#yourqueenforayear

“Too slow.”

Jaskier looks up from his notebook, eyeing the Witcher watching over his ward and her practise. He’s taken to keeping them company outside, even as snow settles into the mountain and the winds almost blister his skin as gusts bluster through the crumbling walls. Geralt would prefer them to be alone, but Jaskier knows for a fact that Ciri appreciates the company – another witness in case Geralt pushes her over the edge and she snaps.

Ciri doesn’t bother hiding the sharp huff of breath that escapes her. “What now?” she asks, voice clipped and solid, even as a breeze rushes through the courtyard. Jaskier barely manages to hide his grin into the thick scarf pulled around his neck and mouth. She’s a terror; headstrong and by no means the weak, pampered princess some Witchers would have thought her to be.

She’s certainly Calanthe’s granddaughter.

Geralt’s lips thin. “Too slow. You need to be quicker than that if you want to keep your head.” He gestures to the obstacles; a path of stepping stones and beams, mannequins fitted with plated armour and stuffed thick with hay.

Some sort of argument, or dry comment, sits on the princess’ tongue. One that stays there, swallowed back down as she turns back to the course. The first insult to her might have been the wooden sword. She’s a princess – Calanthe’s grandchild. She asked for a sparring sword, metal and dulled, but was given a stick instead. What was she, five years old?

Lambert took enough time to laugh at her, only stopped when Eskel grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and dragged him away. Jaskier is better company; he stays quiet, occasionally offering small words of encouragement. And he tempers the worst of Geralt’s corrections.

Jaskier’s voice barely makes it over the howl of wind. “You’re too tough with her,” he murmurs, setting his quill’s tip back on to his page, scribbling a line he had written last night out completely. “Be gentler.”

Geralt doesn’t even look to him. Keeping his gaze solely fixed on the girl, he watches her take up position in front of a mannequin again. “No one was ever gentle with me,” he grunts, lifting his chin as she lashes out with a strike, hitting the mannequin’s shoulder, before quickly reposting so she can lunge for its abdomen.

He barely stops his eyes from rolling. “Yes, but she isn’t you, is she?” Jaskier asks. “She doesn’t have the same mutations as you. She’s just an ordinary human.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “Nothing about her is ordinary.”

Gods, he knows that. Nothing about Ciri is ordinary. She stands in front of them as a girl, barely on the edge of maidenhood, but there’s something about her that is otherworldly. She’s a Source. Vesemir got the first tremors of magic off of her; not that Jaskier can tell. She’s promised to go great things, but not now. Something is brewing beyond the reach of Kaer Morhen – something that can wait while she prepares, getting ready to protect herself and others.

And she’s taking to it all rather quickly. Eskel takes her for magic lessons, although he still doesn’t quite know how her magic conducts itself through her. It just...happens. Until a sorcerer arrives, Eskel has taken it upon himself to teach her how to curb her magic’s worst corners and tempers. Lambert agreed, with the pressure of Vesemir’s stare during one dinner, that he would teach her how to fight – something Geralt has joined in on. Both of them have different styles. One is more fluid than the other. It’s good for her to find her own style of fighting.

Vesemir lets her read; escaping from the others and huddling in the old man’s library just to read any books she spots and can pluck off of the shelves. A mind is like a sword; it has to be kept sharp.

And then there’s Jaskier. He’s not entirely sure what he can do to help her, but every so often, when her throat is raw from screaming at one or most or all of the Wolves one way or the other, she’ll seek him out and spend an hour or two, or a night, with him.

And he’s well aware of how infuriating Witchers can be.

Geralt bristles. Ciri’s foot skids on the frosted ground, but she’s quick to catch herself before lunging forward, landing another strike on the mannequin. “Good.” His voice is as clipped as it tends to be when he’s instructing her, but Jaskier notes the slight warmth running through it. The Witcher clears his throat. “Good. Again.”

Jaskier quirks an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, keeping his focus back on his notebook. Writing has been keeping him busy for the past couple of weeks. The princess has her training and Geralt spends almost all of his time trailing after her. There must be something for him to do.

Ciri, to her credit, doesn’t falter again or lose focus. Her steps are assured and every strike she lands on the mannequins poised around her is accurate and deadly, should the sword in her hand be made of sharpened metal and the bodies skin and muscle, rather than leather hide and stuffed with straw.

Only a few weeks have turned her into quite the little warrior. He dreads what she’ll be like after a winter of training; swordplay and fighting, and her insistence on waking up at the crack of dawn every day just to run the trails around the mountain.

Jaskier bundles his cloak around himself, staving off the worst of the chill.

Geralt makes a small noise. “Go inside,” he murmurs, taking his eyes off of the girl for the first time all afternoon. Warm, golden eyes fall on to him, and the chill doesn’t seem to bother him anymore. Geralt’s gaze softens as he looks to his bard. “You’ll freeze out here. We’ll be another hour or so.”

Gods help that girl.

Jaskier sighs. “Alright,” he says, gathering his inkwell and quill and notebook. His fur-lined cloak shelters him from the worst of the chill, but he can still feel it nipping as his flushed cheeks and frostbitten nose. As he stands, Geralt reaches out, catching the bard’s hand in his.

Jaskier almost shivers at the familiar warmth that burrows through his skin and muscles, settling into his bones as his Witcher touches him. “I need you alive,” Geralt murmurs, brushing his thumb over Jaskier’s reddened and flushed knuckles. “You’re no use to me frozen.”

The bard offers him a soft smile. “Well then, darling,” he murmurs, “wrap it up here and join me inside. I’m never warmer than when you are by my side in front of our hearth, or in our bed.”

There’s a sharp gag. “Can you two give it a break?” Ciri winces, wooden sword dropped to her side and a frown knitting her brows together.

Geralt glowers. “Don’t lose your focus in a fight,” he warns.

Ciri glowers right back at him, setting a hand on to her hip. “Yes; because straw-stuffed mannequins are very dangerous. It’s a wonder I haven’t lost my head.”

“Ciri—”

bruv sure probably

neurotypicals can focus without needing a super specific environment

they just do it

The Wolf and The Shrike [E] - Mob&Assassin!AU

[gif isn’t mine]

Warnings: Angst, Drug Use, Drug Abuse

Word Count: 7,188

ORIGINALLY POSTED TO MY AO3

“Wouldn’t you just love to punch him in the face?”

The harsh glare of the sun is almost blinding as Geralt glances over, watching Lambert gather his reins and nudge his gelding forward. He snorts and tosses his head, but Lambert quickly corrects him. It takes a moment, but eventually, Niels gives up on his pestering, and arches his neck into his bit.

The man being drenched in Lambert’s vitriol stands in the centre of the arena, hands perched on his hips as he watches each of his horses trot around him. A trained sharp eye watches every step and footfall, the seat of the horses’ riders, and how much rein each of them are being allowed to take. Armoured in a pristine and tailored suit, and glasses perched on the low of his nose, Alfred Pankratz’s ever-watching and judging eyes are never too far away.

Lambert keeps the rest of his words tightly concealed behind clenched teeth, even as Alfred calls out to him. “Tighten up that rein, Blake,” his Redanian-accented voice booms through the indoor arena, even over the rhythmic thumping and snorting of horses.

Gods, he wants to talk back. Geralt barely manages to stop himself from smiling when Lambert huffs out a sharp breath.

Roach floats underneath him; never causing bother or hassle, striding easily around the circuit as if she were in a test. He never needs to tell her to do anything. A small shift in his hands or in his seat will have her collected or extended. She’s always been his favourite mount. If he could afford it, she’d be his. He was here from the moment she was born, and the only one who could ride her properly without being kicked at or thrown off.

Her retirement, maybe. Perhaps he could try and convince the ever-watching yard owner that she deserves time in the countryside, where she can spend the rest of her days rolling around in grasses and chasing sheep in the neighbouring fields.

For now, though, Alfred’s name is on the papers of every single horse here.

His voice cracks across the barn. “One more circuit,” he calls out, arms folding in front of his chest, “and then head out where you need to be.”

Geralt thanks every god he can remember the name of that Lambert’s gelding has the same training schedule as Roach. The pair of them will be taken out on to the sand arena in front of the main house; where the Pankratz wealth can loom over them as a constant reminder of how lucky they are to be employed here.

The pay is good. The pay is great. Every gold piece he earns from his work goes into a separate bank account, stashed away just for him, to buy his own land after he retires. His shoulder twinges as he turns Roach for her final trotting lap of the arena. A retirement may come sooner than later, with every year that passes. Old injuries that he thought had healed and slunk away reawaken, pulling at him in the morning and reminding him throughout the rest of the day that he’s getting older, that he had been pushed and pushed to his limit and beyond it.

Roach snorts underneath him, shaking her head. He settles a hand on to her neck, soothing.

Alfred’s eyes don’t leave them until they break for their own training areas. Some horses linger behind in the arena, prepared to work on their flatwork for the day. Others take a sharp turn out on to the gallops winding out and around the yard.

The sand arena sits behind the Pankratz’s house; a house few of them have even been near, let alone in. Not even Geralt has been inside of it, to the best of anyone else’s knowledge. He has, but he’s not going to go and parade that bit of information around. The house is as drenched in gold as the rest of the yard; a wood and stone mansion sitting on a slight hill, looking over the yard and lands around it as some looming reminder that it’s Pankratz gold that made this place, that keeps them in their own homes and living comfortably.

The back of the house, with tall walls and long lancet windows, with high vaulted roofs, hosts an ample garden and pool and rockery with Mrs Pankratz’s gardens. Alfred’s wife isn’t nearly as firm with them, offering them drinks on hotter days and more breaks between training sessions. Even her face is kinder, with soft eyes and a persistent smile curled along her painted lips as she regards each of her husband’s horses and their riders in the morning warm-up.

Geralt tries to imagine Alfred Pankratz smiling and it threatens to run a shiver through his spine. The only time the man’s steely facade will break is when Geralt brings him home another trophy.

Roach stretches out her neck, walking easily underneath him. Niels bumps his nose to hers as they head to the sand arena, and she snorts. Lambert gathers Niels back. “It’s not you, buddy,” he sighs, patting the gelding on the neck. “She’s just a stubborn cow.”

Geralt bites his tongue just as Roach’s ears flatten back. The only person allowed on her back is him; decreed by both her and Geralt’s boss. Alfred has watched the mare squabble and throw off too many other riders in the yard that he threatened to sell her on. An un-rideable horse wasn’t going to win him any trophies or money, so what good was it to him? Until Geralt climbed on one day, settling a hand on to her neck, and steered her through a good flatwork session – something no one could do with her before.

The sand arena has already been set up. A few stray workers fix the last of the jumps to the appropriate height, checking the strides in between double and triple jumps, and drift towards the edge of the arena. The sand is neatly combed and the trees surrounding one length of the arena are neatly trimmed. Most of the money Pankratz spends is pumped back into his facility, making sure it’s clean and proper for visiting investors and their families.

The house sits above them on a slight hill, and Geralt has grown used to not even acknowledging it. He looks over the arena, at every jump made up, and plots his course for the session. With Roach warmed, she starts picking up her stride, trying to break into a canter as her ears flick and her attention is caught by the high and brightly coloured jumps dotted around the arena.

Lambert keeps to his side. Before Geralt can shake him away, glowering at him to figure out his own path, the man nods at the house. “The trust fund is back.”

Geralt follows Lambert’s eye, brows knitting together at the sight he can just barely make out through the heat haze settling over the yard. Julian Pankratz, stretched out underneath the sun is in an undone sheer button-up shirt, revealing his chest and the dip of his hips. Just barely concealing him is a pair of denim shorts, practically underwear with how tightly they hug his hips and the top of his thighs.

Oxenfurt stole him away for almost a year. Not terribly far away, but enough of a distance for Geralt to notice the quiet left behind after he was gone. Yes, Jaskier Pankratz is a huge pain in his ass, and Jaskier’s sole mission in life seems to be giving Geralt as many grey hairs as possible, but the quiet that followed was deafening.

Lambert chuckles. “Miss him, did you?” he asks, squinting at Geralt’s face. “A hint of emotion almost showed just there.”

If Geralt could kick out at the other man, he would. Or reach across with his crop and leather Lambert across his shoulder. The man sets his heels to Niels’ side, pressing him forward as Lambert shakes in laughter.

His grip tightens on Roach’s reins. The ever-attentive mare snorts, pulling at her bit. Focus. Jaskier might be home, but with Roach threatens to curl around and nip at his toes, he sets her forward into a canter, and looks for his jumps.

REVENGE [Explicit]

Aiden straightens as the man looks between the two of them. “Who, who are you?” he rasps, gripping his walking stick that bit tighter. He teeters on both legs, swaying from side to side slightly.

[Gif isn’t mine]

Warning: Injury Recovery

Word Count: 4769

Originally posted on my AO3

His lessons in Oxenfurt have become afterimages; faint pictures and muffled sounds, none of which is sturdy enough for him to recall. But he can remember one thing a lecturing poet had said to them. They had been learning about sonnets, about the boring compositions of them and all of that technical nonsense. And Jaskier’s mind was still groggy and addled from a night spent drinking and lounging in another student’s bed. He had just enough wherewithal to grab what clothes he needed for the day and stumble his way down to the lecturing halls, still numbed and stumbling and squinting against the midday sun that was just so damn bright.

‘Tis a Fearful Thing to love what death can touch.

And Jaskier still wishes that he had thought of it. It’s a line that has stayed with him throughout the years that have trudged by. He’s generous with his love – he’s loved a lot of people in all different capacities. He’s loved some for a night, others for years. And then there’s Geralt; luring the kind of love out of him that hurts his heart when he’s with the Witcher and hurts when he isn’t; when he wakes in the soft light of morning to a dozing wolf in his bed, hair askew and all form of his usual frown eased from his brow, his chest tightens and his breath catches, and he reaches out to gently dust the backs of his fingers along the Witcher’s cheek, smiling delighted at the soft snuffling sort of noise that comes out of Geralt.

He loves Geralt so much, his heart might just burst. Where it all changed, he isn’t quite sure. Maybe it was in the cave of Dol Blathanna, hearing the Witcher speak with such reverence to the elves. Maybe it was out on the road where he broke half of his bread loaf to give to a struggling mother and her children, displaced from their home by warring factions to the south. Maybe it just came gradually, like seasons blurring into each other.

Days and nights spent on the road would surely kill them both. Monsters or wayward human bandits could take his Witcher while Jaskier’s heart might just give out from worry. Winters at Kaer Morhen were when he could let his shoulders drop and his breathing steady. A keep of Witchers kept monsters out of the mountain and the forests that wrap around it like a shroud. In those short days and long nights, he keeps his Witcher to his bed and cards his fingers through his hair, murmuring soft praise underneath his breath.

But he’s not a fool – no matter how many times Geralt tells him that he is. He knows what a Witcher’s life is like.

He’s in Oxenfurt when it happens. When word reaches him about the extent of Geralt’s injuries, he just about manages to slump into a waiting chair, rather than collapse on to the floor. The student who brought him the news, a shy teaching aide he’s worked with for the spring, quietly slips out of the room, gently clicking the door shut behind her. Jaskier’s hand trembles as he reaches out for a nearby goblet, knocking back the rest of the wine left inside. It does nothing to dull the sour feeling of panic wringing his throat.

He can’t get the Brokilon Forest quick enough.

Listen, he knows. He knows that Geralt is a Witcher. He’s going to get injured, or even killed. Jaskier has been there to stitch him back together for most of his scars. If Jaskier had any say in it at all, he would want death to come to Geralt when it’s quiet and he’s lived his life as much as he can; when Geralt would be asleep, curled around him, with years of life behind him. And Jaskier would follow, because there’s no life without Geralt.

The dryads that meet him at the outskirts of the forest are kind to him. Either they scent the slight scent of elven blood on him or they understand the panic in his eyes as he scans the forest floor for his Witcher. Eithnė leads him to a pool. Jaskier struggles not to catch his foot and stumble over every tree root breaching the ground, stretching out and entangling with others. Eithnė moves through the forest easily, as if the vines and branches part for her.

By the time they reach the ponds in the inner-most part of the forest, Jaskier’s heart struggles to jump out of his throat. His breath catches at the sight of the Witcher, swaddled between thick, moss-cushioned roots, caught in a deep sleep, but with mumbled nonsense slipping out of numbed lips. Jaskier staggers over to his side.

Eithnė stays away, regarding the two of them with an unreadable expression. “He came to us screaming,” she says levelly. “I’ve never known a Witcher to be in so much pain.”

Jaskier’s chest tightens. He flattens a hand along Geralt’s cheek, gently brushing his thumb along the ridge of his cheekbone. His murmurings are slurred, nothing at all making sense. Even the words that Jaskier manages to catch mean nothing to him. Memories, maybe. Geralt mutters about towering walls and how they fall, at fire catching in the great hall and how there’s too many of them to hold back. He twitches underneath Jaskier’s touch. “Hush, my darling,” he whispers, “I’m here. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

It does nothing to quell the small frown knitting his eyebrows together. Geralt grunts and huffs out a breath. His eyes dart underneath his lids.

“The waters of our forest aren’t kind to a Witcher’s mind,” Eithnė says, her words managing to break through the rush of blood through Jaskier’s ears. “But they will heal what they can. Once he’s awake, you may go.”

He’s always been careful with how dryads phrase things. It’s a little known fact to be careful with how you speak to a creature of elven blood, and how it speaks to you. Physically, Geralt is healed. Deep injuries that shattered his knee and elbow welded back together again, as did the muscles and skin surrounding them. Apart from the scars that refuse to fade, one wouldn’t notice a thing. On that front, he can thank Eithnė that yes, the waters of her forest healed what they could.

But he’s not cured. The pain stayed. In the contracts taken after, travelling from town to town; in each battle faced because he just wants to protect Ciri from everything out to take her away from him; in the last few years where Geralt came into possession of a villa tucked away in the Toussaint valleys, the pain stayed and festered and crippled him.

When they settle in Toussaint, an estate gifted to Geralt for all he’s done for the kingdom and its people, Jaskier can at least think of somewhere safe he could corral the Witcher should the cramps come back.

On their travels, when they could wander past Nenneke’s temple, she gifted him glass vials and clay pots of all sorts of things; oils and salves to seep through the Witcher’s skin and try and work out the worst of the pain, should it flare up. With all the years that have drifted past, they’ve both learned what can set the pain off. Sometimes it’s random. Sometimes they’ll be strolling around the vineyards or through the streets of a neighbouring town, and it will flare up; a niggling pain at the back of his mind, poking and prodding at him to get his attention. The only thing Jaskier can do is get them both back to the villa as quickly as he can before bones groan and muscles seize.

Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound of metal clattering to the ground. He pauses, his quill’s tip hovering over the page. Blots of ink fall, staining the paper, but he doesn’t care at all. The house is quiet, just for a moment, before Jaskier hears it. A grunt and a rumbling curse underneath the Witcher’s breath.

His quill and notebook are pushed to the side, entirely forgotten about, as soon as he stands from his desk. The villa itself is sprawling, with more land than they know what to do with. Grapevines occupy most of it, tended to by the staff living down in the main courtyard. The presence of staff, people who bow their heads slightly whenever he passes, and the paved cobblestones that wind through the estate, it all reminds him of home. But this place is nothing like Lettenhove. This place has love and warmth seeping out of the walls.

Jaskier’s office is upstairs, alongside his and Geralt’s bedroom, a guest’s room, and the Witcher’s own study. Jaskier doesn’t have to think about where the Witcher could be – he just follows the sound of grunting curses, all bitten off in an attempt to stay quiet.

He finds Geralt in his study, leaning against a dresser with his good arm braced on it. Two short swords sit sprawled on the ground, long forgotten about. Jaskier doesn’t bother with knocking on the wooden portal of the door. From how pinched the Witcher’s face is, how he’s curled in one himself and his weight is pressed down on one side, he knows exactly what’s wrong.

Winter can crawl in, even this far south. In a place scorched by the sun, where wine flows out of vineyards and the frosty, howling winds of Kaer Morhen are long forgotten about, the weather can still change. Nipping winds can tumble down from the mountains, chilling the valleys and those in them. And with the weather steadily changing in the past couple of weeks, Jaskier spent his days waiting for this to happen.

He clicks his tongue. “Come here,” he says, walking to the Witcher with one hand outstretched to set on his back.

Geralt can’t help the small flinch that darts through him, trying to get away from Jaskier’s touch. Some self-preservation that had been embedded into the Witcher’s bones; something Jaskier still can’t unravel even after decades spent together. He doesn’t think any badly of Geralt for it. He can only imagine the pain that scorches through him.

Geralt’s arm is bent at the elbow, curled in and nestled against his chest. It’s going to take a while to get it relaxed enough to pull away and straighten out. But they have all the time in the world now, nestled away in a place like Corvo Bianco. Jaskier glances down. Geralt’s knee fairs that bit better, though it’s still not great. Even though he can’t see anything, no kneecap swollen or muscles twitching, he can see how Geralt is loath to put any weight on the leg.

Jaskier gentles a hand on to the small of Geralt’s back. The muscle underneath his palm is taught and tight. “Geralt, my love,” he murmurs, “come with me. We’ll get you sorted.”

If he had more time, he might have moved them to their room. He could have peeled Geralt’s loose shirt off and discarded his boots and breeches and lain him down on their bed, and set about his work there. But Geralt’s study will have to do. A room with a desk and chair, bookcases lined with worn-leather tomes, and walls decorated with weapons long retired.

Geralt levels his breathing as much as he can. One golden eye meets his as he looks sideways. His jaw is tight, almost bulging, and he swallows and nods. Jaskier has spent years softening the edges of the Witcher, but being wrung through with pain will only bring back the wolf’s bite.

The desk is nearby, just a few short shuffling steps away. Jaskier nods to the chair. He doesn’t have to say anything, but the order is perched on the tip of his tongue. Sit.

Geralt sighs, knowing that trying to argue with the bard is pointless. Moving is slow and methodical. He drops with the chair with a pained huff, most of the groan swallowed back down as he tries to settle himself. Jaskier won’t touch him just yet, not until he’s relaxed somewhat. But with the ripple of pains tensing and straining through him, he isn’t quite sure how long the bard will wait until he sets his hands on him.

Jaskier leaves him for a moment, darting back to their room to gather a small leather-entombed box. Nenneke’s last gift to them before they dug roots into the estate. Everything they will ever need for Geralt’s pains is in here, alongside Nenneke’s own recipes for more should they run out. Everything is easily available; herbs that Jaskier has seen to growing in one of their gardens. Anything else, like extracts and oils, Yennefer had offered to fetch for them. Being only a portal’s call away, it’s handy. And though she’ll always have an air of being put out by the requests, asking her to halt whatever it is that she’s doing and go and fetch something for them, she’ll always do it.

When Jaskier steps back into the study, he’s met with the sight of Geralt trying, and failing, to pick apart the laces of his shirt. His bad arm is still curled against himself, and his other hand trembles with frustration and pain. The look spread across his face only shows his struggle.

Jaskier’s voice is nothing more than a gentle murmur. “Here,” he says, crossing the room in a matter of strides. He sets the box on the table and sets about deftly undoing the laces.

Geralt glances up. Jaskier stands close by him, with the bard standing in the gap of his spread legs. His fingers twitch. If his hand wasn’t doing such a wonderful job of bracing his own elbow to himself, he would reach out, curl an arm around Jaskier’s waist, and hold him close.

Jaskier arches an eyebrow at him, probably reading everything on the Witcher’s face. “Let’s get this off, hmm?” he rasps. Wrangling the shirt up and over himself takes longer than it should, and some small part of Geralt scoffs at how difficult something like disrobing himself has become. He snaps back at it, a low growl caught in his throat. With the shirt over his head, and his arm freed, Jaskier drops it on to the table. It’s forgotten about as soon as it’s out of sight.

Jaskier will deal with Geralt’s knee later. His elbow seems to be giving him the worst trouble. Nothing needs to be said. Sometimes they’ll talk – though it would be mostly Jaskier, rambling on like always about something or other. On other occasions, like now, silence will settle over them and stay.

Jaskier wets his hands with oil, eyeing where he’ll need to work first. Geralt’s arm is cradled against him, with his elbow and forearm already tight. He breathes for a moment, reaching up to dust his fingers over the round of Geralt’s shoulder. They’ve done this hundreds of times, out on the road and in their home. Geralt knows what to do. He still looks away, his interest caught by some small framed picture of Ciri perched on his desk.

When Jaskier smoothes his palms over Geralt’s muscle, he can feel the Witcher biting down on a groan of pain.

Nenneke gave them everything they could ever need. Pungent, sharp smelling lotions and oils and salves, all of them wrinkling Geralt’s nose. They sour the roof of Jaskier’s mouth, so he can only assume what an onslaught of scent it is to the Witcher. But they work, one way or another. He spends a few minutes slowly working the worst of the tension out of Geralt’s shoulder, just enough to try and pry his elbow away from his chest. Geralt focuses on his breathing, biting down on every whine of pain that threatens to slip out of his throat. It’s just the two of them here. If he wanted to show how cracked and vulnerable he’s become, he would. But the Witcher is a stubborn old bastard and will insist everything is absolutely fine.

Jaskier sets one hand to Geralt’s shoulder while his other catches his forearm, just underneath the point of his elbow. His muscles there are so tight already, trembling in Jaskier’s palm. He levels his breathing with Geralt’s, trying his best to ease the worst of the tension out of him. “I’m going to move it now,” he mumbles, “alright?”

Geralt’s jaw tightens. He nods.

It’s slow, and he doesn’t stretch Geralt’s arm further than it needs to go. But he needs it away from the Witcher’s chest to massage the pain out. Geralt’s breath hitches as Jaskier stretches his arm towards him. Geralt’s other hand, resting on the lacquered surface of his desk, curls into a white-knuckled fist.

Jaskier’s tongue sours. He hates his Witcher being in so much pain. He hates the fact that to ease it, he has to cause him pain. The sharp citrus scent of the oil doesn’t help, but he can already feel it warming underneath his palm. He’ll massage as much as he can out of Geralt’s arm before he brings him to bed.

When he’s pulled the arm away from Geralt’s chest, Jaskier’s hands move. One catches the back of Geralt’s upper arm while the other sets about spilling a sliver of more oil on to his forearm. He knows what to do. Nenneke took him aside and showed him everything she could about how muscles work. The bones themselves were shattered and beyond repair – until the dryads poured forest water on to him, at least. The bones knitted back together, as best as they knew how to, while muscles and skin tried to do the same. The dull ache always remained.

Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, like he always does whenever he’s about to touch the Witcher’s elbow. It’s painful and the sounds that wring out of Geralt’s throat are awful, but it needs to be done.

Geralt grunts, turning away again. Get on with it.

The worst of the tension sits along his upper forearm, where the muscle twitches and bulges in some attempt to keep the worst of the pressure away from his elbow. When Jaskier sets his oil-slickened fingers to the muscle, it tenses underneath him. Geralt’s breath hitches, but he bites down on whatever groan threatened to slip out of his lips. Jaskier glances up at him, frowning at how tightly the Witcher’s brows are pinched together. He hates this. He hates this so much.

Another apology mumbles out of him. It’s entirely lost on Geralt – the Witcher digs himself so far into his own mind, trying to distract himself and dull the pain. But Jaskier has made a habit of it. He apologises for every twinge of pain he causes Geralt in an effort to help him feel better.

His digs his fingers in.

Geralt grunts, sucking in a harsh breath.

Jaskier’s fingers smooth out where he dug in, working the muscles as firmly as he can in some effort to try and get them to relax. It used to take what seemed like hours. He would wince and almost cry at every sound of hurt that choked out of Geralt in those first few days at Nenneke’s tower. The priestess, normally so brash and brave with her words and quips with them both, only encouraged him to keep going. He can’t do this by himself, bard. He can still remember the warm tone she used with him; one that he probably would never hear again, and if he s much as mentioned her softness to him, she would cosh him silly.

Jaskier smoothes his palms up and down Geralt’s forearm. He’ll have to look at the Witcher’s knee at some point. Glancing down at it, he notes how Geralt hasn’t even bent the knee. His leg is splayed out straight in front of him. Jaskier clicks his tongue, but says nothing.

His work is quicker now. He knows what muscles and tendons cause the worst of the pain, and just how stubborn they can be. Pouring a trickle of more oil on to Geralt’s arm, Jaskier digs the heels of his hands into the muscle, working out the last irritating bit of tension.

Geralt’s breathing has levelled out. Jaskier watches him out of the corner of his eye. The worst of his grunting and hitching breath has stopped, thank the gods. Tremors still rattle through him, but he’ll deal with them when he can.

Jaskier hums. “That’s most of it,” he mumbles, mindful of the quiet that has fallen over both of them. He grabs a dry strip of cloth and wipes most of the excess oil off of his hands.

A low rumbling sound slips out of Geralt’s chest. Before Jaskier can glance down, one good arm coils around his waist, drawing him close. Geralt’s head falls forward, his forehead pressed against the middle of Jaskier’s chest.

“Silly man,” the bard admonishes, a small smile tilting the corner of his lip. He bends down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head. He lingers, scenting the faint scent of himself on the Witcher. It’s hard to know where one of them ends and the other begins these days. They wake up and go to sleep entangled in each other, a mess of limbs that neither of them knows how to get out of. Even in the days, when they would pass each other out in the estate’s trails on walks or in their own home, shoulders brush and fingers hook together.

His chest tightens. One last kiss is pressed to Geralt’s head before the bard leans away, reaching to the desk to root through the box. He caps the vials, putting them away and taking a mental note of how much he has left. Maybe enough for two more bouts of pain, but that’s it. He’ll have to take a trip down to the gardens where he can gather more herbs.

He pats Geralt’s good shoulder. “Come on,” he says, “off to bed with you. For an hour, at least.”

Geralt peers up at him. The look the bard levels him with makes his point stand firm. I’m looking after you and you have no say in this whatsoever.

Not that Geralt would argue with the bard anyway. He gathers what he can of his breath.  

When he’s ready to move, he nods, sluggish and letting Jaskier help him up from the chair. His knee still twinges and a whorl of pain digs deeper. Jaskier threads Geralt’s good arm over his shoulder, bracing Geralt’s weight on him. “Let’s go,” he mumbles, guiding his Witcher back to their room. It’s not much of a journey. Though the estate sprawls out in all directions, seemingly reaching for the horizon, their house is small. Perched on the biggest hill, it catches the morning and evening sunlight. Glancing outside, Jaskier spots the sun. Some thick, rain-heavy clouds have rolled in from the neighbouring hills, but for the most part, midday sunlight still streams through, desperate to reach the valleys underneath.

Geralt hates wasting daylight. Jaskier could argue with him; he wasn’t going to be much help around the estate anyway with his pain flaring up. And even then, he’s sure that Barnabas and the other tenants would have glowered at him if he tried to set one foot into the vineyard. Either way, Geralt is going to rest.

The Witcher perches at the edge of their bed, huffing out a sharp breath. He reaches out, catching the bottom of Jaskier’s shirt with his good hand. He tugs the bard over. “Stay,” he mumbles, pulling Jaskier until he’s gathered against Geralt again.

Jaskier huffs a short laugh, curling his arms around Geralt’s neck. He’s mindful of the man’s shoulder, giving it as wide of a berth as he can while he’s ensnared. Geralt hugs him to him for a short, quiet moment, letting their breathing and heartbeat match. The quieter moments are Jaskier’s favourites. He can recall most of the nights spent in rowdy taverns, luring smiles out of his Witcher while he leads a chorus of crowing singing, or lain out underneath the stars, huffing short laughs at Geralt’s stories about the constellations, stories he remembered Vesemir telling him when he was a boy. But he’ll take every quiet and still moment he can get with Geralt; swaddled away from the world, gentled in his arms and where Geralt can actually relax.

The Witcher’s stretched out leg catches his eye. “Do you want me to see to your leg?” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s hair, kissing where he can.

“Elbow was worse,” Geralt grunts. Sleep starts to tug at him, luring him further down. He’s growing heavy in Jaskier’s arms. He helps the Witcher down on to the pillows. A collection of them are bundled up by the headboard of their bed; Jaskier grabs what he can and makes a support of sorts for Geralt’s arm. Geralt lets him work, keeping his gaze on the rafters above them.

And Jaskier knows what’s swirling around in that head of his.

Before it can fester, Jaskier cuts in. “You were injured,” he says lowly, mindful of the way sleep seems to be stalking in from the shadows, ready to pounce. “A terrible thing happened to you. But your life isn’t over.”

Whispers brush the shell of his ear.

I feel useless.

I can’t do anything anymore.

What’s the point?

You shouldn't have to coddle me.

I'm not made of glass.

Geralt is a stubborn old bastard. Jaskier has watched him clench his jaw and go out on hunts while they were still trekking through the wilds; taking contract after contract while his muscles and joints screech at him to stop. Even when adjustments were made to his armours, metal supports bound to his thigh and arm to stop the strain of swinging a sword around too much. He adjusted everything around the fact that he was hurt. His fighting style had to change. He couldn’t turn and weave through opponents like he used to. But he kept going.

Jaskier thins his lips. The argument already festered between them. It was a long time ago. He couldn’t stand aside and let Geralt’s own mind rip him apart. And while he’s better now, still frustrated but not as angry, he can stumble.

All Jaskier can do is lend support to get him back on his feet.

Geralt watches him, a small smile ghosting his lips. “Thank you,” he mumbles, his eyelids slipping closed. It’s a struggle to try and open them again, but before he can, Jaskier leans over and pecks a kiss to his forehead.

“Get some rest,” he mumbles against Geralt’s skin, palming a gentle hand over Geralt’s chest. Within seconds, the Witcher is gone – lured under by sleep. It’s a strange feeling, being left alone in the room once sleep has claimed the other man. But Jaskier catches the blankets and draws them over Geralt, mindful of his arm. He covers what he can, staving off the worst of the chill that will ultimately try its best to slip through the cracks in the walls. He’ll get B.B to see to the last of the upkeeps before the winds grow too harsh. Too many nights spent in Kaer Morhen’s halls, huddled with a Witcher under the sheets for warmth, have left him with a not so favourable impression of winter. Though maybe, being as far south as they are, the weather might be kinder. He hopes so.

Glancing up at the slumbering Witcher swaddled in a sea of blankets and furs and sheets, Jaskier's chest tightens. He loves Geralt. He loves him so much it hurts. He pads back over to his side of the bed, parting with a gentle kiss to the Witcher's forehead. Geralt barely twitches. Trying to pull himself away is agony. He could call on the staff to pick up his last remaining duties. They would be glad to help the master Witcher and Jaskier in any way that they can - something they keep telling the pair of them. But his mouth sours at the thought. It's midday, leaning more into the afternoon. Geralt will sleep for an hour, or however long he wants to, and then they'll have dinner. The house will be warmed by the hearths and all remnants of pain wringing through the Witcher will hopefully have been wrung away.

[gif isn’t mine]

Warning(s): None

Word Count: 4,538

Originally posted to my AO3

Geralt suddenly realises how much time he and Jaskier have spent together, and all the places they've travelled around the Continent. He decides that it's time to give the bard something to show how much he appreciates all of it.

His bird flies to Oxenfurt for the winter. The Academy still likes to keep him around for the busier autumn semesters because students will actually listen to someone like Jaskier, and Jaskier likes going back because it’s paid accommodation to weather out the harsh winters in. And Oxenfurt is familiar.

Not that he hasn’t thought of going to wherever it is Geralt goes. And Geralt hasn’t not thought of extending an invitation. Vesemir has made it abundantly clear; if their guests can behave themselves throughout the winter, and won’t mind being put to work for the essential jobs, then his pups can invite whoever they like to Kaer Morhen. Lambert has brought people before; notably a Cat from the Dyn Marv Caravan wandering around the Continent. A Griffin has roosted within their keep before too. Both Aiden and Coën defer to Vesemir, acknowledging that they’re guests and he’s the head of the keep, as is the order of things, and the winters go by without anyone killing each other. And that’s all the elder wolf can hope for, it seems.

The invitation sits on his tongue every year. He knows Jaskier knows of the keep. He’s asked about it before, when his lute is propped on his knee and he looks at Geralt with loud wonderment at all of the things he can lure out of the Witcher about his kind and his guild. He can’t blame the little bird. If he was given the choice of a warm academy apartment, with set banquet meals throughout the day, and a steady pay to tide him by, or a crumbling keep perched on top of the northern mountains, still haunted by the ghosts of everything that’s happened before, he knows what he would pick. But Kaer Morhen is home, and he can see past every horrid thing that happened within those walls, because what’s left behind is his family, and he’ll go wherever they are.

They’re only ever parted for a winter. Even the winters that make themselves longer than they need to be, stretching into spring and keeping the frosts around, it’s only one season. It’s strange that he goes the rest of the three without him.

And this seems to be much worse. It’s quiet on the road; with only his own thoughts and Roach’s chuffs and nickers keeping him company. It used to be the way of things in a world before. Before Geralt found himself a songbird and it perched on his shoulder, following him around from village to town to city and never knowing when to go away.

Gods forbid if Jaskier knew that Geralt secretly misses his voice. He spent so much time of their first year knowing each other trying to get Jaskier to shut up. But it became a gentle hum in the background of their travels. Jaskier would ramble on about something or other while he strolled next to Roach, occasionally brushing his hand along the mare’s neck. And the mare learned to not kick out at Jaskier’s shins or turn and nip his fingers. Her master seemed to like him enough to keep him mostly intact. That, and a few secret sugar cubes and apples snuck into her feed from the bard seemed to win her over.

Spring means his songbird will fly back to him, and autumn means that he’ll fly away again. A secure income and a warm place to hunker down throughout a potentially harsh winter, Geralt can’t blame the lark at all for going to roost.

It’s just the familiar groan of loneliness left behind is awful, and he hates how it makes itself known at night, when he’s slipping into an inn’s bed and the empty space on the other side seem to stretch on for leagues. It’s cold and Geralt always wakes with his arm stretched across, reaching out for someone who isn’t there. And that’s when his chest tightens and he wishes he could cross the Continent within a matter of strides, just to get his little lark back with him.

A courier comes one morning. Nothing more than a lad barely into his adulthood, with spots still speckled on his face and a mop of thick curly hair almost shielding his eyes, who somehow manages to find him in a merchant town’s tavern. Geralt glances up from his breakfast, regarding the lad for a moment as he fumbles through a knapsack of letters and parcels. “Geralt of Rivia,” he says primly, holding out a letter. As soon as the letter is in his hand, the lad scurries away, and that seems to be the end of that.

Geralt thins his lips. Contracts very rarely come to him. His name may start to be travelling further and further into the Continent, but notices are usually left on boards within the village or town itself. Contacting him directly isn’t how it works. He’s never in one place for too long.

But the envelope in his hand is crisp, freshly printed card, and a maroon ink seal at the back tells him all he needs to know. Oxenfurt’s emblem is printed into the wax, and the card smells vaguely of old books and ink.

He thumbs the letter open, running his eyes over the elegant scrawl inside.

Meet me at the Three Crowns Inn for Beltane. Can’t wait to see you again. – Songbird

Geralt’s chest clenches. He can’t stand from his table and run out of the inn fast enough.

-----------

He doesn’t know when he started calling Jaskier his little bird, but the bard certainly had no problems with it. If anything, he greatly encouraged it. Having someone as grumpy as Geralt dote on him seemed to be one of Jaskier’s favourite things. It’s a side of the Witcher that only he sees; when they’re curled in a bed together, or gathered around a campfire, and it’s just the two of them.

Jaskier has a pretty voice, and his songs are beautiful. Not that Geralt would ever tell him that. A preening smug Jaskier is borderline intolerable. He didn’t know why it tumbled out of his lips one night, when Jaskier dozed beside him and Geralt threaded his fingers through the man’s soft and freshly washed hair. But songbird and lark all seemed to fit. And Jaskier revelled in them.

Jaskier is also a magpie in some regards. A mischievous little thing that has a certain penchant for anything shiny and grand. He plucks vials of oils and lotions and soap bars from merchant stands and revels in how they smell, uncaring that the cost of them alone makes Geralt’s eyes water. He adorns his fingers in rings that catch the summer sunlight and glisten, and Geralt likes running his thumb over the gems and engravings in them when Jaskier links their fingers together. He likes gold and silver and gems and fragrant oils, and any time he lingers for a moment outside of a merchant’s stall, nose wrinkled in thought of whether or not he could spare the gold earned from playing in taverns on something, Geralt watches.

He buys rings because he can wear them, and any oils and lotions and soaps that somehow end up in his bag are brushed off as ways he can make his Witcher finally relax for once after a particularly taxing hunt. And the gems he leaves behind. Even though he’ll pick them up, watching how they glint in the midday sun, he’ll set them back and part the merchant with a small grateful smile.

A few of those gems have ended up in Geralt’s pocket. He doesn’t know what he would do with them, or how he would use them or even gift them to Jaskier, but his songbird liked them and didn’t seem keen to part with them. So they take up a permanent residence in one of the smaller pockets of Geralt’s saddlebag. They come from all sorts of places; Nazair and Toussaint, to Aedirn and Poviss. Anywhere he and Jaskier have wandered together, he takes them as small reminders. And in the seasons he goes without his bird, he has something to remind him of him at least.

-----------

Getting to the Three Crowns will take him through a few kingdoms. If he keeps to the main roads, not lingering in any towns for longer than he needs to, he’ll make it to the inn before Jaskier. And he doesn’t think he could cope with having to sit in a tavern’s hall and wait for his little bird to fly to him.

Smaller merchant towns are kinder to him than the bigger cities. He bundles his cloak tighter around himself when he rides through the cities, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and not the badly hidden curious looks from passing people on the streets. The whispers soon follow, and inevitably, the word butcher will dust the shell of his ear. So he sets his heels against Roach’s side and continues on.

But the smaller towns are kinder. They’re quiet and people lap through them like gentle waves, flowing quicker in the day, but dissipating by night. Roach plods along, with Geralt slackening her reins and letting her stretch her neck out. It’s a quiet and still walk in through the town’s main street, and most of the shops are already beginning to board up their windows and draw their stands in for the night. An inn’s sigil hangs at the far end of the street, and Geralt aims Roach towards it.

Before he can let his shoulders slacken, his eyes fall on to a shop next to the inn. It looks like every other building surrounding it – red brick and ornately carved, with worn-paint signs hanging outside. The windows are still clear and its door is open, so he can presume that the merchant is still inside trading wears.

He blinks at the first recognisable word he manages to spot on the worn wooden sign.

Jewellers.

Geralt slows Roach to a stop. The mare huffs, pulling at her bit slightly. The inn and its stables are literally right there. He sets a gloved hand to her neck, scratching into her winter fur beginning to fluff her out. “Wait here,” he rumbles, hopping down from her and on to the cobbles below. He hitches her reins to a small post outside and starts to rustle through his saddlebags. Empty vials of potions he’ll need to brew again, purses of gold that he keeps away from his person just in case of brigands. He fishes out the gems. They’re tiny things, just enough to gather in the palm of his hand.

He pats Roach’s neck one last time. “I’ll only be a second.”

Roach huffs, but waits.

-----------

He doesn’t know what it is, but all merchants tend to look the same. Regardless of whether they’re travelling the roads with him, they all have this glint in their eyes and glasses perched on the end of their nose, with finely kept clothes that reflect the wealth of their trade. And this merchant doesn’t look that much different.

The man inside blinks as soon as Geralt steps inside. “Witcher,” is the first word to bumble out of his mouth. A brief flash of panic blinks across his face before he tries to fight his way back to say something better than a profession as a greeting.

Geralt lifts his hand. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, looking around the shop. It’s unlike the kinds of stores Jaskier likes to drift in to. Wooden shelves along the walls stacked with all types of ornaments and glasswork. The storefront is a mixture of dark cherry wood and glass, showing off the expertly crafted necklaces and rings and bracelets he’s sure are worth every golden coin used to make them. The shop smells faintly of varnished and broiled glass and paint. It wrinkles his nose, but he steps closer to the counter.

The merchant adjusts his glasses. “What can I do for you, Master Witcher?”

Geralt holds out his hand, showing the gems gathered on his palm. “I was wondering if you could do anything with these?”

Even in the fading light of day, the orange strands of evening sunlight that stretch into the merchant’s shop, the gems glisten and gleam on his hand. The merchant gestures to them. May I? Plucking each of them up and examining the way the light catches them, the merchant adjusts his glasses again, moving them up and down his nose and squinting through the lens. “Ah, yes,” the merchant muses, “amethyst, amber, emerald, garnet. You must be very well travelled, Witcher. Some of these gems are hard to come by in these parts.”

Geralt hums. “I travel for work,” he explains simply. “I’ve been everywhere.”

The merchant sets the gems along his work surface, lining them up. Some are slightly bigger than others, but all polished and showing off their colours. The merchant muses, running his eyes over them. “What would you like me to do with them, Master Witcher?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “That’s up to you,” he says. “I don’t have any experience in jewellery or fineries.”

And he tries not to bristle at the way the merchant’s eyes drift over every part of him for a moment. Worn and scarred armour, dried blood flecking his skin. He doesn’t even seem like one of the merchant’s patrons.

The merchant’s lips thin. He hums and turns his eyes back on the gems. “I could make something beautiful of these gems, absolutely,” he considers. “But it would cost gold and time, Witcher. Do you have anywhere you need to be in the coming days?”

He’s already going to be early for his meeting. A few days of rest before doing the last trek towards the Three Crowns might do him some good. If he showed up to meet Jaskier like this, after so many seasons apart, he could imagine the bard instantly trying to shove him into a bath laden with oils and soaps. He can stomach to lose a few days to rest.

-----------

The Three Crowns is their usual meeting point. Winter looms over the Continent, peering over the mountains to the west and already hinting at its arrival with chilling and biting winds that tumble down from the hills. The snow and frost keep away, thankfully. The last thing he needs is frozen roads. But they are somewhat flooded. He keeps to the main roads, laden with merchants selling the last of their wares before they can head home from the winter. And if he had any more gold left, he would buy some fruit or bread from them. But the last of his gold dwindles, just enough for a tavern room – something he’s sure Jaskier has already procured and readied for him.

His bones warm at the thought of being with his bird again. If Roach walks a bit quicker, with a noticeable spring in her step, it absolutely has nothing to do with the fact that Jaskier spoils her with more treats than hay and grains. And even she can appreciate having the bard around; also because it makes her companion happy.

The Three Crowns is nestled in the heart of some town straddling a crossing of roads. It sees its fair share of passing traders and huntsmen drifting in from the road only to be swept off again. It reminds him of Posada, and he can understand why Jaskier always insists on it being their meeting up place. Roach chuffs at the sight of it in the distance, almost breaking out into a gallop just to read the town’s wooden barriers.

Stableboys linger around the yard and don’t even blink twice at him setting some gold into their palms. He hops down from Roach and takes his bags off of her before she’s led into the stables around the back of the inn, pawing insistently at the ground to get somewhere warm and full of oats and hay.

The tavern is as crowded as it always is. A hum of noise and the smell of roasting venison assault his senses the moment he steps into the tavern. It’s familiar. This meets him every time he comes to greet Jaskier and begin their wanderings together. But it’s been longer than usual and he’s missed everything about it.

He hauls his saddlebags over his shoulders, stalking further into the tavern. All the tables are already occupied, farmers and merchants and passing huntsmen bowed over their dinners and knocking back tankards of ale and mead. Geralt’s eyes scan the room, looking for the familiar spark of colour that usually stands out from the rest.

And his ears twitch when he hears hurried footsteps approaching from his side. Through the maze of tables and people sitting at them, Geralt watches Jaskier almost trip over his own feet as he hurries towards him, a bright smile and glistening eyes already settled on his face. Geralt has just enough time to let his saddlebags drop to the ground by his side before he’s tackled into a hug. His arms hover in the air for a moment. The closeness Jaskier insists on having with him isn’t something he was ever used to. But he’s warming to it.

As his arms slowly coil around and gather his bard to him, Geralt buries his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. His lungs fill with the scent of the other man. Sea salt that he likes to scrub and soften his skin with, and the faint lilts of desert roses and vanilla coats the roof of his mouth and Geralt is loath to let the bard go. Jaskier seems to be in a similar position. His arms are curled around Geralt’s shoulders and neck, locked and unwilling to let him go just yet.

The rest of it fades away. The tavern, those gathered within it and all of their conversations melding into one lapping wave of noise. Geralt’s lungs can fill again as he breathes Jaskier in, and a deep rumble purrs out of his chest at the feeling of the bard’s hands settling on to his back, slowly rubbing at the plains of muscle there.

He isn’t sure how long he spends holding on to Jaskier, but eventually the bard tries to slip away. Geralt’s arms tighten. A light breathless laugh shakes through Jaskier. “Come on,” he murmurs, setting his hands on to Geralt’s elbows, “I’ve got us a room.”

He’s slow to let go of the little bird. Even then, he only allows a small sliver of space between them. Jaskier catches one of his hands, and even through the thin leather glove, he can feel the warmth of the bard’s skin blooming through his.

As soon as he has gathered his bags again, Jaskier leads him away, from the prying curious eyes of the other patrons nearby. He’s lured upstairs, until the conversations below become nothing more than a distant hum and Geralt feels like he can think again.

Just as he imagined, Jaskier already has the room ready. The hearth within the wall crackles and spits with a freshly fed fire and candles dotted around, perched on dressers and cabinets, offer a warm glow to the room. With fresh linen sheets and furs lining the foot of their bed, his bones ache at the thought of going to sleep.

A bath has already been brought up and filled, and the air is scented with the musk of desert rose and something sweet laced underneath it.

As soon as he pulls Geralt inside, Jaskier clicks the door shut behind them. He squeezes Geralt’s hand, but doesn’t move to pull away. “Now,” he says primly, “I’m sure you have stories to tell me, darling, but I insist on bathing you first. The road hasn’t been kind to you.”

Because you haven’t been on it with me. The words lodge in his throat and Geralt struggles to keep them behind a shut jaw.

With his saddlebags put to the side, Jaskier’s nimble fingers set on the many belts and buckles of his armour. It’s different; having someone else do it. He remembers the first time where he stood frozen, wondering why his newest travelling companion insisted on removing armour Geralt has been wearing for years. He can do it himself. But now he’s content to let Jaskier strip what he can off of him, leaving him in a worn linen shirt and breeches. He toes off his boots, leaving them alongside the pile of armour that gathers beside his bags. He’ll clean it in the morning, before they go, but as Jaskier drifts over to the bath, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Geralt pauses.

Jaskier moves around the room so seamlessly, as he is with most things. He gathers what he needs to bathe Geralt; lotions and oils for his aching muscles, and a comb to try and wrangle his hair back into something tame.

The bard eventually catches his eye. “Are you going to stand there all night,” he laughs breathlessly, setting a hand on to his hip, “or are you coming over?”

Geralt blinks. His fingers flex by his side, not entirely sure what he should try and do now. He glances over to his saddlebags, piled up beside a nearby dresser. Geralt grunts, holding up his hand. Jaskier cocks his head, but watches the Witcher regardless.

He roots through his bag, looking for a soft felt bag kept in one of the more secure pockets inside. He fishes it out, making sure that the gift is still intact. He tried to keep it safe. He might have even lost hours of sleep because he worried about brigands and highwaymen storming him on the road and taking it.

But now, he somehow manages to force his feet to take him over to Jaskier. The bard looks at him puzzled, his gaze drifting down to the small bag caught in Geralt’s hand.

There’s a moment between them where nothing is said. And Jaskier tilts his head, eyes searching for Geralt’s as the Witcher tries to gather what to say. Because how does he even go about presenting something like this? Geralt clears his throat. Gods, words really aren’t his strong suit. He stretches out his hand, handing the bag over to Jaskier. When the bard looks to him again, lifting an eyebrow, Geralt rubs the back of his neck. “It’s, uh...It’s for you.”

Jaskier regards him for a moment, slowly letting his deft fingers unlace the drawstring and pull the ties apart. A lot of gold and time made what Jaskier is fishing out of the bag, and Geralt’s stomach churns. Gods alive, what if he doesn’t like it?

Jaskier blinks when he lifts his gift out. A necklace of gems, expertly melded together like petals of a flower. Each gem is its own petal, but together, they represent something more. Their journey together, the wanderings all over the Continent and the time spent together. The gems glint in Jaskier’s eyes, bright crystal colours joining the ocean blue Geralt likes losing himself in. The chain is something lithe and simple, small interlinking locks of silver that don’t distract from the flower hanging from it.

Jaskier rubs his thumb over each gem, and the thin and lithe metalwork that binds them all together. His lips part, something resting on the tip of his tongue, about to be spoken, but Jaskier all but gapes. “This...” he stammers, glancing over to Geralt. “Gods, Geralt, how much did this cost, I—it’s beautiful.”

Geralt can feel a flush warming his cheeks. “You, um,” he rasps, clearing his throat again. “You liked the jewels. In the markets we visited. But you never bought them, and I, I don’t know, I guessed that I would get them for you but, uh, I didn’t know how to present them.”

He nods to one of the gems. “The, uh, the lapis is from Toussaint,” he manages to get out, because if he talks about the gems and focuses on the gems and the gems alone, he won’t have to look at Jaskier staring at him. The lapis was the most expensive, but it’s the most beautiful. “The topaz is from that visiting spice market in Redania.” All things that caught Jaskier’s eye, but he had to leave behind. And now it’s here, for him, in a way that he could wear.

Geralt manages to tear his eyes away from the necklace, glancing up and catching the bard’s gaze. Jaskier stares at him, mouth and eyes wide, and for a terrifying moment, he doesn’t say anything. Geralt’s throat bobs. Maybe this is too much. Maybe he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t even mourn the loss of the gold spent on it, but the way he could potentially have soured things between them.

And then Jaskier’s moving. Geralt has just enough awareness to notice heat bloom on the side of his face before Jaskier leans forward, catching his lips in a soft and languid kiss. He stands stock-still for a moment before he melts into it, reaching up to brush the backs of his knuckles along Jaskier’s cheek. His own is nestled into the bard’s hand, his thumb brushing along his cheekbone in something so soft and undeserving of him and his life that he struggles not to shrug it away. Jaskier has always been so kind and soft to him, with gentle hands and lulling words.

Jaskier breaks their kiss when air thins, but he doesn’t go too far away. He sets their foreheads together; the ends of their noses brushing and a shared breath mingling between them. Geralt watches a bright and outrageously happy smile spread across the bard’s lips. “This,” he laughs breathlessly, “gods alive, Geralt, this is beautiful. Thank you. I, gods, how did you even think of something like this?”

He honestly doesn’t know. Jaskier is a worryingly big part of his life now and he needed it immortalised somehow. If, if, the bard didn’t come adventuring with him out on the road anymore, at least there is a reminder of all the places they did go together.

Jaskier lures him into another long and languid kiss. His lips are soft and it’s a struggle to break apart from them. Eventually, one of Jaskier’s hands settles on the centre of his chest. His smile hasn’t even budged. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Geralt hums. It’s taxing, trying to muster words and make some effort to say them. And what could tumble out of his mouth may not be the way he wants them to come out. So he nudges his forehead into Jaskier’s, enough of a physical touch to widen the bard’s smile.

[Gif isn’t mine]

Warning(s): None

Word Count: 1,700

Originally posted to my AO3

Kaer Morhen is cold. Jaskier's Witchers are warm. What else is he supposed to do?

Jaskier would argue that he has a lot of good ideas. Geralt would argue the opposite, considering how many times the Witcher has to work him out of trouble as a result of Jaskier’s good ideas, but that’s nothing but slander on the Witcher’s part. Jaskier has a lot of good ideas, and this may be his best one yet.

He isn’t shy. Words have always come easy to him whether he would compose yet another Continent-seizing hit that would spread throughout the land like a wildfire, or lulling women and men into languid kisses and into his bed or theirs. Geralt might have his swords and potions, but Jaskier has his own weapon, and it’s even more deadly.

And what was he going to do? Go to a near-abandoned keep perched at the top of a northern mountain, with his only company for the season being other Witchers, and not try and enjoy himself? Gods be good, he isn’t insane.

He’s chuffed. A smile hasn’t left his lips as the bodies around him finally settle. One would think after spending so many winters together, that they would each know where to go and where to lie. Apparently not. It’s a forest of legs and arms, and through it all the warmth of a lit hearth and the mingling scents of bathing salts and soaps blankets over them. With the warmth sureness of having bodies around him, gathering him close and keeping him comfortably in bed, the world outside slips away. The rest of the Continent, the wars brewing in the far south, even the storm that has been threatening to tumble through the ridges and peaks of the mountains for the last few days and nights; all of it ceases to exist and there is only this room and the keep around them.

A low hum rumbles through the hollow of his neck. “Go to sleep, little lark,” Geralt murmurs, eyes still closed and breathing beginning to deepen and thin. Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s face, but he imagines it’s softer than usual. His brow smoothes and his lips part ever so slightly when he sleeps or dozes. Even in the mediations he does either out in the wilds or in the corners of tavern rooms, Geralt looks completely at peace when he’s teetering on the edge of wakefulness and sleep.

He’s home now, surrounded by his family, and for the first time that year, his shoulders can finally slacken and fall, and he can breathe. This far north, bundled high up in a keep many people don’t even believe exists anymore, no one will come to bother them.

Geralt’s arm is strung across him, holding his waist hostage as he has Jaskier gathered close while he dozes by the bard’s side. Just beyond Geralt is Lambert, lying on his back, like Jaskier, but with his shoulder and side pressed against Geralt’s back.

Geralt explained it to him once; the need for them to bundle together, to make sure that they’re well and alive and here. And if Jaskier finds himself at the epicentre of it all, then he’ll gladly have three well-built Witchers clambered around him. Eskel dozes by his other side, already lost to sleep as he drifts further and further down. His hold on Jaskier slackens slightly, but his arm slung over Jaskier’s shoulders and his leg strewn across the bard’s won’t move any time soon.

He’s effectively pinned; arms and legs of Witchers strewn over him and each other, a maze of limbs that he has no plans of trying to worm out of any time soon. There isn’t even a need for the blankets or furs of the bed. Witchers run warm, it seems; when they’re freshly washed and their skin is soft, and sleep threatens to take them under as they doze.

Lips press to his neck, just over his pulse-point. Jaskier hums. A smile still stretches across his lips. He’s thoroughly pleased with himself; and Geralt surely knows that. He must feel how Jaskier is almost trembling with having everyone around him, dozing and sleep-soft and willing to let him in to their huddle for the winter. Oh gods. He’s going to have this for the whole season. His smile only grows.

If Geralt can feel it, he doesn’t say anything. His arm tightens around Jaskier’s waist as he moves slightly closer; a warm line along Jaskier’s side and huddled close to him. The bed is big enough for the four of them, quite comfortably. If one of them were to roll away during the night, they would have the space for it.

And Jaskier has to wonder what it must have been like all those sun-turns ago, when they were scrawny and weary-eyed pups who banded together when their training turned harsh. A place like this, that haunts all of them in some way, with more ghosts lurking through the halls than stones making them up, can still be their home. Rooms of tormentors and teachers became their own. This is their space now; and Jaskier is more than a guest. This is his home too. A nest to fly to when the winter winds roll in.

A hand reaches over Geralt, lightly swatting at Jaskier’s thigh. “I can hear you thinking, pigeon,” Lambert grumbles, turning over on to his side. Over Geralt’s shoulder, Jaskier spots one golden eye trying to glare at him through the heavy sleep fog that is lapping over them. “Shut the fuck up.”

Geralt kicks back, aiming for Lambert’s shin. “Stop talking,” he rumbles, eyes still closed. Jaskier looks down at him fondly, noting how his brows are starting to knit together. He reaches as close to Geralt’s face as he can; his own limbs are lost to the entanglement he’s in, but he manages to brush the back of his knuckles against Geralt’s cheek, smoothening out his expression again.

Lambert all but scoffs behind him, but bundles close all the same. Eskel barely budges. Jaskier listens to his long and languid breaths, to how slowly his heart beats within the depths of his chest. Jaskier stretches his neck as best as he can, pressing a light kiss to Eskel’s forehead and watching with delight as the man’s brows knit together and his nose wrinkles. His hold on Jaskier tightens and he burrows close, setting his nose against Jaskier’s bare shoulder and breathing in a lungful of scent. The moment that he does, his frown slips away and he falls back to sleep.

They’ve all seemed to have had quite a year. Hunts and contracts and run-ins with Destiny, Jaskier can’t blame them for filling their stomachs with as much of Vesemir’s food as they could, padding down to the hot springs not long after and letting their sore muscles soak until they were soft. All Jaskier could do was bundle his wolves into their den, smiling as each of them found their own place around him and each other. And within moments, as soon as Eskel blearily waved his hands and all the candles throughout the room quenched, sleep lapped over them.

If he could have a winter of this, that would be good. Good things are few and far between these days, no matter where they go. Whispers of war and insurgents to the south, kingdoms starting to squabble among themselves, and all of the monsters, both other and human, lurking in the shadows. The Continent, and the rest of the world, can be shitty. Jaskier’s eyes have been cracked open to that throughout the years of travelling with the White Wolf.

But he trudges through the other three seasons just to have this; warm nights bundled inside of Geralt’s room, his wolves dozing and snoozing around him and keeping him safe and held. And he’ll fight every celestial and god in order to keep it this way.

He sinks further into the mattress, feeling sleep start to tug at him and lure him down. His eyelids grow heavy, and with the warmth of the room and the bodies around him, it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. He’s just about to fall under when Geralt shuffles next to him, breathing out a long and languid sigh against Jaskier’s neck. When he speaks, it’s nothing more than a rumble that comes from the centre of his chest. “Are you still cold?”

Jaskier snorts, a sound that rouses the wolf furthest from him and earns another swat to his leg and a grumble to shut the fuck up. Geralt kicks back in Jaskier’s honour, getting Lambert in the shin.

Jaskier reaches up, carding his fingers through Lambert’s hair first, soothing the wolf’s hackles to lie down and settle. Lambert can be a bristly one, and downright cranky when the night wears on a bit too long, but Jaskier’s smile turns fond when he can feel the red wolf slowly melting under his touch. He tries to keep his voice low; something completely pointless when he’s surrounded by Witchers with enhanced hearing. “I’m much warmer now. Thank you, darling.”

Geralt knew exactly what he was doing. They all did. And still, Jaskier managed to lure three wolves into his bed. It’s not his fault. The keep is perched on the highest peak within the mountain, battered from all angles by sharp winter wind. The Witchers have their augmented bodies and don’t feel the cold, while Jaskier trembles and shivers and tries to wrap himself in as many layers as he can.

Or, as he discovered, just get a bunch of Witchers to warm him up instead.

Geralt hums against his neck. One that knows Jaskier is more than comfortable and pleased with himself, that he got what he wanted and is incredibly smug about the whole affair. But he breathes in his bard’s scent, letting it coat and settle on the roof of his mouth and lure him back to sleep. “Glad to be of service,” he murmurs, drifting off.