#rawrkinwrites

Geralt watched Jaskier’s expression melt from pensive to affectionate as he worked his way down the neatly written paragraphs. The drinks arrived, but Jaskier didn’t look up. He placed the letter down and smoothed out the creases so that he could continue reading, hand darting out absently to skirt the lip of the tankard. Geralt leaned forward as discreetly as he could but was soon caught. Jaskier kicked him in the side of the boot. “Don’t you know it’s rude to read over a man’s shoulder?”

“You don’t say anything when it’s your poems I read.”

“Yes, well… poems are my business, my creations. I spin them myself, select every word to communicate my desired message. Family is a matter of… something else entirely. They are chaos, and embarrassing, and so very awful. I mean, look at this gods-be-damned thing, simply odious. You wouldn’t stare at a man’s bare arse in the communal baths, would you? Now, Geralt. Manners.” Jaskier said all this with an affectionate smile, his be-ringed fingers caressing the soft material of his scarf. Geralt had never heard someone use the word odious so lovingly.

“How did they know where to find you?”

“Oh, in my last letter home I told them we were heading this way, following the migratory patterns of—what did you call them?”

“Graveir,” Geralt said over the lip of his ale.

“Ahh, yes, Graveir. Will we be heading out to find those soon, or—?”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, yes, quite.” Jaskier put his elbow on the table, chin in his palm, and stared out the window wistfully.

Geralt didn’t follow his gaze. Instead, he stared at the letter, with its elegant handwriting densely packed onto a handful of pages, and… wondered. Jaskier said it was embarrassing but his expression said otherwise. The moment he had realised the gift was from his family, his shoulders had relaxed, his face had opened up, and now he was smiling softly. Geralt knew bits and pieces of Jaskier’s family. His parents were eccentric; his father was a Kovirian inventor, and his mother a harpist at the Cidrian court. As for the extended gaggle of brothers, sisters, third cousins, nephews and miscellaneous blood relatives, Geralt only knew they were numerous, and all encouraged to spread their wings and see where the current of destiny carried them.

“Do you—miss them?” Geralt asked.

“Of course I do,” Jaskier replied, blue eyes abandoning the murky street view to settle on Geralt. “They may be staggeringly uncouth, embarrassing beyond belief, and when I visit? Oh, Geralt, the bickering. My older sister, she’s just—urgh, do you know what? I think Yennefer would adore her, and my middle brother, a prankster through and through. I lost my finest doublet to him not two winters past. But,” Jaskier touched the scarf again, “I love them dearly. When they send letters, it’s like I carry a small piece of them with me. I am reminded that I still matter, that I’m still in their hearts, even if I haven’t seen them in nigh two years.”

I’m still in their hearts.

Geralt carried the thought with him to bed that night. Predictably, his mind drifted back to Kaer Morhen, back home. He saw his family once a year if he was lucky. It had never occurred to him that they might miss him as much as he missed them. Loneliness was part of a witcher’s lot but that didn’t make it any less… debilitating when it sank its claws in. Most of the time it was a dull ache deep in his chest, easily subdued by the pressure of survival. But occasionally, when Jaskier was in Oxenfurt, when the skies were bleak and the rain heavy, the ache became an acute pain. He had no choice but to weather it of course, but the thought of his family—Lambert, Ciri, Eskel, Yen, hell, even Vesemir—suffering the very same twinge left him feeling melancholy.

Could something as simple as a letter help them smile like Jaskier had? Would they even read it? It was stupid, really. No one had time to read letters on the Path. Especially letters that were superfluous and whimsical. Especially letters from him.

Hmm.

Perhaps. Maybe. You know, he could…

…just do it and see. They would probably get lost before they reached their destination anyway.

The next time Jaskier left for Oxenfurt, Geralt sat down at a small, rickety table at the back of an inn, and put quill to paper. He sat there for three hours, replacing his drink only when the innkeeper began to tut in disapproval; a sober patron was a Crown lost, after all. By the time he was finished, Geralt had written five letters. Now all he had to do was put them in the path of their intended recipients.

--

Sheltered from the driving rain by the long limbs of a willow tree, Eskel pulled the crumpled note from inside his gambeson and began to read.

‘Dear Eskel,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know you hunt along the Pontar this time of year. I came across this interesting game in Ebbing and thought you might enjoy it. You must arrange the numbers one to nine in each of the boxes, ensuring each number is not duplicated in each line. I know that you like puzzles and…’

Eskel read the letter five times before he folded it away gently and found some charcoal to complete Geralt’s gift. Even with the wind howling around him and icy rain sneaking past the seams of his old cloak, the scarred witcher felt warm. He had not been forgotten to the darkness of the Path by those he loved.

--

Lambert knocked out the last brawler before he righted a chair and fell into it. The crackle of paper as he sat down reminded him of the letter he’d found pinned to the town noticeboard with a knife. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and tugged the letter from his trouser pocket. He’d recognise Geralt’s untidy scrawl anywhere. Bastard never could get the hang of cursive…

‘Hey fucknugget,

I found proof of that speckled basilisk I was talking to you about last winter. You owe me a bottle of Mahakam ale. I’ve enclosed some skin and a sketch for you. There’s a Gwent tournament at the start of Samhain in Vattweir. I won’t make it, but one of us might as well go clear up the winnings…’

Lambert examined the sliver of skin that fell out the envelope and grinned. Well, well, Cream Puff hadn’t been talking out his arse for once. Lambert would have to stop by the dwarves on his way back north. He didn’t look up from the letter as he kicked his felled opponent in the head, knocking him unconscious. Lambert would have to find an even more interesting relic or beast to top Geralt this year.

--

“Cirilla!” Yennefer called from inside the atrium. She had Ciri cataloguing and documenting each of the medicinal plants in the temple’s overflowing flowerbeds and Ciri was grateful for an end to the tedium. Small shears abandoned, she joined Yennefer on the blanket surrounded by bookmarked and annotated volumes. As she smoothed her hands down her skirts, Yennefer passed her an open letter. “From Geralt, my ugly one.”

Ciri smiled as she pulled the letter into her lap.

‘Dearest Yen and Ciri,

I picked these blooms just outside White Orchard. They’re the most peculiar colour and I remembered that Ciri is currently cataloguing the temple’s herb garden. I remember finding that particular part of my education unbelievably tedious…’

Ciri grinned at Yennefer, who rolled her eyes. The pressed flowers slipped from the envelope: one purple bloom speckled with yellow flecks, and another with brilliant white threaded through its deep, verdant leaves. Ciri ran her fingertips over the velvet petals as she read, and Yennefer watched on fondly. It was comforting to have a small piece of Geralt nearby as she continued to fumble her way through teaching, and bonding with, Ciri. She could lean on his strength, even though he was on the other side of the world.

--

Vesemir loaded the last of the crates into the wagon and stretched his back. Most of the time the cold didn’t reach this deep into his bones, but after a day on the trail, he felt every damned break.

“Oh, Master Vesemir.” One of the young Squirrels trotted over with a letter in his hand. “This arrived a few nights ago. Addressed to you.”

Vesemir paid the lad with an oren and hopped into the driving seat. The old mule knew most of the way and would only need help to navigate the steep slopes later, so he opened the letter to read.

‘Vesemir,

I hope this arrives for your summer trip to the foot of the mountain. If not, I suppose I can collect it on my way home. I’ve been thinking a lot about loneliness. I know the way of things, how a witcher’s duty is to walk the Path. I know that witchers are lone hunters, but I often wish we could walk the Path in pairs, or perhaps more. I remember when I first told you I wished to be a knight, and…’

Vesemir almost lost track of the wagon’s progress up the mountain. When the mule stopped with a judder, he almost fell from his perch. Vesemir would read the letter several more times by candlelight that evening. It was the first time since he had become an instructor that one of his boys had written to him from the Path, and it made his old heart rest a little easier.

--

“Ah, Geralt!”

Jaskier waved at him from the city gate. Geralt pulled his final letter from inside his cloak and stepped forward to present it to Jaskier. They had been apart for a few weeks now, but Geralt had agreed to collect Jaskier on his way north. He could have posted his note of course, but Jaskier had told him that more than one set of eyes passed over the mail that arrived at the university, and Geralt would rather keep family matters private.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, a wide grin splitting his face as he took the letter from Geralt’s outstretched hand. “Well, what a coincidence. It just so happens that I have quite a lot of post for you, my dear witcher.”

“Well, we'll see,” she replied, dismissive, and Jaskier sensed that he would have to agree with her next five claims to curry back a little favour, no matter how bland and inaccurate. Thankfully, he didn't have to entertain conversation for long, for the stage crew dimmed the bracketed torches and the ringmaster stepped into the light.

“Esteemed gentlemen, beautiful ladies,” the man tipped his cap to the nearest such lady with a wiggle of the eyebrows, aiming for charm and achieving an uncomfortable degree of lechery instead. “We, of the Temerian Tumblers, welcome you to our humble show. We ask that you keep your hands inside the stalls at all times for we are about to introduce you to some of the wildest creatures, the most wondrous performers, fearless acrobats and stunning beauties...”

Jaskier felt his interest drifting. He watched Anthea from the corner of his eye and pondered over the first verse of the ballad he would dedicate to her hidden depths. A substantial amount of creative license would be necessary, but needs must to maintain his reputation.

The show started with a pair of twin acrobats swooping through the air from a trapeze, performing flips and turns, defying gravity to the awe of the audience. A contortionist twisted through hoops of decreasing sizes, a fire-eater spat flames over the heads of the crowd, woolly mammoths rolled out on huge balls, with parrots opening cans and primates juggling clubs. Anthea was enraptured, grasping onto the railing at the front of the booth. In his travels, Jaskier had seen many things. Exotic, fantastical, mysterious. The show felt like a pale imitation of his lived adventures across the Continent. Such was the life of a man living a double existence.

The ringmaster started wheeling out the freakish and macabre; a bearded lady with three breasts, a set of dwarven twins attached at the hip, an elf with mottled skin like that of a leopard who scampered around like a beast. Jaskier felt a stab of disgust as the crowd jeered and “ooh-ed" at each poor creature that was presented to them.

“And now, the spectacle you have been waiting for,” the ringmaster bellowed. “A true rarity. A beast of unnatural magic and the evil machinations of scheming sorcerers...”

Jaskier leaned forward. Anthea cast him a smug glance that he ignored.

“I, your humble servant, present to thee, the terrifying, the beastly, White Wolf!”

The crowd collectively held its breath as an orchestral howl swept the arena, echoed by the voices of every porter and performer in the rafters. Dozens of hands banged drums and wooden beams, accompanying a cacophany of growls and snarls, building the expectation of the horrified audience. Heavy chains clanked in the tunnel, metal scraped on the floor as the creature dragged itself into the open. There was the crack of a whip in the air, and a hoarse shout of pain. Jaskier leaned so far forward he almost fell from the booth.

The creature that staggered into the lights of the ring was thin and haggard. His long white hair was tangled, his face covered in a matted beard. His body was emaciated and scarred, muscles wasted where they had once been lean and strong. This poor, pathetic thing couldn't be a witcher of fable. It was but a man. A man beaten and bruised by handlers who circled with whips and sticks. A woman below them shrieked before fainting theatrically, but Jaskier only rolled his eyes. Paid performer, no doubt.

“Fear not, dear guests. We have the beast well contained. We shall get him to demonstrate the power of the mutagens in his system, but no one shall be harmed.”

They shoved the witcher into the centre of the ring and one of the handlers passed the ringmaster a small box. Jaskier couldn't hear what the ringmaster demanded if the hollow creature that struggled to stand under the glaring lights, but the witcher must have been too slow, because seconds later he was on his knees, his hands at his neck. There was a heavy collar there and the witcher's entire body went rigid as the ringmaster gripped the box harder.

When the spasms of pain ended, the witcher lifted his hand and sent flames billowing into the air. What followed was a pitiful display of the Witcher's strength. He shattered a huge rock with telekinetic force and then lifted one of equal size on to his back; “the strength of ten men,” the ringmaster bellowed, and the crowd murmured their approval. The witcher trapped a pack of stray dogs in purple tendrils and deflected the stones hurled from the rafters with a golden shield.

Jaskier couldn't believe his eyes, but his heart ached. He'd read countless historical accounts of Witchers and their feats. They were capable of staggering bravery and protected thousands from the most ferocious beasts. True heroes of old, and yet here was one reduced to a mere shadow.

Whatever the final feat was intended to be, the Witcher could not do it. He staggered and then fell when the collar around his neck sent shocks of agony through his body. The ringmaster seethed and bellowed, but the Witcher collapsed under the weight of the chains on his wrists and ankles. The handlers appeared to drag him away. “The great White Wolf, ladies and gentlemen.” The crowd applauded as the ringmaster bowed, inviting his performers out with a sweep of the arm. Anthea leapt to her feet. Jaskier left the booth without a word.

***

Jaskier managed to get ahead of the crowd at first, but soon he was joined by throngs of gawkers pouring out to observe some of the wild beasts in their cages. Jaskier inspected each one he passed; lions, tigers, monsters and birds. But no Witcher. He circled around the tent and headed towards the staging area behind the tent, where the performers would gather in preparation. It was there he found his target.

The Witcher was sprawled on his side in the mud, new bruises on his naked ribs, his hose torn. The ringmaster stood over him, flanked by his thugs. “It's such a shame,” the man said. “I thought we'd get a few more shows out of him.”

“E’s done, guv. Death of the spirit. Death of the body follows soon after,” one of the handlers murmured. “Could always sell him to that matron like we did the other.”

“No, the novelty of that one was its huge endowment, its physicality, and its health. This one's a husk. We'll get more for its corpse if we trade it with the university.” The ringmaster sighed and swept a hand over his eyes theatrically. “Put it out of its misery.”

Jaskier pushed through the canvas barrier. “Wait! Hold up there, my good man.”

Three grimy faces turned towards him, and the ringmaster paused by the entry to the domed tent. “This area is out of bounds to the public. Full of dangerous beasts, you see.”

“Ahh, yes,” Jaskier plastered on his most winning smile, “he looks truly terrifying, dangerous. But I couldn't help but overhear that you intend to dispose of him.”

“Sometimes creatures expire. Age, injury. It's part of the industry,” the ringmaster said, guarded. “I assure you it will be done in the most humane manner.”

“And you intend to sell his body?”

“What is it you want, sir?” The title had taken on a disparaging tone, but Jaskier was not easily ruffled.

“I wish to purchase him from you. Alive, you understand. Exactly,” Jaskier fluttered his hands over the Witcher's body, “as he is. And, in payment, I offer my signet ring. Real sapphire gems, solid gold.”

The ringmaster turned, arms folded across his chest. Jaskier knee that look. Pursed lips, high eyebrows. The man was going to try and bargain him up. “Low price for our prize dog. Whets my appetite. Two hundred Crowns, and the ring.”

Jaskier laughed; a hollow, arrogant bark that he usually reserved for Valdo Marx. “My dear man. Your prize dog is half dead. He might expire before I can get him back to my residence. You will take the ring, and I won't pen a memorable little ditty about the Terrible Temerian Tumblers, their bearded lady wearing a wig 'pon her face, your dwarven twins tied together with rope.”

The ringmaster scowled. “No one would believe you.”

“I have dismantled reputations far greater than yours. Jaskier the Bard, at your service.”

Recognition passed over the ringmaster's face. His cronies may be illiterate, but he had probably read Jaskier's most recent poem about the weak chinned Count of Vizima and the impotence of the a local merchant who had prized his reputation with the fairer sex. Bard was a rather modest title for what Jaskier had achieved; he had used his sizable fortune to open every door possible, and his name was known in halls and ballrooms from Kovir to Ebbing.

“You take him as he is. We'll throw in his cage, the control device. Not fit for another beast anyway.”

“Most obliged,” Jaskier said, smiling tightly. “I will leave my address with your fine assistants here. I expect him to be delivered alive. No more bruises, no more wounds. My man will meet yours at the gates.”

Jaskier pulled an embossed business card from his doublet and passed it to the ringmaster with his signet ring. A life purchased for such a trifle. It left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, but neither he nor the Witcher could afford any hesitation. They shook hands to seal the deal and Jaskier afforded one more glance at the Witcher and saw him gazing back, golden eyes swimming with hopeless pain.

It was difficult to leave after that, but Jaskier knew he had to walk away with his back straight and his emotions in check. Anthea was long gone. There would be an angry letter sent to his address about abandoning a lady in the wilds of Novigrad, but he would ignore it. His mind was now fully occupied by the Witcher, with his haunted yellow eyes.

***

Zoltan met the couriers at the gates as Jaskier had said. The dwarf peered into the stinking cage with a wrinkled nose, and then guided them up the short gravel path to the stables. They passed Zoltan the device and showed him how to use it; the Witcher thrashed weakly in pain and fell unconscious. “Yes, thank ye, that'll be all,” the dwarf snapped, holding the black box gingerly between finger and thumb.

Jaskier had bought some odd things in the past. A cursed music box that reduced everyone who heard its song to tears, a colourful parrot that had escaped within an hour of arrival (its descendents could be spotted in the rafters of Heirarch Square), ancient statues and woven tapestries. He was a collector of oddities, but this was the first time he had bought a human. It left an ill feeling in Zoltan's chest.

When he opened the cage door, the Witcher didn't move. His eyes were closed, his emaciated body limp, and Zoltan had no trouble gathering him up and carrying him inside. The chains were heavier than the man they were attached to.

Jaskier had cleared a guest room and there was already a warm bath waiting for their new arrival. “I'll need t' get 'n 'ammer 'n chisel for these chains,” Zoltan said, depositing his reeking passenger on the rug before the fire. “Not sure about the collar. If magic's involved, we may need a mage."

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier said, leaving his post by the window. “Go get your tools. Freya's arse, he looks worse in the firelight than he did in the mud. Smells something awful.”

“Aye, he's got lice and ticks too,” Zoltan murmured. “Don't be gettin' too close lest you fancy delousin' with him.”

Jaskier watched Zoltan leave before he crouched down at the Witcher's side. He wanted to touch him, this living legend. He would be lying if he denied the well of fear in his stomach; he hadn't really thought this far ahead. The Witcher had shattered boulders with the power of his magic, had bound and choked wild dogs. Jaskier was a mere twig in comparison. “Who are you?” Jaskier wondered aloud, reaching out to brush the Witcher’s grey hair from his face.

The Witcher's eyes snapped open and Jaskier fell back with a squawk of terror. He wasn't the only one caught by surprise. The Witcher, barely strong enough to lift his head, clawed at the rug and then the floor, dragging himself to the corner of the room. The chains scraped on the floorboards and every movement looked like agony, but Jaskier was too afraid to intercept. He had brought this wounded creature into his residence, and now he was completely out of his depth. The Witcher gathered his thin limbs to his chest and turned his face away, making his body as small as possible.

“Hey, it's alright,” Jaskier said, hesitant. “We're not going to hurt you. You have my word. My--my associate, he'll get those chains off and there's a nice bath, and--and then, perhaps, some food?”

The Witcher didn't look up. His shoulders stayed hunched, his fingers curled to fists. Jaskier reached out only to see the man flinch as if he sensed his proximity. Zoltan appeared moments later, hammer and chisel in his hands, and grimaced. “Ahh, he's awake, woulda been better fer him to be unconscious fer this bit.”

“They’re not embedded...”

“Aye, maybe not, but look at the skin. Must be red raw under there, every blow's gonna shake him.”

“Well, he can't stay in them,” Jaskier said, suddenly feeling more than a little helpless. “Just... Do what you need to do. We'll go from there.”

“A'right, Witcher, easy now.” Zoltan approached slowly, but the Witcher did nothing more than shirk away further. When the dwarf lined his chisel up at the hinge of the ankle cuff, Jaskier held his breath. The first blow made the Witcher shout, frail limbs quaking, but he didn't lash out to defend himself. How broken must he be to not fight back? To accept whatever pain they wished to inflict?

It took three blows to remove each ankle cuff. By the time Zoltan reached for the Witcher's wrist, he was unconscious again and Jaskier moved forward to hold his arms up until the chains had fallen away. “What are we going to do?” Jaskier murmured, big blue eyes lifting to Zoltan, hoping the dwarf could whip out a solution as he always did.

Zoltan sighed, tugging thoughtfully on his beard. “First stage is a bath. Then... No idea.”

Eskel practices in a mirror. Lambert's whole initial attraction to him was that he was strong and kind; he'd never done the alpha posturing thing other than to strut around their bedroom during his rut, or when he's feeling particularly well fluffed. So, he needs to find a little bit of his inner knothead to get the act right.

They choose a bar downtown. Not too shady, but it's so off brand from their usual haunts that there's no chance they'll be recognised by anyone. Lambert puts on a tight pair of jeans, his nice boxers, and the douchiest, low cut top with the billowing armholes that will show A Whole Tit if it falls right. He tops it off with his usual unlaced docs and a leather jacket, and he's golden. Upon arrival, Lambert finds a prominent seat at the bar, orders The Most Expensive Cocktail because he has Eskel's credit card and Eskel said "treat yourself", slapping his arse with a wink before he left, so it's revenge, really. About half an hour passes, and Lambert has to see off an alpha that gets a bit too close (and doesn't take the mating bite poking out from beneath his jacket as a hint). Then a slight niggle of doubt sets in. This is stupid, right? Eskel probably thinks he's lost his last marble, the fucking barman's eyeing him like he's an escort (nought wrong with that, but Lambert knows a judgemental gaze when he sees it), and Lambert's about ready to leave...

...then Eskel arrives. He's gone all out. Lambert hasn't seen him wear that suit since Geralt's wedding. It's a three-piece number with a jacket that fits his v-shape perfectly. No tie though, his collar's open, and Lambert zones in on that exposed skin, his mouth watering. He's going to bite there. Right there, on that collarbone, and... Eskel straightens his cufflinks as he surveys his territory because it's fucking his now.

The alpha that tried his luck with Lambert earlier skitters out from Eskel's path like he's been struck, and Eskel doesn't even look at him. No, he's looking at the bar, honey-gold eyes fixed on Lambert, the corner of his lips tilted up in a wry smile. He plays it perfectly. Eskel's usually an excitable puppy when he sees Lambert after any length of time: big beaming smile, eye crinkles. Shit, if he had a tail, it'd be wagging.

But not now.

Now, he's a hunter stalking his prey, and Lambert presses his thighs together for... reasons. As Eskel moves between the tables, he makes the whole place look shabby. More people move out of his way, mumbling apologies. He wields his presence so effortlessly, and fuck, Lambert hasn't noticed it before. Eskel's always so accommodating; he holds doors open for old ladies, apologises to the damned cat on his lap when he has to get up to go to the toilet. Eskel is King Soft. Always has been. Lambert loves him for it. Lambert also wants to jump him in the club in front of everyone. He's so enraptured that he's still staring by the time Eskel reaches the bar next to him. He doesn't sit, but spreads his palms out and waits. He doesn't even need to draw the barman's attention; the beta runs over like he's on a string.

"Whisky, hold the ice, and," Eskel's eyes slide left, "whatever this pretty thing's drinking."

Lambert didn't realise he was slurping an empty drink until Eskel ordered him another, at which point he slams his glass down and tries to lean nonchalantly on the bar.

Truth is, Lambert's completely out of practice and he isn't sure how this flirting thing goes these days. He can make a fart joke usually and Eskel will laugh, it's... that's just what marriage is. Fart jokes and memes, right?

He's panicking.

Because Eskel hasn't actually worn any cologne. He's freshly showered, all proper, but it's those pheromones rolling off of him that Lambert can smell, even over the saccharine tang of the cocktail the barman places down in front of him. Eskel hasn't moved any closer. He's not looming, not caging Lambert in, but Lambert's so very aware of him and can't now lift his eyes from the sugared lip of his glass.

"Got a name, pretty thing?"

How can Eskel talk like that? Where has that come from? It's the velvet rumble that Lambert's used to, but there's an edge to it that makes his insides go a little weak. Does he make up a name? He hasn't thought that far ahead. Eskel's too good. They agreed - drink, dance, out, bed - now Lambert's not sure his legs will work. "Lambert," he says, quietly at first, then a second time a little louder.

"Lambert," Eskel repeats, and he savours it, rolling it across his tongue like he can taste Lambert already. "Eskel, it's a pleasure." He offers his hand and Lambert should have expected what came next - the palm was up, after all - but he plops his own hand in Eskel's grasp like a puppy offering its paw, and damn near chokes on air when Eskel places a kiss on the back of Lambert's knuckles, those honey-gold irises almost drowned out by how big his pupils are.

Lambert had forgotten that this was about exciting Eskel too for a hot second there and is doubly relieved to see that Eskel is more than a little interested. Eskel does find him sexy.

This amazingly stunning alpha, with his huge shoulders, his confident stride, his suave rumble, finds Lambert attractive. Lambert feels the shiver run up his spine and takes his hand back slowly. The revelation has given him a little confidence, and he leans back on the bar, elbows propped up. "Little downmarket for someone so prim and proper, slumming it with the little folk?"

"Hoping to find a diamond in the rough," Eskel replies after another of those faint, wry smiles. "I didn't expect to unearth something so precious so quickly."

Fucking. Smooth. Rat. Bastard. Lambert's toes curl in his boots and he bites his lower lip.

"That pick up line work usually?"

"Doesn't matter," Eskel takes a sip from his tumbler and turns to rest his hip against the bar, "it's worked this time."

Oh fuck, because if Lambert can smell Eskel, then Eskel can smell him, and he was wet in his smalls from the moment Eskel sent the inferior alpha scuttling into the corner of the room with a glance. What a basic bitch. But it's Eskel, and he's walking omega-nip, isn't he? He always has been. And he belongs to Lambert. Or will. Usually, Lambert would shuffle his rear into Eskel's lap, demand love and affection, but he can't now. This is a Strange Alpha. He can't break the fantasy; Eskel's doing this for him. And it's... fuck, it's more fun than he had thought it would be.

"Arrogance. Not a very attractive feature," Lambert replies as airily as he can muster, but he has to grip his glass pretty fucking hard to steady his hand. "Might have been that guy who got me all hot and bothered." Lambert jerks his chin towards the corner of the bar where the previous reject lurked.

He feels Eskel expand. All Eskel does is shift a little, shoulders straightening, eyes narrowing, but he suddenly feels twice the size and Lambert breathes him in, eyes flickering. "And how did he do that?" Eskel's voice is far too level and for a moment Lambert almost believes he feels threatened.

"Laid on the moves, you know," Lambert replies, taking another sip from his cocktail. "I was going to head home with him, unless you can outclass his offer."

The music's low but loud enough to be heard over the murmur of collected voices. There are a few people dancing between the tables, a couple on the cleared space passing from the dance floor. It's late. Most of the patrons are just touching the boundary of "tipsy enough to not worry about looking like an idiot". Eskel doesn't like being the centre of attention; the scars, his size, a general dislike of people he doesn't know. But this version shrugs his jacket off nonchalantly and unbuttons his cufflinks. Lambert watches those thick forearms appear and wants to bite those too. He's so fixated on that familiar scar wrapped over Eskel's wrist that he blinks when Eskel takes his hand.

"Allow me to prove that I'm in a class of my own."

Lambert follows Eskel to the dance floor, watching in awe as the path miraculously clears before them. There's no weaving between tables, knocking drinks and stray elbows, for Eskel. The world bends to his whim. Lambert wants to bend to his whim. Eskel pulls him close, guides Lambert's hands to his chest and settles his own at Lambert's waist. This close, Eskel's scent is overwhelming, that exposed collarbone within range of Lambert's mouth. But those eyes are close too. Intense and bright; wanting and hungry. Liquid fire, Lambert thinks, as they sway together.

Lambert wants to ask whether Eskel's okay. People are watching them. The weight of each heavy gaze is a mixture of jealousy, curiosity and boredom. But Eskel's the most intimidating presence in the whole bar, and the space around them clears. Lambert knows if he asks then the spell will be broken. He scents the air anyway, tries to read his husband's face and eyes, and finds no discomfort. He relaxes into the hands cradling him, holds that intense gaze as one song melts into the next. There's no fear there, Eskel's ignoring everyone else, they're of no consequence. No threat. No interest. The focus of his entire world is Lambert, and Lambert feels dizzy with the thought.

Eskel lifts one of Lambert's hands and kisses the palm, the fingers, the wrist. He nuzzles over the soft skin there and holds Lambert's hand to his face before turning him. A slow spin leaves Lambert's back to Eskel's chest, warm lips finding the space beneath Lambert's ear. Such a light kiss steals his breath away, and he pushes back, encouraging. This is probably too fast for a realistic fantasy encounter, but it's Lambert's fantasy, damn it, and he suddenly wants his Hot As Molten Lava husband on him, in him, over him.

The slow tenderness is making him ache. The way that Eskel slides a hand down Lambert's torso, following the contours of his lean build, mere fingertips hooking just beneath his waistband. It's possessive, his fingers leaving an invisible brand of ownership everywhere they touch, and an offer. Lambert's sure that if Eskel demanded to mount him here, he'd drop and present in seconds; he feels lighter than air, grounded only by the searing heat of Eskel's body, and the soft rumble of an aroused alpha nosing over his neck.

Lambert tilts his head back against Eskel's shoulder, feels another warm palm marvel down the length of his body, and he realises that Eskel's displaying him to the other hungry eyes watching them. He's showing them a glimpse of what they can't have because Lambert's his now. Even in the fantasy of their encounter, Lambert's making all the right noises, moving in all the right ways. Eskel is showing off the beautiful omega he has enticed to him, and Lambert lets out a soft moan. He's that beautiful omega. The one that made Eskel's eyes go like that, made him want to stake a public claim for all to see. This amazing alpha, with his hot-as-fuck body and warm honey eyes wants Lambert. But it's not just that either, is it? Lambert knows how gentle and tender the heart underneath it all is. He lets out another wistful moan and rocks his hips back against Eskel's, feeling the hard length of his alpha's cock through his slacks.

"Don't be makin' noises like that, baby," Eskel says, his voice so low and husky that Lambert can feel it to his very core, "or I'll have to do somethin' about it."

"Yeah?" Lambert tilts his face to Eskel's neck, all but arched against him. "Then do something."

The challenge sparks something in Eskel and Lambert hears him growl. It's so low. Like a summer storm on the horizon; threatening, inevitable. Lambert wants it to wash over him and lets out another soft moan when he feels Eskel's teeth on his neck.

Mine.

Did Eskel say it? Breathe it? Perhaps he kissed the thought into his skin like a brand, and now Lambert knows it with every fibre of his being.

They leave the bar. Eskel snatches his jacket and throws some cash down next to his half-finished drink. His presence must have expanded even further because a cabbie appears from nowhere. Lambert sits astride Eskel's lap and devours him in the ten-minute (read: eternal, never-fucking-ending) drive to the hotel room that Eskel booked. His lips never leave Eskel's neck, and he leaves a bruising kiss on that exposed collarbone.

Lambert wraps himself around Eskel's chest and they stumble through the hotel lobby, past a mystified receptionist and harried concierge. As they get to their room, Eskel nearly kicks the door off its hinges in his haste to get Lambert into the room, onto the bed. The jeans don't last; the button pings off, the denim rips, but Lambert doesn't care. He's too busy scrambling at Eskel's belt, which might as well be a multi-layered Aztec puzzle box for all the luck he has getting it off.

Eskel's hands are everywhere; his lips, his teeth. Lambert winds his fingers in his hair and arches into him, babbling, pleading. And when Eskel finally gives him what he wants, their bodies moving desperately, furiously, Lambert crushes their mouths together until his lungs burn for air and the rest of his body glows with pleasure.

Their skin glistens with sweat, they tumble over the bed, kicking sheets and pillows onto the floor, desperate to taste and touch and have. Eskel pulls his head back, his hips pressed flush to Lambert's body, their foreheads leaned together and breathes, "Mine."

Lambert grins, throws his head back in ecstasy and rolls his body against Eskel. It's perfect, this is perfect. He feels wanted, and attractive - no, not attractive, fucking hot, like he's the finest piece of ass to walk the Continent, and he's won this beautiful, staggeringly good-looking alpha over all the others. Not a consolation prize. Eskel could have had anyone in that fucking club - alpha, beta, omega - they were all watching him. But he chose Lambert... would choose Lambert every time.

The perfect grind of Eskel's cock pushes him into an orgasm that makes his toes curl, his nails biting into Eskel's shoulders, and punches a desperate cry from his chest. When Eskel tries to drawback for another thrust, Lambert's legs tighten and he grips a fistful of hair to drag Eskel's ear to his mouth. "Mine."

Eskel moans, fisting the sheets, and comes. Lambert feels the pressure of his knot as his own body bears down on it. It's another thrill of pleasure and Lambert rocks onto Eskel's prick until they're both shaking and breathless. It's not the last time they make love. Lambert lets Eskel up for a drink of water but pins him down again barely half an hour later. The next few times are slower; they kiss the bruises and the scratches they left behind, and eventually fall asleep wound together, sated and exhausted.

In the morning, Lambert wakes to one honey-gold eye watching him from the pillow next to him. The corner crinkles when Eskel realises Lambert's awake, lopsided smile curling over his face. Lambert's husband is back; the soft-hearted goof with the fluffy hair and soft eyes. "Hey," Eskel rumbles.

"Hey yourself." Lambert stretches like a cat, feels all the aches in all the right places, and flops over onto his side to face Eskel. His alpha's studying him closely, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"How did I do?" Eskel asks.

"Well," Lambert begins, propping himself up on his elbow so that he can stroke the scruffy mop of Eskel's hair. "I don't know where you've been keeping that other dude, but he can visit again some time."

Eskel looks proud of himself and Lambert let him have the victory without teasing. Then that well-earned smugness melted into doubt; a frown tugs at Eskel's lips, and a ponderous hum leaves his chest. "Do you, uh... do you prefer the... um, the other guy?"

Lambert grins and tilts their foreheads together. "Nah. He's nice for a night. Couldn't imagine waking up to him every morning though. Be fucking exhausting."

Eskel sighs, relieved. "Oh thank fuck. I'm exhausted. I think those shoes gave me blisters, and do you know how much I had to suck my gut in to get that waistcoat to fit? Kreve's tits, I thought I was going to need shaping pants."

Somehow, he starts talking about it with Eskel one night. It’s winter. They’re drunk. It doesn’t take much these days—they must be getting old. Eskel listens, his head tilted to the side, and at the end he just hums. “I know it’s been a long time, Wolf,” he says, “but how about me?”

Geralt is pretty sure he misheard, but Eskel repeats it. He has experience. Many years of experience. He has two puppies, a sub and a pony on the leash at the moment. Geralt is surprised and speechless. They decide to discuss it more in the morning and end up asleep on the bearskin in front of the fire. Vesemir dumps a few blankets on top of them and leaves them to their hangovers.

Eskel sits Geralt down that afternoon with a piece of paper. At the top, he has written two words ‘Wants’ and ‘Needs’. They’ve known each other for so long that Geralt’s surprised they can’t just… talk about it.

“You have issues with consent and your own desires,” Eskel explains. “I need you to begin workin’ through that if we’re doin’ this.”

Geralt agrees to give it a go. He can think of some things, surely. Eskel leaves him to it for the day. If he thinks of something, all he has to do is note it down in one of the columns. By the time the sun sinks below the mountains, he has… one thing. I want to come.

Eskel looks at the list with narrowed eyes. This is clearly worse than he thought. Geralt’s shoulders sag in disappointment, but Eskel sits down next to him and picks up the quill. “Do you need to feel safe?”

Geralt blinks. Eskel waits. The silence stretches. After a while, Geralt nods.

“Words, please.”

“Yeah, I—yeah.”

Eskel writes it down in the ‘need’ column. “We’ll dig down into what that means in a bit,” he says, “do you need correction and-or discipline?”

Geralt thinks about it. He doesn’t need it. But the few times Yennefer disciplined him for infractions were nice—he was punished justly and they moved on. It brought him catharsis and he didn’t have to worry about it. “I want it,” he replies. Eskel diligently adds it to the column.

They go through a long list. Each time, Eskel waits patiently for Geralt to reach a decision and then adds it to the appropriate column. Once it’s complete, he goes back to the top and focuses on what each one means for Geralt. What does it mean to feel safe? It’s not a question that Geralt has ever been asked, but as he thinks about it, he realises that he needs to trust Eskel not to mock him, to keep this private, that the mere act of discussing is making him feel more secure in… whatever this will become.

Once they’ve done that, Eskel goes back to the top and explains his own. He needs Geralt to tell him if something hurts when they haven’t discussed it; he needs Geralt to talk to him after and allow himself to be cared for; he needs to be able to touch Geralt, skin-to-skin. He wants to hear Geralt enjoy it, but understands that everyone’s pleasure sounds different; he wants an opportunity to correct Geralt and to give him an opportunity to be of service.

Geralt realises that he never really knew what Yennefer or Jaskier’s wants and needs were; he had always assumed or learned as he went.

Eskel gives Geralt another piece of paper the following morning. It has four new words on it. ‘Hard limits’ and ‘soft limits’. Eskel has to explain what they mean and only gives Geralt a few hours to contemplate this time; he knows there won’t be anything in either column without his assistance. They sit in the weak winter sun and Eskel goes down a list of kinks. Everything from impact play to oviposition; breath play to orgasm denial.

Geralt puts impact play into soft limits; he doesn’t want blood in his bedroom. He puts watersports into hard limits along with humiliation and name-calling. He’s not sure about cbt, so they put in soft limits as something they could experiment with carefully. As he did the day before, Eskel adds his own.

Eskel gives Geralt a few days to look down the lists and make sure nothing’s missing. They agree on safe words—Eskel uses “thunderbolt”, because it’s his least favourite potion, and Geralt decides on “Roach”… because he associates her with safety, and he always calls for her when he’s hurting or in danger. Eskel smiles at that and is kind enough not to make any equine jokes.

Geralt isn’t surprised to see that they match up in a lot of things, but Eskel is a damn sight fucking kinkier than Geralt ever gave him credit for. He has to ask what klismaphilia is and goes rather red at the explanation. Eskel won’t use knives and he doesn’t like choking. Both linked with extreme violence. Geralt understands, but can’t help but be a little disappointed at the latter.

A few more days pass, and they negotiate a scene. It combines some light bondage and spanking. Eskel shows Geralt a paddle he has stashed away in one of his bags; it’s sturdy, wrapped in black leather. Geralt goes hard at the thought of it and agrees without reserve. “Do you want sex?” asks Eskel as they sit at the dinner table. Geralt nearly snorts wine out his nose.

“Isn’t that a given?”

“No.”

Geralt isn’t sure what to say, except, “what do you get out of it if we don’t?”

Eskel pulls out their wants and needs list, pointing to each item in the ‘needs’ column. He’s patient. Jaskier would’ve grown bored by now and Yennefer would roll her eyes in exasperation at how slow he was. Geralt isn’t sure what to say—if he says yes, then will Eskel force himself to do what he doesn’t want to? And if he says no, will Eskel get bored? He swallows. “What do you want?”

Eskel sighs. He clearly didn’t want to lead the conversation, but makes the judgement call to do so now. “I would like to,” he says, searching Geralt’s face. “Penetrative. A well marked arse turns me on.”

Geralt goes redder than Eskel’s gambeson. Yeah, that sounds pretty fucking good, actually. They agree to sex and Geralt spends the late afternoon in the springs getting clean.

The scene goes well. Geralt enjoys the impact of the paddle against his arse, and even more so when Eskel bends him low and the impact catches the back of his balls. He makes sound—willingly, without forcing himself. He pulls against the leather straps around his wrists and shoves his face into the bed. Eskel marks him up perfectly. The only sounds he makes are quiet puffs of effort, and once or twice he checks in—asks for a colour. It’s an odd system, but Geralt understands it. Red, amber, green. It’s green right up until Eskel touches his burning skin and calls an end to it.

Geralt is shaking. He’s drawn out and highly strung, his cock is a hot rod of iron beneath his belly. “Sir, please,” he blurts out before he can stop it. Eskel pauses and for a moment Geralt fears he’s done something wrong.

“Just my name for now, Geralt,” Eskel growls. “No more ‘sir’. Confirm you understand by saying yes or no.”

Geralt presses his lips together. “Yes.” A soothing hand strokes over his lower back and the tension eases instantly. Not ruined. Forgiven.

Geralt has never enjoyed the push of a cock so much in his life. He knows receiving isn’t the inherently submissive part and has had many partners in the past who have bossed him around just fine with his cock in their arse, but the act of being filled by Eskel after the impact of the paddle is transcendent. He spreads his legs, enjoys the dual burn of taking just-a-little-too-much-prick and the press of Eskel’s fingers into his bruised skin.

Eskel fucks him hard, but he doesn’t rely on his size to do the work for him. Geralt can feel the talent in the ripple of Eskel’s body; the way he targets Geralt’s prostate and then eases off to prolong the peak. By the time Geralt comes, he’s wrecked. He forgets himself and tries to leave once the restraints are removed—Yennefer prefers the bed to herself after a scene, and Jaskier doesn’t like fluids on the sheets.

“Geralt,” Eskel says firmly and Geralt freezes in place. “Here. Now.”

Geralt slinks back. He feels like he’s on a cloud; his limbs are heavy, his eyes unfocused. Eskel’s big arms wrap around him and pull him onto the bed. “Stay,” his deep voice commands. The next thing Geralt feels is the brush of a warm cloth around his intimate areas and the touch of cool salve on his ass. Eskel inspects his wrists, his palms, and then curls around him like a giant bear settling for hibernation.

A few hours pass and Geralt stares into the middle distance. His mind is calm, his body so heavy, and he allows the world to wash over him. He knows this feeling. It’s the beginning of subspace. He ruined it by getting up, but it was there, well within reach.

“You tested one of my boundaries.” Eskel starts the conversation when Geralt’s eyes are focused and he’s had a sip of water.

“What?”

“I look after you when we’re finished,” Eskel says, “that’s one of my needs. A non-negotiable one.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt tries to curl away, but Eskel won’t allow him.

“You need trainin’. I’ve got the patience and the inclination. Want to continue? And if so, anything you didn’t like?”

Geralt can’t quite believe it. He did something wrong. Broke a rule. But Eskel’s still here, still willing to invest the time and the effort. Geralt nearly bites his proverbial hand off.

It takes time. Eskel teaches Geralt about boundaries. When Geralt grabs Eskel’s hand and presses it to his throat during one scene, Eskel calls it off instantly. Geralt panics while Eskel takes a moment to centre himself again, before sitting on the edge of the bed to talk about it. Eskel doesn’t leave him, not even for breaking a rule. They negotiate an appropriate punishment—Geralt realises he really does like c-b-t, even if the tears stream down his face by the end.

They try sensory deprivation. Complete removal of all senses. It goes wrong. Geralt feels muffled. Detached from the world. Like he could scream until his lungs burned but no one would hear him suffering. He hates it. Hates feeling like nothing. Completely untethered from existence; meaningless and transparent.

He tries to push through because the occasional brush of Eskel’s fingers remind him he’s still alive. This is what Eskel wants. Geralt needs to be good. His comfort doesn’t matter in the long run. Eskel will continue, he’ll ask for a little longer. There’s no point. Geralt’s here to serve, he’s here to be of use—but soon that’s not enough.

He cries out for Eskel, and then for Roach. He’s in Eskel’s arms within moments, his eyes uncovered, his ears and nose unplugged. He buries his nose against Eskel’s neck and breathes him in until his chest aches. Safe. Eskel respected his boundaries. He didn’t make Geralt endure. He didn’t continue through Geralt’s discomfort. The tears fall freely and Geralt tries to turn his face away. Eskel doesn’t let him. He kisses them away, strokes his hair, holds his hand. They stay together until Geralt’s grounded again.

They talk. Eskel coaxes Geralt to explain what went wrong and when. He doesn’t scold Geralt for pushing himself, because he needs honesty in the future. There’s no false praise—no ‘darlings’ or ‘sweethearts’—just the comforting weight of Eskel’s hand and the deep throb of his heartbeat. That’s all that Geralt wants. It’s all he needs.

Geralt finally gets it. It washes over him in a wave of dizziness. He’s safe with Eskel; he doesn’t need to perform. He doesn’t need to be anything but himself. This man knows him better than any other; he could have conducted a scene without their lengthy preamble but his knowledge of Geralt was the very reason that he didn’t. Geralt needs to feel listened to; he needs a feeling of agency over his own pleasure and to be able to trust his partner to fulfill those needs. He needs to be able give consent and take it back; he needs to understand the boundaries and be sure that they will hold. He needs to feel safe.

In their next scene, Geralt finds subspace. “I knew you could do it,” Eskel whispers gently, “I’m proud of you.”

Rather than rush in headfirst, Jaskier resolved to watch and plot from afar once more. He had to approach this differently. If Eskel believed all his actions to be self-serving and manipulative, then he had to find a way to show genuine interest. While Jaskier had hoped he could grow close to Eskel, Geralt's first and most enduring love, and find a level of intimacy that they could nurture into something more in the coming years, he'd settle for something akin to friendship. Warm acquaintance. Anything but this uncomfortable civility.

He needed to get Eskel on his own too. Because every time Geralt was near, Jaskier could see Eskel glancing across, looking for cues in body language and facial ticks. Geralt probably didn't even realise Eskel was following his lead, oblivious to the way his best friend and lover was scrambling desperately to please him. But that was Geralt, wasn't it? Woefully unaware of his own importance to those around him. Jaskier needed Eskel alone. But not somewhere he felt cornered. Certainly not his quarters, or in the kitchens. Outside, maybe. But not the training grounds or while they were heading out for meat. Those were the spaces Eskel shared with Geralt, Lambert and Vesemir, spaces in which Jaskier wasn't yet welcome.

Jaskier spent those few days while he waited for an opportunity to talk with Eskel just listening. He could listen. He was a good listener. He listened to Eskel hum an old folk song while he scrubbed laundry, swap tawdry jokes with Lambert edged in a quiet, unassuming wit that made Lambert's characteristic scowl melt into a lopsided grin. When Eskel was with Geralt, he communicated in soft touches - the elbow, the small of his back, a nudge of the foreheads together, a deep and longing kiss - and subtle in-jokes. Jaskier needed to learn this language. He needed to learn Eskel's language. But for that, he needed to practice.

So, that was how Jaskier ended up standing just inside the barnyard door. Halfway between inside and outside, with an empty bucket in his hands because he rather felt he should be holding something to appear like he intended to be there for a purpose other than to speak with Eskel.

Said witcher was muttering quietly to the busy flock of hens clucking and gurgling around his ankles. He called them 'dames' with a quiet, affectionate lilt to his tone as he lifted their hefty, feathered bodies in search of eggs. The single cockerel in residence was dubbed 'pecky fuck' when Eskel thought no one was listening, a name that the creature was currently justifying with gusto as it pecked at Eskel's ankles in search of feed.

"Quite the attitude, that one," Jaskier said, tilting the bucket.

Eskel looked up, nudging the cockerel away with the toe of his boot. "Yeah. Thought of maybe renamin' him Lambert." He hesitated with a palmful of dried corn, and Jaskier watched his throat bob as he swallowed. "Was there somethin' you needed, or...?"

"Oh!" Jaskier's back straightened and he looked at the bucket in his grasp as if seeing it for the first time. "Yes! Geralt needed, uh, some..." he looked around the stable quickly, hoping to spot something useful, and... "oats."

"Oats?"

"Yes, you know, umm," Jaskier turned the bucket over and over, "for... cake."

They both knew the pantry had oats for baking. The oats in the stable were fit for Roach and Scorpion alone, and Eskel glanced at the heavy bags hanging the stable wall with a pensive look on his face. Jaskier stared at him with his lips turned in, half begging for a little bit of mercy with widened eyes; he'd made himself look even more a fool. His olive branch may be mangled, metaphorical leaves falling off and bark cracked, but it was still a plea for peace.

Eskel dabbed at his scars and Jaskier's heart sank. He knew what that meant. It was a universal Eskel sign for 'I'm uncomfortable'. Jaskier turned to leave, but Eskel reached out before he could cross the threshold. "Wait, lemme... come an' help me finish here, and we'll go get the right oats."

Jaskier felt his heart leap into his throat. He was being trusted with a chore. One of Eskel's chores, which were always completed in a certain way; tidy and efficient. Jaskier put the bucket down and practically fell over his own feet to get to Eskel's outstretched hands, both of his own cupped to accept the fistful of grain. He stood for a quiet moment, eyeing the bustling hens around Eskel's feet.

Eskel cleared his throat. "You need t' spread it."

"Do I just... sprinkle? Like this?" Jaskier tipped the grain into one palm and took a pinch. He sprinkled it near some hens and then blinked as Eskel... chuckled. A real one; the deep, quiet rumble of genuine amusement he spared for those quiet chats with Lambert.

"S'a barn floor, not a Novigrad bathhouse," Eskel quipped, scarred lips quirked up in the beginnings of a warm smile. "Here, close your fist, an'—"

Eskel reached inside the large sack at his hip and dropped a fistful of grain in a roughly even semi-circle around them. The hens clucked happily, pecking at the floor as they bustled into each other.

"Ah, yes, but it is a fine stable floor, exquisite, truly—what?"

"'M not gonna bite you, Jaskier," Eskel said, rubbing thoughtfully at the deep rivets on his cheek. "You're nervous. You don' need to be."

"You can smell emotions?"

"I can smell your sweat." Eskel raised an eyebrow, and Jaskier tried to surreptitiously sniff at his own armpit when Eskel turned away.

"I—I suppose I'm nervous because I don't want to worsen the impression you have of me, I want to—to prove that I'm worthy of Geralt," Jaskier said, fingers flexing against his palms as he yearned to fill his hands with something to hold. An anchor. His hands needed to be doing something. "That I'm worthy of your friendship."

Eskel paused mid-hen lift. The bird between his big hands clucked quietly, head tipping, feathers puffing around his fingers. Jaskier knew he'd struck something—a nerve, perhaps? Another one. Instead of opening his mouth, he kept it closed, waited. Eskel lowered the small hen, with its feathery feet and sweet speckled pattern, and reached for one of the eggs in her nest. "You don' need to prove anythin'—"

"Ah, ah." Jaskier shifted forward a little, hands outspread. "You see, I do. You go quiet when I'm near, you—you behave like I could lash out with a knife at any moment if you're too—," Jaskier stopped before he said it: if you're too 'you'. Eskel was—was Eskel worried about—?

"'M sorry I've made you feel—"

"Eskel, I don't need more apologies," Jaskier sighed, rubbing a palm over his chest as his heart beat against his ribcage. "I would be very grateful for a... a chance to prove myself. To earn your trust. One more chance."

Eskel turned the small egg over in his huge hands. Jaskier could imagine what those hands would feel like on his skin; stroking his cheek, touching his elbow, carding weathered fingers through his hair. And Geralt between them both. Their shared, unerring lover helping smooth the way for the fragile, tentative affection blossoming between them. A pipedream, perhaps.

One thing Jaskier had learned through his observations was that Eskel was a man of action, over words. That was his language. One with which Jaskier was still not familiar. But he translated Eskel's next actions well enough. The witcher plucked the bag of grain from his belt and placed it in one of Jaskier's flexing hands. Jaskier let out the breath he'd been holding and offered a tentative smile. A smile that was returned, if only faintly. Eskel only smiled and laughed with loved ones. Jaskier was... well, he only had a foot in the door. His second chance.

They worked together to feed the rest of the hens. Eskel filled a basket full of small, feathery eggs and Jaskier bustled between the hens, feeding them as evenly as he could. They clucked and gurgled and pecked contentedly.

Surprisingly, it was Eskel that broke the silence. "Were you serious? About the oats?"

"Oh, no, I... panicked."

"Ah, shame, I make a mean oat cake," Eskel hummed.

"Oh! No, I mean, yes, yes—I would love to taste your oats."

"Would you now?" Eskel said, one eyebrow high as he headed out the barn door.

"Well, I..." Jaskier trailed off as he spotted the glint in Eskel's honey-hued eyes before he ducked into the courtyard. That had been a joke. Eskel had joked with him. He hadn't done that yet. In fact, Eskel only joked with Lambert and Geralt. This. This was progress.