#havenwrites

Even after over a decade of relationship, Ilya still struggles to understand how Shane’s brain works. 

He is getting better at it, and if Shane is to be believed, he’s never not been good at it. Ilya has shown more patience in the face of Shane’s quirks than most people bothered with, or so he’s been told—by Shane, by Shane’s parents, even by Hayden fucking Pike. The thought pleases Ilya as much as it infuriates him. If showing Shane some grace is so damn easy that Ilya, in all his Slavic cultural aversion to anything mental health related, managed to do it then what was everyone else’s goddamn excuse?

Not that it matters now, when Ilya is the man Shane chose to marry. Ilya still can’t quite believe his luck, still unsure how he pulled off marrying someone like Shane Hollander, still unconvinced that he truly deserves Shane’s love and consideration. 

“Does it bother you that I don’t have a nickname for you?”

Yes, Ilya loves his husband. Very dearly. More than he’s ever loved anyone, more than his own existence. Even if said husband wakes him up at 2am to ask ridiculous questions that have undoubtedly circled around in his brain for hours at this point. This very thought is the only reason Ilya chooses not to tell Shane to fuck off and go back to sleep, or else. See? It’s that easy to be patient with him. 

Ilya doesn’t open his eyes, hoping that Shane will drop the interrogation until morning. A man can dream.

“Ilya, I know you’re awake.”

“No. I am asleep. You see?” Ilya turns his face towards Shane, drawing attention to his closed eyes. Despite the roughness of his voice, his words lack any real heat. 

“You’ve been awake for a while,” Shane points out correctly, and the thought of this beautiful, wonderful man refraining himself from asking the—to his mind—very pressing question the second he noticed Ilya was awake tugs at something fragile in his chest. Ilya doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of this feeling… the feeling of being seen, of being known. 

“Ilya,” Shane whines impatiently, stretching the vowels of his name as he nudges Ilya in the ribs insistently. “Answer me!”

“Have you been thinking about this since we came to bed?” Ilya asks to buy himself a moment. Nicknames. What a strange thing to be thinking about at 2am when one could be sleeping…

“No.” Shane pauses, his feet rubbing anxiously against Ilya’s ankles under the covers. “Not the second we came to bed. At first all I could think about was how badly I needed your cock inside me.”

Ilya’s lips quirk into a lazy smile. He cracks one eye open, slanting a knowing glance at Shane. 

“Is that so? Ten years later and you still are desperate for me to fuck you?” Ilya tries, and fails, to not sound smug. A giddy laugh bubbles in his chest at the half-hearted kick to his shin the words earn him. “Hey, is not a bad thing to be attracted to your husband.”

“It is when my husband is an insufferable show-off.” Ilya doesn’t need to see Shane’s face clearly to know his cheeks are flushed an adorable shade of pink. Before Ilya can deflect by asking for a definition of the word ‘insufferable’, Shane heaves a long-suffering sigh and pulls further away from Ilya’s body. Well, that just won’t do. 

“Where are you going?” Ilya complains, pulling Shane close to him and ignoring the outraged yelp that falls from his husband’s lips at the action. “There. Much better, yes?”

“Ilya, answer the question,” Shane demands, his tone just on this side of pleading, and fuck, but Ilya has never been able to refuse Shane much to begin with. Even without Shane’s breathy ‘please’ tacked on at the end, Ilya probably would have offered him the moon and all the stars in the sky if that’s what Shane’s heart desired. 

“No. It doesn’t matter to me.” Ilya relaxes when he feels Shane sinking into his arms again, his husband’s face slotting comfortably in the crook of Ilya’s neck. Ilya’s voice lowers to a whisper when he speaks again. “I have your name. Is the best nickname ever. Is the only nickname I need.”

Shane huffs out a laugh against Ilya’s neck, the feeling sending goosebumps across his skin. Despite this, Ilya can still sense the underlying trepidation crackling like static electricity between them. He gives Shane space to think, refusing to rush him. Wherever that question came from, it’s clearly been bothering Shane enough to keep him up at night. 

“It’s just,” Shane starts, his fingers curling tightly around Ilya’s waist. Ilya doesn’t bring attention to it, because if Shane can take a tiny bit of comfort from the gesture, then he will happily indulge him. “You have nicknames for me. Moi lyubimyy. Moya lyubov. Sweetheart. And… I like them. I love hearing them. They make me feel…”

Shane trails off and buries his face deeper in Ilya’s neck, no doubt hiding the deepening flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. Ilya holds him, not bothering to fight the smile tugging at his lips. From where Shane’s face is pressed against his pulse point, there is no point in hiding how his husband’s words make his heart beat faster. 

“Loved?” Ilya ventures, not quite able to keep the amusement from his tone.

“Safe,” Shane corrects after a beat. Ilya is grateful that no answer is expected of him now, because he doesn’t know how he’d manage to speak around the lump forming in his throat. “Cherished. It makes me feel good and… I want you to feel like this, too.”

Ilya forces a breath through his nose to compose himself, but judging by the small exhale coming from somewhere under him, Shane misinterprets his silence for ridicule. 

“Forget I said anything.” 

“Hush, moi lyubimyy,” Ilya chides gently as he presses a kiss to the crown of Shane’s head. “You worry too much. I am happy with you. I don’t need nicknames to feel good with you.”

Shane doesn’t say anything for a few long seconds, and were it not for his fingers gently stroking complicated patterns into the skin of Ilya’s hip, he would have thought Shane finally asleep. 

“Yeah?” comes the soft reply, Shane’s voice so small it breaks Ilya’s heart. 

“I’m sure. You don’t give nicknames, is not a problem for me.” Ilya waves absent with his hand, as if swatting a bothersome fly. “We all know I married you for your amazing body.” 

The statement pulls an unexpected snort from Shane. 

“Right.”

“Your body and a Canadian green card,” Ilya adds, hoping to alleviate some of the tension with jokes. 

“You’re an asshole,” Shane says fondly, pulling away from Ilya’s embrace long enough to level him with a fondly exasperated look. 

“See? You do have nickname for me.” Ilya steals a kiss from Shane’s lips, keeping it chaste for fear of Shane complaining about unbrushed teeth and morning breaths. The last thing Ilya wants to do is get out of bed now. “I love you, Hollander.”

“I love you too, Rozanov.”

“Ah, ah! It’s Hollander now,” Ilya corrects, his smile widening at the words. “No returns possible. How do you say? You are stuck with me now.” 

“Afraid I am,” Shane murmurs, settling back against Ilya and finally, finally, closing his eyes. “I’m not mad about it, though.”

“Good. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

Two weeks pass and Ilya forgets about the nickname debacle entirely. It doesn’t even occur to him that Shane has been thinking about nothing else since that night, because Shane himself doesn’t bring it up again. Until one afternoon when Ilya is busy making tuna melts for them, sneakily dropping a pinch of cheese on the ground for Anya to hoover up, and Shane comes in from his lunchtime run. 

“Hey you,” Shane greets him, seconds before he appears at Ilya’s side and kisses his cheek in greeting. His hair is still damp from his recent shower, cold droplets hitting Ilya’s bare shoulder. “Tuna melts?” 

“Of course.” Ilya looks up from his preparation long enough to affectionately bump his forehead against Shane’s, his easy smile matching the one on his husband’s face. He returns his attention to the sandwich in front of him before adding, “your favourite. I know how to treat my husband.” 

“That you do, Illyushka.” 

And just like that, it’s like the world stops spinning on its axis. Ilya’s movements halt abruptly, his body tense like a bowstring as the word washes over him. Shane moves away, seemingly unaware of Ilya’s internal turmoil. He wants to ask how Shane knows to call him that, but the words refuse to come, his throat dry and rough. Vaguely Ilya hears Shane droning on about the dogs he encountered on his run, and while his body is still in their shared kitchen, his mind is back in Russia, back to the last time someone called him by his childhood nickname. 

“I love you so much,” his mother would remind Ilya every night, kissing his nose and then his forehead as she tucked him in, “I love you, my sweet Illyushechka.” 

“I love you, mama,” Ilya would say in return, the memory of her sad smile now twisting his heart like a vice. 

“Ilya?” Shane’s voice cuts through Ilya’s memory unexpectedly, pulling him back to the present as abruptly as a hook yanking a fish out of water. “Fuck, you’re bleeding!”

Ilya looks down at his hand, absently noticing the red line running down his left index. He’s vaguely aware of a throbbing ache where the sharp knife sliced into his skin. Ilya’s muscles refuse to move even though his brain tells him he should probably clean the wound and bandage it. Thankfully Shane acts much more quickly, dragging Ilya to the kitchen sink and running cold water on the open wound. 

“Ilya? Can you hear me?”

“What did you call me?” Ilya rasps, his eyes meeting Shane’s pleadingly, hoping he hasn’t misheard. Shane looks entirely too calm when he repeats the nickname. 

“Illyushka. I did some research into Russian nicknames and found out about diminutives of names. I can’t believe you never told me about this, by the way.” Shane breaks eye contact long enough to cut off the water and dry Ilya’s finger with a paper towel. “I like how it sounds. Ilyushka. It’s cute.” 

And what is Ilya supposed to say to that? Of course Shane did research into this. Ilya doesn’t know why he expected anything less of his husband. And how could Shane have possibly known how much the sound of this particular nickname would trigger Ilya, when Ilya hardly ever speaks about his mother? It’s too painful, even though she’s been dead nearly twenty years. If he allows himself to think about her, his thoughts inevitably turn to that tragic morning. If Ilya was a braver man, he might bring himself to face the memories of his mother more often, if only so Shane can learn what kind of woman Irina Rozanova was. 

His mother deserves that much.  

“Ilya, what is wrong?” Shane asks again, concern now evident in his tone, and Ilya realises with no small amount of mortification that the world around him has gone blurry. “Did I do something wrong? Did Google lie and calling people by their diminutive is actually very rude?” 

“Shane…”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Shane interrupts him, the words coming from his lips with steadily increasing speed, “fuck, I just wanted to call you by a cute nickname. I’m sorry, I should’ve dropped it when you said—”

“Shane,” Ilya tries again when the painful fog of memory starts to lift from his mind. 

“I just thought it would be nice, you know? I like learning about your culture. I love learning Russian, so I thought I’d surprise you.” Amazingly, despite his rising panic, Shane somehow managed to wrap a bandaid around Ilya’s finger. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever use it again, I sw—”

“Sweetheart.” Ilya’s voice is firm, but not unkind, the word stalling Shane’s spiral and pulling his husband’s gaze up to meet Ilya’s. The latter bites back the fresh tears, instead forcing a wobbly smile to his lips. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“Say it again.” Ilya pulls Shane closer, brushing their noses together as his eyes flutter shut. “Please.”

“Il… Ilyushka?” 

Ilya will forever deny the needy keen that falls from his lips as he wraps his arms around his husband’s waist, burying his nose in Shane’s freshly washed hair. If Shane is at all surprised by the reaction, he doesn’t let it show. 

“You, uh… like it, then?” Shane ventures as he rubs soothing circles on Ilya’s back. Ilya nods against his temple, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “It’s just… you looked so sad then.”

“Yes.” Ilya takes a composing breath. “The last person to call me this was my mother.” 

Shane tenses as realisation dawns on him. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath, leaning back to meet Ilya’s gaze. “Ilya, I never—”

“You did not know,” Ilya is quick to reassure his husband before Shane has a chance to panic again. “I wasn’t prepared. When you called me that, it reminded me of her. Is okay. I am okay.”

Shane nods his understanding, bringing one hand up to wipe at Ilya’s wet cheek. Ilya leans into the touch like a neglected kitten. 

“I don’t have to call you that if it’s too painful.”

Ilya smiles gratefully, his heart so full of love for this amazing man he’s lucky enough to call his husband. 

“It is painful, yes. But when you say it, it makes me feel… safe,” Ilya admits, borrowing Shane’s very own words from that night. “Cherished,” he adds softly, feeling more vulnerable than he’s comfortable but taking strength from Shane’s grounding touch. 

“You are,” Shane assures him, meeting Ilya’s lips in a loving kiss. “You are so loved. So cherished.” 

Dean’s been doing this job far too long to not recognize a dreamscape for what it is . 

Everything about this feels off from the moment Dean wakes up on a king-size memory foam mattress instead of his single bed in the Bunker. The world around him seems too soft, too cozy and peaceful to be his reality, like he’s experiencing it through a thin veil that might tear if he looks at it too closely. The most random sounds are amplified to an almost obnoxious level—the twittering of the birds in the trees, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the sound of bacon sizzling somewhere below him. It feels every bit like Dean imagines waking up as the female lead in a chick-flick would feel like. Too perfect, too immaculate, too clean. 

Though the biggest red flag is the fact that when Dean wanders downstairs to investigate the smells of breakfast, he’s greeted by the sight of Cas flipping pancakes over the stove, wearing a blush blue apron that only sets off the brilliance of his eyes more. The sight sends a pang of want through Dean, slowly replaced by something dangerously close to anger or grief. These two emotions have been raging inside his head for so long, long before the Empty claimed his Cas, that Dean struggles to differentiate them. But then this Cas, Dreamland Cas, turns around and smiles at Dean with so much warmth and softness that all rational thought leaves the hunter’s mind within seconds. 

Dean knows then that he’s trapped in the dreamscape of the djinn he and Sammy have been hunting for the past couple of weeks. He knows he should be doing something about that. He would have done something about it, were it not for Cas reaching out for him and pulling him close, their lips meeting in a loving kiss that has Dean feeling weak in the knees. 

“Morning, handsome. Just in time for breakfast,” Cas whispers in the air pocket between them, as if Dean isn’t blinking back overwhelmed tears. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the table. I’ll be through in a moment.”

And really, what harm is there in indulging just a little bit longer? 

Darkness. 

Complete and utter silence. 

A floating sensation. 

And then—

A high-pitched ringing in his ears as the ground beneath him vibrates violently with the intensity of the bombs going off around him. Strong hands dragging him across the dirt and aggravating his broken ribs. Blurred snapshots of a nearby building collapsing in on itself in a mushroom cloud of dust, and then—

Darkness once again, and blissful silence, a feeling of weightlessness washing over him in calming waves. This, this he can get used to, he thinks. This feeling like he's flying and where nothing hurts, where there is no sorrow, nothing at all for the first time in years, and it feels good. It feels peaceful in a way he never thought he would ever get to experience. If given the choice, he will gladly spend the rest of eternity in this space.

But as with everything, the choice isn't his to make. 

"Sergeant Winchester?"

"Dean. Dean, don't go to sleep on me, brother."

"Hang in there, soldier. We're getting you home. Get me the fucking medic."

It takes several seconds for Dean's brain to register what is happening to him. He can pinpoint some of the voices. Bobby shouting orders, as he usually does, and Benny squeezing his hand and telling him to hang in there. Benny sounds worried, so Dean tries to squeeze back, only to find that he can't. Something's wrong. Seriously wrong. And try as he may, he can't remember how he ended up on a stretcher being treated for injuries. It's all too much, too loud, too bright. Something hot and wet soaks his right shoulder, his mouth is filled with a coppery taste that makes him gag as he coughs up a few loose teeth. 

A voice is speaking to him, but Dean can't make out any of it over the insufferable ringing in his ears. When darkness overcomes him a third time, Dean's last thought is to pray that Sammy will be alright.

It takes days for Gabriel to learn how to speak again. 

Centuries spent in Hell with his lips sewn shut has taken its toll. The first few days spent in the Men of Letters Bunker have Castiel and the Winchesters putting Gabriel's muteness down to confusion, then madness. Gabriel is sure he heard Dean implying that the archangel is giving them the silent treatment out of spite for not looking for him after the Elysian Fields Hotel, and sure, Gabriel is a vindictive SOB, but he's not unreasonable. He wanted the Winchesters to believe he was dead. He didn't want to be found. That was the whole point of the ruse, and if Dean took three seconds to think about it, even he would have come to that conclusion. Oh, but Gabriel is in full control of his mind, which makes his current predicament even worse. The only person in the room with something to say and he can't even talk!

His muteness has less to do with willingness and everything to do with ability. He has to relearn how to form words with his lips, how to position his tongue properly in his mouth so he doesn't aggravate his already-present speech impediment—you try learning how to speak every single language ever known to man, dead or otherwise, and not develop some kind of lisp. More practically, Gabriel has to get over his very irrational fear that using his vocal chords will somehow result in them snapping in half like oversized glow sticks. That was Asmodeus' favorite torture when Gabriel got lippy, way back when he first got sold to the Prince of Hell and still had some fight left in him. 

His lips are still swollen and sore when he speaks his first words in centuries (pornstars... they were pornstars, Sam), and maybe he could have come up with something more original and more heartfelt in response to Sam's very moving speech, but at this point he's still not convinced that this isn't an illusion and so he'd rather play his cards close to his chest. Revealing weak spots to a demon is rarely advisable and Gabriel's been fooled in the past. The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth, making him want to retch. His lips throb for hours after that, despite Sam kindly cleaning the blood with a cold, damp cloth which he uses to dab the blood away. So, the comfort aspect of the illusion is new, granted, but Gabriel remains on his guards nonetheless. Demons are fickle creatures. 

It takes weeks for the bruises on Gabriel's body to fade. 

There are a lot of bruises, a parting gift from his former master who beat him halfway to death on a daily basis, just for the sport of it. The beatings in themselves became a much needed reprieve from Asmodeus harvesting his grace. That pain is nothing like Sam and Dean can ever imagine. Castiel can perhaps relate on some level, though part of Gabriel hopes that his younger sibling never had to go through the torment of having your very essence siphoned straight from the source. Some bruises are still fresh, a direct consequence of the fight that ensued when Asmodeus came to reclaim Gabriel from the bunker, and then, from his showdown with Loki. Killing the demon prince and the gaggle of Pagan demi-gods drained Gabriel of the very last reserves of grace he had, nearly killing him in the process, and would that really have been such a bad thing? Gabriel isn't sure anymore.

It takes weeks for Gabriel's bones to set, and until they do, he's been put on bed rest by Sam 'Motherhen' Winchester. Lounging in bed for the first few days felt like a luxury after centuries of torture, especially when Sam came back one afternoon with a portable projector under his arm, which he hooked up to his computer so Gabriel could watch TV all day. Not only did the Sasquatch go out of his way to set Gabriel up with a worldwide VPN, but he also emptied a backpack full of sugary treats and snacks directly in Gabriel's lap. Sam my-body-is-a-temple Winchester indulging Gabriel's sweet tooth is... oddly nice, actually. 

Gabriel's not used to ‘nice’ anymore, hasn't been for a long time. He lost faith in ‘nice’ long before his time in Hell. Cherry on the metaphorical cake, Sam settles next to Gabriel on the bed (after getting explicit verbal consent, because you can take Sam Winchester out of Law School, but seemingly not the lawyer out of Sam) and just sits there, messing about on his laptop and not expecting anything in return. It becomes their little routine until Gabriel's bones are more or less fully healed, though Sam eventually slows down with the treats and tries incorporating fruit to Gabriel's diet, like a psychopath. 

Dean finds an old pair of crutches in one of the bunker's many rooms and offers them to Gabriel, who flatly refuses anything to do with them. It's one thing to be coddled back to health by Sam, quite another debasing himself by hobbling around with these hellish contraptions. He'd rather suffer, thanks. 

Despite all the physical ailments plaguing him the first few weeks in the Bunker, what troubles Gabriel the most is the fact that he can't feel his grace at all, not a single stirring, not even a measly tremor. It probably shouldn't have come as a surprise to him, seeing as his body has been left to heal the human way. Castiel’s attempt at healing him fails spectacularly, which is the only indication that Gabriel isn't entirely human yet. It is physically impossible for a seraph to heal an archangel. Cassie is simply too low on watt to touch the powerhouse that is Gabriel, which means that his grace is inside him somewhere, except maybe... dormant, or something. Hell if Gabriel knows! The only person in the entire universe who might know how to fix him has been AWOL for several thousand years. 

It's disorienting at first, going about his day without feeling the familiar push and pull of his grace inside his vessel. Gabriel thought he knew how to act human without the help of his grace, courtesy of adopting his Pagan persona to evade Heaven's gaze. That is to say, he took his powers for granted before they were cruelly ripped from him. This is the closest to human Gabriel has ever been. And he decides very quickly that he doesn't like it. 

“You’re not dying, Jaskier. It’s just a dislocation. You will live.”

“I might die from pain if you keep tugging at it like the brute you are!” Jaskier complained in a snippy tone, eyeing his dislocated knee like it might catch fire any second. Geralt heaved a deep sigh as he tried to find the right words to placate Jaskier and convince him that the next step was crucial to his recovery.

“I need to relocate the kneecap before we immobilise the leg. If I don’t, you’ll probably have to walk with a limp or a cane for the rest of your life. Is that really what you want?”

“I can sing and compose just as well with a broken leg,” Jaskier maintained stubbornly, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. Geralt felt like strangling this ridiculous peacock of a man.

“Good luck getting off this mountain in spring with a dislocated leg. Unless you’re happy for your only audience to be Vesemir.”

“You wouldn’t leave me up here all by myself.” Annoyingly, Geralt found himself agreeing with the bard. He was all up for teaching Jaskier a lesson, but he wasn’t cruel. If Jaskier asked, Geralt would probably carry him down the mountain.

“Even if I felt so generous as to help you down this mountain, I certainly wouldn’t be spending my time taking you to various bardic competitions because you couldn’t be bothered to properly heal your leg.” That was already a few inches closer to the truth, although Jaskier really didn’t need to know just how far Geralt would go to keep him happy. “And you know what will happen if you don’t show your face at those competitions, do you?”

Jaskier scowled at Geralt, clearly in a stroppy mood, but Geralt knew that he had hit a nerve already. With a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Geralt delivered the final blow.

“Would you rather put up with the pain for next few weeks while your leg heals properly, or live for the rest of your life knowing that you let Valdo Marx win the prize that you have been holding for five years straight?”

“Eight years,” Jaskier corrected Geralt vehemently, a new heat to his tone that Geralt rarely got to witness from his bard… unless, of course, the topic of conversation turned to Valdo Marx. “Eight years, and he will not take that from me, the opportunistic bastard.”

“So, does that mean-”

“Yes, yes , fine!” Jaskier relented, his gaze turning pleading as he met Geralt’s eyes again, “but do be gentle with me dear, alright? I am a delicate bard, unused to the harsh lifestyle you and your brothers have come to call normal over the centuries.”

“Delicate is not the word I’d use.”

“Oh, pray tell witcher, what word would you use to describe your sweetheart?” Jaskier challenged, raising an eyebrow quizzically. “Choose your next words wisely, or you might end up sleeping on your own tonight.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Geralt deadpanned, fighting the smile threatening to break across his face as Jaskier scoffed in affront.

“That’s it, you’re sleeping in Eskel’s room tonight! Or Lambert’s, or Vesemir’s, I don’t care. Not with me, that’s for-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted the bard, his tone turning softer and patient like it did when he tried to coax stubborn Roach into compliance, “that’s enough trying to distract me from the task at hand. The quicker I do this, the quicker you can go back to whatever it was you were trying to do before you fell down the stairs.”

“Not my fault your stairs are dangerously slippery!” Jaskier defended himself, though there was no mistaking the edge in his tone. Geralt had been in the witchering business long enough to recognise fear when he saw it.

“Jaskier…”

“Alright, alright.” Jaskier readjusted himself so his back was pressed against the wall, grimacing when the action tugged at his injured leg. Geralt nearly winced in sympathy, though he knew that showing his own discomfort would only encourage Jaskier’s panic. After taking a composing breath, Jaskier closed his eyes and declared that he was ready with all the confidence of a rock troll ice skating over thin ice.

“I’ll count down from ten,” Geralt said reassuringly, watching Jaskier tense at those words. “You need to relax, Jask, or it will hurt more.”

“Said the man whose knee is currently still in the correct socket…”

“I’ve suffered enough dislocations in my lifetime to know what I’m talking about,” Geralt retorted, if a little defensively. “Deep breaths while I count down. Ten, nine,...”

Predictably, the knowledge that he still had another eight seconds before the pain came was enough to encourage Jaskier to relax ever so slightly, which was exactly what Geralt was counting on. He knew he had to work fast if he wanted to keep Jaskier’s pain levels at a minimum (and if he could simultaneously spare his and his brother’s ears in the process, well, that would be the cherry on the cake).

“Eight,... one.”

With practised movements, Geralt extended Jaskier’s leg with his right hand, and with his left pushed the dislocated kneecap back into line with the rest of Jaskier’s limb. A sharp cry and several passionate ow, ow, you lying, conniving bastard later, Geralt managed to gently lower Jaskier’s leg to the mattress and rise from the bed to look for anything that could serve as a brace for the next few days.

“You said you were counting to ten !” Jaskier accused, still panting and wiping the rogue tears rolling down his cheeks.

“No, I said I would count down from ten. There’s a difference.”

“There’s a difference,” Jaskier mocked Geralt in a forced baritone before flipping him the bird, “here’s what I think of your apology!”

“I wasn’t apologising,” Geralt remarked casually all the while rummaging through his chest for spare knee pads that he might use to immobilise Jaskier’s leg, “I needed you to relax your leg and that wouldn’t have been the case if you knew when to expect the pain. You tensing at the wrong moment could’ve made things worse.”

“Is that so, or are you lying to me again? You know, like when you gave me ten seconds to prepare myself and then snapped by knee back into place after three seconds!” said Jaskier petulantly, earning himself a pointed eye roll.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re being a little bitch!”

“Would an apology make it all better, dear?” Geralt snarked in response, his patience slowly waning. When he looked up and met Jaskier’s hurt expression, however, something old and tired twisted in his chest. Guilt washed through him despite his better judgement at the sight of Jaskier’s pout, his wet cheeks and the arms crossed over a strong chest. With a heavy sigh, Geralt rose to his feet and walked to Jaskier’s side of the bed. Wordlessly, Geralt leaned down and pressed an apologetic kiss to Jaskier’s temple, taking a minute to nuzzle at the fine brown hair and inhale Jaskier’s familiar scent.

“Forgive me, little lark,” Geralt whispered genuinely in Jaskier’s ear, voice soft and contrite. “I didn’t mean to cause you any more pain.”

Jaskier physically deflated at the tender words, groaning under his breath as he leaned into Geralt’s touch.

“You do make it difficult for me to stay mad at you, dearest witcher.”

Jaskier tilted his head so that his nose brushed against Geralt’s, silently beckoning for another kiss which Geralt was weak to refuse. Their lips met in a slow, loving kiss that went straight to Geralt’s toes, and when Jaskier pulled away Geralt almost felt compelled to chase these delectably soft lips. He managed to reign the urge in, just about.

“You’re forgiven, of course. Thank you for returning my knee to its rightful location, my love.”

“Hm.”

“Ah, yes. I love you, too. Boorishness and all.”

“Ain’t I lucky?”

Despite the teasing tone, Geralt’s words were spoken with the kind of hidden sincerity that many people wouldn’t have known to look for if they didn’t know Geralt well enough. Not Jaskier, though. Geralt was an open fucking book to Jaskier.

"Where the fuck did you get your hand on all the coin to pay for all this?" Geralt asks one evening, blunt and straight to the point. There was probably a kinder and gentler way to ask this, but after spending weeks mulling over Jaskier's sudden new-found fortune, Geralt has lost the little patience he possessed in the matter. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks perfectly unperturbed.

"From the bank," he offers simply as he sprinkles expensive herbs over the hare Geralt caught earlier that evening, "you know, where people deposit their valuables? I know you witchers don't believe in bank accounts, savings and interests, but-"

"Where does the coin come from?" Geralt interrupts, hissing those words through clenched teeth.

"Why, my inheritance."

Geralt stares for a long while. It takes his brain several seconds to catch up to what Jaskier is telling him, and another few seconds to make sense of the words. Inheritance?

"What inheritance?"

"Well, when my father passed away he left me and my siblings a share of his wealth. That's how inheritance works. Say, pass me my satchel my dear, I think I have some more spices in there."

Geralt wordlessly hands Jaskier his satchel, still trying to process this new discovery. Come to think of it, Geralt knows precious little about Jaskier's family. Sure, that's probably on him for never asking, but Geralt has grown so used to Jaskier oversharing every aspect of his life that he never needed to ask his bard anything. Jaskier just… never talked about his family. Or his childhood, or his upbringing. His life story seems to always begin when he was a student at Oxenfurt.

Geralt is growing curiouser by the minute.

"When did your father pass?"

"Oh? Uh… good question. Maybe a few years after I went to Oxenfurt? I'm not sure. I received a letter from the bank notifying me that a share of my father's wealth was deposited in my account."

Geralt frowns. "You never went back to find out what happened?"

"No."

Well, that's an oddly abrupt response, and Jaskier doesn't seem like he's got anything to say on the matter. Which only makes Geralt feel more curious about the whole thing.

"Why not?"

"Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a sigh before putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, too tense to be genuine. "My father and I didn't get along. I felt no need to go mourn him with the rest of my noble family in Lettenhove when he passed. That's it. That's all there's to it. I was not a good enough man to refuse my share of the inheritance, either, despite my non-existent relationship with him."

That's a lot to unpack. Geralt always assumed that Jaskier had a good childhood. Then again, he would think that, wouldn't he, considering Geralt spent his own childhood being tortured by magnanimous and sadistic mages. Where most children got to spend time outside helping out in the fields or playing with their friends, Geralt was put through drill after drill, after drill… until he was physically unable to walk so much his muscles hurt.

"Wait… did you say your noble family?"

"Hm?"

"In Lettenhove… there's nothing in Lettenhove. Only the Viscount and his family live there on a large esta-" Geralt's mouth clicks shut as realisation dawns on him. "Your father was the Viscount of Lettenhove?"

"Yes. And since I'm the oldest, after he died that title passed onto me. But I much prefer being a bard, so I graciously devolved my duties to my younger brother, who now manages the estate. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I didn't mean to make you mad…"

Geralt watches Jaskier stop dead in his tracks, his shoulders briefly tensing at those words, before exhaling loudly through his nose. Jaskier anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he straightens up and offers Geralt a sheepish smile, that one warmer and softer than the previous one.

"Sorry, dear heart. I didn't mean to be so short with you. It's just… well, there's a reason I don't bring up my family all that much."

"Hm." Geralt gently taps the spot next to him on his bedroll, and Jaskier doesn't have to be told twice. Soon, Geralt has one arm wound tightly around Jaskier's shoulders. Not quite a hug, but the intention is there all the same, and Jaskier eagerly melts in the embrace. "I shouldn't have insisted. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong." Jaskier nuzzles the crook of Geralt's neck sweetly before depositing a featherlight kiss just over his pulse point. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

Geralt ponders over that question far too long before whispering an answer in the air pocket between them.

"Did he hurt you?"

Jaskier hesitates.

"Not physically, no. He didn't approve of my aspirations and choices. He didn't support me. I suppose it hurt a little when he didn't see me away to Oxenfurt at the age of 15, but he never raised a hand on me."

"Hm." Good, Geralt thinks. No child should ever have to suffer at the hand of an adult. Geralt earned plenty a beating at Kaer Morhen, some justified and others not so much. Just because he went through this doesn't mean he condones it.

"At least I get to spend his money on someone I love," Jaskier offers softly, eyes as blue as the deepest ocean glancing up at Geralt through dark lashes, “That, at least, the old man can’t take away from me.”

A happy little rumble bubbles up Geralt's chest, despite the blush gracing his cheeks.

"I never thanked you for the gifts." Geralt blushes a deeper shade of red at the realisation. "Sorry. It's been a long year."

"Well, good thing we're heading North soon then, hm?" Jaskier straightens up so he can cradle Geralt's face in his lute-calloused hands. Their eyes meet then, amber seeking out blue, and Geralt thinks that he must be the luckiest son of a bitch in all the Continent.

"Yes," he agrees in a whisper, tilting his face to place a kiss on the inside of Jaskier's wrist, "good thing, indeed."