#geraskierss

It has been… well, Jaskier’s not actually sure how long it’s been since he was last given food and water. Long enough that he drains half the mug before he registers the odd taste, and by then it is too late. He curses his own stupidity; he should have expected that they would try some sort of magic to get him to talk. All his efforts not to talk or, when silence failed, to tell nothing but lies, and it is all going to waste because he was careless. He wants to scream, to rage or cry, anything to let the hopeless frustration out, but he keeps quiet. He’s not sure exactly what the potion is meant to do, but if he pretends to be ignorant, they won’t know he’s trying to fight the effects.

Footsteps distract him from his thoughts, and the sound of the heavy bolt sliding in its lock is the only warning before the room floods with light. Jaskier winces at the brightness, hunching back into the corner of the room, and waits—

“Good evening, Julian.”

Jaskier glares up at the man—the mage—and doesn’t speak. The mage is followed by a guard, who leans against the wall, hand on his sword hilt.

“We’ll start simply,” the mage says, “to see how effective the potion was. What is your name?”

Jaskier almost scoffs. They know his name; they’ve taunted him with the fact that they know exactly who he is. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Also known as Jaskier the bard.”

“Good. Why were you in Sodden?”

Well, that’s easy enough—they already know this as well; it’s how they found him, why they captured him even before the mage realized exactly who he was. “I was spying on you, obviously.”

“Who are you working for?”

“At the moment? The Redanian Secret Service.” The potion wants him to speak, so Jaskier takes advantage of that, hoping that he can stall them for long enough for the potion to wear off or for him to come up with a better plan. “I’m also under contract with Oxenfurt—although they may have rescinded that, since I haven’t gone back there in months and I certainly haven’t written—”

“Enough,” the mage snaps.

“You asked,” Jaskier mutters, peeved at being interrupted. He receives a fist to the gut for his troubles and oh, perhaps that was why he hadn’t been antagonizing them before. But if they become frustrated enough to beat him senseless, he won’t be able to tell them anything. Won’t have to risk saying something that might harm—

“Where is Geralt of Rivia?” The mage’s tone is deceptively casual; Jaskier knows exactly how desperate they are for this information. Has spent countless painful hours telling them again and again—“I don’t know,” Jaskier spits. “As I’ve told you, I haven’t seen Geralt in over a year. He sent me away.”

“Sent you away?” the mage prods.

“Yes. Blamed me for all the wrongs in his life. Said it would be a blessing for life to take me off his hands.”

“What wrongs would those be?”

Jaskier doesn’t want to think about what Geralt said on that mountain; the pain of those words hasn’t faded in the intervening months, but he can’t stop the words from spilling out. “Oh, all the times he was caught up in human affairs: the djinn—and his subsequent relationship and falling out with his sorceress—the child surprise…” Jaskier just barely suppresses a wince. He hadn’t meant to mention Ciri, hoping to keep the topic away from her for at least a little longer.

“The child surprise… He didn’t want her?”

“No,” Jaskier says. “He didn’t want to be bound to anyone or anything—which is, quite frankly, a load of horse shit considering his wish with Yennefer, and I honestly think he’d be a great deal happier—”

“Stop talking.” The mage takes a deep breath. “I can see why the witcher sent you away.”

“That’s not fair,” Jaskier objects. “You’re the one who asked.”

“Stop talking before I start removing fingers.”

Jaskier grits his teeth, trying not to flinch too obviously. They’d broken his fingers several weeks ago, and he’s fairly sure they’ve started to heal wrong. He may never be able to play again even if he survives this, but there’s still hope. He doesn’t know if he can survive without that.

“Our sources say that the witcher has claimed his child surprise. Where would he take her?”

“I don’t know!” Jaskier says, for what feels like the millionth time. “I didn’t think there was a force on the Continent strong enough to make Geralt claim that child, so how should I know where he would have taken her?”

“Let’s rephrase then, what places does he consider safe?”

“Geralt doesn’t consider anywhere safe,” Jaskier says. “He’s a witcher. Most people hate him, and he’s convinced even the people who don’t hate him should… There were times where I thought he felt safe when we were together, but perhaps I was just imagining that. Wishful thinking, I suppose.”

“What places did he visit most often?”

“Well, larger towns tend to attract more monsters, and there were always contracts to be found along the Yaruga—drowners and such. He didn’t have particular places he sought out, exactly. He went wherever there were contracts to be found.”

“There’s no place he went to every year?”

Jaskier shrugs—as much as he can with the way his arms are bound. “If there was, he never told me about it—not so much as a name. Probably didn’t want to risk having me show up uninvited to ruin more of his life.” He’d never allowed himself to examine that particular thought before, and it hurts more than he’d expected. Geralt had always kept him at arm's length. Jaskier had thought for years it was just caution—a natural response to years of abuse and hatred—but maybe it had really been Jaskier that was the problem.

The mage and guard leave while Jaskier is still lost in his thoughts. Perhaps they’ve finally realized that they won’t be able to pry any information from Jaskier. He hopes so; he’s lost track of how long he’s been here, but he’s so tired. He knows the chance of getting out of this alive is vanishingly slim and, while death has never before seemed a comfort, at least it would be a release from the pain.

**

Geralt waits until the mage portals away before stealing into the keep. The mage is only there for a few hours a day, from the information Geralt has gathered—too many places to be and not enough magic users with the power left to have one stationed in all of the army’s outposts. The battalion of guards falls easily beneath his sword. He keeps his mind on the present and doesn’t let himself think about why he is here—who he is here for.

There is a moment when he stumbles, the lute smashed on the ground in a corner sending a pang of regret and sorrow through him. It is enough time for one of the soldiers to slash across his arm, but he hardly notices the pain as he tears through the few remaining soldiers with more raw fury than skill.

Once the last body falls, Geralt turns and heads down into the dungeons. The smell of blood and rot reach him first as he pulls open the door into the dank room at the bottom of the keep. He keeps his breathing shallow as he paces down the corridor. The first few cells are empty, doors standing open and waiting. The fifth and final door is closed, with a figure slumped in the corner. He doesn’t move at the sound of footsteps, but Geralt can hear his heartbeat, racing with fear in anticipation of his captors’ arrival. The wave of relief is stronger than Geralt expected, and he has to force his hands not to shake as he pulls out the key he’d taken from a guard and unlocks the door.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says.

The slumped figure jolts to his feet, blue eyes wide and wild. “Geralt? What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you,” Geralt says. “Can you walk?”

“Can I walk?” Jaskier repeats. He looks slightly dazed, something off about his expression that Geralt can’t quite identify. “I don’t know.” He takes several wobbling steps forward, wincing in pain. Broken ribs, Geralt guesses. Jaskier sways on his feet, and Geralt steps into the cell to steady him.

“Come on,” Geralt says.

“Is this a trick?” Jaskier asks, squinting at him. “Because honestly, I don’t know what you are hoping to achieve if it is.”

“Not a trick. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?” Jaskier frowns. “I’m hardly worth the risk—I know you’re too noble for your own good, sometimes, but what if this had been a trap?”

“I… was worried. Wanted to make sure you were safe. When I found out you had been captured, I came as quickly as I could.”

Jaskier blinks at him for a long moment. “Hm, well. I suppose if they were able to create a glamor or hire a doppler or whatever, they would have probably tried that sooner.” He makes a face as they pass the first of the fallen soldiers. “Also they probably wouldn’t have killed all these people.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. He focuses on making sure Jaskier keeps his balance while trying to catalog the bard’s injuries.

“You shouldn’t have taken this kind of risk,” Jaskier says conversationally. “You must have known that I wouldn’t have been able to tell them anything that would actually help them find you… Although I suppose if you are going around attacking their keeps, they won’t have to look very hard.” He waves a hand as he talks and then lets out a whimper as the movement jostles what looks like several broken fingers.

“Careful,” Geralt growls.

“Really though,” Jaskier continues, undeterred. “You never actually told me much about your life; I’m not sure what you thought I would be able to tell them.”

Geralt frowns at him. He can’t see Jaskier’s expression and he wants to get them farther from the keep before calling for Yen so he can’t stop, but: “I wasn’t worried you would tell them something. I was worried about you, that you’d be hurt, or worse.”

Jaskier’s steps falter for a moment. “Oh, well. That’s… What now?”

“Hm?”

“I can’t exactly—” Jaskier waves a hand. “Go. If Nilfgaard thinks they can use me to get to you. They just wanted information this time. They believed that you wouldn’t risk coming for me, but now… they’ll be even more determined to capture me. And next time it will be a trap.”

“I thought— I’d planned to bring you back with me. Somewhere safe.” Geralt watches Jaskier for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction. “I know you probably want nothing to do with me, especially now…”

“I always want to be with you,” Jaskier says. “A few broken bones isn’t enough to change that. I just thought you’d want to be rid of me.”

Geralt can hardly believe what he’s hearing. Jaskier was tortured because of him—could have died because of Geralt—and all that on top of the pain Geralt knows he caused. “Then you’ll come? Let me keep you safe.”

“Of course,” Jaskier agrees. “I love you, Geralt. I’d go anywhere with you.”

Before Geralt has even a moment to process that, a portal swirls open in front of them, and Yen’s voice from the xenovox tells them to hurry.

**

Yennefer rests her chin on her hand, looking far less concerned than Geralt feels the situation deserves. “One more time,” she drawls. “Why do you think Nilfgaard would have enchanted Jaskier to think he loved you?”

“I already said—I’m not sure it was meant to be me that he fell in love with.”

“Right. They wanted him to fall in love with one of his captors so he could, what? Reveal your secrets? Surely you have more faith in your bard than that.”

She’s not wrong, Geralt knows; even in love, he can’t imagine Jaskier giving up secrets that would put Geralt in danger. “Maybe it was meant to make him fall in love with me. Jaskier thought I could have been a doppler; maybe they were planning to bring in someone to impersonate me. And if he thought he was in love with me…”

“What? He would tell you where you would hide? Honestly, Geralt, having someone impersonate you wouldn’t actually have been useful to them. And even if they did think they could get something out of that ruse, why would he need to be in love with you?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt grits out. “Who knows—they could have been plotting anything.”

“Hm.” Yennefer raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

“Does it matter why?” Geralt asks. “We just need to find a way to fix it.”

“Alright,” Yennefer sighs. She closes her book and places it on the table. “Let’s go see if there is actually something wrong with your bard.”

**

“Wait here,” Yennefer orders. “The hovering is distracting.”

Geralt pouts but doesn’t argue. Yennefer magnanimously does not tease him for the expression; there will be plenty of time to tease once she can assure him that Jaskier isn’t under the influence of any lingering magic.

“Ah, hello, Yennefer. Thank you for healing me.”

Yennefer isn’t quite sure what to do with this sincere version of Jaskier. “How are you feeling?”

“Still a little sore, but much better,” Jaskier says. “Also quite afraid that I’ve ruined things with Geralt, possibly irrevocably—which is somewhat ironic considering what he said the last time we parted, but he saved me so he can’t hate me completely—unless he does now. Oh, wouldn’t that be just my luck?”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer interrupts. “Calm down.”

Jaskier blinks at her, looking a little dazed, but doesn’t say anything else. She still thinks Geralt was wrong about the curse, but that wasn’t normal, even for the normally chatty bard. “Take deep breaths,” Yennefer instructs as she crosses the room, perching on the corner of the bed. She reaches out, scanning first his injuries—all healing well, thank Melitele; she had been worried that her magic, depleted as it was, wouldn’t be enough to mend him. Once she’s satisfied with that, she probes with her magic, looking for any signs of something amiss. There is an enchantment, faint and fading, but still strong enough to have influence. She tugs at the spell, unraveling it to see exactly what it was meant to do, and lets out a startled laugh when she realizes what it is. She draws the spell out, releasing Jaskier from its hold as Geralt slams the door open.

“Why, uh, why are you laughing?” Jaskier asks. “Am I dying?”

Geralt makes a wounded noise, and honestly, Yennefer is so tired of the dramatics.

“You aren’t dying,” Yennefer says to Jaskier. She stands up from the bed. “You’re healing well. You’ll be tired, so I expect you to take it easy.” She gives him a wicked grin. “No strenuous activity for the next few days.”

“Strenuous?” Jaskier repeats, sounding somewhat strangled.

“The spell is gone as well,” Yennefer adds, keeping her tone casual.

“He was enchanted,” Geralt says, voice flat.

“Yes,” Yennefer agrees. “They gave him a truth spell.”

“A truth spell?” Geralt asks, sounding stunned. His attention is fixed on Jaskier.

“I swear I didn’t tell them anything of import,” Jaskier says, clearly misinterpreting Geralt’s reaction. “I promise, Geralt, I didn’t.”

The pain in Jaskier’s voice snaps Geralt out of his shock, and he sinks onto the bed, sitting at Jaskier’s side and staring at the bard in wonder. “You love me.”

Jaskier flushes, ducking his head. “Ah, right. I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You meant it,” Geralt says.

“Well, yes.” Jaskier’s voice is steady but his hands shake. “It doesn’t have to change anything—”

He’s cut off when Geralt takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “What if I want it to change things?”

Jaskier’s blush deepens. “Well, that, um, that can be arranged.”

He hadn’t seen the bard since late summer, when they’d parted for some festival Jaskier was to perform in. He’d offered Geralt a place to stay if he wanted to stay for the festival, but Geralt had refused, citing a need to keep moving. If he’d seen a flicker of disappointment in Jaskier’s eyes, a slight downturn in the cadence of his speech, he pretended not to notice. He certainly hadn’t expected to see him before the next year. Absently, he wondered why he wasn’t at Oxenfurt yet, but he supposed he was moving in that direction.

They locked eyes and Geralt watched as Jaskier caught himself before fumbling. Geralt smirked and walked toward the alderman, eager to get his pay. Once that was all settled, he found a table to eat and wait for Jaskier’s set to end. 

Sure enough, the bard made his apologies for ending his entertainment before scurrying over to Geralt’s table.

“Geralt! Couldn’t make your way home without saying goodbye to me? I knew it.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “I had no idea you were here. I would have kept walking if I did.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to scoff. “In this snow? Unlikely. I’d find a chiseled witcher shaped icicle come spring.”

“Worried about me?

“Hardly. Poor Roach wouldn’t deserve such a fate though.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, reaching for his mug of ale.

“So…” Jaskier demurred, drumming his fingers on the table, “Do you have a room? Since the snow seems to be sticking around?”

“I-”

“Say no more, I would be more than happy to share! You’re so welcome, Geralt, what would you do without me?”

Geralt nodded, knowing by now that arguing with Jaskier would just be more trouble than it was worth. Besides, the coin he would save on the room would surely buy him a bath.

The rest of the evening passed unremarkably. Jaskier knew that Geralt wasn’t prone to talking much after a contract, and he filled the silence with tales of his own year, all through supper, his bath and until he finally nodded off with his face in the pillow. Geralt, by contrast, was too keyed up to sleep and merely settled on the floor to meditate for the night.

By the time he pulled himself out of his trance, Jaskier was still asleep, snoring soundly against the sheets. He went downstairs to check on Roach and get them some breakfast, only to find what seemed like the whole town crowded around the front door.

“It’s completely blocked!”

“Too much snow!” 

The innkeep chuckled from where she was cleaning a table. “I don’t suppose your bard would be willing to keep people occupied from a day locked in, witcher?”

“He’s not my-” At her look, Geralt stopped. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He headed back upstairs, only to find Jaskier’s face plastered to the window. “Geralt! It’s still snowing!”

Geralt smirked, closing the door with his shoulder. “You look like a child who just got told there were no lessons.”

That seemed to pique his interest and the bard’s head turned swiftly, a slow smile creeping up his face. “Have you ever had a snow day, Geralt?”

“What?”

“A snow day! Surely once, when you were young…”

Geralt shook his head. “It snowed nearly every day in the Blue Mountains. Besides, it was useful to learn to fight in all terrain.”

“Well, then, witcher, I am going to teach you to have a proper snow day. Sit. I”ll get us some cocoa.”

Geralt walked to the bed, unsure of himself but knowing there was no argument. What else was he meant to do when going outside wasn’t an option?

After a short wait, Jaskier returned with two steaming mugs that smelled of chocolate, and a hint of cinnamon from Jaskier’s. He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t know why you ruin your drink with that.

“Some of us have a more refined palate, witcher.”

Geralt snorted. “Very refined. You have whipped cream on your refined nose.”

Jaskier squawked and immediately began trying to lick the whipped cream off of his nose, rather than simply wiping it off.  Geralt watched him struggle for another moment before reaching over and swiping it off of his nose for him. He thought he saw Jaskier’s face redden, but figured it must have been a chill from the drafty windows.

“Are you cold?”

“...a bit.”

Geralt grabbed the blanket off of the bed and, in a fit of fondness, draped it over Jaskier’s shoulders. The look Jaskier sent him was confused, but grateful.

“It’s cold in the mountains. I do know a thing or two about keeping warm, if not snow days.”

Jaskier chuckled at that. “I’m more familiar with warm climates I suppose. Never did like the cold.”

“Guess I’m teaching you then.”

“I guess you are.”

A fit of madness found Geralt wanting to lean forward, to touch Jaskier’s face if only so he wouldn’t look so cold, but Jaskier moves away before he can do something stupid. 

“At least join me by the fire, Geralt.”

Geralt sits next to him, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. It reminds him of nights avoiding sleep by talking with Eskel and Lambert.  “It’s nice,” he tried by way of conversation.

For once, Jaskier doesn’t take the bait. “Mmhmm.”

“Does the cold make you quiet?”

A small smiled graced the bard’s face. “Nostalgic, I guess. Reminds me of the time before winter holidays. With my friends at Oxenfurt.”

“It’s hard to imagine a quiet night with you around.”

Jaskier laughed. “Yes, well, you should know by now that I am full of surprises, dear witcher.”

Geralt hummed and looked over. He looked young with his face lit by the firelight, and yet Geralt could see the lines etched there. Ten years they had been in each other’s lives, longer than any other human Geralt had known. He wants to trace his fingers over the lines, feel them mark Jaskier as real and here.

“Do I have something on my face?” Jaskier asked, face scrunching slightly and highlighting the lines.

“Yes,” he murmured before drawing forward to kiss the spot by his eye.

Jaskier jolted as if brushed by a fire poker. “Geralt?”

Geralt blinked, pulled out of his fireside trance. “Jaskier…I’m…”

“Don’t apologize,” Jaskier said quietly. “Just- I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t mean it.”

“Mean what?”

Jaskier made a frustrated motion with his hands. “The…touching and the meaningful glances. Don’t toy with me. Not when I’ve…for the last ten years I’ve-”

“I’m not. Toying with you.” He curled a finger around a lock of Jaskier’s hair, longer than usual. “I just- humans are so…fragile and I don’t know how to-”

Jaskier leaned over, cutting off his faltering words with a firm kiss. Geralt let himself lean into it, mouth opening under Jaskier’s softer ones.

At last, they pulled apart and Geralt let his hand linger on the back of Jaskier’s neck. “I think you’re right.”

“I am?” Jaskier asked, head tilting.

“You do know something about snow days.”

To Enter:

Please send an email with the subject “Geraskier Secret Santa - your url” and the following sign up form in the body to the network email: [email protected]

Username(s): (your username on Tumblr, and AO3 if different)

Your prompt: (one or two sentences, please - give your partner some freedom in creating your gift!)

What your fanwork talents are: (do you write fic, make gifs, graphics, vids? Are you multi-talented?)

Would you like your gift to have smut? (please note a rating, if applicable, e.g. I’m okay with smut, but wouldn’t want it to be above M)

Would you be willing to gift smut? (please note a rating, if applicable)

Please note anything else that you don’t want to receive or gift: (please mention any triggers, issues, tropes or types of works you wouldn’t want as a gift, etc.)

Are you willing to work as a pinch hitter? (to create a second gift, in case someone else can’t finish theirs on time - no worries if you can’t!)

The Rules of Participation:

Send in your entry email.

Reblog this post so more people can join you in the fun!

Send your giftee anonymous kindness at least once per week :)

Your gift must be at least 1,000 words or an equivalent amount of effort in another medium.

Your askbox must be open with anon enabled.

While we don’t require you follow the blog, we do recommend it so that you can keep track of updates more easily.

Finally, if you cannot finish your gift in time, please tell the mods ASAP! The sooner we know, the sooner we can work out a pinch hitter so your giftee still gets something.

There is an EXCHANGE FAQ, so look there for further explanations on anything you may be confused by. If you don’t see the answer to your question there, please do send a message, so that we can clear up the issue for you right away! ♥

He finds Geralt several minutes’ brisk walk away from the camp, far enough that the light of their campfire is completely lost in the tangle of branches and trunks. He is staring out into the woods with tension written in every line of his body, looking almost like a statue in the moonlight.

“Hi,” says Jaskier.

Geralt doesn’t respond.

“You okay?”

Still nothing.

Jaskier sighs. He goes to stand beside Geralt, leaning against a tree and gazing out into the forest. He doesn’t look at the witcher. He knows Geralt needs time and space to answer.

The forest darkens slowly around them as the last remnants of twilight fade into moonlit night. Jaskier hopes he’ll be able to see his way back to the camp when this is over. 

“I can’t do this,” whispers Geralt.

Jaskier glances at him. It’s too dark to see his expression.

“I can’t raise a child,” says Geralt. “I don’t know how.”

Jaskier lets out a long breath.

“You’re all they have, Geralt,” he says softly.

“They deserve better.”

“Why?”

Geralt huffs. “I’m a witcher. I don’t know how to have a family. All I know is violence.”

Jaskier shoves him gently. “Stop it. You know that’s not true.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls threateningly.

“No, Geralt. I know you. I’ve seen your face when a child offers you kindness. I’ve seen you risk your life for the chance of saving people you’ve never met. I’ve seen you sneaking treats to Roach when you think I’m not looking. I’ve seen you be soft and loving and caring and kind. You are more than bloodshed and heroics. You are more than a witcher. You’re Geralt, and Geralt is a good person.”

Geralt does not respond. His face is unreadable in the dark.

“Do you love them?” asks Jaskier.

Geralt is silent for a long moment. “What does it matter?” he growls.

“It matters,” says Jaskier. He takes a deep breath. “Lettenhove was a cold place to live. I can’t imagine Kaer Morhen was any better. You have a chance to give them warmth, the warmth we never had. That’s precious.” He sighs. “If you love them, and you try your best, you’ll be a better parent than many.”

Geralt turns to look at him. His eyes shine, cat-like, in the faint moonlight.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I love them.”

Jaskier nods. “Then you’ll work it out.”

Then he smiles, bumping his shoulder into Geralt’s. “Besides, you’re not alone in this. I’m here.” He laughs a little. “Hell, even Yennefer would probably help if we asked. And we’ll have your family once we get to Kaer Morhen. We’ll figure something out.” His smile softens a little, into something sincere and solemn. “I’ll help you for as long as you’ll have me. Always.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m afraid,” Geralt admits, so softly that Jaskier almost misses it.

“Me too,” says Jaskier honestly. “Frankly, I’m fucking terrified. I have no idea what I’m doing half the time. But we can’t let that stop us, can we?”

Geralt sighs shakily. “I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to hurt them.”

“I think you’d hurt them more by leaving than you would by staying. They love you too, you know.”

Geralt hums in acknowledgement.

“We’ll be just fine, I think. We can just take a look at how other people parent, steal the good parts, and go in the complete opposite direction of the rest. Can’t be that hard, right?”

Geralt huffs. “Sure. Very easy.”

“Hey,” says Jaskier, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder. “You’re already doing so well. Look at us! We’re actually talking through our emotions like intelligent adults. I never thought I’d see the day.”

That draws a chuckle from Geralt. “You haven’t even compared anything to a goose in this whole conversation. I expected more bad similes from you, bard. You’re slacking.”

Jaskier grins. “The fact that you even know what a simile is means I’m doing my job as a bard.”

“Fuck.”

Jaskier laughs.

They stand there in companionable silence for a while longer, alone with their thoughts. After a moment, Jaskier stands.

“We should probably get back to camp,” he says. “We have to make sure Ciri doesn’t burn the forest down in our absence.”

Geralt nods. Jaskier moves as if to leave, but Geralt stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says. There are worlds of emotion contained within the simple words.

Jaskier smiles softly. “You’re very welcome, my dear witcher.”

They make their way back to the camp slowly. Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and guides him through the dark, managing to help him avoid most of the roots and bushes in their way. They return to see Ciri and Dara sitting side by side, cooking the meat and talking quietly to each other. They both look up at the sound of Geralt and Jaskier approaching.

“Everything all right?” asks Dara, voice laced with half-hidden nervousness.

“We’re good,” says Jaskier. He nudges Geralt, who grunts in a vaguely affirmative manner. Jaskier rolls his eyes. Dara giggles.

From then on, things return almost to normal. Geralt declares the meat to be properly cooked, and Jaskier seasons it with Ciri’s help. They eat in companionable silence. Jaskier tells the story of a werewolf hunt he once went on with Geralt as they prepare for bed, and Geralt ruins all the interesting parts by correcting him. 

The air gets colder and colder as the night draws on. They’ll need to get better winter gear if they hope to make it to Kaer Morhen. When Ciri gets into her bedroll, the first of them to do so, Jaskier can see her shivering. 

Geralt, apparently, notices too.

“Ciri,” he says, “Do you want to sleep with me? You look… cold.”

Ciri huffs, disgruntled. “I’m thirteen. I don’t need to share someone’s bed.”

“I… hmm,” says Geralt. For a moment, no one says anything. Jaskier thinks that is the end of it, but then—

“I wouldn’t be a very good father,” says Geralt hesitantly, “If I let my daughter freeze.”

Complete silence descends over the clearing. It seems as though the whole forest is holding its breath. 

“All right,” says Ciri. 

She crawls out of her bedroll and drags it over to Geralt’s before lying back down. Geralt climbs in next to her, settling the blankets over both of them, and hesitantly puts an arm over her. She snuggles closer and sighs in content.

Geralt gives Jaskier a significant look. Jaskier doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, so he shrugs. 

Geralt huffs a little laugh. “You too, Jaskier. Bring Dara over here.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen for a moment before he grins in delight. Dara’s breath catches in his throat, but he doesn’t argue. Jaskier helps him maneuver his various blankets over to where Geralt and Ciri lie before dragging his own things over. 

With a nudge from Jaskier, Dara lies down next to Ciri. Jaskier makes sure he is snug and covered by blankets before going to lie on Dara’s other side. He gently manhandles them until all four are snuggled close together, the chill air kept out by a pile of blankets. Geralt is curled protectively around Ciri, who has her arms about Dara and her face buried in his hair. Dara clings to Jaskier with the arm that isn’t holding Ciri’s hand. Jaskier holds Dara against his chest with one arm. With the other, he reaches across their little group to take Geralt’s hand. 

Wind rustles softly through the trees above. The night air around them is cold, but, wrapped comfortingly in blankets and each other’s arms, it feels as though no cold wind or forest creature could possibly touch them. Ciri is snoring within moments, completely relaxed and content. Dara slips into sleep not long after, a soft smile on his face. 

Jaskier looks up from the two beautiful children to watch Geralt. The witcher’s face is the softest Jaskier has ever seen it, his eyes full of awe and wonder and fear as he looks at the children in his arms. Jaskier can’t help his smile at the sight. Against all odds, they are here. They have a perfectly flawed little family, and Jaskier couldn’t be more grateful.

He catches Geralt’s gaze, squeezes his hand, and smiles. Geralt, hesitantly, squeezes back.

Good night, mouths Jaskier. Geralt nods.

Jaskier sighed, no wonder he had to practically start from scratch with Geralt’s communicating skills come spring. Spending an entire season with one brother who spent most of his time with his beloved goat and the other who’s vocabulary seemed to consist almost entirely of curses that would make a Islander blush, frankly it was a miracle his witcher hadn’t reverted back to grunts every spring. He loved them all dearly but given half a chance not a single one of them would interact with the local populace socially. 

“A word of advice, your everyday folk can’t smell emotions and don’t appreciate being told they stink,” Jaskier offered, slipping easily into his lecturer voice, usually reserved for his students. 

“Unlike the white wolf I don’t give a fuck about who I piss off,” Lambert muttered as he crossed his arms defensively over his chest. 

Jaskier recognised the youngest witcher’s growing discomfort and switched away from his teacher mode in favour of something that wouldn’t remind Lambert of darker childhood days within the keep, “So what have my emotions done to offend you?”

“You’re sad.”

“Am not,” Jaskier retorted childishly and Lambert chuckled. 

“You are, it’s annoying.”

Jaskier fumed over the futility of arguing with Lambert who could rival himself in the stubbornness department. Besides he wasn’t wrong per se, Jaskier wasn’t at his best. He loved Kaer Morhen and the witchers but he found his days a little… empty. There wasn’t much in the way he could offer as the inhumanly strong witchers had the annual repairs well in hand and Jaskier was more of a hindrance than a help. He was starting to wonder if Geralt regretted bringing him to the keep instead of leaving him at Oxenfurt as was their norm as there didn’t seem to be much he could contribute to Kaer Morhen’s general upkeep.  

“Listen, you can’t keep up. You’re human…we think,” he mumbled the last part quietly to himself but before Jaskier could question that particular little tid-bit, Lambert continued on, “and there’s enough dick measuring going on without adding your twig self into the midst. Geralt would get all upset if you got broken trying to ‘prove yourself’.”

“Is there a point here or are you attempting to rival Yen when it comes to cutting remarks?” Jaskier asked, his jaw stiff as he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the sharp pain in his gut. 

“One; I’m more awesome than the witch any day of the week,” Lambert smirked cockily as he held up a finger. Jaskier snorted, he’d have liked to see Lambert say that in front of Yen, “and two; my point is I remembered this damn journal. Proof you aren’t the first fragile human to winter at our glorious castle.”

Jaskier faltered, “Wait, what?”

“The book dumbass, some witcher back in the day brought along his bardic friend,” Lambert waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Jaskier rolled his eyes at the unsubtle implication. 

“And this is important because?”

“It’s proof you’ve got your uses.”

“As a bed warmer?” Jaskier questioned, his voice rising towards a dangerous pitch. 

Lambert switched from teasing to freaking out in the blink of an eye as he looked around a little as though he expected Geralt to appear out of nowhere to defend Jaskier’s honour. Considering how often the witchers tackled one another from the shadows, it was a fair concern. 

“No asshole! That’s not what I meant,” Lambert shouted and Jaskier let the tension slip away, he had enough experience with witchers who struggled to get their thoughts across to hold a grudge against Lambert for some badly worded suggestions…yet. 

“Okay? Then what did you mean?”

“You’re…useful,” Lambert said bluntly and rather anticlimactically, looking a little dead in the eyes as though he wished to be anywhere but here. Jaskier could relate.

“Thank…you?” 

“Just read the damn thing and stop being mopey,” Lambert sighed and stormed off into the dark and drafty keep, leaving Jaskier confused but oddly touched by the exchange. He was starting to recognise it as the usual when it came to the most abrasive member of the wolf witchers. 

Jaskier shrugged and settled back into the overstuffed wingback chair that Geralt had dropped in front of the large roaring fire just for him. He opened the well worn journal and flipped through a couple of the dried pages a little blase before the words started to sink in. It took him a moment to realise just why they caught his attention. 

Lyrics. 

Actual lyrics. Albeit written out like a story instead of the traditional poetry format familiar to all in his field but still, a song. He hunched over the book, skimming with more focus. One, two, eight, ten. Each page had at least one distinct song dutifully scratched into the paper with a careful hand. Not a bard’s hand but a witcher, one who found the words worthy of remembering. 

It was clear from the blocky child-like scrawl that letters were not the unnamed witcher’s strong suit but there they were, pages upon pages of work to carefully document the fleeting life of his bardic companion. A truly epic love letter if Jaskier ever saw. 

Jaskier felt the tell-tale prickle of tears as he caught sight of the most recent entries, half way through the book. In fresh ink, each letter softly etched into the rough parchment, where his own words. His own lyrics. Saved for future readers perhaps centuries down the line. 

There was no mistaking the handwriting. Jaskier would know that hand anywhere, even without it’s usual almost illegible tilt. Geralt, doing his best to be neat and tidy and lovingly commit Jaskier’s life’s work into a journal that would more than likely outlive them all. 

The time and effort it took was worth more than all the standing ovations of his career and Jaskier felt warm to his very core.

“Jaskier?” 

Jaskier’s head snapped up. Speak of the devil, he thought to himself trying not to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the situation. Geralt watched him with a frown, clearly noting the tears that had slipped Jaskier’s notice. Not that he was surprised by them, he’d just been handed the very physical proof of Geralt’s often hidden feelings for him. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked and Jaskier gently shut the journal and set it aside, he stroked the soft leather before he stood.