#witchersummercamp

Sometimes, Jaskier misses his jail cell. The guards had been tasteless, tactless bastards, to be sure, but Martin and Polly had been good little gentlemen and even better companions to him, tiny and furry though they were. He hopes that they’re well. They listened to his songs and his words and his pain. With them, he could speak about his heartbreak until he made something useful out of it, or at least was able to put his own stupidity out into the air —how foolish he’d been to fall for two immortal beings who, even now, regard him as a plaything at best. Even now, he wishes to talk to the little mice. Tell them how terrible it is, to watch the people he loves love each other and hurt each other and ruin each other right in front of his eyes. Just as in the cell, it might give him a bit of peace while Geralt and Yennefer bicker.

“I lit an entire army aflame, witcher, for fucks’ sake, I can handle this.”

“Hm. And then right after that, you lost your magic. You’re still weak.”

“Gods, you’re insufferable. Don’t you hear yourself, you self-righteous prick?”

The witch and the witcher. As gorgeous as they are powerful, as lovely as they are dreadful, as pretty as they are petty. Jaskier admires them from his stump across the large clearing, memorizing the sharp planes of an especially frustrated Geralt’s face and the unfairly lustrous swish of Yennefer’s hair as she turns away from him, groaning with irritation. They’re awfully beautiful. He has and will again go on about it in the future when they decide to behave less fucking immaturely than the skinny, nervous seven year-old beside him. The past few weeks hadn’t exactly been quiet between the two, but such a squabble was inevitable. If they don’t argue over some trifling bullshit at least once every two weeks, he’s convinced they’ll explode. And probably take it out on him again. He sighs, turning to look at Ciri, who watches, just as fascinated. 

The poor thing.

Four parents dead, and all she has left are these two, who, while certainly good people at heart, have clearly never had decent examples themselves of how to parent or be parented. She has him too, he supposes. An uncle, of sorts, or perhaps a kindly older cousin, like the ones he’d grown up with in Lettenhove. Not an outsider or a stranger, but not quite a mother or a father either. He can’t replace the parents Destiny decided to gift her —he doesn’t fuck about with Her or Her wishes anymore, gods know he’s learned his lesson on that particular front— but at the very least he can show them how it’s done. Lowering his voice to a stage whisper, the kind Geralt would hear if he wasn’t so occupied with his grunting, he nudges the girl’s shoulder.

“And they call me dramatic.”

She huffs out a giggle, tiny but genuine.

“No, really. I swear on my lute, I punch one alderman, and suddenly I’m making a ‘fuss over nothing,’ and being called ‘bard’ again instead of my name!”

“But aren’t you a bard?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the point. The point is that even with all that power between them, a witcher and an ex-court sorceress, they can’t solve a minor disagreement! Either they skipped their etiquette lessons, or both Kaer Morhen and Aretuza are woefully inadequate educational institutions —I’ll have to teach you myself once we get to the Blue Mountains.”

Remembering his own classes on the subject, Jaskier can’t help but smile when Ciri groans. He’d spent more than his fair share of days hiding from his own private instructor, avoiding all talk of how to run a household, conduct business, and behave himself in public around people of every station. And all that as a two-penny count’s son. A princess, and more than that, the only princess of Cintra, would have had far more to learn, with far stricter teachers than old Garam. Even as young as she is, there’s no possible way she escaped it. Not with a pout like that.

He’ll teach her to hone that too. She already has the face for it, round and cute as a button, but the art of big, sad eyes is one he excels in, and he’d be remiss to not pass on his knowledge. Especially when, more likely than not, she’ll be aiming them at the very same target. Geralt, for all his many foolish pretenses at stoicism and apathy, already melts into a puddle around Ciri and would certainly fetch the moon for her if she asked it of him. Not that she would. She’s too good for that, always calm and placid, so much so that it worries Jaskier more than a little. The dear girl had lost everything in the space of a few weeks and she’d yet to even cry about it. Geralt and Yennefer might appreciate that, but Jaskier knows better. It’s unhealthy. For anyone, really, semi-immortal or not, but for a child without even eight winters to her name… he likes it even less.

“Well then. Tell me, Fiona, which lessons did you enjoy in Cintra?”

Immediately, her eyes lit up, pale eyebrows shooting up her forehead. They’ll have to dye them soon, but not yet. Let the girl get used to her new name, start processing all that has shifted in her life before changing her appearance.

“The sword lessons!! Grandmother and Grampa Eist gave me a big, big sword for my last nameday!! It’s only wood, but it’s tough, and I already learned the first forms.”

“Knowing the Queen and King, I believe it. They were some of the finest warriors alive.”

“Yeah! Grandmother was too busy to teach me herself, but Grampa’s really good too! His sword is really heavy though.”

“Yeah? What other things did they teach you?”

She’s happy to ramble on about it, and Jaskier lets her, interjecting with careful hums and nods and chuckles and questions where appropriate. Talking puts some life in her sallow cheeks, when she goes on about learning to read at Moussack’s knee until she graduated to asking him to pull the heavy tomes down from the palace library for her. He encourages it with appropriate nods and noises, drifting his senses back to the pair behind him. And, oh, what a blessed fucking surprise!

“I can light a simple fucking campfire! Just because you finally decided to take Ciri as your daughter doesn’t mean you have to mother-hen all of us to death, Geralt!”

“I’m not mother-henning, just let me handle it! Why does this even matter to you?”

They’ve graduated from an argument to a unnecessary, vicious row. 

“It doesn’t!”

“Like fuck it doesn’t! One Igni and the problem’s solved, but here you are, dragging it like a corpse!”

“Oh, I’m the one dragging this out? You kicked your feet for so long avoiding your Child Surprise that I’m hardly shocked Destiny killed her whole family —it was the only way to make you take responsibility!”

He focuses back on Ciri, who, thank the gods, is still talking about her life in Cintra. The last thing she needs to hear is her new mother being cruel or that her father hadn’t exactly wanted her in his life, albeit for his own reasons, right and wrong. 

“Sometimes I could sneak out to play in the square, but Ser Danek would always drag me back to the castle before I was done. I miss him.”

“I know, dear heart. But it’s always good to have things you miss. It means you have things to love. What else do you miss?”

“Oh! I miss Grandmother and Grampa. And Moussack and Ser Lazlo and Marina and all the horses! Grampa never let me go see them alone, but they’re so big! And I miss the food…… I don’t like being hungry.”

As if on cue, her stomach rumbles. A sad, tiny little sound, and all Ciri does for it is tucking a skinny arm over her belly, shushing the noise with a finger pressed to her lips. And Jaskier’s heart breaks. Geralt and Yennefer keep screaming in the background of his mind, over petty shit, all while their little girl hasn’t eaten since the gods know when. Immortals. They forget about lowly humans and their needs, always either pushing them past the limit or dropping them like deadweight, but Jaskier won’t let them do either, not with him and not with her. So, he does what he does best. He talks. Asks Ciri more questions, takes over the conversation when their companions get too loud, and keeps her as distracted as he can while he reaches for his own flint and steel. 

Quickly, he arranges the wood and sends Ciri for Geralt’s saddlebags. There won’t be much, mushrooms and dried meat, but he has his spices and there was a patch of wild onion less than a minute’s walk back. Three strikes light the tinder, and by the time Jaskier has a pot perched on top of a makeshift spit, the damned campfire burns as brightly as any other he’s made for himself in Geralt’s absences. Ciri returns, trotting back with a skip in her step, promised pack in hand. He pours in his waterskin, emptying it, and hands Ciri a small scarf.

“Alright, dear. We’ll eat soon, and though I can’t promise it’ll be anywhere near as good as Cintra’s best, I’ve made enough trail stews that you should be able to at least get it down. But I need you to do one last thing for me.”

Ciri nods solemnly.

“Good girl. Just outside this clearing, you see that big tree over there?” He points to the one in question, with the creeping vine crawling over it. “About five trees in that direction, you see some hollow green shoots on the ground. Those are wild onions, and you have to pick them —but don’t eat them. Bring them back so I can look them over.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes slide over to Geralt and Yennefer, still screaming at each other, then back to him. Clever girl. Of course she’d heard them, and figured out what he’s trying to do by sending her away into the woods —another thing to scold the pair for. He nods at her, pressing the scarf further into her little hands.

“Go. There’s nothing in the woods that can harm you, not with those two here, no matter how foolish they’re being now.”

Blessedly, she accepts it, leaving Jaskier to deal with the couple of the hour. Yennefer’s skirt flares out just as her hair does, but it’s less pretty, with a hungry girl in the woods. Geralt’s jaw tightens, and he can’t find the line of it as handsome, not when Ciri just shushed her own rumbling stomach like the noise would get her punished. Stalking across the clearing should alert them, or at least make them stop for long enough to look his way, but instead they escalate in their usual way, stepping closer until the spittle flying from their mouths hits the other’s cheek. He thinks of the mountain. He thinks of the mountain and how they ruined each other so fucking quickly, dissolving their relationship like it meant nothing at all, and throwing the remains at his chest. Two people this fucking old ought to know better. But instead, they just make the same mistakes for longer.

By the sound of it, the water hasn’t boiled yet, but he has. 

This time, when he puts himself in between them, he reaches out only with his hands —already burnt and broken as they are, easy enough to sacrifice— and not his heart. He knows better now. Never again will he stand outside a shattered window and struggle not to weep. He won’t be sent away down a mountain, alone in the cold with every rock digging into his feet through his thin soles along the way. Before either of them can stop him, he puts one arm across Geralt’s chest and a hand at Yennefer’s shoulder. 

“Shut the fuck up. Both of you.”

For about a second, it occurs to him that he ought to be more cautious, saying that to a powerful sorceress and a witcher, both of whom have cast him aside before. He tells the thought to fuck off and turns to level a glare at Geralt, who flinches.

“You. All those heightened senses, and yet you can’t figure out that the witch here is trying to heal herself and prove her worth, after, as you put it so delicately, losing her magic. She lives and dies on Chaos. But you don’t even try to understand her pain. And despite how fucking poorly it’s gone for you in the past, in case you don’t remember your idiocy in Rinde, you just keep making decisions for her safety, disregarding her wishes entirely. I don’t care about your intentions, and neither does she.”

Yennefer huffs, turning her face away but not breaking out of his hold. 

“And you. Yes, Geralt has been supremely irresponsible about Ciri. But if that was your issue right now, you would have had the sense to not scream it at him right in front of her. Do you think she needs to hear that? So she can feel unwanted and unloved? But instead of facing the actual issue of your power being gone, you deflect away from your own weakness, treating whoever you hurt in the process as collateral damage for your own pride.”

He steps aside, gesturing towards the fire he’d lit all on his own, no magic or cantrips required. The whole fucking situation is proof that sometimes all you need a simple person and their pracice, tools, and love.

“There’s your fucking fire, so you can stop using it to cover your own asses. Now, your little daughter is hungry, and she’ll be back any minute. Geralt, go find a rabbit to feed her. Yennefer, magic her up a bowl and a spoon if you have the strength.”

Amazingly, then don’t protest. Yennefer scoffs at him and Geralt swears under his breath, but they separate, off to their assigned tasks. Excellent timing, when Ciri comes running back with both little hands full of onions for him to clean so they can make a proper soup out of it all. Yennefer produces three bowls and three spoons, since only Geralt has his own, and though it takes her longer than it should, it lines up well with Geralt’s return, skinning a fat hare as he walks over. Jaskier takes the carcass, butchering and cleaning out the insides as fast as he dares, with his shaking hands. Within the hour, Ciri’s eating like she hasn’t been fed in days, and Jaskier relaxes, looking to the other side of the fire.

The witch and the witcher. What fucking fools, both of them, sat on opposite ends of a log, eating silently. Jaskier watches them again, how they chew their food just a little too long, shrink into themselves in between bites just to puff back up before retreating again. In between them, he can see where their boots still touch. But he’s fine with that. Time and heartache have taught him wisdom, but more importantly, they taught him patience. He waits until Ciri hands him her bowl, asking him to tuck her in, and she sleeps peacefully in his bedroll with his red coat pulled up to her chin, dwarfing her little body. He waits some more, watching the fire dwindle into embers, for Yennefer to speak.

“Jaskier. We’re… we’re sorry.”

“You can apologize to her tomorrow.”

“Not the point, bard,” Geralt says, lip twitching downwards and knee pressing closer to Yennefer’s thigh, “You shouldn’t be the one looking after her.”

“Someone has to.”

It hurts, even though he’s sure Geralt doesn’t even realize what he’s said. But he keeps his eyes on the dying flames, trying not to see Yennefer return the witcher’s touch, shuffling over on the small log. Brown wood, gray ash, yellow fire. All are safer to look at than Yennefer’s black hair next to Geralt’s white, or the way their hands press against each other, warm brown and ghostly pale. Geralt tries again.

“You’re good at it. Better than either of us, with children, and Ciri needs your help.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He forces enough levity into his voice to make it convincing, trailing it into a yawn. Ciri needs his help. That’s not what Geralt had said, when he’d swept him up and away from the jail cell with his sad yellow eyes and soft voice, but it had always been like him to deny any mention of dependency after the fact, no matter how much proof existed of it. Beside him, the witch nods, and they’re off to their own pushed-together bedrolls, leaving Jaskier to doze with his head pillowed on his pack, letting the embers soothe him to sleep.

——————————————————————————————

Two months ago, they'd gotten married, and now, they were finally on their honeymoon in the middle of nowhere. Geralt's choice of course. Ciri was staying with Yennefer, and it was the first time they were spending a week apart from each other. At the end of the week, Ciri would join them, for some family time, but Geralt and Jaskier needed some time to themselves.

It was beautiful out here, no other people around, just the sounds of nature, a house and a lake all to themselves. Jaskier wasn't usually the quiet type, but after some exhausting weeks, that he'd spend mostly in the studio recording his new album, even he needed a break and some peace and quiet. Therefore, he was standing out here without headphones, enjoying the view.

Geralt had left in the early morning to go fishing. He'd woken Jaskier up with kisses to say goodbye to him, but before he'd left, he'd prepared breakfast for his husband, so Jaskier had immediately smiled as soon as he'd walked into the kitchen. There had even been a little note that said: “See you in a bit. Love Geralt” - he'd even drawn a little heart next to his name. And then people said that Jaskier was the cheesy one of them. If only they knew...

His eyes landed on the ring Geralt had given them at their wedding. They hadn't wanted matching wedding bands, but they choose one ring specifically for the other. While Jaskier had gotten Geralt a silver ring with the soundwaves of him singing “I'll love you for eternity”, Geralt had gotten him a simple silver ring with a dandelion engraved on the inside, his nickname for Jaskier. It was the sweetest, most personal thing Jaskier could think of. In addition, his wedding band was completely different from all the other colourful, flashy rings he wore, and he loved it all the more for that.

“Everything alright?”

Jaskier turned around to the low voice, that belonged to no other than Geralt. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even heard him come back. Apparently, he'd already put away the fish he'd caught – Jaskier was sure he'd been successful, since the rod and everything else were gone as well – and was now ready to take a shower.

“Perfect. It's just so peaceful out here.”

“That's why I chose this place.” Geralt walked up to Jaskier, wrapped his arms around him and leaned in for a chaste kiss. “You need some social detoxing.”

“Oh look at you with your fancy words,” Jaskier said with a smirk, stealing another kiss. “But you're right. I haven't even looked at my phone all day. The last time was yesterday evening when we asked Yennefer about Ciri.”

“Good, I'm proud of you. You've been working non-stop ever since the wedding, so you need to not think about work and everything that had to do with it for these two weeks.”

“But-”

“No buts. You need to relax.”

“And you need a shower. You smell like fish!” A laugh followed Jaskier's words, but it turned into a squeal when Geralt picked him up and threw him in the lake. The look on Jaskier's face when he came up for air made Geralt laugh in turn

“I said YOU need a shower, not me!”

“Well, in that case...”

In one swift motion, Geralt stripped off his shirt and jumped after Jaskier into the water. The sun was still high in the sky and it was hot, the days still long, so that they could enjoy some time out here. Now, that they were both in the water, there was no rush to get inside.

Geralt pulled Jaskier back into his arms, brushed the wet hair from his face and smiled down at him.

“Looks like you'll need to take a shower with me then...”

“Do you really think I'd object to that?” Jaskier chuckled, wrapped his arms around Geralt's neck and pulled him in for another kiss, but this time not a chaste one, but one that lingered a little longer, that held the promise of more.

After spending some more time in the lake, they enjoyed their shower together. For dinner, they had fish of course, and Geralt was rather proud of what he'd caught. Hence, cooking was Geralt's task for the evening. Usually, they cooked together, but tonight, he'd sent Jaskier outside with a glass of wine. Most of the time, they were both busy, but the last couple of weeks, Geralt had stayed at home to take care of Ciri while Jaskier had hardly been home at all, so he definitely needed the rest.

Sitting outside on the deck, overlooking the lake in the evening sun calmed his soul, but it also inspired him, gave him some new song ideas. Not today, though, no, he wouldn't pull out his notepad and write something down. He had a couple more days to do that, but tonight was just for the two of them.

“Beautiful,” Geralt said when he places the plates on the table and sat down opposite Jaskier.

“Isn't it? I could sit here for hours and never get tired of it.”

“I wasn't talking about the lake,” Geralt said with a smile before he refilled Jaskier's glass.

“Oh...” Jaskier didn't manage anything more. His cheeks turned pink due to the compliment. Usually, he loved compliments, couldn't get enough of them, but with Geralt... it had always been different. It wasn't some superficial compliment to get what he wanted from Jaskier, he really meant what he said, and that made all the difference.

Over dinner, Geralt told him about his fishing trip, and Jaskier listened with a smile. It was wonderful to hear Geralt talk about something that he enjoyed. He wasn't a man of many words, but sometimes, he went all out, and Jaskier just let him talk. He didn't know a lot about fishing, but he loved listening to Geralt talk, no matter what he was talking about in the end.

After dinner, Geralt didn't let Jaskier help with the dishes, but instead sent him outside to enjoy the last rays of sunshine. At first, Jaskier had tried to protest, but there was no use. So he found himself out on the deck again, glass of wine on hand. Slowly, he walked to the edge, took off his shoes and sat down to let his feet dangle in the water. There was no noise except for the casual splash in the water from a fish or some other animal. A complete contrast to the city, where he was constantly surrounded by noises, not all of them good. The longer he sat there, the more he felt the tension leave his shoulders, and he finally relaxed. He'd already relaxed a little earlier when he'd been by himself, but by now, he was completely at ease and happy with where he was. No noise, no music, no nothing. Just Geralt and him.

Geralt walked slowly towards him and sat down next to him silently, not wanting to disturb this peaceful moment. Jaskier immediately reached for Geralt's hand and interlaced their fingers.

“This was a good idea,” Jaskier eventually broke the silence, a smile on his lips, as he kept looking over the water.

“Mhm... I'm glad you think so.” Geralt turned to press a kiss to Jaskier's temple. He took a deep breath, before he continued. “You know... I never thought I could feel like this, like I'd never seen the sky before...”

Jaskier quickly turned towards him, a look of surprise on his face.

“Are you really quoting Moulin Rouge at me?”

“It's your favourite movie, I thought you might like that.”

“You're full of surprises,” Jaskier said with a love, before he pulled Geralt close to kiss him. He'd pleaded with him so often to watch that movie together, until Geralt had finally given in. His reaction had been a simple hmm and Jaskier hadn't expected anything else from him. But that he was able to quote Jaskier's favourite song from the movie now, made all the butterflies in his stomach turn into a storm again.

“There's something I need to talk to you about, though.” Geralt eventually broke the kiss, but kept Jaskier close. “It's nothing bad. At least I hope so.” So much for not worrying Jaskier. Geralt had tried his best to get Jaskier in a good mood, and he'd succeeded, but he was still nervous about this now.

“Okay... Spit it out, I'm getting anxious!”

Geralt could see it in his face, like he was expecting Geralt to tell him that marrying hadn't been a good idea or that he'd cheated on Jaskier. The truth couldn't be further from that.

“Ciri asked me something and I told her I'd talk to you about it before she gets here.” Geralt took Jaskier's hand in his again, ran his fingers over the wedding band, which was the only ring he'd kept on his fingers after the shower. “She wants you to be her Dad as well. Not just in the way you already are, but legally. Her greatest wish is that you adopt her.”

“She... what?” Jaskier blinked once, twice, and kept staring at Geralt.

“She wants you to become her Dad.” Geralt repeated his words, thinking about if he could make it any clearer somehow, describe it in an easier way, but his words had been pretty clear.

Without a word, though, Jaskier got up and walked back into the cabin, leaving a stunned Geralt behind. He needed a moment, before he got up as well and ran after his husband.

“Jaskier?” Geralt called after him until he found him in the kitchen, his head stuck in the fridge. “Jaskier, talk to me! It's absolutely fine if you don't want to, I'll just need to find a way to tell Ciri then.” His own heart was beating rapidly in his chest. He hadn't wanted to ruin their whole trip with this, but it was something that was important to Ciri and to him as well.

“Jaskier...” He was getting really worried now, and curious about what Jaskier was looking for in the fridge. When Jaskier finally closed the door again and turned to Geralt, there were tears streaming down his face.

“I was just...” he mumbled, holding up the bottle of champagne they'd gotten in their way here.

“Dandelion...” Geralt still wasn't sure what this meant, but his gut was telling him that it was a good sign.

“I couldn't be happier,” Jaskier managed, putting the bottle aside to wipe away the tears. “I want that! I just didn't expect that at all.”

“Come here,” Geralt said with a smile, opening his arms, and Jaskier didn't waste a moment. He threw himself into the arms of his husband and held onto him. Geralt's hands caressed his back, simply held him there for a moment. “So these are tears of joy?”

“Of course they are! I love that kid with all my heart.”

“I know... and she loves you as well. That's why she wants this so badly. She absolutely adores you.”