afterwards. If he’d landed face first, Geralt assumed things would be a lot messier. “Do you remember?”

Jaskier twisted, shuffling until he was on his back instead of his side, panting up at Geralt. He was squinting, and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or just because it was dark. There was almost no light down here, and Jaskier’s dull human eyes were probably utterly blind. Geralt kept his hand in place, steadying Jaskier’s head, not wanting him to injure himself further. “Ban Aine. Ruins. Fucking floor. You were being a dick.” He let out a disgusted sound. “Ow.”

“You probably have a concussion,” Geralt said, relief and affection swimming up through him and merging oddly with his lingering guilt. It wasn’t truly that far of a fall, though he wasn’t entirely sure how far humans could fall. Geralt could probably have made it twice the distance and been perfectly fine; Jaskier seemed alright except for his head. “Need to know if it’s safe to move you. Any pain in your neck? Can you move your fingers?”

He watched as Jaskier slowly took stock, clenching and unclenching his hands, moving carefully. Nothing hurt aside from his head, it seemed, and Geralt allowed himself to breathe out some of the worry that was compressing his lungs. Jaskier was fine. A little dizzy from the growing knot on his head, but otherwise fine. Unable to help himself, Geralt pressed forward until their foreheads were just barely touching, careful of the bump just below Jaskier’s hairline.

Jaskier exhaled slowly. “Don’t tell me you were worried, witcher,” he said, his voice gently teasing.

Geralt just breathed for a moment, letting the horrible fear that had overtaken him rest behind his breastbone. “Sorry,” he said, trying to keep his grip on the back of Jaskier’s neck gentle. “For being a dick.”

Jaskier snorted softly, reaching up to card his fingers briefly through Geralt’s hair. The touch smoothed away the tense, tight feeling that had been playing across Geralt’s skin since he saw Jaskier tumble from his sight. “It’s alright. I’m quite used to the dramatics of witchers. Besides, now you have to be nice to me. I’m an invalid.”

“And you call me dramatic,” Geralt said, unable to keep the helpless fondness from his voice. “Think you can move?”

“Mm, yes, I have an absolute fucker of a headache but otherwise all limbs seem to be in their place. And I still don’t fancy spending the night down here. Where are we?” Jaskier’s head began to turn before he clearly thought the better of it. It wouldn’t have helped, anyways; the tunnels were pitch black. “Can you see?”

“Took some Cat,” Geralt grunted, standing. He tucked Jaskier’s hand into his own and helped lever him to his feet. The bard sucked in a breath at the change in elevation. Geralt was sympathetic; moving around wasn’t going to be helping his head at all. He stayed close, ready to offer his support, which was why he was so quick to reach out when Jaskier took one step forward and his right knee gave out. Geralt caught him by the arm as Jaskier hissed, half sharp inhale and half curse. “Shit,” he bit out, clinging to Geralt tightly. “Oh fuck that hurt, Melitele’s tits—”

“Where,” Geralt demanded, throat tight again.

“Must have twisted my ankle when I landed on it,” Jaskier panted, managing to sound wry despite the way his face was twisted up in pain.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “Too dark down here to look at it. Come on.” Jaskier made a noise of protest as Geralt began to pull away, but it was cut off abruptly as he reached down and swept his arm under Jaskier’s knees. The bard tumbled into his chest with a surprised gasp, one of his arms coming up around Geralt’s shoulders, clutching at his armor. The gasp quickly turned into a small grunt of pain, and Geralt tried to keep his movements steady enough that Jaskier’s head wouldn’t be jostled too much.

Jaskier gave him a dazed look as Geralt settled him. “Oh. My hero,” he said. Geralt was a bit worried by how breathy his voice suddenly sounded; if he was that winded from even that much light movement his head might be more injured than Geralt thought.

Geralt didn’t respond, more interested in getting them out before the Cat wore off. From their position he could see that the tunnel they were currently in—more of a path, really, with clear man-made walls—was elevated on one side. It was as good a lead as any, and he started up the slope.

It took perhaps half an hour for them to make their way back to the upper level, Jaskier tucked against Geralt’s chest as he navigated the winding corridors. Luckily it was fairly easy to tell when the air was closer to the surface. The tunnels that led lower into the ruins carried with them the stale scent of stone and ancient rot, so Geralt turned away from them and followed those that smelled fresher. They soon made their way back to what Geralt judged was the same level as where they’d left, though he couldn’t say whether they were in the same area. He could find no evidence of the hole that Jaskier had left behind, but eventually they reached a crumbled section of the wall that carried the scent of clean spring air. They had to squeeze through the narrow, natural crack in the rock beyond it, Jaskier set down in front of Geralt to limp his own way through. It had been too constricted to carry him, but Geralt still chewed on his cheek as he listened to Jaskier’s pained grunts of concentration.

Finally they stumbled out into the open air again—fully on the other side of the ruins from where they’d entered.

Geralt reached out a hand to steady Jaskier before he could fall, and the bard shot him a grateful look. Gently, Geralt pressed onto his shoulder until he was forced to sit on a rocky outcropping near the entrance to their little escape path. “Stay here,” he instructed. “I’ll go get Roach and we can make camp again on this side.”

Jaskier’s brows pinched together. “But we already made camp on the other side,” he said. His eyes were squinted again, but this time Geralt expected it was because the setting sunlight was hurting his head. Geralt wasn’t faring all that much better, though the Cat would probably be leaving his system soon. At the moment the world was overexposed, all the color leached out while the sky and reflections of sunlight on the surrounding rocks blinded him.

“You’re injured,” was all he said. “Just wait here.”

Jaskier pouted, and Geralt felt something unclench in his chest at the expression. If he was being a brat he couldn’t be feeling too bad. “Fine, witcher. But I think you’re being dramatic again.”

Geralt just raised an eyebrow at him. Jaskier huffed as if he knew exactly what Geralt was thinking. Hypocrite.

“Don’t get into trouble,” Geralt instructed, and then turned to make his way back to the other side of the ruins.

By the time he collected Roach and made it back to the rocky outcropping, it was nearing dusk. He muttered a few choice curses under his breath; it would be difficult to treat Jaskier’s wounds in the dark. As he rounded the bend in the ruins he had a moment of unbridled panic; the place he’d left Jaskier was vacant. It faded after a moment, however. Jaskier’s scent was still thick on the air, lavender and campfire smoke masked by a superficial irony tang. He found the bard tucked against a pillar, out of immediate view. Geralt released Roach’s reins to kneel next to him, reaching out to wrap a hand around Jaskier’s shoulder again. The bard startled under his fingers, moaning when the sudden motion jostled his head. The befuddled expression he turned on Geralt was tense with pain, but endearing despite it.

“You fell asleep,” Geralt informed him, his stomach twisted up with affection and worry. Gods, being in love was unbearable.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face. “Sorry. Roach?”

“Got her,” Geralt replied. “I’m gonna set up camp and then I’ll tend to your ankle.”

Jaskier didn’t look immediately thrilled by the prospect.

Geralt set up camp in record time, tossing out their bedrolls and lighting a few pieces of wood with igni, probably the sloppiest fire he’d ever put together. Once finished he helped Jaskier over to one of the bedrolls, sitting him down and pulling over the bag that they kept their basic medical supplies in.

There wasn’t a lot he could do for the ankle. If it was truly sprained it might help to brace it, but in reality Jaskier was just going to have to keep off of it for a few days. The head he could at least tend to, and he did, using boiled water to wipe away the tacky blood from where it had dripped over Jaskier’s forehead and clotted in his eyebrow. Jaskier winced away from the gentle pressure, but the wound didn’t start bleeding again, which Geralt counted as a win. Once done he checked the rest of Jaskier’s head for other bumps, but there was nothing aside from the one on his forehead. He was lucky; if it had been the back of his head he’d certainly have a raging concussion. As it was he seemed mostly fine, if a little dazed and photosensitive. Hopefully a few good night’s rest would see to that.

The ankle he did what he could for, strapping two branches on either side of Jaskier’s foot and pinning them down with bandages. It wasn’t professional work, but it would keep him from moving it too much while he slept. When he was finally finished Geralt tossed the bloody rags away and sighed, eying his handiwork.

Jaskier, who had been curiously silent through the entire production, said, “This certainly flips the script a bit, mm?”

Geralt blinked at him, pulled from his focus on Jaskier’s injuries. “What?”

Jaskier gave him a lopsided grin, almost sheepish. “Usually I’m the one patching you up,” he said. His eyes lost focus slightly, staring down at Geralt’s armor vacantly. “I think I like being on this side of things better.”

Geralt swallowed. He knew he should say something lighthearted, tease Jaskier about just liking the pampering, but instead he said, “I don’t.”

Jaskier’s gaze focused back on him, and eyebrows raised in a startled expression. And then the grin was back, wider than before but somehow more brittle. “Well then,” he said, “is the great Geralt of Rivia admitting that he cares?”

Something about his tone was missing the typical teasing lit, more self deferential than anything. As if he already knew the answer, and it wasn’t one he favored. Jaskier knew that Geralt wasn’t as emotionless as the tales claimed; he had seen first hand how Geralt had once twisted himself up over Yennefer, how devoted he was to Ciri, the affection he had for his brothers. Which meant that Jaskier just didn’t think Geralt cared about him.

It made Geralt want to fight something, or to pull Jaskier close and tell him just how wrong he was. He swallowed against the urge to reach out, instead looking down and needlessly adjusting the bandage around Jaskier’s ankle. “It’s not just for Ciri,” he admitted, allowing some part of the truth to float to the surface. Jaskier deserved at least that much.

“What?”

“It’s not—I don’t just want you around in case something happens. I mean, I do, of course, Ciri loves you, but.” Why was this so hard? Jaskier made finding his words seem so easy, effortless from years of practice and natural talent. Geralt forced himself to take a steadying breath. “You’re a good travelling companion. You make my life… better.”

Jaskier just stared at him for a long moment, his lips parted slightly. Geralt wanted, with an acuteness that bordered on physical pain, to put his mouth there, like a punctuation to his declaration. Finally Jaskier gathered himself and said, “Oh, well… Thank you. That’s rather good to hear.”

Geralt nodded, turning away to deal with washing out the rags and seeing about making them something to eat. After a few minutes of silence he could bear the tension in the air no longer, and stood. “I’m going to see if I can catch something,” he said, grabbing his crossbow from its place on Roach’s saddle. “Shout if you need me, I’ll stay close.”

Jaskier nodded absently, just watching him as Geralt gathered up the things he would need for the hunt. Just as he was about to make his way into the trees at the edge of the ruins, he heard Jaskier’s voice behind him, across the campfire.

“You make my life better, too.”

And Geralt didn’t even know what to do with that, the way those words curled through him and around his heart. He fled into the forest without a backward glance, the oathstone sitting heavily in his pocket.

~ 

His intention had been to make his way directly across the southern bridge and into the academy grounds, but he’d arrived earlier than expected and Jaskier tended to be a bit of a late riser when he could be. So instead he got a room and set Roach up in the stables, giving her a good brush down, and packed away his gear. The rest of the morning, he spent restocking his supplies in the market, picking up the herbs he couldn’t easily find on his own and trading some of the goods he’d brought from the north for things he would need over the summer; a new linen shirt, salt for preserving meat, vodka.

Finished with his shopping, he set his mind to breakfast. There was a woman with a stall off of the main market selling baked goods, and Geralt remembered her from when he’d last been to Oxenfurt. He picked up a roll stuffed with warm cabbage and beef, and then doubled back a minute later to buy another, this time swirled through with cinnamon and coated in a sweet honey glaze.

Finally judging the sun high enough in the sky, he headed for the nearest fountain to refill his waterskin, only to be greeted by a familiar voice ringing out through the open courtyard.

Oxenfurt prided itself on its beauty, its history and monuments. The city was a tapestry of rich timber and clean brickwork, of statuary large and small which lined the streets and stately buildings with stunning relief work. The fountains were no exceptions; this one was set against the north side of the square, its semicircular base filling with water from half a dozen spouts set into the mouths of bronze fish. Geralt had no doubt that the entire effect—the square, the fountain, the white stone of the surrounding buildings—was stunning. But his eyes were drawn inexorably towards the sound of lute strings, and the beauty of the masterwork around him couldn’t help but pale in comparison to the man sitting on the raised lip of the fountain.

Jaskier’s hair was shorter than he’d last seen it, not windswept and overlong from months on the Path, and his clothes were cleaner and more lavish than he typically dressed on the road. Though his doublet was scandalously open to his midriff, Geralt had no doubt that it was of the latest fashion. As he approached, he saw Jaskier’s slim fingers fly deftly over the frets of his lute, his voice raised to overlay a bright melody over the simple notes. There was no hat or blanket laid out to catch coins; Jaskier was playing only for himself, it seemed.

Geralt didn’t want to interrupt, but in the end he didn’t have to. Jaskier looked up when he was still halfway across the courtyard, as if he could sense Geralt’s presence. Their eyes met, and Geralt felt relief swim through him as he realized that the bard seemed unchanged from the last time he’d seen him. Jaskier’s face lit up as his shocked expression turned into a grin, and Geralt could see the now ever present crow’s feet deepen around his eyes.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called, not bothering to stand. Geralt made his way through the rest of the square, the bundle of rolls held close to his chest as he pushed through the river of people. He stopped when he was no more than a foot away, finding himself smiling down at the bard. “Fancy meeting you here,” Jaskier said with a wink, brilliant in the morning sun. Fuck, but Geralt had missed him.

“Was gonna look for you at the university. Glad I found you here,” he said by way of greeting. “So short on coin you’re back to busking?”

Jaskier waved a hand, dismissing Geralt’s teasing. “I just wanted some sun, now that winter has finally deigned to withdraw her icy grasp. I was thinking of perhaps going to find something to eat at the market—”

Geralt held out the sweet roll. Jaskier raised his eyebrows, surprised and clearly pleased. Geralt felt warmth spread through his chest at the look. “Figured I’d find you only just out of bed,” he explained, offering Jaskier a thin smile. “You do need your beauty sleep.”

Jaskier gasped in faux injury even as he accepted the roll from Geralt’s hands, still wrapped in wax paper. Geralt sat down beside him, letting his pack fall to the ground as he unwrapped his own roll. It was still warm, soft from the juices of the meat inside. “As if I have ever been anything less than absolutely resplendent,” Jaskier said through a mouthful of roll. Geralt privately had to agree. Out loud he only hummed, noncommittal.

They spent the morning in unhurried company, Geralt giving Jaskier news of their friends still in the north—“Ciri missed you,” he said, and didn’t say I missed you, too—and Jaskier recounting his winter adventures. Apparently he had been privately tutoring a young lady in a court a few days south of Oxenfurt, the child of an old friend. Geralt bit his cheek to avoid asking if it was just a friend, or if Jaskier had spent the winter in the bed of an old flame. It wasn’t his place to ask those sorts of things.

They didn’t head towards the university immediately—Geralt had already stowed his things at the inn, which Jaskier admonished him for. “You could have stayed with me of course,” he said with a roll of his eyes, and Geralt was breathless with it. Even after all this time, he could never truly wrap his mind around the fact that Jaskier wanted him around, would willingingly open his home to Geralt whenever he settled in one place. But the inn was already paid for and Geralt’s things packed away, so they were neither burdened by supplies as they wandered around the city. Geralt carried Jaskier’s lute on his shoulder, the weight of it settling almost as comfortably familiar as his swords.

He’d been to Oxenfurt dozens of times, but he always enjoyed seeing it through Jaskier’s eyes. The bard noticed things, like the new tailor on the corner of the main square, or that someone new had taken over an old market stall, or the new flowers sitting on someone’s stoop. All things that Geralt would have let wash past him. Everything felt new when Jaskier was with him, more vibrant when painted in his words.

Eventually Jaskier suggested that they head back, so that he could get appropriately dressed for the afternoon. He had planned, apparently, to play at a tavern close to the inn Geralt was staying in, though Geralt suspected that he’d had no such arrangements. It wouldn’t matter; Jaskier was popular enough that all he had to do was show up somewhere and people were begging him to play. Assuming he hadn’t slighted the owners of the establishment somehow. It was only early afternoon, but Jaskier gave him a sheepish grin when Geralt asked about the early retreat.

“I’m not quite packed,” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d be back on the Path until at least three weeks from now. You always seem so reluctant to leave Ciri.”

Geralt could feel his face tingling with the ghost of a blush, and he scrambled for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t feel incriminating. “I, uh. I’m looking into something. Needed to see Triss.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose with interest as he pushed open a side gate in the Oxenfurt walls, leading them onto the campus. Geralt liked it here; it always smelled of rich plant life because of the well kept gardens, and the population was regulated enough that it was generally quieter than the rest of Oxenfurt. All the people smelled of ink and vellum and soft scented oils, and it never failed to remind him of Jaskier. “Is it about Ciri?” Jaskier asked.

“Hmm,” Geralt allowed, thoughts racing. “In… a way.”

Jaskier stopped short, trapping Geralt behind him in the narrow alley they found themselves in. His face was a mask of concern. “Is she alright?” he asked, brow furrowed.

Geralt nodded, waving a hand as if to wipe Jaskier’s worries from the air. “She’s fine, it’s not like that.”

Jaskier huffed out a breath and gave him a stern look before turning to continue down the cobbled path, leading them into the main courtyard of the university. “Don’t do that to me, witcher,” he admonished. “I have a delicate constitution, I can’t handle a scare like I used to.”

“Ah,” Geralt said, pleased with the easy segue. “That’s… sort of the problem.”

Jaskier stopped again, halfway through the doorway that led to the apartments reserved for professors. He blinked at Geralt, once, and said, “Well what in the devil is that supposed to mean?”

Geralt sighed, pushing Jaskier the rest of the way into the building. It was old, as with all of Oxenfurt, wood musty with age and heavy with the scent of the polish that they used on the brass fixtures. The interior was dark and musty, but Geralt’s eyes easily adjusted to the gloom. He forced himself not to chuckle at the way Jaskier’s eyes immediately squinted at him, slower to adapt to the shade after being out in the daylight. “Ciri is… She missed you. She’s—we’re all worried about, well, your.” He stopped, trying to find a word that wouldn’t come off as immediately insulting. “Mortality.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier said, in a tone that suggested Geralt had missed the mark, “are you suggesting that I am old?”

Geralt winced. “Uh. Maybe we should talk about this upstairs.”

“Oh no, I think we should talk about it right here,” Jaskier said, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking out his chin. The posture was so familiar it made Geralt’s chest ache even as he knew he was about to get taken to task. “Has Yennefer been on about my crow’s feet again? She’s delusional. My skin is flawless.”

It wasn’t, though. Geralt could see the fine lines spreading from around his eyes and mouth even in the dark, the way his hair was less lustrous than it used to be, thinning at the temples. How slowly he moved, how loudly his knees popped when he stood up after sitting for too long. “You look fine,” was all he said out loud. “But Ciri’s lost enough people already. I’m worried about what it would do to her, to lose someone else.”

Jaskier visibly deflated, sticking his lower lip out to blow his fringe out of the way. After a moment, he said, “I’m not planning on dying anytime soon, Geralt.”

And he knew that, he did, Jaskier probably had decades left to live, but— “She’s probably going to live as long as any witcher. I don’t want her to be alone.” As he said it, Geralt realized the truth of the statement. His desire to slow Jaskier’s aging process was a selfish one, but he wasn’t lying about Ciri. Losing Jaskier would be an intense blow to the girl, after already losing one family. She had so few people left in the world who truly cared for her.

Jaskier smoothed a hand down over his face, shifting so that he was leaning one arm against the railing of the staircase. “She has you, and Yennefer, and all of your brothers,” Jaskier said. His lips were pressed tightly together, and even though his eyes had eased from their squint as they adjusted to the dim light, he was looking away from Geralt. “I imagine I’ll fade away easily enough, after a few years.” He said it softly, almost to himself, and Geralt felt all the breath leave him at once at the statement.

“No,” he said, too quickly, one hand coming up automatically to grip Jaskier’s shoulder. Blue eyes turned back on him, wide with surprise. “You won’t.” He didn’t know what else to say, how to make Jaskier understand his own magnitude in their lives—Ciri’s life—his life, without giving away too much. Words were woefully insignificant.

Jaskier brought one hand up to rest over Geralt’s, his lips relaxing into a smile. “Flattering,” he said, lightly teasing. “But anyways, you know Ciri will always have you and Yen.”

“We lead dangerous lives,” Geralt argued, his hand prickling under Jaskier’s palm. “I can’t stop walking the Path, and neither can my brothers. Any year we might not come back. And Yennefer is… she’s made a lot of enemies over the years. Nothing is set in stone.”

“I know you’re worried about this,” Jaskier said slowly, “but there’s nothing to be done about it. Any of you could die at any time, sure, but that’s life.”

“I need to know you’ll be around,” Geralt insisted. “I need to know that you won’t just… die on us.”

Jaskier huffed, removing his hand from Geralt’s and placing it on his hip. “Well, I don’t know what to say. It’s a reality we’ll all simply have to adjust to, unless you’ve suddenly found the secret to immortality.”

Geralt shifted awkwardly in place. Jaskier stared.

“You are not serious—” Jaskier started as Geralt said, “Listen, just hear me out.” Jaskier continued to talk over him, and Geralt sighed up at the ceiling as the tirade began.

“Hear you out?” Jaskier spluttered, incredulous. “Oh, I’m listening, Geralt, because this had better be a damn good one. You can’t show up after being away all winter and call me old and then tell me you want to make me immortal! I will not be subjected to witcher poisons or mages’ spells just because you’ve suddenly had a realization about the inherent dangers of your occupation.”

“It’s not—I’m not going to poison you, Jaskier,” Geralt said, aghast.

If anything that made Jaskier look even more suspicious. “If this is some curse Yennefer wants to put on me I will not allow it. I have heard plenty of horror stories about the transformation process for mages, and I will not be risking the loss of my critical bits.”

“It’s a ritual—”

“That’s worse!” Jaskier exclaimed. “Geralt, we’ve worked half a dozen different contracts that were botched immortality rituals. It went badly, so very, very badly, every time, and now you want to try it because you’re worried about my wrinkles? I’m not even fifty!” He flung his arms out to the side and dropped them sharply, breathing a little heavily.

“You said you don’t have any wrinkles.”

Jaskier glared at him. Geralt sighed.

“It’s not like that,” he explained, sliding his hand down to take Jaskier’s elbow so he could lead them up the stairs. This conversation would be so much easier over a glass of wine. Or better yet, a few shots of vodka. “It should be safe. The elves used to use it all the time to prolong the lifespans of humans.”

Jaskier allowed himself to be moved, shuffling in an awkward half walk up the stairs as he tried to continue the conversation. Geralt let his hand fall away, and his palm was warm where they’d touched. “If it’s so safe and easy, why doesn’t everyone do it?” Jaskier asked.

“It’s… not common knowledge,” Geralt hedged. “And you have to have someone with a long lifespan willing to take part in the ritual.”

“So how did you find out about it?” Jaskier said, tone accusative. “What’s the ritual, exactly?”

“I went to Triss. It’s—” He stopped, casting about for the right words. How to explain, without giving away too much? “It’s an elven ritual, used to… prolong human life spans. It involves tethering the human to an elf, originally. And then the… connection extends the human’s life to closer to that of an elf.” He opened his mouth again, hesitating on the edge of telling Jaskier exactly what the elves used the ritual for. And then he thought about how Jaskier would smile as he dismissed the issue, unconcerned, and Geralt bit back the words. His stomach rolled at the omission, but he couldn’t work up the courage to place this tender thing in Jaskier’s hands only to be crushed.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Jaskier pushed quickly ahead, towards his own rooms. The hall was dimly lit, the occasional window offering slivers of muddled daylight into the passage. Geralt followed after, his footsteps echoing against the stone.

Jaskier pulled a heavy bronze key out of his pocket, frowning as he fit it into the lock. “I don’t know, Geralt. I’m not saying your heart isn’t in the right place,” he said, not looking up. “I’m honestly flattered you would want me around enough to go through all this trouble. But we both know I’m not worth the risk, and this kind of spell, you know they can be—”

Geralt reached out as Jaskier went to push the door open, catching his wrist. The bones there were so delicate, fragile enough that Geralt knew he could snap them without a thought. His hold was as gentle as he could make it. “Jaskier,” he said softly, imploring.

Finally Jaskier looked at him, lips drawn tight. “I don’t want you to regret something like this,” Jaskier said tightly.

“I wouldn’t,” Geralt said, still holding Jaskier’s wrist like a bird in his hand. “I won’t. Can you just… trust me on this?

Jaskier stopped, giving him an unreadable look for a long moment. Finally he sighed. “If you’re sure,” he said, searching Geralt’s face for something. Geralt couldn’t have said what. His fingers burned. Eventually Jaskier must have found what he was looking for, because he suddenly smiled. “I suppose it would be remiss of me to turn down the opportunity for semi-immortality, as you say it. Imagine the heights of artistic mastery I could reach with another fifty years under my belt!”

Geralt rolled his eyes even as relief swept through him. “Of course you would think of that,” he grumbled.

He released Jaskier’s hand, and the bard pushed open the door to his suite. It looked much the same as Geralt remembered it from previous visits. Two rooms, the door to the bedroom ajar just enough to see the end of the bedpost, which had a doublet hanging from it. The main room functioned as a study and parlor, with a low couch and a desk off to one side. Jaskier tended to be fastidious on the road, both with his things and his own personal hygiene, but when he returned to roost at Oxenfurt Geralt found that he let his tidy habits slip. Books and scrolls covered the desk, the couch, and several low shelves, as well as a few spots on the central rug. A few of them were dangerously close to the fireplace. Empty and half full cups of tea and glasses of wine were scattered about. When Jaskier fell into research or writing he didn’t tend to remember basic things like cleaning or fire hazards.

“Sorry for the mess,” Jaskier said breezily, with the assuredness of someone who knew their companion had seen worse. And it was true; this wasn’t even half as bad as Geralt had found it at times, pushing his way into the suite to retrieve Jaskier from a month-long academic fixation.

Jaskier walked over to a waist high cabinet against the western wall of the room and opened it to reveal a honeycomb structure threaded with wine bottles. He produced what looked to be a bottle of Est Est and turned to Geralt, pulling the cork out with his teeth. As the witcher watched, he poured a sizable amount into a mostly clean glass and threw himself down on an unoccupied space on the couch. “Alright,” he said, after swallowing a mouthful of the wine. “Tell me how this is going to work.”

~