#too!!

Geralt glances down at his incredibly normal business attire. Aside from his neatly shaved undercut and matching white goatee, he’s been reliably informed by Lambert that he dresses, quote, like a walking advertisement for cheap aftershave. He looks back up at the bizarrely affronted stranger. Geralt should just ask him if he needs help finding his way anywhere or, more sensibly, leave him to his own crazy devices. But the strange light hasn’t left those blue eyes, and instead Geralt blurts out, “Witcher?”

“Oh, forgive me, are we back on a first name basis?” It’s obvious that he’s somehow misstepped, although he can’t fathom how. The stranger steadies his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest. “My apologies. I rather thought our friendship was over after you let me leave after the battle of Voleth Meir without so much as a parting wave! But I guess you must need something again, right? Out with it. Is Ciri alright?”

Very little of the man’s words make any sense at all, and Geralt struggles to parse their meaning. He latches onto the last question, speaking calmly so he doesn’t cause any further alarm. “I don’t know what I did to offend you,” he promises, stepping closer. It doesn’t look like this stranger is armed, and even if he is, Geralt is much bigger and has taken self-defense classes. He thinks he’d be able to win a fight between them. “But I can try to help you find your way somewhere. Do you live nearby… Ciri, is that your name?”

Instead of relaxing, the stranger steps back, panic flooding his expression. “What are you talking about? You think I’m Ciri— have you been cursed, Geralt?”

Geralt’s blood runs cold. “How do you know my name?”

-

Over the course of his lifetime Geralt has made many, many stupid decisions. Bringing this crazy, babbling cosplayer into his apartment has got to top the list. But he doesn’t see that he has any other options, not when Jaskier— or so he calls himself— is obviously in the middle of a bizarre breakdown. Jaskier doesn’t have a cell phone or any identification in the many pockets of his jacket, and he reacts strangely to even the most mundane modern technology. Geralt has to drag him away from a blinking bus stop sign advertising vitamin supplements, and when the lobby concierge nods to them, Jaskier bows deeply before whispering against the shell of Geralt’s ear, “‘is that your innkeeper or a personal servant?”

In the elevator he clings to Geralt’s arm, which Geralt only begrudgingly allows because he doesn’t want the man to cause a scene on camera. Geralt leans forward and presses the button for his floor and when it lights up Jaskier inhales sharply, just as impressed by that as by all the other mundane sights they’ve seen in their ten minutes of knowing one another. The doors slide shut, and Geralt, fearing a large reaction, pulls Jaskier in closer and mutters, “Hold on tight.”

Sure enough when the elevator starts moving Jaskier squeaks, wrapping his hands around Geralt’s bicep like it’s a lifeline. He doesn’t bury his face in his shoulder, though, wide-eyed as he spins to look around the mirrored walls. “This must be magic,” Jaskier declares in quiet awe. Geralt stares at their mirrored reflection, trying to remember the last time anyone stood this close to him on purpose. Jaskier is of a similar height, and despite their very different garb they look good together. Fighting off a blush, Geralt is both disappointed and relieved when they reach his floor.

He leads the trembling man down the hall to his apartment and then finally releases him to fumble for his house keys in his bag. Even as he finally manages to open the door Jaskier still stands back, and when Geralt turns to follow his gaze he only sees the door number: 1168. Geralt frowns. “What?”

Jaskier frowns right back. “More than a thousand people live in this building?”

“What? No,” Geralt scoffs, then feels bad for judging the man. Whatever’s going on, he clearly has no sense of reality— Geralt shouldn’t think him stupid just for trying to make sense of things. “We’re on the eleventh floor.”

“You said you lived in an apartment,” Jaskier breathes. “This is a palace, then!”

Fighting with embarrassment, Geralt opens the door wide and gestures for Jaskier to enter. “Not exactly,” he murmurs. “I make good money, but the building isn’t mine— I rent a space in this condo. Uh, condominium.”

Jaskier doesn’t take the cue, still staring at the door. “For how long?”

“About seven years now,” Geralt shrugs. “I’m thirty-nine, if that’s what you’re asking…?”

“Really?” This shocks a laugh out of Jaskier, and he gives Geralt a look of consideration that makes his face heat uncomfortably. “You’re younger than me.”

Unsure how to deal with that, Geralt just steps into the apartment. Jaskier finally follows him, and when Geralt takes his shoes off he does the same— except his socks are threadbare, and handmade from some rough fabric. Geralt tries not to stare, hanging his coat on the hook and then reaching for Jaskier’s, helping him out of it. The red vest comes off with it, leaving him in only the stained white shirt hanging off his shoulders. Even though he looks like he hasn’t bathed in months he’s still very handsome. Geralt becomes aware once more of blood flushing through his cheeks, and he turns to face the closet to hide the warmth.

Jaskier passes him, walking into the apartment and examining everything closely. Geralt watches as he looks at the record player and the television with the same slack-jawed wonder, appearing completely unfamiliar with any of it. Then Roach, even though she’s usually shy around strangers, unfurls herself from where she’s been sleeping on the couch and hops down to come and greet him, and Jaskier whirls around to face Geralt. “You have a cat?”

“Yes,” Geralt answers, unsure why he feels embarrassed. Should I not…? “Are you allergic?”

“I love cats, but they hate witchers, so I thought… Never mind, this is clearly all some bizarre dream anyway. Maybe someone dosed me with godsflesh mushrooms before the show. Aren’t you a cutie?” Jaskier kneels to scratch behind Roach’s ears, and she eagerly accepts the adoration. “What’s your name… wait, let me guess. Roach?”

Once more that odd chill overtakes Geralt, and when Jaskier glances over at him for confirmation he forces himself to stand still; otherwise he’s going to march across this room and shake the man silly demanding answers. The most likely option is that he’s some sort of stalker but that wouldn’t explain the odd feeling in Geralt’s chest every time their eyes meet. And if he’s some weird RenFaire LARPer, then he shouldn’t know so much about Geralt’s little life. Geralt sucks in a breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you could use a shower.”

Jaskier frowns, puzzled. “What’s a shower?”

-

As Roach claws at the bathroom door for thirty minutes and Geralt does his best not to listen closely to the muffled singing, he does some research. The bad news is that none of Jaskier’s weird references have ever been indexed on the internet; not Ciri (did you mean ‘Siri’?), not Yennefer (‘Jennifer’?), not strange magic mushrooms (although that definitely messes up his search engine history), not Voleth Meir, not Kaer Morhen, not Melitele, not Novigrad, and not Jaskier. Witcher means ‘male witch’ in Slavic mythology, but Geralt is fairly certain that when Jaskier addresses him as such he hadn’t meant to call him a wizard, seeing as how he’d been dazzled by all the magic of this world.

His fruitless searches leave him even more lost, and concerningly, even more interested. He should be dismissing Jaskier’s words as delusions or the addled ramblings of someone on drugs, but Jaskier had only smelled of dust and wildflowers and he spoke with clarity and purpose. Geralt shuts his laptop and rubs his eyes, forcing himself to consider the other option here. The crazy option. Maybe he can suspend his disbelief in all this shit for long enough to figure out how best to proceed— what would he do if someone really did drop into his universe from another universe? And if they knew him in the other universe, what then? What if in another universe, he and Jaskier were friends?

Not friends, Geralt corrects. Jaskier’s initial reaction to seeing Geralt had made that obvious. Maybe they had once been friends on a personal first-name basis, but after whatever events took place to wrench them apart, Jaskier expected Geralt to only call on him when he needed help with something. The idea twists uncomfortably in Geralt’s chest; he’s been accused of similarly disregarding others before, and his friendships in this universe have suffered as a result. Even his family knows that he won’t reach out unless it’s urgent.

Jaskier’s singing isn’t too audible over the patter of the shower but Geralt listens anyway, hands still on his temples. He can make out the general refrain, although he doesn’t know the song— it’s an angry, sad ballad about burning and yearning. The rhyme should be cheesy but the raw emotion in Jaskier’s voice carries a surprising weight. Entertaining the fantasy some more, Geralt wonders what his alternate self could have done to make Jaskier capable of such fury. He hopes selfishly that whatever it was would surprise him— an utterly unthinkable action would comfort Geralt, because it would mean that he himself wasn’t capable in this world of causing that same harm.

He rises from his spot at the kitchen island, heading over to make two cheap instant cappuccinos with generous servings of cinnamon in both. It’s either this or wine, but Geralt doesn’t need his head any foggier than it already feels. As he stirs the powder in he realizes this is his first time hosting anyone who isn’t his father or one of his brothers in at least a year. The sobering thought makes him unexpectedly nervous, especially when the shower tap finally shuts off in the other room. Geralt hurries to carry the mugs over to the coffee table in his living room, sitting on the couch and trying to look more at ease than he feels. It’s impossible, even when Roach reappears to sit beside him and purr.

Jaskier emerges from Geralt’s bedroom a few excruciating minutes later, wearing the baggy band shirt and pajama shorts that Geralt had put out for him. His long wet hair is slicked back and his eyebrows are a mess, and he looks pink all over, from his freshly scrubbed arms to his flushed thighs. Geralt re-evaluates all the stupid decisions he’s ever made, because letting Jaskier wear his clothes is clearly the dumbest fucking one. Jaskier eyes him curiously, probably because he’s gaping like a starving man brought to a feast. Geralt quickly lifts his coffee and drinks half of it as fast as he can; anything to stop staring. “That’s for you,” he mutters. “If you’d like. It’s nothing special.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, so sincerely that Geralt has to take another long sip of coffee. “The shower was amazing. I’ve never washed like that before; I’ll have to talk Yen into inventing one. We’ll be rich!”

Geralt hums thoughtfully and the sound makes Jaskier shoot a sudden and sharp look his way, but neither say anything. Slowly the man moves over to sit beside him and Roach on the couch, folding his legs up underneath him and then reaching for his mug. Geralt watches him, mind still churning with too many thoughts, and finally he speaks, “So… let’s say you’re from a different world, and you somehow got teleported here. You… in your world, you know me.”

“Yes,” Jaskier nods.

Geralt stares. “You know me very well— well enough to guess what I’d name my cat.”

“Well, that one isn’t hard, you’ve named all your horses Roach, but… yeah,” he shrugs, sipping his coffee again. There’s a certain distance to his words that wasn’t there before, and Geralt violently hates it. He wants Jaskier to feel comfortable here, not to constantly associate him with this other Geralt who fucked him over.

“But we fell out,” Geralt prods. “Why?”

“We don’t need to discuss it, darling. I don’t think that would be a fun conversation for either one of us, especially when… well, never mind,” Jaskier sighs. Geralt wants to insist that he continue but the slump in the man’s shoulders is nearly too much to bear. “I don’t hate you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about— I never could. Believe me, I tried. It didn’t take.”

The song that Jaskier was singing in the shower echoes again through Geralt’s mind, and he tries to imagine the circumstances. It’s easy enough to make the connection but when he does, it feels like piercing some soft, vulnerable piece of all this that until now has been allowed to grow unhindered. The cold realization makes sense, because as he looks at Jaskier wearing his clothes now, Geralt thinks that even in an alternate universe, he’d probably still feel the same way about this handsome, baffling man. “You loved me,” he accuses quietly. Jaskier tenses but doesn’t deny it. “Did I… return your affections?”

“It’s complicated,” Jaskier laughs without any mirth. Geralt reaches over to touch his shoulder gently in an attempt to reassure him but none of the tension drains from Jaskier; instead, he freezes. When he speaks again his voice is much lower, and he doesn’t meet Geralt’s gaze. “You can’t blame yourself for that, darling. There were a lot of factors at play.”

“Like Ciri,” Geralt guesses, not removing his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder.

But instead of growing angry or jealous Jaskier actually smiles at that, setting his mug down so that he can reach up and take Geralt’s hand between his warm, clean palms. “Yes and no,” he says. “In my world, Ciri— Cirilla of Cintra, rather— is your destiny. Or one of them, anyway. She’s your daughter.”

That makes Geralt blanch, expression twisting into something ugly that makes Jaskier laugh. Even at his loneliest, Geralt has never, ever seen himself becoming a father— it has been firmly out of the question his whole life. “But I can’t have children,” he replies stupidly.

“Oh, witchers are infertile,” Jaskier waves this problem away as easily as anything. “No, she isn’t yours by blood. You claimed her, invoking this ancient tradition called the Law of Surprise. And then you regretted it immediately, and you spent a good long while avoiding Cintra altogether. But destiny finds a way.”

Roach purrs between them, shattering the surprisingly intense moment, and Geralt reaches with his free hand to absent-mindedly pet her. Jaskier releases his other hand to take up his drink again and Geralt watches the line of his throat bob. “In your world,” he starts, “I’m a witcher. And I have… friends. People that I care for.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “Yes…?”

“But here, I’m not even friends with anyone at my work. I mean, my father worked with me, but he retired a few years ago so now it’s just me.” Roach jumps away, dissatisfied by his petting, but he makes no move to hold her back. Geralt’s hands are trembling slightly— he wrings them together, frustrated. “I don’t have… I’m single, and I don’t have any kids. And when I have had friendships, I just inevitably fuck them up, so I don’t… Why do I do that? Why am I alone here?”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. He shifts closer on the couch, reaching to take Geralt’s shaking hands in his; it doesn’t entirely stop the shuddering but it helps. Geralt can feel his pulse thrumming through his fingers, and he clings to it, squeezing Jaskier’s hands back. They breathe as one, inhaling and exhaling in time. Once more, Geralt feels tremendously emotional and humiliated that he hasn’t been this close to anyone in so, so long. He fears that he might be doing it wrong, but if he is, there’s no indication on Jaskier’s kind, open face.

When he feels a little more steady Geralt summons his voice again, still gripping Jaskier’s hands tightly. “Tell me about her,” he pleads. “Cirilla. And the others— you mentioned, um, witch friends. I’m a witch too, right? A witcher— are there other witchers?”

“Yes there are, and witches, although I selfishly feel less inclined to tell you of those,” Jaskier says with a slightly maudlin smile. “But you have a family there too, and a good deal of people with stories about you. You’re close with the sorceresses Yennefer and Triss, and you keep in touch with the strangest people, ones I would never expect; you were friends with nobility like Mousesack and Nivellen, dwarves like Zoltan Chivay and Yarpen Zigrin, and a whole host of other weirdos, really. That isn’t even mentioning the other witchers, your family— that would include Vesemir, Lambert, Coën—”

“Hang on,” Geralt says. “I know Vesemir, and Lambert is my brother! Lambert and Eskel.” He squints. “Is there a witcher named Eskel in your universe too?”

“Yes, although I never met him,” Jaskier says a little too quickly. “You never brought me up to your home in the mountains until it was necessary; it was a very private location so guests were not allowed. You and Vesemir were always worried about an attack.” Lowering his tone, he admits, “Witchers are not… universally liked, in my universe.”

Geralt blinks. “Why not?”

“Um, you’re not… human?” Jaskier smiles uneasily, finally letting go of his grip on Geralt’s hands only so that he can reach up to cup the sides of his head. His thumbs brush back and forth over the short bristles on his skull behind his ear, and Geralt shivers again. “Witchers are mutants, and you’re one of the most mutated ones. You look mostly the same in this world, though; you’re just missing the golden cat eyes and the swords. And the medallion. And the supernatural senses… I mean, unless you have supernatural senses?”

“I emphatically do not,” Geralt promises, smiling back slightly.

“And witchers are trained to suppress their emotions,” continues Jaskier in an odd voice. “So many people think you don’t have feelings at all, but it isn’t true, it’s all a terrible myth that lets common folk treat you like shit while you protect them from unspeakable horrors! It’s not fair, and it’s fucked up, because after learning to hide your emotions for so long and being told that you didn’t have any, you started to believe it. And it isn’t true!”

The air between them is charged as Geralt reaches up to hold Jaskier’s wrists in place, carefully searching his eyes for any untruthfulness or deceit. He finds none, as he’d expected; it’s obvious that Jaskier cares passionately about this injustice. “You sound like you’ve made this your life’s work,” Geralt mutters. “Defending witchers.”

“Actually, I’m a poet.” Jaskier is still cradling Geralt’s head in his hands. He doesn’t try to shift away, and neither of them bring up the strange proximity, as they’re both glad for the closeness. “But I did try to spread the truth, um… then my emotions got involved. We don’t need to get into that.”

“Hmm.” Geralt traces a small shape on the inside of Jaskier’s wrist, watching the muscles in his arm flex as he does. “I took a poetry class in university but none of it stuck with me.”

“In my experience, you can’t escape poetry,” Jaskier says, finally sliding his hands down from Geralt’s head to rest them on his shoulders. Geralt follows him and holds on through the movement, then drops his grip on Jaskier’s wrists to let his hands fall into the man’s lap, pulling him closer by his hips. It must be a testament to Jaskier’s love of art and literature that he only stammers slightly as Geralt grabs him and brings him nearer. “Even when you think you’ve forgotten everything, it just-just takes the simplest push for you to fall right back into the poetry you swore against. I’ve written a whole book about that, actually— uh, in my world, I’m occasionally a professor.”

Geralt laughs; not meanly, just in amusement. “Occasionally? How can you find yourself occasionally a professor? What do you do the rest of the time?”

“Oh, you know.” Jaskier’s fingers dance over the muscles in his shoulders, tracing patterns through his shirt, and Geralt’s breath catches in his throat. “I travel, and perform. I find inspiration for my bardic compositions. And I— the politics of being an artist right now are more than a little concerning, so I help, where and how I can. Even though it’s rarely enough.”

“And occasionally, you get pulled into my bullshit,” jokes Geralt.

But Jaskier doesn’t joke back, nor does he grow emotional again about his failed relationship with the other Geralt. He just stares, blue eyes bright and earnest, and tells Geralt with frightening sincerity, “Those are my favourite parts.”

“I’d like to kiss you,” Geralt confesses before he can think any better of doing so. “I don’t know if this is even really happening, but I do know that I’d like to kiss you. Even if it isn’t my place to do so. With all the history you have… would it hurt too much to kiss me?”

Jaskier whispers, “I don’t know. Let’s find out, shall we?”

-

The next morning, Geralt wakes to the alarm he’d forgotten to turn off. In a sick rush of dread he panics about failing to finish all the work he’d meant to do at home last night; putting it off means that today he’ll undoubtedly receive some very unhappy, passive aggressive emails. He scrambles to slam the snooze button and gain his bearings, and in doing so he dislodges a warm weight on his chest that he had just assumed was Roach.

“What is that infernal sound,” whines a soft, sleepy voice from beside him. Geralt’s heart wells up like a balloon. “Do you choose to wake up like this every morning? I think I’d rather hire someone to stick pins in my feet to get me moving.”

Geralt reaches to pull Jaskier’s arm back around him, smiling broadly as he takes in the sight of the disheveled bard on his second, normally vacant pillow. He leans in to kiss the man’s cheek gently in apology, and finds Jaskier warm and pliant beneath him. Nearly giddy with affection, Geralt sits up so that he can reach down the bed to where Jaskier’s bare toes are peeking out from under the covers, and he starts poking them as fast as he can.

“You fucking bastard,” shrieks Jaskier, giggling maniacally as he curls up tightly to try to avoid Geralt’s tickling. “What’s wrong with you? Leave me be in your very, very comfortable bed, you brute! See if I ever suck you off again!”

That last threat proves the most effective but when Geralt relents, chuckling, Jaskier just pulls him back down to kiss him properly. They trade lazy kisses back and forth, rolling until Jaskier’s weight is mostly atop Geralt and their legs are tangled together again. Jaskier nips Geralt’s lip and he makes a deep, rumbling noise— half of pleasure, half to warn Jaskier. Pulling away, mouth still wet, he says as seriously as he can, “We can’t waste the whole day in bed, Jaskier.”

“That’s what you think!”

“There are other things that require our imminent attention,” Geralt intones, trying to sound fancy and classical like the bard. “For instance, I’d very much like to join you in the shower. And then we can raid the refrigerator to see about breakfast; I think I still have eggs, but we’ll have to check.”

“No idea what a refrigerator is,” Jaskier says, kissing him once more before pulling away. He yawns and stretches, and the long lines and curves of his bare body are enough to make Geralt reconsider his morning plans. “But I like the shower bit a lot; what a forward thinker you are! We’ll shower, eat, and then I’ll drag you back here.”

“Deal,” Geralt smiles. He rolls off the bed, frowning at the discarded clothes all over the floor for only a moment before he crosses to the closet. As he picks out an outfit he feels eyes on him, so he turns to look over his shoulder— Jaskier is still sitting in his bed, still looking perfectly rumpled and debauched and content. There’s a dark mark under the right side of his jaw that Geralt remembers leaving, and although the thin blanket is still wound around his legs, Geralt has no doubt that there are several other marks there too.

Before he can button up his shirt Geralt finds himself moving back towards the mattress and sinking onto it above Jaskier, claiming his mouth again just because he can. Jaskier arches towards him eagerly, like a sunflower bending towards the light, and spreads his knees so that Geralt can rest between them. The bard sighs into their kiss and Geralt feels a flood of emotion for that melodic, pretty sigh. He wishes that the two of them could stay together in this room forever, satiated by one another’s company and taking their comfort in each other’s bodies.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers against his mouth. “I want to tell you something.”

Before he can, a deafening crack from the living room interrupts them, leaving a strange but familiar fizzing, crackling sound in the air. Geralt turns to look at the open bedroom door just in time to see Roach run through it as fast as she can, hissing and making a beeline to hide under the bed.